King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

“That’s good to know.” What was it about her eyes that was so compelling? Witch, he reminded himself. She was a witch.

Her gaze lingered a moment longer, then she said in a rush, “We still need to get them out.”

He shook his head. “There’s no time. I took out two of the Replicati while you dealt with this one, but there’s still another out there.” His lips thinned. “They’re tenacious sons of bitches. It will come for you.” He directed his last comment toward Hannah, a cold smile claiming his lips. “Maybe this time he’ll be successful.”

His gut roiled, and a wave of dizziness rifled through his head. “Damn, what the hell did you spike those bullets with?” Eyebrow arched, he glared at Rowan’s cousin.

“Son of a . . . ah, I’m sorry,” Hannah whispered. “We thought . . . I thought you’d led them to us.”

Azaiel straightened, teeth clenched. “And why would you think that?”

“I . . . well, you just left and . . . you’re not human and . . .”

Rowan’s mouth thinned into a tense line as she turned to her cousin. “You still shoot and ask questions later. That’s not smart, Hannah, and we need to be smarter than them.”

“There was a time when you did, too,” Hannah said defensively. “Or don’t you remember? No demon fighting for you in college? And here I thought Buffy was a way of life in Southern California.”

Rowan ignored her comments though her anger bled through in her tone as she spoke. “Those were your extraspecial specials?”

Her cousin’s gaze faltered. “Extraextra specials now. I’ve juiced them up with belladonna. Sorry. I only keep the deadliest bullets in stock. I mean, what’s the point in using something that will only stun?”

“Right.” Rowan stared down at him, eyes huge with worry. “Azaiel, this doesn’t look good.”

The little witch sounded like she actually gave a damn.

“Azaiel?”

“Yeah.” His shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch. His head pounded, and the taste of cloves and something he couldn’t quite pinpoint sat heavy in the back of his throat. It left him with the unwelcome feeling that at any moment he’d heave all over his boots. Or maybe hers.

Rowan shook her head. “Azaiel, we have to get the bullets out. You won’t survive with them inside you.”

“I’ll be fine.” He nailed her with a look that brooked no argument. “Help me up.” His eyes softened a bit, more than a little surprised at her concern. “I’m not going to die on you. I promise. But if you could cauterize the wounds, that would go a long way toward helping my situation.”

“Cauterize the . . .” She bit her lip and sat back on her haunches, her blue eyes now a shade darker than charcoal.

Sweat beaded his brow, and he tried to shift, but the pain was too intense, and as a fresh batch of blood poured from his shoulder, he cursed.

She held his ruined T-shirt tight to his shoulder. “Give me a second.” She cocked her head to the side and bit her lip. In the space of twenty-four hours he’d seen her do this several times—when she was upset or unsure. He kind of liked it.

“Hannah, get all the ammo you have. Weapons . . . anything we can take. Do you have a vehicle?”

“I’ve got my truck around back.” Frank stepped closer, wiped a meaty hand across his brow, and nodded to Azaiel. “You took out two of those bastards?”

At Azaiel’s curt nod, Frank grinned widely. “Impressive. Well, it’s going to be a pleasure working with you my friend. We can always use an extra set of hands, especially when they seem to carry a lot of weight.” The bartender paused, a shadow crossing his face as he glanced at Rowan. “He is gonna be all right . . . right?”

“I’ll be better once we get the hell out of here.” Azaiel hissed as another wave of pain sliced across his shoulder.

Rowan jerked her head, a quick affirmative. “Grab whatever you can. He’ll be fine.”

Frank and Hannah disappeared, leaving him al

one with Rowan. He stared up at her, but her eyes darted away, and he realized for the first time that she was nervous.

“Are you sure you can you do this?” he asked softly, hoping like hell she could, or else the trip back to Salem promised to be as painful as his first trip down into the bowels of Hell.

She nodded and removed the wadded-up T-shirt. Her face was pale—he saw that clear as day. “Yes. Absolutely.” She smiled at him, an overly bright attempt to make him feel better, and Azaiel played along. It was the least he could do.

She swallowed, like a lump was stuck in her throat, then closed her eyes. Within seconds, the edges of her fingers glowed, spreading light until the two of them were cocooned in a bubble of heat.