King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)
“We need to talk,” Priest said softly, then he was gone.
Azaiel flicked his wrist and extinguished the night-light before turning and following the Knight Templar from the room. He closed the door behind him, nodded to Cedric, who was busy at the sink, and rolled his shoulders in an effort to loosen up the stiffness that had spread across them and down his back. His chest was still bare, but at the moment, his overheated state meant the chill in the early-morning air eased his discomfort.
He grabbed a milk carton from the fridge and strode down the hall. Priest and Nico were on the porch, their low-pitched voices echoing into the still morning. He had no idea where Frank or—a scowl crossed his face—the witch Hannah was, though judging by the hour, they were most likely asleep somewhere.
He ignored the two men lounging to his left and drank the entire carton before he turned to them. Nico’s barely contained hostility was palpable. The tall shifter literally thrummed with repressed anger.
Azaiel understood it. The warrior was a man of honor, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the shapeshifter would never trust him.
“You still look like shit, Fallen.”
Azaiel placed the carton on the window ledge. As it was, he didn’t give a rat’s ass if Nico trusted him or not, but if they were going to work together, some rules needed to be established.
“Do not call me that again.” Azaiel said the words slowly so that there wasn’t any confusion—the shifter had not earned the right to call him Fallen. They had no history. No connection. “I have a name.” He turned to the jaguar, whose teeth were now bared. “Use it.”
He might have been stripped of some of his power, but it was time for Azaiel to let the jaguar warrior know he wasn’t to be trifled with. He was still Seraphim, and if the shifter was smart, he’d back off.
Azaiel took a step forward, muscles bunched, nerves tingling, but Priest interrupted. “We’ve no time for posturing, boys. Let’s try to get along.” Priest let the cigar in his mouth roll to the corner, and he glanced at the shifter. “Understand, Nico?”
The shifter growled but kept silent.
Azaiel slowly unclenched his hands and inhaled the fresh, crisp, morning air. In the distance a line of fire spread out along the horizon, signaling the imminent arrival of dawn. He arched a brow and addressed Priest, sensing it would be better for them all if he and Nico kept communication to a minimum.
“What happened last night?”
Priest withdrew the cigar and studied the red glow that burned on the end as he slowly twirled the long, brown stogie between his thumb and forefinger. “We were busy.” His pale eyes narrowed as he glanced up at Azaiel. “Busier than I thought we’d be. The demon numbers were significant, and though I caught the scent of vampire, I didn’t come across any.” He arched a brow, his pale eyes intense. “But they’re close by, and Dark fae have joined the party.”
Azaiel shook his head. That wasn’t good. The fae hardly ever interfered with the affairs of men. They were content to live in the between worlds and watch from afar. So why now did they think to involve themselves in a witches’ war with Mallick?
“The human Frank held his own as did the other witch, Hannah. She’s a little excitable, but her aim is always true.” Priest’s gaze fell to his shoulder. “As I’m sure you already know.” He exhaled and took a few steps, turned, and leaned against the white railing that ran the length of the porch. “Rowan is impressive. She preferred to hunt alone and refused
help from any of us. I followed her at a distance.”
Azaiel’s eyes narrowed. “And how did that go?”
“Like I said. She’s impressive, and it only took her a few minutes to lose me.”
Azaiel found that hard to believe. “You’re a Knight Templar. How did that little slip of woman evade the likes of you? Witch or no?”
The air stilled around them, and Priest blew out a long plume of smoke. “Well, now. That seems to be the question of the hour, don’t you think?”
An uneasy feeling rolled through Azaiel’s gut. What the hell was Priest getting at?
Priest butted his cigar, leaving a long line of gray ash on top of the railing, and cocked his head. “Mallick can never be allowed to claim her.”
Nico moved forward, and the two of them stared at Azaiel, their faces intense, their eyes dark with hidden meaning. Something wasn’t right.
“What are you not telling me?” Azaiel stretched out long fingers in an effort to release the tension that held everything inside him tight and uncomfortable.
Priest looked off into the distance. “Do you know who her father is?”
Azaiel frowned. “She hasn’t mentioned a father.” He didn’t like the look that passed between the two men. “What the hell are you getting at?”
Priest opened his mouth to retort but slammed his mouth shut before uttering a word, his pale eyes glittering harshly as he gazed behind Azaiel.
Azaiel felt her presence before she stepped foot onto the porch, and when he turned to her his chest tightened in a way that was becoming all too familiar. She was barefoot, must have lost the pink fuzzies that had adorned her feet, and even though frost covered everything in a thick coating of white crystals, she didn’t seem to notice.
Her plain pink T-shirt clung to her curves, and he felt his heart quicken as he took in the faded, worn jeans that hugged her hips and followed the sleek lines of her legs. Long strands of hair hung in disarray, curling past her shoulders, and her sleep-heavy eyes widened, their navy depths filled with concern as she walked toward him.