King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel

King of the Damned

A League of Guardians Novel

Juliana Stone

Dedication

To all the best girlfriends out there!

I believe a woman’s life is enriched

by the women she calls friend.

I’m truly blessed because I’ve too many to name,

but you know who you are.

Thank you for being there for me.

Acknowledgments

A
writer’s life is pretty much a solitary journey for long stretches of hours at a time. It’s family and friends who make it worthwhile, as much as the joy of the written word. I need to take a moment and thank Andrew, Jacob, and Kristen for putting up with an absent wife and mother. Dreams are as important as anything in life, thanks for letting me pursue mine.

I need to give a shout-out to my Brit, Tracy Stefureak, my beta reader . . . “WHATEVAH.” The Art Department at Avon Books/HarperCollins, once again, this cover is a thing of beauty. Esi Sogah, Jessie Edwards, Pam Spengler-Jaffee, Adrienne Di Pietro, you’re all wonderful ladies and I love working with you!

I wrote this book listening to Sixx a.m., Tool, Five Finger Death Punch, and the Foo Fighters. Music is an important part of my life and incredibly inspiring. May we Rock On Forever, my friends!

Lastly, to all the readers who’ve e-mailed and sent kind words my way . . . Thank You! It’s such a thrill to know you’re all reading my words and loving my characters! Kind of makes the solitary hours worth it . . .

Contents

Preface

F
or millennia, the struggle between light and dark, between the upper and lower realms, has been policed by a secret group of warriors culled from every fabric of existence. They are both otherworld and human, male and female. They are light and dark themselves and known to each other as the League of Guardians. Their pledge, to protect the line between dominions and make sure neither side grows too powerful. If they fall, so shall the earth, the heavens, and Hell. And there will be no more.

Chapter 1

There’s nothing like a trail of blood to find your way back home.

Sixx:
A.M.

D
arkness had fallen hours earlier, leaving only the moon’s glow to illuminate the house on the hill. Rowan cut the engine of her rental, a frown furtling her brow as she stared at the large, rambling home.

The wind whistled and moaned, whipping dead leaves from the ground into a chaotic dance across her windshield. In the distance a once-vibrant sunset settled along the edge of darkness that encroached from below. The day was dying, and soon nightfall would be complete.

She glanced at the parking area next to the gift shop and was surprised to see it empty. The Black Cauldron was one of the premier bed-and-breakfast stops in Salem, and there were always guests in residence. Not even Cedric’s car was present. Nana’s caretaker and all-around handyman usually shared dinner with her at the Cauldron and had been a fixture at the place for as long as she remembered. He was . . . like family.

Her eyes narrowed as her gaze returned to the house. The porch light was out, and though early evening brought with it a murky shade of gray mist, she saw newspapers piled up next to the door, the steps filled with leaves and debris. It looked as if it hadn’t been swept for days.

She pursed her lips and frowned. It was too dark and too silent. Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Rowan pushed the door open—ignoring the way her stomach rolled with a queasy shudder—and grabbed her overnight bag as she slid from the car. Cool wind caressed bare legs, and a shiver wracked her body as she paused beside the vehicle. She was still dressed for Southern California, not fall in Massachusetts.

She smoothed the lines of her skirt, exhaled, and strode toward the house.

Her Nana had left a message on Rowan’s answering machine a few days ago—a quick hello as she had a habit of doing—a check-in that warmed Rowan’s heart. She’d been in Europe on business for her law firm and hadn’t gotten the message until the night before.

Her grandmother sounded as she always did though her voice held a hint of frailty Rowan hadn’t noticed before. As she’d listened to the message again, something hadn’t seemed right, and she’d decided to fly back for a surprise visit.

Now that Rowan was home, she was anxious to see her.

Using her toe, she swept a pile of twigs and maple leaves from the corner and bit her lip as the door opened beneath her hand. The house looked closed up, yet it was unlocked? None of this made sense, and the bad feeling in Rowan’s stomach doubled. Heck, to be honest, it tripled, spreading a sheen of sweat across her flesh and tightening the muscles in her neck until it was hard to breathe.

“What the hell?” she whispered, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. “Nana?” Her voice tentative, Rowan set her bag on the floor and locked the door behind her. Silence bore down on her ears. She swallowed nervously as she squinted into the dark. Inside the house, the shadows were thicker . . . longer . . . and more menacing.

Her hand felt along the wall and she flipped a switch, bathing the foyer in a soft glow, and Rowan relaxed a bit as she glanced around. It looked exactly as she remembered. Delicate roses adorned the wallpaper in the entry, and the floor at her feet was worn, the oak planks smooth from years of use and polish. In fact, the faint scent of lemon oil hung in the air as if it had been recently waxed.

The Queen Anne side table—the one that held Nana’s guest book—sported a large crystal vase. It was always filled with fresh flowers taken from the gardens out back and, depending on the season, held either a riot of color or the fresh greens of November.

But not tonight. She frowned at the sight of dark green water and the droopy remains of a bunch of sad sunflowers that hung over the side like limp soldiers.

What the hell was going on? Was Nana ill? Why hadn’t she called sooner?

She headed toward the back of the house, where her Nana kept a small apartment. As Rowan neared the kitchen the hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and a cold shot of
something
slid across her skin.

Hell, who was she kidding? She knew what that something was, and it wasn’t anything good. Not in this part of Salem anyway. It was dark energy. Scratch that. Dark,
powerful,
energy.

Fear for her Nana pushed Rowan forward, and she jogged the last few steps, her out-of-place leopard-print Fendis clicking across the hardwood in a sharp staccato beat.

“Nana?” she whispered hoarsely as she rushed into the kitchen. Her heels slid across the worn wooden floor, and she barely avoided a fall as her hands grabbed the edge of the large kitchen table.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She nearly went down again as she struggled to maintain her balance. “Shit!” she hissed, pushing a strand of long hair behind her ear—the wind had pulled it loose from the tight ponytail she sported.

The window above the sink rattled as a wall of rain hit the panes, while shadows from the trees shot spidery legs along the wall as the wind picked up and howled. Okay, this was not the homecoming she’d been expecting.

Rowan nearly slipped again, and her gaze fell to the floor. A large stain marred the golden hardwood, leaving in its wake a macabre splash of dark art. Nausea roiled in her gut, and her eyes widened in horror as her brain processed what her eyes were seeing.

It was blood. There was no mistaking that coppery stench. A lot of blood.

The silence was broken as music erupted from inside her Nana’s apartment. “I Fall to Pieces,” a sad lament sung by Patsy Cline, cut through the silence, and a sob escaped Rowan’s throat. It was Nana’s favorite song.

Her heart pounded crazily as she sidestepped around the sticky mess and moved toward her grandmother’s rooms. The door was ajar, and soft light fell from inside, spilling into the dark like a sunbeam, beckoning her forward. She paused, fighting fear and anxiety.

She hated Salem—the memories, the nightmares, the danger—the legacy that had taken many and driven her mother mad. It was the reason she’d left. The reason her Nana had forced her to leave.

Where was she?

Rowan slipped inside and was careful to keep to the shadows. It was automatic, the pull toward the darkness, the need to disappear—old habits died hard. The room appeared empty, but she knew that in the world she inhabited—a world most people were unaware of—looks could be deceiving.

She crept toward Nana’s bed, holding her breath as she did so, eyes moving toward every corner. Her fingers grazed the stereo on the night table, and Patsy was silenced.

Rowan exhaled and turned in a full circle, taking in everything—the heavy crimson coverlet that was turned down. The robe flung across the chair at the foot of the bed. The book that lay open upon the pillow, and the reading glasses that rested alongside it.

Her hand trembled as she picked up the book, and a sad smile lifted the corners of her mouth as her fingers touched the yellowed pages.
To Kill a Mockingbird.
How many times had they read the book together?

She held the novel tight against her chest and tried to clamp down the fear that bubbled inside. The blood in the kitchen filled her with dread. The silence that echoed in her ear made her stomach clench.

“Nana, where are you?” she whispered softly.

Somewhere in the house a noise sounded—a footstep or scuff of a heel—and she froze. Her breath caught at the back of her throat in a painful gasp as she tried to squash her reaction. When she heard it again, sweat broke out on her forehead as the fear in her gut tripled with a sharp stab.

Carefully, Rowan put the book back just as it was and reached for her cell phone, cursing beneath her breath when she realized it was in her bag.

Which was in the foyer.

Back where the weird noises were coming from.

Shit.

Someone was out there—she sensed the energy and knew it was someone powerful. Or rather, some
thing.
At this point she had no idea who or what the hell it was, but she knew it didn’t belong. Not here in her Nana’s bed-and-breakfast.

Rowan exhaled and centered herself. She needed to be calm.

She crossed to the sitting area beside the stone fireplace. An iron poker rested against the hearth, and she grabbed it, holding it tight as she melted into the dark corner nearest her. With her back protected, she felt more in control and had a clear view of the room.

She closed her eyes for a second, concentrated, and felt the familiar pull of energy sizzle along her fingers. There was no way she could charm or spell, her power was weak, ill-used, but it would have to do.

She heard a step echo, then another. Anger washed over her skin in a hot wave that left her teeth clenched, her fingers tight, and her resolve firm. The bastard was playing with her.

Rowan slipped out of her heels, tossed them to the side, and spread her legs as far as she could considering the constraints of her skirt. She balanced on the balls of her feet and squared her shoulders. There was a certain sort of freedom in the act, and it wouldn’t be far off to surmise that in fact she relished the thought of a fight.

Come on, asshole
.
Let’s do this
.

Someone passed beyond her line of sight, then there was silence. It stretched long and thin until she wanted to scream. Rowan’s heart was nearly beating out of her chest, but her eyes never strayed from the door.

She called to the shadows, coaxing them as they slithered along her flesh and covered her body with their darkness. A small thrill shot through her as the energy around her shifted. She’d denied her gifts for so long she’d forgotten how good it felt to use them.

Slowly the door swung open. Something big stood there a few feet beyond the frame. She couldn’t see it, but she sure as hell sensed it. She grimaced, more than a little pissed at herself for letting her powers get so rusty.

Rowan’s senses opened up, and she listened intently. She heard a scuff, like a boot scraping along the floor, and held her breath in anticipation. Who would have predicted ten hours ago she’d be hiding in her Nana’s room, gripping an iron poker from the fireplace, waiting to attack?

Back in the day, before she’d reinvented herself, it had been the norm—fighting demons and monsters. But Rowan had taken great pains to distance herself from that life—she’d gone to college and now worked at a law firm. She had a gerbil. A boyfriend.
A life.

She’d traveled halfway across the country to get away from Salem, yet here she was, back in Massachusetts, with the ghosts of her past circling fast.

A tall shape came into view. Impressively huge.

Rephrase:
The ghosts of her past were about to kick her ass but good.

The door creaked as it slowly slid all the way open, the hinges dry and squeaky. Her breaths fell lightly as she struggled to keep it together, and with a wave of power, she forced them to quiet.

Rowan’s eyes widened as the intruder strode into the room like he had every right to be there, and cast a long shadow along the threadbare carpet. It was a very large, very
male
form.

Denim and leather adorned his powerful frame, emphasizing long limbs and wide shoulders. He moved with the grace of an animal—a predator—and she held her breath as his gaze swung toward her.

Was she safe? Could he see her?

His face was in shadow, but the square jaw was visible. He reeked of power; even in her weakened state she was able to sense the enormity of it, and a sliver of fear bled through her determination.

Something awful and tragic had happened in her Nana’s home. Had this man been involved? If so, what was the extent of his involvement and what did he want? Why had he come back?

He took a step forward into the light and her mouth went dry. A day’s worth of beard shadowed his chin. Dirty blond hair as thick as sable framed a face that was, without a doubt, the most devastatingly handsome one she’d ever seen.
Ever.
Hollywood had nothing on this guy.

Classic features aligned perfectly to create a face that was as arresting as the entire length of him. He was tall and brooding, with intense eyes an unusual shade of piercing gold.

Rowan knew she couldn’t take him. There was no way in hell. The man was well over six feet in height—A) she’d just tossed her heels and at five-foot-six, she didn’t even reach his chin and B) the power that clung to him was incredibly strong. It cast a fractured light around his frame, one bled through with gold and black.

She’d never seen anything like it.

The stereo erupted once more, and Patsy’s mournful soprano sliced through the quiet. Rowan’s heart took off, banging out of control, and she tried to swallow her fear as the stranger turned fully in her direction. Sweet Mother of God, could he see her?

For one second she thought she heard her Nana’s voice whisper to her.
Always keep them off kilter. Do the unexpected.

A shot of courage rolled through her and pushed Rowan into action. She fell from shadow and stepped forward. “Who the hell are you and where is my grandmother?”

Surprise flickered across his face though it quickly disappeared. She swallowed tightly as the stranger’s eyes narrowed into twin strips of black oil. There was no trace of gold left in their depths, that ray of sunshine fled instantly. He raised his hand, and her fingers clutched the iron poker so tightly, they cramped.

She flinched as he flicked his wrist—a subtle motion—and the music silenced.

He arched a brow. “Granddaughter?”

His eyes glittered, a strange shimmer deep within their depths. His voice was low, and she detected a slight accent when he spoke. She couldn’t place it.

“I won’t ask again.” Rowan straightened, glad her voice was firm, no matter that her insides were mush. “Who are you and why is there”—she took a moment—“blood in the kitchen?” A small tremor caressed the end of her sentence, but it couldn’t be helped.

She was freaking out, scared as hell, and there was a mountain of muscle between her and freedom.