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After millennia of existence, he’d learned many times over that actions belied a man’s innermost thoughts. And that more often than not, words unsaid spoke louder than those uttered. So he’d observed the two and learned enough.
The fact that Cedric kept himself between Azaiel and Rowan showed not just distrust for Azaiel—he was highly protective of the young woman. Cedric had served the James witches for most of his life, and the love the man felt for Cara and Rowan was as strong as any familial bond. The man would do whatever he could to avenge Cara’s death.
Azaiel also noticed that Cedric’s hand trembled though he tried his damnedest to hide it. The elderly man was much sicker than he wanted them to know.
As for Rowan, her pain and guilt at her grandmother’s death had been pushed aside, hidden away in some secret part of her soul, where it would fester. She covered her pain with false smiles and an overly happy voice. Azaiel knew from past experience that the witch was going to have to deal with it sooner rather than later. If not, it would eat away at her and do the one thing she wanted to avoid—impede her judgment and ability to complete her mission.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He’d followed Rowan across the parking lot and paused beside the small blue car. The door was open, and she was behind the wheel, cranking an engine that didn’t want to turn over.
She looked up at him in frustration. “This thing is a new rental; how the hell can it not start?” Her tone was almost accusatory. Did she actually think he’d toyed with the machine? Not that he was torn up over it. The thought of folding his large frame into the confines of the small vehicle did not please him. It brought to mind a gilded cage and endless centuries upon centuries of i
mprisonment below.
He nodded toward the motorcycle he’d “borrowed” from Cale. The open road and wind on his face was much more to his liking.
“We’ll take the bike.”
Rowan slid from the car, her brows furled into a frown.
“You afraid to ride?”
She looked startled at his question and shook her head, moving away from him toward the motorcycle. “No, of course not, I just . . .”
“You just?” he prodded, noting the tightening around her mouth.
“I prefer to drive.”
It seemed the little witch liked to be in control. Azaiel shrugged and nodded toward the bike, holding the key aloft. Hell, if she wanted to drive, he had no problems whatsoever climbing on board behind her. In fact—his gaze rested upon her rounded hips—it might be somewhat entertaining. “Fine by me, if you’re willing.”
“No,” she answered quickly. “I don’t want to be responsible for something this expensive. Is it yours?”
“Nope.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Did you steal it?”
Azaiel paused. “I borrowed it.”
She threw her hands into the air. “Great, so you stole it. Anything else you willing to share? Because now would be a good time.”
Azaiel ignored her question. The secrets that darkened his soul were not for anyone’s ears. Those he would keep close.
He settled himself onto the seat, his long legs easily gripping the machine, and waited for Rowan to climb up behind him. He wasn’t prepared for the energy that slid over his skin as she did so. It startled him, and for a moment he gripped the handlebars tightly, not caring for the sensation. Not caring for what it represented—a connection.
Azaiel wasn’t looking to connect with anyone. He’d do what he could for the League, but there was room for nothing else.
A soft grunt, or maybe it was a sigh of surprise was heard as she inched forward, and Azaiel wondered if she felt the connection as well. She muttered under her breath and wrapped her arms around his midsection, holding tight to him. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover in the next few days.”
Azaiel revved the engine and let all thoughts of doomsday fly away as the powerful machine between his legs begged to be let out on the open road. The throttle growled, a low rumble that sounded sweet, and they sped out of the driveway, turning right as Rowan directed, toward Ipswich, a small New England town thirty minutes north.
The air was fresh, the streets of Salem busy. Tourists by the hundreds walked the sidewalks, shopping, laughing, drinking in the ambiance—some dressed in witch costumes, others in casual clothes and comfortable walking gear. All seemed more than happy to open their wallets and spread the kind of cheer that made the local businesses happy.
He spied a young mother pushing her child in a stroller along the sidewalk. They stopped to admire a large pumpkin decoration, and the mother reached for her child’s face and stroked the ruddy cheek affectionately. They looked happy. Content. So did the group of elderly women who elbowed their way through a crowd of youths.
Not one of them had a clue what hunted amongst them. On the short drive through town, he’d felt the presence of several demons meandering through the crowds, sniffing out any who might fall easily into their embrace. By nightfall, the number would double.
With Mallick’s eye turned this way, Salem would be overrun within a few days. If Azaiel and the League weren’t able to contain the bastard and his legions, the quaint little town would never know what hit it. The monsters and demons that they dreamed about—the ones they immortalized in movies and books—would show themselves.
