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She was very much aware of Azaiel’s warm leg pressed against her own—with the added body count of her mother and the gargoyle—they were pressed together like sardines in a can. She wriggled slightly, but it didn’t help.
Damn but the man ran as hot as a furnace. And he smelled way too damn good for someone who’d just run crazy through an otherworld insane asylum. She shivered at the thought of what they’d left behind. Of how they’d hacked their way back to the dock.
When they’d finally reached the boat, it looked as if Armageddon had visited the island. More mercenaries had shown up—human and otherworld. Priest and Frank had used them for target practice, clearing a path for the six of them to make it to the boat. While they’d scrambled aboard, the heaviness inside Rowan had pinched hard, and she’d had the disturbing notion that someone was there, just on the other side of reality, watching her.
It wasn’t Mallick.
As they’d pulled away the feeling eventually subsided, but for one brief moment the terror she’d felt had nearly brought her to her knees.
“Are you all right?” Azaiel’s low timbre tickled her ear, and she shuddered.
“Of course,” she answered abruptly. No, not really. How can I be all right? We just sprang my mother from an insane asylum, and I hate the fact that she doesn’t even seem insane, which makes no sense. She’s brought along a fucking frog-man-gargoyle thing and. . .
“You seem tense.”
“Well, you would be, too, if you knew.” She changed the subject.
“Knew?”
“If you knew what the hell is waiting for us at The Black Cauldron.” Their whispers drew the curious gaze of Hannah. She was on the other side of Azaiel.
“You don’t think they brought the donkey, do you?” Hannah leaned toward them.
“Oh God, I hope not.” Rowan made a face.
“Donkey?” Azaiel arched his brow.
“Don’t ask,” they answered in unison.
“Pea-knuckle.” Hannah laughed.
A smile cracked Rowan’s stiff features, and she felt a bit of the heaviness dissipate. Hannah held her gaze and reached across Azaiel to squeeze her hand. “It will be fine, Ro. All of it.”
Rowan nodded, not trusting herself to speak as she cleared her throat of the lump that had suddenly appeared. She was pretty sure they wouldn’t be fine, but at the moment, that was the least of her worries. The more pressing question was where the heck was she going to put everybody? Sure, the Caldron was a bed-and-breakfast, but there were only so many beds to go around, and if Abigail and the others had arrived, who knew where they’d lay their heads.
She groaned and tried to relax. Almost there. But it was too hot. Too confined. And Rowan would have cut off her right arm to be anywhere but pressed up against the Seraphim, with only the back of her mother’s head to look at. Over four hours of driving, and she was ready to go mad.
Azaiel made her feel things she had no time for, and Marie-Noelle . . . Rowan closed her eyes, hating the taste of bitterness that clung to the back of her throat. It was full-bodied and ripe.
Her mother opened up a lot of wounds she wasn’t sure she wanted to deal with. Ever.
It wasn’t just the abando
nment issues. Or the fact that Rowan’s life had become forfeit the moment Mallick had chosen her. Sure there was resentment and anger toward a mother who’d boozed and drugged her way through most of her child’s younger years.
It was more than all of that. It was . . . she bit her bottom lip and glanced down at her hands. Her mother had given up. Taken a long vacation on the island of looney and left Rowan and Cara to deal with the fallout.
Marie-Noelle should be buck-crazy. She should be a shadow of her former self. She should be on her hands and knees, begging forgiveness.
And yet she was none of those things.
Rowan peeked at the huge gargoyle. What was his story?
They passed a gift shop, and for a second she thought she saw a reflection in the glass—a strange man with glittery glass eyes, dark hair, and striking features. She sat up a little straighter and narrowed her eyes, but when she focused once more, there was nothing.
Priest turned left onto Millen Road—it led to The Black Cauldron—and as they came upon the laneway, she groaned.
Good God . . . it looked as if a gypsy caravan had set up camp. Two large RVs were parked off to the side, near the old oak tree. One was laden with several bicycles—not sure when there would be time for a leisurely ride through New England, but hey . . .
