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bsp; A thrill rushed through Azaiel, and he clenched his hands as a shot of adrenaline pumped through his body. Was it sad that he felt alive when he was about to maim or kill? Whatever the reason, he’d take it. Anything was better than the emptiness and hatred he’d felt for millennia.
He moved with stealth, melting into the shadows, and with a flick of his wrist, the door yawned open. He slipped outside between the sheets of rain and wind, his gaze moving quickly as he sought the enemy.
Azaiel hopped the railing with ease and crouched low, letting the cool water wash over him like a blessing from above. Ironic that thought.
It was eerily silent, with only the sound of rain against the roof echoing in his ear and the dance of wind through the trees. Overhead the moon was hidden, and night covered everything in a murky gray mist. Lightning struck at random, sparks of light that tainted the surroundings in fire. They sizzled along the ground, then were gone.
He blinked, wiped some excess moisture from his eyes, and focused on the small building to his left. He’d start there.
Azaiel slid through the dark, a silent assassin who blended with the shadows like a plume of smoke amongst a fire.
He felt a shift in the air, a sliver of matter that didn’t belong, and changed direction, approaching a small car in the driveway with caution. Something was there, just beyond the vehicle.
Azaiel withdrew his dagger and jumped, easily clearing the car with a few feet to spare, but there was nothing for him. No demon, human, or other. He felt the barest whisper of energy against his skull, and slammed his mental barriers shut.
And then it was gone.
Azaiel’s breathing returned to normal as the adrenaline inside dissipated, washed away by the cold rain. He frowned as his eyes scanned the entire area. Damn, but he’d been itching for a fight.
He turned and made his way to the porch, and once sheltered from the elements, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a cell phone.
It was answered on the first ring.
“Cale,” the voice was terse.
“It’s Azaiel.” He knew the Seraphim warrior hated his guts, but then, every member of the League felt the same way. They all thought he was untrustworthy. A wild card. And they’d be right. Every day he fought the darkness inside and wondered what the hell Bill saw in him that was redeemable.
“You make it to Salem?” Cale asked.
“Had a welcoming party waiting for me.”
There was a pause on the other end. “A little elaboration would be nice.”
“A pack of blood demons. Seems the coven has been marked.”
“Marked?” Cale cursed. “Who the hell would mark a coven as powerful as Cara’s?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t think they knew Cara had been murdered though they had no qualms about going after her granddaughter instead.”
“Her granddaughter,” Cale murmured softly. “The redhead?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought she was out of the picture. Last I heard she’d taken off to California.”
“Well, she’s back.” Azaiel leaned against the railing, watching the now-receding storm clouds. A clear night sky winked down at him, full of stars and black velvet.
“Was Cara marked because of her affiliation with the League of Guardians?”
Azaiel exhaled, straightened his body. “That remains unanswered.” He thought of the powerful entity he’d sensed and glanced into the darkness.
“Get back to me when you’ve got one. And about my bike, that’s a ’69 Shovelhead, you bastard. You had no right to take—”
Azaiel pocketed the cell and grinned. The Harley had been parked outside The Devil’s Gate when he’d been ordered to Salem a few days ago. Damned if he cared who it belonged to. That it had been Cale’s was fucking perfect. They’d never gotten along. Not even when they were new and full of light, although Cale’s exact origins were still a mystery, even to Azaiel.
He hopped the stairs, entered the house, and paused. A strange scratching noise echoed into the silence, and he followed it down the hall to the kitchen. The soft light from overhead illuminated the room. It was neat and tidy, with nothing out of place save for the woman on the floor.
Rowan was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the bloodstains that marred the otherwise pristine wood floor with steady, determined strokes.
