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With one final glance at the hard candy in her bed, Rowan turned away. It was probably a good thing that the Seraphim was asleep.
She’d have to find another way to assuage the ache because she sure as hell knew it wasn’t going anywhere.
Outside it was lighter, and most everyone at Chez Cauldron was getting some shut-eye. Rowan moved the curtains to the side and gazed down into the yard. A light was on in Terre’s RV, but Vicki’s was in darkness. She saw Leroy walking a path he’d beaten into the grass and held her breath as the animal glanced her way. Eventually the donkey returned to his endless pacing, and she exhaled slowly.
She’d organized several teams of human soldiers to patrol Salem during the day, and they’d be heading out soon. Most of these were from families—generations of demon hunters. She saw a few of them gathered in groups near the mess of tents that were set up near the Cauldron’s gift shop. The McDaniels. The Blackstones. The Lawrences.
Lord knows what anyone from town thought if they drove by, though she supposed the protective spells they’d cast around the property went a long way to keeping most folk from coming anywhere near the bed-and-breakfast.
Rowan let the curtain fall back into place. Fatigue still haunted her bones, but she was restless as well and knew that with Azaiel in her bed she’d never get to sleep. She slipped into sweatpants and a clean T-shirt. Azaiel hadn’t moved, and she hoped that he’d be out until nightfall. She needed time and space to purge her mind of the sinful, distracting thoughts that starred none other than the Seraphim.
Because, undeniably, the man was a plus ten and then some.
On quiet toes, she left Azaiel in slumber, there amongst all the pink and white, and headed back down the stairs.
Chapter 26
Priest held the ancient tome in his hands and felt its power. It was full-bodied, like an aged wine, and heavy with the weight of it. His fingers gripped the worn-leather binding, and he closed his eyes—visualized the many threads of power that lived within the text, each an intricate blend of genetics and magick.
There was something insanely addictive about such power, and he was careful to keep it at bay. He would observe but could never touch. He knew how corrupting this kind of power was and for the first time understood the depth of the James witches’ gifts. They were undeniably a cut above all others.
Hundreds of years earlier, when the first James witch had called forth Mallick . . . that had been a gift to the demon. He understood why Mallick didn’t want to let them go. Why he fed upon their power and harnessed it for himself. It was unlike any other organic form of power out there. Each generation of these women passed on their gifts to their daughters, and each generation was more powerful than the one before.
And Rowan was different. She was stronger, more special. Priest knew it was because of the dark fae blood that ran through her veins. It’s what set her apart and held her above all others.
He’d studied the pages in the grimoire, found the spell she’d need to invoke, and knew that the chances of Mallick’s defeat were slim to none. And yet there was something about her spirit that gave him hope. It wasn’t a tangible thing. There wasn’t any reason. It just was.
Priest’s fingers loosened on the binding, and he opened his eyes. There was a hard resolve in them, a slight tightening around the mouth. He’d come to respect these witches and their strange friends over the last few days. He knew of their love and devotion to Rowan—and to Cara’s memory.
So he clung to hope and the thought that maybe the young witch had what it took to defeat the bastard, Mallick. Because if not . . . if given no choice, Priest would do whatever he had to, to make sure Mallick did not claim Rowan as his.
A throat cleared behind him, and Priest opened his eyes. He was in Cara’s room with Marie-Noelle, the gargoyle, and Kellen. Judging by the shuttered expression that crept into Kellen’s eyes, as well as the not-very-subtle shift in energy, he knew that Rowan had joined them.
“Is that it?”
He turned and nodded. She looked tired. Dark smudges bruised the flesh beneath her eyes, and she was much too pale. With her wet hair thrown up in a careless ponytail and her face free of makeup, she looked almost fragile. He saw why the Seraphim fancied the witch. It was a delicate balance, her beauty and strength.
Priest exhaled and held the book out to her.
Rowan took a step forward, then hesitated, her blue eyes darkening as she glanced toward her mother and the gargoyle. The two women stared at each other, and the silence in the room grew thick with words unsaid.
“I think I’ll get some coffee,” Marie-Noelle said haltingly. “Mikhail?” She quickly crossed to Kellen and hugged him fiercely. “Thank you for retrieving the grimoire. I don’t . . .” She stepped back and struggled to finish her sentence. “If you hadn’t, I don’t . . .”
“It’s all good, Mom. Get some coffee and we’ll talk later, all right?”
Marie-Noelle nodded, shot a glance toward her still-silent daughter, and left. Mikhail’s features were fierce with heavy, furled brows, distended fangs, and flared nostrils. He paused on his way out.
“What?”
The gargoyle leaned toward Rowan, his gravelly voice low and subdued. “Forgiveness lightens the soul, little one. You make her suffer with your eyes, your silence, and yet in the end, the one who will suffer the most is you.”
Rowan returned the gargoyle’s gaze with a direct stare. She was silent—no sarcastic reply fell from her lips—and after a few moments Mikhail shook his head and left.
“You need to go easy on them, Ro.”
She turned to Kellen and blinked, rapidly, as her focus sharpened. Her brother stood near the bed, his left arm in a sling, handsome face a mottled mess, with numerous cuts and bruises, and when he shifted his weight the grimace that stole over his features was enough to tell her he was in a lot of pain.
Grimoire forgotten, she rushed to his side, her hands reaching out for him, but he hissed, and she held still. “Everything hurts, Ro. That hug from Mom nearly did me in.” A rakish grin cut across his swollen mouth. “I’m sure I look like hell.” A hoarse laugh escaped. “Literally like hell, and that’s not a fucking pun.”
