Read Online King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel by Juliana Stone - Free Book Online
Authors: Juliana Stone
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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.
And they wouldn’t play nice.
His gut tightened, and the lightness that had only recently settled in his mind was long gone. It was replaced with the weight of an almost impossible situation. And yet he knew it wasn’t time to despair. Not yet. Azaiel was living proof that hope flourished even when all was lost.
It was some kind of miracle that he—the Fallen—had managed to find some bit of grace and come back from the darkness. If not for Bill, he would have perished, and for that he was grateful. He knew he wasn’t yet whole. The road to redemption was littered with the sins of his past, but he would walk it—one step at a time.
Whether he was strong enough to reach the end . . . well, that was another question entirely.
For a few moments, as the sun shone on his face, and the warmth of a woman crept up his back, Azaiel let the darkness inside him dissipate. He let the freedom of the road infiltrate his cells and gunned the motor, laughing at the squeal of protest that sounded on the wind.
Rowan dug her hands into his sides, but he paid no mind. Hell, he could close his eyes and drive the damn thing safely if he wanted to. A little bit of otherworld mojo, and he’d be all set. Instead, Azaiel let the beauty that existed in this corner of the world—the burnt oranges, fiery reds, and brilliant golds—touch his soul, and he found that it offered some sort of comfort to the heaviness that weighed on him.
They rode in silence for nearly thirty minutes, and as they approached Ipswich, Rowan’s hands tightened.
The small New England town was old—older than most in these parts, and its history bled through like a living, breathing entity. If ever a place had “character,” this was it. From the architecture of the
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.
And they wouldn’t play nice.
His gut tightened, and the lightness that had only recently settled in his mind was long gone. It was replaced with the weight of an almost impossible situation. And yet he knew it wasn’t time to despair. Not yet. Azaiel was living proof that hope flourished even when all was lost.
It was some kind of miracle that he—the Fallen—had managed to find some bit of grace and come back from the darkness. If not for Bill, he would have perished, and for that he was grateful. He knew he wasn’t yet whole. The road to redemption was littered with the sins of his past, but he would walk it—one step at a time.
Whether he was strong enough to reach the end . . . well, that was another question entirely.
For a few moments, as the sun shone on his face, and the warmth of a woman crept up his back, Azaiel let the darkness inside him dissipate. He let the freedom of the road infiltrate his cells and gunned the motor, laughing at the squeal of protest that sounded on the wind.
Rowan dug her hands into his sides, but he paid no mind. Hell, he could close his eyes and drive the damn thing safely if he wanted to. A little bit of otherworld mojo, and he’d be all set. Instead, Azaiel let the beauty that existed in this corner of the world—the burnt oranges, fiery reds, and brilliant golds—touch his soul, and he found that it offered some sort of comfort to the heaviness that weighed on him.
They rode in silence for nearly thirty minutes, and as they approached Ipswich, Rowan’s hands tightened.
The small New England town was old—older than most in these parts, and its history bled through like a living, breathing entity. If ever a place had “character,” this was it. From the architecture of the
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