Free King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel by Juliana Stone Page A

nothing. Why hadn’t she gone to Salem as soon as she’d known something was wrong?
    She thought a phone call would suffice? Had their family become that disinterested in each other? That fractured?
    The empty beer glasses left on the table beside them began to shake, the light fixture overhead flickered and went out, while the oak floorboards beneath her feet creaked and moaned—a few split apart in protest to the anger she projected. Whispers floated on the air—or maybe they were screams—and several patrons left quickly, money thrown on tables and food left untouched.
    The giant of a bartender moved toward Hannah, but with one flick of Rowan’s wrist, he stumbled and nearly fell.
    “Don’t,” Rowan warned, as one of the glasses crashed to the floor.
    The bartender cursed and motioned toward the door. “Maybe you girls should take this outside.” He glared at Rowan. “Not exactly good for business.”
    Rowan glanced at Azaiel. His gold eyes had an amused look to them that pissed her off even more. “Give me five minutes.” She spoke curtly and gave no chance for his reply.
    She turned and strode through the door, inhaling a crisp shot of fall air as she walked along the worn wooden deck that ran the entire width of the Brick House. It was a weather-beaten gray building with cream trim and lots of fall displays. Pumpkins, cornstalks, and sunflowers filled the corners of the veranda, while bales of straw were scattered about. It seemed as if Hannah still had a soft spot for All Hallows Eve.
    Rowan lifted her face to the sun and closed her eyes, suddenly so weary and tired of it all. Which was stupid. There was so much to do and tons of ground to cover, but the weight of her situation had been heavy for years, and she realized she might not be strong enough to do what needed to be done.
    Sure, she’d fled to California, but had she ever truly believed her family could outrun Mallick? That he wouldn’t find a way to get to her? It had always been at the back of her mind—she’d just learned to ignore it and, as it turned out, had paid a very high price.
    An image of her grandmother floated behind her eyes, and pain lanced across her chest. Her throat was tight, and her heart hurt. It was times like this a girl wanted her mother, and for Rowan, that had been Nana. God, how she’d love to rest her head against her grandmother’s breast. Feel the wiry fingers run through her hair, hear the beat of her heart—smell the soft vanilla scent of her bath oils.
    But that was to be no more.
    The pain in her chest grew sharper and though it hurt, she drew strength from it. It was a reminder of what she’d lost, and Rowan wouldn’t rest until Mallick paid.
    The sound of a boot scuff tore her mind from the darkness, and she whirled around to face her cousin. Hannah still had the gun in her hand though it was held loosely and pointed to the ground. A couple had followed her out and stopped just shy of the steps leading to the parking lot. She waved the weapon toward them, and they didn’t hesitate. The man yelled, “crazy bitches,” as he hopped down the steps, dragging his lady behind him.
    Rowan watched them slip into a faded, black, rusted Chevy and turned back to her cousin. You’re not far off, Mister.
    The two women stared at each other in silence. It stretched long and thin, like a weakened spider’s weave about to snap.
    Where to start? She squared her shoulders and kept her voice level. “I see you cut your hair.”
    Hannah snorted. “Are we really going to do this? I told you six years ago that we were done, and I meant it. Nothing’s happened to change my mind.”
    Pain, mingled with a pulse of power, surged down Rowan’s arms and settled into her hands. It was hot—white-hot—and she stretched her fingers to alleviate the stress. Or maybe it was a warning. Either way, she was done playing games.
    “Cara is dead.” The words spoken were wooden, without a hint of emotion. That she kept inside.