To Hell and Back (11 page)

Logan bucked his hips suddenly and Santos, not expecting it, lost his grip. It was enough for Logan to break his hold and roll to the side. He gained his footing and stood up as Santos lunged at him again.

The metal rod, forgotten by his father, was already in Logan’s hand and he brought it down across his father’s face, breaking his nose and slicing into flesh and bone. Santos roared in anger and staggered back.

Logan lunged forward, pounding into his father with relentless precision, using every sense he possessed to hunt his father like an animal in the small cage. He pressed forward, digging deep and finding the kind of strength that only comes from desperation. He fed from the darkness in the chamber, from the love and pain inside him. Logan used everything he had as he pummeled Santos with blow after blow—using both his fists and the metal rod.

And when he finally brought his father to his knees, Logan followed him down, nearly spent. Santos was breathing heavily. He was a bloody, ripped up mess of flesh and exposed bone. A low rumble sounded from inside his father’s chest as Logan stared at him—both men, face to face.

“I will crush you the way I should have crushed you when you were days old.” Santos ground out as the air around him solidified into magick and shadows.

“You can try,” Logan sneered, knowing his insolence would do more for him now.

Santos’s eyes were wild as the beast inside him blurred and melted with his human form. Insanity shone there—a thirst for something just out of reach—and in the end it cost him.

The minute Santos shifted into his hellhound form, the small demon who’d started the festivities appeared, his form dwarfed by Santos. The hellhound snapped his great jaws, the eyes burning red as it tried to get to Logan but he was unable to. Magick held him in place and eventually Santos quieted as he realized his error. The moment he’d shifted, he’d forfeited any hopes of winning the match.

The master of ceremonies turned to Logan and held his gaze for several long moments as chaos rained down on them. He nodded and said simply, “You are free to go.”

The cage walls disappeared and so did Santos. Logan cracked his neck and turned his beaten, tired body toward his brother. Zane was quiet and Logan followed his brother down the catwalk, ignoring the shouts of glee and congratulations from the crowd.

The two brothers made their way to Lilith’s chambers. Logan could just make her out—his vision was still blurry—but he ignored her and went straight for the boy. The small child cowered in Kraghten’s arms and Logan knelt down, knowing his bloody, sweaty appearance wasn’t helping things.

He waited until the child settled and then held out his hand, palm up. “Do you want to see your mommy?”

The small boy slowly nodded, his tear-stained face anxious and scared.

“Come with me then.” Logan smiled. “I promise everything will be all right.”

Kraghten released the boy and Logan scooped him up.

“Well done,” a voice said from the shadows.

Logan paused and stared into the darkness. He knew Samael was there. He could smell him. He nodded, and then strode from Lilith’s chambers, his brother Zane following in his footsteps.

And less than five seconds later he’d left the Hell realm behind for the last time.

Chapter Thirteen

T
HE
B
LUE
L
ADY
was a smoky, jazzy place filled with soft, sensual music. Kira sat at the bar, twirling a straw inside a tall, cool glass of lemonade. The bartender—the young man she’d followed inside—had given her the glass an hour earlier.

Or was it only minutes earlier?

It was hard to tell because Kira couldn’t shake the feeling that things were off here. She felt like she’d only arrived, but then she remembered seeing some of the customers come and go and then come again. Weird.

She’d eaten a hearty meal of stew and bread and she’d also enjoyed the most amazing strawberry shortcake ever.

And still the lady in blue hadn’t arrived. She wasn’t sure what to do, and whenever she asked the bartender about the woman, he just smiled and nodded and said that everything was going to be all right.

She sighed and glanced around the full bar. A lady sang from the stage, her voice strong and sure. She sang a song about love and loss, and the melancholy notes tugged at Kira’s heart. Unsure of her next move, she stayed at the bar and people-watched, trying not to panic or think about Logan.

The door opened—she felt the chill of the winter’s night—but she paid no mind. The door had been opening and closing steadily ever since she arrived. Which, now that she thought about it, had been at dawn.

The bartender glanced up and something about his expression made Kira turn around. A man stood just inside the doorway. He was tall, well built, with a powerful frame. His dark hair hung in waves to his collar and—as he stepped into the light—everything about him was beautiful. She slid from the bar stool and took a step forward but then stopped. Her legs felt rubbery and she wasn’t sure she’d make it across the room.

There was no need, because the man strode over to her without pause and scooped her into his arms, holding her against his chest like she was the most precious thing in the world.

“Logan,” she gasped through tears.

And then his mouth was on hers, his lips demanding as his tongue slid between her teeth and sought her warmth. She groaned and melted into his embrace. She tasted his desperation. His need. His love and his sorrow.

She inhaled pain. Fire and brimstone.

She let him drink from her and gave Logan everything she could. In that moment there was nothing but the two of them. When the kiss finally ended, when that exquisite joining broke apart, they were both breathing heavily.

She slid down his body and stood on unsteady legs, her gaze wandering over a bruised and beaten face. Logan’s nose was swollen, as was his right eye. There were numerous abrasions on his cheek and jaw which several days worth of beard couldn’t hide.

“You made it, little Dove,” Logan said haltingly.

She nodded, a slight frown on her face . “What did they do to you?” she whispered, her fingers tracing his lips until she cupped his cheeks and gently kissed him once more.

“None of that matters,” Logan answered simply. His eyes were wet, heavy with emotion as his hand tangled in her hair. “I’m sorry. I got here as soon as I could. I had to deal with a family issue and then”—he took a moment—“I had to return a package.”

Kira shook her head. She didn’t understand and she didn’t care.

“You’re here. That’s all that matters.” Kira closed her eyes and settled against his chest once more.

The two of them held on to each other until a polite clearing of the throat caught their attention. Logan turned and Kira followed his gaze, blushing as the bartender grinned widely and pointed toward a door marked “Office.”

A woman stood there. A small, graceful creature. She was not unlike the bartender, full of sun and warmth. But as she moved closer, Kira noticed her eyes were ice blue. They were luminescent … iridescent. They were full of magick and—Kira’s mouth dropped open—they were strangely familiar.

“Mother,” Logan said softly.

The woman stopped in front of them, her eyes eating up her son, their depths filled with love and yearning and … hope?

“You look a little worse for wear, my son.”

Logan nodded, and though he grinned, there was no way he could hide his pain. “Family reunion in Hell will do that to you.”

Her features tightened and for a moment darkness colored her eyes a much deeper shade of blue. She quickly got control and exhaled.

“You’ve come to—” She paused as her gaze flickered over Kira. “You’ve come to stay?”

Kira felt Logan’s arms slip from her shoulders.

“Yes,” he answered simply.

The woman’s smile widened and she turned to Kira. “Welcome.” She kissed Kira on both cheeks. “I’m Cianna.” She hesitated, but then Logan scooped her into his arms and hugged his mother fiercely.

Kira stepped back, wanting to give them room, and it was nearly a minute later when Logan and his mother turned to her.

“Are you ready?” Logan asked, hand held out for her.

Kira swallowed and put her hand into his large one. She let him pull her into his embrace and giggled when he lifted her off the floor and held her against his chest.

This wasn’t the end for them. This was the beginning of something new and exciting, and for the first time in forever, it seemed, Kira was content.

She was safe and she was loved.

As Logan placed his palm against her belly and murmured, “I love you, little Dove,” Kira felt as if she’d already found her home.

Want more from
The League of Guardians?
Keep reading for an excerpt from

KING OF THE DAMNED
Available in December 2012
From Avon Books

An Excerpt from

KING OF THE DAMNED

D
ARKNESS HAD FALLEN
hours earlier, leaving only the moon’s glow to illuminate the house on the hill. Rowan cut the engine of her rental, a frown furrowing her brow as she stared at the large, rambling home.

The wind whistled and moaned, whipping dead leaves from the ground into a chaotic dance across her windshield. In the distance a once-vibrant sunset settled along the edge of darkness that encroached from below. The day was dying, and soon nightfall would be complete.

She glanced at the parking area next to the gift shop and was surprised to see it empty. The Black Cauldron was one of the premier bed-and-breakfast stops in Salem, and there were always guests in residence. Not even Cedric’s car was present. Nana’s caretaker and all-around handyman usually shared dinner with her at the Cauldron and had been a fixture at the place for as long as Rowan remembered. He was … like family.

Her eyes narrowed as her gaze returned to the house. The porch light was out, and though early evening brought with it a murky shade of gray mist, she saw newspapers piled up next to the door, the steps filled with leaves and debris. It looked as if it hadn’t been swept for days.

She pursed her lips and frowned. It was too dark and too silent. Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Rowan pushed the door open—ignoring the way her stomach rolled with a queasy shudder—and grabbed her overnight bag as she slid from the car. Cool wind caressed bare legs, and a shiver wracked her body as she paused beside the vehicle. She was still dressed for Southern California, not fall in Massachusetts.

She smoothed the lines of her skirt, exhaled, and strode toward the house.

Her Nana had left a message on Rowan’s answering machine a few days ago—a quick hello as she had a habit of doing—a check-in that warmed Rowan’s heart. She’d been in Europe on business for her law firm and hadn’t gotten the message until the night before.

Her grandmother sounded as she always did, though her voice held a hint of frailty Rowan hadn’t noticed before. As she’d listened to the message again, something hadn’t seemed right, and she’d decided to fly back for a surprise visit.

Now that Rowan was home, she was anxious to see her.

Using her toe, she swept a pile of twigs and maple leaves from the corner of the door and bit her lip as it opened beneath her hand. The house looked closed up, yet it was unlocked? None of this made sense, and the bad feeling in Rowan’s stomach doubled. Heck, to be honest, it tripled, spreading a sheen of sweat across her flesh and tightening the muscles in her neck until it was hard to breathe.

“What the hell?” she whispered, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. “Nana?” Her voice tentative, Rowan set her bag on the floor and locked the door behind her. Silence bore down on her ears. She swallowed nervously as she squinted into the dark. Inside the house, the shadows were thicker … longer … and more menacing.

Her hand felt along the wall and she flipped a switch, bathing the foyer in a soft glow, and Rowan relaxed a bit as she glanced around. It looked exactly as she remembered. Delicate roses adorned the wallpaper in the entry, and the floor at her feet was worn, the oak planks smooth from years of use and polish. In fact, the faint scent of lemon oil hung in the air as if it had been recently waxed.

The Queen Anne side table—the one that held Nana’s guest book—sported a large crystal vase. It was always filled with fresh flowers taken from the gardens out back and, depending on the season, held either a riot of color or the fresh greens of November.

But not tonight. She frowned at the sight of dark green water and the droopy remains of a bunch of sad sunflowers that hung over the side like limp soldiers.

What the hell was going on? Was Nana ill? Why hadn’t she called sooner?

She headed toward the back of the house, where her Nana kept a small apartment. As Rowan neared the kitchen the hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and a cold shot of
something
slid across her skin.

Hell, whom was she kidding? She knew what that something was, and it wasn’t anything good. Not in this part of Salem anyway. It was dark energy. Scratch that. Dark,
powerful
energy.

Fear for her Nana pushed Rowan forward, and she jogged the last few steps, her out-of-place leopard-print Fendis clicking across the hardwood in a sharp staccato beat.

“Nana?” she whispered hoarsely as she rushed into the kitchen. Her heels slid across the worn wooden floor, and she barely avoided a fall as her hands grabbed the edge of the large kitchen table.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She nearly went down again as she struggled to maintain her balance. “Shit!” she hissed, pushing a strand of long hair behind her ear—the wind had pulled it loose from the tight ponytail she sported.

The window above the sink rattled as a wall of rain hit the panes, while shadows from the trees shot spidery legs along the wall as the wind picked up and howled. Okay, this was not the homecoming she’d been expecting.

Rowan nearly slipped again, and her gaze fell to the floor. A large stain marred the golden hardwood, leaving in its wake a macabre splash of dark art. Nausea roiled in her gut, and her eyes widened in horror as her brain processed what her eyes were seeing.