Axeviathon - Son of Dragons: A Pantheon of Dragons Novel

by Tessa Dawn

  Trader Vice blanched and looked askance at Killian Kross, Lord Drakkar’s venerable chief counselor. All right, Trader reasoned, so Drak was good and pissed. This was nothing he hadn’t expected.

  Killian opened his reedy lips to speak, but the lord of the underworld cut him off—

  “For Drak,” he spat, “the best-laid plans of mice and pagans often go astray. How clever. How witty. How moronic and trite! I wonder if the Seven will feel half as self-satisfied when their offspring arrive, FedEx…in parts.”

  Killian bowed his head and swept one hand in a graceful arc, showing his king the respect he had due, while acknowledging that he had heard his sire’s lament. “If I might, my liege…”

  Drakkar rolled his eyes. “Spit it out, Killian. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Very well.” The counselor folded his hands behind his back. “I couldn’t agree more—the act was bold and infantile; the missive was pedestrian and childish at best; but at the end of the day, what do we care if Kyle Parker lost his money-making digits, if the sinner is no longer a surgeon?” He sniffed and brushed some invisible dust off his shoulder. “Nay, the human was only a pawn on a board, and to that end—and as I am your principal counselor—I might gently remind you that you have a castle full of demons and shades eagerly waiting to do your bidding. Surely, you don’t intend to go after a dragyri…on Earth…and in person?”

  Trader slithered several paces away from the red velvet throne, just in case the shit hit the fan before it could land on the corpse of a dragyri.

  “While it might feel quite satisfying,” Killian continued, “to at last extinguish several Dragyr with your own immaculate hands, the war that would ensue would be disastrous for all concerned: epic in its scope and consequence. Surely, you understand, the moment one supreme being reaches out beyond the netherworlds, strikes at his enemy from Earth’s humble realm, or makes a move to enact retribution, all supreme beings will soon be involved. The dragon lords would leave their thrones faster than you could recite their gemstones—they would meet you earthside and all hell would break loose. You would have to engage in combat with all seven primordial beings. And this is to say nothing of what would happen to the human planet, what would happen to our lives as we know them…and live them, now…what would happen to the cosmic order we’ve achieved.”

  Lord Drakkar snatched Killian by his long, white, baby-fine hair, tugged his head beneath the glow of the torchlight, and glared into his eyes with menace. “Lord Dragos, Lord Ethyron,

  Lord Saphyrius, and Lord Amarkyus.” He spat each name with derision. “Lord Onyhanzian, the loser; Lord Cytarius, the wimp; or Lord Topenzi, the piteous peacemaker—I’d like to see them try.”

  Trader bit his lip, relaxed his face muscles, and strained not to roll his eyes. Really? he thought. All seven dragon lords? You’d like to see them strike at the pagans? You’d like to take on all seven at once? Apparently, Lord Hades was eager to die, but again, Trader said nothing aloud.

  “True, so true,” Killian genuflected, “however, I would counsel my liege to choose caution over impulse. Let your servants be your eyes, your hand, and your sword—let your armies strike your enemies for you.”

  At this, the king flicked his wrist and snapped Killian’s head out of the firelight and away from the throne. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s hyperbole, Killian. Musical language. I don’t really intend to battle the Seven…on my own.” He pointed at the pulverized, severed hand, littered on the floor, brushed up against the edge of an obsidian pillar, and growled. “However, that—such blatant insult—cannot go unanswered. What are your intentions, Trader—what are your plans? How do you intend to punish the male who delivered it? How do you intend to avenge your lord’s honor?”

  Trader grimaced.

  How did he intend to avenge his lord’s honor?

  Shit.

  And what the hell?

  Axeviathon Saphyrius—the male he had discovered in Warren Simmons’ memories—was an immortal Dragyr, the servant of Lord Saphyrius. If Trader, or any other sin-eater, could just walk up to a dragyri, slice his throat, and bring his blood back in a bowl to serve to Lord Drakkar, they would have already done it. Granted, the male was not a Genesis hatchling, but still, he was one of Lord Saphyrius’ beloved children. “I, um, I was hoping—”

  “Shut up, Trader,” Lord Drakkar snarled. “And give me one of your hands.”

  Trader gulped. “Excuse me, my liege?”

  Lord Drakkar’s voice grew dark and menacing. “Did I stutter?”

  Trader shook his head. “No, my king; it’s just—it’s just—I am not the demon who messed this plan up; I believe it was Salem Thorne who was supposed to wield Kyle Parker as a weapon.” He dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

  “Yes…yesssss,” Lord Drak hissed, sounding more like a snake than a king, “and I believe Salem already paid with his penis. I believe Zanaikeyros, another of Lord Saphyrius’ progeny, ripped the organ from Salem’s pelvis in the magical cove, inside the Pantheon, where the sea fills with dragon’s fire. You do recall that Salem managed to slip through the portal, to follow my enemy and wage war with two dragyris. I was able to pull him out through a rift before he was slaughtered, but there was just something about that water—he wasn’t able to regenerate the organ.” He leaned in closer and snarled. “Now, I ask you: Is it fair that Salem has lost so much, when you have lost so little?”

  Trader blanched.

  Fuck!

  The king’s reasoning was ass-backwards, as usual.

  Trader had nothing to do with Salem, Dr. Parker, the missive, the credit union, or even the box of chocolates—he just saw it on the screen in the Sinner’s Cave—he was just the unfortunate messenger.

  “Are. You. Not. The Demon. Who feeds on Warren Simmons?” Drak asked, his tone growing perilously sinister.

  “Yes, my liege,” Trader said, fixing his eyes on the ground.

  “Well, then; would you rather lose your hand or your penis? Which…appendage…would cause you the greatest loss of pleasure going forward?” He angled his head to the side and cackled. “Actually, don’t answer that question—in your case, it could go either way.” He turned toward Killian and nodded. “Counselor, remove whatever is closest. Do it now.”

  Killian reached inside his cloak and withdrew a sharpened, curved sickle, bending over toward Trader’s bent legs.

  Trader held out his left arm. “The hand. The hand! Just take my blasted—shittttt!” he cried, as the limb fell to the floor and landed in a bloody heap.

  “Don’t regenerate that, boy,” the king snarled. “Oh, and clean up the mess, return to the earth, and give Zeik and Grunge an unmistakable warning: If they sleep on the job again, they’ll lose both a hand and an organ. And as for Tony and Amber, the humans involved”—he shrugged one shoulder with indifference—“I suppose it isn’t either one’s fault, but it will make me feel better if you punish them both. Take Tony aside and beat the unholy crap out of him—do to him what you would like to do to me. Let him know that the lord of the cult he worships is terribly displeased with his laziness. And as for Amber, make her blind for a week. Perhaps she’ll see better—and pay closer attention to her surroundings—in the future.” With that, King Drakkar rose from his throne, inclined his head, and took his leave.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LATER THAT EVENING

  Amber got home from work around 5 PM.

  The house was still empty—thank heaven for little favors—which meant she had some rare time to herself: time to change her clothes, unwind, and eat; time to read a book or catch a movie; time to just sit and think and forget her day.

  Her strange, unsettling, disturbing day.

  She dropped her keys in a small black wicker basket sitting on a console table inside the front door, slipped off her shoes, and headed for her bedroom: A long, hot shower would feel heavenly. Slipping out of her sleek gray pencil skirt and peeling off her pantyhose, she started to head for the en sui
te bathroom—and then she swiftly spun around.

  The duvet was wrinkled.

  The door to her master-closet was open.

  And her jewelry tree was facing the wrong direction on her nightstand.

  What the hell?

  Her heart started to pound in her chest as she surveyed the room more carefully.

  “Hello?” she called, retrieving her bathrobe from a hook beside the closet. “Is anyone here? Is anyone home?” Other than Amber’s Jaguar—a gift from Tony that she actually hated—the carport had been empty.

  No, no one was home.

  But someone had definitely been there.

  She tiptoed to the tall cherry armoire, opened the top drawer, and reached behind several lacy nightgowns, retrieving her loaded LC9. She pulled back on the slide to chamber a bullet and held the gun, down and away, from her thigh. “Hello?” she called again as she padded out of the bedroom, down the hall, and in and out of each doorway.

  She checked the theater, the laundry, the sunroom, and the game room.

  The kitchen pantry, the hall closet, and the guest half-bathroom.

  Nothing.

  No one.

  Just a sinking feeling…

  That, and the fact that someone had definitely been in her bedroom.

  True, Tony could have sat down on the edge of the duvet while he was home, but he rarely watched TV outside of the living room or the theatre, and he always sat on the upholstered bench beside the sliding glass doors when he changed his shoes. He absolutely never touched Amber’s jewelry tree—the expensive stuff was in the closet, locked in a safe—and the two had separate compartments.

  So who the hell had opened Amber’s door?

  She returned to the bedroom, went back into the closet, set down the gun, and unlocked the safe. Maybe Tony had bought her a new piece of jewelry—maybe he had gone into her closet to put it away.

  Nope.

  No new, sparkly earrings, dangling necklaces, or flashy rings.

  “Hmm,” Amber wondered aloud. Maybe she had messed up the duvet, left the door to the closet open, and moved the jewelry tree herself this morning. She absently thumbed her favorite pair of earrings—two simple sapphire studs set next to a pair of small diamonds—they were each resting snugly in her ears. She shook her head and murmured, “Shit.” She hadn’t gone near that tree this morning; she didn’t remember sitting on the bed; and she never left a closet door open. It was a childhood quirk that had carried over: shutting all the boogeymen out and such.

  She sighed, still unable to shake the feeling.

  That man…

  The one with the smoldering eyes filled with flames.

  The one who had read her thoughts—the one who knew her full name.

  She had given the stranger her address.

  “Shake it off, Amber.” She spoke aloud. “Do you really think anyone is going to screw with Zeik, Grunge, or Tony? And heaven help whoever does.” Feeling a little bit lighter, she reached inside her purse and retrieved her slender silver smartphone. Where are you? she texted, sending the message to Tony, then staring down at both her phone…and the gun. “Put that shit away,” she whispered, “and just set the alarm.” They rarely used it—they didn’t see the need—but maybe tonight would be an exception.

  Just rolled up to the bar; Tony’s reply shot through. Why? Feeling lonely? Need some company?

  Amber rolled her eyes. Just checking, she texted back. What time will you be home?

  Not late, Tony answered. Maybe seven or eight. Then, WHY? All caps. You okay?

  I’m fine, she texted quickly, just wondered where you were… Shit, now he would come home horny…oh well.

  Be home soon, he shot back. Keep the bed warm (smiley face).

  Yep, she knew Tony Rossi like the back of her hand.

  Later, she texted, shutting off her phone.

  Well, at least one thing in her life was still predictable, and in a sense, it meant she had nothing to worry about: Whoever had been in the house was long gone; Zeik, Grunge, and Tony would be home by eight; and tonight would be like any other night…long, boring, and uneventful…including the sex with Tony.

  Jace Saphyrius was famished when he returned to the lair that evening. He marched straight into the kitchen, hightailed it to the enormous oversized refrigerator, and opened both stainless-steel doors.

  “Can’t wait until dinner?” Zane asked him.

  Jace peered over his shoulder.

  Zane and his mate, Jordan, were sitting at the large mission-style table, enjoying a pre-dinner snack of their own.

  “Looks like I’m not the only one,” Jace said, inclining his chin at Jordan. “Is someone eating for two?”

  Jordan slammed down her fork and glared at him. “Are you saying I’m getting fat?”

  “No!” Jace exclaimed. “Absolutely not. I’m just”—he turned his desperate gaze on Zane, hoping for backup, but when none was forthcoming, he continued—“it’s just that Zane mentioned that the two of you might be…trying. You know, for a little one. That’s all I meant.”

  This time, Jordan pointed her exasperated expression at her dragyri mate. “Zanaikeyros!” Yikes, she was using his consecrated name. “Is nothing sacred…or secret…in this house?”

  Zane’s eyes grew wide, and he shrugged his shoulders, feigning like he suddenly forgot the English language.

  Jordan punched him in the arm, and then she turned her attention back to Jace. “If…and when…there is something to report, you’ll definitely be the last to know. Got it?” She picked up her fork and dug back in to what looked like some kind of Caesar salad.

  Jace laughed.

  “By the way,” Jordan continued, her voice growing imminently more serious, “is Axe still planning on bringing his dragyra home tonight?”

  Jace snatched a leftover rotisserie chicken, a container of mashed potatoes, a side of macaroni and cheese, and three slices of homemade sourdough bread out of the refrigerator and headed for the cupboard to get a plate.

  “You do know dinner is at six,” Zane said. “Levi will be cooking in your place in forty-five minutes.”

  “Yeah,” Jace grunted, grateful to pass on his usual culinary duties to his more-than-capable lair mate. “And I’ll be ready to eat again by then.” He turned his attention back to Jordan. “Haven’t heard from Axe since 11:30 this morning. I’m assuming his plans haven’t changed. Oh, and Zane—”

  “What’s up?”

  “Remember that license plate number he gave me?”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “Well, I tried to run the plate number while I was out. I stopped by the local police department, slipped in incognito, and whispered a few sweet nothings in this cute little dispatcher’s ear, laced with a significant amount of compulsion, of course. She looked it right up.”

  “And?” Zane asked.

  “And then she got the world’s worst headache, suddenly forgot what she was doing, and tried to move on to another task.”

  Zane sat back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest, raising both eyebrows in question.

  “I repeated the process three more times. I gave the girl a new command to pull it up again, watched as she either rubbed her temples, or grimaced, and got up from her desk. I was about to ask her a fourth time, but—”

  “That is really cruel, Jace,” Jordan cut in. “Did it ever occur to you that you could’ve given her a brain hemorrhage or something? I mean, I get that the Dragyr don’t think all that highly of humans, but sheesh, have some compassion next time.” Her voice held a hint of teasing, but just the same, Jace caught her drift.

  “First of all,” he said, “you didn’t let me finish. I was just about to say: I was going to ask her a fourth time, but I didn’t want to push it, wasn’t comfortable with the cerebral reaction. Second of all,” he gibed, “unless I missed the memo, you’ve come and gone from the temple, which means you’re no longer human yourself. Welcome to the world of the Dragyr. And incidentally,
I believe that’s why you and Zane are now capable of having a baby—I think you oughta get to it.”

  Jordan snickered, flipped him the bird, and went back to eating.

  “So, what gives?” Zane asked, following up on Jace’s story. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Yep,” Jace said. “Cult of Hades. That plate number was protected by a ward. Oh, and it wasn’t just the headaches: Every time she tried to enter the number, her screen went black, like a not too subtle message from the cosmos: Look away…think again…nothing to see here, folks.”

  Zane nodded and rubbed his chin in contemplation. “Damn, then Axe was right; something ominous is going on with his dragyra.”

  “Yeah,” Jace said, and all the humor left his voice. “Back to Jordan’s original question—does Axe plan to bring the girl back to the Pantheon later tonight? I think the entire lair needs to stay put…stay home. And frankly, the later it gets, the more prepared we should be: It might not be such a bad idea to have our battle gear on—blades sheathed, firearms loaded—you know, just be ready.” He paused to consider his next words. “I don’t know…just in case… I have a real bad feeling about this, Zane.”

  Zane cleared his throat and inclined his head. “Couldn’t agree more.” He turned toward his dragyra, smiled, and placed a loving hand on her back. “And you know, angel, when he does bring her back, you might have the most instrumental role to play.”

  “How’s that?” Jordan asked, her large hazel eyes darkening with interest.

  “My guess,” Jace interjected, “is she’s not gonna be very happy to be here.”

  “Axe is playing this one close to the vest,” Zane added. “He’s not taking any time to meet her, get to know her, explain a little bit about the Dragyr or the Pantheon …our world, what’s happening, or what she can expect going forward.”