Axeviathon - Son of Dragons: A Pantheon of Dragons Novel

by Tessa Dawn

“Nope,” Jace added, “not Axe’s style. And with all the creepy dark shit revolving around her, I can’t say that I blame him. But still…”

  “She may need a softer touch,” Zane said. “A more gentle approach from someone a little less intimidating. I mean, it’s not our place to interfere with Axe’s claiming, but just the same, you might want to be ready as well.”

  Jace finished loading his plate, grabbed a fork and a knife from the cutlery drawer, and headed back to the refrigerator for a drink and some creamy homemade butter. Indeed, this claiming might take a village of Dragyr to pull off.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  7:55 PM

  True to his namesake, Ghost Dragos emerged from the portal, slinked into the shadows of a dark, dingy alley, and melted into the masonry of the surrounding brick architecture, complete with graffiti, scattered trash, and unidentifiable stains in the concrete and mortar.

  Technically, he wasn’t supposed to travel through the portal alone.

  None of the original, first-generation-born dragyri were.

  At least not since Zane Saphyrius had been attacked by a rogue band of pagans in a human gangster’s front yard. The act had been rare, brazen, and a sign that the underworld was growing increasingly restless. From that night forward, the Seven had taken unusual measures to protect their original offspring: They had forbidden solitary travel for all Genesis Sons.

  No matter.

  Ghost was only five minutes early, and Axe would be there to meet him in a few…

  Besides, it wasn’t like some psychic pagan enemy was going to anticipate Ghost’s travel, meet him in the netherworld—the gateway between dimensions—in some disembodied state, and attack: molecules seeking molecules, ether targeting anima, a pagan traversing the elusive portal, moving faster than space and time, and wrapping its wicked claws around Ghost’s thick, corded throat.

  Nah...

  Wasn’t going to happen.

  And the way Ghost saw it: As long as Axe was there to greet him, give or take a few, the timing was just a technicality—

  Either Lord Dragos would understand, or he wouldn’t.

  And either way, who gave a shit.

  A deep, guttural growl rumbled in Ghost’s throat even as he glanced askance at the rising moon and felt his hunger intensify as if the two were feeding off one another.

  Ghostaniaz hadn’t fed in a while. His beast was ravenous, and his fire was waning. The dragyri was yearning for fresh human blood, essence, and heat—for simmering embers to kindle the blaze—to light his fire anew, so to speak. A few more days of putting it off—feeding, that is—and Ghost would not be responsible for the carnage: His dragon was capable of anything.

  And beyond that gruesome fact, Lord Dragos could be a pain in the neck. The darkest of the seven dragon lords had been known to insert himself into Ghost’s private business, and immortal spirits knew, the last thing the dragyri needed was an unwelcome flyby—an up-close-and-personal—with his black-hearted father.

  No, thank you.

  He ducked beneath the dark, soiled archway of a back-alley nightclub, assuming Axe would figure out where he’d went, and wrenched the heavy iron door open with his fist. His palm began to vibrate from the force of the thunderous music, the pulse of a dozen subwoofers causing the panel to shudder and hum, and he was immediately met by an ice-cold glare: a large, muscle-bound bouncer with narrow, beady eyes and a shining bald dome. The human was practically dripping with perspiration—hell, if he sweated any harder, Ghost would need an umbrella just to get around him.

  The bouncer’s taut, skinny lips drew back into a scowl the moment he took a gander at Ghost. “Club’s full,” he barked, puffing out his chest and sidestepping into the dragyri’s path to block Ghost from entering the nightclub.

  Ghost swiped his bottom lip with his tongue, even as his top lip twitched. He flashed the barest hint of fangs and snarled—and the bouncer froze, backpedaled, and ushered Ghost forward. Ghost snorted and headed deeper into the club, drawn by the dark, pulsing music.

  An iron staircase intersected the main dance floor, snaking up the side of the wall and ending at an overarching balcony. The dance floor itself was full of hot, sweaty bodies, undulating humans, high on everything imaginable, desperate to find a hookup for the night.

  The club wasn’t exactly high-end material.

  No VIPs or prominent athletes.

  No who’s-who in Denver’s political, economic, or social network.

  And the more Ghost looked around, the more he figured: Half the men were probably wanted for some felony or another; the other half were likely on parole. And the scantily dressed women were either tethered to the men in some sort of sick, unfortunate domestic situation, or they were working the club for cheap, easy money—hell, they were likely to be on probation themselves.

  Yeah, it was a real classy establishment.

  But whatever.

  Ghost could get in and out without any drama.

  He could feed from a half-dozen brawny men, and if the mood struck him—if the surge of heat, the reanimated fire, and the momentary intoxication of fresh crimson blood aroused him just so—he could slake a few other needs while he was at it. It wasn’t like the Dragyr could catch herpes or syphilis, and it sure as hell wasn’t like Ghost to bother with conversation, some inane attempt at seduction, or to waste any more time than necessary consorting with a human female.

  Feeding was a necessary evil.

  As for sex—that was just a release—an occasional itch even Ghost had to scratch, a welcome distraction from time to time, especially when time for a Dragyr was an eternal prospect.

  He took the iron staircase two stairs at a time, heading for the overarching balcony. There were about twelve inebriated humans crowded into the space: eight males, three females, and one who could tell. He could move in and out and feed like a specter.

  As he made his swift approach toward a good-looking redhead, a woman with an ample bust and a thick, rounded ass, the female tossed back her head and laughed, thumbed her left earring, and fingered her bracelet—and just like that, Ghost was somewhere else…

  Catapulted in an instant to another place and time.

  Hurled into another dark, grungy alley.

  Ghost was five years old, hunting with his sire, Lord Dragos, and the two were ensconced in a thick London fog. They were prowling down a cobblestone street that still gave off the scent of fresh mortar.

  The dragon lord was in amalgamated form, just a mere wisp of his primordial serpent, and he bent low to whisper in his young progeny’s ear. “Ghost, can you hear them? There are two human prey approaching the alley. If you listen closely, you can hear the male’s heartbeat—it’s about eight to ten beats slower than the female’s. She’s laughing—how melodious—and she’s thumbing her ear while playing with a bracelet full of trinkets and charms. While I can’t hear the earring, I can sense that she’s rubbing it—it is a diamond after all—the vibration is in here.” He tapped the left side of his chest three times. “If you are wily and prepared, you can catch them both by surprise.”

  Eager to both appease and impress his immortal father—hell, his divine creator—Ghost closed his eyes and sharpened his senses, tuning in, unerringly, to the unsuspecting couple just as his father had instructed.

  Yeah, the couple was relaxed and unaware.

  They were joyful and gay, blissfully ignorant of their surroundings, and drawing ever closer to the mouth of the alley.

  Their reflexes would be slow.

  The surprise would be absolute.

  And Ghost could already strike like a bolt of summer lightning: quick, lethal, and out of the blue.

  Yeah, he would be both wily and ready.

  But then, unlike his father, he heard another distant sound, a strange, subtle echo, faintly reverberating: pitter-patter, pitter-patter, faster, faster…faster still. A third recognizable heartbeat, twice as fast as the woman’s.

  The human female was pregnant.

&
nbsp; Ghost drew back in surprise and tugged on Lord Dragos’ arm. “Father,” he said meekly, “I think the woman is with child. If I take her blood…her heat…and her essence, won’t that harm the baby?”

  Lord Dragos replied with a snarl. “You are an immortal Dragyr, Ghostaniaz, the first-generation offspring of a dragon god, and more prominently, you are my son…my youngling…my own flesh and blood. Dragons do not show mercy, nor do we consider the plight, fate, or well-being of human prey. You must feed to live—it is the third of the four principle laws—and your obedience is not optional. You will take from this couple, Ghostaniaz; do you understand me?”

  Ghost gulped. “Very well.”

  But he did not understand his father.

  He did not understand any of this.

  However, he had lived long enough to understand—full well—that it was a fool’s errand to defy his sire. As it stood, Lord Dragos would expect him to exterminate the male, to drain him until his heart beat no more. If he were to show mercy to the female now, his father would likely order him to kill her too—and that would extinguish the child.

  Why was murdering an innocent babe necessary for a Dragyr to feed?

  His mind raced wildly, weighing his options: He could kill them both, and his father would be pleased; or he could drain the female, just short of expiration, and hope that the fetus survived. “I don’t like their smell,” he blurted clumsily, hoping to get away with an option-number-three. “I think her…condition…will alter her taste. Father, can I wait for someone more palatable?”

  If nothing else, Ghost hoped Lord Dragos would appreciate the fact that he had dedicated himself to his studies. At five years old, Ghost already spoke three languages—and he wasn’t using divine cognition nor mental telepathy to do it—his command of their native tongue was exceptional. Hell, he was using his sense of hearing, just as he had been taught, and he was requesting a special privilege as a Genesis son—maybe his father would be impressed.

  The vitriol in Lord Dragos’ voice was enough to make Ghost’s blood run cold. “From this day until your eighteenth birthday, you will refer to me as Lord Dragos, never as Father. And as your lord, I will remind you—just this once—thou shalt pledge thy eternal fealty to the sacred Dragons Pantheon, and thou shalt feed on the blood and heat of human prey in order to reanimate your fire. Kill the male, Ghostaniaz. Drain the female. And if you hold back on the woman, you will be severely punished.”

  Ghost curled inward.

  He knew the laws, and he knew his father—he knew Lord Dragos…

  And the dragon’s punishments were severe and ruthless.

  Yet and still, he also knew magic—he had powers even Lord Dragos didn’t know about.

  Perhaps…

  Just perhaps…

  He could pull this off.

  The couple rounded the bend, and Ghost pounced, more feral than he had ever been. He bit so deeply into the human male’s jugular that the man’s trachea collapsed before he died of exsanguination. And then he turned his attention to the female. She tried to scream and run, but Ghost was way too fast…

  He clasped her wrists, tugged her down to her knees, and shackled both her slender arms behind her back with one implacable fist. And then he snatched her by the hair, yanked her head to the side, and sank his fangs deep into her throat, the whole time snarling to please his father.

  He lapped and he drank.

  He gulped and he gorged.

  And all the while, he remained tuned in to that tiny, racing pitter-patter…pitter-patter…making note of the moment when it began to slow down. “Sleep,” he growled in the female’s ear, pouring every ounce of compulsion he possessed into the command, and she fell to the ground, unconscious.

  Pitter-patter.

  Pitter-patter.

  Both heartbeats remained.

  Ghost turned to Lord Dragos and smiled.

  And that’s when a deafening roar filled the alley; an ungodly heat wrenched the air; and a stream of orange-and-red flames scorched the humans, cremating both male and female on the stones where they had fallen.

  Ghost gasped and faced his father, both terrified and enraged, but he never had the chance to voice his protest.

  A second blaze of fire, stronger than the first, washed over him like a wave of acid.

  And the gods save his soul, Ghostaniaz burned…and burned…and burned.

  “Ghost. Ghost! What the fuck!” Axeviathon’s thick, gravelly voice pierced a din of shouts, and screams, and humans scrambling, and then the powerful male straddled Ghost’s body, locked his hands around Ghost’s jaw, and burrowed his thumbs into the joints between his mandible and maxilla. “Ease up, Dragyr!” Axe shouted. “Back off…chill out…and ease the hell up.”

  Ghost blinked two or three times and stared at the human male lying on the floor beneath him—or at least, what was left of the guy. His throat was torn out; there was blood pooling everywhere; and Ghost was straddling the man’s body like a rabid dog. “What happened?” Ghost snarled, trying to speak around the fingers still lodged in the corners of his mouth. For all intents and purposes, Axe was astride Ghost’s back, and the ball of Axe’s knee was about to break Ghost’s vertebrae. “Get off me,” he hissed.

  “You were heading toward the redhead—I assume you were about to feed—when she turned toward you, batted her lashes, and smiled. Apparently, her boyfriend didn’t take too kindly to it because the asshat snatched her by the hair and punched her. Yeah, her—not you. Next thing I know, you’re on top of this guy, doing your best with your teeth. His throat is a pound of hamburger, blood is spraying everywhere, and the human-freakin’-onlookers are pitchin’ an unholy bitch-fit. What did you think was gonna happen, Ghost?”

  “Get off me, Axe.”

  “Are you gonna bite?”

  “Get off me!”

  “Bite me, and I’ll bite you back. Got it?” Axe snatched his hands away from Ghost’s jaw, flew backward at least a half-dozen feet, and immediately began to deal with the humans: barking out orders, calming them down, and scrubbing a host of memories.

  Ghost ran his hand through his jet-black hair and surveyed the mess he’d created. Well, shit, he thought, staring down at his steel-toed boots—the tips were soaked in blood, and the leather was ruined. Not to mention, he still hadn’t had a chance to properly feed.

  He surveyed the alcove, trying to find the redhead: She was trembling in the corner, and she appeared to be in shock. Three birds with one stone, Ghost told himself. He could clean up the black eye with some silver fire; wipe her memory clean of the dead guy; then pull her into the corner, shroud her in shadows, and feed like he had originally meant to.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Amber nestled into the soft, inviting sectional, snuggled under a warm throw-blanket, and reached for her buttery bowl of popcorn just as the front door to the foyer swung open.

  The alarm went off.

  Zeik, Grunge, and Tony stumbled in, Zeik dragging Tony beneath his arm.

  And Grunge stopped to key in the passcode and disable the security system.

  What the heck?

  Not only was Tony bloody and bruised—his nose was broken and his lips were swollen—but the three were promptly followed by a string of bizarre and terrifying-looking strangers. The first was a giant of a man, at least six-foot-five, with luminous copper eyes and long, wavy golden hair. The giant was missing his left hand, yet his arrogance was striking—and as for the dudes that followed him? They were creepy as hell: tall and slender with skeletal features, sunken eyes, and long, wispy manes. They looked like a brigade of slinking shadows, and their pupils glowed an eerie scarlet red.

  Amber spilled the popcorn as she leaped from the couch, spun around, and glared at Grunge. “What’s going on—who are these guys?” she demanded. She turned her gaze on Tony and blanched. “And what the hell happened to him?”

  The husky, one-handed giant rolled his head on his shoulder in an eerie, serpentine motion before flashing a wicked
smile at Amber. “You must be Tony’s girl?” he murmured. “Amber Carpenter, right?” He didn’t wait for a reply. He pointed at Tony and shook his head. “I’m afraid your boyfriend got into an accident—he had a collision with my fist and the toes of my boots.” His wicked smile morphed into a scowl; his copper eyes darkened; and he took a generous step in Amber’s direction, crossing the living room in three long strides.

  To hell with this shit!

  Amber snatched a heavy clay vase off the coffee table, raised it above her right shoulder, and backed up several paces, prepared to swing it like a bat if she had to. “Don’t come any closer,” she warned the marauding giant. “Zeik!” she shouted, her voice now trembling. “What the fuck is going on?” Forget asking Grunge or Tony, when Zeik had always been the de facto leader. Why did you let them hurt Tony? she wanted to ask as well, but common sense warned her to stay silent—the same brute who had done all that damage was more or less commanding the room…

  And that didn’t make any sense!

  Zeik Craven was like a cross between a badass Viking and a modern-day Navy SEAL. He was a lethal adversary and a savage fighter. He could do things with his bare hands that were nothing short of astonishing, and when the guy chose to use a weapon—any weapon—the ensuing carnage could chill one’s blood. Amber had seen it happen more times than she cared to remember—so why had he invited these assholes into their home, and why was Tony practically pulverized when Zeik didn’t have a scratch on him?

  What kind of control did the giant have over him?

  Just then, Amber heard a rustle in the kitchen—or maybe it was a clatter—something clanging from the other side of the island, and then two things happened at once: She felt a firm, aggressive pressure on her hips, like two strong, invisible hands grasping her waist from behind, and two of the tall, waiflike skeletors dove at her from the foyer.

  She never even saw them move.

  They tunneled through the air like billowing pillars of smoke, only they traveled at the speed of lightning, and just like that, one of the silhouettes shackled her by the arm, even as his partner wrenched the vase out of her hand and grasped her other bicep.