by Tessa Dawn
“Seven pounds of flesh,” Lord Ethyron countered, “seven pints of blood, and no more than seven broken bones. And the son of your lair will wait seven hours before he regenerates. He has forty-eight hours from when he arrives through the portal, assuming the mission is successful, to turn himself over for…payment.” He held up two fingers to silence any protest before he was finished wagering. “And if one—or more—of my dragyri die this night in aid to the Sapphire Lair, well then, all will be forgiven, and no debt will be incurred. I think it is a just and equitable proffer. We all have skin in the game, so to speak.”
Lord Saphyrius turned his attention to Zane. “Son?” he inquired. “What say you? Axeviathon is not here to accept these terms, so it is up to you to speak on his behalf.”
Zane closed his eyes and shuddered.
What the fuck was wrong with those sadistic dragon bastards?
Why did Lord Dragos and Lord Ethyron always get off on watching others suffer?
It really didn’t matter.
Axe was in a bind, and if something happened to his dragyra, Amber; if the girl didn’t make it out of that house alive; or if Axe got killed trying to rescue her solo—if the Sapphire Lair alone was not enough to dispatch the pagans—then a few broken bones and a couple of pounds of missing flesh would be the least of the dragyri’s worries. Axe would end up in the Garden of Grace as a glorious but inanimate pillar; a sapphire statue erected in his former image; an eternal soul bound by sapphire—dead, for all intents and purposes.
Axe was an immortal Dragyr.
His body would heal.
And to Zane’s way of thinking, the male would gladly choose torture over risk and uncertainty—allowing Amber to remain any longer in that house. He would pay seven times over to relieve her trauma and end her current suffering.
“Axeviathon will pay his debt,” he said evenly. “But we need the Emerald Lair’s assistance, right now.”
Lord Saphyrius nodded, and Lord Ethyron smiled. “Very well,” the latter barked, his demeanor shifting instantly to that of a general. “Return to your lair, Zanaikeyros. Caleb, Rio, Valen, and Jagyr will meet you on the balcony in under five minutes, and rest assured, they will each be prepared for battle. Many pagans will die this night, and should this…dustup…provoke any form of retribution by Lord Drakkar and his minions—should any of these demons or shades continue to pursue Axeviathon—then my emerald children remain at your disposal. You need only ask them directly for further assistance.” He turned to Lord Saphyrius and inclined his head with deference. “And when Axe finally regenerates his injuries, you may give him this as a token of my affection.” He held out his hand, splayed his fingers, and drew a circle in the center of his palm with a claw. As the fresh abrasion started to boil and spew blood, it was quickly coated in a hard emerald scale. Lord Ethyron blew silver-and-blue fire over the raised, hardening lesion until it began to glow like a shimmering gemstone. Then he handed the discus to Zane. “Have your lair mate swallow this emerald just moments before he attends to his injuries.”
Zane accepted the discus and almost gasped.
Every dragyri male was born with the gift of fire. If he was a Genesis Son, then he retained much of his father’s pyrotechnic powers, but if not, then he inherited his gifts from his parents and the lair he was born to. At age eighteen, he would be given increased abilities, commensurate with his new, principal lair, along with his permanent amulet.
Axeviathon was originally born to the Citrine Lair, but he was consecrated to Lord Saphyrius. Now, with this gift from Lord Ethyron, the moment Axeviathon swallowed the emerald medallion, he would possess the powers of all three lairs: citrine, sapphire, and emerald. His fire would burn brighter; his dragon would become even stronger; and he would be able to draw from the energy of all three lords in battle.
Zane wasn’t sure he had actually seen what he’d seen, until Lord Ethyron turned to Lord Saphyrius and placed an ethereal hand on his shoulder. “A personal favor to you, my dragon brother: a show of political goodwill and an act of solidarity.”
Zane placed the discus in his back pocket and bowed his head, his thoughts almost swimming in the moment. And that was the subtle difference between Lord Ethyron and Lord Dragos, the variance just one level of spiritual elevation made between absolute, base depravity and darkness—and just the slightest hint of compassion and light.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The moonlit raid on Amber’s earthly residence was as seamless, stealthy, and effective as anticipated: Eight dragyri warriors traveled through the portal in silence, some dressed in leather dusters, others in plain, wife-beater tees and jeans, all with heavy steel-toed boots, many with spikes on the heels. They materialized in the front yard of 318 Syracuse Lane as silent as the night around them, as invisible as the dense, earthly atmosphere, and that’s when Zane slipped Axe his familiar HK45 and explained succinctly and telepathically the price his lair mate would have to pay for the use of his emerald brothers.
According to Axeviathon, Zeik, Grunge, Tony, and Amber had retreated down the hall toward one of the interior bedrooms, Zeik hefting Tony in a fireman’s hold and Grunge carrying Amber in his arms. Twelve remaining pagans had spread out throughout the house, a thirteenth pagan—a demon with one hand, named Trader—accompanying the roommates to their private quarters, which was exactly where Zane wanted Axe.
The male’s only duty—his only must-accomplish mission—was to keep an eye on his dragyra and make sure she didn’t take any crossfire, keep her far away from the hand-to-hand combat.
It wasn’t as if Axe would’ve had it any other way—or allowed any other dragyri to take on that assignment. Where Amber went, Axeviathon would follow. And gods of the Pantheon help anyone who had the misfortune of stepping between them. The male was five shades of royally pissed off by the time his Pantheon brethren had showed up.
So be it.
Zane was far more focused on getting all the warriors in and out swiftly and taking out all the scattered but lethal shades.
Ninety seconds tops.
Sixty seconds preferred.
The last thing they needed was an SOS getting sent to the underworld, and a full-scale pagan-dragyri war erupting in a populated human suburb.
No, thank you.
The warriors weren’t there to get acquainted or to play ranger games—they were there to execute their enemy swiftly and hightail it back through the portal. It was up to Axe to follow with Amber, and to that end, they had come prepared: Zane with his Viking style battle-axe, Jace with his beloved katar, and Levi with his typical weapon of choice—nothing but his iron-hard, huge, brutal fists. Nakai had his M4 carbine, so he could do double duty, eliminate more than one shade—and Caleb, the first of the Emerald Lair, had his customary black morning star, a wicked-looking implement with a heavy, spiked iron ball at the head.
Rio brought his Japanese katana, a one-and-a-half-pound curved sword, and he would likely take out two enemies, by himself, in one clean, seamless, double beheading. Valen had his solid gold shield with the head of a lion carved into the plate, the edges filed down to a razor-fine point. And last but not least, Jagyr Ethyron—that amped-up, hot-headed son of a bitch—had his simple but effective, heavily weighted mace: a blunt medieval weapon reminiscent of a club, with a stout bronzed head at the tip. Jagyr preferred to bludgeon his prey to death and scrub his hands in their blood as they expired.
Whatever.
The Emerald Lair would fight as if Axe was one of their own, and that was all that really mattered.
Allowing the molecules in his right hand to coalesce into a semi-visible image, Zane made several hand signals to the dragyri warriors, then gently inclined his chin. Even as Axe transported into the master bedroom, the remaining eight Dragyr transported into the house at once, their invisible personas slowly shimmering into view as they emerged behind, in front of, or beside a pagan enemy and struck like a nest of vipers.
Isolated from his sapphire and emerald backup, A
xeviathon remained invisible in the master bedroom with his HK45 tucked inside the waist of his jeans.
He shifted his weight to his toes and dropped into a squat beside Tony and Amber’s bed, balancing like a leopard about to leap forward. For all intents and purposes, the human male—Tony—was out for the count, his injuries and fatigue finally getting the best of him. Zeik and Grunge, two obvious demons, were huddled in the corner discussing the night’s events in a fevered pitch, even as Trader Vice—yeah, that was the sin-eater’s last name, the one who had blinded Amber—had helped himself to the master en suite’s shower in order to luxuriate beneath the opulent jets. Although Axe wanted to kill the demon-bastard even more than he wanted to hurt Tony, he had to concede that Trader’s self-indulgence was serendipitous: one less enemy for Axe to contend with immediately…one less obstacle between the dragyri and his dragyra’s ultimate safety.
Amber’s safety…
The poor, golden-haired beauty was still panting and shivering, even as she lay back on the bed, knees up, both hands draped over her eyes, a steady stream of tears pooling from beneath her trembling fingers.
Axe couldn’t think about that right now.
He had to remain both aware and alert.
He closed his eyes, just for a couple of seconds, and felt for the subtle shift in energy, the slightest change in the barometric pressure—and yes, there it was—the Dragyr had entered the residence. He tilted his head to the side, listening intently: a battle-axe splitting through bone; a Japanese katana slicing through flesh; fists pounding organs; and a high-pitched whir, just seconds before Caleb’s morning star found an unsuspecting skull.
Curiosity got the best of him, and Axe opened his eyes, engaged his x-ray vision, and peered through the numerous layers of framing and plaster for the span of ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Although the images were dark, skeletal negatives of the original view, he could still make out what he was seeing: A shadow-walker had grasped Jagyr’s mace, immobilizing the dragyri’s brutal weapon, but the son of Lord Ethyron had recovered quickly, gouging both of the shade’s eyes out with his thumbs, wrenching his fist sideways, and opening the enemy’s head like a coconut. Having vanquished one pagan already, Rio walked up the side of a wall, scampered quickly along the ceiling, and dropped down atop an unsuspecting pagan, piercing the soul-eater’s cranium with the tip of his katana before driving it home—down through the skull, beyond the throat, and deep into the body, effectively skewering the ink blot. Valen was tussling with another nasty vermin, and the hand-to-hand combat was wicked-quick, violent, and almost impossible to follow, until Valen dropped low, swept his leg along the back of the shadow-walker’s knees, sweeping the pagan off-balance, and came down hard with the edge of his shield against the pagan’s throat, slicing through flesh, bone, and sinew.
Enough already.
Axe couldn’t afford to watch or waste time…
Furthermore, he wanted nothing between himself and Amber, and he was expending precious energy trying to maintain a state of invisibility. Radiating into view, he leaped from his perch beside the black-and-gold bed, snatched Tony by the bloody collar of his undershirt, and hurled him over his head, flinging the human male through a double set of sliding glass doors. Alive or dead? Who knew?
Amber screamed like the devil himself was assailing her, and Zeik and Grunge leaped to attention—but not before Axe withdrew his weapon and unloaded the clip into both demon torsos.
Son of a bitch!
They shimmered out of view.
The fucking pagans had evaded the bullets, and they were either regrouping, while invisible, waiting to strike back, or headed into the living room to get their comrades’ backs. No doubt, they were keenly aware of the savage commotion by now.
Axe looped the gun over his thumb, allowing it to hang by the trigger, and he splayed all ten fingers wide, palms hovering—and circling—as he slowly tested the air. He was feeling for warmth, a telltale heat signature, the subtle taint of brimstone that always emanated from demonic souls.
Nothing.
The bedroom was empty.
Zeik and Grunge were gone.
He twirled the gun like a Space Age gunslinger, snapping it, lightning quick, back into his waistband, and then he headed toward the en suite bathroom to deal with Trader Vice. He could only hope and pray that the demon was still oblivious, perhaps lost in the sensory overload of a surging shower. True, Axe’s first instinct was to scoop Amber from the bed, get the hell out of the residence, and bolt—but it was the second part of that sequence that gave the dragyri pause: He had to take the female outside, away from the confines of an interior building, in order to usher her into the portal, and Axe was keenly aware of how fast a demon could move…way too damn fast for his liking. The last thing Axe needed was to turn his back on Trader—with Amber in his arms, no less—and get caught unaware.
Not even for a millisecond.
He couldn’t take that chance.
He started toward the bathroom, silently stalking his prey, when all of a sudden, his left ear buzzed.
Axe ducked, and a set of sharp, jagged claws swiped through the air, barely missing his jugular. He came up with a lightning-fast upper-cut, buried his fist in Trader’s gut, and twisted to break as many ribs as possible.
The demon snarled with fury.
His taut lips drew back, and he hurled some sort of acidic spittle, aiming for Axeviathon’s eyes.
Axeviathon coated both irises in scales.
In a movement so swift, the motion was a blur, Trader whipped a white towel away from his waist, twirled it into a rope, and summersaulted over Axe, landing behind him as he wrapped it around the dragyri’s throat. He reached for both ends to tug it into a noose, but the left side fell limp and just hung there.
Axeviathon spun around, shook the towel off his shoulder, retrieved his HK45, and shoved the barrel against the demon’s forehead. The pagan’s luminous copper eyes grew wide. They shot from the barrel of the gun to the towel, now bunched on the floor, and then slowly drifted upward to the end of his arm. The son-of-a-jackal glared at the stump where his hand should have been, seemingly shocked that the limb was missing. Well, no wonder he had not been able to draw the towel into a noose…
Axe squeezed the trigger, and the demon vanished, both events occurring at the exact same moment. “Shit,” Axe growled. He was never this careless—the freakin’ clip was empty.
His dragyra’s bloodcurdling screams must have made him sloppy.
And that told him all he needed to know.
To hell with the battle, and to hell with the pagans.
He needed to get his fated out of there.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The darkness was like a living, breathing entity, the mouth of an enormous killer whale swallowing Amber whole. Fear had turned to anguish; anguish had blossomed into panic; and panic had risen to unrelenting terror, a violent squall that would not let Amber—or the whale that had taken her—go.
She couldn’t stop screaming.
Her vocal cords felt abraded, her throat felt raw, and her heart was pounding so violently it felt like it might explode. What the hell had happened to Tony? So much broken glass! And the giant—that monster, Trader—where was he lurking now? Zeik had given Amber a sedative, and Grunge had carried her to bed, offering some pitiful explanation about the Cult of Hades and her eyesight returning in time.
What the fuck was that supposed to mean!
And then the bedroom had detonated into terrifying sounds—the entire house had burst into chaos: grunts, growls, furniture breaking—the nightmare just got worse and worse.
Amber wanted to get up and run.
She was finally ready to flee the state altogether—to hell with her bondage to Tony, Zeik, and Grunge; to hell with the extortion and the threat from her past—but the entire world was encased in darkness, and she no longer possessed the courage to even crawl across the bedroom floor.
“Shit,” someone growled, and she g
rasped the coverlet with what had to be white-knuckled fingers, choking back her sobs—and her screams—long enough to grow quiet.
And listen…
Who was that?
Who was in the bedroom now?
Thump-thump; thump-thump; thump-thump…
Her heart was throbbing in her chest, and the muscles were constricting around her aorta. Amber was going to have a heart attack. “Who’s there?” she whispered, turning her head swiftly to the left, then the right. “Zeik?” No answer. “Grunge?” Still silence. Where the hell was Tony? “Trader?” The word was a bitter curse on her tongue, and she immediately kicked at the covers, backpedaling as fast as she could until the crown of her skull struck the bulk of the headboard. “Ouch!” she cried out, biting down on her lip. Who the hell was in the room? “Stay away!” she panted. “Don’t come near me!” She swiped her hand wildly in front of her, wishing like hell she had a weapon to fire.
“Shh, sweet angel.” A deep, gravelly rasp.
Her ears perked up, and her throat constricted. “Who are you?”
“Amber…”
“Who are you!”
“Ambrosia, calm down—”
“Who the hell are you!”
“Just breathe, sweetness; I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“Zeik!”
“Amber…”
“Grunge!”
“Listen…”
She didn’t know his voice…or maybe…maybe…what was it? There was something familiar in that gritty sound. “Tony, where are you?” Her voice was quivering. The man crossed the room—she could hear his weighty footfalls, and the nearer they came, the more crippling her terror. “Don’t come any closer,” she begged him.
“I am not going to hurt you, Amber.”
The coverlet rustled, and the mattress depressed as the stranger settled his heavy body beside her, heat radiating off him in waves. He leaned in closer, and she struck out with her fist, but her knuckles collided with a rock-hard chest. “Get away from me!” she shouted.