Axeviathon- Son of Dragons

by Tessa Dawn

  The Viking thumbed his dark sunglasses, took a step toward the counter, and swiped the underside of his thick upper lip with his tongue in a rapid, almost feline gesture. Yeah, Amber thought, definitely a jungle cat, maybe a jaguar or a cougar.

  “What’s your name, pretty lady?” he rasped, leaning far too possessively against the counter.

  So much for waiting behind the rope.

  Amber gulped. “My…my name? Um…” She fidgeted with a charm on her bracelet, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile.

  “Your name is Um?”

  She shook her head in annoyance and maybe a little fear. “No…no! Of course not. My name is…it’s, um…it.”

  “Your name is It?” His tone was more playful this time, at least in a lion-about-to-eat-a-mouse kind of way.

  She sighed, feeling both flustered and irritated. “Yes, my name is it,” she snapped in a snarky tone. To hell with it—he didn’t need to know her name. And besides, if he thought she was bat-shit crazy, he might be inclined to stop asking questions.

  He chuckled, unfazed, and then he raised his glasses, forcing her gaze with his intense scrutiny, and for the space of two heartbeats, Amber was wholly transfixed by the oddest, most mesmerizing eyes she had ever seen. What in the world? His pupils were ringed in pure sapphire irises, and they flickered like there were flames in their depths.

  “Amber girl…” He spoke softly this time, tasting her name on his tongue. “Ambrosia Carpenter, but you go by Amber on account of the color of your eyes…and your hair.” He narrowed that strange otherworldly gaze on her dark curly lashes and murmured, “Spectacular.”

  Amber wanted to turn on her heel and run—her first name was on her name tag, but the rest? How did he know? She forced a congenial smile instead. “Can I help you, sir?” The sooner she could find out what he needed and refer him to someone else, the better.

  “What time do you get off work?” he asked, the flames in his eyes beginning to smolder.

  She gulped. “Excuse me?”

  “What time do you get off work?”

  None of your business, she thought with indignance. “Four thirty,” she said aloud.

  He smiled a roguish grin, and her heart must have skipped three beats. “Where do you live, Amber girl?”

  “Where do I live?” she echoed, sounding as incredulous as she felt. How arrogant. How presumptuous. How completely inappropriate! Yet just like before, she felt compelled to answer: “I live at 318 Syracuse Lane. It’s in Upper Midtown, behind the mall.”

  She couldn’t believe she had said that. She may as well have drawn him a map. And if, God forbid, he followed up—Tony was going to kill her.

  His flawless features tightened, and he leaned further across the cabinet. “Who’s Tony?”

  That was it!

  Amber had seen and heard enough.

  How the heck did this man know the origins of her name, and how the heck did he know about Tony?

  Was he reading her freakin’ thoughts?

  Impossible!

  Fight-or-flight finally kicked in, along with her common sense, and she returned to the task at hand—getting the hell away from her station: Her mind shifted into overdrive; her fingers remembered what they were doing; and she keyed in the remaining digits of her passcode with speed, determination, and purpose. Then she snatched a report from the printer and backed away from the counter. “Marissa!” she called, scanning the back of the lobby for the tall, skinny blonde who was due to take over her station. “Could you please help this gentleman? I need to go on break.” Without awaiting a reply, she retrieved the key to her drawer, unlocked her cash, and slid it out of the panel, sighing in relief as Marissa cut a path straight toward her.

  “What’s up, Amber?” Marissa called amiably. “Is everything okay?” She shimmied into the partition and stepped up to the counter.

  “Everything’s fine,” Amber said brusquely. “I just need you to help this gentleman. As I said, I’m going on break.” She snatched her purse from beneath the counter, shuffled backward like she was fleeing a fire, and made a beeline for the bank’s vault, where she swiftly unloaded her register. “There’s a discrepancy in the drawer,” she told the vault cashier. “The forms and tape are at the bottom, but Warren will look at it later.”

  The short brunette didn’t ask any questions.

  No one at the credit union ever did.

  And why would they?

  The bank’s employees were paid double the industry standard; the tellers received three times the perks; and the benefit package was outrageous. Beyond the employee benefits and pay, the credit union’s patrons enjoyed high returns on their savings, lower-than-average rates on their debt, and the bank had never defaulted on anything. If the government was aware of the obvious shady dealings, then a whole lot of people were looking the other way.

  No matter.

  Amber had stopped thinking about it years ago.

  She had much more pressing matters to contend with—like the guy who had stepped up to her counter.

  Having unloaded her drawer, she headed out of the vault and into the break room, where she crumpled like a wadded piece of paper into a hard plastic chair and let out a slow, deep breath.

  What—the—actual—hell—was—that?

  She stared blankly ahead at the break-room wall, placing both hands, palms down, on the cheap industrial table, and fought through a wave of nausea.

  Who—the—actual—hell—was—that?

  And why had he come into the credit union?

  Like an oscillating fan whirling in circles, her mind continued to churn and spin as she replayed the unsettling encounter: “Ambrosia Carpenter, but you go by Amber on account of the color of your eyes and your hair.” He knew who she was! “What time do you get off…where do you live…who is Tony?” He had read her thoughts—but how?

  Her stomach tightened as another wave of vertigo assailed her—was the guy a detective, maybe a bounty hunter? Were Zeik and Grunge ticked off at Amber? Had Tony finally turned her in? She felt like she was going to vomit.

  And then, just like a thousand times before, a sweltering summer’s day emerged from the vault of her memory and began to replay on her temporal lobe like a blasted defective video stuck on auto-play:

  It was suddenly ten years earlier.

  August 28th.

  And Amber was fifteen years old…

  Broke, tired, and desperate, she had lost count of which foster home she lived in, the names of her so-called parents, or where she attended school, but she vividly recalled the precocious eighteen-month-old girl who kept her up most nights: Yeah, Amber remembered her foster sister, Tina.

  She remembered the little girl’s hunger and her high-pitched wailing.

  She remembered the smell of Tina’s dirty diapers and how the flesh on the child’s bottom would often turn red with blisters. She remembered the telltale signs of dehydration—dry skin, rapid breathing, sunken eyes, and an ashen complexion—that accompanied Tina’s crying. And Amber Carpenter remembered finally having had enough, feeling like she would explode if the wailing didn’t stop—if Tina’s suffering didn’t cease—and deciding, once and for all, to do something drastic about it…

  It was a sweltering hot August afternoon when fifteen-year-old Amber walked into the cramped convenience store on the corner of Ninth and Vine. She had a shabby diaper bag draped over one shoulder and an empty stroller in tow…

  She stopped in the doorway to cover the vacant carriage with a bright green-and-blue blanket—pale lime green, like the color of mint ice cream, and cornflower blue, like the color of Tina’s bottle, the one that was usually filled with water instead of milk—and then she meandered beyond the doorway and headed toward the nearest aisle.

  The heat that assailed her was beyond description—it felt like a gust of desert wind or the rush of a blazing backdraft escaping a roaring fire—and she had to stop to catch her breath.

  Her brow beaded with sweat.
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  Her T-shirt clung to her rib cage.

  And her palms turned so slick and clammy she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to maintain her grip on the stroller, let alone the three or four cans of formula she intended to stuff inside the carriage…to hide from watchful eyes.

  She managed to pilfer four cans, after all, as well as two packs of diapers, a container of Pedialyte, and a small rectangular carton containing a tube of Neosporin. Granted, the gel wouldn’t work as well as diaper-rash cream, but it was only a neighborhood convenience store—the antibiotic ointment would have to do.

  And as for the fact that Amber was shoplifting?

  She no longer cared.

  Someone had to take care of Tina…

  Besides, it was only this one time.

  Amber had no intentions of ever stealing again—she just had to stage a dramatic intervention before the little girl got really, really sick.

  Acutely aware of an uneven stack of potato chips, empty boxes, and several stale packs of doughnuts, Amber slowed the stroller to a crawl in order to maneuver it—carefully—around the unstable display case. If she bumped into the stack, if the wheel got caught on a box, or if she jarred the display even a smidgeon, the handsome teenage cashier who was already watching her too closely would probably come running over, and the jig would definitely be up.

  Amber had no intentions of getting caught.

  And maybe that was why she didn’t immediately react to the three menacing thugs who strolled into the store wearing dark matching hoodies, black leather gloves, and grungy, tattered blue jeans in the stifling August heat.

  “Don’t move! Don’t speak! Don’t even breathe!” the tallest of the three had barked at the startled teenager behind the register, and then the goon had cleared the narrow counter in one nimble leap, brandished a gun from beneath his hoodie, and shoved it against the cashier’s temple. “Open the fucking drawer!”

  Now, that got Amber’s attention.

  The reckless behavior, the inappropriate clothes, and the crazed, wild look in the gunman’s eyes: These thugs weren’t just hell-bent on robbing a store—they wanted to get into trouble. Their pupils were stamped with lust and greed—some savage hunger for power—and their bodies were practically twitching with a craven thirst for violence.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” the cashier pleaded as he flung open the drawer, held up both hands, and took a wary step backward, painfully aware of the gun at his temple. “Just take the money and go.”

  The gunman whispered something in the cashier’s ear—Amber couldn’t make it out—and the poor, terrified teenager instantly wet his pants.

  “Damn, Zeik…” the second thug cackled, stroking his flame-red beard. “You forgot to tell the little bitch not to piss on himself—I suggest you warn him not to shit himself, too.” The red-bearded thug climbed on the counter, made a beeline for the security camera, and started to remove the videotape from the player beneath it.

  Amber ducked down behind the stroller and pressed her hand over her mouth—

  What the hell was she going to do?

  If she ran for the door, she’d get shot.

  If she stayed where she was, they would find her.

  But if she tried to sneak down the aisle and hide—well, she wasn’t sure she could do it…

  Her legs were trembling; her stomach was roiling; and her heart was thundering in her chest. She was as likely to pass out as escape. “Shit,” she whispered beneath her breath, and then her eyes swept back to the gun.

  Six shots, she thought. At least it’s not a semiautomatic.

  Hell, the old-fashioned revolver looked like a Wild West relic—like Zeik had somehow traveled through time, stormed into a saloon, and robbed the nearest outlaw of his six-shooter: antiquated grip; long, thin barrel; discolored, ragged hammer. Maybe it wouldn’t even fire. One way or another, the bastard would have to cock the hammer at least six times before he could unload the ammo.

  “Yo, Grunge!” Zeik’s dark, raspy voice was profane in the silence. “Don’t forget to check the lockbox—it’s right there, behind the camera and the video player.”

  So the redhead’s name was Grunge, and they had cased the joint ahead of time—but that’s not what gave Amber pause: As Grunge declined his head in a nod and began to fish behind the security camera, Amber couldn’t help but notice the idiots were using each other’s names too freely. They weren’t worried about being identified. And that meant they had no intentions of letting any witnesses live.

  The terrified teenager must have come to the same conclusion because he pressed one hand to his stomach, appeared to heave in his mouth, and then quickly covered his lips with the palm of his hand to stop the vomit from spewing out.

  “You nasty motherfucker,” Zeik growled, pressing the barrel even tighter against the cashier’s temple. “Do that shit again, and I’ll blow your brains out.” He cocked the hammer slowly for emphasis.

  Amber winced, but she didn’t scream.

  She laid her forehead on the handle of the stroller, panted beneath her breath, and tried to collect her thoughts. Unfortunately, the carriage rolled forward and bumped one of the cardboard boxes.

  Amber gasped, then held her breath, watching the display like a hawk: Please don’t tip over; please don’t tip over. She repeated the prayer like a mantra.

  Nothing moved, and nothing fell.

  The unsteady display did not topple over.

  Thank God!

  And then—clomp, clomp, clomp—the heavy sound of footfalls, moving in and out of aisles, coming ever closer to the stack and the stroller.

  Had the third assailant heard her?

  Her throat grew scratchy; her vision turned blurry; and she wanted to close her eyes, hide from whatever was about to happen, but she couldn’t because the third assailant was standing right there, less than five feet away and one aisle over, staring straight through her.

  His glassy green gaze was void of recognition.

  Had he seen her?

  She wasn’t sure.

  She couldn’t tell.

  But if he had, then he was a first-rate bastard because he continued to stroll through the parallel aisle, stalking closer and closer toward her, almost like a lazy lion who didn’t have a care in the world.

  He stopped in mid-stride to sample a candy bar, and then he opened a pack of chips. He stuffed two or three chips in his mouth, spit them out, and tossed the package on the floor. He meandered to the refrigerator next, paused to crack open a beer, then stood there drinking—taking long, greedy sips—before crumpling the can in his fist.

  The seconds felt like minutes, and the minutes felt like days, as Amber perched behind the stroller, waiting for the bastard to round the bend—or for Zeik to turn the gun in her direction.

  Terrified, trapped, and certain she was about to get caught, Amber did the only thing she could: She began to memorize details, record information, store facts away like an impartial robot. If she made it through the robbery—if she got shot, but somehow survived—she would have a treasure trove of information to give the police.

  Besides, it wasn’t like Amber was an innocent bystander—she had been robbing the store herself. The more she knew, the more she remembered, the more she could trade for a lighter sentence.

  Her pulse slowed down.

  Her senses grew alert.

  And she composed her mental report:

  Zeik is the leader. He’s six-feet-two. Dark, narrow eyes with a pencil-straight nose. His hairline is concealed beneath his hoodie, but the section near his temple—the fade above his ears—is visible. His hair is jet black, and it’s shaved so tight it looks more like a shadow than a skull-trim.

  The one they call Grunge, he’s maybe six feet even.

  Average build, except for his thighs—the muscles in his hamstrings are the size of watermelons—and he has light-blue eyes; wide, flared nostrils; and a flame-red beard, maybe three inches long. His sideburns are scraggly, his mustache is cu
rvy, and his lips are really, really pale…unnaturally thin, like a gash was carved where his mouth should have been.

  As for the bastard prowling up and down the aisles—she would never forget that face: glassy green eyes; flawless, stunning features; and full, pouty lips that belonged on a model. His hair was blond, and he kept it cropped short—he was possibly five-feet-eleven.

  She was just about to “record” the details of the third man’s physique when a crumpled beer can plopped into the stroller, and the bastard rounded the corner. “What the hell’s in the baby carriage?” he barked before tossing back his head and laughing. And then he did something as provocative as it was telling: He peeled back the hood of his jacket, exposing a terrifying tattoo on the nape of his neck, and squatted down in front of Amber. “What the hell’s in the stroller?” he repeated, this time speaking in a menacing urban drawl.

  Zeik leaned over the counter and snorted. “Well, looky here—I think Tony found a new playmate.”

  Amber winced in dread.

  She now knew all three of their names—and so did the poor cashier.

  Tony pulled back the blanket and looked inside the carriage, rifling through the items one by one. “Hey, Zeik, looks like we’re not the only hoodlums casing the joint.” He palmed a can of formula, then tossed it in the air; twisted the lid off the Pedialyte and gave it a couple of sniffs; and then he withdrew a pack of diapers and slowly shook his head. “Damn, somebody’s got a baby at home that she can’t afford to feed.”

  “Maybe she needs a job,” Grunge chimed in, crawling out from behind the security camera with a wad of cash in his hand.

  Zeik cackled like a cartoon villain, training his gaze on the trembling cashier. “I think I just had a lightbulb moment—is our little mother wearing gloves? Did she even bother to hide her fingerprints?”

  “Good question,” Tony said. And then he snatched her by the arm, dragged her to her feet, and examined Amber up and down, from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. “Nope,” he finally conceded, “but damn, this girl is fine.” He ogled her breasts, scrutinized her ass, then pressed the tip of his forefinger to his lower lip. “I think I just might have to keep her.”