by Tessa Dawn
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.
The pressure on her hips vanished, and the giant stalked toward her. “Can you smell that shit?” the giant snarled, glaring at the two spectral men.
“Stinks like a dragyri,” the one to the left of Amber hissed.
Both Zeik and Grunge started scanning the living room. What the actual fuck? Why weren’t they helping her?
“Zeik!” Amber screamed as the giant stopped in front of her, cupped her face by the jaw with his one good hand, and bent to give her a kiss. She gasped in fright as his hard, cruel mouth fastened to hers, and then someone turned out the lights and the living room went black.
Amber blinked her eyes.
Once, twice, three times in quick succession…
She could hear the occupants speaking—the giant, Zeik, and Grunge—they were grunting foreign words in some foul, guttural language, but she couldn’t see a thing.
And then it hit her like a ton of bricks.
She hadn’t blacked out.
And this wasn’t a nightmare.
Amber Carpenter was blind.
Panic seized her soul. She tugged wildly against the knobby, skeletal fingers still shackled around her arms. And she screamed…and screamed…and screamed.
Axeviathon stood in the back of the kitchen, watching as Amber toggled through the remote, selected another movie, and snuggled under a throw-blanket, hugging a bowl of popcorn. She was truly a strikingly beautiful female, and every impulse in his immortal body screamed: Just take her—take her now. Get her out of this blasted residence, carry her outside, and take your dragyra back through the portal.
He had finished his business with Ghost almost forty-five minutes earlier, and he had been standing in Amber’s kitchen for nearly half as long, silent and invisible, while studying, watching, and waiting for her enigmatic roommates, or her boyfriend, to come home. As much as he wanted to whisk her to the Pantheon—snatch his fated and get the hell out of Dodge—he needed to exercise patience and let the night play out.
He wanted to watch—and listen—scrutinize the discourse between Amber and her mysterious housemates, learn all that he could before they departed. And that’s when the door swung open, and all hell broke loose…
The three males from earlier, those who had pulled away in the Cadillac, stormed into the foyer, the blond-haired guy named Tony—the same one who had been in the picture frame with Amber—being dragged across the threshold like a broken slab of meat. Someone had beaten the shit out of the guy, and the other two males, the ones from the Cadillac?
Well, there was nothing human about them.
Holy.
Hell.
So Amber Carpenter’s buddies were pagans!
And they were being followed into the house by a one-handed giant of a demon and a long line of nasty shades.
Instinctively, Axe drew back into the shadows.
Despite the fact that he remained invisible, he slowed his breathing, dimmed his heartbeat, and immediately opened a telepathic bandwidth to his lair mates on the other side of the portal. He began to quietly and systematically relay information: what he saw, what he heard, and who was who. But he was careful to tell the aggressive Dragyr to stay put, at least for now. Amber was so very close to two evil ones—way too close for Axe’s liking. One false move, and they could snatch her heart right out of her chest or crush her throat in an instant.
If the pagans got wind of why the Dragyr were interested in the female, Amber would become target-enemy number one, and the pagans could destroy Axe, a powerful, immortal dragyri, just by annihilating the frail human woman: If Axe failed to present Amber to the temple by the end of the ten-day claiming, Lord Saphyrius would be forced to remove his amulet, the life-giving ornament that tethered his life to the Pantheon and anchored his soul in his body.
Nope.
Axe wasn’t about to take a chance with his dragyra’s life.
No sooner had the corrupt ones entered the foyer than the room erupted in chaos. Amber jumped up from the sofa, spilling her popcorn; the one-handed demon took several steps in her direction; and Amber snatched a heavy clay vase in a white-knuckled grip and hoisted it over her shoulder like a club.
Axe moved so quickly to get behind Amber that the currents he left in his wake rustled a row of overhanging copper pots. Oh well... He fastened both palms of his hands to the small of her waist and prepared to wrench her backward, to snatch her out of the giant’s reach, but the shades moved just as quickly. They surrounded Amber, shackled her arms, and wrenched the vase out of her hands with ease.
Axe withdrew his hands, let go of his dragyra, and backed up, as silent as the night—he wasn’t willing to make Amber a wishbone.
“Stinks like a dragyri,” one of the pagans hissed, and if they could smell him, that meant they’d be scanning for his energy. If they homed in on his location, they would tear Amber’s arms right out of her sockets, rend her limb from limb in a millisecond.
What’s happening, Axe! Zane’s gravelly voice, booming across the telepathic bandwidth.
Two shadow-walkers are restraining Amber, Axe barked back.
And then the giant demon—the one leading the shades—bent to Axe’s dragyra and covered her mouth with his.
Axe’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest.
He was going to gouge that one-handed bastard’s eyes out, seize his intestines through his guts, and wrap them around his convulsing throat—so he could hang him by the living room ceiling.
Easy, Jace cautioned, clearly sensing Axe’s rising tension. Squash the emotion, soldier—focus on strategy. How many pagans are there, Axeviathon?
Axe was just about to say, Too many, when his dragyra began to scream.
And scream…and scream…and scream.
Chapter Ten
“What the hell, Trader!” Zeik’s caustic voice.
“Penalty kiss, courtesy of Lord Drakkar,” the giant snarled.
Amber sucked in air like an industrial wind-tunnel, clearly on the verge of hyperventilating. The bastards holding her arms released her, and she brought both hands to her eyes and scrubbed them frantically. “I can’t see!” she shouted. “Oh my God!” she cried. “Tony, I’m blind! I can’t see anything! Zeik! Grunge! Somebody, help me!” She was sobbing like a baby and choking on her words.
“Penalty for what!” Grunge demanded in the background.
It sounded like Tony moaned, but Amber wasn’t sure. “Call 911!” she pleaded, still gasping for air.
The one-handed giant—the one Zeik had called Trader—snorted derisively. “Did you really think Lord Drakkar was going to be A-okay with the shit that went down at the bank? A dragyri marching in, strolling past the tellers, and leaving a gift, wrapped in an insult, on Warren Simmons’ desk? You’re lucky you and Zeik got off so easy—I lost my fucking l
eft hand!”
Amber trembled at the venom in Trader’s voice.
Zeik grunted. “Is that why you beat the shit out of Tony?”
“Lord Drak’s orders,” Trader snarled. “That, and the girl’s eyesight.”
Amber shook like a leaf, her heart recoiling. Who the hell was Lord Drakkar? And what kind of a man could remove someone’s eyesight with a kiss? “Zeik!” she screamed, her terror overcoming her. “What the hell is he talking about? Who the hell are these guys? And why aren’t you doing something to help me!?”
Axeviathon scrubbed his face with his hands, then leaned forward to brace his elbows on his thighs. He sucked in several gasps of air and snarled…
He had left the living room.
He had abandoned his dragyra.
He had transported outside the bay window in order to clear his head.
It wasn’t that he was afraid to throw down, to take on every blasted pagan in that house, but if Amber screamed one more time—if he had to both hear her distress and feel her terror—he was going to lose his shit, and a feral, irrational dragyri could do more harm than good.
Axeviathon was a lethal combatant.
He could move like the wind and strike like a scorpion; hell, he could dispatch three enemies before they knew he was there. But even an immortal dragyri like Axe couldn’t best a room full of pagans. And Amber was so damn vulnerable. He needed to keep his wits about him. He needed to think like a soldier and calculate like a general.
What had Trader said?
Lord Drakkar Hades had ordered the demon to beat the crap out of Tony and take Amber’s eyesight—to freakin’ render her blind!—and the bastard had done it because of Axe’s intervention, his special delivery at the bank. His fire sparked, his fangs elongated, and he sank both canines deep into the flesh of his hand in frustration. Zanaikeyros, he snarled across the telepathic band. We have to go in.
Zane’s already on his way to the temple, Levi responded. How many pagans and how many humans?
What? Axe retorted. His vision was swirling in eddies of black and red.
In the house, Axe, Levi reiterated. How many humans and how many shades are in the house right now?
Axe peered through the double-paned window. Hard to tell for sure—those shadow-walkers are some shifty bastards, flashing in and out like ink blots, but my guess is twelve, maybe fifteen shades. Three demons if you count Trader, Zeik, and Grunge. Tony and Amber are the only humans.
Got it, Levi said. Just sit tight for a minute. As I mentioned, Zane’s on his way to speak with Lord Saphyrius and Lord Ethyron; he’s asking for permission to utilize the Emerald Lair as backup. All four dragyri are home this night, and they can mobilize as quickly as we can. Give us five…maybe ten…and we’ll have nine dragyri against fifteen pagans at the least, eighteen at the most. But what we need in the meantime are screenshots—fast, accurate, and keep them coming. The furniture, the layout, where each male is standing, and if all you’ve got is ink blots, then send those too. Nakai and Jace are already working on tactical operations. The way we see it: quick in and out. Materialize in the living room; strike to kill before they even know we’re there; take your dragyra and get the hell outta that house. We may have to leave a handful of pagans standing, but eliminating the enemy is not the mission—you and your fated are all we’re about.
Axe nodded his head, and his vision seemed to clear…just a bit.
Levi was right, of course: This wasn’t about payback or wholescale annihilation—it was about getting Amber out of that demonic cesspool of a residence. Who lived and who died would depend on where each male was standing at the moment the dual lairs went in. Got it, he replied. Just tell Zane to hurry. Because if anyone threatens Amber—her life or limb, not her eyesight or feelings—I’m going back in alone.
Levi sighed across the telepathic link. If that happens, Axe—if you have to go back in, sooner—Jace, Nakai, and I will be right behind you, and that changes the mission: We fight like hell until Zane and our emerald brothers show up.
Axe swept his hand through his hair, uncaring that he was streaking the dirty-blond locks with blood. He didn’t bother to answer his lair mate—his assent was implied—and besides, he was too busy snapping mental screenshots through the window from the interior of the house and sending them back to the Pantheon.
Chapter Eleven
Zane Saphyrius took the white marble steps to the temple two at a time, making a beeline for the sacred fountain to cleanse his hands before he entered, as was required by the Seven.
He didn’t get the chance.
Lord Saphyrius and Lord Ethyron appeared in an instant, their amalgamated energy wrapping in and out of the seven giant pillars—they did not appear as magnificent serpents with horns, scales, and lethal spiked tails, but rather as bright prisms of light, reflecting the colors of their primary gemstones: sapphire and emerald. Their figures were large silhouettes in mostly human form, yet translucent and ghostly to the touch, and their glassy eyes were glowing with both intensity and purpose.
One upward glance, and Zane fell to one knee.
He averted his eyes and bowed his head.
“Greetings, Father,” he said with reverence. “Thank you for granting me an audience, Lord Ethyron.”
Lord Saphyrius waved his hand through the air, and a rainbow of purple-and-blue light followed the movement. “Salutations, Zanaikeyros; you may rise and dispense of all formality. I understand that we don’t have time for pleasantries.”
Zane paused, waiting to hear a word from Lord Ethyron…
While Zane’s Genesis lord was his primary master, and Lord Saphyrius certainly had the right to release him from formal protocol, Lord Ethyron was the second dragon god along the progressive hierarchy, only one step above Lord Dragos. And that meant he was also the second most depraved of the lot. Unlike Lord Topenzi or Lord Cytarius—the seventh and sixth in the spiritual pecking order—Lord Ethyron could not be counted on to proceed with kindness and altruism, to simply embrace Zane’s request for an audience or Axe’s need for immediate intervention out of benevolence and generosity. He may very well desire something in return, especially if he was going to offer his Genesis Son, Jagyr, in battle.
An awkward silence hovered for a moment, and Zane got the impression Lord Ethyron was enjoying the uncertainty and the tension. Finally, the dragon snarled, releasing a puff of smoke. “You may rise, boy—let’s get on with it.”
Zane stood to his full warrior’s height and drew back his shoulders, releasing some taut, nervous energy. “Thank you, milord.”
Lord Ethyron nodded, and his glowing emerald eyes narrowed at the pupils. “From what Lord Saphyrius has shared with me, your lair mate Axe has found himself in a…situation…surrounded by demons and shadow-walkers on Earth and unable to retrieve his dragyra. Is this the long and short of it?”
“Yes, lord,” Zane answered. No need for extra verbiage—it would only irritate the caustic serpent.
“I see.” This time, the dragon lord sounded bored. “And, alas, the Emerald Lair is home this night, so you would seek permission for Caleb, Rio, Valen, and Jagyr to help extricate both Axe and his female from the sticky situation?”
Zane struggled to keep his facial expression neutral. Lord Ethyron already knew all of this; what was the point of repeating it?
“It would be seen as a personal favor to me,” Lord Saphyrius interjected, “a show of political goodwill and an act of solidarity.” His voice betrayed no emotion; however, a hot red flame trailed his last exhale of breath, demonstrating his obvious frustration.
Lord Ethyron smiled. “Your mate, Jordan, she is a gifted artist, is she not?”
Zane’s stomach clenched, and he nodded.
“Speak up, boy; I didn’t hear you.”
Lord Saphyrius snarled.
“She is, milord,” Zane answered. “My dragyra is extremely gifted.”
Lord Ethyron caressed his luminous jaw with an equally translucent thumb and
forefinger. “The mural in my temple chambers has faded a bit over the centuries; do you suppose your dragyra would be generous enough to restore it to its original luster?”
Zane bristled, and Lord Saphyrius shifted anxiously in place. This time, the sapphire dragon didn’t even attempt to hide his aggravation. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lord Ethyron. Such a project would take weeks to complete, if not longer. There are plenty of beautiful human servants to festoon your chambers if you are in need of a female’s companionship.” His voice rose to a deafening bellow. “Zanaikeyros’ dragyra—my daughter—is not one of them.”
Well, talk about getting straight to the heart of the issue, Zane thought. Yet again, he kept his thoughts to himself. None of the dragon lords would violate a sacred dragyra, at least not carnally, but where those lines were drawn depended upon the dragon in question. And there was no way in hell Zane was sending Jordan, alone, to spend day after day—or worse, night after night—in Lord Ethyron’s chambers. Jordan was exquisitely beautiful, and her presence would become an overwhelming temptation quite quickly.
“Hmph,” Lord Ethyron harrumphed. “Well, at some point I imagine Zane and Jordan will give the Pantheon a son—we could simply all agree now that when the child reaches the age of consecration, he will be assigned to the Emerald Lair as his permanent residence…and gemstone. He will become one of my faithful mercenaries.” His gleaming eyes lit up with interest. “The progeny of a Genesis Son would be a welcome addition to my powerful coven.”
At this, Lord Saphyrius snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, a chest that was beginning to don sapphire scales. “You are wasting precious time, brother,” he snarled. “And your second suggestion is even more ludicrous than the first. Zane is not asking for a year-long commitment from his emerald brothers; he is simply requesting a quick, targeted, and efficient extraction of a human dragyra from a pagan-infested domicile. Keep talking…keep lingering…and the matter may soon be moot.”