Zanaikeyros: Son of Dragons

by Tessa Dawn

  Both day and night.

  Thirty-two hours, fifty-five minutes, and thirty seconds ensnared in the palm of his hand as they trudged through the history of the Dragyr, the culture and religion of The Pantheon, and Jordan’s own mundane human calendar, the imminent things she still had to do: Macy’s surgery on Monday, Jordan’s jury selection on Tuesday, what had to be addressed right away versus what could be moved.

  For now—right now—all she could do was “go along to get along,” try to learn as much as she could about Zane and the Dragyr, do her best to appease the terrifying male, and try to figure this out with the hope that somehow—someway—an opportunity would present itself for her to escape. As it stood, Zane did not seem intent on harming her—if taking her to some creepy temple to give her to a bunch of ancient gods didn’t count as “harm”—so that was what she had to hold onto, what she had to keep reminding herself. So far, he had not tried to abuse her, physically or sexually, and he wasn’t carrying her off in chains.

  At least that was something.

  She watched as he pressed the button to the lobby and the elevator began to descend to the ground floor. Her head virtually swam with all the information Zane had shared with her over the past day and a half, all the bizarre but necessary questions she had asked, and all the frank yet terrifying answers he had supplied.

  Zane had explained that he wasn’t a shifter, as incomprehensible as the concept had been to digest. He had told her that only the dragon lords could fly through the skies or traverse the lands as enormous primordial beasts: creatures with fully formed scales, spiked, leathery backs, and long, lance-like tails. The dragyri, themselves, were almost a separate race. They were vampiric in nature and imbued with the powers of their dragon lords—telekinesis, mastery of fire, mind control, superior speed and strength—and yes, they also needed to feed on the blood, essence, and heat of humans to reanimate their inner fires. But they didn’t turn into actual monsters, and they didn’t grow horns on their heads. They could, however, make use of scales for armor and wings to fly, so to Jordan’s way of thinking, it was a matter of degrees, a purely semantic argument.

  And, honestly, that wasn’t the most troubling revelation: The sacred Temple of Seven had left her quaking in her metaphorical boots: Zane had tried his best to explain the history of the dragyra and the role the human females played in the domain, the fact that he had ten days from the date he met her to take her to this sanctuary, offer her to these gods, and perform some heathen consecration—some barbaric, ancient ritual—that would result in her rebirth.

  Her rebirth.

  What the hell did that mean?

  She didn’t want to know—it was more than she could take.

  All she’d truly understood, all she’d really been able to digest, was the fact that she would be changed, forever, somehow made immortal. And as for the sacred, driving purpose of it all? Well, that was even worse. Jordan’s purpose, at least as she’d understood it, was to bear Zanaikeyros Saphyrius a son; to provide the dragyri with an heir; to bestow upon the dragon lords another mercenary…a future servant for the domain.

  It was primitive, savage, and insane.

  Yet to Zane, it had all seemed so commonplace, so matter-of-fact.

  The thought made Jordan’s knees begin to buckle beneath her, and she leaned against the elevator wall to keep from collapsing.

  Zane immediately turned to regard her. “Are you feeling faint?” he asked.

  She stared at the floor and shook her head. What was the point in telling the truth? It wouldn’t change a thing. “I’m fine,” she mumbled dryly. “So where is this portal? How far do we have to walk…or ride?” Hell, she didn’t know. Was she expected to fly with him, carried in his arms?

  Zane shook his head and stared straight ahead at the elevator doors—he had already learned when to give her some space, if only with his body and his eyes. “We won’t have to go far,” he answered plainly. “Just to a private space.” He clutched the enigmatic amulet around his neck—the one, as she had learned, that gave him power and sustained his life—and cast a reverent glance at the jewel. “The portal is inside the gemstone; it’s not an actual place. As long as we are carrying your bags, and I’m touching you, I need only clutch this amulet, visualize the temple, and draw on the powers of Lord Saphyrius. The portal will open through him. The only restriction is—we must be outside, somewhere in nature, not in the confines of a building.”

  Jordan winced. She couldn’t help it. The last thing she wanted was to arrive in the Dragons Domain in the presence of some ancient, bestial god.

  “You won’t,” Zane offered, easily reading her thoughts. He swore he didn’t do it on purpose—read her mind, that is—it was just the fact that her emotions were so strong…so raw. According to Zane, Jordan projected words from her mind as clearly as if she were shouting. He would have to be psychically deaf not to hear her at times, but he swore he would work on dialing it down, muting it as best as he could. “The portal will take us wherever we envision—wherever I envision—when I call upon the stone.” He shrugged as if he knew the explanation was paltry. “It’s an acquired skill, not as easy as it sounds, but after so many centuries, it’s second nature by now.”

  Jordan blinked several times. “Several centuries?” She practically recoiled. “How old are you?”

  Zane pursed his lips together and briefly shut his eyes. “I’m just over a thousand years old.”

  She gulped, started to speak, then quickly closed her mouth. Another time. “So where are we going, then? Straight to your…lair?”

  “Yes,” he answered bluntly, punctuating the inevitability with silence.

  Jordan followed suit.

  Sometimes silence was golden, and it had become a language unto itself between the two of them: Jordan’s way of saying, I’ve heard enough; I can’t digest any more; and Zane’s way of, well, being Zane.

  Powerful.

  Mysterious.

  Always in control.

  Intimidating, whether he intended to be, or not.

  Jordan ran her hands up and down her arms to stave off a sudden chill. So that was that, and this was real. In a matter of minutes—maybe ten, maybe twenty—she would be standing in an alternate world, on the other side of some mysterious portal, surrounded by savage males who were neither human, nor men, vampire, nor dragon, but some cryptic combination of the four.

  She would be alone in a foreign, terrifying world.

  A world that was ruled by actual dragons.

  “Baby…” Zane’s deep, rugged voice cut through the tension.

  Jordan met his seeking gaze and tried not to tremble. She was so tired of being afraid.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispered huskily. “It is going to be okay. You are not the first dragyra ever born, nor claimed, and you won’t be the last. I am not going to let anything harm you, and this”—he swept his arm around the elevator to indicate the building and the car, even as it came to a smooth, even stop—“this isn’t going away. You will be back on Monday to see your friend Macy; you will still attend the jury selection on Tuesday; and your life will go on. We will build a bridge between our worlds, not an impassible chasm. I know it’s impossible to see right now, from where you stand, but this is the beginning, not the end—and I am your protector, not your enemy.” His voice dropped to a sultry purr. “And in time, I wish to be your lover…and your friend.”

  Jordan held both hands in front of her in a cease and desist gesture: Stop, just stop.

  It was way too much information, and since she really didn’t have a choice, there was no point in litigating her purpose. She didn’t need to hear it spoken aloud.

  As the elevator doors slid open, Jordan followed Zane into the lobby; and as those same metal doors shut behind them, she watched as her life, as she knew it, came to a close.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A five-minute walk to a nearby park.

  Sixty seconds beneath the low-hanging branches of a c
ottonwood tree.

  Thirty seconds clutching his amulet while he reached out to take her hand, and Jordan and Zane were in the Dragons Domain.

  Just like that.

  An overwhelming wave of vertigo assaulted Jordan’s senses, and she reached out to steady herself against the nearest wall: Her palm struck a large, rugged pillar, constructed from organic white-and-sapphire stones, each individual brick possessing its own unique shape and contour, seamlessly woven together by packed, translucent clay. The lighter stones were pearlescent; the darker stones were an unalloyed, deep blue; and the utter vibrancy emanating from the rocks shone like a living band of color, pulsating in visible waves of energy.

  Jordan squinted and covered her eyes, trying to adjust to the supernatural light, and Zane immediately set down her bags, sidled behind her, and placed the pads of both fingers on the sides of her temples, where he applied a gentle, circular pressure. “Your eyes will adjust quickly, my love,” he murmured.

  Jordan cringed at the term of endearment. “The light. It’s too bright.” She felt hopelessly lost and extremely disoriented.

  “You’re fine,” he reiterated, rotating his fingers in small, soothing circles. “Open your eyes again.”

  She blinked several times, slowly reopened her eyes, and took another glance at the stones…at the lair. This time, her vision was clear, unimpeded, and she couldn’t help but notice that the architecture was magnificent. In fact, she had never seen such expert masonry in her life—she had never beheld such vibrant colors, not even in her dreams. And then, all at once, the ambient symphony echoing all around her rose to a thunderous crescendo, almost as if the adjustment to her vision had amplified her hearing as well. Water roared all around her; electricity swelled within her; and her heart began to pound, like the steady pulse of a bass drum, beating in time with the rhythmic flow.

  “Come,” Zane whispered, taking her by the hand before she could utter a protest. She tried to draw back, but Zane’s grasp was firm. Seemingly unaware of her hesitation, he led her across the wide wood-and-stone deck to the far end of the lair and came to a halt before a waist-high terrace wall. “Look to the right, behind the lair.”

  Jordan instinctively turned her head and gasped.

  Flowing like a crystal surge of raw, liquid power was the most brilliant waterfall she had ever seen. Six or seven distinct channels of white-capped, vertical streams flowed out of the apex of an enormous, resplendent cliff, the entire fall capped by bountiful, flowering trees in every shade of autumn, each organic cluster of foliage rising straight out of the rocky bluff. She had never seen anything like it.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, unable to conceal her awe. She spun around to face him and immediately drew back. His eyes were glowing with liquid heat, perhaps in appreciation, perhaps from something else: some base, primordial emotion brought about by his close proximity to his lair. Either way, she was immediately reminded of where she was and the unthinkable fate that awaited her. She took two healthy steps back, away from the stone-work ledge, and stared out across the vista, suddenly feeling the urge to run.

  A low, barely audible growl rose in Zane’s throat, and he slowly shook his head. “Jordan, do not.”

  That was all he said, but it struck her heart with terror: Do not…what?

  Do not fear me?

  Do not defy me?

  Do not think of running away?

  “Do not lose your courage now,” he supplied. “You are a guest in a strange land; there is much to see, much to learn, and you will grow accustomed to my dragyri nature.”

  She shuddered. “Why did your eyes glow just then? When I said the waterfall was beautiful? What was that…emotion?”

  His tongue snaked out to lick his bottom lip in a primitive, serpentine gesture, and he shook his head again, this time letting her know that he’d rather not answer her question.

  She felt her skin cool, and she knew her complexion had just turned ashen. Then it was satisfaction…or ownership…or lust. She swallowed a lump in her throat and glanced along the length of the porch until her eyes came to rest on her duffle bags, the gear she had packed for her stay in this strange, new land. “Don’t hurt me, Zanaikeyros,” she whispered in a tentative tone. “Remember your promise.” Meeting his eyes once more, she added, “I am completely at your mercy here.”

  He sighed. “Ah, dragyra. If you only understood…” He took two confident steps forward—there was no hesitation in his approach —slid his hand around her lower back, and tugged her against his chest, pulling her into his embrace. “I wish only to please you, my frightened little bird. Only to make you happy. I will not harm you, dragyra. I will never…ever…harm you.”

  She shivered, but she didn’t pull away.

  If he wanted to be her protector, that was fine.

  It was better than the alternatives—her captor, her master, her conqueror.

  Standing still for what felt like forever, she tried desperately to gather her courage, all the while keeping her head lowered to avoid his eyes, those unsettling blue-gold orbs. “Inside the lair, where will I stay? Will I have my own space…my own room?”

  He cupped her jaw in his hands with exquisite gentleness, raised her chin to force her gaze, and stared intently into her eyes, as if he could read her very soul in their depths. “I have my own suite, on the upper level; it has every comfort imaginable. Until your consecration, you will stay there, with me. After that, we can make any adjustments that you wish: redecorate the space to fit your style, move to another floor, find another wing that is more to your liking. But we are only one voice in a chorus of five—I cannot live separately from my lair-mates, nor would I wish to. At the least, it would offend Lord Saphyrius. At the most, it would offend my brothers.”

  Jordan bit down on her lower lip to keep it from quivering. She immediately consulted her memory, relying on analytical thought to replace vulnerable emotion. “Axe, Levi, Noki, and Jace?” She rattled off the names, and he smiled.

  “Axe, Levi, Nakai, and Jace,” he corrected. “You have an excellent memory, Jordan.”

  She started to say thank you, but the words wouldn’t come.

  It was all just too much, too soon.

  Sensing how deeply her courage was waning, Zane withdrew his touch from her jaw, took a generous step back, and reached for her hand. “Come, dragyra,” he drawled in that curious, unidentifiable accent of his kind. “The sooner you meet them, the less you will fear.”

  f

  When the door to the lair swung open and Zane and Jordan walked in, one could have heard a pin drop from a dozen yards away.

  All eyes shifted in their direction.

  Four massive males came to a sudden halt, each in the midst of some mundane task, and an enormous warrior with dirty blond hair and irises, identical to Zane’s, raised his thick upper lip in a semi-snarl and grunted more than he spoke. His pitch-black pupils narrowed, making his visage primal, if not downright savage.

  Jordan drew back in surprise.

  “Zane,” the fearsome warrior barked, his deep voice pure grit and gravel.

  “What’s up, Axe,” Zane replied casually, instinctively placing a protective hand against Jordan’s lower back.

  The blond gestured casually, raising his head in an infinitesimal nod, and then he fixed his piercing gaze on Jordan.

  He said nothing, and Zane filled the silence. “Brothers, this is Jordan Anderson. My dragyra.”

  Jordan gulped. Talk about straight to the point. She still wasn’t sure if she was on board with the whole fated dragyra thing, but now was not the time to voice her objections—or to show her fear. That is, if she could help it.

  The pitch-black pupils softened. “Nice to meet you.”

  Jordan forced a weak, insincere smile. “Axeviathon, right?”

  “Just Axe.”

  She repeated the same forced smile, trying to stretch it out, make it broader. “Axe.”

  Feeling like a rare specimen under a microscop
e, she immediately looked away and scanned the room, instead. Like the outside of the structure, the Sapphire Lair was a stunning work of construction. The front room, presumably a great room, was arched by huge cathedral ceilings, which were crisscrossed by thick, wooden beams. There were floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere, showcasing some of the most magnificent views Jordan had ever seen. And the detailing—the iron-work, the ornate wooden trim, the massive perpendicular fireplace which separated the great room from the hall—was made of those same odd blue-and-white stones set into the outside pillars. The effect was positively splendid.

  At the back of the room, there was an enormous pool table and a bar—definitely a bachelor pad of sorts—and off to the right of the game area was an enormous foyer flanked by dual rounded staircases trimmed in intricate iron and wood. There appeared to be a gourmet kitchen off to the right, on the other side of the staircase foyer, but Jordan couldn’t quite get a glimpse—the only thing showing was a portion of a huge granite bar. If it was the kitchen, she surmised, then it spanned the entire length of the house on the opposite side of the hall.

  Her attention was drawn back to the great room as two…dragyri…stood straighter beside the pool table, and angled their intimidating bodies toward hers.

  The first male, about six-feet-two, sinewy, but strong, locked his gaze on hers, and his warm sea-green pupils nearly burst with light. “Jacepheros Saphyrius,” he said, “but you can call me Jace.”

  Jordan nodded. She was about to force another smile, but gave up—the joy just wasn’t there. “Hi, Jace,” she mumbled, sounding more like a child than a grown, accomplished woman.

  His smile made up for both of them. It was breathtaking and kind, and talk about your perfect, immaculate teeth. Odd thing to observe, she thought.

  The second male actually raised his hand, not so much in a wave, but in a flick of his wrist. “Leviathon Saphyrius,” he said in a pure, melodic voice. “Levi for short.” His smile spoke volumes, as did his sapphire-and-indigo eyes. This one had a deep reservoir of calm beneath him, as well as an endless pool of mirth; and both insights were at odds with his powerful, almost brutish-looking hands.