Zanaikeyros: Son of Dragons

by Tessa Dawn

  She nodded and met his gaze. “I know. I can’t say it was rational. It was just…I just…what if I needed to escape, to run…from you? I just took it, okay?”

  Zane studied her eyes, far too keenly, and then he slowly nodded his head. “And you thought that would anger me? That I would be upset if I knew?”

  She pivoted like a lawyer. “Aren’t you?”

  He smirked, clearly catching her ploy. “I am…concerned…that you don’t trust me, not even a little, not yet. We are running out of time.”

  And there it was again: the metaphorical elephant in the living room: six more days until the temple…

  She pivoted again.

  “You said you would tell me more—everything—about the ceremony in the temple, the thing you call rebirth. The thing you expect me to do.”

  Zane nodded, appearing contrite. “And I will…when we have more time. When you’re ready to hear more about our lives, our kind, to listen with an open mind.” He glanced at the digital clock beside the bed. “But right now, it’s already 6:15. You still need to get dressed and eat breakfast. And we still need to travel through the portal if you want to meet Macy at the hospital at seven, to be with her throughout the pre-op.” He leaned back and raised his eyebrows. “It’s up to you. I won’t deny you if you insist on talking now.”

  Well, wasn’t that just an impossible decision—keep her word to her best friend, or finally hear the details of her date with destiny.

  With doom.

  Any other time…

  She glanced toward the pocket door that led to the en suite bathroom and frowned. “I need to be there for Macy.”

  Zane stood up, and the sudden shift in his position, the stealthy, animalistic way he moved, the slumberous yet predatory rise to his full, intimidating height made her heart lodge in her throat. She was in the presence of a slayer, no matter how charming he could seem, and she needed to remember that.

  “Your duffle is in the bathroom, and the shower panel is self-explanatory—the way you work the jets, whatever heads you choose. I’ll meet you downstairs in the kitchen—Jace is already preparing the morning meal.”

  Jordan’s heart retreated from her throat, sank in her chest, and dropped lower…to her stomach. That was all she needed, next: to sit at a massive, mission-style table, surrounded by four more predatory dragons, and try to swallow food. She’d be lucky if she didn’t spew in her plate.

  Still, she wasn’t about to tell that to Zane.

  The sooner he left the room—and she could breathe again—the better.

  “I’ll be down in twenty minutes,” she said, marshaling her courage. Her eyes darted to the elegant French doors, and then the floor-to-ceiling windows that illuminated the deck, almost involuntarily. Every instinct in her body told her to run, to flee, to dash out the doors or climb through a window and sprint as far…and as fast…as she could. But Zane had been right when he had reminded her that she was in a foreign land. She didn’t know the topography—hell, she didn’t know what strange or dangerous animals might be lurking in the trees, behind the bushes, crawling out of the waters, poised and ready to pounce—and she didn’t want to know.

  Today was all about Macy.

  That was it.

  That was all.

  And she needed to remain focused.

  Besides, she had to get a text off to Dan.

  Someway.

  Somehow.

  She had to keep her cool.

  f

  Salem Thorne, a venerable pagan, stood at the edge of the surgeon’s bed in the doctor’s expensive, modern condominium, and he watched as Kyle Parker tossed and turned on his satin sheets.

  And why wouldn’t he—feel fitful, that is?

  His peaceful, then later erotic, dreams had turned quickly into nightmares, and Salem had orchestrated it all.

  It was true: He could have met the surgeon face-to-face, demon to human, and demanded his obedience, spelled everything out in clear, unambiguous terms, but unlike the multitudes of human servants who willingly served the Pagan Horde—or even the Temple of Seven—the man did not possess the stamina for the confrontation.

  He didn’t have the balls.

  He would have taken one look at a true, immortal demon, and his pristine, perfectly layered black hair would have wilted on his head; his baby-blue peepers would have grown wide with fright; and that lion’s heart, which he incorrectly believed he possessed, would have instantly stopped beating from the fright.

  No, Kyle needed to be approached in the typical, more subtle manner: manipulated through his dreams.

  And so, Salem had spent the last two hours weaving all manner of symbols and fanciful tales. First, he had shown the aspiring surgeon his potential greatness: ceremonies in his honor; awards embellished with his name; lucrative, important promotions. Then he had interrupted those grandiose dreams with erotic scene after erotic scene—Dr. Parker sharing his most hidden, elicit sexual fantasies with Macy Wilson: the pretty blonde dropping to her knees in eager anticipation; a pair of handcuffs slipping around her wrists; and a red silk tie…placed in her mouth. Oh yes, Dr. Parker had been adequately aroused.

  And then the dreams had changed.

  A barren wasteland teeming with snakes.

  A medieval dungeon filled with spikes.

  A vile of poison being poured down his throat as he choked on the bitter concoction.

  He had been shown every manner of personal agony, unbearable cruelty, and torture; and the nightmare had made it clear: There was only one thing that stood between Dr. Parker and suffering such horrendous pain—the need to give Macy a pin.

  Yes, a simple gold-and-ruby pin.

  Fashioned in the shape of a beetle, attached to the post and card, inserted in her flower arrangement, following her successful surgery: a gift from the doting doctor. Just give Macy this gift, and you will escape all the torture you’ve seen.

  You will be rewarded with fame…and complicit sex.

  Would the malleable surgeon remember the dream?

  No.

  Would he make a linear connection between the pin on his nightstand, where it had come from, and his overwhelming desire to place it in Macy’s flowers?

  Not even for a minute.

  But then, he didn’t have to.

  All he had to do was do it.

  Salem bent low, over the bed, and sniffed Dr. Parker’s hair—for the sake of all that was unholy, the narcissist shampooed with scented oils.

  Whatever.

  The demon’s groin hardened, and for a moment he wondered if he could enjoy lying with a man—hell, the guy’s hair was still perfect, even as he tossed and turned on his fluffy pillow, and his long, sinewy body…that lush, pouty mouth…

  Nah.

  Salem preferred young girls, preferably in their teens: helpless, virginal, and adept at screaming. The louder, the better.

  But he needed to focus.

  He let his head roll back on his neck, his arms fall, extended, to his sides, as he embraced the darkness within him, connected to his master and lord: the venerable Drakkar Hades, often referred to as Drak—and wasn’t that just a fitting term of veneration, considering Bram Stoker and all…

  As his lethal claws extended from his hands and his gums began to ache, the demon began to chant—the words too ancient, too vile, too cryptic to pronounce without guttural grunts.

  And then his body began to morph.

  It did not splinter apart like a collapsing pillar of salt, because his orders had been clear: He was not to release a thousand beetles; he was to become…only one.

  Just one.

  One that he would still occupy.

  One that he would still possess.

  His spine crackled and popped as it bent inward; his ears began to bleed as they formed into antennae; and his head throbbed like it was going to split open as it gave way to frontal and pronotol lobes…emerged as vermin horns.

  The pain was as delectable as it was unbearable, and he gave
himself over, fully, to the transformation, allowing his member to rise. Soon, it too began to change, growing dozens and dozens of spikes. Salem chuckled inside: The male Bruchid beetle actually punctured the female’s reproductive tract during sex, causing heavy and permanent injuries to her system, preventing her from mating again.

  How utterly exquisite was that?

  He stopped laughing when his rib cage broke and his outer wings emerged—when his legs spouted into femurs and began to grow spurs. In fact, he may have whimpered a time or two before he buckled down and focused, narrowing all his concentration: Transform your eyes to rubies, Salem; transform your abdomen to gold.

  Concentrate.

  Harder…

  Just a little bit more…

  Ah, and there it was.

  He let his newfound body fold inward, drawing down in size until a perfectly formed ornamental bug landed on the doctor’s nightstand.

  Still as the night.

  Lethal as sin.

  Waiting to reanimate…once more.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jordan laced the last of five crisscrossed back-straps on the airy, pale-green summer dress she was wearing, looked at her reflection in the mirror, and cringed. Other than the one-inch-wide shoulder straps, her arms were basically bare. The neckline was too low, showing the rise of her modest breasts, and the waist was too form-fitting, showing the dip in her stomach and the curve of her hips. In other words, the dress was way too revealing. She had grabbed it on the fly because it was lightweight and easy to pack—it didn’t take up much room—but now she wished she had grabbed a turtleneck instead, something that covered every exposed inch of skin, despite the fact that it was almost mid-June.

  She slipped on her sandals, waved her hand under the motion sensor to turn off the bathroom lights, and began making her way down the sturdy stairs. She could have taken the elevator at the back of the hall, which she had been told stopped on all five floors, but she needed an extra minute or two to calm her nerves and clear her mind.

  Breakfast.

  She could do breakfast.

  In fact, the sooner they were finished, the better—the sooner she would be headed back, through the portal, to her familiar earth-dimension, and one step closer to flagging Dan for help.

  As she descended the base of the left-side staircase, she raised her chin and drew back her shoulders for courage, and then she softly padded beyond the large gourmet island, across the modern, well-appointed kitchen, and to the front of the house—the eating nook, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows and housing a massive mission-style table.

  The males were already seated and throwing back a feast of what looked like bacon, eggs, sausage, pancakes, and fruit. Her stomach did a little flip—there was no way she could eat.

  Zane patted the seat of the chair beside him, at the far end of the table, and Jordan slowly nodded her head.

  The other dragyri fell silent.

  Great.

  Just great…

  Make her feel like a laboratory specimen.

  She kept her eyes straight ahead as she took her seat, scooted forward, and stared at the empty plate. Zane—or someone—had already set her place. “Do you always eat such a large breakfast?” she asked, glancing up at him through her peripheral vision.

  His entire countenance softened. “Pretty much,” he said. “We take meals pretty seriously around here, even though it’s not our primary sustenance.”

  She cringed at his reference to feeding, but she didn’t murmur a word.

  Someone at the table snickered, and then Axe, who was sitting on the opposite side of the table, lifted a platter full of pancakes and offered it to Jordan.

  “No, thanks,” she said politely. “I think I’ll just have fruit.”

  Zane reached over her, forked a giant pancake off the platter, and dropped it on her plate. “You’re gonna need more than that.”

  She bit back an insolent retort. Okay. So he was making her food choices for her now?

  “Don’t want to hurt Jace’s feelings,” Levi said.

  “Excuse me?” Jordan asked, meeting the handsome dragyri’s eyes and making note of the fact that there was a lyrical quality to his otherwise masculine voice. “Did Jace cook all this?” She stared at the bounty of platters before her.

  Jace smiled, and it was a grin laced with pride. “Yep. These other heathens try to cook from time to time—or they rely heavily on human servants, cooks and maids—but I think there’s an art to culinary preparation, and just getting it done, heating it up, isn’t good enough.”

  Zane rolled his eyes. “Jace is a pansy.”

  “Next thing you know,” Nakai cut in, “he’ll be arranging flowers and placing them…just so…all around the lair.”

  The whole table chuckled.

  “Yeah, all right,” Jace said in a counterfeit surly tone. “And who’s the better marksman, Nakai?” He leveled his gaze at Zane. “And last time we sparred with Katars, who got their ass kicked?” he chided.

  Zane’s top lip quirked up in a mocking smile. “Good thing my weapon of choice is a battle axe, right?”

  “What’s a Katar?” Jordan whispered to Zane, losing ever more of her appetite.

  “It’s a fancy word for dagger,” Zane said.

  Hearing the conversation perfectly, Jace chimed in: “It’s a very specific kind of dagger, a push blade with an H-shaped handle—it originated in India—very easy to thrust and wield with your wrist. Its original name was Kattari, then later Katara, before the British shortened it to the Romanized version, Katar.”

  “And you just made our point,” Nakai taunted. “Damn, let the woman eat breakfast.” He cocked his eyebrows and goaded him some more. “History of the Katar—by Jace Saphyrius.” He reached for a nearby link of sausage and speared it with his knife, but when he started to place it on his plate, Jace flicked his wrist, extended his pinky, and a bright orange flame shot across the table, incinerating the chunk of meat.

  “Then cook the shit yourself,” Jace snarled, eyeing the charcoal-colored dust now dotting the dragyri’s plate.

  Jordan jerked back in her chair and gasped.

  More raucous laughter echoed around the table before Zane cleared his throat and projected his voice. “Hey!” He had the room’s immediate attention. “Take it down a few notches—you’re scaring my dragyra.” He leveled his gaze at Jace before eyeing the entire room. “And watch your language…all of you.”

  More laughter began to ensue, when all of a sudden, it was simply cut off.

  Like someone had pressed mute on the nook’s remote.

  All five males stirred in unison: scooting back their chairs, standing to their full, domineering heights, and stepping gracefully to the sides of their seats. Then they each fell to one knee, bowed their heads, and clutched their sacred amulets.

  Jordan’s mouth dropped open.

  Was this some sort of archaic, over-the-top, caveman apology?

  Was it meant for her?

  Surely not.

  She absently glanced toward the head of the table, and she immediately knew what all the fuss was about.

  Her heart nearly seized in her chest.

  Standing like a giant prism of sapphire light, his presence utterly filling the room with kinetic energy, was the outline and ethos of a terrifying man, flanked by the silhouette of a ferocious dragon. And without being able to explain how she knew, Jordan was absolutely certain: The beast in the background—the mirrored soul hovering in, around, and atop the semi-human form—was only a fraction of its true, colossal size.

  His power radiated outward.

  The temperature in the room increased by several degrees.

  And the light reflecting from the depth of the dragon’s core virtually undulated in waves, making curious, ambient sounds, like whales in the depths of the ocean, or ancient pterodactyls screeching in a prehistoric sky.

  It wasn’t particularly loud.

  It was eerie.

  It was
haunting.

  It was petrifying.

  And Jordan wanted to crawl through her chair, melt into the floor, and become one of the travertine tiles.

  “Sons.” The fearsome lord spoke only one word, yet the power in his otherworldly voice rocked the rafters and shook the chandelier, causing the seven dimly lit globes within it to radiate sapphire light.

  Jordan’s hands trembled uncontrollably.

  She didn’t know what to do—should she kneel on the floor with the rest of the Dragyr; bow her head in homage to the fearsome god; or apologize for being in his lair? She had a sinking sensation that she was a heartbeat away from the end of her life, a mere twinkling from being scorched into dust…just like Nakai’s link of sausage.

  “Father…” The dragyri males spoke the word in unison—did they choreograph this stuff? And why Father? Why not lord…or my god? Jordan shook her head—she thought Zane was the only biological son.

  “Rise,” the dragon said.

  And all five males stood up.

  “How may we serve you, Lord Saphyrius?” Axe said next, and Jordan nearly quaked in her sandals.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, hugged her midriff snugly, and stared down at her lap—she honestly didn’t know what else to do.

  “The dragyra,” the dragon lord said. “I wish to meet my daughter.”

  Oh, no-no-no, she thought as she swayed in her chair.

  Zane reached out to steady her back with the palm of his hand, and then he placed his fingers beneath her elbow and nudged her gently upward, directing her to stand. She couldn’t do it, not on her own volition, and he had to give her a tug.

  “Jordan Briana Anderson”—how did Zane know her middle name?—“I present you to Lord Saphyrius, third deity of the sacred Temple of Seven, ruler of Dragons Domain, creator of the dragon sun, the dragon moon, and the Dragyr race, and keeper of the sacred sapphire. God of my pantheon, father of my heart—and my blood—and master of the Sapphire Lair. Honor him with your silence.”

  Holy shit…

  She gulped.

  Then she curled her lips inward and bit down with her teeth, determined not to make a sound. The fearsome lord—and his shadow-dragon—began to draw nearer; and like light switching from one source to the next—one candle extinguishing, another igniting—the outline of Lord Saphyrius, the “man,” faded into the background, while the silhouette of the dragon grew stronger…more detailed.