Axeviathon - Son of Dragons: A Pantheon of Dragons Novel

by Tessa Dawn

  Trader suppressed the urge to hock up some phlegm and spit it at the sorcerer’s feet. Nonetheless, the condescending diatribe was getting old.

  “Have you lost your voice as well as your hand?” Requiem inquired.

  Trader averted his eyes. “I can speak just fine.” He didn’t see the backhand coming, but he felt the burn against his cheek and tasted the blood on his tongue. Shit; Requiem must have knocked out a tooth.

  “Let me tell you what I am going to do for you,” Requiem continued, as if the insult had never happened. “What Lord Drakkar’s chief sorcerer and an ancient practitioner of demonolatry is going to give you in order to appease our king.”

  Now this caught Trader’s attention: So, they were going to let him live?

  “First, you might have killed the dragyri male Axeviathon if you hadn’t been missing a hand.” He flicked his wrist in a dismissive gesture, making it clear that the limb would not be restored. “So, we do see that while your punishment was appropriate, it may not have been…most practical. I will give you…something…to take its place, if only in battle, if only to seek revenge. And as for the latter sentiment—vengeance, that is—we can only hope and pray to the darkness that the dragyri male returns through the portal to finish what he and his lair mates started. Antonio survived. Zeik survived. Grunge survived…as did you. Perhaps these are loose ends the son of Lord Saphyrius will wish to close. Perhaps Zeik and Grunge are correct in assuming the male will seek some sort of chivalrous retribution on behalf of the simple girl.” He shrugged. “Who knows.” And then his deep blue eyes turned glassy, crimson, and unambiguously demonic.

  He took two fluid steps backward and held out both hands, flingers splayed, horizontally, to the deck of the battlements. His claws curled inward and began to drip blood, each droplet sizzling like grease in a skillet as it made contact with the ancient granite.

  And then the blood began to coalesce.

  And the coagulated film became like fog.

  The fog grew dense, sticky, and granular until it mirrored liquified soil.

  Trader gasped. Though he had only seen the substance a half-dozen times in his five centuries of living, he would recognize the grisly quicksand anywhere. The pernicious substance could trap and hold anyone—for a time—even an immortal dragyri, rendering the body unusable; the supernatural powers inaccessible; and destroying the captured one’s ability to fight back. Requiem had chosen to conjure an incredibly powerful spell, which meant only one thing: Lord Drakkar was well and truly pissed.

  The king wanted revenge.

  Requiem smiled, and the grin was as wicked as it was devious. “Our lord wants Axeviathon Saphyrius. For the insult at the bank, for the insult at the house, for the incessant, vexatious battles the Dragyr continue to wage against the Horde. Kill a few demons here…kill a few shadows there…never wage war against the underworld, but strike like cowards, over and again, in these petty little skirmishes, hidden in the dark. And for what? Usually in the defense of human women.” His voice grew to a thundering crescendo. “Enough!” he bellowed. “Our lord has had enough.”

  He flexed his hands in the quicksand like a baker kneading bread, and then the colorful, creative bastard withdrew one hand from the mixture, reached behind his back, and retrieved a living, squirming, turquoise-and-black tiger snake out of thin air.

  “Shiiiiit!” Trader leaped back.

  Requiem’s smile broadened. “Cat finally released your tongue? Good.” He tossed the snake into the viscous, granular concoction and continue to stir it with his hands.

  Trader shook his head.

  Being a demon was one thing—they all had dark, supernatural powers—but the chief sorcerer freaked him out. He watched as Requiem practically bathed in the substance, immersing his body up to his chest, and all the while, the fiend ignored the crazed, infected snake who was whipping around in a frenzy, striking at imaginary ghosts, and snapping its tail like a lash. The tiger snake was mad with the desire to kill, possessed by the need to secrete venom…

  And then just like that, Requiem reached out a long, spindly arm and grasped Trader by the back of his neck, drawing him closer and closer to the thick concoction and the perverse, frenzied snake. Trader tried to draw back, to wriggle free, but the sorcerer’s grasp was immovable. Requiem recited several short incantations in the ancient pagan language, and Trader’s jaw fell open, his mouth opening wide.

  The snake dove inside the cavity and tunneled down Trader’s throat.

  The quicksand rose like a geyser, exploding from the earth, and followed the tiger snake’s trajectory, burrowing into the demon and filling Trader’s body like a badger fleeing an enemy, scrabbling into an underground tunnel.

  Trader choked and gagged.

  He flailed and jerked.

  He felt like his sternum was going to explode and his intestines were about to fall out. And worse—so much worse—he could feel the tiger snake slithering, in and out, around his rib cage. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

  And then the world was quiet, and his body quit resisting.

  Everything settled, and Trader stood up, tall.

  Requiem threw back his head and roared with laughter. He paced several tight circles around the demon, then shackled Trader’s right wrist, held it in place, and swiped at the demon’s face with five bloody claws.

  Trader jerked back, extended his left arm, and caught the sorcerer’s strike before it could land—

  He caught the sorcerer’s strike!

  With what?

  His left hand?

  No, not his left hand—he caught it with the mouth of the tiger snake, the head of the snake—the serpent was now an extension of Trader’s wrist.

  The snake sank its fangs into Requiem’s palm and, at last, excreted its venom.

  Requiem Pyre moaned like he was having an orgasm, and then he shook out his hand, took a step back, and the snake-head disappeared back inside Trader’s left arm. “You will never have a left hand again, Trader,” the sorcerer purred. “Our king does not retract his punishments, but the next time you need the limb to fight, your reptilian servant will be available to strike for you.” Pleased with his work, he once again linked his hands behind his back and brought the conversation back, full circle, to where it had begun. “Your little escapade on Earth cost us the lives of too many shades, but there is yet a prize to be salvaged. The next time you vomit—and you can do so at will—your body will release the quicksand, and at least for the next two to three minutes, your prey will be immobilized…paralyzed…utterly helpless and absent of power.” He narrowed his gaze and lowered his voice, wanting to emphasize his next words. “Be very clear, Trader: This gift is not a reward—it’s an obligation. If you can grasp your enemy while he is caught in the sand, I can pull both of you through to the underworld. Can you even imagine what a gift that would be for our king, a dragyri male to torture for all eternity? The ability to strike at the hearts of the Seven so effortlessly, so frequently? Recompense for all these trifling battles…” He sighed and nodded his head. “But, as we all know, the Dragyr rarely travel alone, so if faced with a choice—to claim a prize for our king, or to exact vengeance by destroying an immortal dragyri—you are free to choose the latter. Take the male’s head, remove his amulet, and return the talisman to the king instead. Axeviathon’s death would be an acceptable substitute if you cannot deliver the dragyri to our world. Are we clear?”

  Trader whistled low beneath his breath, recognizing the true, reciprocal nature of the gift he had just been given. “Crystal,” he said, because yeah, he got it.

  He understood what his dark lord wanted.

  Moreover, he was burning to seek vengeance himself.

  Trader didn’t know how long it would take, whether he would have to follow Tony, Zeik, or Grunge, whether he would have to wait for Amber to emerge once more from the portal, or whether a decade or more would pass before Axeviathon Saphyrius set foot on the third planet of the Milky Way
galaxy, but Trader could be a patient demon—and he would wait forever if he had to. “I will deliver the dragyri to our king, one way or another,” Trader reassured Requiem, knowing full well that he had just pledged his word, and if he failed, Lord Drakkar would end his existence, retract his immortality.

  Requiem sucked in a sharp breath of air and appraised Trader more thoughtfully. “Very well, then. I would say our business is concluded.”

  “Almost,” Trader argued, raising his left arm. “There is still the matter of my new left hand. What do I owe you, Requiem?”

  The sorcerer bowed his head and grew quiet. After a moment of pensive silence, he whispered, “The tiger snake was spawned from my magic. As such, I can feel his rage and desperation. I will know when he strikes, when he excretes his venom, and as before, I will always find it exquisitely pleasurable. Use him often, Trader, with yourself, with women, in every creative way you can imagine, and I will derive secondhand satisfaction from each depraved act you—and the serpent—engage in.”

  Trader averted his gaze.

  Yeah, the chief sorcerer really freaked him out.

  So Requiem wanted Trader to use the snake, both in battle and sexually, on women’s bodies—on men?—for self-satisfaction. There was just some shit that should be off-limits.

  But whatever.

  In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Trader had gone too far to turn back now. “It will be as you wish,” he murmured, stifling a shudder.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Amber awakened to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the apartment and a golden ray of sunlight streaming over her cheeks. She sat up abruptly, pulled back the covers, and rubbed her eyes, trying to get her bearings.

  Where was she?

  This wasn’t her bedroom.

  And she wasn’t wearing her familiar pajamas; rather, she was dressed in a huge, draping white T-shirt that fell all the way to her knees. A man’s undershirt. She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. Hadn’t she fallen asleep in a sapphire dress—no, a robe—a mystical, ethereal, almost gossamer robe, one that had been placed on her body by an equally mystical dragon?

  Yeah, she remembered now…

  Like the golden rays streaming through the garden-level windows and highlighting the rustic ironwork frames, the memories flooded in: Axeviathon taking Amber to the temple; the dragon god healing her eyes; returning to Axe’s suite—to his lair—and learning the truth about Zeik, Grunge, and Tony. Amber falling apart and Axe carrying her to his bed.

  Sleep, Amber girl, the dragyri had said…

  And that was the last thing Amber remembered.

  Axe must have changed her clothes while she was sleeping, or maybe the enchanted robe had magically faded. She cringed at the thought of the dragyri seeing her naked, even as she swung her legs over the side of the mattress and placed both bare feet firmly on the floor.

  “Good morning,” a female voice called out.

  Amber jumped from the bed and spun around, startled to find a beautiful, auburn-haired woman, about five-foot-eight, smiling from behind the galley-style island, making herself at home in Axe’s kitchenette.

  What the hey?

  “I brewed some fresh Kona coffee—I hope you like it strong—and I have some bagels, cream cheese, and fresh fruit as well,” the auburn-haired lady continued. “Jace, Axe’s roommate, cooked a huge breakfast this morning, and we saved one of everything for you…just in case. So, if you prefer bacon or eggs, sausage or pancakes, or even cinnamon rolls, just say the word.”

  Amber combed her fingers through her tangled hair and frowned. “What time is it?” Considering all that was happening, it was a nonsensical question, but it was the first thing that came to her mind.

  The woman set the coffee, bagels, and fruit on a silver tray, then placed a knife, fork, and napkin beside the food, and slid the tray forward on the counter. “It’s about 10:30 AM. You slept the morning away, and I can’t say that I blame you.” She stepped out from behind the island and lightly tapped her hand to her chest. “I’m Jordan, by the way, Zane’s mate. My…husband…is another one of Axe’s roommates. He is also a dragyri male and a member of the Sapphire Lair.”

  Amber didn’t want to be rude.

  After all, this was the first halfway normal person she had run into since Axe had brought her through the portal, and for all intents and purposes, the woman was being really, really friendly. But strange was strange, and the shit was too real…and too messed up…to ignore. “Where is Axe?” she asked Jordan, hating that the words came out clipped. “What are you doing in his apartment? And forgive me for asking, but what exactly are you… What kind of a thing…” She paused in an effort to rephrase the question, to sound more polite. “Are you human or what?” It was the best she could do.

  This time Jordan sighed, and her expressive hazel eyes darkened with compassion. “Axe wanted to give you some space, but he didn’t want you to wake up alone. Thus, the reason I’m here. He’s upstairs in the la—in the house—and I am a dragyra, just like you.”

  Amber gulped, trying to process the woman’s words: I am a dragyra, just like you. No, Amber highly doubted that, but she chose to leave it alone. “You were about to say lair, weren’t you?”

  Jordan nodded. “Yes, but there’s no need to make a difficult situation even worse; some words are more…intimidating…than others, when they really shouldn’t be. House…lair…this is a lovely home, and the difference is purely semantic.”

  “Right,” Amber blurted. “Semantic. Like dragon, dragyri, and dragyra. Just a matter of degrees—or scales, horns, and spiky tails—because all of this is really normal. Nothing to see in this…lovely home.”

  Jordan’s demeanor grew altogether serious, even as her brows curved into a frown. “You’re right, Amber; there is nothing normal about this. There is nothing familiar about where you are, what we are, or the last twenty-four hours you’ve lived through. And believe me, I don’t mean to make light of any of it. I was in your shoes less than three weeks ago—yep, tomorrow will be week three—and just like you, I was a normal human woman living a boring, everyday life. I had a good-paying job, friends I saw on a regular basis, my own condo, and a ton of future plans. Needless to say, none of them included Zane or the Pantheon—so yes, you’re correct, and I get it.”

  Amber slowly nodded.

  So, Jordan wasn’t one to bullshit—she told things like they were.

  Good.

  In a rare act of reciprocity, Amber opened her mouth, and her next words just kind of spilled out. She told Jordan everything—the fact that she had grown up in so many foster homes; what had happened at the convenience store on that hot August afternoon; how she had lived with Grunge, Zeik, and Tony for so many years; and what it was like working at the credit union. And unlike the night before, when Axe had read her scrambled memories, the story was clear, succinct, and in chronological order—she had simply blurted the CliffsNotes version as if she could no longer hold it in.

  She didn’t know why she did it.

  She had never done anything like that before…

  Perhaps she was losing her mind, the stress was getting the best of her, or some infinitesimal part of her soul still believed she was dreaming…

  “So, as you can see,” Amber concluded, “my life was anything but normal, and I didn’t have any future plans. My job sucked—everything I did was illegal—and I didn’t really have any friends. In fact, as it turns out, I was living with two demons and a cult worshiper and working for…for the Pantheon’s enemies.”

  If Jordan was shocked by Amber’s confession—or her total lack of boundaries—to her credit, she didn’t let on. Her complexion grew pale, but only for a moment, as she listened without interrupting. Finally, she brushed the palms of her hands over her jeans and said, “I have no idea how much Axe knows about you, your life, or your past, but he didn’t tell me any of that. Just the same, I had already pieced some of it together: The other night, Zane
fought along with Axe and the other males to get you out of your…your unfortunate circumstances.” She patted the top of the counter. “Please, sit down. Have something to eat. At least have a cup of coffee. It won’t do you any good to starve yourself or to refuse our hospitality. That was a lot to disclose, first thing in your morning, and you’re going to need your strength to get through the rest of the day.” She pointed at a large blue duffle bag sitting on the floor beside a barstool. “Besides, I brought some women’s sweats, some jeans, and a couple of T-shirts that might actually fit. There’s some socks, underwear, and toiletries as well—the typical female line-up.” She smiled, and her eyes nearly sparkled with empathy. “It’s not what you’re used to, I’m sure, but it’ll do for now, at least until you can collect your familiar belongings. Because by the way—and just so you know—you will be allowed to collect them, or someone will do it for you. I still have my condo, my friends, and many of my future plans. Your life won’t come to an end just because Axe has claimed you—mine didn’t.”

  Amber stared at the bag and winced.

  Your life won’t come to an end just because Axe has claimed you…

  What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  So, Axe was planning to keep her…forever?

  Even as the thought crossed her mind, an ember of hope warmed in her chest: If Axe allowed Amber to collect her belongings—if her life didn’t end, here and now, in this apartment—then that meant she would someday go back through the portal.

  Eventually, Axe would take her back to Earth.

  And when that happened—Holy Mother of Mercy—Amber could still escape.

  She could still get back to Zeik, Grunge, and Tony, assuming all three were still living, and the powerful trio could help her, hide her…get her away from Axeviathon. Yeah, she got it! she argued with her subconscious mind, as something deep in her stomach twisted at the thought of returning to that horrible bondage. After all, everything Axe had said was true: Tony had stolen her…used her…kept her like a plaything or a pet all these years, and neither Zeik nor Grunge had lifted a finger to protect her from that bastard Trader.