by Tessa Dawn
He sidled up behind her and grasped her by the waist, trying to impart both warmth and courage with his touch. Hell, she was doing better than he was. And then Axe’s dragyra noticed the two fireproof loops anchored to the platform floor, and for the first time, she listed to the side, almost losing her balance.
“I’ve got you, Amber girl,” Axe rasped in her ear, tightening his grasp around her midriff and holding her steady.
She nodded, straightened her spine, and raised her chin. It wasn’t precisely courage, but it was a valiant attempt at faking it. The temperature in the sanctuary began to rise as dry, radiant heat intensified all around them, and Amber’s breaths became short and shallow.
“Breathe, Amber girl. In and out. You’re halfway there already.”
She took several slow, deep breaths and leaned back against him. He nuzzled his chin in her hair. And then, one by one, each magnificent dragon lord rose from his corresponding throne, starting with an angry, bereaved, half-feral Lord Dragos, rising from the center diamond cathedra. “Look at us!” he thundered, his terrifying baritone ricocheting off the sanctuary walls.
Axe blanched, and Amber shivered.
From what Axe had been taught about the ancient ritual—from all the lore and stories his Dragyr brothers and cousins had shared with him over the centuries—the proper refrain should have been, You may regard our eyes; still, he figured Lord Dragos was doing the best he could. “Just look at Lord Saphyrius,” Axe whispered in Amber’s ear, feeling her muscles tense beneath his palms and her legs begin to tremble.
As was customary, the dragon lords were in amalgamated form—spectral prisms of light reflecting the colors of their dominant gemstones—while their enormous serpents, their primordial dragons, flanked them as silhouettes. The moment Axe and Amber looked up, both souls locking their eyes on Lord Saphyrius, all seven camouflaged beasts traversed to the fore, overshadowing their human-like personas. They assumed their scales, revealed their sharp, pointed ears, and gnashed their massive, jagged teeth, all the while emitting thick, inky wisps of smoke from their extended, bestial snouts.
“You strong enough to kneel?” Axe murmured to Amber.
She shook her head rapidly from side to side. “I think I’m about to throw up.”
Axe splayed his fingers over his dragyra’s quaking belly and commanded the muscles to relax. Then he placed both palms atop Amber’s shoulders and gently pressed downward, forcing her insubstantial weight to the floor. Her knees gave out, and he caught her by both hips, pressing his chest against her back to force her forward. “Give me your left hand.” She placed it in his, and he stretched her arm, up and outward, before wrapping her fingers around the first of the two handholds. “The other one,” he murmured.
She took a deep breath and froze. “Axe, I can’t—”
“Shh. Yes, you can. You’re doing beautifully. Give me your right hand, Amber girl.”
Her head fell forward as she struggled for breath—she was nearly hyperventilating—and Axe didn’t waste any time. He took her right hand, extended her arm, and curled her fingers around the remaining handhold. “Whatever you do, don’t let go. Everything else, I will take from here.”
She shivered against him, and her stomach lurched—but she didn’t faint or vomit.
Lord Saphyrius whipped his long sapphire tail in front of him, curling it around the sapphire throne, and then he cleared his throat—it sounded like the tremolo of a freight train—and narrowed his piercing, almond-shaped eyes on Axe. “Son of my lair, we will hear your invocation.”
Amber was weeping now, warm, moist, crystalline tears, streaming from her eyes in rivers.
The female had surpassed fear and entered the realm of panic…
Desperation.
Hell, she was both petrified and despondent.
But there was nothing to be done about it now. The most Axe could do was push forward, get this over with, take his dragyra to, through, and beyond the terror and meet her on the other side.
He wrapped his arms around her, released his satiny, wheat-colored wings, and enfolded her body beneath him, tightening both annexes into an airtight cocoon. “I love you, Amber girl,” he whispered, and then he turned his full, undivided attention on his seven dragon masters:
“Great dragon lords, from the world beyond;
fathers of mystery, keepers of time;
I bring to you this mortal soul.
Born of fire, bathed in light;
to guard by day and watch by night;
to live, and love, and breathe as one,
the fated of a dragon’s son—
be gentle with her soul.
Through sacred smoke and healing fire;
a flesh-and-blood, renewing pyre;
I give my life, with one desire—
reanimate her soul.
Great dragon lords of the sacred stones;
from the Temple of Seven, from your honored thrones;
renew my dragyra and bless the Sapphire Lair.”
A distant drone.
The tremor of an earthquake.
The deep, throaty purr of a thousand lions…
The cacophony of sound rose to a thunderous crescendo, and then a wall of flames struck the platform, and Axe’s breath whooshed out of his body.
Great lords of creation, the heat was indescribable, and the agony was beyond withstanding—nothing Ghost had done in this very hall could even come close by comparison…
Axe threw back his head and shouted in torment.
He bucked and writhed and keened in savage misery as the flames grew stronger, hotter, more intense, and his flesh began to melt.
The sound he was making was neither human, nor bestial, but some sort of primordial wail as his bones began to disintegrate, and his wings succumbed to cremation. Yet and still, he protected Amber, hovered over her body, and held on.
He couldn’t think.
He couldn’t reason.
He couldn’t even remember his name, but he just knew, somewhere deep inside—by instinct—that he couldn’t let those flames cut through his liquefying wings.
Sixty seconds, hell!
It felt more like sixty eons.
As his wings finally melted away, and he dropped his head over Amber’s, trying to shield what he could with all he had left…
His dragyra suddenly jackknifed and began to writhe beneath him, her unholy bellow wrenching through the din of flame and smoke and torture.
Oh, gods, his beautiful Amber was burning.
And then she collapsed beneath him, the flame of her mortal candle finally going out.
Axeviathon wanted to pray for death, just one second of reprieve while he joined her, but there was no merciful amnesty for the son of a dragon—the torture was incessant, unrelenting, and vicious.
And then the blazing orange-and-red flames cooled to silver and blue, and Axe took his first deep breath.
His Amber girl began to emerge from the darkness—from the stillness—from the nothingness of her mortal death, and her heart began to beat anew.
Stronger.
Faster.
Alive with power.
Even as Axe’s skin regenerated, his wings knit back together, and his bones grew hard and strong.
Quiet.
Serenity.
The sanctuary grew tranquil, and Axe rocked back onto his heels, reached for his dragyra, and gently spun her around. “Amber…Amber…look at me, baby. Are you okay? How do you feel?”
Her waterfall braid had come loose, several tightly curled tresses had collapsed, and those random hanging sections of dark-gold locks had fallen into her eyes. She peered up at him through dark, sultry lashes and blurted, “What the actual fuck!?” She swept her hair out of her eyes and added, “Was all that really necessary?”
Falling in love with his dragyra all over again, Axeviathon chuckled. “Well said, sweet angel.”
She ran her hands up and down his arms. “Blessed Mother of Mercy. I think the real
question is are you okay?”
He smiled and shook his head. “I think I’m beginning to hate this damn temple,” he groused, “but yes, my beautiful dragyra, I’m right as rain. Everything’s copacetic.”
She glanced down at her lap—then his—and patted both of his legs. “I think we made it; I think we did it!” Her voice was filled with both wonder and relief. And then her eyes grew wide as saucers as she slowly raised her left hand and gawked at the glorious ring nestled securely around her fourth finger, a flawless, dazzling sapphire set inside an antique band, which was shaped in the form of a dragon and surrounded by six additional stones: a diamond, an emerald, an amethyst, an onyx, a citrine, and a brilliant topaz. “Oh!” she exclaimed, her voice revealing her excitement. “I was hoping I would get one of these! After seeing Jordan’s…” Her voice trailed off. “This has got to be worth—like a gazillion dollars! How will I ever wear it in public?” Her laughter was infused with wry humor as she nuzzled Axe’s neck. “I’m just kidding, Axeviathon—I couldn’t care less about the value of this ring, although it’s truly breathtaking. All that matters to me now is you.”
Momentarily at a loss for words, he corrected the use of his consecrated name. “Axe,” he said, feigning indignance. “And yeah, my sweet angel, we did it.” He enfolded her in his arms and held her close to his heart. “I do love you, Amber, always and forever.”
She pressed several soft kisses along the bend of his neck and shoulder, and he felt her mood grow solemn. “Please don’t ever lie to me, Axe.” Her voice was barely audible.
“Never,” he promised. “You have my word.”
“And don’t ever betray me,” she added.
He sighed. “I only wish to love you…serve you…make you unbelievably happy.”
She chuckled softly. “Axe, I do believe you, and I’m trusting you with everything, almost afraid to hope…” As her last words lingered, she briefly shut her eyes and shivered. “Don’t ever hurt me, Axe. Promise?”
He held his dragyra tighter and listened to the steady thrum of her heart. “Oh, Amber girl, I can’t make that promise, at least not when it comes to your feelings, to your perceptions—I’m not a very refined dragyri. Hell, some might say I’m a coarse, ill-bred bastard. Half the time, I don’t even know which way is up, at least when it comes to dealing with a female. But I’ll never hurt you on purpose, and I’ll do my best to learn. You’re safe with me, Amber—that I can promise. I hope it’s enough.”
She drew back, lumbered onto her knees, and cupped his angular jaw in her hands. And then she kissed him until his head was spinning, his groin was aching, and he no longer gave two shits about the seven dragon lords…
“Welcome to the Pantheon of Dragons,” he breathed into her open mouth. “Can we please go back to the lair?”
EPILOGUE
FOUR WEEKS LATER ~ THE PAGAN UNDERWORLD
October 31st…
Halloween…
It had always been one of Bethany Reid’s favorite holidays.
Even at the age of twenty-nine, she kept with the yearly tradition of meeting up with a handful of her best girlfriends from both high school and college—their friendships had lasted that long!—dressing up in elaborate costumes as they tried to outdo each other, and frequenting the scariest haunted house they could find. Afterward, they would go out for drinks, tell scary stories, and end up at one or another’s living room, watching classic horror flicks until they crashed on the couch or the floor.
At this point in her life, and even though she was now a well-paid, successful administrative assistant to a smart, if not demanding, finance company CEO, she just couldn’t let go of the custom…or the nostalgia. It wasn’t so much about the costumes or the holiday—she had pretty much grown out of her love for being scared witless and having to sleep with the lights on for a week—but the easy, unrestrained comradery and banter, the chance to reconnect with lifelong friends and solidify those bonds. As the only child of a gorgeous African-American mother and an upwardly mobile German-and-English father, Bethany considered her girlfriends her family, the sisters she’d never had.
But tonight had been different…
Heaven help her, had it been different.
This Halloween had been a true, waking nightmare, and Bethany was still too terrified, confused, and disoriented to wake up.
She didn’t want to wake up, lest she find that the skeletal man with the long, wispy white hair was real: the dark malevolent presence that had emerged from the fog in the haunted house, wrapped its long, spindly arms around Beth, and dragged her into the shadows, separating her from her friends. The man who had stabbed her in the arm with a syringe before she even knew what was happening, injecting her swiftly with some sort of tranquilizer.
At first, she had thought it was part of the act, someone from the crew who ran the haunted house, and since she and her friends prided themselves on not screaming, never showing fear, she had giggled nervously and glanced around in the darkness, waiting to see what would happen next.
The syringe had answered that question.
Next was going to be too late.
Next, she had felt like she was falling…spinning…traveling at some ungodly speed through time and space.
Next, she was being carried into some garish fortress, like a gothic castle from a vampire novel, and dragged to the base of a nightmarish red velvet throne.
Next, she was staring into a pair of impossible, glassy eyes—diamond irises framing phantom-blue pupils—and the powerful, muscle-bound creature who owned them was glaring back at Beth like she had stolen his firstborn son.
Ghostaniaz Dragos watched as Wraith Sylvester, one of Lord Drakkar’s loyal shadow-walkers, a soul-eater, dragged a stunning human woman with thick, wavy, dark-brown hair and terrified yet exotic dark-brown eyes, the pupils rimmed in gold, to the base of the pagan king’s throne and presented her to the ruler of the underworld.
Lord Drakkar appraised the woman from head to toe and then gently inclined his head in a nod, which meant the female was acceptable—he would receive her as a replacement for the beautiful human slave Ghost had drained to the point of exsanguination…expiration…death—just four weeks earlier.
It hadn’t been Ghost’s choice, or his fault, feeding on the human slave like that—
Trader Vice had left Ghost no choice.
He, too, had been captured…taken…exploited by the Pagan Horde, ensnared in an earthside trap, a creek bed filled with hexed, paralyzing quicksand, and snatched away to the underworld one month prior. And Trader had used that abominable hand, the one that was missing a palm, a thumb, and all four fingers, the one that had been replaced with the head of a turquoise-and-black tiger snake, instead, to force Ghost to feed, to evoke his dragyri instincts.
What was done was done.
Ghost didn’t have the time or the pleasure to entertain regrets.
His every breath was now about survival: finding a way to withstand and eventually escape this gods-forsaken realm.
True: The night he had been captured, he had been feeling reckless, suicidal—he had left the Pantheon and traveled through the portal, alone and by his own accord, amped up and looking for trouble. But he had gotten a helluva lot more than he had bargained for. He had never intended to end up as Lord Drakkar Hades’ favorite pet, a tool to be used and tortured for the dark lord’s amusement, a way for the pagan king to strike back at the Seven, his ancient co-creators who had chosen another life.
Ghost’s top lip twitched, and he restrained a feral snarl.
Since he had arrived in the underworld, he’d had every bone in his powerful body broken. He’d had several organs ripped from his torso, only to be returned, restored, and regenerated. And the demons had likely split his skull open a half-dozen times—Ghost had quit counting.
What he had quickly learned was that eternity was going to be a very long time if he didn’t get his shit together, formulate a plan, and do something—anything—to stop the in
cessant torment.
Ghost was a hard-ass by nature—tainted, broken, way beyond cynical—and there wasn’t much he couldn’t endure.
But this shit?
Nah, this was way beyond the pale.
And the way Ghost figured it, he had to have something of value, something he could barter, something he could offer Lord Drakkar in exchange for a cease-fire on all the beatings. The bludgeonings. Ghostaniaz Dragos was a Dragyr male, an embryonic hatchling from the first of the dragon lords, the Genesis Son of the diamond dragon, Lord Dragos, first of the sacred Dragons Pantheon—in a sense, he was Lord Drakkar’s nephew, just a thousand years removed…
But whatever.
Point was: The Pagan Horde was powerful—both demons and shades had wicked supernatural powers—but a dragyri male was stronger…faster…superior. And that gave Ghost an advantage. It made him both a scourge and a celebrity in the underworld. Furthermore, he had a sacred amulet hanging around his thick, corded neck, and at least when earthside, he could use that amulet to open a portal, gain access to the Pantheon, a place Drakkar and his minions couldn’t travel. Ghost had knowledge about the Dragons Pantheon, the lairs, and the Temple of Seven, and if he could sell the fact that he hated his lineage—that he despised his dragon daddy, which wasn’t that large of a stretch—he might be able to win Lord Drakkar’s favor.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend…
Maybe Ghost could convince his uncle Drak that they weren’t entirely on opposite sides of the cosmic spectrum, that Ghost might have more value as a spy or an informant than a punching bag or a flesh-and-blood play toy.
Slowly, but surely, the plan was working, although Ghost had almost lost track of all his lies. In truth, he might be coerced to screw with Lord Dragos, but he would never betray his diamond lair brothers; nor would he expose the Pantheon to a full-on demon attack. So basically, he was walking an extremely dangerous line: giving the pagans just enough information to be credible, but never enough to be lethal.
