Axeviathon- Son of Dragons

by Tessa Dawn

  Trader slinked behind the desk, dropped into Warren’s plush leather chair, and slid the base of the seat beneath the desktop, eager to explore the box and its contents. He had already read the missive on an upper right-hand scrying screen in the Sinner’s Cave. “Just what do we have here?” he hissed beneath his breath as he reached for the container, slowly unwrapped the blood-red bow, and carefully opened the lid. A shade, in the distance, scurried up the wall, scampered along the ceiling, and hovered directly above Trader, his muted, glassy eyes gleaming as he watched with equal curiosity and anticipation.

  Trader gagged, drew back, and pinched the bridge of his nose as the noxious odor assailed him. A hand. A rotten, decaying, decapitated hand. He raised it by the tip of the pinky, dangled it at eye level, and studied what was left of the palm and the telltale lifelines.

  Yes.

  Yes…

  He recognized the sinner by the demon-taint on the hand, the markings in the lifeline, and the distinctive golden class ring wrapped about the rigid fourth finger.

  The limb belonged to Dr. Kyle Parker, a surgeon at Denver Exploratory Medical Center—correction, an ex-surgeon—who had been feeding a fellow demon by the name of Salem Thorne for months. Alas, the blasted Dragyr were too cute by half: Salem had used the doctor’s susceptibility to get at a newfound dragyra, the mate of Zanaikeyros Saphyrius, by seducing her best friend Macy. Needless to say, it was a long-ass story, but the moral to the tale was succinct.

  The entire plan had failed.

  The Dragyr obviously knew what the pagans had been up to—exactly what Dr. Kyle Parker had been up to—and they had sent the surgeon’s hand, along with the missive, as a clear, unmistakable message to both Salem and Lord Drakkar: Fuck off.

  Trader shook his head, shut his eyes, and lowered the hand back into the box by feel, using telekinesis to reattach the lid and re-affix the wrapping.

  No one told Lord Drakkar Hades to fuck off.

  And Trader was going to have to deliver the message…

  The shade on the ceiling scampered away, ostensibly afraid that he might be recruited for the perilous duty. They all knew Lord Drakkar was known to shoot the messenger—correction, the dark lord of the underworld was known, on occasion, to disembowel the messenger—it all just depended on his mood.

  Trader’s nostrils flared as he sniffed fresh air, opened his eyes, and rose from the chair. He stuffed the box and its gory contents into a conjured satchel to carry back to the castle…later.

  First, he needed to do some investigating.

  Where was Warren Simmons?

  He sent his psychic feelers outward…searching…homing in upon the energy and the imprint he had stored in his memory from feeding off the human’s sins for so many years…

  Ah yes, the male was in the employee’s restroom, getting carnally acquainted with the vault cashier. Well, that at least explained why he wasn’t in his office, and Trader didn’t need divination to figure out why Warren hadn’t touched, reported, or opened the package, even as it sat rotting on his desk—the Dragyr had undoubtedly compelled him to leave it be. They had known the demons would be watching both Warren and the credit union, that whoever fed from the manager would eventually check in. The Dragyr must have seen the manager’s tattoo, and they knew he belonged to the Cult of Hades.

  No matter.

  The Dragyr would never screw with the bank.

  They had known about the credit union forever, just as the pagans were aware of all the Dragyr’s earthly holdings. To try to stop the pagan species from manipulating human events, economies, and undertakings would be like playing a perpetual game of whack-a-mole: pointless, trivial, and it wouldn’t serve the Seven. Not when spying on one’s enemies was far more lucrative.

  Trader turned his attention back to the matter at hand—back to the disaster waiting to happen—the box and the missive the Dragyr had left for Drak.

  He closed his eyes once again; only this time, he reached for a familiar telepathic bandwidth, the line that connected the demons from the underworld, and he sought his fellow earth-bound cohorts: Zeik Craven and Grunge Ahab: Yo, asshats, he snarled psychically, pushing forcefully into both minds at once. Have you been keeping track of what goes on at the credit union lately?

  True to form, Zeik answered first. Who’s this?

  Trader rolled his eyes beneath his lids. Figure it out.

  That you, Trader? Grunge cut in.

  No, it’s your mother, Trader snapped.

  Grunge chuckled like he didn’t have a care in the world. I ain’t got a mama, Trader. And neither do you. His psychic voice grew ever-more playful. My king is my only mother…and father…and his bosom is my only true home.

  Yeah, well, Trader snarled, you might not have a demon lord—or a Pagan Horde—to go home to, if you don’t have a good explanation for the shit I just found. Hopefully, Trader’s no-nonsense voice would nip the misguided humor in the bud.

  What the fuck are you talkin’ about? Zeik’s raspy growl.

  I’m at the credit union right now, Trader explained, sitting in Warren’s office, and I just took possession of a gruesome little gift—courtesy of the Dragyr and the Seven. They chopped off Dr. Kyle Parker’s hand, stuffed it in a box of chocolates, and delivered it to Warren’s office with a smart-ass note…meant for Lord Drakkar.

  Shit, Grunge grumbled.

  Yeah, Trader agreed. They were finally beginning to get the picture.

  How do you know it’s Dr. Kyle Parker’s? Zeik asked, always the analytical, strategic thinker.

  Trader sighed. First of all, because I know what’s going on in the Pagan Underworld at all times—who else’s could it be? Second, Salem’s taint is all over the digits. Does anyone else feed from Kyle Parker, assuming the male is still alive? And third, the lifeline was unmistakable, and he was wearing his familiar class ring. The rejoinder was met with silence, as it probably should have been, and then Trader shifted directions. Is that human—your roommate, Tony—still screwing that hot little teller? What the hell is her name, anyway? Ah yes…Amber.

  She lives with us, Trader, Zeik answered brusquely. Nothing has changed in the whole arrangement—Tony still owns the girl’s soul.

  Yeah, Trader sniffed. And you guys still own Tony, right?

  He’s sitting right here, none the wiser, and yes, we own every evil, sinful inch. Grunge was clearly getting annoyed. What the hell has that got to do with Dr. Kyle Parker, the box of chocolates, or the Dragyr’s note?

  Trader shook his head and put a little extra vitriol into his psychic voice. Not a damn thing, Grunge. Just making sure the ship is still tight. When a dragyri warrior strolls through the lobby, down the hall, and into one of our back offices—and when he drops off a severed limb, all in broad daylight—I’m just asking the same damn question Drak is gonna ask: Who the hell left their post?

  Once again…silence.

  Tick tock…

  Tick tock…

  Several pregnant moments lingered before Zeik, at last, spoke up. What’s the plan, Trader?

  Trader opened his eyes, snatched the satchel, and strolled purposefully out of Warren’s office, heading straight for the employee restroom. As his shadowy entourage trailed behind him, leaping from one panel of the wall to another, he reconnected to the telepathic bandwidth. I’m on my way to view Warren’s memories right now. Assuming the sycophant was at his desk when the box was delivered, I want to hear through his ears and see through his eyes, record the face of the bastard—or bastards—that delivered the package and the missive. I want my king to know who had the balls to provoke him.

  A tall, skinny brunette, clearly an employee, passed Trader in the hall, and he looked the other way. He had no intentions of making eye contact with any of the bank’s employees right now. Not that a member of such an inferior species would have the courage to stop Trader Vice—to interrupt an immortal demon—but he didn’t have time for any unnecessary nonsense: Prey could always sense a predator—a sheep coul
d always sense a wolf—and that innate survival mechanism could sometime wreak havoc on a human’s better judgment. The men were known to freak out, to either become confrontational or dive out the nearest window; whereas, human women were known to take one look at Trader, get a bad-boy rush a hundred times stronger than injecting liquid sugar, and practically shimmy out of their skirts, offer the demon their goods right then and there. It could be as annoying as it could be pleasing, depending upon the demon’s mood.

  But today—and in this moment?

  Trader didn’t have time for the drama…

  When I’m done with Warren, I will return to the underworld, he told his silent cohorts. Like it or not, I need to get this shit to Drak, posthaste—the king has a right to know that his enemy is fucking with him, and he will not be forgiving of an unnecessary delay. He paused to consider his next words more carefully—who knew how Lord Drakkar would react? Assuming I’m still breathing, I will follow up with the two of you later; meet me at the Upper Midtown house at 9 PM. And Zeik…Grunge? Make sure Amber is home when I get there. Warren’s memories are one thing, but he rarely leaves his office—and no one has time to go through days…perhaps weeks…of security footage. I plan to scan the girl’s memories, in addition to Warren’s, but I don’t want to do it here at the bank. I’d like to take my time and see, firsthand, who has entered—and exited—the lobby…find out if there’s more to this gory, insolent tale than meets the eye.

  He didn’t wait for the demons to reply.

  Having arrived at the door to the employee’s restroom, he disconnected the telepathic bandwidth and tuned in to Warren’s grunts: Trader would either have to kill the woman or scrub her memories—maybe he’d share in the use of her body, first—allow each of the shades to take a turn.

  Who knew…

  But first, he would have to deal with his unwitting servant, as humans who dabbled in the occult were so strange: They prayed, they conjured, they recited incantations, but at the end of the day, they didn’t really believe…

  They were as likely to shit their pants as rejoice, the moment a true entity showed up.

  No matter.

  Trader could handle Warren.

  And he would decide what to do with the woman…later…once he had retrieved what he came for.

  As for Zeik, Grunge, Tony, and Amber—well, the demons had been caught sleeping at their posts; the humans might still be of value; and either way, Trader was going to have to clean up this mess…and pray that Lord Drakkar was feeling merciful.

  Chapter Five

  Axe showed up at Amber’s residence just as a dark Cadillac Escalade backed out of the carport, turned down the street, and headed in the direction of the mall. One glance, and he had his first batch of data: three large males; a redhead, a blond, and a guy who was either bald or sporting a really tight skull trim. The latter had a dark, creepy aura, and he was definitely driving—but Axe didn’t have a chance to listen in or scan the back of their necks; he was too busy taking a mental picture of the license plate and committing it to memory. If the house didn’t give him the necessary information—or if his fated dragyra was less than forthcoming—his lair mate, Jace, could always run the plates later. Besides, who knew if these were roommates, family, or visitors. At this juncture, Axe was just collecting puzzle pieces, building the edges of a mysterious picture…

  He turned his attention to the equivalent of a corner piece: the sleek gray house looming before him—just what did this section of the puzzle reveal?

  The tall, architectural lines were clean, and the aesthetic details were immaculate and high-end. Coupled with a professionally manicured lawn, the entire structure screamed affluence. No one lived here on a teller’s salary—perhaps Amber had a boyfriend after all, maybe one of the males in the Cadillac. A low, insidious growl rumbled in Axe’s chest, and he rolled his head on his shoulders to release some tension. Now was not the time for his dragon to rear its feral head; he needed to keep his wits about him.

  Flashing out of view, he reappeared just outside a double-paned bay window that ostensibly gave view to the living room. Peering through the squeaky clean glass, he caught a glimpse of a weathered leather jacket—definitely belonged to a male—strewn over the end of a large sectional sofa. Just behind it, on a chrome end table, were a series of intimate pictures, placed tastefully inside a sequence of modern frames. The third one, in the back, displayed a picture of Amber, leaning back against a guy who had his arms wrapped around her, and the glass was embossed with custom gold lettering that read Amber and Tony at the top of the rectangle.

  “Son of a bitch,” Axe mumbled, realizing his intuition had been right. Amber was involved with a human male—he could smell his dragyra’s scent all over the leather jacket, even through the thick double-pane glass. Doesn’t matter, he told himself. Just a minor glitch.

  That was then.

  This was now.

  Whatever—and whoever—had come before was inconsequential.

  It might make the claiming a bit more complicated, but Axe would work with what the Seven had given him, what the gods of the Pantheon had decreed.

  From this point forward, Amber was his.

  Scattering his molecules into a thin, diffused mist, he transported through the front door of the structure and reappeared in a large domed-ceiling foyer that stretched forward into a wide, deep hall, the floors adorned in marble. Glancing to the right, he saw the whole of the primary living space: a huge, open concept living room and gourmet kitchen, complete with a large center island dissecting the opulent rooms, and both professionally decorated.

  What the heck did Tony do for a living?

  He sauntered down the hall, past a closet, a bathroom, and a main-floor laundry, then rounded the corner toward the bedrooms, hoping to find Amber’s private quarters. First room on the left: king-sized bed with an expensive headboard, a dark brown chest of drawers, and a huge flat-screen TV. The linens smelled disgusting, like they hadn’t been laundered in a month, and the floor was littered with piles of dirty gym clothes, flanked by a heavy set of free-weights, clearly well-used.

  Probably not Amber’s room.

  Next door down, same side of the hall, the opposite of the previous grungy quarters, but it still belonged to a male: Everything was either black or gray, from the posh-yet-elegant king-sized bed to the sleek, satin sheets tucked around it; from the wide-planked, horizontal wood floors to the metallic desk—and the Xbox—beside it. This room belonged to a neat freak, and after a little more scrutiny, opening a few drawers, peeking inside the adjoining en suite bathroom, it was clear there was nothing feminine present.

  Axe continued to the end of the hall, where he passed through a set of framed, double doors and entered an obvious master bedroom…

  And there it was.

  At least one thousand square feet of custom décor, both male and female in its composition. The first thing that struck him was Amber’s scent, the same soft cologne she had been wearing at the credit union—it was all over the black-and-gold duvet and wafting out from one of two walk-in closets. The second thing that struck him was Tony’s footprint: from the open, velvet-lined watch collection, sporting half a dozen extravagant timepieces, to the section of the closet filled with sportswear, T-shirts, and jeans. So the guy liked to walk both sides of the fence: casual, yet flashy; rich, but simple. If Axe had to guess, Tony came up in the streets—he had probably hustled before he made his cash. And now, he had to constantly remind himself that he was rich, even as his modest roots felt more comfortable.

  Axe sauntered over to the foot of the bed, sat down on the edge of the duvet, braced his elbows on his knees, and hung his head—he could no longer ignore the big, fat elephant squatting in the middle of the bedroom.

  Hell, lounging in the kitchen and the living room.

  Trampling the entire damn house.

  The residence reeked of darkness and malevolence, and not just the average, run-of-the-mill bad intentions. The place reeke
d of pagans and the Cult of Hades. It practically screamed debauchery, malignance, and sin.

  It was time to alert his lair mates, if only telepathically, let Zane, Levi, Jace, and Nakai know what was going down: that Axe had found his dragyra in King’s Castle Credit Union; that he was waiting to bring her home—later, tonight—after he met Ghost at eight; that he was at her residence, checking shit out, and the place wasn’t any more copacetic than the bank.

  It was time to get down and dirty with the reconnaissance, use the next seven and a half hours wisely.

  Axe needed to investigate Amber’s background—where she grew up, where she attended school, every job she had ever had—hell, what kind of car did she drive? What was her freakin’ credit score? Who did she hang out with…when…where…and why? Sure, he could take it all from her memories, but that would require a hell of a lot of time, and he had already invaded her most intimate space—if he could leave the deepest recesses of her gray matter untouched, he would only be half as much of an ass…

  And no, he did not want one of his sapphire brothers to fill in for him with Ghost. He needed to exercise some patience, wait the evening out, and return to 318 Syracuse Lane later that night so he could watch his dragyra interact with her roommates, check Amber out in her native environs…see what he could see, so to speak.

  That said, he wanted his brothers on high alert.

  Ready to stream through the portal at a moment’s notice, if needed.

  His temples began to throb.

  This was way too convoluted for his liking.

  Zane, he called out, opening the Sapphire Lair’s telepathic bandwidth. Brother, you there?

  A couple of seconds, then: Axeviathon, what’s up?

  Where’s Jordan? Where’s Nakai? Are Levi and Jace around?

  The line went silent for a few. Jordan’s right here, working on a brief. I think Levi and Jace are in the kitchen, and Nakai is on some errand for Lord Saphyrius. Why, what do you need?