by Tessa Dawn
The sky above him was neither light, nor midnight blue, but a thick, murky haze that permeated the oppressive sky. If the Pantheon was saturated in brilliant, vivid colors; lyrical, living sounds; and everything grew to perfection, then this place—this abomination—was its polar opposite: a dark, inky replica of a thousand shades of gray and black; a subtle, but grating, disharmonious drone; and dead grass, dead tree limbs, dead vegetation as far as the eye could glimpse.
The drawbridge led to an enormous gothic castle, and the disembodied hands proceeded to drag Ghost across a mammoth foyer to one of two parallel doors, each set about fifty feet apart. The door on the left swung open, as if on its own, revealing a large, rectangular, torchlit throne room. Ghost turned his head to the right, drawn by the popping, crackling sound of a roaring fire—it almost sounded like demonic laughter—and he realized that flanking the two arched entries to the Great Hall, the bestial throne room, was a massive, towering fireplace made of pure obsidian stone.
He cast his glance forward, and oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!
A garish red velvet throne, smack-dab in the middle of the hall, and the blood-red cathedra was occupied by a glaring, smirking, demonic king: Lord Drakkar Hades, Father of the Pagan Realm, Ruler of the underworld…sire of the Pagan Horde. Ghost’s stomach muscles clenched as he studied the entourage surrounding the evil deity.
Perched behind the malevolent ruler were nine males, a mixture of demons and shadow-walkers, and their robes were literally dipped in blood. This had to be Lord Drakkar’s congress—but why only nine?
To the king’s left stood some sort of dignitary, and the words Killian Kross practically echoed through the hall. It was as if the demonic fire were cackling the name. Ghost shivered and shifted his gaze to the king’s right. The space beside him was empty—
Oh, wait…
Not anymore.
The disembodied hands that had dragged Ghostaniaz out of the field, out of that dry riverbed, and underneath the quicksand—the prickly, bony digits that had dug into his flesh—were now clasped together, almost in glee, as another demon, with steely, deep-blue eyes and long, dark hair plated in shell-and-bone braids, took his rightful place beside his king. The male was wearing the tenth blood-drenched robe.
The fire cackled again: Requiem Pyre, chief sorcerer to Lord Drakkar and esteemed member of congress.
That shit was so damn freaky!
Ghost swept his own phantom-blue eyes back to the VIP named Killian Kross, concentrated for a moment, and waited as the fire danced, sparked, and crackled: Chief counselor to the Chosen One.
Shiiiiiiit.
Ghost rolled his head on his shoulders, stretched his back, and popped his neck two times, grateful to be free of those creepy claws, Requiem Pyre’s fingers. He watched as a row of human servants—no, slaves—filed in with their heads bowed low and kneeled in front of the throne at Lord Drakkar’s feet, their prostrated bodies facing out toward the hall opposite Ghost: four stunning men and three breathtaking mortal women. All seven were naked, except for some animal-skin loincloth, and their perfect bodies were slathered in oil.
Ghost looked away—this shit was just too damn vile—and tried to stare at a shadow on the dais instead. First and foremost, he wasn’t much for pomp and circumstance, and beyond that fact, he figured he was only a few heartbeats away from having his amulet removed…for good…being sent back to the Pantheon via some sort of messenger or delivered to one of the Seven’s earthside businesses.
Whatever…
Just get the show on the road…
One thing was certain, he wasn’t taking a single step forward. Now that Requiem was no longer dragging him, Ghost figured he would just stay put.
As if reading his thoughts, the king extended his long, ghoulish, spindly arm and crooked his fingers forward, his long, sharp, pointed nails gleaming pitch-black in the firelight. “Come forth,” he bellowed, and Ghost nearly spewed his dinner.
Yet and still, the dragyri didn’t budge an inch.
That long, gnarled arm grew longer, snaked forward from the dais, and crossed the throne room like an eel, all five fingers wrapping around Ghost’s neck. “I said, come forth,” the king snarled as he lifted all six feet, five inches of Ghost’s heavy, muscular body into the air, drew him to the edge of the dais, and dropped him on the floor. He leaned forward in his seat, scooted to the edge of the red velvet throne, and added: “Boy, I can see you have a rebellious nature in you, and that’s all well and good—I appreciate a hard-ass, cocky bastard more than a sniveling, whimpering bitch. But alas, you do not quite understand where you are. You are not yet clear on who I am.” He spoke the last three words with hate-filled emphasis. “So, let me make it clear for you.”
Once again making use of that extended arm, Lord Drakkar snatched Ghost’s legs out from underneath him, then pressed his stomach to the cold stone floor. Without pause or preamble, he dug his claws into the nape of Ghost’s neck, tunneled all five fingers beneath Ghost’s skin, and wrapped his bony fist around Ghost’s cervical vertebrae. With a violent tug, the king wrenched his fist backward, extracted the entire spinal column from Ghost’s jerking back, and tossed it on the floor in front of him. “Leave your spine at the door when you enter my throne room!” he thundered.
Ghostaniaz had lived for a thousand years, but that one excruciating second had slowed down…lingered…and punished longer than his entire wretched lifetime. In the space of one agonizing heartbeat—as Lord Drakkar had removed his spine—Ghost had shouted in agony, pissed on the floor, and prayed to Lord Dragos for death, even knowing that his dark, distant father couldn’t hear him.
Now, as he lay paralyzed before the dark lord of the underworld, his mouth hanging open in a pool of vomit and drool, he was more grateful than he could find words to express that he could no longer feel…anything. But blasted demons and cursed shades—would his damnable existence never end!—he still remained dragyri, and his diamond amulet still hung around his neck.
Ghostaniaz Dragos was not dead yet.
“Sorcerer…” He heard Lord Drakkar snarl the word, and ten seconds later the demon, Requiem Pyre, was kneeling in front of Ghost.
He picked up Ghost’s spine, straightened it out, and shoved it back inside the dragyri’s back.
Ghost jackknifed off the floor as his nerves came back online, writhing like a serpent in his own piss and blood, and then Requiem Pyre proceeded to massage the vertebrae back into place and heal the entry wound with thick black smoke.
Silence.
Adjustment.
The pain abated.
Ghost moaned in relief and nuzzled the cold, inviting floor with his nose.
“You will need all your stamina for what is to come,” Lord Drakkar said coolly. “Feed and replenish your strength.” With that, he booted one of the beautiful human women kneeling before him in the back, sending her flying off the dais and sprawled out in front of Ghost.
The woman screamed like a banshee.
She shot to her knees and tried to crawl away, her terror-stricken features wet with falling tears, but a hand—no, the head of a tiger snake—caught her by the shoulder, clamped down with its fangs, and dragged her even closer to Ghost.
Ghost blanched.
He couldn’t do it.
He wouldn’t do it—just kill him already—shit!
And then he felt the snake-handed pagan plant his foot on Ghost’s back. “My king.” The demon spoke eloquently to the monster on the throne. “I know that I promised you Axeviathon Saphyrius.” He lowered his voice in both reverence and self-abasement. “And I know that I gave my vow to render unto you the same as payment for the loss of your beloved shades.” He took a slow, deep breath. “Milord, we could not capture Axe. The situation was…well, complicated, but I have brought you Ghostaniaz Dragos instead, a firstborn hatchling of Lord Dragos, the diamond serpent, a Genesis Son of the darkest dragon god, and I would beg for your mercy…plead for your clemency. Accept this dragyri male ins
tead and erase my debt, if it pleases you. You have my left hand, this gift, and my eternal fealty.”
The throne room grew unnervingly quiet, and then at last, Lord Drakkar spoke up: “Make him feed from the woman, and all will be forgiven.”
“Noooo!” the piteous female screamed, even as the snake withdrew its fangs from her shoulder, struck Ghost in the back of his skull, and began to maneuver his head like an object in the iron arm of a crane.
The snake opened its jaw, and Ghost’s jaw followed suit…
The serpent lowered Ghost’s mouth downward, until it caressed the female’s neck.
And then, as if acting of their own accord, Ghost Dragos’ fangs punched out of his mouth, his eyes heated with molten fire, and the tiger snake did the rest: Together, they found the poor woman’s jugular, sank their fangs deep, and feasted as one entity.
Without conscious thought or reason, Ghost let out a bestial moan, extracted the female’s blood, heat, and essence, and drew it hungrily into his starving body. He replenished his depleted organs, nourished his strained muscles, and recharged his weary bones. And all the while, he knew—deep in his gut—that his goose was well and truly cooked. Whatever Lord Drakkar wanted from Ghostaniaz, from his newfound prisoner and dragyri slave, it wasn’t going to be as simple as death.
As the keening, suffering human female expired beneath him, Ghost saw her death as mercy—at least she was free.
Ghost would’ve given anything to trade places with his prey.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Four days later ~ the Pantheon
Amber wandered through the outer foyer inside the Temple of Seven.
She had already cleansed her hands in the sacred fountain, felt the dragon lords pull on her essence, and now she was studying the intricate threads and elaborate weaving in the ornamental rug that lay beneath it.
The entire event felt surreal.
All of it.
From the gorgeous, timeless gown she was wearing—an A-line wedding dress with a plunging V-neck, elaborate lattice sequined lace, an open back, and a sweeping train pinned up in a delicate bustle—to the priceless matching platform pumps, adorned with hundreds of sapphires and diamonds coating the heels and decorating the satin bow and the toe. Her hair was swept up in a waterfall braid that circled the crown of her head, even as loose, curled tresses hung down to frame her face, and pieces of the back and sides were pinned up in elegant curls, all the combs and pins also festooned with precious jewels.
Odd how the entire ensemble would soon be bathed in fire.
“Amber girl, you all right?” Axe’s deep, masculine voice almost made her jump. “A penny for your thoughts?”
She frowned and ran one finger along the edge of the ornate ivory fountain.
A penny for her thoughts…
If only…
If only a penny were enough; if only there were adequate words to express what she was feeling; if only it were half that easy—just tell Axe what you’re thinking, feeling, experiencing, and he’ll wave his magic hands and make it better.
Wave his magic hands…
Despite her mounting trepidation, she managed a faint smile. The male definitely had magic hands—the last three nights had made that clear. And it wasn’t just the wild, erotic lovemaking—Axe was also capable of great gentleness and attentiveness. He used those strong, beautiful hands to comfort, caress, and arouse, depending on the situation. He had been wild, yes, but he had also been tender; he had shown Amber several surprising sides of him: laughter and playfulness beneath the Sapphire Lair’s magnificent waterfall; gentle but expert ministrations while massaging tension out of her neck; and soft, reassuring touches, whether hooking his pinky finger around hers or placing a loving, tender hand on the small of her back.
Axe was constantly aware of Amber.
And he had taken the time, concerted a lot of effort, to learn more about her past and her experiences. When he could—as he could—he had also shared much of his past and his life with her as well.
The male was an open book.
But that wasn’t what had sealed the deal or brought her to such a fateful decision.
That had happened on Monday morning, two days after she and Axe had first made love.
Axeviathon had taken her to the Sapphire Lair’s library and sat her down in front of a wide, high-definition computer monitor, before manipulating one of those sapphire spheres to activate the Wi-Fi—Amber now understood just how that worked, how the globes provided access to human technology and signals, the fact that the pagans had manipulated the same, early on, in order to allow Tony to text her…that Axe had known all along that she was texting the human back. She sighed, not meaning to get sidetracked in her thinking, wanting to remember—and focus—on that monumental day in the library when Axe had opened a file full of vibrant pictures, all of a petite, eleven-and-a-half-year-old girl with long, beautiful, straight blonde hair: a girl treading water in a backyard swimming pool, a girl playing croquet with her family on the lawn, a girl smiling broadly as she ate hot dogs and chips at a picnic table in a park near her home.
A girl named Tina Wilcox—that was her new last name—who had been adopted by a kind and loving family six months after Amber had disappeared from their shared, neglectful foster home. Apparently, Nakai had done the research at Axe’s request, but the Sapphire Lair had not stopped there: They had purchased a $50,000 college fund for the girl and placed it inside a $200,000 trust, all the paperwork delivered to the family’s certified public accountant with a simple note that read: For Tina from Amber ~ live your best life.
Tucked away in that stately, sophisticated library on the other side of a remote, mythical portal, while sequestered inside the Pantheon of Dragons, Amber had stared at the monitor for an hour…and wept.
How had Axe known?
How could he have understood…
That a little girl’s eyes and her pitiful teardrops had haunted Amber for the last ten years.
That Amber had always been filled with remorse and regret, wondering what had become of Tina.
Now she knew.
That, and something else: that as far-fetched, unbelievable, and impossible as it seemed, Amber had finally come home. She had finally found a real and loving family in an unreal and wild world, with a dangerous, yet dreamy man.
A dangerous, yet dreamy male…
A dragyri, born to a dragon’s pantheon.
And she wasn’t about to give that up.
“Where’d you go, Amber? You still with me?” Axe’s alluring voice again.
Yes, she was still with him—she would always be with him—she was just trying to work this out in her head and her heart. She was trying to gather her courage as well as her resolve, so just this once, she could prop him up, be the one who offered support.
Axeviathon had explained the conversion ceremony in detail—minute by minute, second by second—and while it was terrifying at best, Amber trusted the dragyri implicitly. She knew he would shield and protect her—she knew it in her gut—and while she may endure three seconds of unspeakable agony, three seconds was very little to pay for a lifetime of kindness and security. As impossible as it seemed, her greatest fear was not the fire or the seven dragon lords—not even Lord Dragos in his feral state—but somehow letting Axe down. Amber was most afraid that she would not be worthy of the gift—and the warrior—she had been given.
“I’m here,” she said, stepping away from the fountain and turning to face Axe squarely. “I’m here, and I’m ready.”
He studied her dark amber gaze carefully. “You sure? I know this has to be—”
“Shh,” she whispered, placing two perfectly manicured fingers against his thick, sculpted lips. “The fewer words, the better,” she told him. “I don’t want to draw this out. Axe, can we just go in there in silence, walk up to the platform, and get it over with? All I want is to have this behind me…behind us…all I want is to start fresh with the future, and for that, we have to
do this thing.” She chuckled softly and added, “Before I lose my nerve.”
Axe cupped her cheeks in two gentle hands, bent forward, and pressed a kiss to her forehead, the tip of her nose, and then her lips. “You are such a miracle to me, Ambrosia Carpenter. I can’t really comprehend that this moment is happening—that you are happening—that any of this is real.”
She smiled faintly. “Well, if it’s a dream, I don’t want to wake up.” The words were too intimate, the sentiment too vulnerable, and she cast her gaze to the floor.
Axe lifted her chin with the pads of his fingers. “Look at me, sweet angel.”
She blinked two times and stared into his magnificent sapphire eyes, hardly believing that just nine days earlier—eight, if she counted the fact that it concluded after midnight—she had been in this very temple with Lord Saphyrius: blind, petrified, and naked in the Oracle Pool. And Axeviathon Saphyrius had been a virtual stranger.
No more…
She only hoped that in time, he would come to love her.
“Hold up,” he said, reaching for her hand. “You’re projecting your thoughts again.”
She grimaced, closed her eyes, and lowered her head—damnit, she hated when that happened. If nothing else, it was so darn embarrassing. “Forget I said that,” she whispered. “Forget I thought that.”
Axe drew her close and wrapped his strong arms around her, pressing another chaste kiss to the crown of her head. “Oh, sweet angel—you slay me, you really do. You think I would ignore—or forget—a thought like that? I would’ve said something earlier—it’s been on the tip of my tongue a dozen times—but you are kind of skittish when it comes to emotions, and I was trying to ease you into our life. Amber girl…” He caressed both her shoulders then gently pushed her several inches back so he could look into her eyes. “Don’t ever, ever doubt it. More than all the stars in the dragon’s night sky; more than all the flames in the dragon sea; more than all the years that have come and gone since the dragon lords emerged from the cosmic explosion, I love you, Amber girl. I have waited a lifetime to find you, and I love you from the depths of my soul.”
