by Tessa Dawn
The gods used the cleansing process to feed from, purify, and welcome their guests, and there was no getting around it.
Zane shook off the unsettling feeling that came over him as the lords drew from his essence: the shiver that ran up his spine as his temperature plummeted; the frost that collected along his fingertips as his heat was expunged; and the uncomfortable sensation of spiritual dispersion, the feeling of another being stirring within his soul. And then he simply withdrew his hands from the fountain, shook them out to dry, and took a deep, steadying breath as he approached the stone sanctuary doors, each one standing twenty feet high. Neither could be opened by a mere mortal.
“Eyes down.” He reminded himself of temple etiquette, preferring not to get scorched, and then he opened the door on the right and strolled into the inner sanctum.
Bright prisms of light immediately assailed his vision, but he was accustomed to the short transition, and the temporary effect it had on the eyes: The magnificent glass floor beneath him was crowned by a high coffered ceiling, which was gilded in multiple layers consisting of the seven jewels, each one refracting their light, their very essence, onto the highly absorbent floor. The effect was a stunning, blinding reflection.
In the center of the room, which was built to face the eastern wall of thrones, was a raised dais, set upon an octagon platform, made of gemstone tiles, and it was often the center of activity. At a glance, Zane noticed five of his genesis brothers—everyone but Ghost—already standing on the platform, facing the seven empty thrones; and as his eyes swept forward, a few yards in front of their feet, to the dual anchored handholds bolted to the ground—the bars Jordan would be expected to grasp as she kneeled before the Seven, awaiting the fires of rebirth—he shuddered deep inside.
Hell, that was one conversation he was not looking forward to having: telling Jordan about the conversion, the ceremony in the temple, exactly how the dragons would claim her for The Pantheon…
Her consecration by fire.
He strolled confidently toward the dais, pushing the thoughts out of his mind—he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
As Zane joined his brothers on the platform, the pearlescent pool on the northern end of the sanctuary shimmered with renewed vitality. The seven gemstone pillars along the western wall—each one mirroring an opposite jeweled throne in the east—practically thrummed with rising energy. And the seven empty thrones, each one constructed from its ruling lord’s essential gemstone, radiated light and heat.
“What’s up,” he barked to all five Genesis Sons. “Where’s Ghost?”
Jagyr, Blaise, Brass, and Ty all grunted in reply; whereas, Nuri angled his head and bit out a curse in Dragonese. “He’d better get his ass here soon,” he snarled.
Before any of the Genesis could reply, the doors to the sanctuary flew open, and in strolled Ghostaniaz, his raven-black hair mussed in several places, despite the shorter length; his phantom-blue pupils, stark with intensity against his pale, diamond irises; and his heavily muscled arms flexing beneath the sleeveless black tee he was wearing. Heavy boots pounded the tile as he made a beeline for the center dais.
“Miss me?” he growled in that deep, caustic voice, taking his rightful place across from the center diamond throne—the throne of the first dragon lord, Lord Dragos.
Taking the warrior’s hint, the other Genesis shuffled into place, until each was standing opposite their ruling lord’s throne, facing an opulent gemstone cathedra that matched their governing lair.
“Cutting it pretty close, aren’t you?” Jagyr snarled, the amped-up male being true to form.
Ghost didn’t balk. He just cut those cold, brutal eyes at Jagyr, turned up his lip, and brushed some lint off his tee. “What the hell is this about?” he asked, speaking to no one in particular.
Ty, the peacemaker, shrugged his shoulders and exchanged a glance with Brass, another male who was easy enough to get along with. “No idea. You?”
Brass shook his head. “Might have something to do with Zane.”
Zane stiffened at the mention of his name. “Me? What makes you figure?”
Brass furrowed his brows, as if thinking it over. “You found your dragyra, right?” He posed it as a question, but he already knew.
Guess news traveled fast…
Zane nodded. There was no point in trying to keep it a secret. Everything that happened in the Dragons Domain affected all of the Dragyr—his genesis brothers had a right to know. “I did,” he said succinctly. “Friday night.”
At this, Nuri’s harsh but chiseled mouth curved up into a sly, mischievous smile. “What’s her name?”
“Jordan,” Zane supplied, not liking the quirk in Nuri’s top lip—it was too insinuating.
The jokester licked his lips. “Pretty?”
Zane snarled reflexively. “Off limits,” he replied.
Nuri laughed out loud. “Ah, then she is pretty…very pretty.”
“She’s smart,” Zane countered. “Very smart.” Of course she was pretty—stunning, actually—but Nuri didn’t need to know that.
Sensing that Zane’s dragon was rising, Nuri immediately backed off. He was all about the pranks and jokes—though it was never a good idea to cross him—but at his core, he was also loyal and decent. Respect was the name of the game when seven dragyri males gathered together. “Well, I’m glad that you finally found her,” he said in an even tone of voice. “A thousand years is a long time to wait.”
The comment did not fall on deaf ears.
Other than Tiberius, better known as Ty, none of the Genesis had met their fated yet, and it was a sore subject among the aboriginal crew. The Dragyr were high-strung by nature; they needed a calming influence to counterbalance their primitive natures, and loneliness was a whole other issue—there was something to be said about having a mate.
Before anyone could comment, the partition behind the seven thrones began to sway, to undulate from the kinetic power of the dragons stirring behind it—
The lords were about to take their thrones.
As was custom in the temple, Zane and the other Genesis immediately bowed their heads, dropped to one knee, and clutched their amulets in their right hands. They would remain in that position until their lords released them.
Consequently, Zane felt—more than he saw—the presence of the dragons as they took their respective seats, in the order of their rank, settling from the center outward. He knew by experience that they would be in amalgamated form—they would not appear as giant beasts with scales, pointed ears, and jaws filled with wicked teeth, but as bright prisms of light reflecting the hues of their primary stones, their bodies outlined as human, yet translucent and ethereal to the touch. In short, they would appear as a combination of the two species: clearly dragon in nature and silhouette, but human enough to perch on their thrones.
The suspense of their entrance having subsided, the sanctuary grew deathly quiet, and Zane knew the lords were in their rightful places…watching…waiting…observing the males.
The Genesis didn’t move a muscle.
“Sons.” Lord Dragos spoke first, as was proper, and the dark, malevolent cast of his voice echoed through the hall and reverberated in the rafters.
The males genuflected in reply, their heads dipping lower in obeisance.
“Rise,” the dragon commanded.
And they did.
Each dragyri male in order, opposite his master’s throne: first Ghost, in the center; then Jagyr to his right; then Zane to Ghost’s left and Blaise to Jagyr’s right… On and on, the Genesis stood, facing their makers’ cathedrae, until all were standing at their full, proud heights.
Ghost was the first to speak, from the center of the line. “Greeting, my lords; how may we serve you?” Despite the homage inherent in the words, his tone was unmistakable: What’s up, you overbearing monsters—and what the devil do you want?
That was just Ghost’s way.
And all had come to expect it.
In fact, the lords either excused it, or they no longer noticed it—he was Lord Dragos’ progeny…enough said on the subject.
Lord Topenzi spoke next, and his noble, gentle spirit filled the hall like a light summer’s breeze on a hot, scorching day, refreshing the males as one. “Thank you for coming.” His affection was tangible. “We will try to make this brief so you can be on your way.” He then eyed each male, one at a time, and crooked his fingers inward. “Enough with the peripheral vision. You may release your amulets, and you may regard our eyes.”
Hmm, Zane thought as he dropped his hand to his side and allowed his gaze to take in the visage of the dragon lords, face-to-face, eye to eye, subject to lord. Well, that’s a first.
A sudden tinge of pain tightened Zane’s chest, and for a moment, it felt like there was a fist squeezing his heart. And then he both felt and heard the voice of his ruling lord—his father, Lord Saphyrius—speaking in his mind. “Guard your thoughts, son. This is no time to be careless…or sarcastic.”
Zane didn’t acknowledge the admonition, but he took note of his master’s warning, and the sensation immediately eased.
“Now then,” Lord Dragos bellowed, startling them all to attention with the tremolo of his voice, “you have been summoned as a result of a growing concern.”
Zane glanced askance at Ghost to see if the dragyri might give anything away—after all, he dealt with Lord Dragos more than the rest—but his face was a mask of indifference.
“The other night, when Zanaikeyros traveled through the portal on Lord Ethyron’s business,” Lord Dragos continued, “he was beset by two demons and a shade.” He cleared his throat, ostensibly for effect, as dragons didn’t suffer physical anomalies…of any kind. “The incident sparked a discussion amongst the Omniscient about the safety of our sons. As you well know, there are only seven of you left, seven of the original embryos.”
Zane almost blanched—original embryos? Wow, that was endearing—but then he caught himself, reined in his thoughts, and turned his attention back to the dragons.
“What Lord Dragos is trying to say”—apparently Lord Topenzi caught the insensitive reference as well—“is that your lives are too invaluable, far too important, too rare to risk. We must consider the incident as a serious threat, and we must address it going forward.”
A black stain, like sludge, projected outward from Lord Dragos’ aura, and he sneered at Lord Topenzi, his amalgamated upper lip taking the momentary form of a dragon’s snout as he flashed a row of barbaric, treacherous teeth. “I know exactly what I meant to say, Lord Topenzi,” he snarled. “I do not require an interpreter.”
Lord Topenzi merely declined his head and linked his hands in his lap, unruffled.
And that’s when Lord Saphyrius took over. “Zanaikeyros…”
Zane’s eyes swept to his ruling lord and fixed on his seeking gaze. “Father.”
“Friday night, as I was divining shadows in the Oracle Pool, I saw a glimpse of the night’s event. Is it true that you were bitten, not once, but twice, by one of the demonic beetles?”
Zane nodded, reluctantly. Was his ass going to be the topic of discussion? “Yes, milord; it’s true.”
Lord Saphyrius frowned, and Zane winced.
My bad, he spoke in his head.
A bright blue band of light streaked through the air, as if conjured by Lord Saphyrius’ emotion. “You could have died, my son. Right then. Right there. In an instant. I could have lost you.”
Zane heard the concern—and dare he say, the tenderness—in Lord Saphyrius’ words, and his throat constricted…just a bit. He fidgeted with his amulet as he sought to formulate a respectful reply. “I’m fine, Father. I am. Levi and Axe were there, I did not take any unnecessary risks, and all was well in the end.”
“Yes,” Lord Saphyrius acknowledged. “Levi removed the toxins with cleansing fire, but that does not allay my concerns—our concerns—for the future.” He pressed the tips of his diaphanous fingers together in a thoughtful, contemplative gesture. “If the Pagan Horde has grown so bold, if they would attack a Genesis on the front lawn of a human’s home, knowing full well the war they could start should one of you be harmed—the decades of battle that would inevitably ensue—then perhaps they have grown truly arrogant. Perhaps it is time for us—for you—to take greater precautions.”
Zane furrowed his brow. “What kind of precautions, milord?”
Ghost visibly smirked, but he stopped short of rolling his eyes. Everyone knew the dragyri was as suicidal as he was homicidal—the last thing he cared about was safety.
This time, Lord Cytarius took the lead, even as he leaned back in his throne. “You are not to travel through the portal alone, not anymore.” He eyed each Genesis in turn. “None of you.”
Blaise Amarkyus blinked in surprise and frowned. “If I may,” he said, cautiously, “how is that going to work?” He shuffled forward, a couple of feet on the dais, avoiding an arrogant stride. “I have several missions I’ve yet to complete, and Zane—he just found his dragyra. I’m certain he’s going to need to go back and forth. How are we to honor your wishes, complete our directives, if we can’t travel alone?”
Lord Dragos shifted on his throne and began to study his nails, looking curiously bored. Then he raised his jaw, angled his head to the side, and growled like a hungry lion. “Carefully,” he mused. “Deliberately, and with planning.”
Lord Amarkyus narrowed his gaze on his offspring and spoke in a gentler voice. “Son,” he intoned considerately, addressing Blaise, “Lord Cytarius is right. What happened to Zane, though it turned out fine, is not something to take lightly…or to overlook. It could have been you.” He drew back on his throne and swept his gaze across the line. “It could have been any of you.”
“We’ve all been attacked before,” Ghost grumbled in a brazen challenge befitting of his lineage. “Hell, we’ve all been beaten half to death. We’ve all looked mortality straight in the eye, and yet we somehow manage to come home. It’s part and parcel of who we are…what we do—why is this any different?”
Lord Dragos rose from his throne, and his almond-shaped diamond eyes narrowed even further with contempt. “And yet, you are immortal beings, are you not?” he purred wolfishly. “And as for being beaten half to death, are you referring to Calebrios?” A puff of smoke wafted from his nose, and Zane knew the hostile dragon lord was this close to roasting his genesis brother.
Ghost, he spoke on a private, telepathic bandwidth. Dial it down, brother. Shit!
Mind your own business, Ghost shot back.
Zane shrugged.
“Speak to each other again, and I will scorch you both,” Lord Dragos threatened.
Lord Cytarius held out his hand in a calming gesture, hoping to bring the temperature down a few notches. “Ghostaniaz,” he said, politely, “it is true; you have all battled valiantly in the past, and you have all faced your share of danger, of lethal enemies—but this was a routine assignment, and our enemy is growing bold. Therefore, there will be no further discussion. Consider it a decree for all the Genesis, required as fealty under the Four Principal Laws: From this day forward, if you travel outside the portal, you travel in pairs.”
Zane shut his eyes, even as he cursed beneath his breath.
Silently, of course.
Great, just great, Jordan was going to love that: having to bring Axe or Levi, or someone else with them when they went through the portal. As if she wasn’t terrified enough…
Yet and still, a decree was a decree.
The next male to open his mouth would be barbeque.
“As you wish, milord,” Blaise acquiesced, speaking for the entire group.
“Is that all?” Ghost grunted, apparently ready to end the session.
The blast of fire that shot from Lord Dragos’ throne was so fast and furious, so hot and fevered, that it traveled as a light-blue streak of light and whirred through the air, exploding with a sonic boom as it struck. The impact hit Ghost square in the c
hest, landing like a freight train, and he flew backward off the dais, falling into a heap. Luckily for him, Lord Topenzi stretched out his ethereal hand and sent shards of ice hurtling from his fingertips, coating the cringing dragyri in frost. “Brother.” He spoke to Lord Dragos cautiously. “Forgive me if I overreach.”
Lord Dragos paused as if thinking it over, and then he shrugged a casual shoulder and sauntered back to his diamond throne, where he sat, looking bored.
Zane glanced over his shoulder, dreading what he knew he would see, but unable to restrain the impulse: Ghostaniaz was curled into a ball on the floor, vomiting in pain, and his entire six-foot-five, powerful frame was trembling in brutal agony. Yet the male didn’t make a peep: not a grunt, not a groan, not a whimper. He wouldn’t give the dragon the satisfaction. He wouldn’t give his father the play.
Zane shook his head, wishing there was something he could do, and praying Lord Dragos was done with the flame-show.
Why couldn’t Ghost just let it go?
Why did he always have to rebel?
It was no great secret that the male hated his father with a passion that defied common sense, and he was as defiant as he was dangerous, broken to the core. And one of these days he was going to get his deepest wish—Lord Dragos was going to kill him, and then his whole piteous existence would be done.
Zane glanced toward the back of the sanctuary at the soothing, pearlescent pool of life and slowly shook his head.
That’s all it would take.
One dunk in those sacred waters.
Simply immersing Ghost in that powerful stream.
And the dragyri’s wounds—his blisters, his scarring, and his internal pain—would all be healed instantly. Lord Topenzi would offer the pool out of conscience. Lord Cytarius would offer it out of generosity—hell, even Lord Amarkyus and Lord Saphyrius would be moved by the sound of Ghost’s retching and the stench of his burning flesh—but not Lord Dragos.
He would revel in Ghost’s suffering…at least for the rest of the night.
