by Tessa Dawn
“But?”
“But if we had stayed together—you and I—there are things I would have shown you, things I would have told you, people I would have wanted you to meet…in time. We never got that far.” He took the knife by the handle, rotated it sixty degrees, and to Jordan’s utter shock and horror, began to carve a deep, bloody gash in his forearm.
Jordan gasped aloud as she watched Dan Summers, a man she had once been in love with, continue to slice an insignia in his arm. And as the image took shape, she slowly backed away: It was a witch’s pentacle on the pommel of a sword, with a reversed numerical seven carved just below the cross, etched into—and extending down—the full length of the blade.
She recoiled and took three generous steps back, appalled by both the occultist insignia and the ensuing sight of Dan’s blood—bright crimson rivulets dripping down his wrist, snaking along his palm, and soaking the length of his fingers.
He tightened his fist, grimacing at the pain.
“You would have shown me what?” she muttered, still staring numbly at the grisly design. “Told me what? Introduced me to whom?”
Dan grunted as he dipped two fingers, from the opposite hand, into the blood now pooling in his palm, squatted down, and began to draw the same disturbing diagram on the bunker floor. “A better way to live,” he said evenly. “Why I’ve never lost a case. The fact that we don’t have to exist like helpless sheep, powerless, waiting to be victims. I would’ve introduced you to…to…” The ceiling above their heads began to creak, and his pained expression grew more tense. “There are thousands of us, Jordan—tens of thousands—judges like Theodore Moran, generals, senators; hell, even the local manager at the bank. We’re everywhere, and we’re not alone.” He completed the diagram on the floor, dipped his fingers back into his blood, and stepped toward her, extending his forefinger toward her forehead. He was prepared to draw another sign—presumably the same one as before—on Jordan.
Right between her eyes.
Jordan drew back and slapped his hand away. “Stop it!” she shouted. “You’re scaring me, Dan!”
His expression looked more desperate than dangerous as he held up his bloody hand in a placating gesture and began to plead with his eyes. “It’s for protection, Jordan. Nothing else. Please, trust me on this.”
She was just about to argue—to vehemently protest—to give him the third degree, when a deep, resonant voice—a familiar haunting rasp—resounded inside her head: Dragyra, back away! Do not let him paint you.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Reconnaissance mattered.
Collecting information, knowing the enemy’s whereabouts, and enumerating each individual adversary in order to gain a tactical advantage…mattered.
And that’s why Zane didn’t object when his lair-mates asked him to stay outside, to take the post closest to the back of the estate, beneath a thick row of oak trees, where he could watch and listen.
Axe had already shorted out the state-of-the-art security system, and there was nothing as simple as cutting a few wires to it. He had manipulated the electrical impulses streaming through the cables; he had literally sent his own kinetic energy into the intricate grid, read each complex pathway in order to grasp the setup, and altered the sensitive connections with his mind.
The alarms would not go off.
Nakai, on the other hand, had rendered himself invisible and simply walked the entire property—including the interior of the house—sending blueprints, the various positions of the seven guards, and information about potential obstructions back to the remaining Dragyr.
And that’s how they’d formulated their plan…
The mansion itself was a ranch-level home, built as a basic rectangle, with only three entrances: the front foyer, the back vestibule, and a side door on the east that entered through the last port, within the five-car garage. Once inside the house, there were a series of long, dimly lit halls. The first hall led to the kitchen and a great room; the second hall led to a series of offices, libraries, and bedrooms—including to a central staircase that led to the basement, which then led down to the bunker—and the back hall, flanked the entire house, leading to the other main arteries. In a nutshell, there was one guard positioned at the front entrance—Axe would take care of him; two guards on the far east and west ends of the opening hall—they would have to split these sentries; and two guards on either side of the staircase that led to the underground bunker. In short, Jace would take both guards in the west—the one in the hall and the one by the stairway—and Levi would neutralize the humans in the east. Beyond that, there were only two more sentinels to contend with: a large burly bastard right outside the bunker hatch, and a heavily armed guard patrolling the back vestibule. Nakai would take the former, and Zane would handle the latter.
Once all the humans were removed from the equation, Zane could proceed through the back door, skirt along the main artery to the center hall, and head down the narrow stairway.
He could enter the bunker.
And that’s how he’d found himself waiting, as the golden sun waned in a serene purple sky, hiding behind a thick gathering of trees, watching the back-door sentry, all the while knowing he was less than a hundred yards, as the crow flies, from the rear of the bunker, and listening, with his preternatural hearing…
Zooming in on every single word spoken between Dan and Jordan—sweetie, baby, butterfly—he was about to go insane. Especially when the conversation turned ominous and threatening…dire and just plain weird.
Give me a knife—what the hell was that all about?
A better way to live…why I’ve never lost a case…there are thousands of us, Jordan, tens of thousands…we’re everywhere, and we’re not alone.
Even without the benefit of his sight, Zane’s keen, predatory mind was calculating a dozen clues per second: the peculiar, faraway cast in Dan’s voice; the subtle but unmistakable grunts of pain—he was cutting himself with that knife; and the sudden emergence of three far more telling, detectable scents…
First, a coppery mixture of sweat, blood, and Lysol: Was he smearing his blood on the floor? The chemical reaction was far too distinct—it indicated three separate compounds.
Next, a sudden rise in cortisol—Jordan’s fear was notably spiking.
And last, the faintness hint of sulfur permeating the air—this could only mean one thing: the burgeoning presence of a demon or a shade…maybe both.
Stop it! Jordan shouted. You’re scaring me, Dan!
It’s for protection…trust me.
Zane had heard all he needed to hear: The well-groomed attorney was cutting himself with a knife—on purpose—to evoke protection from the Pagan Horde. He was opening himself up to intercession—and gods damn his ignorant recklessness—he was trying to mark Jordan as well.
Zane wanted to scorch the guard at the back door, smash through the first-story wall, and tunnel right through the floor, into that bunker, without waiting for any backup, but he couldn’t do it just yet…
Not yet.
Dan’s actions had altered the dynamics for everyone, and they could have extremely dire consequences.
He shoved hard at Jordan’s mind, inserting an imperious compulsion: Dragyra, back away! Do not let him paint you. And then he turned his telepathic attention on the brothers of his lair: Axe, Levi, Jace—check in! Nakai, are you standing next to the bunker?
What’s up? Nakai replied immediately, and Zane could feel the presence of the other three, tuned in to the urgent connection.
Five minutes until sundown, that’s what’s up, but I don’t think we can wait. Dan, the human Jordan is with, is a card-carrying member of the Cult of Hades; he worships Lord Drakkar. What’s worse? He just carved up his body in that bunker, and he’s trying to paint Jordan, too.
Son of a bitch, Axe snarled.
Exactly, Zane said. He’s inviting the pagans to the party. He paused to catch his breath. He also said something that set my teeth on edge—‘there are th
ousands of us, Jordan, tens of thousands. Judges like Theodore Moran.’
Isn’t this Judge Theodore’s estate? Nakai asked, ever the logical one.
You got it, Zane replied, biting down on his tongue, even as his dragon began to stir and smoke wafted freely from his nostrils.
Then we must assume Judge Theodore’s home is filled with occultist, channeling objects, Nakai added, things that make it easier for the pagans to appear. I’m sorry, Zane, I didn’t pay any attention to the furniture or art.
Doesn’t matter, Zane snorted. What’s sticking in my craw is this: Why did the human send the SWAT team home and replace them with a private team?
Levi dipped into that ever-present reservoir of calm, and spoke in a placid voice: Because he wanted backup of a different sort, the kind that shares his philosophy.
He wanted other members of the cult, Axe barked.
Safe to assume that, Zane said. I’m definitely getting a strong odor of sulfur coming from the bunker; what about you, Nakai?
Me, too, he answered. From both the bunker and around this outside guard.
Same here, Jace said.
Same, said Axe.
Now that you mention it…Levi chimed in. Okay, he said, turning back to strategy, so we might be dealing with both pagans and humans before the night is over. Zane, you stick with the plan—get Jordan out. That’s it. That’s all. The rest of us, we’ll handle our business.
Should we call for another lair? Jace asked.
Hell no! Axe snarled. It’s been too long, as it is, since my beast was allowed to roam free. I say, stoke the demon fires…and let’s play.
f
The sun disappeared beneath the western horizon, yielding to the night, as Zane crept up to the back porch, sidled up to the guard, and snatched him by the back of the head, grasping a fistful of hair and shimmering into full view. As anticipated, the six-foot-six hulk of a man jolted at the sudden appearance of the dragyri, slid his pointer finger onto the trigger-pull of his AK-47, and pressed the muzzle into the center of Zane’s stomach.
He never had a chance to get off a shot.
The dragyri extended his claws along the back of the sentinel’s scalp, grasped all the flesh at the nape of his neck—presumably where his Cult of Hades tattoo would be stamped—and ripped the flesh from his head, disconnecting him from the pagan underworld.
The guard shouted in agony, even as Zane slid his bloody hand along the front of the man’s throat, grasped his trachea, and squeezed, dropping him to the ground. As he snapped the assault rifle in two, then stepped over the unconscious body, he hoped the guy would not bleed out, die before he had a chance to change his wicked ways—maybe give Catholicism a try—but that wasn’t Zane’s concern.
Jordan was.
He busted through the solid back door, hightailed it into the house, and sprinted down the outer hallway on his way to the inner theater…to the top of the bunker staircase. As he ran, he could hear his brothers taking down their prey: the ear-piercing blast of Axe’s HK45 going bang! into a human skull—the guard must have been pure evil; the barely discernable hum of Jace’s Katar slicing its way through someone’s flesh—who knew if he was silencing the human for good, or just taking him out temporarily; and the harsh, flesh-on-flesh blows coming from Levi’s fists as the dragyri pummeled his quarry, preferring to fight with his powerful hands, unless and until something else was necessary.
And then the stench of sulfur began to rain down in the mansion like a torrent of wind and hail, permeating every nook and cranny and closet. The shadow-walkers were ascending from the underworld.
Zane grit his teeth.
Every instinct in his body told him to go to his lair-mates’ aid, but they would have to fend off the enemy themselves. Zane didn’t have a moment to waste. Dan wasn’t just reaching out to the underworld for assistance—thanks to his affinity for flesh-and-blood art, the fool had opened himself up to possession.
Zane rounded the hallway and shot to the top of the stairs, just as Jace, to his right, and Levi, on his left, took out two more human guards, then spun around to face a trio of slinking, translucent shadows emerging from the walls. Zane kept his focus straight ahead, bounding down the stairs in one lithe leap and shooting past Nakai, who had the heel of his boot on a human’s throat, while emptying an M4 carbine into the torso of a shade.
Holy spirits of fire; this shit was getting deep!
And while the judge’s estate was secluded, ensconced behind a wall, it might be hard to hide a shadow-dragyri war. “Screw it!” Zane shouted as he approached the stainless steel vault and glanced over his shoulder at Nakai. “The Diamond Lair has the night off. Call ’em if you need ’em.” He planted both fists around the solid steel wheel and tried to crank it through the locks—he didn’t have time to listen and discern, to feel for an encoded password.
The disk came off the door.
“Damnit,” he snarled, stepping back and balling up his fists.
He coated his hand with scales, hardened the individual layers, and began to punch in rapid succession, like a horizontal jackhammer, throwing all of his supernatural strength into every caustic blow. The outer panel creaked and groaned, and the inner plate folded inward—but the son of a bitch still held.
Zane took three giant steps backward, called on his inner fire, and hurled a bright orange flame at the center of the door, torching his way through the metal. When the entire panel began to glow a pale yellow-red, he leaped into the air and drop-kicked it open. The hatch flew off the frame—large steel bolts scattering in every direction—even as Zane rushed to get in front of all the debris, and keep it from hitting Jordan.
His dragyra was perched on the floor, behind Dan, her body quaking with fright. There was one streak of blood—drawn from her forehead and along her nose—but thank the gods, she had not been painted with the entire insignia.
Her eyes grew wide and her jaw fell slack as she met Zane’s seeking gaze and scooted frantically backward. And that’s when Dan began to convulse, his body taken over by a pagan.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Jordan watched in absolute horror as the door to the bunker flew open, and thick, iron spikes scattered in her direction. She threw up both hands to cover her face, but the reaction wasn’t necessary.
Zane was there in an instant.
Blocking the bolts, shielding her body, hovering over her cowering form in a rage.
His enigmatic gold-blue eyes were glowing in his skull; his upper lip was pulled back in a snarl; and his fangs had descended from the roof of his mouth, making him look like a human jackal. He spun around to face Dan, and his biceps visibly contracted.
He was going to tear Dan’s head off.
Despite her terror and confusion, Jordan shot to her feet and tried to dive between them. “No! Zane, don’t!” The air left her body in a whoosh as he caught her momentum with an open palm, stopped her trajectory, and shoved her onto the couch.
It was the first time he had ever laid hands on her in an aggressive fashion, and she landed with a thud, quickly sat up, and prepared to try again.
She could not let Zane kill Dan.
No matter what her ex-lover had done, he was there because she had pleaded with him for help—begged him to come to her rescue.
A spine-tingling hiss reverberated throughout the bunker as Dan’s neck began to undulate like a snake’s.
What the hell?
The assistant district attorney suddenly stood a whole foot taller, and he held his arms out to the side. “Good evening, son of dragons.”
Whose voice was that?
It was foreign, ancient, and dripping with evil.
“Do you have a name, shadow-walker?” Zane bit out.
Dan smiled like a fiend, and his gums were bleeding, his teeth were jagged, and his tongue had a fork in the tip.
Jordan screamed.
“Stay back, dragyra!” Zane commanded. “This is not your lover anymore.” His words were as acidic as his
tone.
Her lover…
Dan was not her lover, not anymore. What did Zane think was going on? She knew that his dragon was wholly possessive, instinctively territorial, and in this moment, he was also innately savage. “It’s not what you think,” she muttered.
“No,” Zane argued. “It’s not what you think, dragyra. Your friend is a member of the Cult of Hades. He worships a pagan king by the name of Drakkar—the sworn enemy of the seven dragon lords: their estranged, primordial sibling—and he has invited Lord Drakkar’s sycophants, his shadow-walkers, to join us this night.”
Dan bowed at the waist, and affixed his now blood-red eyes on Zane. “Names…names…what’s in a name: Zanaikeyros, child of Saphyrius.” He laughed like an escaped lunatic. “But if you insist on knowing the identity of the one who will silence your soul, you may call me Traylyn Zerachi, born in the time of Romulus Augustus, the infamous Roman emperor—I have waited many lifetimes to make the acquaintance of a Genesis Son.”
Zane took a cautious step back, almost as if the creature’s age had impressed him, and he dropped low into a defensive stance, raised both arms at his sides, and extended his claws, pointing forward. “Your shadow is strong,” he observed. “But not strong enough.”
In the blink of an eye, ten red flames shot from the tips of Zane’s fingers, each one crisscrossing the next like an X and gathering power at the intersection. The potent amalgamation struck the shadow—it struck Dan—right in the heart.
The attorney howled and flew backward, slamming violently into the bunker wall. And then his chest rose outward like an inflatable balloon, leaking some kind of dark green sludge. The goo dripped on the tile floor, sizzled and popped, and then Dan’s chest reversed and contracted, inverting in the opposite direction. His breastplate closed, and he took a long, orgasmic, deep breath. “Ahhhh…” He shivered, as if in ecstasy. “You are powerful, Zane Saphyrius. This pairing—our romance—will be exquisite.”
