by Tessa Dawn
“All right, I’ll see you later then.”
“Yep. See you on Monday,” Macy said. “Love you, girl.”
Jordan smiled. “Love you, too.” She was just about to walk away when Macy reached out and took her hand. “Hey, you be safe, okay?”
Jordan started, a bit unsettled at the unexpected directive.
Where in the world had that come from?
Knowing Macy to be more intuitive than was natural, she shivered, and then she shrugged it off. “Of course,” she said, “always.”
With that, she turned around and headed for the stairs.
f
Zane Saphyrius locked his arm around the gangbanger’s chest from behind, drew him backward, off his feet, and slowly sank into the shadows, dragging his prey along with him.
The youth spat out a curse and tried to wrench free from his hold. “Get your nasty-ass arm off me, punk! You have any idea who you’re messin’ with? I swear: My posse is gonna jack you up!”
Zane seared a harsh, unerring mental compulsion into the idiot’s brain, demanding immediate compliance: Shut up and stop moving.
The gangster froze, and a bead of sweat trickled down his brow. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice wasn’t working—nothing came out.
“That’s better,” Zane hissed, feeling his fangs press insistently against his gums. He’d rather not feed on the likes of this human trash, but the urge was almost irresistible. Stepping further back into the shadows, until the two of them were safely masked behind a thick cement pillar in the dimly lit garage, he called on his inner dragon.
As the heat rose in his chest, radiating outward toward his limbs and infusing his muscles with power, he reveled in the near-orgasmic sensation. The pulse of his inner-fire was sweltering. The pain was invigorating. And the feeling was akin to having the full powers of the cosmic universe at his fingertips. He growled deep in his throat, even as the fingers of his right hand curled inward, and his claws slowly began to extend. “Lord Ethyron sends his regards,” he drawled in that unique, unfamiliar accent that all the Dragyr males shared. And with that, he drove his clawed hand through the gangster’s back, clutched his heart in his fist, and ripped it from his chest, along with a two-inch-thick gold chain that just happened to come along for the ride.
Dropping the organ and the chain to the ground, Zane cocked his head to the side in a feral, serpentine motion, and slowly exhaled a scorching orange flame.
He needed to release some heat.
The fire consumed the gold in seconds, leaving the heart untouched, while charring most of the precious metal to ash. It was an exercise in precision, a way to refocus Zane’s beast before his hunger got the best of him. As the ravaged body slumped to the ground, Zane caught it by the elbow and quickly retrieved the male’s cell phone from his pocket before he let him fall: He would need to cross-reference the phone numbers for the other two gang members in order to get their addresses. They hadn’t been at the mall.
Staring down at the limp, lifeless body now slumped at his feet, he paused to consider what to do with the corpse: to burn it, bury it, or leave it. He didn’t think he could incinerate it without drawing the attention of other humans, and that would mean he would have to control all their minds, erase their memories, redirect them away from the scene, and tie up loose ends, more trouble than the situation was worth.
Snarling at the unpleasant nature of the duty, he squatted down, picked up the heart, and stuffed it back into the gaping chest cavity. He drew regenerative power into his forefinger and began to reattach the organ—not enough to reanimate it, but just enough to reseal the severed chambers—make the whole scene appear a little less gruesome, point the authorities toward a rival gang, rather than a supernatural intervention.
Hell, let the medical examiner try to figure it out.
It was only a human, and a soulless one at that.
Wiping his hands on the dead man’s shirt, Zane sanitized his own flesh with more silver fire and then slowly stood up and glanced around the garage.
No one had seen him.
Of that, he was certain.
He would have heard them, sensed them, smelled them.
Rolling his head on his shoulders to release some tension, he kicked the corpse further into the shadows with his steel-toed boots, straightened his duster around his shoulders, and headed toward an outdoor stairway that led into the mall. While there were few delicacies in the human world that appealed to an immortal dragyri—and virtually no luxuries that The Pantheon could not provide in greater quantity and substance—Zane was a sucker for red licorice! Twizzlers, to be exact. And while the Dragyr only consumed human food for pleasure—they fed on the blood, heat, and the essence of humans to survive—he may as well pick up a couple bags before heading out to finish the remaining two gangsters, before traveling back through the portal.
He glanced at his watch to check the time: It was 10:15 PM, and he needed to get a move on. He had less than three hours to find and dispatch his remaining quarry, lest he fail to meet Lord Ethyron’s deadline and end up like Caleb Ethyron—on the receiving end of a spiked lash, whipped for a minor offense.
Chapter Four
Jordan gathered the lapels of her lamb’s wool coat, clutched them in her fist, and hurried down the narrow cement stairway, trying to avoid slipping on the steep, polished stairs. The night was cool; the air was crisp; and it reminded her of a late autumn evening, rather than the middle of June. As her two-inch heels clicked against the pavement, she gripped the rail with her free right hand and slowed down to maintain her balance.
She absently glanced to the right, and her eyes locked with a stranger’s: a huge, imposing man ascending the otherwise empty stairway. She couldn’t help but notice that he was strikingly handsome—in a rugged, medieval sort of way—his hair was as dark as night; he was naturally tan; and there was something almost savage in his bearing. His ethnicity was odd…curious…indefinable…impossible for Jordan to place, and she shivered involuntarily, thinking immediately of the caller, the guy who had threatened her earlier, the one who had called her a witch.
She quickly dismissed the connection.
First, she would remember the likeness of a guy she had sent to prison, and second, she would never forget this particular man’s face.
Realizing she was staring, she nodded politely in greeting and planted another foot on another cement stair—and then she drew back in surprise.
He was practically gaping at her!
Staring straight through her.
His piercing sapphire-gold eyes were locked, like lasers, on hers.
As gazes went, it was both terrifying and ominous, as if he could see into her soul, as if he were seeking the same…
She licked her bottom lip in a nervous gesture, even as she consulted her common sense: Get a grip, Jordan. It’s just a curious glance, a fleeting intersection of eyes, the kind that happens a dozen times a day. She forced a good-natured smile and quickly glanced away, hoping to pacify his curiosity—to dismiss his attention—and to remind him of common courtesy.
As expected, the stranger followed suit.
He continued to take the stairs, two at a time, until he had passed her without incident, and then he suddenly stopped in midstride and spun around to face her.
She sensed it more than she saw it.
She could literally feel his domineering presence behind her, and despite her immediate impulse to run, she turned to face him, instead.
The stranger tilted his head to the side and emitted some strange, feral sound. It was almost like a snarl, and Jordan’s heart began to race. They locked eyes a second time, and she almost let out a yelp: He was glaring at her now, like she had stolen his firstborn child, his dark, sculpted brows creased into a frown.
She unwittingly took a step back, clutched the rail, once again, for stability, and stifled a terrified gasp. Determined to appear calm, she stuffed her free hand into her pocket, hunched her shoulders in some in
stinctive, submissive gesture, and slowly backed away, feeling carefully for each stair beneath her.
He took a casual step toward her, and she almost bolted.
He halted, almost as if he dared not frighten her any further, and then he did the oddest, most animalistic thing: He inhaled deeply, sniffed the air, and he groaned.
Whether it was a groan of annoyance, impatience, or anger, Jordan had no idea, but that was the final straw—she had no intention of sticking around to find out.
Releasing the rail, she spun around in a whirl, leaped the four remaining stairs—almost twisting her ankle—and took off running for her car, all the while digging frantically for her keys as she ran. She could hear the stranger’s footsteps behind her, and she cringed at the stupidity of her choice. Why hadn’t she screamed or tried to push past him? Headed back in the direction of the mall, to the safety of other people?
Rounding the corner of the parking garage, she eyed her forest-green, metallic BMW, only five spaces away, and rotated her key-fob in her hand, pressing the unlock button over and over, just to be sure it opened. She glanced over her shoulder to judge the distance between herself and the stranger, and gasped, her feet skidding to a sudden halt.
He wasn’t there.
Even though she could have sworn she’d heard his footsteps, just moments ago, the man was no longer behind her.
She pressed her hand to her heart and fought to catch her breath, feeling a curious mixture of both relief and embarrassment. She scanned the garage in all four directions, making sure she hadn’t overlooked his presence, that he wasn’t hiding behind a nearby post or a vehicle, and then she started once again for her car.
Angry tears filled her eyes as she finally reached her BMW, yanked on the door handle, and bent to climb inside.
“Stop.” An invisible hand snatched her by the arm, slammed her door shut behind her, and pressed her back against the driver’s-side panel. And then, just like that, the stranger was standing, once again, in front of her.
What the hell!?
She jolted in surprise, dropped her keys on the ground, and opened her mouth to scream; but the sound would not come out. Her eyes grew wide, and her heart constricted in her chest, beating so frantically that it pulsed in her ears. The dangerous, imposing male pressed both hands flush against the hood of her car, and caged her in like a trapped, helpless animal, framing her shoulders between two taut, muscular arms.
She dropped down, tried to duck beneath his right bicep, but it was all to no avail. He simply followed the movement of her body with his arms.
And then she foolishly tried to back up, to escape him with a twist, but once again, there was nowhere to go—the solid panel of her car was behind her. Her heart thundered in her chest, and she gasped for air. “Get away from me!” she finally bit out, shoving hard at his iron chest. Good lord, the man had to be six-foot-four, and his chest must have been made of iron, because he didn’t budge an inch. She clutched his wrists and tried to wrench his arms free from the hood of her vehicle. “Let me go!”
He leaned into her, pressed his forehead to hers, and his dark, silken hair fell forward, shrouding them in an intimate midnight curtain. “Shh,” he whispered softly. And then he pressed a finger to his lips to demonstrate the command as he slowly shook his head. “Be at ease.”
Be at ease?
Did he just say, Be at ease?
As if!
What the heck was that supposed to mean, anyway?
Jordan suddenly felt sick to her stomach. She wanted to scream—she had tried to scream—but it was like the scream was trapped in her throat. It simply would not come out. Her eyes clouded with angry tears, and she scanned the parking garage for a Good Samaritan, praying someone—anyone—would come her way. The mall didn’t close until midnight, and there was still a scattering of parked cars—they couldn’t all belong to employees.
She choked back a sob and forced herself to meet the stranger’s penetrating sapphire gaze. Dear God, he was frightening, and not even in a criminal way—his demeanor went so far beyond that. He was like fog rising off the sea, or that large spiderweb, unseen in the corner: mythical, ethereal, and a part of the shadows themselves.
And suddenly she knew…
This was what she had feared all day, the cause of that deep, uneasy stirring in her belly, not some two-bit criminal who wanted to pay her back for a perceived, wrongful conviction, not the caller who had threatened to burn her like a witch, but this man, the one standing directly in front of her.
She summoned every ounce of courage she possessed, suddenly realizing it was vitally important that she get away.
Now.
“Who are you?” she whispered. “And why are you doing this?”
He reached out to grasp her by the jaw, and she instinctively slapped at his wrist. “Don’t touch me!”
His fingers were like an iron vise, welded to her chin, permanent and unmovable. His shoulders stiffened, and he encircled both of her wrists with his other hand, locking them in a flesh-and-blood handcuff. “Do not fight me, angel,” he drawled, as if he fully expected her to comply.
Oh shit, she thought, as her knees grew weak. She hoped she hadn’t just ticked him off.
It was already clear he was crazy.
Jordan tugged at her hands, trying to wrench them free, but they wouldn’t budge; and he refused to release her.
“What is your name?” he asked.
She nearly swayed in place.
Was he serious?
“Anna,” she finally croaked out, hoping to talk her way out of the terrifying situation.
He frowned. “Your name is not Anna. Try again.”
She swallowed hard and stared over his shoulder, her eyes still scanning the garage, her soul still praying that someone might come and save her. “Look, I don’t know what you want, but trust me, you don’t want to do this.”
“I want you to look into my eyes,” he said, his voice dropping in both pitch and timbre so that it sounded like a haunting chime of bells.
She gaped at him in disbelief, even as she locked her gaze with his.
He released her wrists and clutched at a deep blue object that was hanging around his neck, some sort of gemstone attached to the end of a leather cord, like an amulet. And then, all of a sudden, the object began to glow, and she thought she smelled burning flesh. He winced in pain and released it, muttering beneath his breath: “Dear gods of The Pantheon…” His expression flashed with the strangest hint of…recognition?…and then he placed his hand in her hair; caressed a lock of her thick auburn curls; and slowly let the strands slide through his fingers. His eyes practically glowed with a reflection of ownership in their depths as he reached out to trace her bottom lip with his thumb. “Gods, you’re beautiful,” he whispered.
Jordan visibly trembled, all the while wishing she had the courage to bite off his thumb.
Yet and still, she couldn’t scream.
She. Couldn’t. Scream.
As it stood, all she could do was stand there and gawk…and tremble…as her palms began to sweat. By all that was holy, he was the most strikingly handsome man she had ever seen, and the most frightening creature she had ever encountered. His deep sapphire eyes, with their pale pupils of gold, practically smoldered with ferocity; his harsh masculine features belied a barely leashed lethality; and his unseen aura radiated all around him in a dozen tangible waves, projecting dominance, power, and possession. For lack of a better description, he didn’t seem altogether human—why weren’t his irises white?
She shivered, trying once again to find her voice.
Why couldn’t she scream?
Jordan Anderson was a strong, educated woman. Hell, she was a prosecuting attorney, and she had spent years arguing with scumbag lawyers, reading the riot act to bad guys, and besting other, much more experienced counselors in court. She knew how to handle herself in a tight situation, but it was as if her will was no longer her own, as if this man—this being—had c
aptured her voice and locked it away in a vault, allowing her words, but refusing to let her scream.
She knew it didn’t make any sense, but what other explanation was there?
Swallowing her fear, she tried to summon her reason and collect her wits. She tried to think like a lawyer. “Look,” she said, in as firm a tone as she could muster, “I don’t know what’s happening here, who you are, or what you think you want with me, but you have to know that I’m a criminal attorney, an officer of the district court; and that means what you’re doing right now is a felony.” She quickly shook her head and held up her hand to appease him. “But it’s okay…so far…nothing has happened that can’t be reversed. You can still walk away. You can still let me go. This can still end in your favor. If you would just take a few steps back, I would be happy to forget this ever happened. I’m sure we can come to an understanding.” She tried to soften her eyes as well as her voice. “What do you say?”
The corners of his mouth turned up in a parody of a smile, but it didn’t reflect any mirth. In fact, the gesture was curiously sad. “Ah, my sweet, sweet angel. You are trying so hard to alter something that is older than time, something so much bigger than you or I. Indeed, we must come to an understanding…very soon. There is much we need to work out.” He lowered his hand and absently brushed the backs of his knuckles over her lower belly, rotating the digits in a slow, methodical circle, and she thought she might just die of fright.
“Please,” she whispered, her knees nearly knocking together. “Don’t.”
He took a slow, careful step back. “I cannot do this right now, my dragyra. It is less than two hours from midnight.” He scrubbed his hand over his face and then glanced around the garage, almost as if he were at a loss as to what to do next. “Alas, I would like you to go home and wait for me.”
Jordan stifled a nervous chuckle, even as a small spark of hope ignited in her heart: If, in that moment, a little pink pig had flown by the windshield and oinked, Jordan would not have been a bit surprised. This terrifying, insane man wanted her to go home and wait for him.
