Zanaikeyros: Son of Dragons

by Tessa Dawn

  When she spoke next, she was trembling so hard that her teeth chattered in her mouth. “W…w…which of the seven gods is going to do this to me…t…to us?” She bit down hard and forced herself to speak more calmly. “Breathe fire over the dais, that is? Will it be Lord Saphyrius?”

  Zane shook his head. “All seven,” he whispered. “The Pantheon must act as one.”

  In an instant so terrifying Zane would never forget it, Jordan yanked her hands out of his, stood up like she was perfectly calm, and sidestepped around him. She took three quick steps toward the rushing falls, and then, without preamble or hesitation, she leaped off the ledge, throwing her very mortal body into the roaring cascade.

  Zane gasped in shock and horror.

  And then he flew into action.

  Moving with all the supernatural speed of his kind, he called upon his primordial dragon. Huge sapphire-and-chestnut-brown wings shot forth from his back, and he dived into the turbulent water.

  He must have been going a hundred miles per hour as he sped downward, desperate to get beneath his dragyra; shot back up through the thick of the falls; and latched both arms tightly around her waist. He flew back through the torrent, into the crevice, and dragged her to the back of the ravine.

  His heart was pounding in his chest.

  His breaths were coming in ragged gasps.

  And his own broad, muscular shoulders were trembling with shock.

  “Are you insane?” he rasped, cradling her head against his chest and holding her even tighter. “By all the gods, Jordan—what were you thinking?”

  She couldn’t answer.

  She didn’t even try.

  She simply began to sob into his chest, like a child coming apart, her streaming tears blending seamlessly into the cold, drenching water.

  Zane didn’t try to stop her.

  She needed to let it out.

  She needed to release all that terror and angst, and he had been unforgivably remiss to underestimate the depth of her pain. Of her horror. Dear gods of The Pantheon, he had almost lost her.

  “I swear to you, Jordan,” he breathed huskily in her ear, even as he retracted his wings, “I will be there with you…every step of the way…every second of the rebirth. And I will shield you from all that I can. The worst of it will only last for a moment. Angel,” he beseeched her, “I’m terrified, too. I will be the one who is burned by the fire; I will be the one who feels all the pain, all the heat, whose body is scorched and blistered. I will be the one who endures all thirty seconds…for you…for us. And I swear on the sacred stone of my maker that I will not fail you in that task. I will shield you, Jordan. On my honor as a dragyri, I swear it.”

  She continued to cry for what seemed like an eternity, her body too limp to hold itself up, and then she slowly found her footing and pulled away.

  There was no way—no way—he was letting her go. He grasped both wrists in an iron clasp and searched her eyes for proof of lucidity.

  She cleared her throat with a hollow sound. “How bad will it get, Zane, for me?”

  He searched his heart for the truest answer. “By the time that moment comes, the final three seconds before…expiration: It will pass so quickly it will hardly be felt or remembered.”

  She shook her head and tried again. “How bad?”

  “You will feel it, love, for just that instant.”

  She nodded faintly, as if coming to terms with the truth. “And the rest? The other fifty-seven seconds?”

  Zane sighed in relief. This, at least, he could tell her without cringing. “I have been told by other dragyra that the first twenty-seven seconds are uncomfortable and frightening. It is not unusual for a female to panic—it’s loud, it’s powerful, it’s consuming. But not because of any pain. The next three seconds, when the fire is the hottest, when some of it breaks through, it is as I have told you, but it passes very quickly. And then, when the healing begins, during the last thirty seconds, it’s supposed to feel like a cooling balm, one of the most pleasurable sensations you have ever felt—soothing, empowering, invigorating.” He chuckled, albeit weak and insincerely. “Believe it or not, I have been told that the ecstasy, the euphoria of those last thirty seconds is so intense, so divine, that if it were a drug, we could sell it at a premium. The temporary…discomfort…is worth the sacrifice just to experience the indescribable high.” His voice thickened with the intensity of his conviction. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Jordan. That is what I’ve been told, and there has never been an exception.”

  She peeked at him through tear-drenched lashes, and her beautiful eyes looked pained, but alert. And then her eyebrows furrowed. “Does the healing fire, the last thirty seconds, restore you, too? Or will you continue to suffer?”

  Zane drew back in surprise, his mouth growing suddenly dry. “I…I’ll be fine, angel.” He tried again. “The silver-blue fire will heal me, too—I will not continue to suffer.” He was stunned that she had even considered his suffering.

  She nodded slowly, and then she sighed. “So, basically, I really shouldn’t tick you off between now and then, should I?”

  He knew it was her feeble attempt at a joke, a way to try to ease the tension, albeit dismal, but it wasn’t funny—not in the least. “Don’t even think like that,” he admonished her. “There is nothing—absolutely nothing—you could ever say or do that would make me withdraw my protection from you. I would be less than a male, less than a dragyri—I would be unworthy to draw another breath…” His voice trailed off, and he had to take a moment to subdue his inner fire. “I will shield you, angel. Of that you can be sure. I am not a virgin to the ways of the gods, to the Temple of Seven, or to the scourge of fire. I have served and protected The Pantheon for a thousand years. And now…I also serve you.”

  This time, it was Jordan who drew back in surprise, her soft hazel eyes growing dark with intensity: Had something he said finally broken through?

  Zanaikeyros held his breath.

  She stared at him acutely, like she was scrutinizing his face, like she had never laid eyes on him before. Her gaze swept over his brow, then down the straight ridge of his nose, and back and forth across the high, rugged angles and deep, furrowed planes of his cheekbones. And then she studied his mouth—was she searching for a hint of bestial fangs, or somehow measuring his sincerity?

  Her mouth parted in the barest hint of a cautious smile, and Zane’s heart slammed in his chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered faintly. “That I jumped into the falls, and that you have to endure so much agony…on my behalf. I know this is awful for you, too.”

  Her words were plainly…staggering.

  Heartfelt.

  Compassionate.

  And so unexpected.

  In the midst of her terror and forced captivity, she had stopped to think of him.

  Zane cupped her face with exquisite gentleness, staring into her eyes. “I said it earlier, and I meant it then: I would move heaven and earth for you, Jordan. As much as you are mine, I am yours. We are truly in this together, and I won’t let you down.”

  She shivered, and in that instant, Zane knew that his words had struck a chord. She was hearing him now—listening—turning the meaning of his declarations over in her head. She was seeing him as the warrior he was, and gods be merciful, just perhaps, she was seeing him as a male.

  His gaze dropped down to her mouth, to the soft, full lips that were still shivering, ever so slightly, with angst; and he knew he had to seize this moment.

  The timing was wrong, the impulse was wild and erratic, and Jordan was anything but…ready. Yet and still, she was standing there, so close to his heart, so vulnerable, exposed, and raw. His dragon could do no less than try to comfort her. Try to show her. Reach to slowly…carefully…claim her.

  He bent his head, so slowly that it almost seemed like an illusion, and then he breathed her name as his lips found hers and met them with a seal: soft, pliant, gentle as a lamb. He slowly drew her in, coaxing with tenderness, entreating with
kindness, inviting with a wisp of smoke and fire.

  She froze, refusing to kiss him back, but declining to push him away, and that’s when he deepened the kiss, taunting her mouth with his tongue…then his teeth: just a gentle nudge, a casual swipe, a barely discernable nip.

  Her mouth opened, and she kissed him back: not thinking, not resisting, not fighting for position. Just being in the moment with him.

  Zane led her beyond the waterfall, beyond her fear, beyond her fragile caution, deep into the pleasure of a dragyri’s passion—letting her taste the fire on his tongue—and then he pulled back, slowly—oh, so carefully—allowing the moment to linger.

  There were times when words were inadequate, and this was one of those moments.

  There was no need to think it, turn it over in their heads, analyze some far-reaching meaning. There was only the lingering sensation of their sweet exchange and the beginnings of a deeper connection.

  Thank you, my dragyra, he spoke inside her mind, and then he rested his forehead against hers, and the two of them embraced the inner stillness, inside the underbelly of the churning falls, together.

  f

  Salem Thorne backed deeper into the crevice of the damp, cavernous ledge as Zane and Jordan kissed. Well, he thought, with more than just a little disgust, that was not how he would have handled it.

  Helpless maiden…

  Captured, and alone…

  There was nothing she could do, and nowhere she could go…

  Shit, she’d be on her back, lying in the dirt, and her thighs would be wrapped around his hips, whether she wanted them there or not—to hell with whether she ever came around or got over it.

  He thought about the stupid, dramatic scene that had preceded the short episode of intimacy, and he snickered. The dumb wench had actually thrown herself over the falls, ready to take a long, dangerous plunge to her death, and Zane had come to her rescue, like some sort of reptilian, comic-book superhero.

  Wasn’t that just quaint.

  It had taken every ounce of self-control that Salem possessed not to shift into demon form and ambush them both when they returned to the ledge. He most certainly would have had the advantage of surprise.

  But—and this was a point he would do well not to forget—he was traveling in the elusive Dragons Domain now, and Zane was one telepathic shout, one clairvoyant broadcast, away from seven formidable lairs inhabited by dozens of savage Dragyr. Salem could not elude them, outlast them, or best them in a battle, not in their own terrain.

  Not as one against so many.

  No, he had to play it smart.

  Choose his enemy—choose his war—and strike when the iron was hot.

  So far, he had made no mistakes: He had crawled out of Jordan’s purse the moment they’d arrived through the portal, hidden behind a nearby rock, and waited to watch…and follow.

  At a very intelligent—and safe—distance.

  He had not made any noise, and he had not caused a commotion. He had no intentions of being stupid, or suicidal. And as he’d ticked off his options, one by one—how to make the most of this fortuitous situation—a few things had become immediately clear: No matter how long he hid, in waiting, in the back of a sacred lair, he would not be able to take a dragyri out—he would not get a clean shot at a Genesis Son.

  He would not get his demonic claws on Zane.

  Everything in this cursed realm was so obviously interconnected: The sounds were interwoven with the sights—waves of visible energy danced through a braided tapestry, all matter waltzing as one—and even the oxygen dovetailed with the geography, everything pulsing in sync.

  In perfect harmony.

  Hells glorious minions, even the silence was a symphony of sorts—a dozen particles of electromagnetic energy all projecting their intrinsic, quantum thoughts, like a community of ESP: One dark, disharmonious vibration from him, and the entire Garden of Eden might ignite.

  It was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen.

  And without knowing how he knew, he was absolutely certain that everything—absolutely all of it—emanated from the Temple of Seven. So yeah, that was the last thing he intended to do: broadcast his presence to seven dragon gods who could take him out with a wink and a nod.

  If Salem Thorne hoped to remain undetected, he had to watch his P’s and Q’s very, very carefully. His immediate efforts would be better spent recording his various impressions, taking some mental images, and broadcasting all of it back to the Pagan Underworld, sharing it with Lord Drakkar.

  But in time—and oh, there would come a time—he would have an opportunity to make his move…

  He chuckled inside, thinking about his dumb, demon luck, how Jordan Anderson had just given him the eventual solution. Of course he couldn’t confront—and defeat—a powerful, immortal dragyri, and of course, he had no intentions of alerting—and confronting—the gods.

  But then he didn’t have to, did he?

  Not in order to take Zane out.

  All he had to do was confront—and destroy—one helpless human female.

  Taking out Jordan would have the same effect, as Lord Saphyrius would be forced to remove Zane’s amulet.

  If Salem could only exercise patience, continue to follow Zane and Jordan around, he would only need a second, an instant, to strike—one opportune moment to shift into demon form and seize the female’s heart. She would be no match for his cunning. Her death would be instant. And Zane…well, his goose would be cooked. And that, as they say, would be that.

  Point. Set. And match.

  Salem Thorne slinked further into the shadows, sickened by the ongoing display of intimacy before him, the ludicrous vulnerability taking place beneath the falls. Enjoy it while you can, Zanaikeyros, he thought. This piteous moment of endearment will soon be your last.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Later that night, as Jordan got dressed for bed in Zane’s modern, luxurious bathroom, she thought about the letter she had written to Dan—the letter she would pass to him through Judge Stanley’s clerk tomorrow—and she thought about that kiss.

  That sweet, sensuous, skillful kiss.

  That primal, perfect, pleasurable…kiss.

  The steam from her recent shower filled the space with warmth, and she sighed: Truly, Zane Saphyrius had a raging, deeply rooted fire burning just beneath the surface, and not because he was an immortal dragyri—but because his passion was intrinsic, his hunger was essential, and his primal desire was so deeply ingrained.

  Jordan had felt that kiss all the way down to her toes, and it still made her weak in the knees, over three hours later.

  She stepped into her nightgown, pulled it up to her shoulders, and then rubbed the palm of her hand in a circle over the massive antique-framed mirror in order to clear the fog. She took a step back, regarded her reflection, and cringed: Her eyes looked markedly tired—the orbits beneath her lower lashes seemed hollow, plus her lids seemed heavy—and her overall complexion was as pale as the dragon moon. She stared into her weary, elusive gaze and tried to search her soul: What should she do?

  What should she do?

  Should she tear up the letter she had written to Dan and just try—somehow, someway—to accept her fate, or should she fight for all she was worth? Time was running out—she might not have another opportunity—and she honestly didn’t know which course of action made the most sense. On one hand, if she chose to fight on and resist, the odds were against her—she would be placing Dan, and anyone he recruited, in grave danger, exposing them to a deadly predator; and she would never forgive herself if someone got hurt.

  Or worse…

  But on the other hand, she had always done it alone: struggled alone, triumphed alone, survived alone. And she wasn’t quite ready to give that up. She wasn’t ready to be a dragon’s consort—or whatever the term for it was.

  She took a slow, deep breath and tried to recall the letter, word for word, in her mind:

  Dear Dan,

  I know I have insi
sted on maintaining silence between us, so this must come as a surprise, but I’m in trouble. Real trouble. And I desperately need your help…

  Unfortunately, you will need to trust me implicitly in order to figure this out. I can only hope that you still have faith in me, that you remember my sanity—know I’ve never been crazy—and you still care enough to act swiftly, definitely, and on my behalf. Since there’s no easy way to say this, I will just jump in with the truth: Last week, I was confronted by a man who is very powerful and connected. Without getting into too many details, he took me from my apartment, brought me into his world, and I have been “with” him ever since. He has no intentions of letting me go, and I have no clear avenue of escape. Yes, he has allowed me to show up at work and other places, but he is always close at hand, watching me…guarding me. Making sure I don’t escape.

  God, this sounds crazy, even to me, but it’s true.

  And here’s the thing: You cannot confront this guy on your own; there’s no way you will win. Believe me—nothing is as it seems. He has the power to obliterate you and everyone around you in the space of a heartbeat. (Think about confronting a trained assassin who possesses a hidden gun, or a bomb. Think about the entire room, or building, being wired to detonate if he goes down. Then think about all the people around you, who look like they’re not involved, being there as his backup. THEN TIMES THAT BY TEN. And that is what you are up against. What I am up against.) Anything less than a full-scale intervention—quick, targeted, and efficient—will fail. And if you are foolish enough to dismiss my warning, or to shrug off my analogy as overly dramatic, then you will die. And so will many others.

  I chose to contact you, rather than someone else, because you are the only person I know who a) might believe me, and b) might be capable of putting a tactical team together to get me out of this mess. Dan, do not confront him. Do not go for the arrest. Just. Get. ME. Out. And remove me to a safe, protected location…without looking back.