by Tessa Dawn
He sighed, feeling a bit of melancholy and monotony right now—things never moved as quickly as he hoped. Still, all was on schedule, plans were unfolding, and he had lived for fourteen billion years—he could certainly exercise a modicum of patience for a few more days…see what panned out.
Chapter Twenty-five
District Courtroom ~ 1:00 PM
Zane sat in the back of the courtroom in a hard wooden pew, trying to get comfortable on the stiff, unforgiving wood. There were a dozen or so spectators scattered about the audience, including Zane’s lair-mate Leviathon, since Axe had been busy and unable to come. Both Zane and Levi had been approached by the bailiff the moment they had walked through the doors, and asked to remove their shades—apparently, sunglasses and hats weren’t allowed in the courtroom.
On first impulse, Zane had bristled—the hell they aren’t—and considered searing a quick compulsion into the bailiff’s mind, but on second thought, he had taken off the sunglasses, because all the other spectators would notice them, too—and then he would have to control them all. As it stood, both he and Levi had to throw up a soft, energetic barricade in place of the glasses, shield their eyes with a mental distortion—like a faint, hazy fog—so if other humans glanced in their direction, they would only get a dim impression of their otherworldly peepers.
Those damn sapphire irises that stood out like bright red paint on a pure white canvas.
So far, the morning had been mostly uneventful. Jordan and her partner, along with the defendant’s defense attorneys—three middle-aged white males with cheap blue suits—had taken turns questioning potential jurors and letting the judge know if they were acceptable or not.
While slow and monotonous, the process had also been somewhat fascinating, at least in so far as it revealed more about Jordan’s mind, her analytical abilities, and her legal skill. She was tough, and she was smart. In almost every instance, when Zane could read the human’s soul, delve into their mind, and retrieve their true motivation, Jordan also hit the nail on the head. She knew who they were, what they were really about, and any preconceptions about the defendant in the case.
Only Jordan did it from experience. She read their body language, listened to their speech, saw beneath their facades. There was one guy, however, a forty-something dad Jordan had missed: He had a misogynist bent the size of Texas, which made him biased against the People’s case, against the pretty female attorney, but he hid it beneath a soft, self-effacing demeanor.
Still, all and all, she was incredibly skilled at her craft.
“How do you feel about minority-owned businesses? Do you have any preconceptions or internal biases?” A defense attorney was questioning potential juror number fifty-two when all of a sudden, the air in the courtroom turned…frosty.
Zane swiveled his head to the side and met Levi’s corresponding stare—so his lair-mate had felt it too, a shift in the energy that wasn’t based on actual temperature or a sudden change in the climate, but a feeling of malaise.
What the hell? Zane thought.
He sat forward in the pew, all five senses seeking outward, on hyper-alert.
And that’s when the mayhem ensued: The courtroom audience gasped, Jordan spun around at her table, and the bailiff crowded the judge as the main doors to the courtroom, along with the back door to the judge’s chambers, swung open with a clattering bang.
An entry team of five amped-up, brawny men, each carrying his own submachine gun—three strapped with concussion grenades—stormed into the courtroom: two from the main doorway; two from the judge’s chambers; and one from the jury-room door. At the same time, a tall black male and his short Asian partner both took positions on opposite sides of the wall, each pointing deadly sniper rifles right at the courtroom audience.
“Everyone get down!” the point-man for the team of five shouted, as two other tactical watchdogs, those who had entered through the main courtroom doors, rushed down the center aisle, dashed past the courtroom bar, and headed straight for the plaintiff’s table—coming way too close to Jordan.
Zane shot up in his seat, primed for a fight and ready to deflect anything that came his way, even as both snipers adjusted their rifles and aimed their barrels in his direction. A bright beam of glowing red light illuminated over his chest, even as a second beam—that he could feel, not see—appeared over the space between his eyes. His top lip twitched, his fangs descended, and he began to snarl…
So these humans wanted to play…
Before he could lunge or retreat, a tall, handsome man in his early thirties, wearing a charcoal-gray suit, with meticulously groomed brown hair, stepped forward in the doorway, and Zane knew in an instant that this was the guy who had been throwing off all that shade: the thick, disturbing vibration that Zane and Levi had originally felt.
This man wasn’t just pumped with adrenaline; this man was summarily, personally, and intrinsically pissed off. And he had been staring like a hawk at Jordan before shifting that hate-filled gaze to Zane.
Shit, Zane thought, immediately putting two and two together: So none of this had anything to do with Jordan’s case or the jury selection. It had nothing to do with the defendant. It was all about Jordan and Zane.
She had somehow gotten an SOS out to her human friends.
Zane swallowed his fury and instantly went dark—perhaps light was a more accurate term—the dragyri went invisible.
And then he prepared to lunge, right across the courtroom, land on the plaintiff’s table, and grab Jordan by the waist—he would bust through the ninth-floor, bulletproof glass if he had to and take her out through the window.
His biceps twitched.
His pectoral muscles jerked.
And the ribbed, satiny wings nestled inside of his back began to expand behind his shoulder blades, preparing to open on command.
Whoa, brother! Levi’s telepathic intrusion was about as subtle as a cannonball leaving the muzzle as it slammed into his head. Don’t do anything stupid, Zane. There are a lot of unknown variables going on in this scene: You can block bullets, but Jordan can’t; you can pass through walls, but your dragyra cannot—the broken glass could eviscerate her. You can see and breathe through smoke or gas, but she could be adversely affected. The only way out of this may be to take a few lives—and I’m with you, if that’s what it comes to—but these guys, their souls; they’re not tainted, Zane. We will have to violate law.
You think I give a flying shit, Zane roared in Levi’s mind, spinning around to face him. He immediately realized that Levi had gone light’s out, too, shrouded in invisibility with him, but it didn’t matter: not one ounce. He could track the dragyri’s primordial heartbeat. He could zoom in on the blood rushing in the dragyri’s veins. Lord Saphyrius will understand, he snarled, sounding as mad as he felt. Lord Saphyrius will have my back!
His dragon was growing increasingly agitated, and he sidestepped out of the lasers’ crosshairs, now that the snipers could no longer see him. Then he dropped down low, hunched his back, and his dragon began to snarl. His fingers curled inward as his claws began to grow, and a subtle wisp of smoke coalesced at the exhale of his breath.
Two powerful arms encircled him from behind. “Zane!” This time Levi growled in his ear. “Call back your beast, brother! You don’t want to do this.”
A red haze of madness began to swirl about Zane’s head as two team members—these dudes were obviously SWAT—snatched Jordan by both arms, yanked her out of her seat, and began to drag her down the aisle, all the while running backward. At the same time, two other armed guards created a barricade in front of them—shielding them with their bodies and their weapons, sweeping the rifles side to side—as they took the rear retreat.
“Be still,” Levi whispered in Dragonese. “Stay with my voice. She’s not in any danger.” He tightened his hold around Zane’s trembling shoulders. “Breathe, brother…just breathe.” The male was working so hard to restrain Zane’s temper that a soft white light began to glow aroun
d his arms. “Let’s follow them instead, see where they take her. They will move her to someplace far more secluded, and then we will have the tactical advantage. Besides, at this juncture, we need to know who they are, how much they know, how many we need to neutralize. No need to blaze this place, my brother. There’s nowhere they can go; there’s no place they can hide; there is nothing they can do to stop us. Comprende?”
What the heck?
Had Levi just switched to Spanish?
Zane closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, sniffing out two distinct aromas: Jordan’s initial terror—and then relief—and that bastard’s overwhelming stench of triumph.
The guy in the tailored suit…
The one with the well-groomed hair…
Zane would never, ever forget that scent.
And innocent soul or not—he would gnaw on the human’s spine like a dog with a bone—chew it down to the marrow.
Levi whistled low beneath his breath, clearly tuned into Zane’s thoughts. We can evaluate that possibility later, he said telepathically, this time. But right now—right now—I need you to be one hundred percent—focused, alert, and fully present—so we can trail these guys…and Jordan. You with me? Zane?
Zanaikeyros reined in his dragon.
He called back the beast.
And he slowly nodded his head, even though he knew Levi couldn’t see it.
“Thank you,” he grunted, almost unintelligibly, regaining his sense of composure. And then he shuddered at the territorial ferocity of his own inner dragon—never in all his years had he possessed such a primal impulse, such a savage, possessive desire to kill.
This claiming was truly a deeply ingrained, all-pervasive drive.
And Levi Saphyrius had just saved an entire courthouse full of humans from an unimaginable slaughter.
Chapter Twenty-six
Once they had made it out of the courtroom, Jordan did not need any encouragement to keep up with the men. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her, dove into the service elevator, right next to Dan, and descended along with the tactical crew of five to the basement floor of the plaza. The doors immediately opened into a parking garage, where a dark blue van was waiting.
The engine was already running.
The side door was already open.
And the driver’s seat was already manned.
Jordan didn’t hesitate. She scrambled into the hollowed-out vehicle—Dan was right on her heels—and scooted along the floor to make room for the tactical crew members. “Where are we going?” she panted, watching anxiously as the last of the five slammed the door shut.
“An empty, gated estate, about five miles away,” Dan huffed, as clearly winded as Jordan. “It belongs to a federal judge who’s received a lot of death threats—he has a bunker in his basement, and it’s a virtual vault.”
Jordan nodded, still catching her breath.
In a matter of minutes, they were speeding out of the garage, with the tires screeching behind them. They headed north, away from the courthouse, and turned in to a narrow back alley.
Jordan pulled her knees to her chest, brushed her hair out of her eyes, and tried to clear her mind. She was grateful that there weren’t any windows in the back of the van—she could only peer through the front windshield—otherwise, she would constantly watch for Zane.
As the realization of what had just happened—what she had just done—slowly sank in, she felt like she might be sick.
Holy Saint Barbara, protect me from harm…
What had she set into motion?
What had she done to Zane?
The dragyri would never be defeated by the likes of Jordan, Dan, and a handful of human warriors—he would never be outmaneuvered by their pitiful, inferior tactics. Holy hell, both Zane and Levi had simply vanished in the middle of the fray—simply rendered themselves invisible in the middle of the gallery—but not before Zane’s eyes had begun to glow, and his fangs had extended into sharp, bestial points. Not before those sapphire eyes had registered rage and madness…and absolute determination.
God save them all, Zane’s dragon was pissed!
And what must he think of her now?
Her teeth began to chatter, and she started to rock back and forth on the floor of the van, appreciating the fact that she was finally losing it: For the first time, since all of this had happened, Jordan was this close to flipping her lid, relinquishing her sanity for good. And it wasn’t just the fear—the terror of it all. It was the deep, gnawing, inexplicable guilt, an emotion that was mounting—and spreading—like a radiating pain, traveling outward through her torso from the center of her chest.
Either that, or she was about to have a heart attack.
Damn, it felt like someone had just impaled her with a spike.
As she placed her hand over her heart, trying to measure the erratic beats, the van pulled out of the alley, crossed three lanes of traffic, and darted onto the on-ramp of the freeway. She let go of her heart and held onto a metal ring sticking up through a torn piece of carpet, dissecting the vehicle’s floor.
And the nausea swelled.
It roiled in her stomach.
As wave after wave of vertigo assailed her.
She could only describe the feeling—the rising illness—as being in shock, but not the kind of shock that left the mind empty and blank, or the senses unaware. If anything, this was the opposite condition: Her mind was anything but empty, and her senses were acutely on board—registering the fact that she had just lost something…left something…incredibly important behind.
Something wholly fundamental to her well-being.
For lack of a better explanation, Jordan felt like a wolf who had been caught in a snare for days: desperate, hungry, and dying inside. In her panic and her angst, she had chewed through her leg to escape—she had severed a part of her body in a reckless grasp for her freedom—and only now was she beginning to feel the pain.
None of it made any sense.
She didn’t care what happened to Zane—did she?
And all that cryptic talk about death and dying—that had just been hyperbole, right?
Zane would be fine without her, perhaps a little lonely, but fine.
So then why was this…sensation…so great?
Physical, spiritual, almost existential.
And completely unexpected.
“Jordan. Jordan!” Dan’s voice was growing harsh with urgency. “Snap out of it, Anderson!”
She blinked three times. “W… w…what?” she asked. Had he been speaking to her for a while?
“What the hell is going on?” he practically shouted, brandishing her letter in his hand. “Who was that guy, and what’s been happening? Jordan, you need to start talking, and fast! I don’t know what we’re up against. I don’t know how to protect you, other than to take you to this bunker. You need to help me out—because this letter? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Jordan nodded her head and licked her lips, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Every head in the van had turned in her direction, and every ear had just perked up. Shit. Just shit. She hadn’t thought this through, and she certainly hadn’t thought about sharing any part of her ordeal with anyone other than Dan.
Putting anyone else at risk.
This wasn’t the time, and it wasn’t the place, regardless of the urgent situation. Maybe she could just tell him—
“Jordan!” Her name again.
She cringed.
“Jordan.” He spoke softer now. “Sweetie…”
She dropped her head in her hands and dug her fingernails into her hair.
Oh God; oh, God; oh, God…
What. Had. She. Done.
f
Zanaikeyros stood in the underground garage, his feet a shoulder’s width apart; his arms crossed over his chest; his sapphire-gold eyes closed as he maintained the deep psychic trance—as he tracked Jordan Anderson’s blood like a homing pigeon, following the roadways, accessing her speed, feeling for the bodies�
�and heat—all around her.
Seven men.
One of them, the driver.
One of them, the dude in the charcoal-gray suit, the attorney.
His name was—
Dan Summers.
She was in a hollowed-out van, speeding toward the interstate, and she was virtually quaking with fear. Sick with regret. Or maybe regret was not the right word: She was feeling the truth of their connection…and now, their separation.
Her dragyra soul was weeping, whether she understood it or not.
He took snapshot after snapshot in his mind’s eye, memorializing the images and the map as a series of pictures in his neocortex—transferable impressions that he could pass on to his lair-mates, a GPS that any of them could follow.
Speaking of his sapphire brothers: One by one, he could feel them surrounding him as they transported into the courtroom plaza garage: first Axe, then Jace, then finally Nakai. Levi was already there.
The dark blue van stopped in front of a gated estate. The iron doors swung open, and it pulled into a long, curved drive before snaking its way toward the back of the compound. Zane zoomed in on an address affixed to a brick-and-mortar post, next to five parallel wooden garage doors. The four iron block letters inscribed into the column were plain and easy to read: 6958. He didn’t need to know the name of the street or the subdivision, and he didn’t need to know the name of its owner—he had the map. He had the directions. And he also had his backup, the brothers of his lair.
He opened his eyes and banked his fire—suppressed his dragon’s rage.
“This shit has already made the human news,” Nakai said, without preamble, shifting his powerful muscles beneath the frame of his duster.
Zane eyed each of his brothers in turn: Indeed, they were all wearing their knee-length leathers, in the middle of June. That meant they were conspicuous as hell and packing a hidden arsenal: assault rifles, handguns, and their favorite medieval weapons, of every class and variety. “What is the news saying?” he grunted.
