by Tessa Dawn
Not now.
Not ever.
She felt it in his touch.
And then she saw the two tethered loops bolted to the floor—oh, God; Zane’s body had been blocking them—those were the handholds she was supposed to grasp when she kneeled before the fire. “No, Zane. No! No-no-no!” She backpedaled into his chest.
“Avert your eyes, dragyra,” he whispered into her ear. “Be brave, my angel. I’ve got you.”
The air around them began to heat like an oven, and she struggled to draw in breath.
And then, one by one, each dragon lord rose from his respective throne, starting with Lord Dragos, rising from the center diamond cathedra. “You may regard our eyes.” His voice resounded like crackling thunder ricocheting throughout the great hall, and Jordan’s knees literally knocked together beneath her luxuriant dress.
She lifted her eyes, and her stomach grew queasy.
The gods were in their amalgamated form—spectral prisms of light reflecting the hues of their primary stones—while their ferocious beasts shadowed them in silhouette. But no sooner than Jordan’s eyes had regaled—and accepted—the first merciful visage, their dragons advanced to the forefront: The ghostly beasts, behind the ancient lords—within them, all around them, and enveloping them—donned their scales, released their pointed ears, and revealed their razor-sharp teeth. And now, it was their human counterparts becoming dim, masculine reflections that faded into the background as dark-gray wisps of smoke began to waft from their elongated snouts.
Oh no, oh no, oh no!
Jordan’s legs gave way, and she staggered to the side.
Zane caught her by the waist and hauled her upright, steadying her body with his hands. “I’m right here—right behind you, dragyra. I’ve got you. I’m with you,” he whispered in her ear, but she could feel his strong arms trembling.
Zanaikeyros was afraid.
For the first time since she’d known him, the male was consumed with dread; and didn’t that just tell her everything he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say.
“Kneel with me, angel,” he murmured, and she literally gasped for breath.
“I can’t…I can’t…oh, God, Zane, I can’t.”
“Shh.” He stroked her hair and rubbed her arms. “We’re almost there, my love. Kneel.” He grasped her by both hands and drew her down to the dais floor, even as he fell to one knee before his lords. “Count backward from three to one, angel. Do it. Do it right now.”
Jordan felt like her throat was closing, and she struggled to croak out the words: “Three, two, one…”
“That’s exactly it,” he said. “That’s all. Three seconds, dragyra. Be strong.” And then, without warning or preamble, he placed his hands over hers, stroked each glove, and stretched out her arms, one at time, toward the secure, solid-steel rings. As he wrapped her fingers around the handholds, each hand in turn, she trembled like a captive bird, and tears of helplessness began to stream down her cheeks.
“Shh, baby, I know. Be brave for me, my love. Hold onto the rings, and don’t let go.” He tightened his hands along the small of her hips, feeling for her center of gravity, and then he shifted her body, a little to the left, and leaned heavily into her, pressing her torso forward, until she was crouched in a secure position.
She thought her bones might just rattle right out of her body, and she began to gasp for air—dear lord, was she hyperventilating?
“It’s okay,” Zane whispered again. “I’ve got you. Can you feel me? Concentrate on your breathing; listen for my heartbeat; let go of your thoughts. Don’t think at all, Jordan. Just tune into me.”
She tried desperately to do as he instructed, but her panic was getting the best of her, and then Lord Saphyrius ambled forward, away from his sapphire throne—apart from the other dragons—and his azure eyes began to glow in the pale light of the temple. He raised his giant serpentine head and fixed his gaze on Zanaikeyros. “My son.”
The dragyri lowered his head in homage. “Father.”
“We will hear your invocation now.”
“What’s happening? What’s going on? What’s going to happen next?” Jordan whimpered, although she already knew the answers.
Zane tightened his arms around her. “Be brave,” he whispered one last time, and then he cleared his throat, released his wings, and enfolded Jordan in their satin—crushing her beautiful dress—as he encased her body, one final time, in a cocoon made of silk.
In a timeless address to his primordial masters, he raised his voice, and his words echoed throughout the sanctuary, rising to the cathedral ceilings and beyond…
“Great dragon lords, from the world beyond;
fathers of mystery, keepers of time;
I bring to you this mortal soul.
Born of fire, bathed in light;
to guard by day and watch by night;
to live, and love, and breathe as one,
the fated of a dragon’s son—
be gentle with her soul.
Through sacred smoke and healing fire;
a flesh- and blood-renewing pyre;
I give my life, with one desire—
reanimate her soul.
Great dragon lords of the sacred stones;
from the Temple of Seven, from your honored thrones;
renew my dragyra, and bless the Sapphire Lair.”
Jordan wanted to get up and run.
She just couldn’t do this.
Heaven knew, she adored Zanaikeyros, but this was beyond reconciliation. She started to wriggle back and forth, to fight against the dragyri’s heavy presence, but he only leaned harder against her, clasped his hands over hers—over the infernal rings—and tightened his satiny wings all around her, until they felt like the vest of a straightjacket.
And then she heard a distant purr.
It sounded like the tremolo of a lion.
And then it rose to a crescendo and filled the cathedral, roaring like an oncoming train.
The blaze that struck the dais was like nothing Jordan had ever experienced or imagined—the sound, the feel, and the fury—it was like a battering ram slamming through a living room wall.
It was terrifying.
It was savage.
And it was brutal, without constraint.
Jordan screamed, but the sound was drowned out by the fire.
All around her—to the left, to the right, above, and below—she was suddenly engulfed in flames.
“No. No! Noooooooooo!” she cried, bucking, twisting, and struggling. Through the corners of her eyes, she could see the seven mystical dragons as fire shot forth from their throats. The flames coalesced—and then they mingled—they became a centralized conflagration: permeating the dais, exploding like living lightning, and landing with finite precision.
She was about to pass out from fright, so she fixed her eyes on Zane’s strong hands—still looped over hers on the handholds—and she began to count backward: “Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven—”
Her counting was abruptly cut off by an ear-shattering bellow—Zanaikeyros crying out in pain!
Oh gods, oh, gods, oh gods…
The sound was so full of anguish and torment that it shook the dais beneath them.
Jordan’s heart seized in her chest, and she gasped for air, twisting to glance behind her. “Zane…”
He sounded like he was dying.
“Zane!”
The air filled with the stench of his burning flesh, and the heat—the sheer, unrelenting temperature—felt all-consuming. The dragyri’s head jerked back on his shoulders, and his mouth contorted in trauma. He arched his back; his thighs began to tremble; and he started to writhe like an animal.
They were torturing him beyond reason.
“Zane! Zane! Zane!” She wanted to reach out and soothe him. “No!” she shouted angrily at the gods, consumed with wild fury.
This wasn’t right!
It wasn’t fair!
And still, he wouldn’t
stop shouting.
Someone, make him stop!
Oh, please, just make it stop!
His wings were melting, his bones were disintegrating, and his hands were sticking to her gloves—yet and still, the male held on.
He bent forward, forming an arc above her.
He used his head like a shield to protect her.
And he tightened his arms—what was left of his wings—all around her torso, even as he pressed tighter against her back, his now-hollow chest heaving from the effort…
And the agony.
And then, out of nowhere, the fire broke through.
Zane could no longer contain it.
A pain so acute, so unbearable—so unholy—punched the breath out of Jordan’s body. It struck her like a hammer bearing down on an anvil, and she prayed to any deity that would listen—just kill me!
Please, have mercy, and just kill me.
She jackknifed and screamed, bucked and shrieked, out of her mind with agony, and then—just like that—there was silence.
Darkness.
Stillness.
The complete absence of being.
It wasn’t a sensation—because there was no consciousness—it was more like simply ceasing to be…anything.
Alive.
Aware.
Asleep.
There was simply and absolutely…
Nothing.
And then she heard a sharp but distant pop, and an even fainter sound, like music—maybe a harp or a cello—rushing through her consciousness like an ambient stream; and light began to radiate all around her. First silver, then blue, then a resplendent combination of the two, and her body felt like it was floating.
Ah, and then…
And then…
It felt like a pure awakening.
The lightness in her head was intoxicating, her body tingled with ecstasy, and her spirit felt powerful—invincible—alive.
And Jordan knew she was perfect.
She was free.
There was no pain. There was no worry. There was no guilt, or shame, or regret—there was only the nirvana that swept her away: serenity, joy, and peace.
All her life she had sought this perfection—just a moment, just an instant, just a glimpse—and she wanted to remain there forever. She didn’t need to eat, or think, or do—not anything—ever again.
She just wanted to bathe in this light.
Forever.
“Oh gods, please, let me stay in this grace. If this is dying, I’m no longer afraid.”
Zane stirred behind her, threatening to pull her out of her reverie; and truth be told—in that blissful moment—he was the only soul in the universe that could. She felt him take a huge gulp of breath, and then his chest expanded; his body stopped trembling; and he slowly retracted his wings.
Jordan turned around, ever so slowly, and reached for his handsome face. She cupped his strong, angular jaw in her fingers, ran her thumb along his bottom lip, and began to weep, uncontrollably.
She couldn’t help it.
She was drowning in clarity.
Greater love hath no man than he would lay down his life for a friend…
And Zane had sacrificed everything—to shield her, to protect her, to bear the brunt of the pain…to spare her from the worst of the dragons’ flames.
If she lived a thousand years, she would love this male until her dying breath. Only now did she truly understand what this mating had cost him—from the very first moment, when he had claimed her in that garage.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a sudden glimpse of a brilliant sparkling light, a prism of effervescence gleaming from the fourth finger of her left hand. And like the glow of the moon on a dark, cloudy night, the light stood out on her finger, contrasted against the golden hues of Zane’s flawless skin. She studied her hand absently, and then her eyes zeroed in on the ornament.
Great dragon lords, there was a dazzling, perfectly cut sapphire in the center of an antique ring encircling her wedding finger. The disk was fashioned in the shape of a dragon, and flowing, like planets around the sun—orbiting the flawless sapphire—were six immaculate gemstones: a diamond, an emerald, an amethyst, an onyx, a citrine, and a magnificent topaz.
“Zanaikeyros,” she whispered lovingly, rubbing her thumbs along his skin. “Are you okay? Say something, dragyri; tell me you’re no longer in pain.”
He heaved a rugged sigh, and then he fixed those glorious sapphire-gold eyes on hers and smiled like an innocent child. And by all the gods, it was the most glorious sight she had ever seen. Her ring paled by comparison.
He was too exhausted to speak, so she crawled into his arms and held him like she would never let him go—because she wouldn’t.
“I love you, Zane,” she breathed into his ear. “I love you so very much—and I’m sorry I ever doubted you…” Her voice trailed off, and she giggled, actually laughed with merriment.
He tightened his arm around her back, nuzzled her neck with his nose, and pressed a warm, tender kiss into the hollow of her throat. “You were brave, dragyra. Brave and beautiful. And I love you, too. I will love you forever.” His gorgeous mouth quirked up into a smile, and he stared at her glistening ring.
“Welcome to The Pantheon of Dragons.”
Epilogue
Axeviathon Saphyrius, better known as Axe, strolled into the lobby of the King’s Castle Credit Union around ten o’clock, Monday morning. A well-dressed brunette, who looked equal parts eager and insecure, greeted him at the front entrance with a smile and a nod.
“Good morning. How can we help you today?”
Axe spared her a sidelong glance and kept right on walking.
One, he didn’t have the time, nor the desire, to deal with extraneous humans today; and two, he knew exactly where he was going: through the lobby, past the tellers, and down the long, narrow hall on the right—straight to the opulent office of the bank’s newest manager, Warren Simmons.
Warren was a card-carrying member of the Cult of Hades, a faction of clueless humans who dabbled in the occult—or so they thought. In reality, they served a dangerous, supernatural god, and they didn’t even know it.
Drakkar Hades.
King of the underworld and ruler of demons and shades.
Father of the Pagan Horde.
The ancient pagan had messed with the Temple of Seven. He had ticked off the dragon lords by trying to destroy an original dragyri son, Zane Saphyrius—Axe’s lair-mate. And in doing so, the dark king had provoked the Seven’s wrath. Not only had Drak sent Salem Thorne, a despicable, caustic demon, to try to slay Zane’s new mate, but he had manipulated the female’s best friend, Macy, by using her surgeon to take advantage of her vulnerable heart. In short, he had planned to use the women’s friendship to one day get to Zane, and the doctor had just been a pawn: an accessible, pliant, easy-to-manipulate tool, due to a weakness in his character…
And a fissure in his soul.
Pagans were bottom-feeders at best.
No better than carp or vultures.
They fed on the souls—and the sins—of humans.
If the pagan was a shadow-walker (or a “shade”), he simply fed on the human’s essence; he reanimated his immortal, skeletal carcass by devouring the person’s spirit. But if he was a demon—and especially if he was ancient—then he fed on the human’s sins: He encouraged them, milked them, caught them in the act, and grew stronger by association…
And proxy.
Salem had taken advantage of the surgeon’s pride, his never-ending ambition to rise in the eyes of others, no matter the stakes or the costs, and Lord Drakkar Hades had hoped to use the not-so-fine doctor sometime in the future, in a manner as old as time. As Zane grew closer to his new dragyra, as her burgeoning role in The Pantheon was cemented, Drakkar had hoped to draw on her enduring friendship with Macy to sneak a wolf in sheep’s clothing into Dragons Domain. Whether on Christmas, Valentine’s Day, or some other uniquely human holiday, the pagan king was gam
bling on the certainty that a time would surely come when Macy would want to send her BFF a box of chocolates, or a bag stuffed with gifts—hell, a simple housewarming present would do.
And then Drakkar could use the doctor, and the doctor could use Macy…
The pretty, wrapped gifts would not contain delectable chocolates. They would not contain a snow globe or a bottle of fine wine. They would be the pagan substitute of a Trojan horse: ten, fifteen, maybe twenty ancient demons, all in beetle form, nestled snugly inside the packages, waiting to invade, shift, and attack. Drakkar was gambling on the fact that the doctor could get Drak’s pagans through the portal—and into that foreign realm—that they could one day slip in, undetected, posing as harmless gifts. And then they could strike swiftly—and definitively—at The Pantheon of Dragons.
And that’s why Axe was at the bank.
That’s why he was carrying a large box of chocolates, stuffed with Dr. Kyle Parker’s right hand, and wrapped in pretty gold paper, secured by a bloodred bow (truly, the bow had been dipped in blood), and the accompanying card was simple, elegant, and to the point: For Drak; the best-laid plans of mice and pagans often go astray.
The king would get the message.
A young African-American security guard rounded the corner in a rush and called out to Axe—the greeter must have tipped him off. Axeviathon spun around, lowered his shades, and gave the youngster a clear, up-close-and-personal view of his sapphire irises and his jet-black pupils, his otherworldly dragon eyes, and he smiled. “Go back to your post, son, and stay there.” His words were laced with an implicit compulsion, and the human stopped dead in his tracks. He blinked three times, scanned the hallway in confusion, and immediately turned on his heels.
Good human, Axe thought.
He continued to saunter down the hallway to the last door on the right. Then he reached for the handle, turned it clockwise, and strolled into the room. Warren Simmons bolted upright, stepped back from his desk, and immediately reached for the fly on his pants. A skinny female companion, who didn’t look a day over seventeen years old, reached for the sides of her skirt, yanked it into place, and shimmied off Warren’s desk.
Both of them looked ashamed.
