Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(18)

Just great.

Could this get any better?

This was exactly what Zane needed—not—a bunch of humans interfering in the middle of this mess, especially when there was an incinerated body in the back bedroom—missing a head, no less—and an unconscious woman on the couch. “Hold on,” he barked in an angry, no-nonsense tone, and then he hightailed it to the door, placed his palm on the panel, and tried to read the impressions of the humans on the other side.

There were two distinct sets of heartbeats pulsing through the panel, which meant two officers on the other side of the door, and by the acrid smell of fear, mixed with the pungent aroma of anger, he could tell they were hyped up on adrenaline. More than likely, their guns were already drawn.

Perfect.

Just perfect.

The human on Zane’s left whispered something to his partner on the right, but he more or less mouthed the words with very little air escaping his lungs. Zane couldn’t make out the sounds. No matter. He was probably telling the deputy to be ready for anything.

Anything, indeed.

Including a dragyri?

Probably not.

Zane snatched the handle to the door and yanked it open so quickly it caught the officers off guard. The men backpedaled where they stood, pointed their weapons forward, and started to squeeze their respective triggers. And that’s when Zane took control.

The guns went flying first, a simple feat of telekinesis, and then Zane reached out, snatched the first officer by the collar with his left hand, the second with his right, and dragged them both into the apartment, slamming the door behind them with his mind.

Oh hell.

The guns.

He switched into lightning-fast mode, moving faster than a human eye could trace, reopened the door, flew through the threshold to retrieve the weapons, and quickly reentered the apartment, all in the space of two heartbeats. He started to tuck both .45 caliber weapons into the waist of his jeans, realized he was wearing pajamas with a flimsy elastic band, and tossed both firearms into the corner, instead, after first removing the clips.

The humans were still in shock.

“W…w…what the hell!” A tall redheaded officer stuttered, spinning around in a dazed, wobbly circle while searching the floor for his gun.

“John, behind you!” the second officer warned, reaching toward a small black clip on his waist, attached to a thick leather holster, to unlock a canister of pepper spray—or was he reaching for the stun gun?

Again, it didn’t matter.

Zane cleared his throat and shook his head, commanding both officers’ attention. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said to the hesitant blond, whose hand hovered—and hesitated—above the holster.

The blond blinked two times and measured Zane from head to toe, his gaze lingering on the liberal sprays of blood soaking the once-white T-shirt. His jaw tightened, and his fist twitched, almost as if he were priming a pump, and he took a measured step backward. His hand shifted from the backup weapon to the narrow, hand-sized radio as he slowly depressed a button. He intended to call for help—hell, to bring half the force as backup.

Zane pierced his mind in an instant, retrieving his thoughts with ease, as well as his name. “I wouldn’t do that, either, Ryan. Why don’t you just relax.”

Ryan’s thumb fell away from the button even as his jaw dropped open. “Look,” he said, surveying the apartment with a wary, hurried glance—he caught a glimpse of Jordan, still unconscious on the couch, and his entire body tensed. “One way or another, this…this…this jig is up. Whatever you had planned, it’s not going down.” He cast a sideways glance at Jordan and slowly shook his head. “Dispatch will send backup in a matter of minutes if we don’t call in, and there is no way we’re letting this…scene…continue. So my advice to you—”

Zane waved a dismissive hand, cutting him off in midsentence. He narrowed his gold-and-sapphire gaze into two vertical slits, much like a cat’s, and locked on to Ryan’s pupils. “So here’s what you’re gonna do.” He leveled a quick, passing glance at the other officer, as well—at John—just to bring him into the fold. “You’re gonna pick up that radio, real nice and steady, and you’re gonna call in, in a relaxed, natural voice—tell them it’s all clear, there was nothing unusual going on, and then you’re both going to leave this apartment.” He dropped his voice nearly an octave. “You saw nothing. You remember nothing. The call was uneventful, and no one is to follow up. Are we clear?”

Ryan’s nose wrinkled in confusion, and he ran his tongue over his top front teeth, as if he were trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth—then he nodded slowly in acquiescence. “Uh, uh, yeah.” His voice sounded uncertain.

“Are we clear?” Zane repeated, making sure the compulsion would hold.

Ryan nodded more enthusiastically this time. “Yeah, sure, we’re clear.”

John was a little less certain, possibly because Zane had only held his gaze for an instant. “Wh…what about the lady on the couch. Is she okay?” the unsteady officer asked.

Zane swept his gaze over Jordan. Oh, hell, she was probably anything but okay, at least with the situation, and he was going to have to mend some fairly damaged fences in order to make things right, but that wasn’t what the redhead was asking. “She’s perfect,” Zane replied, searing his gaze into John’s. “Right as rain and taking a nap.”