Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(22)
“Indeed,” Killian said, his own voice growing somber and thick. “And I’m already several steps ahead of you. Requiem Pyre, your chief sorcerer, has already cast a seeking spell, and he has, consequently, divined Macy’s soul. She is weak when it comes to romantic encounters, desperate for attention and love, and our power-hungry doctor is as handsome as he is rich. A nudge here, a prod there, and we believe the not-so-good doctor will take the bait. Should Salem suggest it, Dr. Parker will make Macy Wilson his whore.”
Drakkar smiled. “Very well.” He rested his hands in his lap, as if he were suddenly filled with tranquility. “Then set a plan in motion—let’s see if we can’t get a demon into the Dragons Domain. If Zane met his dragyra prior to midnight, then he only has nine days remaining to get her to the Temple of Seven.” He shook his head in earnest. “And we cannot have that.” Musing aloud, he added, “Once she’s consecrated to the dragon lords…”
“Her female powers of intuition will grow decidedly strong,” Killian supplied. “She may detect the presence of a pagan from ten blocks away, and she’ll be much more difficult to manipulate.”
“Precisely,” Drakkar murmured. And then he stared off into the distance; gazed into an arched, stone fire-pit that housed a blazing fire; and let his dark, demonic soul get lost in the dance of the flames…
Dr. Kyle Parker could finally lead them to Zane—
Zanaikeyros Saphyrius, son of dragons…
A Genesis Son!
Oh yes, the fates were definitely—finally—smiling upon the Pagan Horde.
Chapter Ten
Jordan Anderson scooted as far back as she could on the couch, trying to escape the chaos. She pressed her spine into the overstuffed cushions, tried to crawl inside the fabric, and begged any higher power that would listen to render her invisible. She wanted to vanish from the room. She wanted to stop breathing, stop living, stop existing—to somehow, someway, just remove herself from the clutches of the monster, the one who had killed Alonzo and banished the police, the one who had filled her mind with cotton, making all of her thoughts so muddled, so foggy, that it had been impossible for her to reason or think…
Or act in her own defense.
She could hardly even speak.
The one who had simply waved his rugged hand in an arc, high above the couch, and detained her where she sat, like an unchained prisoner: She could scoot forward. She could lean back. But she couldn’t get up or leave. He had caged her like an animal, taken over her body and her mind, rendered her helpless and defenseless, with the mere sweep of his hand. And to her way of thinking, he was probably going to kill her—devour her heart as a late-night snack—once he had finished doing heavens-knew-what in her apartment and possibly toying with her like a cat with a mouse.
Jordan had been crying, off and on, for the last sixty minutes, helpless to do anything else, while the terrifying male had made himself at home, taken a shower in her bathroom, and cleaned up his mess, the mess he had made when he had murdered—and beheaded—a rapist.
And now…
And now?
She didn’t have any tears left.
Where the hell was Alonzo’s body? And what was Jordan going to do? What in heaven’s name did this man, this thing—this dragon?—want with her now?
The last thing he had said—and it had to be a fairly good sign—was “angel of mine, please, don’t cry.” Okay. That was kindness, right? That meant he had a heart, or at least some sort of conscience.
But what the hell!
As if!
As if she could control her tears…
Or her terror.
As if she was a part of his plan, or his friend, or his acquaintance, let alone his angel.
Blessed Saint Michael, what in the world was going on?
After first determining that the whole thing wasn’t just a terrible dream—a horrible nightmare or an REM terror—Jordan had tried, really hard, to exercise reason, to remain lucid and calm. She had pinched herself, half a dozen times, just to be sure she wasn’t sleeping or hallucinating, but her senses and her reflexes confirmed the truth: The nightmare was real.
Nonetheless, she had to be going stark raving mad. Her sanity and her reason had to be slipping away, because none of this was possible. It simply wasn’t happening.
Monsters did not exist.
Yet and still, the dude had cleansed the blood from the floors with flames.
He had sanitized the apartment with silver fire: vapors that did not singe the carpets, heat that did not melt the tiles, and blazes that shot forth from his throat. His throat! And he had moved from room to room like an agile predator—smooth, limber, and vulturine—with an unnatural, animal grace. And he had even, somehow, healed the wound on her head, perhaps while she was unconscious.
So, unless she was sleeping or crazy, then Jordan had to conclude that Zane might just be what he said: a dragon, a beast, and a monster. Only, that would make him some kind of supernatural being, some kind of prehistoric creature, and that just didn’t jibe with any orthodoxy, science, or paradigm she knew. Not to mention, he didn’t look like any kind of dragon she had ever seen—not on TV, not in a book, and not in some New Year’s Day parade—so maybe, just maybe, she was going insane, a few beers short of a six-pack.
She sniffed and rubbed her eyes.