Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(39)
This time, Lord Cytarius took the lead, even as he leaned back in his throne. “You are not to travel through the portal alone, not anymore.” He eyed each Genesis in turn. “None of you.”
Blaise Amarkyus blinked in surprise and frowned. “If I may,” he said, cautiously, “how is that going to work?” He shuffled forward, a couple of feet on the dais, avoiding an arrogant stride. “I have several missions I’ve yet to complete, and Zane—he just found his dragyra. I’m certain he’s going to need to go back and forth. How are we to honor your wishes, complete our directives, if we can’t travel alone?”
Lord Dragos shifted on his throne and began to study his nails, looking curiously bored. Then he raised his jaw, angled his head to the side, and growled like a hungry lion. “Carefully,” he mused. “Deliberately, and with planning.”
Lord Amarkyus narrowed his gaze on his offspring and spoke in a gentler voice. “Son,” he intoned considerately, addressing Blaise, “Lord Cytarius is right. What happened to Zane, though it turned out fine, is not something to take lightly…or to overlook. It could have been you.” He drew back on his throne and swept his gaze across the line. “It could have been any of you.”
“We’ve all been attacked before,” Ghost grumbled in a brazen challenge befitting of his lineage. “Hell, we’ve all been beaten half to death. We’ve all looked mortality straight in the eye, and yet we somehow manage to come home. It’s part and parcel of who we are…what we do—why is this any different?”
Lord Dragos rose from his throne, and his almond-shaped diamond eyes narrowed even further with contempt. “And yet, you are immortal beings, are you not?” he purred wolfishly. “And as for being beaten half to death, are you referring to Calebrios?” A puff of smoke wafted from his nose, and Zane knew the hostile dragon lord was this close to roasting his genesis brother.
Ghost, he spoke on a private, telepathic bandwidth. Dial it down, brother. Shit!
Mind your own business, Ghost shot back.
Zane shrugged.
“Speak to each other again, and I will scorch you both,” Lord Dragos threatened.
Lord Cytarius held out his hand in a calming gesture, hoping to bring the temperature down a few notches. “Ghostaniaz,” he said, politely, “it is true; you have all battled valiantly in the past, and you have all faced your share of danger, of lethal enemies—but this was a routine assignment, and our enemy is growing bold. Therefore, there will be no further discussion. Consider it a decree for all the Genesis, required as fealty under the Four Principal Laws: From this day forward, if you travel outside the portal, you travel in pairs.”
Zane shut his eyes, even as he cursed beneath his breath.
Silently, of course.
Great, just great, Jordan was going to love that: having to bring Axe or Levi, or someone else with them when they went through the portal. As if she wasn’t terrified enough…
Yet and still, a decree was a decree.
The next male to open his mouth would be barbeque.
“As you wish, milord,” Blaise acquiesced, speaking for the entire group.
“Is that all?” Ghost grunted, apparently ready to end the session.
The blast of fire that shot from Lord Dragos’ throne was so fast and furious, so hot and fevered, that it traveled as a light-blue streak of light and whirred through the air, exploding with a sonic boom as it struck. The impact hit Ghost square in the chest, landing like a freight train, and he flew backward off the dais, falling into a heap. Luckily for him, Lord Topenzi stretched out his ethereal hand and sent shards of ice hurtling from his fingertips, coating the cringing dragyri in frost. “Brother.” He spoke to Lord Dragos cautiously. “Forgive me if I overreach.”
Lord Dragos paused as if thinking it over, and then he shrugged a casual shoulder and sauntered back to his diamond throne, where he sat, looking bored.
Zane glanced over his shoulder, dreading what he knew he would see, but unable to restrain the impulse: Ghostaniaz was curled into a ball on the floor, vomiting in pain, and his entire six-foot-five, powerful frame was trembling in brutal agony. Yet the male didn’t make a peep: not a grunt, not a groan, not a whimper. He wouldn’t give the dragon the satisfaction. He wouldn’t give his father the play.
Zane shook his head, wishing there was something he could do, and praying Lord Dragos was done with the flame-show.
Why couldn’t Ghost just let it go?
Why did he always have to rebel?
It was no great secret that the male hated his father with a passion that defied common sense, and he was as defiant as he was dangerous, broken to the core. And one of these days he was going to get his deepest wish—Lord Dragos was going to kill him, and then his whole piteous existence would be done.
Zane glanced toward the back of the sanctuary at the soothing, pearlescent pool of life and slowly shook his head.
That’s all it would take.
One dunk in those sacred waters.
Simply immersing Ghost in that powerful stream.
And the dragyri’s wounds—his blisters, his scarring, and his internal pain—would all be healed instantly. Lord Topenzi would offer the pool out of conscience. Lord Cytarius would offer it out of generosity—hell, even Lord Amarkyus and Lord Saphyrius would be moved by the sound of Ghost’s retching and the stench of his burning flesh—but not Lord Dragos.