Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(44)
Today was all about Macy.
That was it.
That was all.
And she needed to remain focused.
Besides, she had to get a text off to Dan.
Someway.
Somehow.
She had to keep her cool.
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Salem Thorne, a venerable pagan, stood at the edge of the surgeon’s bed in the doctor’s expensive, modern condominium, and he watched as Kyle Parker tossed and turned on his satin sheets.
And why wouldn’t he—feel fitful, that is?
His peaceful, then later erotic, dreams had turned quickly into nightmares, and Salem had orchestrated it all.
It was true: He could have met the surgeon face-to-face, demon to human, and demanded his obedience, spelled everything out in clear, unambiguous terms, but unlike the multitudes of human servants who willingly served the Pagan Horde—or even the Temple of Seven—the man did not possess the stamina for the confrontation.
He didn’t have the balls.
He would have taken one look at a true, immortal demon, and his pristine, perfectly layered black hair would have wilted on his head; his baby-blue peepers would have grown wide with fright; and that lion’s heart, which he incorrectly believed he possessed, would have instantly stopped beating from the fright.
No, Kyle needed to be approached in the typical, more subtle manner: manipulated through his dreams.
And so, Salem had spent the last two hours weaving all manner of symbols and fanciful tales. First, he had shown the aspiring surgeon his potential greatness: ceremonies in his honor; awards embellished with his name; lucrative, important promotions. Then he had interrupted those grandiose dreams with erotic scene after erotic scene—Dr. Parker sharing his most hidden, elicit sexual fantasies with Macy Wilson: the pretty blonde dropping to her knees in eager anticipation; a pair of handcuffs slipping around her wrists; and a red silk tie…placed in her mouth. Oh yes, Dr. Parker had been adequately aroused.
And then the dreams had changed.
A barren wasteland teeming with snakes.
A medieval dungeon filled with spikes.
A vile of poison being poured down his throat as he choked on the bitter concoction.
He had been shown every manner of personal agony, unbearable cruelty, and torture; and the nightmare had made it clear: There was only one thing that stood between Dr. Parker and suffering such horrendous pain—the need to give Macy a pin.
Yes, a simple gold-and-ruby pin.
Fashioned in the shape of a beetle, attached to the post and card, inserted in her flower arrangement, following her successful surgery: a gift from the doting doctor. Just give Macy this gift, and you will escape all the torture you’ve seen.
You will be rewarded with fame…and complicit sex.
Would the malleable surgeon remember the dream?
No.
Would he make a linear connection between the pin on his nightstand, where it had come from, and his overwhelming desire to place it in Macy’s flowers?
Not even for a minute.
But then, he didn’t have to.
All he had to do was do it.
Salem bent low, over the bed, and sniffed Dr. Parker’s hair—for the sake of all that was unholy, the narcissist shampooed with scented oils.
Whatever.
The demon’s groin hardened, and for a moment he wondered if he could enjoy lying with a man—hell, the guy’s hair was still perfect, even as he tossed and turned on his fluffy pillow, and his long, sinewy body…that lush, pouty mouth…
Nah.
Salem preferred young girls, preferably in their teens: helpless, virginal, and adept at screaming. The louder, the better.
But he needed to focus.
He let his head roll back on his neck, his arms fall, extended, to his sides, as he embraced the darkness within him, connected to his master and lord: the venerable Drakkar Hades, often referred to as Drak—and wasn’t that just a fitting term of veneration, considering Bram Stoker and all…
As his lethal claws extended from his hands and his gums began to ache, the demon began to chant—the words too ancient, too vile, too cryptic to pronounce without guttural grunts.
And then his body began to morph.
It did not splinter apart like a collapsing pillar of salt, because his orders had been clear: He was not to release a thousand beetles; he was to become…only one.
Just one.
One that he would still occupy.
One that he would still possess.
His spine crackled and popped as it bent inward; his ears began to bleed as they formed into antennae; and his head throbbed like it was going to split open as it gave way to frontal and pronotol lobes…emerged as vermin horns.
The pain was as delectable as it was unbearable, and he gave himself over, fully, to the transformation, allowing his member to rise. Soon, it too began to change, growing dozens and dozens of spikes. Salem chuckled inside: The male Bruchid beetle actually punctured the female’s reproductive tract during sex, causing heavy and permanent injuries to her system, preventing her from mating again.
How utterly exquisite was that?
He stopped laughing when his rib cage broke and his outer wings emerged—when his legs spouted into femurs and began to grow spurs. In fact, he may have whimpered a time or two before he buckled down and focused, narrowing all his concentration: Transform your eyes to rubies, Salem; transform your abdomen to gold.
Concentrate.
Harder…