Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(45)
Just a little bit more…
Ah, and there it was.
He let his newfound body fold inward, drawing down in size until a perfectly formed ornamental bug landed on the doctor’s nightstand.
Still as the night.
Lethal as sin.
Waiting to reanimate…once more.
Chapter Eighteen
Jordan laced the last of five crisscrossed back-straps on the airy, pale-green summer dress she was wearing, looked at her reflection in the mirror, and cringed. Other than the one-inch-wide shoulder straps, her arms were basically bare. The neckline was too low, showing the rise of her modest breasts, and the waist was too form-fitting, showing the dip in her stomach and the curve of her hips. In other words, the dress was way too revealing. She had grabbed it on the fly because it was lightweight and easy to pack—it didn’t take up much room—but now she wished she had grabbed a turtleneck instead, something that covered every exposed inch of skin, despite the fact that it was almost mid-June.
She slipped on her sandals, waved her hand under the motion sensor to turn off the bathroom lights, and began making her way down the sturdy stairs. She could have taken the elevator at the back of the hall, which she had been told stopped on all five floors, but she needed an extra minute or two to calm her nerves and clear her mind.
Breakfast.
She could do breakfast.
In fact, the sooner they were finished, the better—the sooner she would be headed back, through the portal, to her familiar earth-dimension, and one step closer to flagging Dan for help.
As she descended the base of the left-side staircase, she raised her chin and drew back her shoulders for courage, and then she softly padded beyond the large gourmet island, across the modern, well-appointed kitchen, and to the front of the house—the eating nook, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows and housing a massive mission-style table.
The males were already seated and throwing back a feast of what looked like bacon, eggs, sausage, pancakes, and fruit. Her stomach did a little flip—there was no way she could eat.
Zane patted the seat of the chair beside him, at the far end of the table, and Jordan slowly nodded her head.
The other dragyri fell silent.
Great.
Just great…
Make her feel like a laboratory specimen.
She kept her eyes straight ahead as she took her seat, scooted forward, and stared at the empty plate. Zane—or someone—had already set her place. “Do you always eat such a large breakfast?” she asked, glancing up at him through her peripheral vision.
His entire countenance softened. “Pretty much,” he said. “We take meals pretty seriously around here, even though it’s not our primary sustenance.”
She cringed at his reference to feeding, but she didn’t murmur a word.
Someone at the table snickered, and then Axe, who was sitting on the opposite side of the table, lifted a platter full of pancakes and offered it to Jordan.
“No, thanks,” she said politely. “I think I’ll just have fruit.”
Zane reached over her, forked a giant pancake off the platter, and dropped it on her plate. “You’re gonna need more than that.”
She bit back an insolent retort. Okay. So he was making her food choices for her now?
“Don’t want to hurt Jace’s feelings,” Levi said.
“Excuse me?” Jordan asked, meeting the handsome dragyri’s eyes and making note of the fact that there was a lyrical quality to his otherwise masculine voice. “Did Jace cook all this?” She stared at the bounty of platters before her.
Jace smiled, and it was a grin laced with pride. “Yep. These other heathens try to cook from time to time—or they rely heavily on human servants, cooks and maids—but I think there’s an art to culinary preparation, and just getting it done, heating it up, isn’t good enough.”
Zane rolled his eyes. “Jace is a pansy.”
“Next thing you know,” Nakai cut in, “he’ll be arranging flowers and placing them…just so…all around the lair.”
The whole table chuckled.
“Yeah, all right,” Jace said in a counterfeit surly tone. “And who’s the better marksman, Nakai?” He leveled his gaze at Zane. “And last time we sparred with Katars, who got their ass kicked?” he chided.
Zane’s top lip quirked up in a mocking smile. “Good thing my weapon of choice is a battle axe, right?”
“What’s a Katar?” Jordan whispered to Zane, losing ever more of her appetite.
“It’s a fancy word for dagger,” Zane said.
Hearing the conversation perfectly, Jace chimed in: “It’s a very specific kind of dagger, a push blade with an H-shaped handle—it originated in India—very easy to thrust and wield with your wrist. Its original name was Kattari, then later Katara, before the British shortened it to the Romanized version, Katar.”
“And you just made our point,” Nakai taunted. “Damn, let the woman eat breakfast.” He cocked his eyebrows and goaded him some more. “History of the Katar—by Jace Saphyrius.” He reached for a nearby link of sausage and speared it with his knife, but when he started to place it on his plate, Jace flicked his wrist, extended his pinky, and a bright orange flame shot across the table, incinerating the chunk of meat.