Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(69)
What had he said, time and time again?
“I will never…ever…harm you.”
She shuddered and pressed on. “He believes I’m his mate”—dear God, was it true?—“or something incredibly archaic like that…his fated, his chosen…like these gods, his dragon lords, chose me to be with him before I was born, and he isn’t going to let me go.”
She sat forward on the edge of the couch, trying to get the image of that glowing white flame—the one Zane had alighted on the tip of her finger, from a droplet of Jordan’s blood—out of her mind—and out of her memory—as she eyed Dan circumspectly. “And there’s more.” She set down her mug on a tiny metal end table, placing the letter beside it. “You want the whole truth, Dan?”
What was she doing?
What would Zane think?
How could she betray him like this?
Her heart felt as if it were collapsing inward, even as she rebuked her conscience—it was her life, her safety, her sanity at stake!
She had every right to protect it.
“That night in the parking garage, he drank my blood. That’s why he can track me. That’s how he can track me.” She suddenly felt sick to her stomach: The dragyri’s fangs had hurt her, and that drugging pull, the way he had fed, it had felt so primal, so shocking, so intrusive…he had left a trail of frost on her skin in his wake.
Perhaps there was a difference between hurt and harm…
She shook her head to dislodge the thoughts.
“And the text, the one you told me about, from your friend at dispatch? It wasn’t a false alarm. Alonzo Diaz—do you remember him?—he was a sexual predator that the Second Judicial District put away, about five years back, when I first started working in the DA’s office—before you and I started dating. Well, he broke into my apartment that night and attacked me, and Zane killed him.” He saved my life, she thought. “He set him on fire, slit his throat with a claw, and tore off his head with his hands. That is who we are up against, Dan. That is who I am running from.”
And that was the final nail in her spiritual coffin.
Whatever flame might have once burned inside, it had surely gone out—Jordan Anderson felt empty, cold, and almost absent of life; and she resented the hell out of Zane for the feeling.
He had no right to affect her this way.
She barely even knew him.
Dan’s nose twitched several times, and his eyes seemed to pale in vibrancy, but other than that, there was no immediate reaction.
No shock and disbelief.
No obvious fear for her sanity.
No ranting and raving, and no harsh criticism for the selfish, costly game she had played with the state’s valuable, limited resources.
Jordan scooted back on the couch…
What the hell? Why wasn’t Dan reacting?
And that’s when her ex got moving.
He jumped to his feet, tore off his expensive, tailored jacket, and removed the cufflink from his lower left sleeve, exposing his inner wrist. “Hand me that knife,” he barked at her, gesturing toward a nearby set of cutlery situated on the galley counter, and looking back at the bunker door. “Hurry, Jordan. Hand me that knife.”
“What are you doing?” Jordan asked, rising tentatively from her seat.
“Something I should have done hours ago,” he said, staring once again at the bunker door, his eyes growing wider with alarm. “Your dragon is not the only one who is connected, Jordan—he isn’t the only one with powerful friends.” He thrust his chin in the direction of the knives, trying to make her rush.
“Then you believe me?” she asked, incredulous, taking several steps toward the stainless steel counter.
Dan shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe, Jordan. It sounds pretty far-fetched, but I’ve seen many strange things in my life, and I know there are forces in play…forces we don’t always hear about…talk about. Things that go bump in the night.”
Jordan reached for the nearest carving knife, removed it from the block, and quickly strolled back to Dan, extending the implement handle-first. “What kind of forces?” she asked, feeling more than a little uneasy. “Have you seen monsters—or dragons—beings like Zane?”
Dan frowned. “Have I seen flying green reptiles with snouts and horns? No, I can’t say that I have.” And then he sighed. “But…”
“But?”
“But if we had stayed together—you and I—there are things I would have shown you, things I would have told you, people I would have wanted you to meet…in time. We never got that far.” He took the knife by the handle, rotated it sixty degrees, and to Jordan’s utter shock and horror, began to carve a deep, bloody gash in his forearm.
Jordan gasped aloud as she watched Dan Summers, a man she had once been in love with, continue to slice an insignia in his arm. And as the image took shape, she slowly backed away: It was a witch’s pentacle on the pommel of a sword, with a reversed numerical seven carved just below the cross, etched into—and extending down—the full length of the blade.
She recoiled and took three generous steps back, appalled by both the occultist insignia and the ensuing sight of Dan’s blood—bright crimson rivulets dripping down his wrist, snaking along his palm, and soaking the length of his fingers.