Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(7)
“All right, I’ll see you later then.”
“Yep. See you on Monday,” Macy said. “Love you, girl.”
Jordan smiled. “Love you, too.” She was just about to walk away when Macy reached out and took her hand. “Hey, you be safe, okay?”
Jordan started, a bit unsettled at the unexpected directive.
Where in the world had that come from?
Knowing Macy to be more intuitive than was natural, she shivered, and then she shrugged it off. “Of course,” she said, “always.”
With that, she turned around and headed for the stairs.
f
Zane Saphyrius locked his arm around the gangbanger’s chest from behind, drew him backward, off his feet, and slowly sank into the shadows, dragging his prey along with him.
The youth spat out a curse and tried to wrench free from his hold. “Get your nasty-ass arm off me, punk! You have any idea who you’re messin’ with? I swear: My posse is gonna jack you up!”
Zane seared a harsh, unerring mental compulsion into the idiot’s brain, demanding immediate compliance: Shut up and stop moving.
The gangster froze, and a bead of sweat trickled down his brow. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice wasn’t working—nothing came out.
“That’s better,” Zane hissed, feeling his fangs press insistently against his gums. He’d rather not feed on the likes of this human trash, but the urge was almost irresistible. Stepping further back into the shadows, until the two of them were safely masked behind a thick cement pillar in the dimly lit garage, he called on his inner dragon.
As the heat rose in his chest, radiating outward toward his limbs and infusing his muscles with power, he reveled in the near-orgasmic sensation. The pulse of his inner-fire was sweltering. The pain was invigorating. And the feeling was akin to having the full powers of the cosmic universe at his fingertips. He growled deep in his throat, even as the fingers of his right hand curled inward, and his claws slowly began to extend. “Lord Ethyron sends his regards,” he drawled in that unique, unfamiliar accent that all the Dragyr males shared. And with that, he drove his clawed hand through the gangster’s back, clutched his heart in his fist, and ripped it from his chest, along with a two-inch-thick gold chain that just happened to come along for the ride.
Dropping the organ and the chain to the ground, Zane cocked his head to the side in a feral, serpentine motion, and slowly exhaled a scorching orange flame.
He needed to release some heat.
The fire consumed the gold in seconds, leaving the heart untouched, while charring most of the precious metal to ash. It was an exercise in precision, a way to refocus Zane’s beast before his hunger got the best of him. As the ravaged body slumped to the ground, Zane caught it by the elbow and quickly retrieved the male’s cell phone from his pocket before he let him fall: He would need to cross-reference the phone numbers for the other two gang members in order to get their addresses. They hadn’t been at the mall.
Staring down at the limp, lifeless body now slumped at his feet, he paused to consider what to do with the corpse: to burn it, bury it, or leave it. He didn’t think he could incinerate it without drawing the attention of other humans, and that would mean he would have to control all their minds, erase their memories, redirect them away from the scene, and tie up loose ends, more trouble than the situation was worth.
Snarling at the unpleasant nature of the duty, he squatted down, picked up the heart, and stuffed it back into the gaping chest cavity. He drew regenerative power into his forefinger and began to reattach the organ—not enough to reanimate it, but just enough to reseal the severed chambers—make the whole scene appear a little less gruesome, point the authorities toward a rival gang, rather than a supernatural intervention.
Hell, let the medical examiner try to figure it out.
It was only a human, and a soulless one at that.
Wiping his hands on the dead man’s shirt, Zane sanitized his own flesh with more silver fire and then slowly stood up and glanced around the garage.
No one had seen him.
Of that, he was certain.
He would have heard them, sensed them, smelled them.
Rolling his head on his shoulders to release some tension, he kicked the corpse further into the shadows with his steel-toed boots, straightened his duster around his shoulders, and headed toward an outdoor stairway that led into the mall. While there were few delicacies in the human world that appealed to an immortal dragyri—and virtually no luxuries that The Pantheon could not provide in greater quantity and substance—Zane was a sucker for red licorice! Twizzlers, to be exact. And while the Dragyr only consumed human food for pleasure—they fed on the blood, heat, and the essence of humans to survive—he may as well pick up a couple bags before heading out to finish the remaining two gangsters, before traveling back through the portal.
He glanced at his watch to check the time: It was 10:15 PM, and he needed to get a move on. He had less than three hours to find and dispatch his remaining quarry, lest he fail to meet Lord Ethyron’s deadline and end up like Caleb Ethyron—on the receiving end of a spiked lash, whipped for a minor offense.
Chapter Four
Jordan gathered the lapels of her lamb’s wool coat, clutched them in her fist, and hurried down the narrow cement stairway, trying to avoid slipping on the steep, polished stairs. The night was cool; the air was crisp; and it reminded her of a late autumn evening, rather than the middle of June. As her two-inch heels clicked against the pavement, she gripped the rail with her free right hand and slowed down to maintain her balance.