Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(85)
Who gave a shit? he thought.
Zane would never be more exposed…unprepared…or unsuspecting; and Jordan was spread out like a naked centerfold on top of him—she didn’t have a care in the world. Salem could scuttle across the beach, tunnel beneath the sands, and emerge in one lithe leap, taking his demon form…
He could strike before they knew he was there.
In fact, he could extract the dragyra’s heart from behind and shove it down Zanaikeyros’ throat…
And wouldn’t that just be divine?
His beetle made a high-pitched hissing sound, and he snickered deep inside: While it wouldn’t be quite the rapturous release the tramp had just given Zane, it would still be positively orgasmic.
Chapter Thirty-three
At the Diamond Lair, beneath the deep blue sky, Ghostaniaz Dragos wandered onto his private balcony. Built like a five-star, upscale condominium on the ocean’s shore, the structure offered each member of Lord Dragos’ clan their own modern living space—an entire floor of contemporary, luxurious living—which led out to a private terrace and sat directly above an identical verandah beneath it. The promenades were lavishly appointed with outdoor kitchenettes, comfortable seating areas, and narrow, winding swimming pools that looked as if they stretched out into the horizon and joined the peaceful dragon sky. Needless to say, Ghost spent as much time as he could outdoors, often trying to clear his head. Or quiet his dragon.
This night, as he strolled to the edge of the balcony, he repeatedly sniffed the air.
He couldn’t help it—something smelled wrong—something smelled foul.
Something was not as it seemed.
A deep, feral growl rumbled in his throat as he tried to lock onto the scent: to taste it, feel it, discern the disturbance. It was decidedly hard to place, and maybe that was because it was an alien, peculiar smell, even as it was oddly familiar.
He wrinkled his nose and snarled.
The chemicals in the pool wafted all around him, as did the various flora in the ocean below. But this—this stark, peculiar, internal fetor—it resonated, as if from his blood. And that didn’t make any sense: How could a smell be both outside in the air and also seeping from his pores?
His inner beast stirred, immediately angry, and he threw back his head and grunted, allowing the monster to emerge more fully. Granted, it was always a gamble to provoke his beast—his dragon was so carnal and savage—once the creature took hold, it was impossible to determine where Ghost’s life began and the dragon’s life ended.
But oh well—who gave a shit.
Ghost was no stranger to madness.
In fact, he preferred carnal savagery to sanity—he was what his father had made him.
He stretched his arms and arched his back, commanding his serpent to take over—willing the dragon to track the peculiar scent and identify its curious origins.
Ah…
So…
Yeah, that was it…
At the judge’s estate on Tuesday night, Ghost’s beast, as always, had dined on his quarry—he had consumed the heart of a pagan. Though the meat had been rancid and the soul, profane, it hadn’t mattered one bit to the dragyri. His dragon had been mindless and feral.
And now, whatever had been swirling around in Ghost’s polluted veins, blending with his native platelets, was also hovering in Dragons Domain. The shit was literally both: within and without. It was concurrently all around him and inside his body.
Right now.
Right here.
But that didn’t make sense—unless there was a pagan in Dragons Domain.
And that was simply impossible.
They could never open the portal.
He started to turn around, to go back inside, but his heathen wouldn’t let him.
Instead, he crouched low to the ground, released his fangs and claws, and slowly lumbered forward, hopping to the top of the terrace. Then he growled, sniffed again, and bent his head to listen.
And that’s when the rage exploded.
Bounding over the ledge, he released his leathery, phantom-blue wings and headed in a familiar direction: toward the private cove, filled with white sandy beaches, where he was absolutely sure he would find a pagan.
f
Salem Thorne was a heartbeat away from succeeding in his perilous mission. Zane was half asleep, and Jordan was out of it, luxuriating in the dragyri’s closeness.
He could hardly contain his anticipation.
Just one more inch.
Just one quick shift.
And his demon would be right on top of them.
He shook a handful of pebbled sand off his head, extended his antennae, and tunneled upward, commanding his demon to transition.
The extended antennae gave way to crescent horns; the thorax became a skeleton; and his two front legs became long, powerful arms, extending into two clawed hands. He dug the heels of his hooves deep into the sand as he lunged forward at Jordan—he was hoping to tear her throat out with his teeth, even as he wrenched her heart from her pericardium—and skewered her back with his talons.
The crushing blow to the back of his skull, from a fist that felt like a wrecking ball, sent Salem sailing through the air, high above the amorous couple, and into an oncoming tide.
What the devil!
He twisted like a cat, springing to his feet, prepared to meet his assailant, only to find two dragyri males wading into the water: Zanaikeyros—who was naked and pissed—and another formidable male who looked feral. The second dragyri was impossible to place—his features were so savage and twisted that Salem couldn’t match his likeness to any of the portraits he had seen hanging in the pagan library. He only knew that the male’s irises were diamond, and that meant he was the progeny of the lair ruled by Dragos.