Zanaikeyros: Son of Dragons

  And so they had called upon their collective magic, and their boundless powers, to approach the matter from a different tack: to clone their own ancient reptilian DNA in shells, like eggs, and see if the vessels would hatch in the temple, to add human DNA to the specimens to see if their offspring might, at last, possess the ability to propagate…for them.

  The experiment had worked to a degree.

  The lords had successfully created over a thousand eggs, but only forty-nine had hatched: seven from each of the aboriginal gods, representing each of the sacred stones and each of the consecrated lairs. And of that subset—over time, many pagan battles, and natural attrition—only seven of the original hatchlings remained: Blaise Amarkyus, Brass Cytarius, Ghost Dragos, Jagyr Ethyron, Nuri Onyhanzian, Ty Topenzi, and their own lair-mate, Zane Saphyrius. All original sons—made, not born—of the dragon lords.

  All one thousand years old.

  Luckily for the dragons, each of the forty-nine hatchlings had contributed to The Pantheon before the unfortunate forty-two had passed away—they had done their duty and propagated the race—although it soon became clear that this first generation could only produce sons, and their fertility extended to only one offspring, born of a chosen dragyra: a human female chosen by the gods at a time and place of the dragon lords’ assignment.

  Axeviathon sighed.

  He knew the heavy weight the Genesis carried, and that Zane would gladly relinquish the privilege if he could. They were bound more tightly to the dragon lords, as the gods often saw them as appendages of themselves—hell, Ghostaniaz Dragos had been named “Ghost” because the darkest of the seven lords, Lord Dragos, considered the male a mere phantom of himself—and their continued existence was as vital to the gods as breathing. Each one was the last remaining progeny of their virginal DNA, like some sick, egocentric extension of their minds, their self-images projected in flesh and blood, scales and fire, power and fangs.

  In fact, over time, the patriarchal competition had gotten so out of hand that the wiser, more noble gods, like Lord Topenzi and Lord Cytarius, had acted to rein it in. On a male’s eighteenth birthday, he left his father’s lair and was consecrated to one of the alternate seven’s—he became an abiding, lifelong member of another god’s den and the eternal responsibility of another deity. His irises changed color; his permanent amulet was affixed; and he would forever pledge his fealty to the lord of his lair; thus, ending any chance that the Dragyr would be divided, or conflicted, by genealogy.

  Yet and still, there was one glaring exception to this rule: the original, genesis seven. Each of the embryonic sons still belonged to his maker’s lair, and that included Zane…

  Axe rocked forward onto the pads of his feet, stepped toward the dual front doors, and tugged on a thick, heavy panel, holding it open for Levi to enter. “Brains before beauty,” he grunted, waiting as his lair-mate stepped inside. “You should put that missive on the refrigerator door, make damn sure Zane sees it when he gets in.”

  Levi nodded as he sidled past Axe into the elaborate foyer. “And if Zane’s not back by then?”

  Axe shook his head. The poor male was probably somewhere he didn’t want to be; sweating like a pig, to put it in human terms; trying to cajole his dragyra, who was probably shocked and scared out of her wits, into giving him a chance. “Well, if he’s not back by tomorrow afternoon, then we intervene, give him a mental nudge.”

  “Yeah,” Levi said, already heading in the direction of the kitchen. “When the lords call…”

  “We jump,” Axe supplied.

  f

  Drakkar Hades, king of the pagans, sat back in his opulent throne in the pagan underworld and sneered at his chief counselor and principal sycophant, Killian Kross. “Tell me this again: You got what information from the beetle?”

  Killian Kross, a full-blooded shade—or shadow-walker, if one preferred the term—flicked a piece of lint off his black satin jacket and stepped closer to the dark lord’s throne. “The Dragyr murdered three pagans in the yard of a human, earlier this night, two demons and a shade: Rafael, Malandrix, and Alexian. But before Rafael died, he dispatched a thousand beetles, and while the three dragyri thought they’d killed them all, they were sadly mistaken.”

  Drakkar drew in a deep, ragged breath, trying to marshal his patience as he stared at his long, pointed fingernails and tried not to twitch. Killian had a never-ending flair for the dramatic; he tended to talk in circles, all the while evading the main, essential subject; and he was loath to ever get to the point. Drakkar gritted his teeth and forced a smile. “Sounds like a lovely evening was had by all, but now that we have the numbers—and the names—do get to the point. Tell me what you learned from the beetle. Please.”

  Killian sat on the arm of the throne, leaned in, and took one good look at Drakkar’s scowl, then quickly stood back up, smoothing out the velvet arm in apology. “A-hem.” He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, the Dragyr extinguished all the beetles, save one, and the creature was crawling in the bushes, unseen, as the warriors talked. As programmed, the insect recorded what he heard and broadcast it back to the castle.”

  Drakkar closed his eyes and counted backward from ten to one.

  Yes, yes, yes…

  Demons could turn themselves into nasty, lethal beetles, and the beetles could act as transmitters, recording and projecting all they saw and heard in telepathic waves that broadcast throughout the underworld, thus, acting as supernatural beacons of a sort. As the singular high lord and king of the entire pagan realm, Drakkar understood the nuances quite freakin’ clearly. So then what the hell did the beetle transmit?

  Before he could dress his counselor down, Killian assuaged his anger with a pair of pertinent facts. “In a nutshell, one of the dragyri was a Genesis Son, and earlier this evening, he met his dragyra.”

  Now this caught the king’s full attention. “Which one? The male?”

  “Lord Saphyrius’ progeny.”

  “Zanaikeyros?”

  “One in the same.”

  “Excellent. Excellent.” He narrowed his gaze on Killian, studying his dark hawkish eyes, his thin, reedy lips, and his translucent, skeletal features—the shadow needed to feed. “Please tell me that you have done some modest research, that my congress has done some basic exploration, and you are up to speed with all the facts.”

  At this, Killian smiled: dark, sinister, and wily. “Indeed, my liege. I would not approach you with the information otherwise.” He brushed a thick lock of his long, white, baby-fine hair out of his eyes and bowed his head, infinitesimally. “The female’s name is Jordan Anderson—the beetle pulled it out of the dragyri’s mind—she is a prosecuting attorney in the Denver DA’s office, but that is not the most intriguing tidbit.”

  The king leaned forward in his throne. “Go on.”

  “We did our own little investigation, which led to the Two Forks Mall and their internal security cameras, and it would appear that Jordan has a close friend named Macy Wilson, who is scheduled for abdominal surgery on Monday with one Doctor Kyle Parker at Denver Exploratory Medical Center.”

  Drakkar licked his lips—the possibilities were just too delectable. “Ah,” he commented, laughing as he made a thoughtful tent with his hands. As king of the pagans, he knew all his subjects intimately: their comings and their goings; their rapes and their kills; their twisted, demented souls; their every dark, malicious thought. Their very lives streamed into his mind like endless loops of video, audio, and sonar, even when he slept.

  And this meant he was aware of many aberrant humans as well.

  After all, there were only two kinds of pagans: demons and shadows—also known as shadow-walkers or shades—and Drakkar was equal parts of both. The former, demons, were considered sin eaters because they thrived and fed on human sins: pride, envy, lust, and the like. And the latter, shadow-walkers, were often known as soul eaters because they thrived and fed on human souls. It didn’t matter if the souls were good, neutral, or evil—as lo
ng as they were sentient, the shadows grew stronger by ingesting their anima. The essence was all they needed. But the demons? No, their appetites were a bit trickier. They had to catch sinners in the commission of sins and feed on the base depravity in order to survive. Dr. Kyle Parker was hungry for power and promotion, for national recognition in his field, and that hunger had grown beyond wanting, desire, and ambition into something altogether malevolent. He would lie, cheat, or steal for a golden opportunity, and that had caught the attention of a powerful, ancient demon by the name of Salem Thorne. To put it succinctly, Salem had been feeding from Dr. Kyle and bolstering his power-lust for months.

  And that meant Dr. Kyle was already under the demon’s influence. He could be manipulated by the pagans and used to their nefarious ends.

  “Where is Salem this night?” Drakkar asked, assuming Killian could follow along. The pagan was annoying, not stupid—he was counselor for a reason.

  “He’s resting in his chambers,” Killian replied, referring to one of the castle’s upper five floors, and the demons’ residential wing.

  Drakkar nodded. “And I assume, after all these centuries, he is eager to rise up in our ranks. He would have no objection to sharing his prey: We want Dr. Parker to get closer to Macy; we want Macy to keep in close contact with Jordan; and of course, we want nothing more than to use these relationships for our own delicious gain. Assume for a moment that Salem could reduce his essence into just one beetle—I believe he is ancient enough to do so—and our ambitious Dr. Parker could transfer that beetle to Macy…

  “All our illustrious demon would have to do is enter Jordan’s purse, travel with the dragyra through the portal, and voila—just like that—we have an inside agent in Dragons Domain.” He slowly licked his lips. “Now multiply that by twenty—say, twenty ancient demons, all in singular beetle form, waiting like a Trojan horse, nestled inside a birthday present or a box of Valentine’s chocolates—perhaps a housewarming gift—whatever the hell a human dragyra enjoys—we could conceivably usher an army of prehistoric pagans into the foreign realm. We could strike at the Genesis Sons as they sleep, in their own protected beds.” His voice turned devilish and cold. “I have waited a thousand years to get my claws on an original son, to destroy a beloved Genesis. Would it be a major sacrifice to send our oldest and our best? Of course, but the ruin would be worth the risk.” His eyes rolled back in his head as if he were enraptured in ecstasy. “Yes, my dear, esteemed counselor: Dr. Parker may very well be the opportunity we have been waiting for, if he can solidify a relationship with Jordan’s best friend, and the latter can lead to Zanaikeyros. Lord Saphyrius’ last living hatchling would be an unimaginable prize.”

  “Indeed,” Killian said, his own voice growing somber and thick. “And I’m already several steps ahead of you. Requiem Pyre, your chief sorcerer, has already cast a seeking spell, and he has, consequently, divined Macy’s soul. She is weak when it comes to romantic encounters, desperate for attention and love, and our power-hungry doctor is as handsome as he is rich. A nudge here, a prod there, and we believe the not-so-good doctor will take the bait. Should Salem suggest it, Dr. Parker will make Macy Wilson his whore.”

  Drakkar smiled. “Very well.” He rested his hands in his lap, as if he were suddenly filled with tranquility. “Then set a plan in motion—let’s see if we can’t get a demon into the Dragons Domain. If Zane met his dragyra prior to midnight, then he only has nine days remaining to get her to the Temple of Seven.” He shook his head in earnest. “And we cannot have that.” Musing aloud, he added, “Once she’s consecrated to the dragon lords…”

  “Her female powers of intuition will grow decidedly strong,” Killian supplied. “She may detect the presence of a pagan from ten blocks away, and she’ll be much more difficult to manipulate.”

  “Precisely,” Drakkar murmured. And then he stared off into the distance; gazed into an arched, stone fire-pit that housed a blazing fire; and let his dark, demonic soul get lost in the dance of the flames…

  Dr. Kyle Parker could finally lead them to Zane—

  Zanaikeyros Saphyrius, son of dragons…

  A Genesis Son!

  Oh yes, the fates were definitely—finally—smiling upon the Pagan Horde.

  Chapter Ten

  Jordan Anderson scooted as far back as she could on the couch, trying to escape the chaos. She pressed her spine into the overstuffed cushions, tried to crawl inside the fabric, and begged any higher power that would listen to render her invisible. She wanted to vanish from the room. She wanted to stop breathing, stop living, stop existing—to somehow, someway, just remove herself from the clutches of the monster, the one who had killed Alonzo and banished the police, the one who had filled her mind with cotton, making all of her thoughts so muddled, so foggy, that it had been impossible for her to reason or think…

  Or act in her own defense.

  She could hardly even speak.

  The one who had simply waved his rugged hand in an arc, high above the couch, and detained her where she sat, like an unchained prisoner: She could scoot forward. She could lean back. But she couldn’t get up or leave. He had caged her like an animal, taken over her body and her mind, rendered her helpless and defenseless, with the mere sweep of his hand. And to her way of thinking, he was probably going to kill her—devour her heart as a late-night snack—once he had finished doing heavens-knew-what in her apartment and possibly toying with her like a cat with a mouse.

  Jordan had been crying, off and on, for the last sixty minutes, helpless to do anything else, while the terrifying male had made himself at home, taken a shower in her bathroom, and cleaned up his mess, the mess he had made when he had murdered—and beheaded—a rapist.

  And now…

  And now?

  She didn’t have any tears left.

  Where the hell was Alonzo’s body? And what was Jordan going to do? What in heaven’s name did this man, this thing—this dragon?—want with her now?

  The last thing he had said—and it had to be a fairly good sign—was “angel of mine, please, don’t cry.” Okay. That was kindness, right? That meant he had a heart, or at least some sort of conscience.

  But what the hell!

  As if!

  As if she could control her tears…

  Or her terror.

  As if she was a part of his plan, or his friend, or his acquaintance, let alone his angel.

  Blessed Saint Michael, what in the world was going on?

  After first determining that the whole thing wasn’t just a terrible dream—a horrible nightmare or an REM terror—Jordan had tried, really hard, to exercise reason, to remain lucid and calm. She had pinched herself, half a dozen times, just to be sure she wasn’t sleeping or hallucinating, but her senses and her reflexes confirmed the truth: The nightmare was real.

  Nonetheless, she had to be going stark raving mad. Her sanity and her reason had to be slipping away, because none of this was possible. It simply wasn’t happening.

  Monsters did not exist.

  Yet and still, the dude had cleansed the blood from the floors with flames.

  He had sanitized the apartment with silver fire: vapors that did not singe the carpets, heat that did not melt the tiles, and blazes that shot forth from his throat. His throat! And he had moved from room to room like an agile predator—smooth, limber, and vulturine—with an unnatural, animal grace. And he had even, somehow, healed the wound on her head, perhaps while she was unconscious.

  So, unless she was sleeping or crazy, then Jordan had to conclude that Zane might just be what he said: a dragon, a beast, and a monster. Only, that would make him some kind of supernatural being, some kind of prehistoric creature, and that just didn’t jibe with any orthodoxy, science, or paradigm she knew. Not to mention, he didn’t look like any kind of dragon she had ever seen—not on TV, not in a book, and not in some New Year’s Day parade—so maybe, just maybe, she was going insane, a few beers short of a six-pack.

  She sniffed and rubbed
her eyes.

  It had to be at least 1:30 in the morning, and the ordeal was still unfolding.

  No, no, no!

  He was coming back down the hall, heading her way, moving like a lithe, stealthy jaguar—in boots and pajamas—approaching the sofa once more. Maybe he would just pass through the living room, saunter out the door, and she could crawl back through the rabbit hole she’d fallen into and get back to her ordinary life.

  “How are you?” he asked. “Are you feeling any better?” His voice sounded like ground-up shards of glass trundled in a roll of sandpaper: rough, raspy, and way too domineering for her liking.

  She sucked in a harsh breath of air, straightened her spine, and clenched her fists. Even if she wasn’t feeling brave, she could always fake it. She would rather go down fighting. “How am I feeling?” she snarled, watching as he sauntered to the couch, stopped a couple feet shy of her perch, and squatted down in front of her, his massive shoulders blocking her view of anything—but him: his broad, husky shoulders, his rock-hard chest, and his acutely defined biceps bulging at his sides.

  God, give her strength.

  “No,” she added, irritably. “I’m not okay. And why are you wearing pajamas with boots? What kind of a…dragon monster…does that?”

  His mouth curved upward in a sly, quirky smile, and she almost came unglued. This wasn’t funny. Yes, her question was asinine at best—in fact, she sounded moderately unhinged. And yes, her nervous energy was taking its toll, but still, it was a valid and somewhat reasonable question. “Answer me,” she prodded, trying to sound more brave than she felt.

  He looked down at his white Haines T-shirt, his black silk pajamas, and his heavy, steel-toed boots, the former being items he had washed while he’d showered, and he grimaced. “I got into a little trouble earlier, and I had to borrow some clothes. The boots are mine.”

  “Trouble?” she pressed. “What kind of trouble?”

  He cocked one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “The kind that’s been taken care of, the kind that will never breathe again.”