“Oh.” An awkward silence passed between them, and then Jordan breached an even scarier subject: “And the man who attacked me, the guy in the apartment…you aren’t going to ask me who he was…why he was here? You aren’t even curious?”
Zane’s shoulders stiffened, and he closed his eyes—but when he blinked them back open, he looked perfectly calm. “No, not really,” he muttered. “The way I see it, the whys don’t matter. That problem is solved, is it not?”
Jordan swallowed her antagonism and froze.
She might be two cans shy of a six-pack, but she had just sobered up, real fast. This guy was not someone to toy with. She relaxed her fists and nodded, curling her shoulders inward. “Yes, I would say that it is.”
He hung his head, and that thick curtain of dark brown locks fell into his face, framing his angular features. Then he raised his chin and held her gaze, but he didn’t utter a word.
Jordan shifted nervously on the sofa, praying she hadn’t ticked him off. She wet her lips in a fearful gesture and unwittingly cleared her throat. “Yesterday, in the parking garage, what happened?” This time, her tone emitted more respect. “I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. And tonight, while you were cleaning…the mess…while you were showering, I kept trying to get off the couch. I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t. What did you do to me? And how did you do it?”
Zane brushed his hand through his hair, ostensibly to sweep it away from his eyes, but once again, he didn’t speak. He just searched her gaze with lethal, unsettling intensity.
Jordan shuddered, her stomach roiling in uneasy waves. “How did you find me?”
He swallowed hard, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, drawing her attention to the dense, muscular cords along his throat, his smooth, flawless skin, and that rich, unidentifiable complexion, the faintest golden-brown. “What…what’s your ethnicity?” It was ridiculous question number two, especially when one considered the situation, but since he refused to answer anything serious, it seemed like a safe-enough probe. In truth, she wanted to keep him talking about anything that didn’t include murder or killing or beheading.
The corner of his mouth quirked up in another half-smile. “Dragyr.”
A single word.
That foreign, cryptic term…again.
“My ethnicity is Dragyr.”
“Right,” she whispered. “You’re a dragon: I forgot.” She didn’t forget—how could she?—but she was so rattled by his proximity, and she was growing increasingly angry…again.
“Not dragon, angel. Dragyr…or dragyri.” He extended his right arm toward the couch, palm facing up, and Jordan flinched at the sudden movement.
“Shit!” she exclaimed beneath her breath, and then she immediately exhaled, relieved that he hadn’t flown off the handle and smacked her.
He frowned, as if he’d read her thoughts, and then he gestured at her fingers with his chin. “Give me your hand,” he whispered.
Jordan shook her head. “No.”
“Angel,” he drawled, “give me your hand.”
She shook her head again. “Why?”
“I want to show you something, put this subject to rest.”
She sat there—they sat there—enveloped in silence for what felt like forever, until finally, she extended her hand. “Don’t hurt me,” she murmured, “please.”
His shoulders twitched, like she had just offended him, but he didn’t utter a verbal reply. He simply nodded, took her hand in his, and grasped it with exquisite gentleness. He pressed his thumb against the center of her palm; caressed it like they were lifelong lovers; and then slid the digit along her middle finger until he was holding the tip of her joint. His fingernail began to elongate until it formed a pointed claw, and he pressed it against the pad of her finger.
She yelped and tried to tug her hand away, but he strengthened his grip, refusing to release her—his grasp was like an iron vise. “Just a little prick,” he said in a deep, soothing voice. “Just a small drop of blood, Jordan; I won’t ever harm you, my love.”
Jordan tensed and wrinkled her nose, practically holding her breath. Why did he need a drop of her blood, and why did he just call her my love?
Oh…God.
She was going to be sick…
She bit her bottom lip, stared down at her hand, and nodded.
What else could she do?
He moved so quickly, so efficiently, that she never saw the nail puncture her skin, and the momentary twinge of pain was as short-lived as it was incidental—he applied immediate pressure beneath the wound. “You good?” he asked.
She felt her face flush.
“Breathe,” he instructed. “Your fear is getting the best of you.”
She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing: one deep breath in, one slow breath out, repeating the process several times. He was right: It wasn’t the prick to her finger; it was everything—absolutely everything—else.
“That’s it, baby,” he mumbled, watching, presumably, for her color to return.
This time, it was Jordan who refused to answer: She wasn’t his baby, and she wasn’t his love, and while she appreciated the concern, she would much rather he just leave her alone.
And drop the terms of endearment.
Without hesitation, he squeezed both sides of her finger to extract a droplet of blood. “Child of fire; daughter of flames. More than a woman; more than a name. Born from the soul of The Pantheon.” The dark red droplet on Jordan’s finger began to glow like a crimson light, and then the light turned from blue to aquamarine…from aquamarine to sapphire. With a sudden sizzle, it erupted into a single white flame that burned at the tip of her finger.
Jordan shrieked. She yanked her hand free and tried to shake out the flame, to smother the fire with her other hand, but the radiance would not go out. “Make it stop,” she pleaded in a quivering voice. “Please, I don’t like it.” There was something too peculiar, too unsettling—too familiar—about the enigmatic flame, and it rattled her to her bones.
Zane bent his head to her finger, swept his tongue over the flicker, and the mystical fire went out.
She stared at him like she’d just seen a ghost, a phantom that would haunt her for the rest of her life. Reaching deep inside for a rational explanation, she mumbled, “I…I don’t get your point. So you obviously have some kind of mystical power—you’re some sort of magician—what does that have to do with me? We already knew that. I already knew that…about you.” She sounded so desperate, so piteous, even to her own distrustful ears.
Zane shook his head. “The only power I am wielding now is the power of truth.” He grasped her hand a second time, pricked the same finger before she could see it coming, and held her gaze in an iron stare. “You say it.”
“Say what?” she snapped.
He frowned. “Say it.”
She averted her eyes. “I don’t remember the words…whatever it is you said.”
He shook his head in earnest. “You do.”
Jordan felt like she was drowning, being swept away by a wave of madness, slowly pulled under by a spell. And everything in her independent nature rebelled: how arrogant, how pompous, how rude! And screw him for being such an insolent bastard because, God help her, it was true: She did remember the words.
Almost as if she had known them all of her life.
She stared down at her finger and shivered, helpless to resist. “Child of fire; daughter of flames. More than a woman; more than a name. Born from the soul of The Pantheon.”
Light.
Sizzle.
Fire.
Once again, the blood coalesced into sapphire, and the sapphire became a white flame. Only this time, Jordan didn’t panic. She simply extended her hand to Zane, held it beneath his chin, and waited for him to extinguish the blaze with his tongue.
“You do it,” he said, once again seeking to make a point.
Jordan cut her eyes at him, then looked away, training her gaze on her finger. She already k
new what would happen. Raising her hand to her mouth, she brought her finger to her tongue and slowly licked the flame.
As expected, the fire went out.
Her eyes clouded with moisture, and she shuffled further back on the couch, needing the extra space. “So what does it mean?” she asked, defensively.
He sighed. And then much to her surprise, he abruptly changed the subject. “Do you have a large family, Jordan? A lot of relatives?”
Jordan frowned, but she was grateful for the sudden shift in topic. “No,” she answered honestly. “My parents passed away when I was just a child, seven years old, and I was raised by my grandmother—she passed away three months ago. I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”
Zane nodded. “I’m sorry about your grandmother.” A faraway look flashed through his sapphire eyes, but only for a moment, and then he briskly changed the subject. “Daughters of The Pantheon are almost always alone in the world until they find their dragyri.” He softened his voice. “The room across the hall from your master, the spare bedroom, it’s full of paintings: easels, canvasses, and oils. You’re an artist?”
Jordan wrinkled her nose. She didn’t know if she would go that far—it was more of a hobby. “Yeah, sometimes.”
His golden pupils lit with interest. “The waterfall—how old is it?” He quickly held up his hand before she could answer. “How many times have you painted it?”
Jordan shrugged, not understanding his line of questioning. “It… I…” She shook her head in frustration. “What difference does that make? I like landscapes, especially water. What does that have to do with anything?”
Zane reached into the collar of his boot and slid two fingers inside the lining, opening a hidden flap that was sealed with Velcro. He retrieved a compact silver cell phone and raised one shoulder in a casual what can I say? gesture. “We don’t have much use for these where I come from—we pretty much communicate with our minds—but when in Rome, or on the other side of the portal, we do as the locals do.” He let his explanation linger while he opened the phone, swiped a couple of bars, and scrolled through a screen full of pictures. When, at last, he came to a landscape, he selected a photo, expanded the image, and rotated the phone so she could see it more clearly.
It was a gorgeous photograph of a magnificent waterfall, at least sixty feet in height, flowing out of a grand, enormous canyon, and fringed by autumn-colored trees; and every single detail in the picture—from the rugged, towering rocks behind the falls, to the V-shaped crevice at the water’s peak, to the serene sapphire sky that arced above the ravine—was an exact, errorless match to Jordan’s oil painting, a landscape she had painted at least a dozen times.
An unwitting tear escaped her eye, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “Where is that?”
Zane glanced at the picture and sighed. “It’s the waterfall behind the Sapphire Lair. My home. The home of the dragyri warriors, those consecrated to Lord Saphyrius. Your home, Jordan.”
Jordan shook her head insistently. “No. No!” She tried to backpedal away from him on the couch, only to realize she had nowhere to go. She was as far away as the cushions would allow. She crossed her arms in front of her, instead, creating a worthless barrier.
Zane’s eyes missed nothing. He noticed her defensive posture, but he still pressed on. “I am the son of dragons, Jordan.” He repeated the claim, so matter-of-factly, and then he held out his arm, turned it over, and coated his flesh in scales: hard, reptilian, immaculately layered scales. He rose from his squat on the floor, took three generous steps back, and stretched both arms to the sides, like an eagle about to take flight. With a punch and a pop, a pair of satin dark-brown wings shot forth from his back and fluttered gracefully behind him. He closed his eyes for the space of two heartbeats, and when he reopened them, they were glowing crimson red.
“Enough!” Jordan shouted, now trembling from head to toe. “That’s enough!”
Zane dropped his arms to his sides, relaxed his brawny shoulders, and the wings retracted—they simply disappeared. He pumped his fist, and the scales vanished. He blinked three times, and his eyes once again became sapphire and gold.
“Angel,” he murmured tenderly, “this is not a game. And I am not a madman. Nor am I a human. Listen to your heart.” He took those same three steps forward, swiftly closing the distance between them, and knelt again in front of the couch. “You saw the waterfall and the fire in your blood, and you recognized my words. You already knew them.” He reached out to brush his thumb against her cheek, and then he cupped her jaw in his hand. “I know you’re terrified, but listen to your soul, dragyra. What is it telling you? About yourself? About me?”
He leaned toward her, and God have mercy, for a moment, she was absolutely convinced he was going to try to kiss her. His mouth hovered perilously close above hers as he whispered: “What did you dream of as a girl?”
And then he did it.
He kissed her.
Softly.
Gently.
Just a feather-light touch: his thick bottom lip grazing hers, his firm top lip pressing tenderly.
“What have you wished for all your life?” He nuzzled her neck with his cheek and whispered in her ear: “What freedom? What justice? What security? Are you more at home on the beach or in the mountains? Are you afraid of heights, or do you seek them out?” He glanced over his shoulders, toward the stunning row of floor-to-ceiling windows, ignoring the presence of the closed pastel curtains. “How much do you pay each month to live on the top floor of this building, for the amazing view, just to glimpse the purple sunsets? Why do you need that…so much?” He pulled back, just a small increment, and searched her eyes.
Jordan reached up to tuck a thick spiral of auburn hair behind her ear—it was a nervous gesture, and her hand was trembling.
Zane took her hand, held it in his, and applied gentle pressure until her fingers stopped quivering. “You are no longer alone, my angel.” He spoke each word with deliberation, and then he traced the pad of his forefinger along the contour of her upper lip. “Jordan…”
“Stop!” She practically barked the word, so great was her terror, so strong was her desire to escape his ministrations. “Please…Zane…I need you to stop.”
He backed away, rose to his full, intimidating height, and strolled across the living room to the nearest chair, where he sat down gracefully, seemingly unperturbed. The chair looked miniscule beneath him. “You are a lawyer,” he said in a seamless change of subject. It was more of a statement than a question. “Tell me about your life, your job, your work, your immediate responsibilities and obligations.”
Jordan drew back in surprise at the new line of questioning. Her eyes shot briefly to his, but his stare was too intense, too intimate…too discerning, and she had to look away. It was like he was peering into her soul. “I have a job,” she croaked. “A job that I like…that I need.” She swallowed her fear and tried to sound more confident, more self-possessed. “A job that I’m good at, and it gives me purpose.” She had no idea why she had said that—why she had told him so much with those four little words—but she almost felt as if she had to justify her existence, explain her occupation, argue for her right to continue with her life as it was.
He smiled, albeit faintly, and his rugged, flawless features were so incredibly handsome that it almost stole her breath. “I don’t think you like it, but I do think you’re good at it.” His brow furrowed, and he narrowed his gaze, as if to emphasize his point. “And Jordan, you no longer need it. Your future, your well-being, your livelihood is secure. You will never want for anything again.”
She gasped. “I didn’t ask you to take care of me. I’ve never asked anyone to take care of me.” As her anger rose, her words became clipped. “And I don’t want…whatever this is. You have no right. No right.” This time, she met his stare head-on, raising her chin and locking her gaze with his in defiance.
He seemed to become even more serene, his dark, sculpted brows r
elaxing above his unusual, thoughtful eyes. He sighed, and his chest rose and fell in time with his breath. “Does a doe ask to be a mammal? Does a fish ask to swim in water? Does a bear choose to live in the woods?” He frowned. “No one asks, Jordan. It just is.” He sat forward in the chair, braced both elbows on his knees, and leaned in her direction, his eyes never straying from hers. “I didn’t ask to be born Dragyr; to be a Genesis Son of the gods, a male fated to one day find a dragyra that he must claim and make his own. Why was I born to The Pantheon and not to the Pagan Realm? Why were you born to a human family when you possess a dragyra soul?” He leaned back again in the chair, this time crossing one leg perpendicular over the other. “We can talk about these things until the sun rises and sets a dozen different times, and we will never know the reasons why; but—and you must hear me, Jordan, because as I’ve said before, this isn’t a game—our time, this time, may be more wisely spent exploring pertinent questions and answers. What does this mean? What do I want? What has to happen next? Right now, I am wanting to hear from you, to learn from you—to know who you are, what you desire, and how to make this…less difficult—but at the end of the day, I have pledged my fealty to the dragon lords, the seven gods of The Pantheon. And I am not going to let you die, nor am I going to relinquish my life in order to make this easier.”
His voice grew thick with conviction. “I’m sorry…because I know this is not what you wish to hear, but it is the truth. Yesterday, in the parking garage, when you tried to scream, I controlled your voice with my mind. And yes, I did the same tonight, in order to keep you on the couch, to stop you from escaping. How did I find you? I took your blood in the parking garage, and then I traced your DNA, much like a homing signal, like a GPS. As for my ethnicity—your ethnicity—it is as ancient as time itself. We are born of magic, power, and mystical elements—we are born of the substance of gods. And I am no freer than you are, Jordan, at least not when it comes to The Pantheon, but—”
He held up his hand to assuage her terror, almost as if he knew how badly he was freaking her out, how alarming each and every word he said had to be. “But the life that I live—the one you will live—can be far freer, far more beautiful than the one you have lived until now. Those things you value, your work or your friends, they don’t have to go away. We move in and out of the portal almost every day. Those things you have learned or mastered, the law and the arts; there is no reason you cannot continue to practice them both…to exercise your crafts on behalf of The Pantheon. There is much you need to learn—and we don’t have a lot of time—yet how we choose to spend it, how you choose to make use of it, is completely up to you.”