And then, just like that, another beetle bit Zane—this time, in the ass.
Zane clenched his lower cheeks and snarled, cursing in the ancient Dragonian language. He stuffed his hand into the back of his jeans, grasped the obnoxious beetle, and crushed it in his palm, groaning with disgust.
“What?” Levi asked, staring inquisitively at Zane’s tortured expression.
“Another bite,” Zane answered as his chest began to seize. Son of a demon! That bug had been strong. He would have said it out loud, but his throat was starting to close.
“What the hell?” Axe said, making his way toward his lair-mates.
“I think another one just bit him in the ass,” Levi replied. He touched the tips of his fangs with his tongue and grimaced, staring at Zane’s backside warily. “Damn, brother,” he moaned. He planted his palms on his narrow hips and shook his head rather slowly. “I mean, I love you and all, Zane; but dang—I’m really not trying to suck venom from your ass.”
Zane stooped forward and braced his hands on his knees. The porch was beginning to sway beneath him, and the yard was going all topsy-turvy, spinning in dizzying circles.
Axe shook out his hair, as if he were still creeped out by the bugs. “Ah, hell,” he grumbled. “Strip him.”
Levi took one hard look at Zane, who was now beginning to struggle for breath, and shrugged his powerful shoulders. “Sorry, brother.” He stepped forward, and with a lightning-quick series of motions, he eviscerated the male’s clothes in an instant, leaving only his athletic socks and his steel-toed boots intact.
Zane turned around and spread both legs, about shoulder’s width apart. What a helluva night. He braced both arms against the side of the house, giving his lair-brothers an up-close-and-personal view of everything he was packing from behind, and waited.
Axe sidled up behind him, stopped a few feet short of touching Zane’s hips, and then got straight down to business. He bathed the afflicted dragon in silver-blue fire from head to toe in an effort to heal, cleanse, and incinerate any remaining toxins from the outside in.
Zane grit his teeth as the healing flames got to work.
Burning was nothing new to a dragon.
Not after centuries spent in the Dragons Domain with the feral lords, but it still hurt like a mother when it happened, healing flames or not.
Zane held his breath, waiting for the remedy to take hold, grateful that it was only silver-blue flames assailing him. Orange—or gods forbid, red—would have dropped him to his knees, had him pleading for mercy like a sycophant.
Like a little girl.
When at last his breath had returned, his heart had settled down, and there wasn’t a beetle, gangster, or pagan left in sight, Zane cupped his hands over his privates and slowly turned around. He gestured toward the inside of the house with his chin. “Clothes,” he muttered. “Someone?”
Levi chuckled, vanished from view, and returned with a pair of oversized black silk pajamas and a plain white tee. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Best I could do.”
Zane took the clothes and donned them with appreciation, and then he finally stepped down from the porch. “Thanks for the backup,” he said to no one in particular. The yard was already clean. Axe must have incinerated everything he saw, right down to ash, because all that remained were several inky spots where bugs had once been, and a couple of piles of cinders where the bodies had once lain.
“You good?” Axe asked, following Zane from the porch into the yard. He chuckled as Zane squatted down to strap his steel-toed boots beneath the silken black pajamas. “Nice combo.”
“Ha. Ha,” Zane mocked, flipping Axe the bird. “I’m glad you’re getting some humor out of all this.”
Levi smiled broadly then, meeting the other males on the grass and tilting his head to the side to gaze longingly at Zane’s derriere. “I dunno, brother; the way you were bent over on that porch”—he drew a slim hourglass circle with his hands in the air—“for a second there, I thought, damn, Levi. I know he’s not exactly a woman, but what the hey. Maybe you should just go ahead and—”
Zane’s feral, baritone snarl cut him off midsentence. “Very funny, Levi.”
Levi’s deep, melodious chuckle filled the chilly air. “Seriously, though, I hate when they unleash those beetles.”
“Must’ve been an ancient,” Axe said. “Not many demons have that kind of power.”
A companionable silence settled amongst them, until finally, Zane cleared his throat. “Make sure Lord Ethyron knows that his business was handled,” he said, meeting his brothers’ eyes, each one in turn.
“You’re not coming back with us?” Axe asked.
“Nope,” Zane said. “Can’t just yet.”
“Why?” Levi asked.
Zane bit his lower lip and decided to just go for it. “I made contact with my dragyra. Earlier.”
Axe narrowed his sapphire eyes and raised his thick upper lip in a scowl. “Come again?”
“You heard me,” Zane said. “In the parking lot, at the mall.”
“You sure?” Levi asked.
“Oh yeah,” Zane insisted. “I passed her on a staircase, and her pretty hazel eyes turned glowing sapphire in an instant. I had to do a double-take. Then later, when I made her acquaintance once again in the garage, when I touched her, my amulet heated up.” He grasped the sacred talisman encircling his neck with his fist, and he lifted it from his chest, knowing that both lair-mates would immediately see the dark maroon scar where the amulet had burned his flesh. “She’s mine, all right.”
“Whew!” Axe whistled low, beneath his breath. “So…” He hesitated, as if searching for just the right words. “So, you’re bringing her back, tonight? To the lair?”
“Nah.” Zane shook his head. “No idea how I’m gonna play this yet.” He shrugged. “But I am gonna find out where she lives, make sure I leave a compulsion to stay put, wait for me, while I figure it out.”
Levi ran his left hand through his thick golden-brown hair. “Zanaikeyros…”
The formal address brought Zane up short. “Yeah?” He gave his brother his full attention.
“What do you need?” The male’s even, sonorous voice was heavy with resolve. “Whatever it is, just name it.”
Zane nodded in a show of appreciation. “No idea, yet,” he answered truthfully, and then he turned to place a light hand on Levi’s shoulder. “By the way, how’s Caleb?”
Levi frowned. “Lord Ethyron made his point,” he said sharply, careful to bite back the full extent of his disdain.
Zane looked away.
There was no upside in speaking critically about the dragon lords, not any of them. They were their fathers. They were their gods. And they kept the sacred amulets imbued with life force. In other words, to speak against the Dragons was akin to defying one’s own soul. All Zane knew was that Calebrios would heal—or not—in time. Meanwhile, Zane had ten days—really, nine, now—to claim his mate, try to break through her resistance, and get her to the sacred temple as an offering to The Pantheon. Not counting what was left of this night, he had nine more days to solidify a connection with the only female he would ever have a chance to mate in an eternal lifetime. “So I’ll catch you later,” he said, eyeing each of his brothers in turn.
Levi nodded, understanding without the need for a further exchange of words.
Axe crossed his arms over his chest and held Zane’s vulnerable glare with a matching stare of both intensity and color—they all had sapphire eyes. While they may have been born with irises the shade of their pupils, those irises changed the day they were consecrated to their permanent lairs, the moment they were pledged to Lord Saphyrius. Axe then swept his gaze across the yard, indicating the earlier battle with the subtle gesture. “Be careful,” he intoned, reminding Zane of the constant need for vigilance. “You never know where the real danger is going to come from.”
Zane inclined his head in formal acknowledgment of Axeviathon’s words, and then, without pause or preambl
e, he vanished from the yard.
Chapter Six
Zane flashed into view in a dark, empty alley—it was as good a place as any to quiet his mind, collect his thoughts, and tune into Jordan Anderson’s unique vibration. He had taken her blood earlier in the parking garage at the mall, when he had pierced her wrist with his fangs and tasted her delectable essence; and that was all he needed to find her, to track her and stake his claim.
He tuned everything else out and concentrated on those microscopic platelets, the blood that now moved through his own veins, and slowly, one by one, fragments of information began to emerge: a memory; Jordan pulling into an underground garage beneath a high-rise building, an impression; Jordan walking through the front door of a comfortably appointed living room and dropping her keys into a nearby basket on a decorative iron-work stand, and an address; Jordan filling out a credit card form—no, a shipping statement—for an online purchase, an expensive pair of earrings.
Yep, that was it: 2496 East Haley Avenue in the Skyline Mosaic subdivision, unit 905 on the top floor. So she had lied about her address—smart. He took bits and pieces of the layout, internalizing the blueprint from random scattered images and other disconnected impressions, and he committed them to memory.
It was enough to go on…for now.
Zane took a deep breath, solidified his determination, and then shimmered out of view.
It was 11:45 PM, still day one of the mandatory claiming; he wouldn’t stick around to get to know the female better. Rather, he would simply materialize inside her room; place a fixed compulsion inside her head while she slept, perhaps weaving the command into a dream; and then he would head back through the portal to the Dragons Domain, where he would prepare the sapphire lair for a new arrival.
f
Alonzo Diaz stuffed the large, sloppy end of the mop into the heavy plastic bucket and pushed the contraption forward, stepping out of the service elevator. Three months of cleaning up after spoiled, rich white people who’d been born with silver spoons shoved up their tight derrieres; three months of shining chrome and sanitizing toilets in the public lobby so stuck-up African-Americans could look down their haughty noses at other, ignorant black people; and three months of polishing mirrors in the common hallways so his own kind, other Latinos who thought they were white, could pass by the glass and forget where the hell they came from: This job was bullshit, and he hated every minute of it.
But—and wasn’t there always a but—he had done it for a reason.
To bide his time and get close to Jordan Anderson, close enough to wrap his strong, tattooed hands around her skinny little throat and end her pathetic life, but not before he used her in every way imaginable. Oh yeah, Jordan was gonna learn a thing or two about sexual predators, up close and personal. Enough of watching her from across the veranda, from the top of an adjacent building with a pair of cheap binoculars. Enough of cleaning up her pristine building’s halls.
Alonzo pushed the mop to the end of the corridor, came to a stop—just outside of door number 905, Jordan’s luxury apartment on the top floor of the high-rise—and he smiled like a Cheshire cat. Damn, he had waited a long time for this. He stuffed his hand into the oversized pocket of the dark blue jumpsuit—and why the hell did they dress janitors like prisoners, anyway?—and felt for the master key. Damn right, he had a copy of the master key, and all it took was a bottle of tequila, a couple of sleeping pills, and a late-night card game with the superintendent to get his hands on the original and make the copy.
Done and done.
Now glancing at his watch—it was 11:45 PM—he slipped the key out of his pocket and laughed. He had all night long to play his wicked game.
Chapter Seven
Jordan Anderson sat up abruptly in bed. She stiffened and angled her head to the side, trying desperately to listen. She thought she’d heard footsteps in the hall, a soft but steady clomp, clomp, clomp heading in her direction. Her heart began to race as she struggled to clear the cobwebs, force her brain to come online, and will her senses to awaken.
What time was it anyway?
One glance at the soft blue LED lights glowing on the nightstand clock answered her question: 11:50 PM, almost midnight. She tossed the sheets aside, bounded from the bed, and pressed her back against the wall, beside the closet doors, still listening. Those were definitely footfalls, and she needed to act quickly.
The phone; she should call 911.
The security alarm; why hadn’t it gone off?
Protection; she needed a baseball bat or a knife or a—
“Jordan. Oh pretty Jordan. Here, witchy witch. Here, witchy witch. Come to papa.”
She gasped, her heartbeat accelerating to double time. Oh, shit. That was him. The creepy guy. The one who had called her office earlier, threatening her life. The sexual predator she had helped put away. What in the world was he doing in her apartment? And how the hell had he gotten in? Didn’t Mike have patrol cars surveying the building?
None of that mattered right now.
Her LC9 was on the other side of the room, safely tucked away in a gun safe with the loaded clip resting beside the revolver—safety on, chamber empty—and she didn’t think she could make it across the room in time, around the bed and to the safe, let alone punch in the four-digit code quickly enough to retrieve the weapon. Some home protection that was. She made a quick dash to the nearby nightstand, instead, snatched her cell phone, and ducked into the closet, trying to close the heavy wooden doors as quietly as possible as she swiped wildly at the cell phone screen, trying to turn it on.
Emergency login.
Bypass security code.
Go straight to 911.
Her hand shook as she tried to work the buttons, and then a large, clanging boom wrenched an unbidden scream from her throat as the closet door slid open with a violent thud.
“What are you doing, witch!” His voice was positively maniacal, and she dropped the phone, immediately switching to another, more primal instinct: survival!
Jordan kicked at the towering frame hovering above her, coming at her, her heel taking aim for the center of his thighs. He immediately blocked his groin, and she went at it with a fury, pedaling, kicking, trying to obliterate his crotch like a wild thing. Stomp. Thrust. Kick-kick-kick. One foot after another, trying frantically to lodge his gonads all the way into his pelvis.
He backed out of the closet and snarled.
She spun around in the dark, feeling for the phone, but he came at her again, this time with a knife.
She reached for her nearest shoe, a heavy black snow-boot with a three-inch wooden heel, and swung it at the proffered blade.
This wasn’t happening.
This was not happening!
Some irrational part of her brain kept insisting that she should just turn back the hands of time, go back and get it right, do it over and take proper precautions—make all the right moves, next time.
This simply could not be happening.
And then he dove on top of her, closing the distance between them, eliminating the use of her feet, and knocking the boot aside. She screamed again, this time fighting wildly with her hands: scratching, gouging, punching, trying to force him…off!
He butted his head against hers, knocking the sense right out of her, and while she was still reeling from the pain and disorientation, he scrambled backward on his hands and knees, grasped her by the ankles, and tugged, yanking her out of the closet.
She tried to flip over and crawl.
She tried to kick back at his face.
She tried to wrench free from his hold, but nothing seemed to work.
Good Lord, why was he so strong?
In an instant, he grasped her by the waist, lifted her from the floor, and tossed her onto the bed like she was nothing but an insubstantial rag doll!
Noooooo!
This could not be happening!!!
Fight, Jordan. Fight!
Tears of angry frustration stung her eyes as she vacill
ated between utter disbelief and panic. And there was moisture, thick, viscous liquid, trickling into her eyes—was that blood? Had he opened her skull with that head-butt?
And then, all at once, the most terrifying sound Jordan had ever heard reverberated through the room: A deep, feral hiss grew into a deafening roar, causing the furnishings to shimmy where they stood, as if from a terrible earthquake.
Jordan sucked in air, her eyes darting this way and that, trying to identify the primal sound and its source. And the convict, the vile, criminal piece of crap that was climbing on top of her, spun around as well, trying to confront the unexpected threat.
He was no match for what hit him.
In the blink of an eye—without any preamble or warning—the convict’s back, chest, and arms lit up in flames; and the sudden blaze of fire singed the clothes from his body, melted his skin like wax, and created a thick, molten residue that clung to his flesh like tar. He screamed in agony as a long set of—claws?—reached around his burning shoulders, dug into his neck, and opened a virtual geyser of arterial spray.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!
Jordan let out a primordial cry that was beyond identification. It wasn’t a shout, or a scream, or a whimper—it was a horrifying bellow for mercy.
And she was so outta there!
She dove from the bed, landed awkwardly on the floor, her ankles still caught in the comforter, and then shimmied forward on her elbows, like a soldier in a low-crawl exercise navigating an obstacle course, hoping to gain forward momentum any way she could. She scrambled to her feet and bolted for the door, just as she heard a deafening whir whiz past her. It was the convict’s head, flying from his shoulders and ricocheting off the wall. The thing had wrenched it from his shoulders.
Holy mother of mercy!
Jordan’s feet had never moved so fast as she sprinted for the front door of her apartment, desperate to get away. She didn’t bother to look behind her. At last, she reached the familiar six-pane panel and grasped at the bolt, flipping it to the left in one furious twist, while yanking it open at the same time.