Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(16)

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 vacillated 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.

A huge, powerful hand slammed the door shut. “Stop.”

She spun around, pressed her back to the door, and stared at the titan before her, and then her jaw hung open in shock. She knew him. Well, she didn’t know him, but she’d seen him before, earlier, in the Two Fork’s garage.

She began to hyperventilate.

“Breathe,” he rasped, placing his hand gently against her throat.

Her eyes bulged like balloons. “Please,” she whimpered. “Oh God, oh God…please.” She hated herself for her weakness—she knew better than to show fear to a predator—yet the tears fell freely, despite her best intentions. “Oh, please, don’t hurt me.”

The man—no, the male—took a cautious step backward, his piercing sapphire eyes glowing golden in the centers, and slowly nodded his head. “You are safe now. Just breathe.” He lowered his hand from her throat, and curiously, the air was flowing more freely through her windpipe.

Jordan swallowed, almost convulsively, as she eyed him warily from head to toe. His dark, chestnut-brown hair was drenched with blood; his lips were still curled back in a snarl; and his canines were far too long for comfort, two razor-sharp points descending well beyond his taut, angry lips. He looked like death on two feet, the grim reaper in pants—pajama bottoms, to be exact. She blinked rapidly and stared at his clothes: He was wearing a white Haines T-shirt that stuck to his powerful frame—molded to every muscle, bulge, and sculpted mass like a second skin—and a pair of black silk pajamas…over hard, steel-toed boots.