Free The Last Slayer by Nadia Lee Page B

pinprick pupils that took in everything at a glance. Patches of frost suddenly covered the grass where he stepped, and the temperature seemed to drop about fifty degrees. My teeth wanted to chatter, and I wasn’t the only one feeling the cold.
    For all the frigidity, the supernatural had a stark beauty that was simply breathtaking. Even if his coloring had been normal, in his bearing, his perfection, no one would ever mistake him for human.
    Bill Swain walked briskly toward us from the other side of the lawn, an air of money and pedigree accompanying him like a pure-blooded French poodle. He looked exceptionally good for his age. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve pegged him for a man in his early forties, almost two decades below his true age. I guess being the CEO of one of the premier pharmaceutical companies in the world had its benefits.
    A group of men in black sunglasses and earphones surrounded him as though he were a head of state. Swain stepped forward with a smile. “Welcome to TriMedica.”
    Semangelaf nodded once.
    Another tall figure suddenly appeared. One moment there was nothing, and in the next he was standing next to Semangelaf. With stark-white skin and the breeze toying with his long black hair and cloak, it looked as if his head was levitating in a black miasma. His mouth was beautifully sculpted, but remained a flat line. It was a mouth that hadn’t smiled for a long time.
    Boredom clouded nuclear-blue eyes. If it weren’t for the ancient and powerful aura about him, he would’ve looked as uninterested as a statue.
    Andersen stiffened beside me.
    “Ah…I wasn’t expecting anyone else…” Swain’s smile didn’t waver, but he couldn’t hide the faint tremor in his voice.
    “You should thank me,” the newcomer said tonelessly. “I just did you a favor.”
    My blood ran cold at that. A favor must be repaid…unless it wasn’t asked for in the first place. I leaned over to Andersen. “Has Swain—”
    Before I could finish my question, a series of waves rippled through the ground. I’d experienced something similar once on the west coast. I almost lost my footing.
    “What a waste of my time!” came a loud, petulant voice.
    There was a whoosh of air and another dragonlord landed next to Semangelaf. This one didn’t have an amphitere to fly in on. He executed a perfect two-point landing under his own power—a pair of gigantic golden-red wings sprouting from his back. As he touched ground, they started folding until they became tiny and disappeared under his skin. Totally cool and completely new to me—I hadn’t known dragonlords could grow wings like that. But this wasn’t the time to admire them. One dragonlord would have been problem enough. Now it looked as though we were going to have to deal with three.
    Semangelaf glanced to his side. “Apollyon?”
    This newest addition looked young—twelve or so. He was childhood delights made flesh, all fluffy cotton candy and bubbling laughter. Unlike the other two, he was short, maybe under five feet, and had neatly trimmed platinum hair that barely reached his neck. He scanned us with wide tri-ringed eyes of gold, silver and ruby, and I knew he was centuries old. Boys don’t have eyes like those: ancient and all-knowing.
    “GenEvo Labs. They lied to me.” He snapped his fingers and his face lit into an enormous smile. “Boom!”
    Apollyon’s explanation sounded a little odd. Dragonlords were known to be capricious, but it was ludicrous to believe that he’d blown up an entire company for lying to him, unless the lie had been something enormous. Despite my warnings to Andersen the day before, I couldn’t imagine what they could’ve said to offend him that much.
    If those two were Semangelaf and Apollyon, the other one had to be the third member of the Triumvirate of Madainsair—Nathanael, the one who’d destroyed the slayers. He didn’t fit the fearsome warrior demigod image I had in my mind.
    “And the cripple?”