Dark Dragon's Wolf

  Dark Dragon’s Wolf

  (Darkwing Dragons Book 2)

  by

  Anastasia Wilde

  Dark Dragon’s Wolf

  Copyright © 2019 by Anastasia Wilde

  Copyright © 2019 by Anastasia Wilde

  First Electronic Publication: March 2019

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning, uploading, or distributing via the internet, print, or any other means, without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Cover by Melody Simmons

  Books by Anastasia Wilde

  Silverlake Shifters Series:

  Fugitive Mate

  White Wolf Mate

  Tiger Mate

  Silverlake Enforcers Series:

  The Enforcers: KANE

  The Enforcers: ISRAEL

  The Enforcers: NOAH

  Bad Blood Shifters Series:

  Bad Blood Bear

  Bad Blood Wolf

  Bad Blood Leopard

  Bad Blood Panther

  Bad Blood Alpha

  Wild Dragons Series:

  Dragon’s Rogue

  Dragon’s Rebel

  Dragon’s Storm

  Darkwing Dragons Series:

  Dark Dragon’s Mate

  Dark Dragon’s Wolf

  Chapter 1

  Tristan Barnes, white wolf, sat in the library in the Al-Maddeiri castle, surrounded by his friends and a confusion of books and beers and computers, trying to pretend everything was normal.

  Trying to pretend he was normal.

  It should have been a piece of cake. He’d gotten really damn good at faking normal in the last couple of years. Everybody ooh-ed and aah-ed over how he was a triumph for the healers.

  Taken from a tortured, insane, three-quarters-wild killer wolf and turned into a mild-mannered pansy-ass shadow of his former self.

  One of the good guys.

  Except he wasn’t good. Never had been. He’d been a wild kid, and then a hunted fugitive, and then a prisoner-slash-lab experiment.

  The being a killer part came somewhere in between all that.

  After he’d finally escaped from the lab, he’d let a bunch of healers in the Silverlake wolf pack prance through his mind, rooting out all the pain and torture and all the bad, bad memories.

  Supposedly.

  In reality, he’d just put all that toxic shit into a big old steel vault in the back of his mind, and he’d locked the door so tight that most days he honestly didn’t want to kill anybody.

  And when he did want to, he managed to keep anyone from knowing about it.

  Until now. Now he’d gone and screwed the whole thing up. And unless he could find a way to make himself seem sane again, he was well and truly fucked.

  They were supposed to be researching healing and magical protection spells. His good friend Trish—AKA the Nightmare Wolf—was at the adjoining table, right next to her new mate Emon, the Darkwing Dragon. Emon was technically the king of this little tiny self-contained country, about half the size of Rhode Island.

  Which existed in some kind of interdimensional spacetime thingy, the comprehension of which was way above Tristan’s pay grade.

  Across the room were two of Emon’s new clan members—the red dragons Zakerek and Cazbek. Who were both pains in the ass. In fact, if Tristan were going to get back to killing people again, he’d probably start with Zakerek.

  Right now the red dragon was hunched over one of the computers, constantly glaring around in case anyone was trying to sneak up on him and see what he was doing.

  As if anyone gave a fuck.

  Cazbek was kicked back on a leather couch with his feet up, a laptop on his lap, filling out a profile for an online shifter dating site on Earth.

  The Shifter Council had recently learned there were Wild Dragons there, living in secret for centuries. Now that they’d gone public in the shifter community, apparently everybody wanted to bang a dragon. Even one who lived in another dimension.

  Thus Cazbek’s enthusiasm for the internet, which Emon had recently started piping into the castle via wireless and a magical portal.

  Not that Tristan had any right to get judgy about other shifters and their sexual dragon fantasies. Considering that he was crushing like hell on Emon’s sister Mayah—the most beautiful dragon in all the worlds, in his undoubtedly biased opinion.

  Who was currently asleep in her bedroom, not giving him a second thought.

  Cazbek said, “What should I put for my favorite movie? I’ve only seen, like, three.”

  “Not counting porno flicks,” Zakerek said.

  Cazbek brightened. “I can put one of those. What about Biggest Banana in the Bunch? That was a good one.”

  Without looking up from the book of spells he was leafing through, Emon said, “Make sure you put that your banana is way, way bigger than the ones in the movie. And post a picture.”

  Trish elbowed him. “He can’t do that,” she whispered. “They’ll kick him off the site.”

  “We can only hope,” Emon murmured.

  Cazbek frowned. “Really?” he said. “I’m pretty sure they said no dick pics.”

  “It’s more of a suggestion than a rule,” Emon said. Trish shook her head, rolling her eyes.

  Cazbek glanced down at his crotch. “Okay. Anybody got a camera?”

  Trish said, “A) they don’t allow dick pics. Definitely a rule. And B) if you pull that thing out in front of me, I’m going to go Nightmare Wolf and bite it off.”

  Emon looked up from his book. “Hey!” He frowned at Trish. “You’d seriously put your wolf lips on another dragon’s dick?”

  Trish patted his arm. “Only my teeth. To mangle it beyond repair.”

  “Still not allowed.” Emon gave a low growl.

  Trish leaned over and kissed his shoulder. “Don’t be jealous. You’re the only dragon for me. Even if I had to bite another one, I wouldn’t enjoy it.”

  Emon rolled his eyes a little and shook his head, but his face went soft as he looked down at her. Trish returned his gaze for a moment, her heart in her eyes, before going back to her book.

  Emon went on with his research, a little smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

  Tristan watched them, hot envy spiking through him. He wanted that. He wanted the passion and the understanding, someone who could calm his wolf with a touch or a smile, the way Trish could calm Emon’s dragon.

  Someone who wanted his heart, and didn’t mind about his tattered and broken soul.

  Cazbek sighed, staring at the laptop screen. “This is harder than I thought. Earth customs are confusing.”

  “Yup,” Emon said unsympathetically. “It’s possible you’ll never get laid.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Cazbek turned to Zakerek. “What are you putting for your favorite movie?”

  “None of your fucking business,” Zakerek snarled.

  “Geez, okay,” Cazbek said. “Just FYI, though, I’m pretty sure you’re not going to get laid either.”

  At that moment, the computer screens flickered, and the beer fridge in the corner sputtered. “Dammit,” Emon said, looking up from his book ag
ain. “What’s wrong with the generator now?”

  The castle lights ran on magic, but the computers ran on electricity from a generator that had been brought over from Earth. Lately it had been fritzing out.

  Cazbek stopped what he was doing and looked around like the answer was hanging in mid-air somewhere. Zakerek typed faster, as if afraid of losing what he was doing. He finished whatever it was and leaned back in his chair. The electricity sputtered one more time, and then everything went back to normal.

  Emon sighed and picked up a golden ball from a stand in front of him. It was a communication device, sort of a magical Skype. “Mikah,” he said into it. There was a musical chime, and then the face of the third red dragon appeared in the ball.

  “What is it, Your Majesty?” he asked.

  Emon heaved a martyred sigh. “I told you not to call me that.”

  Mikah’s new job was Head Steward for the whole kingdom—basically, Emon’s Secretary of Pretty Much Everything.

  He was taking it way too seriously.

  Emon went on, “Have you managed to figure out what’s overloading the generator? It just fritzed again.”

  Mikah shook his head. “I’ve asked Flynn if he’ll bring Tank over to look at it next time he comes. I barely understand how it works.”

  Emon’s sister Kira’s mate, Flynn, owned a construction company on Earth with his crew Second, Tank. Both of them were pretty decent at electrical work, and—since it was family—willing to work for whiskey.

  “I hope it doesn’t blow all the computers before that,” Emon said. “Back up your work, people. Except Cazbek.”

  “Is there anything else, Your—” Emon gave a dragon growl, and Mikah broke off. “I mean, Emon. I’ll just be going then…”

  His face disappeared and the ball went blank.

  Emon said, “Tristan, I don’t suppose you know about electric—”

  “No,” Tristan snarled. Other than messing with people’s brains—for good or evil—his life skills were pretty much limited to weapons, survival, evading pursuit, and death.

  Not much of a basis for a fulfilling life path.

  He also wasn’t in a helpful mood. He was angry and frustrated and getting a splitting headache, which was basically his permanent state the last couple of weeks.

  Emon raised his eyebrows. “Okay then,” he said, with uncharacteristic mildness. “Don’t blame me if we lose Netflix.”

  They were all walking on eggshells around Tristan. Because he was damaged. Because when the castle was invaded a few weeks ago and he’d been without weapons, he’d fought with his mind.

  Literally ripped into people’s flesh with his mental powers. He’d never done that before—hadn’t even known he could. He’d only seen it done once, by another white wolf. An insane one.

  Now he knew why. It felt like he’d blown out half his brain neurons.

  But when he’d seen Mayah almost kidnapped by those Gen-X fuckers who wanted to experiment on her, something snapped inside him. He’d seen too many shifters captured and tortured. And Mayah had already been through so much.

  He just couldn’t let that happen to her, even if it short-circuited his entire brain. And now he had headaches, and nosebleeds, and that famous vault where all his bad memories and homicidal urges were hidden had busted open, and he couldn’t get it shut again.

  He told himself he’d have done it for anyone, but who the fuck was he trying to kid? It was for her. He wanted to do everything for her—love her, protect her, spend time with her, talk to her. Listen to all her hopes and dreams. Make them come true.

  He wanted to show her Earth, do all the ordinary things she’d never done. Go to a movie theater. A restaurant. A city. A biker bar.

  And the supreme irony was, by trying to save her, he’d fucked himself up so much he could never have her. She wouldn’t be safe with him, now that he could no longer even fake normal.

  Want, his wolf said. Ours.

  Yeah, no, Tristan said back.

  The princess of Al-Maddeiri definitely wasn’t theirs. She deserved way, way better than him.

  Chapter 2

  Mayah, Draken princess of Al-Maddeiri, was caught in a nightmare.

  The same nightmare she’d had over and over: dozens of ghosts calling to her, their voices pitiful and relentless.

  Reaching out their hands, grabbing at her, begging for help.

  Set us free. Save us. You’re our only hope.

  Even her dream-self could see the irony in that—that anyone, even a ghost, would think Mayah could bring them salvation and freedom. Someone who’d been a prisoner all her life. Whose dragon had been trapped inside her for over two years.

  How could she save anyone?

  Now, in the dream, she was walking down a hallway—one where she’d been many times before. It seemed to be made entirely of white tile—the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Everything was white.

  Including the ghosts.

  They were huddled in glass-fronted white-tile rooms that lined the corridor. Sometimes alone, sometimes in small groups. Men, women, children—ghosts behind glass, like exhibits in some kind of otherworldly zoo.

  They’d look up as she walked past, staring at her, arms outstretched, begging her to help them. Then suddenly there would be more of them—the same people, but older or younger. Ghosts of everything they had been and would be, crowding the rooms, pressing against the glass, all calling her until their cries ran together in a low, desperate moan.

  Help us. You have to help us.

  “I can’t!” she cried out in frustration. She couldn’t open the cages; she couldn’t reach through the glass. There was nothing she could do. “I can’t save you. I don’t know how.” You’re already dead.

  She tried to close her eyes, will herself out of the dream, but her eyes wouldn’t close and the scene just blurred into fog, the ghosts shrinking down to long white clouds of mist with glowing yellow eyes.

  Then she was somewhere else—a stone corridor, with more ghosts. Save us.

  Then somewhere else again—a dirt-packed enclosure lined with dilapidated shacks.

  And again, ghosts reaching out to her, demanding help and hope and rescue. Save us.

  She tried to come back, back to her body, to her own bed in her own room. But she wasn’t home; she couldn’t wake up.

  Now she was in the castle where she was born, rubble half-filling the hallways, surrounded by the stink of smoke and dragonfire. And there were bodies—human and Draken and Lion Guard—and the ghosts of all the members of the House of Al-Maddeiri who died there, on that one terrible day.

  Everyone thought she’d been too young to remember. But her dragon remembered, because the Al-Maddeiri had powers. Prophecy, magic, dreams and memory. Their minds were even mightier than their dragons.

  Ghosts rose around her, but her ancestors didn’t speak, didn’t cry out. They knew she couldn’t help them.

  No. I won’t live in memories. I won’t live in guilt. I won’t live in regret.

  Once more, she tore herself out of the dream-space, looking for home.

  Home. Her safe harbor, with her brother who’d always protected her, and his new mate Trish, who was her friend.

  And then she was home, walking the halls of their castle. But it was haunted too…

  She saw her brother, in dragon form, locked in a cage. And the wizard Ragnor, who’d saved them and raised them out of the wreckage of their family’s castle, only to use them for his own dark magic.

  She watched him drip a deadly toxin into the raw and bubbling wound in her brother’s side. Saw Emon fight, saw him try to scream through the silver muzzle that imprisoned his jaws.

  And she saw herself, magically chained to a chair in the middle of Ragnor’s lab. Drugged, her mind ripped open with Ragnor’s magic, just so he could see the extent of her powers. Her mouth sewn shut so she, too, wouldn’t scream.

  But their silent screams, hers and Emon’s, echoed inside her mind. She saw more ghosts—her and h
er brother as children, as teenagers, as dark and brooding survivors of their tragedy.

  No! she said, gritting her teeth. No ghosts. No tragedy. No dwelling in the past.

  I want now. I want today.

  And suddenly she was walking down the hallway in the castle towards her brother’s rooms, the smell of popcorn in the air. She smiled. Movie night. With Emon and Trish and the red dragons.

  And Tristan.

  The white wolf—her healer, her friend. Maybe more than a friend.

  As she thought of him, he appeared in the distance—way down the long, long, corridor. So far away. But she’d know him anywhere—lean, muscular build, the strong, graceful stance of a warrior, long blond hair that had made Emon give him the nickname “Elf Lord.”

  She walked faster, wanting to see his blue eyes—burning with all the passions and emotions he kept inside, but that sometimes went so soft and gentle when he looked at her, or lit up with humor when she gave him crap about something.

  Somehow, he didn’t seem to get any closer.

  At his feet, circling him, she could see a ghost with yellow eyes.

  Tristan! She tried to call out, to warn him, but she couldn’t make a sound.

  More ghosts came out of the stone walls, reaching out. Angry. Accusing. She brushed them aside. Something was wrong with Tristan.

  She ran down the hallway but everything was slow, so slow, she couldn’t make any progress. The roar of the ghosts was deafening, and she was surrounded by white mist creatures and more glowing yellow eyes.

  And then Tristan crumpled to the ground, and the ghosts closed in. She fought her way past them, but it was too late. He lay with his skull split open, blood pooling under his head as he stared sightlessly up at her.

  Tristan’s headache was getting worse. He thought he heard someone calling. Someone he needed to save.

  He tried to block it out. Shit. That was all he heard lately. All he saw when he closed his eyes. The people he was supposed to have saved, and didn’t. And there were a lot of them.