by Raye Wagner
Shadow Wings
The Darkest Drae: Book two
Raye Wagner & Kelly St. Clare
Contents
Draeconian Realm Map
Verald Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Black Crown
Kelly’s Acknowledgements
Raye’s Acknowledgements
Kelly St. Clare
Also by Kelly St. Clare:
Raye Wagner
Also by Raye Wagner:
Fantasy of Frost
Cursed by the Gods
Shadow Wings
by Raye Wagner and Kelly St. Clare
Copyright © 2018 Rachel Wagner
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, media, and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination, or are used fictitiously.
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1
“What the hay?” Dyter yelled a moment after walking into The Raven’s Hollow.
My heart skipped a beat at his bellowing voice, and I couldn’t help a slight stumble as I stepped to the bar, the ale sloshing over the rims of the mugs I held. The crowded tavern smelled of brewed yeast and sweaty men, not much different than my previous stomping grounds at Dyter’s old tavern, The Crane’s Nest. Dyter had brought me here after my night of mourning in the barren Harvest Zone Seven. His sister, Dyrell, owned a tavern in Harvest Zone Eight. Most of the survivors from Zone Seven had been staying here since our Zone was burned to a crisp.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Dyter called, pushing his way to the front of the bar. Despite missing half his arm—the reason he’d been able to return alive from the emperor’s war—the old man could hold his own in a crowded room.
I swallowed, mentally preparing myself for what I knew was coming.
Dyter continued his assault until he was standing across from me. “You’re supposed to be resting, Ryn, recouping after what the king did, not serving ale.”
The jovial mood in the bar had been nonstop for the last three days as the people of Verald celebrated the upcoming coronation of their beloved Cal and the downfall of the tyrant, Irdelron. They deserved a festive reprieve after thirty years of hardship and hunger. We all did. Not that I was going to get it because some people had unrelenting standards.
Schooling my features, I acted like his comment about what I’d been through didn’t bother me. Pretended. I was getting better and better at denial. I forced my face into the blank expression I’d been practicing—one good thing I’d learned from a certain jerk with wings I refused to think about. I reached toward my stiff hair, dyed a dull mousy brown, but stopped myself and turned to grab more mugs from the shelf behind me.
I played like my mom hadn’t stabbed herself with a Phaetyn blade.
Acted like Arnik still had a head.
Almost tricked myself into believing Tyr and Ty really existed and weren’t fake extensions of the Drae I pretended didn’t exist.
Staying busy at The Raven’s Hollow was resting. The tavern was bustling, business was booming, and the constant activity kept me from thinking, from remembering my harsh, depressing reality.
“I have customers, Dyter,” I said, pouring ale into four mugs. I slid them down the line and nodded at the young man ordering stew for himself and a friend. The two had been daily visitors at The Hollow since my arrival. Both had received summons from the Emperor and would be going to serve in the war next year. Even though we’d killed Irdelron, Verald was just one of the three kingdoms in the realm, and Emperor Draedyn ruled over them all. Which meant we were still at war with some overseas land most of us had never seen.
“You need to give this up tomorrow, Rynnie. You have too much responsibility to be hiding here,” he chided. Then, quieter, Dyter said, “Your mum didn’t raise a coward.”
“I need to give my employer two weeks’ notice and wrap up my financials.”
“You don’t have any of those things.”
I crossed my arms and said defensively, “I do, too.”
Dyter lifted a brow. “I’ve explained the situation to Dyrell, and you have a pile of carrots, Rynnie. That’s not the same thing as financials.”
“It’s a big pile,” I mumbled. I had plans for that pile. My simmering anger spiked at the look in his eyes, pity and understanding, but I refused to let him goad me into a reaction. I stalked to the kitchen and ladled up two large bowls of stew for the boys. The potage was thick with legumes and vegetables, much heartier than it had been three days ago. I wondered if these people knew I’d cried on the vegetables to make them grow . . . I’d keep that to myself. People got a bit funny about body fluids.
My Phaetyn powers were doing some good, but I didn’t feel any better for it. When I was busy here, it allowed me to forget my current heartache and the terrors I’d been exposed to. Otherwise, I just sat in my room above the tavern, or in the garden, and cried. Why couldn’t Dyter understand that?
I stepped out of the kitchen, and Dyter launched his next verbal assault. “You promised you’d help, and serving drinks isn’t going to help with what comes next.”
Right. What came next consisted of becoming a Drae on my eighteenth birthday, tomorrow, and then taking on the emperor. It sounded like my idea of a super good time. “I serve stew for a reasonable price, not just drinks,” I quipped. “Never underestimate what a hot stew can do.” I paused. “That would be a great slogan. Never underestimate what a hot stew can do. Maybe I’ll open up my own tavern.”
I took the bowls out to the young men and nodded at the three men sidling up to the bar. They were brawny brutes who must’ve been from one of the wealthier families in Eight. We didn’t see people from the Money Coil this far out from the castle. That’s for sure. Even Arnik hadn’t been as big as these three. Brothers by the looks of it, they all had the same chestnut hair and high cheekbones. Filling a tankard for each, I asked, “What’ll you have?”
Dyter snorted, but I ignored him. We didn’t have much variety: Ale, bread, brak, and stew, same as the other taverns in
Verald. But Dyrell must have better recipes than her brother because The Raven’s Hollow was busier than The Crane’s Nest ever was.
“Mutton, if you have it.”
I quirked a brow, certain he must be joking. The strapping young man stared at me like I’d lost my acorns, which seemed unwarranted. Just go with it, Ryn. “I’m sorry. We’re all out of that. It’s a bit pricey, so we don’t get much. Maybe tomorrow.” Maybe never. “I’ve got lentil stew.”
He wrinkled his nose, and his brother nudged him and jerked his head at me.
“Lentil stew would be fine,” the biggest of the three said in a voice much deeper than his brother.
Unease skittered down my spine at their obvious foreignness. Everyone knew the menus at taverns like Dyter’s and Dyrell’s.
The one who’d asked for mutton muttered under his breath, loud enough for my increasingly sensitive ears to pick up, “Why can’t we at least have fish? I hate peasants.”
I glanced at the darkest corner of the tavern, an area previously used for storage. The morning after my arrival, the jerk with wings, aka Broody-Britches, cleared out the boxes and set up a small table and chair there, telling me he wasn’t leaving until I was Drae and could protect myself. For the first time, I wished I hadn’t stacked up the boxes around his table to block him from view. I didn’t like him watching me, but I did feel safe when he was there. Not that I’d admit that to anyone. One more day, and I’d be invincible, and Lord Nightmare would finally leave me in peace. Maybe then, my heart would forget.
I glanced back at the trio. They were just three ginormous rich people looking for a meal. My fear was irrational, left over from what I’d been through. I turned for the kitchen, and my heart skipped a beat as the man called out above the noise of the tavern, “I heard the king found a Phaetyn. Is Irdelron keeping her at the palace?”
Silence descended, and I pretended I hadn’t heard, scurrying into the kitchen as various responses flooded the room.
“Irdelron ain’t doing nothing. He’s dead.”
“Agatha from Harvest Zone Nine said the potatoes there are huge.”
I smiled. Yeah, those were my potatoes, al’right.
Perhaps without meaning to, the three strangers had declared their foreignness to the crowd. There were plenty of people in Verald still talking about the wonder of finding a Phaetyn. A tiny percentage of the population from the Penny Wheel slums might not know Irdelron was dead, but the rich Money Coil and well-to-do Inbetween knew for sure; the conversations in the markets were flooded with talk of the king’s death.
I was grateful Dyter told me to dye my hair again. Grateful he’d found an herbalist who could concoct an ointment to make my eyes look more blue than violet. Grateful he’d told king-to-be, Caltevyn, I wasn’t coming back to the castle.
I wasn’t grateful Lord Black Wings was really the one telling Dyter to pass on all this advice and having the ointment made. But I could deny the Drae was involved if I only had to talk with Dyter. If I had to deal with him directly, no way. I had standards.
My hands shook as I reached for the ladle, and the talk in the tavern swelled. I willed them to be strong and still, but when I upset the first bowl of soup and sent it tumbling to the polished wood floor, I closed my eyes and had to lean against the benchtop for support. If I couldn’t convince myself I was fine, who else would believe me?
“They’re Druman,” Tyrrik said from behind me.
I’d recognize his voice anywhere, had recognized it in many places: the pits of a dungeon, the delirium of heat stroke, in his secret Drae lair.
“From the emperor. Several of his mules left the castle in Verald to report when Irdelron first discovered you were Phaetyn. These ones are here to gather more information for Emperor Draedyn. That’s how he operates; first he sends out his minion Druman to test the strength of his enemy, and then he uses someone else to crush them, like ordering Irdelron to deal with my kin.”
I remained with my back to him, afraid if I turned around, I wouldn’t be able to conceal the fear his words instilled in me. I wasn’t going back into a dungeon cell. Ever. I’d rather die. I wouldn’t be a slave to anyone ever again. I wasn’t strong enough to go through that twice. Once had put me here, thinking up marketing slogans and happy to serve ale. Twice would be the end of me.
“He doesn’t know the rest—about . . . your other side, but he will sense your existence once you come into your Drae powers. Emperor Draedyn is the alpha of our kind.”
The alpha Drae. Apparently they had alphas. Mistress Moons. Every morning, I wanted to fool myself this nightmare life would end with the sunbreak. But it hadn’t. And I still only had one good source for information. I let my standards slip because I wanted to understand more than I wanted my pride. “Will he know I’m Drae and Phaetyn?”
Tyrrik sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe not right away, but he’s not an idiot.”
Great. I ground my teeth. Because one twisted ruler wasn’t enough. I wondered if Gemond and Azule’s rulers were as bad as Irdelron had been. Probably. “Will he come for me?”
“I’ve never known the emperor to get personally involved. He sends humans to fight in his war and uses his kings and Druman to do everything else. But you are a female Drae. He will go to great lengths to secure you, any length. And he might come anyway . . . if he is not satisfied with the reports of Caltevyn.”
“Might?”
“Might,” Tyrrik replied.
But he’d definitely come to Verald to check out the new female Drae in town by the sounds of it. I sighed and faced Lord Black-Wing-Broody-Britches-Nightmare-Man. Putting my hand on my hip, I asked, “What exactly can an alpha Drae do?”
Tyrrik licked his lips, his eyes widening a fraction. His gaze radiated an intensity I was all too familiar with, and he stepped toward me.
I scowled in response. He shouldn’t be that surprised I was talking to him. Who else was I going to ask?
He froze, and his face went blank. In a flat tone, he said, “The alpha can sense other Drae, their whereabouts. Once we are sworn to him, he can bend us to his will.”
“Hey,” a man yelled from the tavern room. “Where’s the wench?”
My fear shifted to anger in a split second. Wench was one of my least favorite terms. Anger steadied my body, and I ladled the stew into the bowls on the counter, grabbed a handful of the chunky soup that had fallen on the floor and added a bit into each bowl, and dropped them on a tray.
The inky-eyed Drae stood only a couple feet away, studying me with his impassive mask on. His sculpted features were carved in stone, his lean muscled frame still as the night. His skin was the color of Meemaw’s burnt sugar, and he was larger than any man in the tavern, probably because he wasn’t just a man but also a dragon with huge black wings and fangs. As I stared, scales erupted on his chest, the ebony gems flecked with vibrant blue, peeking from the V in his aketon. He continued to study me, his gaze dropping to my lips again before returning to my eyes.
“What?” I snapped. “Do you want me to get you a bowl of soup too?”
He shifted so he was out of my way and didn’t answer. Of course not. He didn’t lower himself to explanations. Not even when he pretended to be three different people. I felt his gaze on me as I brushed past, all the way out the door.
Seemed like everyone was pretending these days.
2
I set the bowls in front of the Druman, too angry at the Drae I’d just left to be afraid. The three of them were looking over at the two young men, my regulars, with an intensity that bordered on creepy. Pushing my lips into a smile as insincere as it was uncomfortable, I asked the Druman, “Was there anything else you needed?”
Dyter was still at the bar, pouring a refill for one of my customers. His features twisted with concern, the scar he’d gotten while fighting in the war blanching, as he watched the three men. Dyter was king-to-be Caltevyn’s right-hand man and knew a great deal more than he let on. He’d probably recognized these guys as so
on as they entered and had been worrying ever since. As if that ever helped anyone.
The mumbler said something about meat, but the other two shook their heads. None of them reached for the bowls I’d given them, let alone glanced my way.
Like a festering wound I couldn’t leave alone, I asked, “Do you want to pay in coin, or do you have something to trade?”
I saw Dyter’s expression tighten in warning out of the corner of my eye.
The biggest Druman dropped several coins on the counter, way too many for the stew, and scanned the room, not even bothering to glance my way.
“I need ale,” a gray-haired man barked, taking a seat next to them. “And make it quick, wench.”
“Manners don’t cost a thing, old man, but your ale will be twice the price if you call me that again.” I dropped the tray on the bar and turned to get the rude codger his mug.
One of the Druman moved closer to the man, and I listened, trying to pick out the conversation.
“What do you mean?” the Druman asked in a low voice.
“Oh, you missed the revolution,” the old guy chortled. “Caltevyn is the ruler now. Our Phaetyn comes out at night to heal our land. That way the Drae can protect her.”
One of the other men grimaced and added, “He also killed hundreds of the rebels and torched our Harvest Zone. A mixed bag, that one.”