Dragon Shattered: Spellbound Shifters: Dragons Entwined, #1

Prologue

Ariana

The soft yellow glow faded from the tops of the waves as the full moon vanished behind dark clouds. First as a spatter, then a stream, raindrops fell from the sky. I knew there were still sounds—waves crashing, fangs tearing—but I didn’t hear them. All I heard was him.

Ari— Marc reached out. A long wooden spear pierced the center of his chest.

No! I couldn’t breathe. Not Marc. It couldn’t be. I rushed through my shift from dragon to woman, wincing as I forced bones back into human size. Naked, I ran for him. My feet slipped on smooth stones, but I refused to slow.

Somewhere behind us, a battle continued to rage, but none of that mattered. Marc was all that mattered.

His legs buckled, and he crumpled to the ground.

Marc, I cried, but all I could hear was the pounding of my pulse.

The stone was cold and hard on my hands and knees as I fell to the ground by his side. His usually playful hazel eyes were distant and barely open, and anguish wrinkled his smooth forehead. His mouth was a hard line, his tan skin was pale.

I had to get that thing out of his chest. He had to heal.

It’s okay, I said. I’m here. It’s going to be okay. It had to be true. I couldn’t allow myself to believe anything else.

His fingertips were cold against my bare arm. I shivered, knowing death was close. But I could fight it—we could fight it.

I squeezed his hand and rose to my feet. With both hands on the spear’s wooden handle, I pulled with everything that I had—my strength, my determination, my hope.

The spear came free, and I tossed it to the side. There was a dark hole on his white shirt, and I couldn’t look away. I dropped down beside my mate and pulled his head into my lap. Running my fingers through his damp brown hair, I stared at the dark spot and prayed for it to close.

Marc brought one of his hands up to touch mine. Something’s not right.

Of course something’s not right, I said. You’re hurt. But you’ll heal, and you can add this to your list of war stories.

At twenty-one years old, we’d already collected quite a few war stories. The Lotus War had torn up New England for two decades. We’d seen the worst of it, firsthand, within the last year. Entire shifter communities had been ravaged, senseless killing all in the name of thirty square miles of territory. If only we’d learned the truth sooner. If only we had been anywhere else.

He shook his head slightly, wincing in pain. I don’t...it’s not healing.

I closed my eyes. He had to heal—he always healed.

Something’s wrong, Ari. Marc’s voice was soft, and the pain in it made my heart ache.

I watched the stain grow across his shirt as the rain poured down over us. Thunder roared and lightning lit the sky. I put my hands over his wound and held on to hope. Even as his arm went limp. Even as my body shivered and his did not.

Cold rain sank into my bones and hid the tears streaming down my face.

His back arched, his eyes shot open. I gasped. Scaled sapphire wings erupted from his bare shoulders and swept across dark stone pebbles. Pushed sideways by the force of his sprawl, I reached for my mate’s hand, to ground him, to touch him, to be there for him.

From his chest rose a glowing orb, as bright and vibrant as his spirit. I squinted, trying to see it more clearly as it hovered above him. It wasn’t one orb, but three—three tiny stars small enough to fit into my palm, yet I knew they could not be contained. I stared in awe, in fear. What was this?

Marc turned his head, a moment of intense clarity in his lovely hazel eyes.

Don’t let this consume you, my love. Stick to our mission. Do good.

Marc—

I love you, Ari.

The orbs rose higher, and Marc fell. I lifted his head into my lap and held him as I watched those last glowing pieces of my mate escape my reach. I didn’t understand why, but I knew the shining lights were a part of him. I should have felt better knowing that a piece of him was out there somewhere, but all I could feel was utter despair.

Chapter One

Ariana

Lindenbury pulled open the car door. Brilliant golden beams of sunlight warmed my bare legs as I stepped out onto the stone driveway, even as the cool breeze bit. The islands always felt ten degrees colder than the mainland.

Before me stood the Brightwater, a typical residence for this level of client. Obscene square footage, a view of the sea, enough acreage to allow the owners to shift on the grounds without being seen, and a fountain in the driveway. These places always had a fountain.

Two stories tall, the main building was embellished in a creamy canary-hued stucco. Narrow, rectangular windows adorned the upper floor, while the first floor boasted picturesque arched windows. The combination felt both very Connecticut and very French. I imagined the owner was much the same.

I knew very little about my new client, only the rumors. Born inside the Brightwater, Jacques Marquette Pelletier had never traveled beyond the walls of his family’s estate. His mother supposedly died during childbirth, leaving the young heir in the care of his great-grandmother. She’d raised him until he reached adulthood, when he’d become the charge of the house staff.

The eventual death of his great-grandmother was rumored to have left everything to Jacques Marquette, and to have led to his interest in my company.

My five-inch heels clicked as I crossed the stone drive. Chickadees chirped in the trees, and the foghorn of a barge boomed in the open air. The breeze flipped my loose, dark hair across my face, and I imagined the feel of taking flight from this very spot. Cold wind was glorious on my wings, though it wasn’t the same without Marc. Every time I flew I remembered the feel of him by my side. Just as every time I slept, I remembered the warmth of his smile, the comfort of his arms around me. Twenty-five years had passed, and it hadn't gotten any easier to live without him. Even as Marc's legacy thrived and blossomed, it was as if time stood still. While those around me had grown families, wrinkles, and gray hair, I'd remained the same. The face that peered back at me in the mirror was just as it had been all those years ago. The youthful appearance of a dragon was both a blessing and a curse.

At any rate, this wasn’t the time to shift and soar, nor that to long for the man who completed my soul. This was time to work. Marc’s legacy depended on it.

When I reached the front door, I didn’t get the chance to knock. A small, round woman with gray hair and kind eyes stood in the open doorway with a wide grin. The smile lines on her face showed exactly what kind of person she was—they were a testament to her gentle spirit.

Mrs. West, the woman said. The young master will be so glad that you have arrived.

I wished I could say the same in return. Instead I smiled.

Please, come in.

I walked up onto a marble floor, and my footstep echoed through the open room. Everything was white, cream, or gold in color. Twin curved staircases lined the side walls, leading to a second-floor balcony that overlooked the room. There were two ornate chairs in the center of the space, below a chandelier half as wide as my wingspan. I had expected more decoration, more furnishing. Even the scent was sterile—harsh bleach covering the natural undertones that were typically found in a shifter’s home.

Master Pelletier will be with you shortly, the woman said. You may wait here.

She touched the arm of one of the two chairs.

Thank you, I said.

She nodded, then disappeared up the stairs.

I listened to her footsteps, heavy and flat, as they faded into the distance. Soon after, a softer set approached.

I remained by the chair so as not to appear too eager. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, I turned.

It was his scent that hit me first—wolf shifter drowned in musky cologne. I’d always hated all perfumes as they tended to be harsh. This one was harsh times ten.

Tall and thin, Pelletier was the least shifter looking man I’d ever laid eyes on. His medium-length dark hair was puffed up in the front and smoothed back on the sides. His cheeks were hollow, as were his dark, hooded eyes. But it wasn’t just his slender build that had me at a loss, but the vibrant chartreuse vest and ascot he wore.

Ms. West, what a pleasure to finally meet you. His voice was honey, sweet and smooth, and strangely sticky.

Mrs., I said. And you as well, Mr. Pelletier. I held out a hand, which he looked at like it was made of acid.

Oh, I don’t shake.

Okay, I said, then changed the subject as quickly as I could. Let’s get started.

Pelletier took a seat, so I did as well.

What services can Whitesong Security provide for you? I asked.

Ah, yes, he said. Straight to the point. I like that in a woman.

I decided to take that as a compliment. I, too, respect directness. So let’s be blunt. Why am I here?

I’m sure you know your reputation, he said. I’ve asked around the community—you know, the most elite shifters Emerald Pines has to offer. Everyone recommended you. Whitesong is a shimmering diamond among pretentious turds. And I don’t hire turds.

I appreciate the praise, I said.

Appreciate nothing, he said. Take from this world or it’ll take from you. Hard-learned advice that I’m happy to share.

I wondered what had happened to jade him so, though I wasn’t about to ask. Pelletier’s philosophy was nothing like mine, nothing like what Marc and I had stood for, nor what Whitesong Security and I stood for still. But the company couldn’t afford to do the charity work if I didn’t take on well-to-do clients. The breakfast and lunch programs that served every Connecticut child, the research into breast cancer, the overseas healthcare programs we supported. All of them would fail without clients like Jacques Marquette Pelletier.

Now, to business, Pelletier said. Saturday, September fourteenth will be the grandest auction the shifter world has ever seen—right in the fabulous Brightwater. The guest list will be both elaborate and impossibly exclusive. The queen herself couldn’t get a ticket.

Which queen was he even talking about?

Of course to host such an event will require top-tier security measures—provided by you.

Two weeks isn’t much notice, I said.

You’re telling me. Pelletier threw his head back in exaggerated exasperation. I had to hire a caterer and you wouldn’t believe how many disgusting canapes I had to vomit before I found one that was adequate. Everything must be the best. I will stand for nothing less. Not one single iota.

I’ll need all of the specifics to put together an estimate—

Don’t tell me you weren’t listening. Pelletier squeezed his knees together and leaned forward. His formerly distant eyes grew wide with crazed intent.

I held my breath as his cologne assaulted my nostrils.

Only. The. Fucking. Best. Pelletier fell back in his seat. "You’re going to work for me. You can get whatever details and you can put together your estimate, but this isn’t a bid. I will pay you whatever it takes. Whitesong will provide security for this event."

I gave myself a moment to compose myself. The first words that came to mind were fuck you. The second also were fuck you. Given that Whitesong needed the money, I chose my words carefully. Though I still wasn’t convinced that I’d be willing to deal with this dickhead for the next two weeks.

Hiring additional quality security this close to the event will not be cheap, I said.

Money’s not a problem.

I’m holding you to that, I said.

He laughed. It wasn’t a snort or a giggle but a full-on belly laugh.

I waited.

Of course, he said. Margaritte can show you around, tell you where everything will be. And you’ll start tomorrow.

You said the event wasn’t for two weeks, I said. I’ll bring a team out to survey when it gets—

The first artifacts arrive in the morning, he said. You’ll have your little minions watching twenty-four seven until the auction is over. I’ll be selling the last priceless artifacts from the Lotus War.

He kept speaking, but I stopped listening.

The image of crimson-stained lotus petals flashed through my mind. Darkland and Stonefang—there had been much bloodshed on both sides. My knuckles ached with the memory of battle, memories of cracking bones and cries of devastation. I remembered the cold rain. I remembered the dark stones by the water’s edge, the pines we’d soared above. The spear. The blood. Marc.

I’ll do it.

Pelletier’s grin made my stomach churn. His lips kept moving, but I was done listening. I rose to my feet. He did the same.

You can call my assistant Maisie with further details you wish to convey, I said. I had to get out of there. To begin tomorrow, I must get started now. I almost reached out my hand, then remembered he didn’t shake. We’ll be in touch.

Thanks, doll, he said. It’s been a pleasure.

I nodded. I wanted to race for the door, but I forced myself to take measured, controlled steps. Don’t run. Don’t run.

Outside, I could breathe. Outside, the sun shone and the air smelled like the sea instead of nasty cologne and nastier bleach.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about the auction, though I was sure about what I thought of the client. Everything I’d suppressed was brought to the surface. My nerves were raw with the memories of the war. But it had to be me. I couldn’t say no, not when it involved the war.

By the time I reached the car, I had my shit together. It was a job. I’d accepted. Now I had to move on and figure out how exactly Whitesong was supposed to handle something this big. I had security, but it wasn’t enough. I was going to have to do something I’d been putting off for years—I’d have to hire a partner.

Lindenbury shut the door to the Escalade as I slid across the cool leather seat. I pulled out my phone as we drove away from the Brightwater, back toward the ferry, toward home.

I tapped on my most recent contact, and Maisie answered straight away.

That was too quick, she said. You blew him off, didn’t you?

"What? I asked. I didn’t blow anyone!"

Eww, no, she said. Unless he’s hot. But I mean, did you decline the job?

No, I said. And you think I would actually—

No, she said. I know you too well. Which is why I think at some point, someday, you might want to think about dating someone. It might help. At least to blow off some steam. It doesn’t have to be serious."

"This is serious, I said. You know that drawer that I told you to never open?"

The partnership applications? I could hear the excitement in her voice.

Yes.

Seriously? she asked.

I have to hire someone, I said. It’s time.

On it, she said. I’ve got a few perfect applicants in mind. I’ll make the calls. This is going to be so fun.

Thanks, Maisie. I hung up the phone and watched through the window as the ferry took us over the water. Lindenbury had parked in the perfect place, as he always did, so I could gaze at the gulls and the sailboats on the slow ride back to the mainland.

A partner. I’d been avoiding it for too long. I missed Marc with a sharpness that bit at my chest. It would be hard to give up some of my control to someone else, but I couldn’t keep doing this on my own. The person I hired—preferably a woman—would have to be awesome in every way. An equal in leadership and strength, who shared my vision for the company. Maybe she’d be like Maisie, who had told me on more than one occasion that although she loved me, she’d never want to be a partner. What were the odds of finding another Maisie in time to tackle the Brightwater job? Better not to guess. Better to hope that’d I’d be lucky and, this would be like hiring a new, good friend.

Chapter Two

Taylor

As the plane landed, I closed my book. The red-haired woman in the seat next to me had been trying to get a look during the flight from JFK Airport in New York to the teeny airport in Emerald Pines, Connecticut, but I’d kept it close. Hafiz’s poems waxed recklessly about love, and this lady would probably draw all sorts of conclusions about me if she saw the title— The Subject Tonight is Love .

Conclusion 1: I was a romantic, through and through.

Conclusion 2: I was a student or teacher who had to read the poems, not necessarily by choice.

Conclusion 3: I was a poet.

Conclusion 4...actually, I was all out of conclusions. If she arrived at the first conclusion, she would’ve been correct, and it could’ve led to all sorts of hazards. Names exchanged. Conversations. Flirting. Sex. And while she was attractive, and I was attractive, and flirting, sex, all of it could be great, she just wasn’t the one. It would only lead to heartache—likely mine—and shit, I was tired of it all.

The problem was, I felt too deeply, and I was doomed to love someone more than they loved me. Better to not get attached unless I knew for sure, deep within