Page 27 of Wings of Shadow
The security man—Marcus—steps forward as the car door closes. “Good evening, Miss Draken,” he says. His voice is smooth, measured, unnerving in its calm.
I acknowledge him with the barest tilt of my chin. There’s something in his tone—something calculating that doesn’t quite match the protective role he’s supposedly playing.
The car pulls away, tires crunching on gravel, leaving me with the strange sentinel. As we walk toward the entrance, I can’t help but feel I’m being studied, assessed. By the time we reach the door, I’m oddly relieved to bid him goodnight.
A distant rumble of thunder breaks the silence, and I scent the promise of rain in the air. Dark clouds gather on the horizon, obscuring the stars as they creep toward the waning moon.
The massive oak doors swing open, silent on their well-oiled hinges. The entrance hall stretches before me, a cavernous space of marble and mahogany, illuminated by the soft glow of enchanted chandeliers. My footsteps echo as I cross the threshold, each click of my heels on the polished floor a counterpoint to the rapid beating of my heart.
The Book of Vaelmir’s revelations tumble through my thoughts, a puzzle I’m only beginning to comprehend. The balance of power among the supernatural bloodlines is shifting, the book had warned. Ancient prophecies are stirring, and the veil between worlds grows thin.
What role do I play in this grand design? I think of Nikolaas, of the unification he seeks to bring about among the dragon clans. How does his vision fit into these cosmic machinations?
And Kaisner... my breath catches as I recall the intensity of his gaze, the warmth of his hand in mine. He’s a variable I hadn’t accounted for, a wild card in an already complex game. My attraction toward him is undeniable, electric, and terrifying in its intensity. But can I trust it? Can I trust him?
Lost in my ruminations, I barely notice where I’m standing, the sudden change in temperature pulling me back to the present. I find myself at the threshold of the manor’s conservatory, a cathedral of glass and wrought iron that houses a veritable jungle of rare and magical flora.
Stray beams of moonlight filter through the glass panels of the domed ceiling, casting ethereal patterns across the lush greenery. The air is heavy with the scent of night-blooming flowers and rich, loamy earth.
I step inside, drawn by the soothing promise of solitude. The door closes behind me with a soft click, and I’m instantly enveloped in a cocoon of warmth and verdant life. Massive ferns unfurl their fronds overhead, their leaves glistening with moisture. Vines with iridescent flowers wind their way up ornate trellises, their blooms pulsing with a soft, bioluminescent glow.
As I delve deeper into this indoor wilderness, my fingers trailing along the smooth bark of a moonflower tree, the tension begins to ebb from my shoulders. Here, nestled within the calm vitality of the plants, I can almost believe that the burden of destiny isn’t quite so crushing.
I find a small clearing near the heart of the greenhouse, a circular space enveloped by a ring of white stone benches. In the center stands an ancient fountain, its basin filled with crystal-clear water that seems to glow from within. It’s here that I finally allow myself to sink onto one of the seats, longing to unwind from the tumultuous day. I close my eyes, inhaling the warm, flower-scented air. And as the soft murmur of thunder rumbles in the distance, I begin to sort through what I learned from the Book of Vaelmir.
The book spoke of a significant shift coming, a realignment of the supernatural forces that govern our world. It hinted at the return of old powers long thought lost, and the awakening of new ones that could tip the frail balance we’ve maintained for centuries.
But it wasn’t all doom and gloom. There was hope, too—a prophecy of a unifier, someone who could bridge the gaps between the supernatural races and usher in a renewed era of cooperation and understanding.
Could that be Nik? My brother is ambitious, driven by a vision of a united dragon society. But could his plans extend even further than I’d imagined?
And where do I fit into all of this?
Then there’s Kaisner. My heart quickens at the mere thought of him, and I can’t help but recall the way his eyes smoldered in the candlelight of L’Étoile Cachée. He’s a mystery wrapped in an enigma, a man of power and secrets who seems to see right through me.
But can I trust these feelings? Is Kaisner truly interested in me, or am I just another piece on his chessboard?
I shake my head. No, the connection I felt with Kaisner was real. The vulnerability I glimpsed in his eyes when he spoke of his family’s legacy, the way he opened up to me about his desire for a simpler life—those weren’t the actions of a master manipulator. At least, I don’t think they were.
As I sit there, surrounded by the quiet rustling of leaves and the soft gurgle of the fountain, a sense of calm settles over me. The enormity of what I’ve learned, the weight of the decisions that lie ahead—they’re still there, but they no longer seem insurmountable.
Resolve surges within me, and I stand, feeling stronger and more centered than I have in days.
“Well, well. What have we here? A little dragon, lost in thought amidst the pretty flowers?”
I whirl around, my heart leaping into my throat. There, emerging from the shadows cast by a massive bird of paradise plant, is a figure I know all too well.
Ivan Lockhart.
The vampire moves with liquid grace, his pale skin seeming to glow in the moonlight that filters through the glass ceiling. His dark hair is swept back from a face of angular perfection, and his eyes—a swirling mix of violet and green—fix on me with predatory intensity.
“Ivan,” I breathe, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I didn’t realize you were here.” Even as I speak, my mind races. What could possibly bring Ivan Lockhart, one of the most powerful vampires in Europe, to Draken Manor? His hatred for our family is legendary, a bitter enmity that stretches back centuries.
His lips curl into a smirk, revealing the barest hint of fang. “Clearly,” he drawls, his cultured British accent a reminder of his long existence. “You seemed quite lost in your musings, my dear. Anything you’d care to share?”
As he speaks, a fog seems to lift from my mind. With a jolt of alarm, I realize that my wandering to the conservatory wasn’t as aimless as I’d thought. The compulsion that drew me here, the sense of peaceful solitude I’d felt—it was all Ivan’s doing. Anger and embarrassment wash over me as I remember the warnings I’ve received about vampire influence on young witches.
I straighten, fighting against the lingering tendrils of his persuasion. My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms. Ivan may be ancient and powerful, and I may be vulnerable to his tricks for another three years, but I am still a Draken. I will not be a puppet in my own home.
