Page 6 of Dark Dragon’s Mate

It had left him cursed with a near-fatal wound that would never heal.

With Mayah, the princess, the wizard Ragnor had drugged her and made her push the boundaries of the Al-Maddeiri mental powers, leaving her with nightmares, visions and hallucinations.

Their sister Kira, mate to Flynn, alpha of the Bad Blood Crew, had found them after over twenty years had passed. The Silverlake pack had backed up her and Flynn and the rest of the Bad Bloods on the rescue mission, fighting a huge battle in the valley just below the castle, killing Ragnor and his hellhounds.

Now, after over a year, Emon had finally agreed to let a carefully vetted group of shifter scientists have access to Ragnor’s research—in return for Silverlake’s top team of mental healers coming here for an indefinite period of time, to try to help Mayah recover.

Which was what Tristan was doing here. As a white wolf, he had mental powers of his own, including the ability to get inside the minds of damaged shifters and help them heal.

Trish was here only because Tristan had somehow persuaded Mina Reilly, head of the research group, that she would be a valuable addition to the team. No one else knew her real purpose.

Trish said now, “You said there was some kind of incident? Is everyone all right?”

Grange hunched his big shoulders uncomfortably. “More or less. The princess had one of her really bad days, that’s all. Crazy visions, nightmare hallucinations…”

That didn’t sound good. “I thought the treatment was going well,” Trish said. At least, Tristan had thought so, last she’d heard. “What happened?”

Grange looked straight ahead. “I really shouldn’t say. It’s better if you get a report from the team.”

He’d led her up the stairs and down a couple of corridors, and now they were headed up another staircase. Trish was losing track of where she was; this place was like a maze. She could feel She-Wolf scrabbling at her insides again. She did not like it in here.

Don’t Change. Please don’t Change.

All the hallways seemed dim, though they were lit with the same kind of light globes she’d seen on the outside of the door. It was more the atmosphere—bleak bare stone, no carpets, the echoes from their footsteps sounding eerie and desolate.

And lonely.

Once or twice Trish caught a glimpse of someone far down a hall or crossing the end of a corridor—staff, probably. Other than that, she and Grange might have been alone in this place.

How did Emon and Mayah stand it?

Maybe they didn’t. He’d said they were crazy. Trish got that—if she didn’t see her people soon, she might be headed for crazytown herself.

She-Wolf pushed at her. Out. Out. Bad place.

Not yet, Trish begged. We’re almost there. Hopefully.

Grange led her up a couple of stairs, then down a few more, around corners, and into a long hallway. “Here we are,” he said. “The research team is on a different floor, but Mr. Barnes requested that you be placed near him and the Reillys. There’s a salon at the end, where you can all relax, and a couple more common rooms upstairs in the research wing.”

He opened a doorway and ushered her into her room, turning on one of the light globes.

Whoa.

It was at least four times the size of a normal bedroom, its high ceiling making it feel like a cavern. Canopied bed with purple velvet curtains, matching drapes on the mullioned windows. Thick carpets that looked hand-woven; velvet and brocade upholstered couches and chairs made out of heavy dark wood; tapestries on the stone walls depicting Draken in battle—lots of blood, fire, dead bodies, and gaping wounds.

Nice. Very soothing.

The room was dim and cold, and Grange went around turning on the lights, showing her how the light globes worked by touching their metal base. He put her bag down on a carved wooden chest at the foot of the bed and grinned at her.

“So, what do you think? Gothic enough for you?”

“More than I could ever ask for,” she said truthfully.

“Like I said, one of the maids already unpacked for you and put your things away. The bathroom is through there.” He gestured at a door across the room. “If you need anything, there’s a bell rope right here.” He touched a long strip of velvet embroidered with flames, attached to the wall.

“A bell rope? Are you serious? Does it ring in a dim squalid basement servants’ hall?” Trish went over to touch it. “This is really some kind of gothic novel subdimension, isn’t it?”

Grange grinned, glancing over to where the books Trish had sent ahead in her luggage were stacked on a side table.