Dhark & Destined Read online

  The Dharkling Daughter

  Dhark & Destined Book 1

  C. C. Dowling

  Copyright © 2017 by C.C. Dowling. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  This work was edited by Scott Hughey www.thewritescott.com

  Also edited by Kisa Whipkey www.kisawhipkey.com

  Cover art by Christian Bentulan

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  Formatting by The Graphics Shed

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by C. C. Dowling

  My head pounds and blood rushes through my ears, drowning out the buzz coming from somewhere next to the bed. I try to beat the piss out of Aiden’s alarm, but my hand, and most of my arm, is stuck under Becca’s supple ass.

  Figures. Even in a king-sized bed, three’s still a crowd.

  “Aiden.” I nudge him with my knee. No response. I’ll be damned if that man doesn’t sleep like a two-ton rock. He’s built like one, too.

  I bring my knee up to my chest to kick. Something the color of gunmetal platinum catches my eye. I stare at the tiny scale-like pattern snaking its way across my calf to my ankle.

  “Shit. Not again.” I blink and shake my head, praying the scales will go away. Instantly, I regret it. I have got to lay off the booze and heavy narcotics. Why in the world did I drink so much last night?

  Memories bruise my bones and flood my veins, the way a car crash floods reality and makes everything hurt. Helen. Our happiness. Our future. Gone.

  I focus on my calf again. Nothing but smooth skin. What the hell was in that stuff we snorted?

  The buzzing alarm clock reminds me what I was doing before I got distracted. I place my heel in the glorious space just above Aiden’s ass, at the base of his spine, where I know it’ll hurt the most, and kick. Hard. Except the headache threatening to split my skull in half weakens the force. I barely nudge him. He grunts, then goes back to snoring.

  Fine. I’ll work on Becca, just like I did last night.

  My fingers dance lightly across her slender waist and up, toward her breast. The instant I reach her nipple, I flick it. Yeah, she’ll be pissed, but I know it’ll get her attention.

  “Ow!” Becca jumps, dislodging my arm. “What the fuck, Dhru?”

  I jut my chin at the still buzzing alarm clock and knee Aiden again, for good measure. “Can’t reach. Asshole ain’t moving.” I rotate my shoulder and press against the needle-like numbness from being in one position too long. “I was stuck.”

  “You didn’t mind being stuck in there last night.” Becca rubs the indention in her skin, then caresses her hard nipple. “Now that we’re up, how ’bout we go again? Nothing like a good fuck in the morning.”

  I skim my eyes across Aiden’s tan flesh, then Becca’s even darker skin. Damn. What I wouldn’t give to lick every inch of her and bury my face between her luscious thighs, as I had last night. But as tempting as the offer is, the moment I stand up, I know I’m going to vomit. A fuck sounds good, just not practical.

  “Becca, the alarm.”

  I press my cheek into the bare mattress—the sheets torn off during last night’s activities—and throw my arm over my eyes. Finally, the alarm stops. I concentrate on taking slow, steady breaths. Cold sweat coats my neck and my stomach gurgles, warning me of the inevitable. With any luck, and an insane amount of willpower, I’ll make it to the bathroom in time. Or I would’ve, if Becca hadn’t chosen that moment to shift in bed and elbow me in the stomach.

  Why is the bathroom so far away? It’s a studio apartment, for fuck’s sake. Screw this. The twist in my gut and rising bile inform me that I won’t make it to the bathroom. The kitchen sink will have to do. With one hand over my mouth, I launch myself off the bed and cross the floor just in time.

  This. This right here is why I cut my dark hair short. After a particularly bad bender, I’d taken scissors to it after a chunk had fallen into the toilet along with my stomach’s contents. Helen was pissed. She’d loved my hair. When I think of all the ways I’ve fucked up with her, though, cutting my hair doesn’t even make the list.

  “What’s with you and throwing up on my dishes?” Becca’s voice is harsh, but the gentle caress on my back tells me she isn’t mad. “This is the third time this week. I’m going to start keeping a trash can by your side of the bed.”

  Your side of the bed. Those words unfurl something inside me, something that makes me want to run. I don’t do attachment. Not anymore. Not again. But I can barely stand at the moment. I’m not going anywhere.

  “I have a side of the bed?” I ask between retches. “Is that where we’re at in our relationship?”

  “There has to be a reason you spend half the week in this shithole when you have a house in a posh gated community.”

  In a moment of drunken vulnerability, I’d let it slip that I lived in Summerlin, just west of downtown Vegas. Instantly, I’d regretted it. God, for a smart girl, I’m stupid sometimes. At least I’d had enough brain cells not to tell her who I lived with, and that the house isn’t really mine.

  “Your place isn’t that bad, Becca.” Outside, the LVPD sirens wail their protest.

  Becca cocks a perfectly plucked eyebrow and rolls her amber eyes. She’s right. There is a reason I stay here, but it has nothing to do with her kickin’ body or Aiden’s more than ample . . . experience. She rubs against me, her bare breasts tickling my back.

  Okay, maybe not nothing.

  Another surge hits me. I hang my head in the sink, blinking through the sweat-slick bangs that fall forward into my eyes, and wait for the misery to pass. Only this time, I think I might burst into flames. Fire races fierce and hot, dancing across the underside of my skin. Beads of sweat evaporate before they even form. Scorch marks singe the wooden composite countertop in the shape of my fingers and palms.

  Damn. Not this again.

  Weird shit’s been happening to me for the past two weeks. Canned food labels are clear from across the room. I hear my neighbors argue about politics, though every window is shut tight. Lizard-like patches of skin appear and disappear at random all over my body. Intense surges of unexplainable energy threaten to consume me. And the hunger. Jesus. I could eat a rack of ribs, a sixteen-ounce steak, and a whole roasted chicken and not bat an eye. For a five-foot-two, hundred-and-ten-pound chick, that’s impressive. And fucking wrong.

  But the worst is that, lately, no matter how much I drink or snort, the high isn’t as intense as it used to be. Reaching oblivion is way more exp
ensive now. More than I make slinging drinks at Nightingale’s.

  Taking several deep breaths, I will my temperature to return to normal.

  “Dhru?” The worry in Becca’s voice makes my stomach flip. I retch. Only this time, nothing comes out. Dry heaves are the worst. “When was the last time you drank something that wasn’t alcohol?”

  Why the hell would I do that? “Almost twenty-four hours.” The words fall from my lips with satisfaction, like I’m proud that dehydration is what’ll finally take me out. God, a part of me wishes something would.

  “Twenty-four? Damn it, Dhru.” Becca turns on the faucet and rinses out a glass before forcing it into my hand. “Drink.”

  I do, because it’s the only way to stop her nagging. I swish the chlorinated, metallic water around my mouth and spit. There’s no way I’ll be able to stomach swallowing it. If only I had wine instead of water. Or whiskey.

  Becca rummages through one of the three cabinets in the closet-sized kitchen. “Here.” She shoves two veggie caps under my nose. “Take these. You need to replenish your electrolytes.”

  I push her hand away. “I don’t need your natural medicine crap. I prefer the hard stuff.” Tremors rack my spine, forcing my hands to twitch with withdrawal.

  “Fuck, Dhru. Maybe you should lay off? This can’t be good for you. Come, sit down. Let me take care of you.”

  Just like that, Becca utters the words that ruin a perfectly fine friends-with-benefits relationship. It doesn’t take much. The excuses I need to run are blurry around the edges. It’s time to move on. It’s been time.

  “You want to know what isn’t good for me? Life.” I push off the sink and scan the floor for my clothes. They’re everywhere. Still, this place is tiny. It only takes fifteen seconds to get my crap.

  I plop down on the bed and put my pants on. Aiden still hasn’t moved. I envy the way he sleeps. Dead to the world. Just like I wish I was.

  “You’re leaving?” Becca’s voice cracks, betraying tears. Why do they always have to cry?

  “Yes.” I can’t look her in the face, though it’s the decent thing to do. I don’t have any decency left. “Forget about my side of the bed. You’re right. This place is a dump. I won’t be back.”

  I slide my jeans over my narrow hips and button the fly, then shove my feet into my favorite pair of clunky, ass-kickin’ boots. I don’t bother lacing them up.

  “You’re a cunt.” Becca’s frozen stare does little to penetrate the emptiness around my heart. It’s a moat with sharks, alligators, and dragons—big bad uglies who keep unwanted things out, like emotion.

  “Yours was delicious. Thanks for sharing.”

  Turning my back—like I’ve done countless times to lovers, to Helen, to my life—I open the door and walk out.

  Slipping on a pair of oversized Ray Ban sunglasses Helen bought me for Christmas—or Yule, Kwanzaa, whatever holiday she celebrates anymore—I flinch against the midday heat of Vegas in the summer. The sun pummels my eyes like a jackhammer. Like sideways hail. Like a punch in the face by a jealous ex-lover.

  Pressing against my temples temporarily relieves the pain inside my skull while I try to remember where I parked. That’s when I see it. The same damn midnight-blue Dodge Charger I’ve noticed for weeks. Two weeks, to be exact. Ever since I started losing my mind.

  Whenever it’s close by, I feel it. Something inside me coils tight, begging for release. I’d thought Becca and Aiden would help with that. They didn’t even come close to relieving the ache.

  The moment I make eye contact with the car, the fucking thing revs its engine, like it knows what I’m thinking. But I’ve got bigger problems than a stalker sports car and the more-than-likely private investigator behind the wheel. When is Helen going to realize that if she’s looking for a reason to kick me out, I’ve already given her plenty? A PI isn’t going to tell her anything I wouldn’t myself.

  The nausea I felt in Becca’s apartment has moved on to tremors that cause my muscles to seize and release in rhythm. Lucky for me, the cure for my withdrawal is less than a five-minute walk and a cool Ben Franklin. If I can make it that far.

  Leaning against the building to catch my breath and regain my balance, I close my eyes and try to quench the flames under my skin that make the hundred-and-twenty degree air feel like a fresh breeze off a glacier.

  “Got a cigarette?” asks a voice I don’t recognize.

  Opening my eyes, I try to focus, but all I see is red. The stench of piss, shit, and decay fills my mouth when I open it to tell the voice that I don’t smoke. Hell, it’s the only thing I don’t do.

  Something moves inside me. It unfurls and sharpens its claws on the lining of my stomach. The sound of my heartbeat, of the stranger’s, pounds against my ears in a symphony of life. His tar-filled lungs struggle with every ragged breath. The trench coat covering him from shoulders to knees rustles as he fidgets. Who the fuck wears a trench coat in the summer in Vegas?

  “Or a dollar?” he asks before I can answer.

  Pull your shit together, Dhru, I tell myself as I scrub my face with my hands and reach around for my purse. I may not have a cigarette, but I sure as hell have a dollar. Dude’s probably homeless. I don’t judge. I’m one fuck-up away from being homeless myself. I’d want someone to help me, or some pay-it-forward shit like that.

  “Yeah. Sure.” I fumble with my purse. The contents spill onto the sidewalk. “Fuck.” I fall to one knee to pick them up, and because the world won’t stop spinning.

  Something connects with my jaw. I can’t figure out how I ended up on my back, staring at the clear blue sky overhead, until I hear dude rummaging through the contents of my purse. Did he just kick me in the face? I touch my nose. My fingers come back red.

  Mother. Fucker. I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.

  The instant I think about standing, I do. I have no idea how I moved so quickly, but now’s not the time for analysis. I want nothing more than to rip this guy to shreds. A sharp, cutting sensation blazes a trail of pain through my jaw and into my gum line, forcing my mouth to open at a wider angle than it should. My upper and lower canines elongate into tiny daggers.

  The burning that was under my skin pools below my belly in a spot usually reserved for orgasms. Something tells me that whatever this sensation is, it’s far more powerful than an orgasm. If I release, if I let go, I’m convinced I’ll shoot actual flames from my mouth.

  I’ve never been on hallucinogens this strong. Whatever Aiden gave us last night must’ve been laced with some serious shit. Only, everything feels so real. This must be what it’s like to have a psychotic break.

  A terrified scream, the kind heard in B-rated horror flicks, startles me back to reality. The homeless guy who assaulted me stares with wide eyes and tries to crab-crawl backward. His trench coat gets tangled in his arms and he goes down, hitting his head on the pavement. I spring for the kill. Or I would have, if a brick wall in the shape of a man didn’t pick that exact moment to play hero.

  Two weeks in this shithole realm is enough to make any lesser Fae want to blow their brains out. It’s almost enough for a Called soldier to want to end it, too. Lucky for me, I have a penchant for fast cars and dark chocolate, by far the best things humans have ever created. Well, that and air-conditioning.

  It isn’t that the Vegas heat bothers me—Fae are immune to most types of fire. It’s more that the cold air helps me focus, and the technology fascinates me.

  I crank up the A/C as the sliver of shade I parked in surrenders to the midday sun, and take another sip of my convenience-store hot chocolate. Warm chocolate. It’s the best I could do in the middle of a stakeout, but if the past two weeks are any indication, in a few minutes, she should be exiting the dilapidated structure someone has the nerve to call an apartment complex.

  Dhru Dharkstar. Daughter of the Dragon Council diplomat Dhamyan Dharkstar. Dragon shifter. Raised by humans. Spoiled and self-destructive, like most dragons. Definitely like most diplomats.
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  Sexy as hell, when she isn’t completely wasted.

  My body jerks at that errant thought, making my foot hit the accelerator. I shake my head to clear the awareness she brings to my male part. Granted, it’s gotten a lot of attention over the centuries. But never from a Dharkling. Definitely not from a dragon.

  I’ve always thought of Dharklings as foul, ugly creatures that only think of themselves. Not once have I ever wanted to cross the line that keeps our kinds separate. Dharklings and Lightlings are forbidden to fornicate. So what is it about Dhru that makes me want to break the laws I’ve killed to uphold? Laws that have defined my entire life?

  It doesn’t matter. I know better than to entertain those thoughts. I’m here on a mission—to assess Dhru’s ability to transition and bring her home to the Shadow Realm. To her father. That’s it. The faster I do, the faster I get out of here. Back to Faerie. Back to serving the Court and my queen.

  Focus, Creed.

  From across the street, Dhru’s dark eyes lock on mine, as if she can hear my thoughts. It’s impossible, but I swear she sees me through the glare and the window tint. The two hearts in my chest stutter, briefly beating out of sync. Blood pumps hard and fast between my legs, swelling me to a painful size.

  I hate that I react this way to her. My body betrays my duty, wanting something that can never be entertained. Something perverse and wrong. It has since the first time I saw her.

  I shouldn’t be attracted to the way her short hair frames the angles in her face. The way her lips pout and her forehead creases when she’s deep in thought. The way her strong thighs lead to a tight, round ass. It’s a Called soldier’s duty to uphold the Law of the Nine, the code of honor I live by. Even if she wanted to screw—which I doubt, since I’m not female—I wouldn’t touch her. Not ever. I value my life too much.