Shadow of Wings (Dragon Claimed #1)

Chapter 1

RAINE

My rideshare and the bottom of the driveway have vanished. Though, the driver barely slowed down to let me out. I even offered him my last forty dollars to drive me all the way up.

Another hundred feet to the front door. Or at least I think it’s the front door.

Whatever does the front door of a castle even freaking look like?

With the angle of the driveway, from the main road while Mr. Two Star was tossing my luggage out of the trunk, I could make out a turret with a metal roof—all right, a golden turret.

I’m sure it’s not real gold. But maybe it is.

After all, who hires an art historian for six months to catalog their collection, if not the owners of a castle with a golden turret?

My arm jerks back. It’s practically ripped out of the socket.

I turn back to find my large tan suitcase stuck on a rock.

A shadow whips over the driveway; it sends a shudder through me.

“What was that?” I glance up, letting go of my suitcase, which has come loose from the rock.

I catch it before it slides all the way back to the main road. That was no cloud.

Yanking on my bags, I regain the lost ground while searching the sky. Nothing but Tiffany Blue sky and white puffy clouds. I must have imagined it. The birds are different here, I’m sure. I clench my stomach and wrestle my bags, fighting the gravel.

There’s a large cluster of trees and flowering bushes blocking my view. Actually, it’s impressive how hidden the building is. Glancing back down the gargantuan hill, I’m hoping they have a huge snow plow. Though, thinking about snow today feels almost impossible.

My phone’s vibrating in my jean shorts. It’s been doing that the whole way up the world’s longest driveway.

“I’m fine, Wren.” My sister can’t hear me.

And I’m hoping no one else can either. I should never have texted her that the driver dropped me off at the bottom of the hill.

She’s working, and she’s going to get in trouble for having her phone out.

“Screw it.” I leave the larger of the two bags on the side of the driveway near a culvert and take the smaller one up the rest of the way around the trees and bushes.

The palms of my hands are red from the lousy handles on the ancient bags.

But the castle appears from behind the trees, and I let the handle slip from my hand and fish my phone out of my pocket.

I drop to a crouch and tilt back to get the whole darn castle into the frame.

It’s . . . huge. There isn’t just one turret but four of different heights, and they all sparkle with gold.

I point at different windows, counting the number of floors.

Nine, I think, maybe more. Not including any levels belowground. Like a dungeon.

Dungeon. I gulp. But this is Switzerland. They probably don’t have dungeons here.

I take a few pictures and send one to Wren.

There are at least ten texts, all of which are something like “Are you okay?”, and a whole heck of a lot from the apartment chat, with questions like “Where’s the toilet paper?

” I’m not going to answer because it’s in the closet next to the toilet.

They’re going to have to learn to live without me.

My phone dings with my sister replying to the picture I sent.

Wren: Holy shit.

Me: Right?

Wren: You’re going to have some amazing calves, with all those stairs.

My sister always puts a positive spin on things.

Me: We live in a fourth-floor walk-up.

Wren: That’s like a tenth-floor walk-up. What floor are you staying on?

Me: I haven’t gone in yet.

Wren: Girl get in there.

Me to Wren: The apartment chat is going off about toilet paper.

Me to apartment chat: In the closet.

Apartment chat: Which closet?

Wren: OMG, they can be so helpless. That’s why I’ve turned off notifications. I don’t know how most of them make it to the airport every day.

Me to apartment chat: The one in the bathroom!

Apartment chat: You’ve only been gone a day and we’re already falling apart, Raine!!!

Me: Okay, I’m going in. It’s now or never.

Wren: Yeah, I’ve got to go collect trash. We’re prepping for landing. You’ve got this, Raine. You’re a badass bitch. Love you, girl, set the world on fire.

Me: Love you too. Have a good day off in Tokyo.

Wren: Singapore. Oh, and Raine, don’t start any actual fires.

Me: I’m not you.

Wren: One grease fire and no one ever forgets about it.

I smile at my phone as I put it in my pocket and head back around for my whale of a bag.

I pull it up to the door, then get the other one.

It’s not the front door, maybe, but it’s a door, oak with a giant knocker in the middle of it.

It’s like a snake or a tail, I’m not sure.

It’s as shiny as the golden turrets. I grasp it in my hand.

It’s cool, like a blast of ice to my sweaty palm.

I knock once, not loudly, but when no one comes after a few minutes, I begin to doubt I’m at the right door.

I’m definitely in the right place. At least, I hope I am.

That little seed of doubt takes hold and starts to grow. My stomach tightens, and I shuffle between the balls of my feet. Right, I should knock again. “Right?” I pick up the cool metal in my hand as the door opens, and I’m dragged inward a half-step.

In front of me is a . . . butler. He’s a butler. From every movie where they have butlers. Tuxedo coat, buttoned-up white shirt, cummerbund.

“Hello.”

“Good afternoon. Miss Fischer.” He looks beyond me to the empty circular driveway. “Where is your driver?”

“That’s a good story. He dropped me off on the road and sped away.” I hold my hand out, but the man is staring at the empty driveway behind me.

“Why would Percy do that?” His pointed nose arches down at me.

“Percy? I think his name was Hans.” I squint, trying to remember what it was on the app.

The old man’s face softens. “You didn’t take the car I sent for you?”

“You sent a car? Oh . . . No, I’m so sorry.” My stomach twists again. I need to not mess this up. Opportunities like this don’t happen to people like me.

“It’s fine. I will message him shortly,” he says in such a way that it makes me feel it’s anything but fine.

He holds the door open, and I step in with just my backpack. I glance back at my whale of a bag and manage to get it through the doorway where we haven’t moved but two feet inside.

A boom from somewhere over the castle rattles the window glass.

“Ah, best get in, the rain’s going to––”

“My bag.” I push past him, racing for the tan behemoth.

And then it starts to rain. But not just rain, more of a downpour, like turn-the-faucet-on-to-warm-up-the-water-on-full-blast rain.

I dart out and grab my second bag. Dragging more than muddy gravel with it, I’m no longer sticky with sweat.

Nope. The rain has penetrated my denim shorts and my comfy white cotton shirt that I thought was so fashion forward. It’s showing off my flowered bra.

“Leave them there. Percy will bring them up to your room later.” His eyes flick over the dented and scuffed twenty-year-old bags. He looks anywhere but at me. “I’m Leopold.”

“Oh, you’re the one I’ve been emailing with. It’s nice to meet you.” I put my hand out, this time with water droplets hitting the stone floor. “I’m sorry. I’ll get something to dry that up.”

“Much worse has happened on this floor. I will take care of it. I’ll show you to your room, where you can get dry.”

Much worse? I look back at my suitcases.

“Percy will be along shortly. And there are some things in your room for your convenience.”

My hair’s plastered against my face. I tuck dark strands behind my ear.

I should have cut it off last week, but packing up and getting everything ready for six months in Europe .

. . it took some time. And my time vanished partly due to an endless string of questions from my endless string of roommates wondering how they were going to manage without me.

“This way, Miss Fischer. I’ll give you a proper tour later,” Leopold says, followed by another boom.

This one shakes me down to my toes. “On second thought, let’s use the grand staircase.

” He motions me in a different direction, pivoting us away from a well-worn set of stone spiral stairs.

“This way.” The steps of his thick-soled shoes clack.

My sandals, on the other hand, make more of a squishing sound.

The narrow hallway opens up through a set of double doors into an atrium that makes me stop. There’s another shake, then a rumble from the hallway behind us. Leopold’s head tilts upward, his large nose wrinkles, and his shoulders square as if he’s bracing for something.

“Leopold, what is that smell?” a loud male voice echoes through the space.