Awakened: A Wolf Shifter Dark Urban Fantasy (RH) (The Tree of Life Book 1), page 44
AWAKENED
TREE OF LIFE
SHARLA WYLDE
FREE NOVELLA
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If you sign up for my newsletter, you will get a free novella – Dragon Wings - the prequel to Awakened which introduces you to one of the shifter clans.
His One Love is the prequel to His Life Plan and introduces you to The Tanners.
See details at the end of the story on how to get your free copy.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
A Note from Sharla
SNEAK PEEK
Also by Sharla Wylde
About the Author
PROLOGUE
A single event can awaken within us a stranger totally unknown to us.
— Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
1128 BC
I can’t sense them. My thoughts are void of their presence. Nothing has ever prevented me from sensing my men. They are in my head day or night—while they sleep or when they are miles away from me at the edges of our kingdom; a little niggling sensation in my head to let me know they are near. I have only to think of one of them and know what he is doing; what he’s sensing; where he is. Now, for the first time in hundreds of years, I can feel nothing. Total numbness. I know in the depth of my soul that they are dead.
After all these years, I still crave the power and the way it courses through my veins. It’s a heady experience. The first day I gained my power, I cursed it. My life would never be the same. A vicious cycle, the magic controlled the sex which would manifest more magic.
Enchantment initially linked these shape-shifters to me, mentally, physically, and sexually. Once the initial ritual was completed, my Guardians regained control their own actions. I realized generations ago, when I first came into my power, that I wanted lovers devoted to me—who would love me, guide me, and protect me—not ones just wanting sex for the sake of magic and power so I chose wisely.
The castle is silent. No women chattering while they work. No dogs barking in the courtyard. No men yelling insults to each other in jest.
Panic wraps a crushing hold around my heart. I struggle to breathe. I’m on my throne, collapsed, incapable of moving. Whoever has taken my men, my Guardians, has drugged me. I can barely see my afternoon tea cup, fallen onto the floor, the liquid pooling on the ancient stones.
All I can do is slump in my chair and wait. I can’t lift a finger even if I wanted to. Please make it quick. I am not willing to live without my Guardians whispering in my head. They have been there forever. The silence is deafening and terrifying.
It’s difficult not to panic. My heart races. A scream builds in my throat. I start to hyperventilate. How could this happen? I am Queen. The Queen. The thought screams through my head. I have powers others crave and covet. People call me a goddess. Now I’m powerless, as helpless as a babe.
I need to remain calm. Someone will come. Someone will save me. I compose myself as best as I can. I am determined to face whatever the gods have deemed for me; face it as the goddess and queen I am. I sit on my throne with its gold and jewels, the throne I have sat on for so many years—years of passing judgment, meting out punishment as needed or praise when earned, bringing justice and prosperity to my people.
This hall is—was—my life. The tapestries on the walls depict my Guardians; my warriors, my counsels, my loves. The scenes show the power of my magic and how it touched our people, making us the most prosperous kingdom in the land. I have spent hours upon hours in this room, only to die here.
Then I see him. Carlton, the so-called ruler from a neighboring kingdom, has always craved my throne. Had he killed my Guardians? With a triumphant look, he strides toward me down the long hall. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, confident. Women adore him. I hadn’t and he hated me for it.
He smiles in triumph. He’s won.
Something cold is pressed into my hands. I can’t look down but small fingers wrap around mine, a child’s grip, pressing a cold, solid object into my palms. A soft sob escapes me.
One of my Guardians created the small golden statue for my birthday, several years ago. The statue is in the shape of a tree with its branches spread out with intricate detail. There are animals and men depicting my Guardians within the branches and around the base of the tree. The details are so exquisite, a person could make out the fur on the animals, the muscled arms on the men, the individual branches, the eyes gazing out from between the leaves. The men call it the Tree of Life. I adore and treasure it.
A tiny voice whispers, “Your statue, my Queen. Camden told me to deliver it only to you.” The voice is my godson, Trae, who has lived in the castle since his parents’ death. He’s six years old, the nephew of one of my Guardians. Everyone dotes on him as he is one of the few remaining dragons. Now he offers me a chance at life.
Never tried before, I know what Camden’s plan entails: store my power within the statue for protection until I can be summoned. Trae will stash it and keep it safe from my murderers. If Carlton gets his hands on my power, he will destroy my kingdom with his evil and spread his vile power across the world.
I can’t voice my thoughts or grip the statue, but excitement rushes through me. Hope. Trae could save the kingdom. I have to rely on him to encircle my hands around the golden tree. When I feel the cool metal, I concentrate on my task. I have never had to drain myself of my powers before, but it is now or never.
My power is unimaginable. It has grown for years. Many people desire it. Others want to acquire the secret to how I not only maintain its strength, I increase it. The secret will die with me until another woman releases it. Just as I once did.
As Carlton steps closer to the throne, he notices the boy by my side and screams at his men to capture him. I feel Trae’s sweet lips on my cheek and hear him whisper, “I will love you forever, my Queen,” and then he’s gone—taking the gold statue.
Weak, empty, and cold, my body refuses to respond. My hands fall lifeless into my lap. It has been too many years since I’d had no power, no energy flowing through me—such a long time since I was only human and vulnerable. Tears flow down my cheeks from the utter desolation.
Shouts can be heard in the distance. The guards and warriors are coming to rescue me but it is too late. Carlton is directly in front of me, demanding someone catch the boy. I send a quick prayer toward the heavens that Trae will escape and the guards and warriors will save me.
Carlton turns with an evil smile and plunges a knife into my heart. As it sinks into my flesh, my last thought is of my loves… my Guardians.
CHAPTER 1
Friday
How he ended up here, Ian Stone had no clue. The dark enveloped him, only emergency exit signs and safety lights running near the floor illuminated his way. The private museum off the beaten path of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile had an older security system, easily bypassed for someone with his skills.
Ian might be the youngest in the wolf pack, but he had learned his thieving talents from a master—his father. Too bad he never used them. Since their father’s death during a job gone wrong, Ian and his two brothers had given up thievery. They concentrated on their dwindling clan of wolves and the resort they ran in the Alaskan wilderness.
Killing time before he had to catch a flight back home, a sixth sense had pulled him toward the side street. Being a supernatural entity, he always followed his instincts, which had brought him to the museum, led him inside and up to the third floor where he stopped directly in front of the tree.
He stared at the small statue and knew immediately why its call had drawn him. Roughly six inches tall, the gold tree rested on a large pedestal with several other artifacts. A plaque directly underneath it read “Tree of Life, circa 1,000 BC.” He’d heard of the infamous Tree and the destruction caused by humans trying to possess it. Leaning close, he discovered both human and animal bodies hidden within the branches. Obvious to him, the creatures lurking among the leaves were shifters. Not so obvious was what the tree was doing in this tiny, ill-equipped museum. He was surprised no other shifter had noticed it.
He remembered vague stories about an evil
Now that he had discovered the relic, nothing would stop him from stealing it. His brothers would probably beat him senseless for this little stunt but the urge to take the statue grew with every passing moment. Even if the Elder Council punished or even banned him from his clan, he had to acquire the statue. It was a link to their history, a forgotten past.
A little bit of sleuthing and he discovered there were no pressure plates or alarms directly on or under the pedestal. The only alarms he’d encountered had been on the doors and windows which he’d easily circumvented. In less than twenty minutes he made it in and out, tucking the statue in a backpack that contained resort brochures, swag, and unsigned contracts.
Once outside, he kept to the shadows, slinking away in the early morning stillness. Sounds of nightlife and people enjoying their Friday night, now early Saturday morning, could be heard from several streets to the east. April nights in Chicago were chilly, but not enough to deter weekend activities.
Slipping into a dimly lit alley, he pulled up short. Several teenage punks lounged near the back door of a restaurant. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. If he’d been paying attention, he would have heard their chatter and smelled the cigarettes a block away. He needed to get his head out of his ass if he wanted to escape with his reward.
Their heads turned. Despite the limited lighting, his keen eyesight noted three boys with peach fuzz on their cheeks. Damn. He gritted his teeth. If he backed up now, he might bypass them and avoid any trouble. Then one of the young men took a step forward and flicked his cigarette in Ian’s direction. Too late.
Protect the Tree. Protect the Tree. The words whispered through Ian’s mind, insinuating themselves into the core of his being. Soft but insistent. A worm burying itself into his skull. His instincts warning him.
He shook himself and returned his concentration to the immediate threat. He had gone to too much trouble to risk losing the ancient artifact to a bunch of weak human teenagers.
His body reacted instinctively. The hair on the back of his neck rose. The familiar sensation of shifting rocked him—jaw tightening, bones thickening, muscles strengthening. His fangs descended. His eyesight mutated, enhanced with night vision. Scents permeated his nostrils, his nose expanding and lengthening, the bones and cartilage cracking.
Working desperately to control the shift, he shuddered and shoved his wolf’s instincts to the back of his mind and soul. If he glanced in a mirror, his eyes would be a deeper, richer chocolate brown with flecks of gold that glowed in the dim light. His face would have taken on a wolfish shape, elongating into a snout.
Heightened senses brought about enhanced awareness. Trash cans overflowed. Flies swarmed and buzzed. The scent of rotting garbage, piss, and vomit overwhelmed the small area. The humans were immune to the stench but his wolf basked in it.
A snarl and a deep growl released from his throat. He snapped his jaws together, lips pulled back, fangs glistening in the moonlight. The boys, catching sight of his face, screamed. Terror mixed with a strong odor of fresh urine. Two of them scattered like frightened rats. Unlucky for Ian, the third kid jerked a handgun from the back of his jeans. The teenager, attempting to flee, pointed it at Ian. Stumbling backward, arms flailing, the kid fell.
Ian’s keen eyesight watched the boy’s finger tighten on the trigger a split second before the gun exploded. He twisted his body. A stab of pain ripped through his shoulder. The punk scrambled away, leaving the weapon discarded on the ground.
Fate sucked.
Protect the Tree.
The relentless refrain slithered through Ian’s mind. Anxiety pulsed in his brain when he attempted to concentrate on the words. Why is this happening to me? Voices in his head. Gunshot wound. Never in all the years he’d been thieving had bad luck cursed him. The heist from the museum had been uneventful until he stepped into the alley.
Pain throbbed and burned along his right shoulder and arm, hindering rational thinking. His inner wolf whined. As fast as his transformation had begun, it now reversed. Even as his nose regained its natural form, a metallic odor assaulted his nostrils. Blood soaked into his shirt, making the wet fabric cling to his skin. He slipped his left hand inside his coat and applied pressure to the wound.
Protect the Tree.
He shook his head, the words irritating. He was not prone to hearing voices but this one persisted. The words rolled through his mind, a wave of insistence, and took over all thoughts. The mantra beat at his heart and soul. His chest pounded. A wave of nausea flowed through him. Doubling over, Ian sucked in air to calm his wolf and embrace the pain. Seconds passed before he straightened and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Think. Injured, bleeding, and freely shifting into a wolf was not a good combination in downtown Chicago.
A flight out of O’Hare was out of the question with his shoulder seeping blood. Carrying the statue to safety in his wolf form was not an option. Normally, he would shift and let his enhanced healing abilities take over. Shifting took seconds, but recovering from an injury could take hours. He couldn’t afford to hole up in an alley and chance being discovered.
He would contact Waru, more commonly known as War, to request a favor. The alpha of the local leopard pack and a descendent of the great Maasai tribe, War would lend Ian his private jet to carry him home to Alaska. Shifters avoided the world but went out of their way to help their kind in crisis. The king of the leopards would not ignore a plea for aid.
With his free hand, Ian yanked his cell phone from his pocket, grimacing at the smeared blood on the device. He pressed speed dial, then held the phone to his ear. Instead of hearing War’s live voice, a recording activated.
“Whoever you are, tonight’s poker night. Call me tomorrow. Or call Emerson, if you dare.” War’s deep chuckle sent an ominous shiver through Ian. Damn, he hated when War taunted him, but in a recorded message the mockery dug even deeper.
Contacting War now would be impossible. No one interrupted him during his poker game. No one.
Beep. “War. It’s Ian. I’m in Chicago and need a ride. Urgently. Call me when you get this.” After leaving his message, he debated whether to call Emerson. Nope. Nada. Wasn’t going to happen. Bleeding to death would be more enjoyable.
Putting the phone away, he pressed harder on the wound. He needed a place to stay overnight. His top priorities: stop the blood loss and escape with the statue. With the faint, relentless words still echoing through his system, he debated which was more important.
There was a safe place within driving distance, a motel that shifters could hole up in when in a crisis, but getting there presented a problem. He’d leave a trail of blood if he took a taxi. The cops would locate him within an hour. No, he needed another means of transportation. Stealing a car would be a breeze. Driving it without passing out, not so much.
He picked up the dropped gun and tucked it in the back of his jeans, then stepped out of the alley and cautiously glanced around. Staying off the main thoroughfare, he hurried down the almost vacant sidewalk. After several blocks he stepped off a curb and stumbled, catching himself before he face-planted on the dark pavement. The blood loss was more than he had expected. Desperate, he staggered across the street to a parking garage, determined to protect the little tree overwhelming all other sensibilities.
