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  Crown of Dragons

  Bleeding Realms. Dragon Blessed. Book One.

  Nina Walker

  Addison & Gray Press

  Contents

  Crown of Dragons Blurb

  Crown of Dragons

  Not Quite 18 Years Ago

  1. Hazel

  2. Khali

  3. Hazel

  4. Khali

  5. Hazel

  6. Khali

  7. Hazel

  8. Khali

  9. Hazel

  10. Khali

  11. Hazel

  12. Khali

  13. Hazel

  14. Khali

  15. Hazel

  16. Khali

  17. Hazel

  18. Khali

  19. Hazel

  20. Khali

  21. Hazel

  22. Khali

  23. Hazel

  24. Khali

  25. Hazel

  26. Khali

  27. Hazel

  28. Khali

  29. Hazel

  30. Khali

  31. Hazel

  What’s Next?

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Crown of Dragons Blurb

  The normal world is an illusion.

  Separated from other realms by a thin layer of powerful magic, humans are protected from the fae and dragons, the ghosts and warlocks, and an unfurling evil.

  Khali Elliot is a princess —of sorts. She wasn’t born royal and yet she’s destined to become queen. As a Dragon Blessed with four elements running through her blood, her future lineage has already been claimed by the Brightcaster’ throne. She will marry one of the princes. She won’t get to choose which one. She will be obedient.

  Until she’s not.

  Hazel Forrester sees dead people. Her life is pretty much a bad made-for-tv special where being the haunted girl isn’t a gift, but a curse. Going away to college in a small town where nobody knows her seems to be a solid plan. That is until she meets Dean Ashton, the infuriating boy with fire in his eyes and far too many questions. She will ignore him. She will act normal.

  Until she can’t.

  Two vastly different realms. Two vastly different girls.

  But the realms are bleeding together and the girls are linked. Bound. Spelled.

  And little do they know, one can’t survive without the other.

  From the USA Today Bestselling and Amazon Top 100 author, comes Crown of Dragons, the first novel in the Dragon Blessed trilogy and look into the Bleeding Realms world, where high fantasy and urban fantasy are layered with forbidden romance, deadly magic, and nefarious designs.

  For ages 14+, Crown of Dragons is a full-length 85 thousand word novel.

  Crown of Dragons

  The Dragon Blessed Trilogy

  Book One

  — The Bleeding Realms World —

  Copyright © 2019 by Nina Walker

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-950093-03-8

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-950093-04-5

  Published by Addison & Gray Press, LLC. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author or publisher.

  Cover design by Daqri Bernardo.

  The book is dedicated to that girl who has never given up on finding her true and unconditional, forever and ever, love story. Even when life points to the contrary, she continues to believe in love. Keep loving yourself first. This book is for you.

  Not Quite 18 Years Ago

  The child was born with two colored eyes: muddy earth and summer sky. The dragon clans believed her a gift from the Gods, a blessing bestowed on the new generation and a promise of royal strength. He thought it superstitious nonsense, another way the unholy beasts justified their elemental blasphemy.

  He traveled under the cloak of night, pushing his fatigue to the breaking point—he had to move fast. Once the child and mother were deemed healthy enough to travel, they’d be relocated to the castle, and if that happened before he got to her, he’d miss his chance.

  The village smelled of filth, of cattle and moody winter and crops gone sour. He curled his lip, slipping between long shadows and past the sentries without trouble, breaking into the hovel and finding her fast asleep. She was a tiny thing, pink cheeked and bowed lipped, with a wisp of raven hair. Some might say she was innocent. Pure. He knew better.

  He scowled at the sleeping parents and the child tucked between them, imagining ways he could execute all three—end them while he still had the chance. But no, another Dragon Blessed daughter would be born with heterochromia to take this one’s place. That baby might be born of better circumstances. Unreachable.

  This one was right here. It had to be her.

  The spell was nothing save for a few quick utterances. But he still had to procure the blood. So he cast the second spell, the one that would leave all three inhabitants lost in slumber until sunrise. Their breathing relaxed into the magic and the night grew impossibly quiet. He raised the bed sheet and found the child’s foot. It was as small as a baby bird and blushing velvet to the touch. He felt no remorse as he pricked her heel and drained the blood. He let it run, much of it sopping onto the sheets, until his vial was filled. With a flick of his long finger, he erased the mess and wiped her clean.

  Tomorrow, the trio would wake, fully rested and surprised at their good fortune. Tomorrow, he would take the blood to its intended target and cast the final spell. He held the warm vial as he would a precious gem and smiled for the first time in weeks. One day, this blood would prove to be the killing blow against the dragon clans, ending their reign—ending them. It really was a shame the baby had to be born with two colored eyes.

  She never had a chance.

  1

  Hazel

  A woman with a butcher knife sticking out of her back is pulling my hair. At least, she’s trying to. She hasn’t quite figured out that I can’t actually feel her, so she’s gone from the polite ask, to the shoulder tap, to full-on hair pulling.

  It’s a new low, even for me.

  I shift away, biting back an annoyed growl, and attempt to focus on the classroom whiteboard where Dr. Peters is scrawling something about Aristotle. I blink, hoping to tune out this obnoxious lady who’s now flashing images of her medicine cabinet at me like she’s going to die if I don’t help, and I’m seriously about ready to punch her in her dead, pasty face.

  Not that it’s even possible. But seriously!

  “You okay?” Macy whispers from the seat next to mine.

  I sink into the padded chair and refocus on the lecture hall as I nod, hoping she’ll forgive whatever horrible nonverbals are morphing my expression at the moment. Macy is kind and cool and pretty, and dang it if I don’t want her to be my friend.

  Yup. I’ve turned into that girl.

  It’s only been a week since I started my freshman year of college, and I’ve already managed to join what’s turning out to be our dorm’s “in crowd.” Don’t ask me for tips. Considering that I graduated a year early from high school over what Mom so lovingly calls “The Regina George Situation”, I don’t have any tips.

  I moved into my dorm last Sunday, only one day before classes started, because I didn’t want to
be noticed. I didn’t have visions of grandeur, of being tossed a frisbee my first day by my future husband or something equally moronic. Quite the opposite. I was awkwardly trying to blend in with my oversized hoodie from the sales rack at Target, my dirty blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing the barest of makeup (no contouring here), and hiding behind my nerdy and totally fake black-rimmed glasses. Which, by the way, I love—I’m proud to call myself a nerd.

  I shouldn’t have stood out, and I definitely shouldn’t have made friends effortlessly. But did that stop the other girls living in my dorm from sticking to me like white on rice? No. No, it did not. And so far the “Mean Girls” group in our dorm is turning out to be the opposite of mean. They’re like the glittery unicorn group of girly friends I’d always dreamed of having but only thought existed in cheesy made-for-TV movies. Who even knew pretty and popular and kind was possible at our age? But Mom promised college would be different, and so far, she wasn’t lying.

  The dead lady is still hovering right in my eyeline, distracting me from whatever’s going on up front with Doctor Peters. It’s pretty clear that she was a drug addict and she’s going through some major withdrawals. I don’t quite understand how that works considering she no longer has a body, and I feel bad for her––I do. But I’m also trying to focus on Peters as he goes over the origins of anthropology, and she’s making herself rather difficult to ignore. I catch my other new friend Cora’s raised eyebrows from across the room, and she points to her phone before turning back to the lecture. Discreetly, I check mine to find her text.

  Wanna study for Friday’s quiz together at lunch? My treat ;)

  I smirk. The dining hall is included in our dorm fees, so it’s not like Cora’s going to treat me to anything other than the pleasure of her company. I quickly text her back. Sure. So generous of you ;)

  I’m lucky this class has my two newest besties in it. Okay, they are the only true friends I’ve made so far, but still, it’s best friend status at this point with the three of us. We’ve spent nearly all our time together over the last few days since we met. I wish all my classes had them, but no, that’s not how college works. We just caught a break with Anthropology. Yay for General Education, or something like that.

  Cora waggles her eyebrows with a cheeky grin when she reads my reply, and I’m hit with this surreal feeling of imposter syndrome. I’m suddenly cool, aren’t I? How is that possible? It won’t last and I hate that I care. This stint at popularity is a total farce that hasn’t done a thing to change how I feel inside. I still feel out of place. I still have anxiety every single second I’m around these “normals” because deep down I know these people won’t understand me and will probably mock me once they figure out my secret. Because they will figure it out. Given time, everyone does. Try as I might, I can’t help my freak flag from flying high and following me wherever I go.

  Actually, they follow me wherever I go. They’re my stupid freak flag.

  But I can’t very well go around telling my new friends the truth about them, can I? I can’t just announce, “I see dead people,” like some kind of female Haley Joel Osment. The kid was a loner in that movie for a reason. And yeah, I guess these days it’s cool to be weird and different, but not that weird and different. It would be one thing if I read tarot cards and wore a pretty rose quartz on a dainty chain around my neck; that would be passable. That might work.

  Talking to the air? No. Definitely not okay to be babbling into the empty aisle, all like, “Oh, hey crazy lady, get off me! And spoiler alert, you’re actually one of the dead people. I’ll just send you on your way. Go be with Jesus!”

  Can I do that right now? Hell to the no.

  So that’s why I’m about ready to spontaneously combust right here in this padded seat. I should be paying attention to the anthropology lecture. Peters is a campus favorite for a reason, and I actually really like this class if our first lecture was anything to go by.

  But there are a lot of dead people hanging around campus. I purposely chose a small liberal arts college in a backwater West Virginian town so that spirits wouldn’t bombard me like they do in big cities. Lucky for me, I don’t see ancient ghosts, so I wasn’t worried about the Civil War history here. It’s the recently dead who appear to me. And as it turns out, Hayden College has its fair share. They seriously won’t leave me alone now that they’ve realized I can see them. Even though I’m not talking to them or acknowledging them whatsoever, they sure aren’t scared to bombard me.

  It’s like this: I can see the spirit realm. The ghosties sense that about me and send images to my mind. Sometimes it’s moments from their lives, or people they love, regrets they have, but usually, it’s random objects that make no difference to me. It rarely makes sense. But they do it all the time regardless of whether I’m busy—like right now, in the middle of class. And oh goodie, I’m supposed to be answering a question.

  “Umm, sorry, Dr. Peters, what was the question?” I ask, voice cracking. My face burns as everyone in the classroom, living and dead, turns on me. It’s a smallish lecture hall, but all fifty seats are filled. Lucky me.

  Peters raises a bushy eyebrow, notices the phone tucked in my palm, and turns to another student. “Mr. Ashton, perhaps you could enlighten us?” The heavy gazes of my classmates turn from me to someone sitting in the back, and I let out a stilted breath. That could have gone better.

  A brief silence is followed by a deep silky voice dripping in exasperation. He has a slight accent that for the life of me I can’t place. “Anthropology comes from the Greek words anthropos, meaning human, and logos, meaning logic. That’s an easy question, Dr. Peters. If people would listen instead of being glued to their phones, perhaps we could all move on to the more interesting bits.”

  A few students snicker. Shame washes over me, along with that awful feeling of being the butt of the joke. I can’t believe he called me out like that! And it’s not like I didn’t know the answer. I just didn’t hear the question because of this crack-baby ghosty hovering over me—who by the way, is still on my case, sending image after image of prescription medicine bottles. The shame burns up quickly, consumed by anger as I grit my teeth. I continue to tune out the dead lady’s hysterics and turn back to glare at the know-it-all in the last row.

  I’m stunned at what I find. An icy chill creeps over my body.

  Whoever he is, he’s glaring right back, his expression venomous, and with eyes so dark, I swear they’re black. It’s unsettling to the point of making my pulse race. He sees me looking but he doesn’t turn away. A jolt of electricity shoots up my spine. His jaw is clenched tight, accentuating the sharp lines of his cheeks and the fullness of his pink lips. I take him in, this man with a face made of daydreams and nightmares. He’s the kind of attractive meant for Photoshop and glossy magazine ads, not real life. And from his brazenness, I’d guess the good looks come with a crap load of arrogance. Gross. Also, total eye-roll.

  The marker squeaks against the whiteboard as Peters continues the lecture, bringing the class back to focus.

  But I don’t turn back. Not yet. Instead, I sneer at the guy who’s still openly staring at me with complete and utter disdain. Like, I’m sorry, but what does he want? He’s probably used to women fawning over him, but I refuse to be so predictable and lame. I also don’t want to be the first of us to break eye contact. It’s as if we’re playing a game of cat and mouse, but guess what? Cats are my favorite animals. I have two back home. Plus, I have claws. So back off!

  Okay, I don’t really have claws. I bite the crap out of my nails if we’re being honest. But what I’m trying to say is I’m the cat in this scenario—I’m the winner.

  He tilts his head, curls his lip, and averts his gaze.

  Ha! I knew I was awesome!

  Satisfied, I whip back around and resume my attempts to pay attention. I’m here to learn, dang it! The back of my neck heats all throughout the lecture, like a laser beam is being directed right at me. It’s even more distracting
than the ghosts all up in my business. But I don’t turn around again. Not because I’m afraid of the jerk in the back, but because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s bothering me. For whatever reason, the hatred between us is instant and mutual. I smile. It’s a nice distraction for a haunted girl.

  And lo and behold, a half hour later I find him waiting for me after class.

  “Mr. Ashton” leans against the wall in the hallway and the moment he sees me, he pushes off it, stalking toward me like a lion about to attack an innocent baby gazelle. Yeah, I am well aware I just went from awesome feline warrior goddess to a baby gazelle.

  “What are you doing here?” he demands, the accusatory tone slamming right through me.

  I stop, Cora and Macy at my side. All three of us seem to be momentarily blinded by both his attractiveness and that continued brazenness. I blink rapidly, downright baffled by this behavior. It was one thing to challenge me in class, but to wait for me afterward so he can yell at me? Who does that? It only takes a second for that stunned feeling to evaporate into one of indignation.

  “Back off,” I snap, stepping forward in challenge. I almost can’t believe my fearlessness. I’ve always been so afraid of the bullies, so ashamed of my curse, my self-esteem weakened by something I couldn’t change no matter how hard I tried. I let the kids at my old school walk all over me to the point of graduating early and running away. But not today. Not with him. Something about this feels oddly different.