Mists of Velvet

by Sophie Renwick

  “Big deal,” Rhys muttered, trying to act nonchalant. In truth, he was utterly unnerved. Where had Suriel been lurking?

  “Eyes and ears, my friend,” Suriel reminded him as he rose from his chair and allowed his black wings to unfurl from beneath the long leather trench he always wore. “It’s the mark of a good guardian angel.”

  “You’re not my guardian.”

  Suriel shrugged. “Who the hell else would put up with you?”

  “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “You’re not getting my subtlety, MacDonald.”

  “And you’re not getting mine. So let me be clear. I don’t want anything from you. Stay the hell away from me.”

  Two large hands slammed down on the desk. “Shut the fuck up and listen to me. I’m trying to help you, even though it goes against everything I feel. Now,” Suriel said quietly, “do not make another attempt to go beyond that door. What it leads to is a world you cannot be part of. There are dangers there you cannot begin to fathom.”

  “I already know about Annwyn and Cailleach and all the other fairy tales that have been passed down.”

  “But you don’t know this one.” Suriel turned his hands over. Angelic script appeared tattooed on his palms. The ink was blue and vibrant, and Rhys felt his gaze latch on to the strange symbols. “Life, with the left hand,” Suriel murmured. “Death with the right. If you go beyond that door, this”—Suriel held up his left hand—“cannot save you.”

  “What makes you think I’ll need saving?”

  Suriel reached out, and it took everything in Rhys not to flinch as the angel touched him. Suriel’s fingers were hot as they swept beneath the neck of his shirt. “Do you believe in this symbol, MacDonald?”

  Rhys looked down to see his necklace lying in Suriel’s hand. The ornate Celtic cross glistened against the script tattoos.

  The cross had been a baptismal gift, bequeathed to each firstborn male of the MacDonald line. Daegan had brought the cross with him from Scotland. The story went that Daegan had the cross blessed with the waters from a sacred pool in Annwyn.

  It was a protection talisman; one Rhys had never taken off.

  “Do you believe in it?” Suriel snarled. The look in his eyes was rabid.

  “I believe.”

  Although he wasn’t a churchgoing type of guy, he believed, and what was more, he had immense faith in the power of the cross he wore around his neck.

  Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Suriel lifted away from him and stepped back. Rhys heard the silky sound of Suriel’s wings scraping against the hardwood floor. “Good. Use that faith. Never let it waver. You’ll need it.”

  “What is your purpose here, Suriel? The truth.”

  “Use your head, MacDonald,” Suriel snapped. “What do I care if you go into that forsaken tunnel and get yourself butchered in Annwyn? I don’t give a shit. But He does, apparently.”

  “How did you know I planned to go into the tunnel? Maybe I just wanted to open the door and have a look.”

  Suriel snorted. “You don’t lie well. Besides, how do you think I know? He told me.”

  Rhys’ gaze dropped to Suriel’s palms. The markings were gone; erased.

  “Erased, just as you will be if you venture beyond the door. Remember that. I’ve done my duty,” Suriel growled. “Now it’s up to you, stupid human, to do what you want with the knowledge I’ve given you.”

  And then the angel was gone, disappearing before Rhys’ eyes. As he shook off the unease he felt, Rhys’ gaze was drawn to the wooden box that sat on the corner of his desk. Engraved on the lid was a Celtic cross. He’d been raised Presbyterian—the Church of Scotland—and he believed. As strange as that sounded, as fucked-up as his life was, he still believed in God and the angels, in heaven and hell. A little piece of him even believed that Suriel was telling him the truth. Annwyn didn’t want him, and if he ventured into the Cave of Cruachan, God couldn’t—or wouldn’t—help him.

  The warning was clear. But then, he’d have Keir . . .

  “You needed me?”

  Rhys looked up from the wooden box to see the wraith standing in his office.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough to hear Suriel warn you away from the cave.”

  Rhys shrugged and glanced away. “Suriel’s a fallen angel. Why would you or I believe anything he had to say?”

  “Because your God speaks through him.”

  Rhys snorted. “Yeah, right. If God spoke to Suriel, he wouldn’t be fallen, would he?”

  “The Dark Times have come to Annwyn. They’ve also come to the mortal realm. Perhaps your God is in need of Suriel’s knowledge of the seedier side of the human race. Maybe Suriel is God’s hope for humanity.”

  Rhys met Keir’s electric gaze. He had looked into his eyes a million times; yet somehow tonight they looked different. Gone were the silver eyes rimmed with violet. Now they were white like ice, edged in a darker purple that looked almost black in this light. Keir was different. He was worried about something—or someone.

  “Don’t go near the door again,” Keir commanded him. “It’s off-limits.”

  The wraith’s tone made him bristle. Both of them were angry and tense, and they needed an outlet for the rage. They didn’t typically use each other this way, but it was different now. They both needed to let off steam, and they were each other’s convenient whipping post. “I’m not five anymore!”

  Keir crossed his thick forearms over his chest. The divination symbols that ran up his hands and arms began to glow softly.

  “Do not think of putting any sort of magical spell on me,” Rhys snarled. “I mean it, Keir. You think I’m pissed now . . .”

  The symbols faded to a blue-black color. They now resembled ordinary tribal tats. But they were far from ordinary, or innocuous.

  “It’s my duty to protect you, Rhys.”

  “I know that.”

  “There is no place in Annwyn for you.”

  “I know that, too. But this mortal gig is pretty damned boring. Especially when I know for a fact you’re involved in something and are deliberately leaving me out.”

  “For your own safety.”

  “You make me sound like a weakling.”

  “No. Just a mortal.”

  Rhys bit back his thoughts. He really hated to be reminded of his mortality. When you spent your life with magical and powerful creatures, being human was a disappointing vocation.

  He knew he wouldn’t win this argument with Keir, so he tried another tack. “So what’s going on in Annwyn that has you going there every day?”

  “I want to see Rowan.”

  That was the truth. Rhys felt Keir’s honesty, and his despair. But there was another reason for going. Rhys sensed it. And he didn’t like that Keir was able to keep something from him—not when Rhys’ life was an open book to the wraith.

  But pummeling Keir wouldn’t work. And neither would pestering him into spilling what the hell was going on in Annwyn.

  “Suriel does not lie about what will happen to you, Rhys.”

  “How do you know?”

  Keir winced, glanced away, and dragged his hands through his black hair. “I have seen it.”

  Tarot cards. Keir’s special kind of magic was divination. He used scrying and detection spells, and sometimes fire. But mostly he used the tarot. And some of the shit Keir saw was downright terrifying.

  “You believe me. I sense that.” Keir stepped into the office, closing the door behind him. “You know I would never lie to you about these things.”

  Rhys watched as the wraith paced the width of the room. The heavy soles of his Doc Martens pounded the floor. It was the only sound in the room, and Rhys suddenly felt unnerved—oppressed—by the quiet.

  “The woman in the alley,” Keir began. “I have seen more like her. The killings will not stop. They will continue on both mortals and immortals. The torture worse than before. The rituals will become more complicated, and through these sacr
ifices, the mage and his apprentice, the Destroyer, will become stronger in their power.”

  Keir stopped before his desk, his eyes now a muted silver, a sign he was in an altered divination state. “The greater the sacrifice, the stronger the powers. Do you understand?”

  “I understand the bastard needs to be caught before he kills again.”

  “No. You’re not listening. The greater the sacrifice—”

  “Why don’t you explain it—plainly?” Rhys demanded, exasperated. “I’m just a mortal, remember? I don’t get all this magical stuff.”

  “If you forfeit your safety to look for me in Annwyn, you’ll have more than Cailleach to worry about. The mage will see you as a wondrous offering. Your struggles to save yourself will empower him. And what if,” Keir said quietly, “I cannot get to you in time? Do you really want your soul stolen and given up to the Dark Arts?”

  Keir watched Rhys carefully as he continued. “Your courage is admirable. Your worry for me appreciated but not warranted. Your mortality makes you—”

  “Weak?” Rhys snarled. “Inconvenient? A general pain in the ass?”

  “Vulnerable,” Keir finished for him.

  It always came down to this—how ineffectual he was, trapped between two worlds and belonging to neither.

  “I gotta go,” Rhys snapped. “It’s opening time, and I have a full night to put in.”

  “Do not worry, Rhys. Soon the mage will be caught, and this chapter will be over. We’ll be able to return to normal.”

  Rhys stopped and glared at his friend. “What the fuck makes you think anything about you and me is normal?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You could have been a tad more forceful.”

  Keir watched as Suriel emerged from the shadows. “I’ve already aroused his suspicions. He’s like a damned pit bull with a bone. His jaws are locked, and he’s not going to let go. He won’t give up until he wins.”

  “An admirable quality,” the angel mocked, “if one desires to be bound to an altar and mutilated.”

  The fierce protectiveness that came naturally to him all but swallowed up Keir’s rational thought. “He’s a mortal. He has free will. He will do as he chooses, regardless of warnings.”

  Suriel shrugged. “I think you could have stopped him from a fate we both know is awaiting him.”

  “Rhys isn’t suicidal. And he isn’t magical. He won’t be able to open the door to the cave, and he won’t intentionally get himself killed.”

  “Fate is a funny thing,” Suriel said. “You cannot outrun it, or alter it, no matter how hard you try. It is the same even in your world, is it not?”

  Fisting his hands at his sides, Keir strived to keep his emotions under control. But the truth was, he was unraveling. Something was happening to him, and he couldn’t explain it. A piece of him was dying inside, and it had nothing to do with what was happening in Annwyn, or Rhys.

  “What are your motives?” Keir suddenly snarled. He didn’t trust Suriel, and he didn’t believe for one minute the angel was all he appeared to be. This concern for Rhys was some kind of ruse to deflect Keir from Suriel’s true purpose.

  “My motives are my own. What about yours?”

  “Mine?” he choked. “What the hell are you insinuating, Suriel?”

  “Just that we all have parts to play in this prophecy. And those parts are preordained. Like fate, we cannot alter what we are.”

  “What are you, Suriel?”

  “A fallen angel. And what about you, wraith? What are you, really?”

  “You know what I am.”

  Suriel’s slow smile raised the hair on Keir’s nape. “Yes. I do. I do know.”

  “Just stay the hell away from me, and Rhys, too!” Keir thundered. “Stick to your mortals here on Earth, and I’ll worry about Annwyn.”

  “Very well.” Suriel moved to leave, then stopped. “There will come a time—very soon, in fact—when you will humble yourself before me. You will request a favor of me, and I will not be able to grant it.”

  “What a surprise,” Keir mocked.

  “Fate, wraith. Remember, it cannot be altered.”

  “So why bother to tell me?”

  “Because when that time comes, I don’t want you to believe that my refusal to give you what you desire most has anything to do with this petty disagreement today.”

  “I want nothing from you, Suriel.”

  “You will. Now, I have one more visit to make; then I’ll be gone again. Give my regrets to the crow for missing him, and tell him not to bother trying to find me again.”

  Keir watched as Suriel disappeared in a shaft of glimmering crystals. Bastard. He didn’t like him, but more importantly, he didn’t trust him—never had. There was a darkness to Suriel. He had seen it in a divination, as well as with his waking eyes. Suriel was hiding something, and that made him more dangerous than ever.

  Perhaps if he weren’t so damned tired and weak, he might be able to reason it out, to discover what it was that set his nerves on edge whenever Suriel was around. But the truth was, his brain was fried, and his concentration was shit.

  Flopping down into Rhys’ chair, Keir placed his head on the desk and pressed his eyes shut. He felt out of control, angry, insolent. He was worried about Rhys, and he felt guilty as hell for the way he had been leaving him alone the past few weeks, not to mention the way they seemed to be bickering like an old married couple.

  He’d tried to tell himself that Rhys was safe enough within the walls of Velvet Haven, but he knew better than that. The human woman had been taken from the club and sacrificed out in the open. No place—and no one—was safe from the Dark Mage.

  Especially not a mortal like Rhys. He had plenty of Sidhe pride, and fiery Fey blood, but none of the magick.

  Damn it, Keir knew better than to leave. He was Rhys’ Shadow Wraith, created to follow him through life, guarding and guiding. But he’d been doing a shitty job of it.

  But it wouldn’t be forever, he reminded himself. Soon, the reason for his distraction would be gone.

  The pain of that admission cost him. If he had a heart, it would be twisted and squeezed, making him breathless. It was unbelievable to him that he had done the unthinkable. He had fallen in love with a mortal woman. And not just any mortal, he thought with hatred, but one who was dying.

  Rowan. Even the image of her flashing in his mind caused him pain. He couldn’t lose her, but he knew he was going to. There was nothing he could do; it was fate, just as Suriel said. As much as Keir despised the truth, he knew it was so. There was nothing in the mortal realm or in Annwyn that could save her.

  If only his love could.

  Jesus, he was fucked up. He was a Shadow Wraith, his existence tied to Rhys. But his soul was overtaken by a dying mortal, who didn’t even realize he loved her—wanted her and fantasized about being deep inside her.

  If he could only have her—just once, to feel her and keep her memory alive. Just once, and she would live forever in his memory.

  A gentle tapping at his hand made him open his eyes. Cliodna, his little wren, pecked gingerly at his thumb. All seers—or shamans, as they were known in Annwyn—had animal allies who bonded with them; he had been chosen by this wren. It had always made sense to Keir that this little bird had chosen him. In the Otherworld, the wren, or dreathan-donn, was a sacred bird, considered to be a messenger from the deities. Cliodna’s magical musical voice and complex song were a source of divination for him.

  Picking her up in his palm, he met her black gaze. “What is it you wish me to know?” he murmured while brushing his thumb along her back.

  Cliodna began to sing, and while she did, he focused on her gaze, the feel of her soft plumage beneath his thumb. He quieted his thoughts, so her magical song could bring him into a trancelike state. He was weak, having not fed from Rhys’ energy in days, which made it much more difficult to alter his state of consciousness.

  Patiently, his wren sang, until he could at last enter his medita
tive trance. Instantly, his spirit was transported to Annwyn, while his physical form remained rooted in the mortal plane. He saw himself in a dark chamber, a woman’s form on a bed, draped in white.

  Keir felt his mind begin to race, despite his deeply entranced state. It was Rowan. He felt her and the instant desire to take her and claim her. But she was still, her face covered with the white cloth.

  Cliodna sang louder, and he glanced away from the body on the bed to the wren. That was the trouble with divination. One could not pick and choose when it came to visions, or bring one to an end when it became too disturbing.

  He didn’t want to continue, but the wren sang on, forcing him to interpret her musical notes as verbal directions.

  Pulling the sheet off, Keir was not shocked to discover that it was Rowan lying beneath the sheet. He knew her shape, her scent, as intimately as if he had lain with her. But he hadn’t, and he likely never would. Perhaps that was the reason he stood now, studying her, absorbing every nuance of her beauty and innocence.

  She was naked, her body full and voluptuous, despite her illness. Her pale skin was smoothed and unmarked. The turquoise eyes he found so enticing were closed, giving her the appearance that she slept. But her chest was still, her breathing silent. It was not the repose of slumber; it was the repose of death. A feather quill, an inkwell, a candle, and a piece of folded paper were placed above her head. An athame, its blade tip stained with something rust-colored, was placed to her left. Beneath the blade, three perfect drops of blood glistened upon the white sheet. And in her hand, peeking out from between her fingers, was a feather. Cliodna’s feather.

  The wren’s song pierced his thoughts, and he heard words rise up between her musical notes. “So must it be done.”

  “No!” he roared, severing the astral link. He awoke as his mind and soul slammed back into his physical body. Sweating and breathing hard, Keir opened his eyes, his mind whirling with what he had seen, his body exhausted from the journey. Cliodna was still perched on his hand, her head cocked to the side as she studied him with eyes that suddenly looked sorrowful.

  “Was it a vision of what is to come, or a possibility that may be altered?” he asked.