Mists of Velvet

by Sophie Renwick

  “You’ve been remembering.”

  It was not a question but a statement. There was no need to lie to Suriel, when he already knew the truth. “Yes. Sayer . . . got a bit too close, and it provoked . . . memories.”

  He nodded, and his eyes turned darker. “I remember it, too. Being forced to stand by until it was time to claim you. It haunts me as well. You were so . . . young. And pure.”

  And after, she had been tainted, in the most heinous way possible. There hadn’t been a piece of her that had not been violated. Suriel reached for her and tilted her face up to meet his.

  “Never tainted,” he murmured. “Nothing could mar this radiance I see. There is innocence still in your eyes. He did not take it all. There is a purity to you, Rowan. Despite what has been taken from you, it still shines.”

  She flushed and looked away from his penetrating gaze. “I have felt dirty for so long.”

  “Soon, you no longer will feel that way.”

  Rowan knew it was true. Soon, she would no longer feel. “The pain?” Suriel murmured. “How is it?”

  “Bearable.”

  “Does it hurt now?”

  “A bit.”

  Suriel’s fingertips glided gently over her temples and forehead. “Close your eyes, and concentrate on my fingers.”

  She did. The little tingles on her skin made her shiver. Suriel’s touch immediately chased away the headache coming on.

  “There. All better?”

  She nodded and opened her eyes. “Thank you.”

  His head tilted to the side as if he were studying her. His gaze swept swiftly along her body. “You look very much the same. Are you certain the illness is progressing?”

  Rowan flushed. Everyone knew she was dying. Fricking cancer—a brain tumor, to be precise. She didn’t know why, but she felt ashamed that her body was giving up, letting the cancer win. To look at her, all boobs, hips, and thighs, no one would think she was dying. People who were dying were supposed to be emaciated skeletons. But she hadn’t lost a pound. She was still wearing her size sixteens, which was kind of disappointing, in a sick way. She was expecting to get very skinny.

  “I’m sure,” she murmured at last. “The numbness and tingling are becoming more widespread. Sometimes my legs give out on me, and I can’t feel my feet. My headaches are more severe, and occasionally I can’t see. All are indications that the tumor is growing.”

  Suriel nodded, his face falling. Suddenly he reached out and cupped her cheek. “There is luminescence in you. One that belies death.”

  She smiled. Suriel was good-looking—hot even—but her desire ran elsewhere. What she wouldn’t give to hear a certain Shadow Wraith tell her she was luminescent. But then, a dying chick could hardly be a turn-on. Besides, even if Keir shared her desire, she probably wouldn’t be able to let him close. She’d panic and shut down. Despite her hunger for him, she wouldn’t be able to allow him to touch her.

  Gripping the silk coverlet, Rowan strived to keep her tears from falling. She didn’t want to die, but her tumor was inoperable. There was nothing to be done for her in the mortal realm, and now there was nothing in Annwyn that could help her, either. So many nights she had feared what the end would be like. Would it bring horrible pain? Would she scream from it? Or would it be swift and painless?

  “Swift,” Suriel whispered. “I promise.”

  “Thank you,” she replied softly.

  “Everything happens for a reason, Rowan. Do you believe that?”

  Rowan looked into Suriel’s deep, dark eyes and instantly felt a calming peace. Her head no longer hurt, but she was beginning to tire. The restlessness and anxiety that had consumed her only moments before were gone, leaving only exhaustion.

  “Rowan,” he asked again, “do you believe?”

  “I don’t know. I guess.”

  He pinned her with a gaze she could no longer interpret. “Do you believe you are part of God’s plan?”

  “No. I don’t believe in God.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re just angry with Him.”

  Rowan felt her breath leave her lungs. How could Suriel have known the truth?

  “We’ve all been angry with Him at some point.” Suriel turned his head until he was looking out the window into the gardens that backed onto a small maze made up of hedged boxwoods. “We’ve all hated Him, even.”

  “ ‘We’ as in angels, or ‘we’ as in mortals?”

  He did not look at her but kept his gaze on the garden, his eyes suffering with some unseen memory, his expression distant. “Me,” he whispered. “I have hated Him. I have despised Him for what He has made me do in His name. One wing always dipped in blood—can you imagine it?” he asked, his gaze slowly drawing away from the window, only to land on her. “Can you imagine what that is like, to always be sent to do the dirty work? To be feared? To be hated? To cause such despair?”

  “No,” she answered, swallowing uneasily.

  “You hate Him because of what He has taken from you. Your mother, your father. You hate Him because you think He abandoned you to the nuns who didn’t care. You hate Him because He allowed you to be raped. You hate Him now, because you’ve discovered that you serve some purpose for His plan, and you resent it. You don’t want to serve Him, because you don’t think He deserves it. You want to punish Him. Am I right?”

  “How could you know?” she asked. She’d never told anyone; not even Mairi. No one knew her thoughts.

  “Do you think you are the only one to feel this way? Do you think it’s easy to never question? To never wonder why you must endure; why you must perform your part in His greater plan? Well, you’re not alone. I understand how you feel. I wanted to punish Him, too. And I did. I was one of the seven archangels He first created. I was one of the first to fall.”

  An archangel. Rowan couldn’t help but stare at Suriel, at his soft brown hair and eyes and at his mouth, so perfectly carved and shaped. Yes, she could see him in a long, flowing robe, seated with Gabriel and Michael. She saw the strength in his eyes, the pride. But she saw secrets and pain as well.

  “Do you still hate Him?”

  “No. I feel nothing. That is my punishment. I’m empty, hollow, except for . . . Never mind.” Before she realized what she was doing, Rowan reached out to him, but he pulled back from her, avoiding her touch. “We all have a purpose, both angel and mortal. And though it may not be clear to us, it is to Him. We are all part of God’s plan—mortals, angels, the fallen, and the devout. We all serve a purpose. Your conception occurred when the seed of the prophecy was sown. You cannot begin to fathom how much we all need you.”

  Swallowing, Rowan looked away, trying to let everything sink in. She’d always believed her life was useless. No one had wanted her, not even her own parents. It was kind of hard to take it all in, that now, she might be needed. “You make me sound like I am something special, when I am not.”

  Suriel smiled and reached for her hand. “You have no idea of your worth, Rowan. In time, it will all be clear. To you. To me. To the others.”

  “What am I?” she asked him, giving voice to the question she had asked herself all her life.

  “A gift.”

  And then he rose from her bed and bent down, kissing her reverently on her forehead. “We will meet again. And then, we shall know who you are.”

  “Suriel, why did you really come here?”

  He stilled, his hand lingering on her shoulder. His eyes were now guarded, unreadable. Now, she was looking into the eyes of the fallen angel.

  “You have something very valuable. And I want to make certain I get it first.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rhys rubbed his fingers over the raised cross on the wooden box. It had been hours since he had seen Keir, and even longer since he had come to his office in the guise of doing work.

  Instead, he had spent the time gazing up at the ceiling, pondering what the hell was happening. Nothing was normal, and that was saying something, considering his life. Even after hour
s of introspection, he was no closer to an answer. In fact, he only had more questions—questions that could be answered only by Bran, Keir, or Annwyn itself.

  He knew enough of the Otherworld to at least get by. Daegan, although ancient by this time, had been alive when Rhys was a young boy. Despite being turned mortal by the Supreme Goddess, Cailleach, Daegan had had an unnaturally long life. So long, in fact, that Daegan’s son and grandson had been forced to hide him in the mansion so that no one would question how a man who was thirty years old when he arrived from Scotland could still be alive a hundred and forty years later.

  Long life was a gift to mortals, but for Daegan, it had been just another punishment, because Daegan had been forced to endure nearly a century alone without his beloved Isobel.

  Rhys glanced up at the portrait of the couple that hung above the fireplace. Isobel was beautiful, and Daegan had the Otherworldly aura of power and presence.

  “You’ve the look of the Sidhe,” Daegan had told him when he was only six. “You’re the first of my line to do so. Here, let me look at you.”

  He had taken Rhys’ chin in his wrinkled, gnarled hand and gazed upon him with his violet eyes.

  “Sidhe blood runs strong in you. You look very much like me.”

  Rhys had been horrified, of course, because what he saw was a wizened old man. He didn’t want to look like Great-Great-Grandfather Daegan. And the old man had laughed then, hearing his thoughts. “I once was handsome. And you will be, too. Come to me, laddie, and I will tell you of your heritage. For I believe that one day you will have need of the knowledge my stories will bring.”

  After that, Rhys would find himself in his great-great-grandfather Daegan’s room nearly every day. He told him of Annwyn, of all the different places, such as the Summerlands and Wastelands. He spoke of the reflecting pool and all the different races living in the Otherworld. But Rhys’ favorite stories were about the goddesses. Even at his young age, he had been entranced by the idea of a group of women, so beautiful and enchanting, yet filled with awe-inspiring power.

  One day, Daegan’s stories began to change. They became less like fairy tales and more like Survival 101. Rhys had been reminded of Cailleach’s curse against the firstborn sons in Daegan’s line, but he had also been informed of places where Cailleach’s power didn’t immediately reach. He’d learned that the reflecting pool would be safe, and Daegan made him memorize over and over how to get to the pool if he passed through the veil that led to Annwyn. He told Rhys about all the different animals and what they represented. He explained that certain animals sometimes allied themselves with humans; if one saw the same animal three times, he could assume the animal had chosen him and would be his guide and protector.

  And then he had given him this box, filled with talismans for his journey. He’d never expected to step foot in Annwyn, but somehow Daegan had suspected it was Rhys’ destiny.

  Opening the box now, Rhys stared down at the small piece of paper and the words written in Daegan’s hand. Remember the animals. They will be your guides.

  From the box Rhys pulled the torc and wrist cuffs, the marks of a high-ranking Celt. The torc was worn around the neck as a status symbol, but also as a talisman against evil.

  The ancient bronze was heavy in his hand, but the piece was stunning. At each end of the torc was a carved wolf head. And on each cuff was a Celtic cross with a wolf curled around the base. When Daegan had been banished from Annwyn, he had adopted the surname of his wife. MacDonald had become not only Daegan’s name but his clan. When they’d moved out of Scotland, Daegan had given his family a clan animal, and that was the wolf.

  It was fitting that Daegan had chosen the madadh-alluidh to be the clan’s animal ally, for the wolf, like Daegan, was cunning and intelligent. The wolf represented the ability to outthink hunters. It could read the signs of nature and knew how to pass by danger invisibly. It also knew how to outwit those who might do harm and to fight fearlessly when needed. The wolf was a loner that also belonged in a pack. The wolf was the right symbol for the MacDonalds and him.

  Rhys wondered why he had felt drawn to the box tonight. Maybe it was Keir and his mysterious disappearing acts these past few days. Maybe it was his own destiny calling him forth. Whatever it was, he felt something was close at hand.

  The pretty song of Keir’s wren made him look up. She was a drab little thing, her plumage a nondescript grayish brown. But Cliodna had the most enchanting song he’d ever heard. Many times he had seen Keir follow this bird on his divination journeys. But what the bird was doing here, he had no idea. She belonged to Keir.

  “I don’t know where he is,” he grumbled as he picked up the cuffs and placed them on his thick wrists. The bronze was heavy and cool against his skin, but the cuffs felt right, and damn, they looked cool, too.

  Cliodna began to sing faster and higher, and Rhys watched her curiously as he placed the torc around his neck. The wolf heads rested against his collarbone, fitting him perfectly.

  Rhys waited to feel the magic. Nothing came to him. He wasn’t certain if it was supposed to feel like a lightning bolt, or something more subtle, like a tingle of warmth. But the truth was, he didn’t feel shit.

  Maybe Daegan had really been insane. Those old stories and everything? Maybe it was geriatric dementia talking.

  The wren really began warbling out a song, which sounded almost—angry? It couldn’t be. But when Rhys looked at her, she flew off the arm of a chair and did a low buzz over his head, pulling some of his hair with her small talons.

  “All right,” he grumbled. “I’ll go with you.”

  He followed the bird out into the dark hall. It was suppertime, and all the help was busy eating before Velvet Haven opened. The hall was abandoned.

  Instead of taking him upstairs where he and Keir lived in the old part of the mansion, Cliodna guided him down the stairs and to the right, which led to the basement.

  Suddenly he knew where they were going.

  Cliodna’s warbling instantly stopped as she hovered by the corner. Her wings flapped excitedly, and he tore his gaze from her and stared at the spot. There was nothing there.

  He was about to leave, when something caught the corner of his eye . . . Smoke? No, not smoke, but something resembling vapor, like fog. It hovered, thinning and spreading out as it pressed up tight against the ceiling where it stilled for a few seconds before gathering into a tight mass and funneling down to the floor just like a tornado.

  Once the vapor and fog dissipated, Rhys saw Keir transform from shadow to man.

  Now, this was interesting. Keir had no reason to transform into a wraith here. Everyone who worked in the club knew what he was—an immortal. He moved freely between Annwyn and the mortal realm; no one questioned it. So why was he hiding the fact that he was going into Annwyn?

  And why the hell was he wearing his ceremonial robe?

  Pressing deeper into the shadows, Rhys watched as Keir pulled the hood of the purple robe over his head. Keir almost never wore the robe, or the quartz amulet that he was wearing like a necklace.

  Rhys knew that each branch of magic had a robe of power and an amulet. The robes were different colors, signifying their particular magical powers. Keir’s quartz amulet and purple robe represented his powers of divination. Both the robe and the amulet were worn during ceremonies, whether magical or spiritual; yet Rhys had never known Keir to don either of them in order to perform divinations. In truth, Keir generally practiced magic naked.

  A strange combination of fear and overwhelming curiosity consumed him. Keir was standing at the portal to Annwyn in a ceremonial robe, his head covered, palms raised, and a soft incantation filling the small, dark space between them. What the fuck was going on?

  A white light suddenly appeared around the door, and silently it opened, just enough so that Keir could slip through. As the wraith’s satin robe slipped beyond the threshold, Cliodna’s wings clipped frantically against Rhys’ shoulders.

  Rhys’ instincts w
ere to ignore the mental shove the wren was giving him and to return to his study. But his damned mortal curiosity got the better of him, and he lunged for the door as it began to close. He made it—barely—before the heavy oak door slammed behind him.

  He expected it to be black. But the Cave of Cruachan was lit on both its stone sides by black iron sconces that looked like something out of a medieval movie. Symbolic drawings covered the walls. Some looked Pictish, and some Celt. There were animals and trees and other things that looked far more sinister—pentagrams, snakes, the number of the beast, and an inverted cross. He was definitely out of his element here—a stranger in a forbidden, forbidding world.

  Rhys took a step, and then another. He heard nothing—not even Keir’s footsteps against the stone floor.

  A few more steps, and he was at a crossroads. He could go straight, or he could take one of two tunnels—one to the left and one to the right. Both tunnels appeared dark and definitely foreboding.

  Knowing Annwyn should be straight ahead, Rhys continued on, cursing that damned wren for first stirring up his curiosity and then promptly abandoning him.

  Making his way farther down the winding corridor, Rhys saw a flicker of movement. Keir? But then it seemed to glow gold, and he held his breath, knowing he was at last seeing the fabled golden veil of Annwyn.

  Energized, he took another step and skidded to a stop when the hissing sound washed over him. From out of the shadows a snake slithered out into the light, stopping to coil itself only a few feet from him.

  It was a small viper, probably an adder. It was poisonous but did not usually release all of its venom in its first bite. But, if it wanted, the adder could kill him if it decided to unload all its venom.

  Rhys reached for the lit torch beside him, thinking he’d burn the fucker, but the snake lunged and opened its mouth, preparing to strike.

  Jumping back, Rhys searched for something to impale the viper, but there was nothing, and the snake slithered closer to him. It climbed over the toe of his boot, and he resisted the urge to kick it away. It would only come back, and after having been provoked, it likely would bite him.