Velvet Haven

by Sophie Renwick

  Dream of me, Mairi, threatened to spill from his mouth, but he forced it back and left the room.

  As he opened the apartment door, his gaze caught the dog’s, who had followed him out of her room. “Protect her,” he ordered. He turned to leave, when the flashing of the stereo’s display caught his attention. Reaching behind the machine, he pulled out Cailleach’s book, his thumb stroking over the triscale pressed into the leather. It was time to get back on track—to find this Dark Mage, to save Carden, to destroy Morgan. He had spent too much time with Mairi and not enough time thinking of what he should be doing.

  It was fruitless to think of her. To wish for her.

  Pocketing the book, Bran shut the door, feeling the heaviness of his heart that would continue to beat for eternity. Alone. Never loved. Cursed.

  Walking the dark streets, Bran scanned the unfamiliar area. He wished his arm was thoroughly healed. He needed to fly, to lift himself above the buildings so he could see. As a bird, his sense of direction was better, his eyes keener. Every second he walked in the mortal realm would weaken his newly stored magic. He needed to get back to Annwyn, or at the very least, Velvet Haven.

  Mindlessly he walked the two blocks to the club. From across the street he could hear the music pounding, see the neon lights flashing from inside. He could smell the sex and corruption seeping from the stone walls.

  Stepping out of the shadows, he stopped at the sight of a black shape flying from the roof of the club down to the alley beside it. Immediately his pupils enlarged, swallowing up the irises, showing him the portal to Annwyn. In the gray mist, vapors rose and the scent of death stung his nose. He saw a naked female, kneeling, neck and ankles chained to a stone slab. In a circle around her, black candles had been lit. On the floor, an inverted pentagram was drawn in red—blood.

  Her head shaved, her pale body shivering with cold, she turned her head, which rested on her knees. Her eyes were gone, replaced by black holes. On her body were carvings, symbols of Annwyn combined with angelic script. The blood that had leaked from her wounds had dried, reminding Bran of dried tears. The agony she must feel. The terror.

  Suddenly she reached out to him, her voice dry and hoarse.

  “Help me,” she begged. Then something or someone pulled at the chain, silencing her. Yet she still looked at him with those black holes and he heard the world “please” whisper past him.

  The vision melted away, consumed by the curled fingers of vapor. He stumbled, disgusted by the image, and wondering who the woman was. Slowly, he gained his breath, trying to burn the memory into his brain so that he could inform Cailleach, but he was robbed of all thought when his left pupil began to open and the mortal realm swam before him. He saw Mairi. Asleep. A shadow at the foot of her bed.

  Suddenly a female scream echoed in the night, taking the vision from him. Before he could think what he was doing, Bran ran across the street to the alley, where he found a woman unmoving on the ground. He bent and felt the steady pulse at her throat. She had fainted. But why? He looked up, peering through the darkness that seemed to grow thicker.

  The air in the alley was stagnant with the stench of decaying rubbish, rats, and the metallic tang of blood.

  Quietly he rose to his feet, stepping forward, deeper into the depths of the alley. He stopped and swore when he practically bumped into Suriel, black wings spread, long black leather trench scraping against the ground.

  “What the fuck?” Bran asked in disgust.

  “Raven,” Suriel murmured without turning to look at him. “I see you were able to pick yourself up off that road. How’s your wing?”

  Bran ignored him and stepped closer. Suriel lifted his palms and illuminated the scene with his heavenly light. Now Bran could clearly see the two bodies pinned against the bricks in a mockery of a crucifixion; one was an angel—a guardian—his body limp, his white wings spread and pinned—nailed—to the sandy grout between the bricks. In the angel’s arms was a mortal woman who had been stripped bare. One black-heeled shoe remained on her foot, the other had fallen and landed in a pile of old newspapers and a grisly pool of her own blood. Her body had been desecrated by the same symbols that had marred the youngling Sidhe. Around her neck, Bran noticed a silver cord that glistened in Suriel’s light.

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  “I don’t know,” Suriel whispered. “But it’s far more demonic than I have ever seen.”

  “Did you do this?” Did you desecrate the body of one of my kind?

  The look Suriel gave him was murderous. “I’m fallen, not a psychotic motherfucker.”

  Bran had never believed a word Suriel had uttered, but he believed now. The desperation and pain he saw in those dark eyes was more than enough to convince him.

  He glanced back at the woman, not knowing why he was going to confide in Suriel, only knowing—feeling—he should. “I had a vision seconds before this happened. A woman—” He swallowed thickly. “It wasn’t her I saw.”

  “There will be more,” Suriel murmured. “He’s only beginning.”

  “I didn’t recognize her.”

  “I know who you saw.”

  A mortal then, if Suriel knew. He thought of Mairi, what his right eye had shown him. “Mairi,” he rasped, licking his lips, which were suddenly dry. If that was Mairi he had seen . . . he felt ill, murderous.

  “She’s safe at home,” Suriel replied calmly. The bastard closed his eyes. “I can see her, she’s sleeping.”

  Bran glanced at Suriel, not knowing what to feel. Jealousy flared, and he wanted to strike out and smash the bastard.

  “How do you know?”

  “I feel her within me.”

  “How?” he growled, his lips twisting.

  Suriel’s dark eyes flickered over him. “What is it you call it in Annwyn?” Suriel’s eyes hooded. “Oh, right. I am her Anam Cara.”

  Bran sucked in his breath. Suriel was Mairi’s Soul Friend.

  Fuck!

  He felt like his chest had been bludgeoned. He didn’t know the significance of the bond in the mortal realm, but in Annwyn, the Anam Cara was the most binding tie between people. He didn’t want Mairi having this connection with Suriel.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, using the mortal curse words. He was jealous—fucking seething that Suriel had this kind of bond with Mairi. A deep, binding tie that Bran so desperately wanted.

  “What in the hell is going on here?”

  Both of them groaned when they saw Rhys MacDonald and Keir, the Shadow Wraith, at the mouth of the alley.

  “Jesus Christ!” Rhys came running forward, flashlight in hand. “What the fuck?”

  “Do you know her?”

  Rhys glanced at Suriel. “Yeah. She’s a regular. Her name’s Trinity.”

  “I’m afraid Trinity, along with her guardian angel, have gone to meet their Maker.”

  “Christ,” Rhys spat, studying the bodies. “What kind of person would do this? Her skin, there’s no inch of it that hasn’t been carved up.” He whirled around, shining his flashlight on the wraith, who seemed to glow in the artificial light. “This is your dream, man.”

  Keir grimaced and glanced away.

  “What does he mean?” Suriel demanded of the wraith. “She is mortal. You shouldn’t have seen her in any visions.”

  The look Keir shot Suriel was one of pure malice. “Fuck you, Suriel.”

  Bran shot out his arm, halting Keir from coming any closer. “Tell me,” he ordered.

  As a subject of Annwyn, Keir had no choice but to obey his king. With his eyes flashing at Suriel, Keir spoke.

  “I saw this in a divination. There is something evil shifting in both worlds. Can you not feel it?” The Shadow Wraith walked toward them, his gaze intent. “I have seen it in the cards, the rise of a powerful being, the strength to control both mortals and immortals. This is his work.”

  Suriel glanced back at the wall. “Agreed. It is not a mortal we seek but something else. A mortal would never hav
e been able to see, let alone kill, a guardian.”

  “Unless he had help from one of your brothers,” Keir accused. Suriel bared his teeth, and Keir smiled. “Not all of you play the harp and wear halos, Suriel. I know your kind. Don’t forget it.”

  “Enough shit. Shine the light to the left.” Rhys handed Bran the flashlight before striding over to the bodies. Bran illuminated the lower left corner of the wall. “Look at this,” Rhys called.

  Bran held the light steady on the brick where Rhys was pointing. In the middle of it was a pentagram intertwined with the symbol δ.

  Bran hissed. Suriel glanced at him, surprised.

  “You know the symbol?”

  Bran nodded. “It is the symbol for Gwyn, god of the dead, and ruler of the Shadowlands.”

  “Is that your hell?” Suriel demanded.

  Bran nodded.

  “Perhaps in your world he is Gwyn, but in mine this is the angelic mark of Uriel. It was he who was sent to Jesus as he prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane the night before his crucifixion, just before Judas betrayed him. My brothers say that it was Uriel himself who planted the seed in Judas’ mind.”

  “And what relevance would this angel have for us? We do not share your religion or your god.”

  Suriel looked at him, surprised. “Do you not know? Uriel committed sins of the flesh with one of the goddesses of Annwyn.”

  Bran looked at him skeptically, and Suriel’s gaze grew dark. “What? Did you think I was the first with a hard-on for a goddess? No. Uriel beat me to that. He was the Original Sin in Annwyn.”

  Cailleach. Somehow Bran knew it was her. He couldn’t say how; he just felt it.

  “He is known as the Dark Angel,” Suriel continued, “and was banished to hell for his sins. In the Apocalypse of Peter, he is the avenging angel of atonement, and on the Day of Judgment, it is said he will open the gates of hell and lead all sinners to God, then burn them in an eternal fire. It is also said that he knows the identity of the Destroyer, the person who will rain havoc upon the people of the world, destroying it.”

  “The story of Gwyn is much the same. Although in Annwyn, he is known as the Soul Stealer.”

  Suriel’s dark eyes glittered in the light. “He is known by the same name among the mortals who dabble in the occult.”

  “Well, isn’t this fucking wonderful?” Rhys snarled. “And outside my club, too.”

  Suriel glared at Rhys, then dropped to his knees, the ends of his wings dipped in the puddles of the woman’s blood.

  “Oh, shit,” Suriel groaned as his hands worked along the woman’s lifeless body. “The bastard has removed her womb.” Suriel put his fist to his mouth. For a full minute, he knelt beside the woman, just staring at her lifeless face before he quietly murmured, “It’s a message, you know.”

  Bran swallowed hard. He knew what he had to do. Keir was right. Whatever the hell was going on involved both the mortal and immortal worlds. “This past month saw eight Sidhe males murdered. Then three nights ago a youngling female was brought to me. She was marked as this woman is. Symbols of our faith were carved on her body.”

  Suriel looked up from the woman. “There have been nine such killings in the city. Eight were men. The ninth was a woman, her flesh torn like this.”

  “The power of nine,” Keir murmured. “He’s performing a ritual. Death magick.”

  “The beginning and ending of all things,” Bran whispered. “And it involves both our worlds.” And Cailleach. Is that why she wanted the book? A flame and an amulet. Was the amulet hers? Was the flame Uriel’s?

  Suriel lifted the woman’s body, carefully cradling it in his arms. “Her soul is gone, stolen,” he clarified. “I will take care of her body. Later we’ll discuss what we’re going to do to stop him.”

  Rhys motioned to the scratch marks on the woman’s belly. “What does it say?”

  Bran narrowed his eyes. “It is written using the Ogham alphabet. It says, ‘The war has begun.’”

  “So what you’re saying,” Rhys growled, “is that we’re gonna have one hell of a turf war on our hands.”

  Suriel swung around as his wings spread out, ready to fly away with the body. “You had better fucking believe it, MacDonald. The shit winds are blowing and they’re coming this way.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Mairi was having the most arousing dream. Her lover was back, and she sank into the pillow, letting the dream take over.

  A drop, in the shape of a tear, trickled between the shoulders of a tattooed back. Sweat. She inhaled the scent of man as she watched the crystal fluid run between the rippling muscles that quivered and strained.

  He was naked, back ripped and sculpted, arms thick and defined, spread out at his sides. His face was covered by black hair that was long and damp, clinging to his brow. His ass was solid—unyielding—the smooth skin stretched taut over contoured muscles. His thighs were thick, powerful, possessing stamina and sheer strength.

  His was a body made to master a woman’s.

  Straddling his hips, she licked away the rivulet of sweat, tasting salt and arousal as she traced the sword tattooed along his spine with the tip of her tongue. A blast of heat wrapped around her despite the dampness between them. He arched, trying to connect once again with her tongue. Beneath her, she felt his ass flex, rising up hard between her thighs to nestle between the folds of her sex.

  He moaned as the heat from her core swamped his skin, coating him with her arousal. Tormenting him more, she dragged her nipples along his back, scraping the pointed tips over his skin as her tongue flicked up his spine in teasing, insinuating lashes. He was shackled, his wrists in black manacles, his fingers curled into fists. On his left hand he wore a ring that bore an oval stone, the color of fire. With her lips and teeth she pulled it from his finger, allowing him to feel her mouth wrapped around his finger. She sucked it, teasing him, giving him a glimpse of what she could do with her lips and tongue.

  “I am your slave,” he said in a voice intoxicated with lust.

  Never more did she realize the truth of his words than now. Never had she seen him so aroused, so eager for her. But she wanted him hotter. Harder. She wanted him begging.

  Sitting up, she placed his ring on her index finger and admired the glow of the stone. It felt warm from the remnants of his heat, the hint of power contained within the gem.

  Reminding her that she had left him aching, he strained beneath her, rocking against her sex. She was wet. She let him feel that wetness before she reached behind her—between his thighs. He groaned and shifted, the manacles straining with his immense strength.

  “You are too impatient,” she whispered in his ear.

  “I would feel you now,” he growled, a sound that made her shiver in desire, and the slightest bit of fear.

  “All right.” Reaching between his thighs, she teased him until he lifted his hips from the bed. He wanted her to reach for his cock. Instead, she reached for something just as hard.

  In her hand was a dagger, etched with symbols. She felt that power of the silver as it touched her skin, the tingling that worked its way down her nerve endings. He turned his head and looked up at her, his strange, haunting eyes glaring at her through strands of damp, black hair.

  “After all this?” he murmured. “After everything we’ve done, you would betray me now?”

  Her body jolted and Mairi came awake with a scream. With frightened eyes she looked around her dark bedroom. Shadows played on walls, and her curtain blew in and out with the rhythm of the wind. At the foot of the bed, Clancy was sound asleep.

  Just a dream, she reminded herself, even as her hands shook uncontrollably. But this time there had been a dagger, which she had taken a strange fixation with.

  He had looked at her as though she would destroy him. She, a person who wouldn’t hurt any creature. A person who picked up roadkill and tried to fix it.

  Sliding to the edge of the bed, she hung her head in her hands and tried to stop shaking. In front of her,
a shadow shifted and a man perched like a bird on her dresser jumped to the ground, his heavy combat boots making a loud thud on the hardwood floor.

  “Good evening, Mairi.”

  Suriel. She scooted up her bed until her back met the headboard. “What do you want?”

  “For you not to be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you, Mairi. But I think you know that.” His leather-clad knee was on the edge of her mattress. “You had a dream.”

  She shivered, still trying to back away from him. “That’s none of your business.”

  He sat down beside her, crowding her with his body. She was breathing heavily, ready to pass out from hyperventilating. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Of course not. I’ve worked too hard to save you.”

  Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  He moved closer to her, and she kicked at him, but he reached for her ankle and grasped it, holding her still. “I was there the day of your birth, when you were lying on the warmer, unable to breathe. You were blue, nearly beyond the veil. You would have passed through if I had not been your first breath. My air is in your lungs, my spirit in your veins. Me.”

  She struggled against him, but his fingers smoothed against her skin, calming her. “I have been the voice whispering to you as a child. And then when you were sixteen. I was there. Not with you, but with the other one. She was going to die. I was ready to take her, but then I saw you. You were bearing His seal.”

  Mairi shook her head, denying everything he was telling her. “What do you want?”

  “You have a purpose in this life, and now our purposes are entwined.”

  “You’re not real. You’re not real,” she chanted over and over again.

  “I am,” he whispered. “Have faith. Trust.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re going to need it for what lies ahead. Things will happen, but know that this is the path you are supposed to take. When the time is right, and when I am summoned, I will come to you. Do not fear me when I do.”

  “What the hell are you?”

  Black wings suddenly unfurled from his back, and Mairi gripped the sheet to her chin. Holy shit!