Mists of Velvet (11 page)

“Certainly.”

Rowan sat up in bed and watched Suriel. Her surroundings looked so normal that it was almost unbelievable that she was actually living in the Otherworld, and the man sitting at the foot of her bed was not a man at all, but a fallen angel.

She shared a strange past with Suriel. He had told her that he was the angel of death and resurrection, and that he had been there that afternoon when the caretaker so brutally raped her. He’d been there to claim her soul, because she was supposed to die. But then, everything had changed. Mairi discovered her healing powers. And she had lived, and the connection linking her, Mairi, and Suriel had been forged.

The power of three in Celtic lore was magical. It represented birth, death, and resurrection. Rowan had always wondered what part she was to play in this trine.

“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.”

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 hours 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.