Mists of Velvet (12 page)

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 were 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.

Still as a statue, Rhys stood, hoping the fucking thing would find nothing interesting in his boots and slither back to the shadows. Instead, the snake began to move, curl around his ankle, and glide up his calf. Oh, Christ, it was twining around his leg and moving up toward his thigh. And then he felt it, the cool reptilian head pressing against his fingertips.

Calm, he told himself. Adders didn’t bite unless provoked. And if it did bite, the venom wouldn’t kill him. Sure, it would hurt like a bitch, and he’d have some swelling and pain, and maybe even dizziness and vomiting, but he’d live. That was provided the adder gave him only a warning bite. If it wanted to kill, then nothing could stop it.

The adder’s head was now pressed into the palm of his hand; then Rhys felt the swaying movement of the pointed tail seconds before it wrapped around the bronze wrist cuff. The next thing he knew, the snake was wrapped around his wrist, and its upper body was curling its way around his bicep.

The reptile’s beady black eyes looked into his, and Rhys stared back, wondering what the hell was going to happen.

And then he heard it, from some distant memory in the back of his mind.

Was this adder ally or foe?

“Very good, Lucifer, you’ve secured the sacrifice.”

The gravelly voice came from behind, and Rhys whirled around, only to find himself bashed in the head. Taken off guard and off balance, he was spun around and was falling face-first onto the stone floor. With a crack, the side of his head hit the unforgiving stone, and a blanket of darkness began to descend.

Fleeing the temple, Bronwnn used the cover of darkness to run from the outer courtyard and into the sacred woods. A cloud obscured the moon, and the leaves of the tall oaks offered excellent cover.

Silently and carefully, she crept farther and farther away from the temple, making certain her footfalls could not be heard. Cailleach had spies everywhere, and Bronwnn had no desire to be caught outside the grounds—especially at night.

The temple had always been a prison to her. But among the trees of the Sidhe forest, Bronwnn found freedom in her nightly rambles.

When she felt she was far enough away, she slowed her steps. Deeper and deeper she made her way through the woods. Cailleach’s
oidhche
did not fly into these particular woods, for it feared the wyvern who dwelt in the nearby cave.

Taking a minute to catch her breath, Bronwnn lowered herself onto a smooth rock and inhaled the scents of the forest; pine and yew, the dampness of the grass, and the humidity that clung to the leaves. It was a familiar, comforting scent, and she leaned back on her hands and closed her eyes, allowing herself a few stolen moments of solitude.

This was her favorite spot, for here, on this very rock, her dream lover always came to her. Tonight was no different.

As soon as she closed her eyes, his image sprang to life—tall, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. His chest was smooth and thickly sculpted. His arms were bulky with muscles, and on his left arm was a band of tattoos. He looked broad, primal—a warrior; an alpha.

There was a thin, black trail of hair that led from his belly, only to disappear beneath the waist of his pants. Her fingers itched to run through the silky-looking hair. Her nose twitched with the desire to scent him, to taste his skin with her tongue.

It was the animal in her that wanted it. The animal that made her newly maturing body heat and stretch with unbearable longing. Lying back against the cool rock, she stretched out until her arms were above her head, and the humidity that dampened the leaves of the tree moistened her gown. The wetness beaded her nipples, arousing her. She wondered what it would be like to feel the heat of his mouth around her nipple. What would it be like to feel him sucking, nipping, pulling her in deep?

On a sigh, she let herself drift away, opening her senses, and willing her dream lover to come to her. In spite of the dangers of falling asleep, Bronwnn could not resist the lure of being visited by him once again. She needed it; needed to feel him. She wanted to be desired; to be possessed—and soon she would be. Cailleach wanted her to mate with the wraith, who was surely her dream lover.

He came to her almost immediately. She felt him behind her, his hot, hard body pressing against her back. His arms felt like iron bands around her ribs, and his breath was sultry and erotic as it whispered against the shell of her ear.

Wordlessly, his large hands rose from her ribs to cup her breasts. She panted, pressing her bottom restlessly against him. She felt him, hard and searching against her thin gown.

Her breath squeezed in her chest as she felt the tip of his tongue tickle her ear. His fingers had sought out her nipples and were now rolling and gently pinching them. His breathing was faster, and he pressed his hardness against her bottom.

Unable to resist, Bronwnn cupped her breasts and kneaded them, pretending what she saw in her mind was really happening. Between her thighs she was slick, ready.

None of the other goddesses who were reaching their maturity seemed to be this sexually needy. She had heard none of them speaking of dreams or lovers. She doubted that any of her pious sisters touched themselves as she did. But the feeling of it, this primitive, overwhelming need, was unable to be denied.

Slipping her free hand beneath her gown, Bronwnn ran her fingertips up her leg. She was going to touch herself and pretend it was his long, strong fingers as she did so. The image of him came to her swiftly; so, too, did the scent of something new, something dark and earthy she had never smelled before. The scent aroused her, and her lover came to her in a way that showed his hunger. He was frenzied, aggressive, and when his hand ran through her unbound hair, he fisted the long strands and pinned her to the ground, his mouth capturing hers in a hard, drugging kiss. She moaned and clutched at his shoulders. He gripped her hair tighter, as if holding her still so she couldn’t push him away, but what he didn’t seem to sense was that she wanted him closer, his kiss deeper.

His tongue forced its way between her lips as he caught her breast in his palm and squeezed. He was breathing hard against her, his body taut with tension as his mouth descended lower, along her jaw, her collarbone, only to capture her nipple between his teeth. With his mouth and tongue, he played with her while his hand toyed with her other breast, pulling and tugging at her nipple as she writhed beneath him. Against her hip, he rubbed the length of himself against her. She felt the heat, the hardness—the sticky wetness that coated her skin.

His aggressiveness made her bolder, and she clutched at him, arching, giving him her breasts, and begging him silently for more. Her own panting breaths echoed through the forest, and the scent of aroused male filled her nostrils, awakening the animal inside her.