Mists of Velvet (22 page)

He watched as he rubbed her, her golden curls shimmering in the firelight. It was growing dark, the moonlight filtering in through the grime-covered window.

Slowly he pleasured her, watching every nuance of her face, the way her body moved and her breasts tightened. Her nipples were still reddened from his mouth, and he used his tongue to taste her, to flick. She moaned against his throat and cupped her breasts in her hands, offering them up to him. Damn, she was perfect.

He suckled her deep into his mouth, the rhythm matching the movement of his fingers. She was wet, his fingers glistening with her desire. Spreading her legs wider, she told him without words what she wanted.

“Deeper?” he whispered. “Harder?”

She nodded, then gasped as he filled her deep. Her thighs opened wider, and a shaft of moonlight splayed on her. It was then that he saw the blue tattoo that ran the length of her inner left thigh.

Leaving her pussy, he brushed his wet fingers against the intriguing design. To his shock, she screamed, and her body went rigid in his arms as if she were having a seizure.

“What’s wrong?” he shouted, though she couldn’t answer. He tried to let go of her and lay her down on the floor, but she held on to him like a dying man hanging on to a rope.

Her eyes rolled back, and then her body went slack in his arms. Panic seized him. He was out of his element here in Annwyn. He didn’t know a damned thing about medical shit. Helplessly he realized he could do nothing until she came out of it. Until then, he would hold her and keep her safe.

The vision was upon her now. She had been foolish to expose herself in such a way, but she had been too wrapped up in the pleasure that Rhys was giving her to remember to hide the script that ran up her thigh. Never had she been so careless.

He had nearly touched it when she had been in her wolf form, she reminded herself. Rhys was devastating, not only to her body but to her mind. She would need to find a way to guard herself. But she was here now, in the midst of a vision she did not want, and could not stop.

It was black as pitch, and quiet. She could hear breathing close to her, but she could not see. Even with her keen wolf vision, she was blind in this obsidian darkness.

She was in a cavern of sorts; she could sense that much. The rhythmic tapping of water hitting rock sounded in the distance. The scurrying of a rodent across the stone floor made her shudder. Where was he? she wondered as she rubbed her hands along her arms. He was always in these visions. The tattoo on her leg was her cursed link to him.

Her heart was racing as she took a cautious step forward.

“Go no farther.”

She froze as the disembodied voice reached her. By the goddess, she wished she could see. Bronwnn possessed a fair amount of steel will and courage, but this was unnerving. The darkness, the uncertainty, and the evil she felt in this cavern were beyond what her courage could withstand.

“He will find you, and when he does, he will sacrifice you.”

Bronwnn turned in a slow circle, her hands outstretched in an attempt to connect with anything. Suddenly her wrists were seized, and she was pulled forward. A light flared, and she found herself looking into the face of a nightmare.

She nearly screamed, but the creature’s filthy blackened hand covered her mouth. His eyes . . . By the goddess, they had been removed, leaving only black sockets. His face . . . One half was tattooed with angelic script. And on his neck, he bore the mark revealed in the divination she had done for Cailleach.

“No noise. He waits for you beyond the darkness. You are what he needs.”

She tried to talk, but no words would form. She was terrified, trembling. But he pulled her closer so that he could whisper in her ear.

“Protect the Sacred Trine. Protect it at all costs, for it is what he wants most. The trine has more power than even the flame and the amulet. The Oracle, the Healer, and the Nephillim—protect them all, and you will have what you need to defeat the mage.”

He brought her closer, and the sound of chains clinking together made her realize how heavily bound he was. Softly, she traced the contours of his face, and he held her hands, his fingers shaking. What was he?

“Bring back the nine warriors to release me, and I vow to you I will aid your cause.”

The door opened, and a shaft of flickering candlelight shone upon them. A hooded figure stepped forward. Bronwnn could feel his eyes upon her, his laughter slithering over her as he approached.

“Ah, my little voyeur. Always hovering just out of my reach.”

His steps were slow, purposeful, allowing her fear to rise.

“How long I have waited to meet you.”

Standing, Bronwnn steadied herself. The creature who held her pulled her closer and whispered into her ear. “An angel with no flame is no longer immortal.”

The Dark Mage pulled on a chain that circled the man’s neck, choking him. He released her as the mage dragged him down to the stone floor where he landed by his boots.

“My little abomination has no need of your stories, Camael.”

The mage stepped closer, and Bronwnn felt her body begin to tense. He knew it, because he laughed, sensing her fear. What did he know of her? Nothing—he couldn’t.

“I can taste it,” he murmured, “your fear. You smell like your mother.”

That caught her attention.

“Oh yes, I knew her. She taught me the ways of your Black Arts. I pleasured her for a time, in exchange for her knowledge. Foolish bitch.”

Camael groaned behind the mage, which seemed to amuse him. “My brother believed he was in love with your mother, but love is such a fleeting feeling, isn’t it? She gave him up for me. Of course, he’s spent the last millennium planning his escape and his subsequent return to her. But there is nothing to return to. I sacrificed her. Her knowledge made me very powerful.”

Bronwnn seethed with hatred. The mage was no more than two feet away from her now. She still could not see his face, but she could smell him, a putrid, rotting stench that made her want to vomit.

“Indole,” he murmured. “An element present in all the delicate white moth-pollinated blossoms. It is the only common element in perfumes created to arouse the senses. Although it has the distinct aroma of putrefaction, it’s an aphrodisiac. Sexually stimulating while giving a taste of the sweet elixir of sin. My sacrifices are bathed in it, a radiance born of darkness and death. Wait till you have sex magick, my lovely. You’ll die of the pleasure it can bring.”

She shook her head, unable to fathom what he was saying.

“So lovely and innocent. You look just like her, you know.” A pale hand reached out, and she jumped back, avoiding his touch. He laughed and called over his shoulder. “If only you could see her, Camael! She is the spitting image of Covetina. All innocence and etherealness just waiting to be corrupted.” He leaned in, his voice dropping. “Do you know why you are here?”

She shook her head and took another step back, even as he advanced on her.

“You’re here because we’re connected. But you already know that. While you may look like your mother, I’m afraid that is where the similarities end. You are your father’s daughter. And all good girls do their father’s bidding.”

No, it couldn’t be. She refused to believe that someone so evil had any connection to her. But somewhere deep inside, Bronwnn knew it for the truth. This . . .
creature
was her father.

Blinding hatred and rage filled her, and she turned, lunging at his throat, which was hidden by the black coat. Darkness blackened her thoughts; her only need was to kill.

She was the wolf now, and she was going to rip him to shreds.

Keir paced the perimeter of Rhys’ office, stopping to stare into the empty box on top of the desk. The torc and cuffs were gone. Cliodna, his wren, was perched on his shoulder, silent, but watching as Keir rifled through the room.

From what he could ascertain from the club staff, Rhys had not been seen for at least eighteen hours, maybe even longer. He hadn’t been out on the floor last night, nor had he been present for the close of the nightclub. This morning, when Maggie, the housekeeper, went in to make his bed, she discovered that his bed had never been slept in and that the supper tray she had sent up the night before was untouched.

Struggling to calm his thoughts, Keir tried to piece together a time line. Time moved much more slowly in Annwyn, and Keir never forgot that, but he had to admit he had dallied too long with Rowan, leaving Rhys unprotected. How long had he been in Annwyn? That might tell him how long Rhys had been missing. But try as he might, he couldn’t recall. He’d been too caught up in Rowan and the divination.

Fuck! Slamming shut the box, Keir picked it up and threw it against the wall. Where the hell was Rhys? Surely he would not have gone into the Cave of Cruachan. He’d been warned. Rhys knew what would happen to him in Annwyn if Cailleach discovered his presence. And the Dark Mage? Keir shuddered to think what that sadistic motherfucker would do to Rhys if he ever found him.

“I see you’ve managed to lose my kin.”

Keir glared over his shoulder at the Sidhe king. “He’s not lost.”

Bran fisted his hands on his waist. “How long has he been gone?”

“I don’t know. At least eighteen hours, but probably longer. I’ve been in Annwyn and lost track of time.”

Bran’s gaze was hooded when he replied. “I sensed he was gone. That’s why I’m here. The mortal fool never was one to take orders.”

Keir didn’t particularly care to hear the king’s thoughts on Rhys. Yeah, he was a stubborn ass, but he was most likely in trouble. Whatever the king felt didn’t matter. Rhys was the issue here. And finding him was first priority. Rhys likely had ignored both his and Suriel’s warnings. MacDonald was far from stupid, but he felt he needed to prove himself, not only to Bran and the others, but to himself.

Bran’s mismatched eyes lifted to meet Keir’s gaze. “Any chance he left the club and went into the city?”

“What does your gut tell you?” Keir snarled, feeling the fear well up once more.

“It’s not
my
gut that’s connected to him.”

Keir did see red then. “It’s not as if we’re always in each other’s heads. We do allow each other some time off.”

“Can’t you just search your feelings and find him?”

Keir whirled on him. “I can’t get a fucking connection with him!” Punching the desk, Keir unloaded all his fury and fear into the wooden top, watching with satisfaction as the thick oak cracked down the middle. He hated telling Bran anything, but he hated showing his terror and worry even more.

Bran swallowed uncomfortably. He had never hidden his distaste for the unique bond Rhys and his wraith shared. “Has this . . . inability to connect with MacDonald happened before?”

The relationship between mortal and wraith was what it was. Rhys needed Keir’s protection, and Keir needed Rhys’ emotions for fuel. Normally, emotions were plenty for a wraith to live on, but as time went on, Keir found he needed
more
. It was through the passion of sex, when Rhys found release, that Keir preferred to feed. It didn’t matter what the fuck the king thought of them. The only thing that mattered now was finding Rhys.

“No,” he grumbled, hating talking of what they had together. “Our emotional bond is strong. I can usually hear him . . . and feel him. But now I can’t.” Keir glared at Bran as he paced the room. “I don’t know why he’s not answering me.”

“Maybe he’s not answering you because he can’t.”

“He’s alive. I can sense that much. But I can’t tell where he is. I can’t even hear any of his thoughts.”

“Maybe he’s unconscious?”

“The brain still sends out waves in that state. In fact, it’s easier to hear him and find him when he’s sleeping, because he’s unguarded.”

For someone who claimed to hate his great-nephew, Bran certainly looked worried. “You warned him away from the cave as I commanded?”