Mists of Velvet (36 page)

“Something is wrong,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

“With Keir?” he asked, frowning.

“No, with Rowan.”

“Bran!”
The cry rent through the air, followed by the pounding of feet on the stone staircase.

“She’s gone!” Mairi gasped as she burst into the room. “Rowan’s been taken. There’re signs of a struggle.”

The terror coursing through Keir nearly brought Rhys to his knees. When the wraith appeared behind Mairi, he looked murderous—far darker than Rhys had ever seen him.

“What do you mean, she’s gone?” Bran demanded.

Keir held a crumpled piece of paper, which Bran grabbed from him. On it was a diagram, spread out like a Celtic cross. In its center was Rowan’s name. Beside it was Camael’s angelic symbol, and, on the other side, was the image of the gargoyle.

“I know where to look,” Bronwnn said quietly beside him.

“How do you know?” Keir demanded.

“Rowan told us. The riddle.”

“Mairi,” the king called to his wife, “read us the riddle.”

“ ‘A house of mourning, a garden of pain, a path of tears. This is where you will find the first key.’”

“A key to what?” Bran demanded. “Carden? Rowan?”

“A key to the prophecy,” Bronwnn replied. “The flame and the amulet are the keys needed to forge a weapon that the mage wants for his magick. When he speaks of keys, he means either the flame or the amulet.”

Mairi cleared her throat, capturing everyone’s gaze. “You know, this drawing has given me a thought.”

Bran turned to her and reached for her hand. “What is it, my love?”

“It could just be a wild-goose chase, but Our Lady of Mercy orphanage was across the street from the church. Beside the church was a cemetery, and carved on each of the black iron gates was a cross that looked very much like the one in the diagram.”

“It’s a place to start,” Bran agreed. “Let’s—”

But Keir was already on the move, his shadow looming large and menacing as he swept across the floor and out the door.

Rowan was groggy as she felt her body being lifted. Her vision was blurry, and her head hurt like a bitch. She tried to see who was carrying her, but every time she opened her eyes, she felt like puking.

“Where am I?”

There was no answer. Her head lolled to the side, and she caught a glimpse of a brand of some sort. Narrowing her eyes to make her vision clear, she saw that what she was looking at was an angelic mark.

“You’re an angel.”

Again, there was no answer. She had no idea what was going on; she knew only that she was weak. Maybe she’d already died and this was the angel sent to take her up to heaven. If so, she felt cheated. She’d planned on saying good-bye to everyone, and now she couldn’t.

It was dark. She expected the pathway to the hereafter to be white and gilded, with fluffy clouds and radiant sunbeams. This, she thought, looked more like hell.

“Did I die?”

“Soon.”

She knew that voice, but she couldn’t recall from where, or to whom it belonged. And then the darkness became brighter, just a bit. It was nighttime, and above her, the moon shone brilliantly in the black sky.

As she looked around, she saw the familiar shape of an old Victorian building. Our Lady of Mercy was forever etched in her mind. She would know its Gothic outline anywhere.

Before she could formulate any more questions, she was placed on a cold slab of stone. The angel who had carried her moved before her and lowered the hood of his cloak, revealing his face.

Rowan screamed until blackness engulfed her.

“We’ll save her.” Rhys clasped Keir’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. “Did you hear me?”

Keir was in a deep trance, his eyes unblinking. There was no reaching him. But then he murmured, “It is too late. She’s gone.”

Rhys looked questioningly at Bronwnn, who shook her head. “I do not know. My connection with her is not strong.”

“Bronwnn cannot feel her any longer because she is not alive.”

Keir’s voice was flat; indifferent. It was in direct contrast to everything that Rhys saw in the wraith’s eyes. “You don’t know that,” Rhys murmured, trying to give Keir a bit of hope.

“I feel it. It is too late.”

With his torch held high, Bran lit the stone corridor, illuminating the walls. “Christian symbols,” he murmured. “We’ve left Annwyn.”

“I’ve seen this place,” Bronwnn announced. “When we were in the hall at the temple, when I touched your hand and told you where to find Carden,” she said to Bran, “I saw this cavern.”

Bran nodded. “Then we are on the right track.” Lifting the torch higher, Bran surveyed the etchings. “Where the hell is Suriel? He’s far more familiar with the mortal underworld than I am.”

“The angel is not what he appears.”

Everyone stopped walking and gazed back at Bronwnn. Her eyes were distant, and Rhys reached for her, holding her hand.

“He is in trouble. I can sense that much. His anger and rage paint the air. Can you not smell him?”

Drostan, the griffin, sniffed the air. “I do not smell him. But I could try to summon him.”

“No.” Bronwnn halted him with a hand on his arm. “That is not the intended path. He has chosen his path, and now he must follow it.”

“You saw something,” Keir snapped.

“I—I saw us finding Carden; that is all.”

Keir halted her. “You also saw something else.”

“A fleeting vision. Black wings. But I felt the anger. The pain. And it was not that of the mage, but of the newly born Destroyer.”

“Who is it?” Keir demanded, gripping her arm. “It’s Suriel, isn’t it?”

“I could not see his face. There was only blackness.”

“Now is not the time to worry over this,” Bran grumbled. “The light from this torch wanes, and if we are now in the mortal realm, which I suspect we are, my magick will soon grow weaker.”

“Rhys should lead the way,” Bronwnn suggested. “He is mortal, but a warrior. He will lead us safely through the cavern.”

“How do you know?” Drostan growled.

“Because he is my mate and I know his strength. He has shown me his exceptional tracking abilities.”

“He’s a mortal,” Drostan snorted. “He has no abilities.”

“My mortal,” she said with a smile. “And a capable warrior.”

The raven shared a look with Bronwnn, then immediately reached for Mairi’s hand and fell back, allowing Rhys to step forward. Pulling an arrow from his bag, Rhys notched it into his bow. The adder wrapped around his arm hissed quietly, letting Rhys know the snake would guide him through the darkness.

“This way,” he ordered.

Rhys was conscious of the others behind him, but most importantly, he felt Bronwnn. She stayed close to him, and he was glad of it. It allowed him to focus all his attention on leading the warriors through the winding cavern.

“What is this place?” Drostan asked.

“Shh,” Rhys hissed. “Your voice will echo, and if the mage is here, he will hear you and be alerted to our presence.”

The griffin glared at him, but Rhys didn’t particularly care if he was affronted by a mere mortal. Rhys had spent enough time in the cave with the mage. He knew how the sound carried. Shit, he could still hear the screams of the woman as they ricocheted off the walls.

Something scurried across the floor in front of them, making Rhys pause. “It’s just a rat.”

“The
radan
is not favored in our world. As a shaman, you should know that,” Drostan snapped.

“I’m a mortal,” Rhys growled to the griffin. “I have no magical abilities, remember?”

“Anyone who can tame an adder is a shaman.”

Ignoring Drostan, Rhys pointed his bow up and searched through the gloomy depths. It was safe to move forward.

As they walked the winding path, Rhys began to wonder if there was any merit to the griffin’s claim. Perhaps Daegan had seen that in him. Maybe that was why he had spent so much time regaling Rhys with the stories of animal allies.

“There.”

Rhys glanced over his shoulder to see Bronwnn pointing at a flickering silver light.

“Are you certain?”

She nodded and pressed forward, making to pass him. He held her back with his arm. “I don’t think so.” Their gazes met, hers unflinching; his just as unmovable.

“I’ll be all right.”

Rhys brushed the backs of his fingers along her cheek. “But I won’t if something happens to you.”

“Nothing will happen.”

Keir pushed past them and climbed the steps. At the top of the staircase was a huge oak door, which the wraith easily pushed open. Candlelight brightened the dark cave, and Rhys took the steps two at a time. Moonlight flooded through stained glass windows, and he followed the silver moonbeams until they came to rest upon an altar.

“This is the chapel at Our Lady of Mercy,” Mairi whispered.

“Are you certain?”

Mairi glanced irritably at Bran. “I’ve done penance here, many times. Trust me.”

“What is that?” Rhys demanded, pointing to the altar draped in a white sheet. Moving quickly to it, Keir pulled the sheet, letting it fall away. On the altar was Rowan.

Keir and Mairi both cried out, and Rhys pulled Bronwnn into his side. “Stay with me.”

“He’s here,” she whispered, trying to get free of him. “I can feel it. There is evil that surrounds this room.”

“Rowan,” Keir groaned as he pulled her limp body from the altar and hugged her close to his chest. “She’s alive. But barely.”

“Let me go, Rhys,” Bronwnn commanded as Mairi ran to her friend. “I can find him.”

“Not so fast,” came a deep voice from the darkness. From the corner of the chapel, a tall man stepped out of the shadows. Before him, Cailleach was being held with the tip of her own athame pointed to her neck. His head tilted up, and, as he sniffed the air, his hold faltered, but he regained it quickly.

The man, who was obviously blind, clutched Cailleach closer to him. “Damn you, put your hands on me.”

Reaching behind her, Cailleach placed her palm on her captor’s cheek. The black eyeless holes filled with a pale white and blue flicker of light.

“Where is she?” he asked hoarsely.

The goddess pointed to Rowan, draped in Keir’s arms. The man turned his gaze from Bronwnn to Rowan, exposing his neck. He was an angel, Rhys realized when he saw the marking. His arrow was notched in his bow, but the venom on the tip would not be enough to stop this angel. That much venom could only wound, not kill, and if this angel had the power to hold Cailleach hostage, then wounding would not be enough. They needed him dead.

Dislodging the arrow from the bow, Rhys stepped back into the shadows. The angel was utterly absorbed in studying Rowan, but his absorption had not made him loosen his hold on Cailleach. Even now, drops of her blood splashed down her neck, landing on the pure white gown. Rhys didn’t know if the angel even realized it.

Cailleach was struggling to stay upright, and each time she faltered, more blood spilled onto her gown. She was bound to Annwyn, he remembered. It was her sustenance, and now, deprived of it, she was powerless—and dying.

And Keir . . . God help him, Keir was frozen; immobile. He could think of nothing but Rowan. He was of no help to them now. And the others? He looked around their party, all unmoving, looking upon the angel with Cailleach—a helpless, dying Cailleach. Not even Bran gave direction. It was as if they were in a state of shock. And maybe they were, for in their world, nothing was more powerful than the Supreme Goddess.

Rhys looked to the angel once more. Was this the Dark Mage they sought? In the glow of the candlelight, he could make out only the marking, not the design. Rhys didn’t want to kill him before they knew anything about him, but Cailleach was dying! Someone needed to do something.

Picking up the bow, he cocked an arrow, then focused on the angelic mark. Closing one eye, he aimed, then let the arrow fly. It landed in the angel’s neck, just above the mark.