Mists of Velvet

by Sophie Renwick

  The vision was so damned erotic, especially when he knew who the woman was. Experiencing this altered state of sexual excitement was exhilarating. Experiencing it while seeing her was beyond anything he had ever dreamt.

  What little remained of his conscious thought recoiled at the thought of what was happening to him. How could he be aroused when he was strapped to a stone altar, ready to be carved to bits? But his mind’s will to fight wasn’t strong enough to counter the effects of the thorn-apple on his body—or the image of the woman lying on her back, her sex pink and glistening, and her nipples little points—waiting to be taken between his teeth once more.

  “Good,” the mage murmured as he noticed his straining erection. “Now then, let us begin. My lovely little sacrifice is eager to have you.”

  The scrape of metal against stone made him tense. Rhys saw the blade, glistening in the dim glow of the sconce. It was curved, and the hilt was encrusted with jewels. It was an athame; a sacred knife used in Annwyn; a ritual knife never intended to shed blood.

  He felt the cool slide of the blade teasing along his skin. The woman was gone, but he tried to bring her back. He tried to think of where his vision was going to take him next. Images of supple fingers gliding over his skin took root, and he began to imagine his dream lover touching him. He could actually feel her fondling his cock, picking it up, and bringing her mouth down over the swollen head. He pictured himself clutching her hair and holding her there while she sucked him. The image was so arousing and vivid that he barely felt the first scrape of the blade against his skin. Only when the hot flush of blood seeped onto his chest and trickled down his side did he know he’d been cut. But the potent aphrodisiac he’d been given only heightened his arousal. The pain, coupled with the images, made him rock hard.

  This was obviously what the mage wanted. He was practicing the Dark Arts—death and sex magick.

  Next, he took the tip of the knife and drew a circle around his heart. Incense swirled around him, just like the strange words coming from the mage. The knife came down, cutting in lines, and Rhys knew he had an inverted pentagram carved on his skin.

  His body burned; his throat was parched from the thorn-apple and the incense. As the mage leaned over him, working down his chest with the tip of the athame, Rhys struggled not to succumb but to find some reserve and fight. But the knife was cutting into him. His skin burned where the athame drew a straight line down his abs. The sexual need ebbed, leaving his thoughts blank and his vision dark. Even the mage’s words became a distant echo in his thoughts. Blackness descended. The burning pain of his flesh receded. He was succumbing to the darkness.

  Rhys allowed his head to fall to the side, and he saw his blood dripping along the blade onto a white square of satin. The crimson drop spread out, the satin absorbing his blood. The Death card had been placed in his left hand. Struggling through the fog, he tried to think of the card’s meaning. For this was a sacrificial ceremony—everything in it meant something. But he couldn’t think; he could barely even feel. The fantasies had left him. Sensation had abandoned him.

  “Too much.” The blade dropped against the stone. The mage leaned over him and pulled his eyelids apart. “We will wait until some of the effects have dissipated. I want you alive and moaning, and using your considerable imagination to make the spell powerful.”

  He pulled away, and Rhys heard the sound of the silk robe the mage wore being shed. “I think I will enjoy my little toy once more. You may watch if you’d like.”

  He didn’t want to see; he didn’t want to hear. But suddenly, the mage’s voice was whispering darkly into his ear. “She’s a delightful little morsel, isn’t she? Begging for it. Wouldn’t you like to get inside her and spend all those erotic thoughts into her willing body?”

  Rhys tried to talk, but he couldn’t. Then the mage was gone. Rhys saw him, naked, stroll into the dimly lit alcove that housed the altar where the woman was strapped, spread-eagle. She began to moan as he touched her.

  Rhys could see only the mage’s back and hand; he knew he was fondling the woman between her legs. “Look how swollen and red you are. Beautiful.”

  “Please,” she implored as she licked her lips. “Again.”

  The mage’s laugh echoed throughout the cavern. “Yes. Again, and again, until the ritual is complete and my powers are stronger.”

  The woman purred as the mage slipped his fingers between her thighs. Rhys closed his eyes.The noises of their fucking made him think of his vision and of what he had wanted only moments ago—his hand in his lover’s hair holding her as he took her hard. But it would never be. Soon the mage would kill him.

  Suddenly he felt something slick and cool gliding up his body.

  Fighting the heaviness in his head, he opened his eyes and saw the adder. It was coiled around his arm, its beady eyes staring into his.

  God, he wished the fucking thing would bite him. Right in his neck, unloading all its venom into his carotid. But it didn’t. Instead, it coiled and uncoiled itself around his left wrist, then glided over his body till he felt it do the same to his right.

  The moans and cries of the woman and the macabre sounds of pleasure from the mage continued. The magician was lost to his perversions, while the adder began to free Rhys of his bonds.

  Be prepared to shed something in favor of something greater and better.

  What had he shed? Or had he yet? He didn’t know what it meant, only that this snake was helping him.

  He was free at last. As he looked into the adder’s black eyes, he felt a small bit of strength, which enabled him to roll over and fall onto the floor.

  The mage was riding the woman, crying out a demonic-sounding incantation as she moaned and begged him for more. He wasn’t watching Rhys but was completely engrossed in what he was doing to the woman.

  Crawling away from the alcove, Rhys followed the winding body of the snake. Its white zigzag stripe made him dizzy, but he focused on it, because it was the only thing he could see clearly in the muted light.

  At the stairs, Rhys began to climb. He was bleeding and winded; he needed to stop, but he didn’t dare. The mage would be finished soon. The sounds of the woman were growing more frantic, her orgasm coming quickly.

  With one small burst of energy and sheer bullheadedness, Rhys got up and ran as fast as he could into the lit passageway. He wasn’t steady and he was horribly disoriented, but he followed the slithering adder.

  He was bouncing off the stone walls, stumbling and uncoordinated. But he kept up the pace and actually tried to run faster, when he heard a male cry of satisfaction, followed by a shrill scream from the woman. Shit. He was killing her, and then he’d be looking for Rhys and would discover him gone.

  They rounded a corner, and the hall weaved up and down, making Rhys want to puke. He couldn’t go any farther. He stopped and leaned against the wall, his heart racing and his burning body finding some small measure of relief against the cool stone.

  A roar of fury reached his ears, and Rhys got his ass moving. Stumbling forward, he tried to stay focused on the snake. The pounding of feet behind him spurred him on, and just when he thought he couldn’t do it, he saw the shimmering gold veil. Lunging forward, he went through the gossamer curtain just as he felt the mage’s presence behind him.

  All but catapulted through the veil, he came to land on the ground. The mage’s roar of outrage reverberated around him, and Rhys stood unsteadily. It was dark, and he was in some kind of forest on a dirt path. He had no idea where he was, other than in Annwyn.

  The reflecting pool should be to his left. But there wasn’t a path. Naked and barefoot, Rhys began to push through the dense forest. Daegan had forced him to memorize how to get to the sacred waters, and Rhys was moving in the direction of his instinct.

  The damned reflecting pool had better be close, he thought, because if he had to go much farther, he’d pass out, and Cailleach would have free rein to fry his ass.

  Faltering over an exposed tree root,
Rhys cursed and fell to his knees. With his hands in the dirt, he anchored himself, trying to get a grip on the dizziness that slammed into him.

  Something cool brushed his knuckles, and he gazed down into the beady eyes of the adder.

  This was the third time he’d sighted the snake. There was no denying now that this was an animal guide. But why an adder?

  A twig snapped, and he jumped up, crouching to avoid the low-hanging branches. The adder snaked in and out of the long grass, rising and falling over grassy mounds and tree roots until the trees parted and Rhys was welcomed by the glow of the biggest full moon he had ever seen. It was made all the more brilliant by the rippling water beneath it.

  The reflecting pool.

  On its bank, Rhys fell to his knees, collapsing in exhaustion and pain. His head was still cloudy and heavy. Between his cheek and gum, he felt the round pod that had been shoved into his mouth. He was about to spit it out, when he heard a sound behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the most beautiful wolf peering out from between the trees. The animal was pure white, majestic, and elegant. It didn’t move, but its pale blue eyes watched him warily.

  His vision began to swirl, and he reached out—whether to try to fend off the impending attack or to call to the animal, Rhys could not have said. But when he pitched forward toward the ground, he saw the animal stiffen. It sniffed the air, and Rhys knew it smelled his blood.

  His last thought was that he needn’t have worried about Cailleach; the wolves were obviously going to get him first.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bronwnn had seen this man before. Despite her wolf form, she saw with the eyes of a woman. This was the man from her dreams. Everything about him felt familiar, from the outline of his prone body to the breadth of his naked shoulders. Even his scent, which was much more potent to her in her shifter form, caused a familiar heating in her body.

  Inhaling, she brought his essence deep into her nose and felt the primal instinct of an animal finding her mate.

  Quietly, she came out from beneath the leafy canopy of trees. The glowing moon shone on the rippling water, but she had no need of moonlight; she was a wolf now, and wolves saw through the darkest woods, and into the darkest hearts.

  Circling him, she studied the hurried, rasping movement of his chest. He was breathing too fast. Beneath him, pools of darkness began to seep out, covering the leaves in a glistening crimson. He was bleeding.

  In this form, she could do nothing but lie down beside him and keep him warm. But that would not save him. She had to help him, but to change out in the open, where anyone might see, was too dangerous. She was the only goddess shifter. No one knew of her gift, and she had no intention of sharing it, either.

  No, she could not expose herself in that way. Yet everything inside her screamed for her to act; to do something. He was her mate. The animal and the woman agreed on this.

  With her muzzle, she rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the black strands of his soft hair tickling her nose. He smelled good. Right. She tasted him then. With a swipe of her tongue, she licked his skin. He smelled like a wraith, but there was something else there; another essence, something harsher, like ceremonial incense, as well as a pungent and earthy odor—the same odor that had accompanied him in her vision.

  The man groaned, tried to lift himself up on his elbows, and immediately fell back to the ground. Coughing, he spat something out from between his lips; whatever it was landed atop Bronwnn’s front paw.

  Thorn-apple.

  “Fuck,” he growled, trying once more to move. He succeeded in rolling to his back. His face, she noticed, was breathtakingly handsome, despite his expression of pain. His hair was dark and his lashes just as black. His jaw was firm, covered in black stubble. The man before her was naked, and Bronwnn looked her fill, admiring his beautiful, powerful body. From his thick arms, to the black hair on his belly, down to the soft skin of his phallus, he was hard and sculpted, just as a warrior should be.

  Bronwnn was mesmerized by his body, by the sheer power and strength it contained. She wanted to touch it, to run her fingers along the firm flesh and hard muscle. She wanted that hard body covering hers. The need inside her grew, until she heard him moan. Worried, she stepped closer, and, glancing up from the part of his anatomy that had captivated her most, she saw how his chest had been mutilated, and how it now bled, the red trails of blood running over his chest and onto his side.

  This man—her mate—had been a victim of the Dark Mage. Occult symbols were etched into his skin, the same symbols that had been present in her vision. It was true, then, what she had seen! It had just happened. Which meant the dark magician was close, and they were both in danger.

  Heedless of anyone seeing her, Bronwnn changed into her human form and quickly bent to her knees, intending to help the stranger up. They must flee this place before either the Dark Mage or Cailleach’s oidhche found them.

  He fought her and she held him closer, trying to keep him from making any noise or hurting himself further. Their skin touched, her breast pressing against his side, and he softened, went lax, and let her bring him up to his knees. Swaying, he steadied himself by putting his thick arms around her waist and pressing the side of his face into her belly. She gasped at the contact. To feel his burning skin against hers so intimately was a shock—but a most welcome one.

  Beneath her fingers, the muscles of his shoulders and back bunched up; she rubbed them, trying to stem their trembling. His hot breath caressed her, making her core ache and her nipples bead hard.

  She was the one to tremble now. Closing her eyes, Bronwnn tried to pull herself together. She was the only thing between him and the Dark Mage. It was up to her to save this man. Her own desires had no place now. Her own needs were centered on the stranger in her arms, and on her will to keep him alive.

  Her vow would not allow her to speak to soothe him. So, instead, she ran her fingers through his silken hair and quieted him with her touch. The tremors that raked his shoulders subsided, and his breathing quickly followed into a steady rhythm. She could feel the way his body intuitively absorbed her energy, taking it deep inside him, restoring his own flagging strength.

  This was the way it was with mates. Her spirit recognized this man as her Anam—her soul. She was not whole without him, and he would soon realize he was incomplete without her.

  Despite her desire to stay locked in an embrace with this man, Bronwnn knew she must hurry and find shelter. She had no idea if the Dark Mage had followed the man into Annwyn, but if he had, it would be only a few minutes before he came upon them. While the reflecting pool was beyond Cailleach’s immediate powers, it was too close to the veil that led to the mortal realm. The mage would come here first to look for his victim.

  Wrapping her hands around his shoulders, Bronwnn struggled to bring him up to his feet. After a few attempts, he was able to stand and wrap an arm around her waist. Still disoriented and stumbling from the effects of the thorn-apple, he allowed her to guide him along a path that had become overgrown with long grass and wildflowers.

  Like a sleepwalker, he followed her. So trusting, she thought, as she looked up at him. His eyes were closed, and his head lolled from side to side. She must get him to her cottage, and there she must rid his body of the poison ruling his mind.

  The moon fortuitously slipped behind a cloud, shrouding the path in darkness, and Bronwnn’s wolf eyes and instinctive tracking abilities aided them in the dark. Silently, they walked on until she moved off the path and into a densely wooded area. In seconds they were standing before the dilapidated cottage she used for herself.

  One night as she explored outside the temple, she had come across the abandoned croft. Besides offering shelter, it afforded her the luxury of privacy, and a place she could truly call her own, where she practiced divination, and the ancient healing arts of her goddess mother. Here she kept her mother’s books and studied whenever she could. Her mother had also been the only goddess versed in the Dark Arts. Kno
wledge of the occult led to greater understanding of all alchemy, so her mother had sought knowledge in the darkness and practiced it for the greater good of all in Annwyn. It was this dark knowledge that Bronwnn knew she would need to call upon tonight, to save this man from the mage’s ritual spell.

  Here, in her cottage, with all her herbs and spells, she could heal this man—her mate—freeing him from the grip of the mage who sought to rule the mortal world and the Otherworld.

  Supporting his weight against her, Bronwnn reached for the rusted latch. He was heavy, and she was tired from bearing the majority of his weight. The hinges groaned as she opened the door, and the man pitched forward, taking Bronwnn with him. He landed on his knees, Bronwnn on her back, the wind knocked out of her.

  It was dark in the cottage and quiet. The only sound was the harsh, rasping breath of the man as he leaned over her. With a shaking hand, he touched her face, her cheek, her eyes, then down her nose to her mouth, where the pad of his thumb rubbed back and forth.

  His eyes were dark, an indistinguishable shade in the dim light of the cottage interior. But they watched her, focusing on her face even through the glaze that made them shine. She was keenly aware of him, not only of his size above her, but of the way his body seemed to call to hers. She was a wanton to be thinking of her own needs at a time like this. But these desires were too new for her to control.

  He cupped her cheek in his hand and leaned down so that his lips were against her ear. “Thank you, mo slanaitheoir,” he whispered before collapsing against her. My savior.

  Rhys felt his body being dragged across a wooden floor. He was too tall and heavy for her, he knew, but he was too damned weak to help her. He could barely keep away the call of unconsciousness, let alone drag his carcass to wherever the woman was taking him.