Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
At First Sight
Bran felt her before he saw her.
A woman with long black hair stepped forward, and he struggled to pretend indifference. The white shimmering band of her aura weaved its way over to him. Through the window it came, his magic calling it forth, beckoning it. She was strong, but there was a vulnerability there as well that engaged him, made him want to explore it. And she was passionate. He felt the desire, the longing for pleasure. The ache for sex. She wanted it but she would fight him, make him work to convince her to accept him. There was something so raw and primal about her; if he could make her submit to him, he felt he could survive off that energy for years.
It was so rare, a pure white aura. White meant perfect balance. He should probably fear it, but he was drawn to it—to her. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to take all her pleasure inside his body and convert it into magic.
Yes, this mortal female would give him great power. Tonight.
HEAT
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First published by Heat, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, March 2010
Copyright © Sophie Renwick, 2010 All rights reserved
HEAT is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Renwick, Sophie.
Velvet Haven / Sophie Renwick.
p. cm.—(The Annwyn chronicles series; bk. 1)
eISBN : 978-1-101-18582-7
I. Title.
PS3618.E64V46 2010
813’.6—dc22 2009039627
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To Fedora, for winning my contest. Thanks so much for coming up with Immortals of Annwyn! And to all those hussies who hang out at my blog, I hope Bran satisifies!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Velvet Haven would not be here if not for the wisdom, patience, and hand-holding of my excellent editor, Tracy Bernstein. Thank you for helping me see the forest for the trees! It was sometimes a difficult task, but thanks for sticking with me and not giving up on either Bran or me!
PROLOGUE
In the beginning there was peace. Prosperity. The fertile lands of Annwyn flourished. The trees were bountiful, bearing the most luscious fruit. The forest teemed with life, and the streams ran cool and clear. The people of Annwyn lived harmoniously alongside the human world; the gossamer veil that separated the two spheres allowed Annwyn’s inhabitants to see the mortal realm, yet protected us from man’s poisonous ways. Greed. Lust. Avarice. Such mortal vices did not penetrate the veil, for Annwyn was above all temptations.
But now all has been transformed. Annwyn is no longer pure.
The Dark Times have come.
War will be waged between man and the inhabitants of Annwyn. Each side seeks a flame and an amulet that have been hidden away for centuries. Into whose hands these fall will dictate what will come—peace or annihilation.
And these Dark Times will bring betrayals, deaths, and utter blackness before the dawn of light might once again creep between the trees of the forest.
From this darkness will rise the sacred nine, bringing the beginning and ending of all things. But there will be one among them, a Dark Soul, whose ascent shall either be that of savior . . . or destroyer.
The Scribe of the Annwyn Chronicles.
CHAPTER ONE
Death. Even now it was bearing down upon him, its arrival thick, menacing. Unstoppable.
Kneeling on the ground, eyes closed, heart beating heavily in his chest, Bran waited for the inevitable. Just as he did every night when the moon rose and the winds stilled, he awaited his vision.
It was a gift, this ability to divine death. It had saved many of his people over the centuries. But now his gift was more a curse. To envision his own murder, but not when or by whom, left him wondering why the universe had allowed him this warning. Why bother, when none of the information necessary to protect himself from his untimely end was given to him?
When would his murderer arrive and who would it be? Those two questions had plagued him for months. Tonight, he would get answers.
Listening intently, he heard the shimmering birch leaves coalesce with the whisper of wind that swept through the dark woods. Combined, the two reminded him of a woman’s sultry laugh. The sound made his body tighten with anger he found difficult to restrain. Morgan. She was the reason behind this. Even from the Wastelands her spell bound him to her.
Bitch.
He should have just married the witch and been done with it. Then his brother would not have been damned and lost to him. And he himself would not be carrying the Legacy Curse.
But now was not the time to dwell on th
e past. It was the future that brought him here tonight. A future he must find a way to alter.
As the minutes ticked by, the moon ascended higher in the sky, the beams creeping through oak branches, penetrating the grove slowly, a graceful arch across the black velvet that draped the altar before which he knelt. Once the silver rays illuminated the pewter chalice, filling the body of the cup, it would be midnight and time for him to die.
The silver beam, Bran noticed, had just crept to the rim of the chalice.
It was nearly time.
He stilled his mind. Quieting his breathing, he gazed deep into the glow of the candles that surrounded the altar. Almost immediately, he found himself at one with the grove, the trees, the animals in the forest. The life force of the elements wove around him, wrapping around his knees, then his body, until he felt the energy on his face. He harnessed the strength, the protectiveness, of the magick circle he had created, and watched the first glimmer of moonlight sneak into the chalice.
Seconds later, Death arrived.
As it always did, it claimed him in its cold, unrelenting grip. The familiar imagery floated before him and he swayed, trying to search deep within for the strength to hold on and divine as much as he could from Death’s visit.
Bran experienced the precise moment of his death, when his lungs burned and his heart slowed. He buried the panic of waiting for the last thump of his heart, and the beat of silence where another thump should have been.
It didn’t come. Only quiet. Followed by darkness.
He felt his soul lift, saw his physical form lying facedown upon a white cloth. His arms were spread out, his thick wrists shackled with iron manacles, his own athame plunged between his naked shoulders.
It was always the same. Night after night. His death coming to him in a vision that never revealed any more, or less. His death by an unknown hand and in an unfamiliar place.
The seconds of lifelessness hovered, started to fade. Air and warmth soon began to flow back into his lungs and veins. But he fought it. He was not yet ready to return to the land of the living.
Luring the bastard back, Bran refused to fall into any other state than the deep divination trance that would bind him and Death together.
Death had screwed him for the last time.
Pressing his knees to the cool, mossy earth, Bran grounded himself, sending the excess elemental energy into the ground to be dispersed. Eyes now opened, he focused on the black candles and inhaled the scent of incense as Death struggled in his grip. But Bran was stronger, able to hold Death in his grasp until darkness once again descended and he was dead once more.
Finally. This part of the journey was all new to him. He was hit by an onslaught of sensory stimulation. Scent. The smell of female arousal mixed with nightshade and male musk. Sound. The husky pant of a woman, his own heavy breaths. Touch. The sensation was everywhere, surrounding him from all sides. His sigils, which adorned his chest and arm, neck and temple, tingled with the incredible power he felt cocooning his body. Yet there was a weakness there, too. It was draining him. Making him vulnerable. Still he craved it, that haunting touch that hurt as much as it aroused.
Sight. He tried to see, to look deep within the flickering glow of the candles. Tried to reach out to Death, to use his strength to piece together the rest of the vision.
And then it happened. His sight swirled for the briefest second, then stilled. The pupil of his right eye dilated, allowing him to see his world. Annwyn was still. Quiet. His left pupil opened to the mortal realm. The same disquieting calm was seen there. But before he could close the portal, he was assaulted by the cries of a screaming woman. Splashes of red swam before both eyes. The acrid stench of burning flesh stung his nostrils, while a low chant of invocation swam in his ears.
A shadowy image followed, of a hand, delicate and pale, wrapped around the hilt of his athame. A female hand. He reached out to the vision but his fingers sliced through gray fog. The image was gone, having evaporated in tendrils of smoke. The sight, scent, and sounds of the vision were sucked out of him as though a separate entity, leaving him spent, panting, and wondering what he’d just witnessed.
He had never seen that vision before. There was a dark malevolence to it. In his previous visions, he had merely died. In this one, there had been suffering and pain—and a woman.
Death, it seemed, was fucking with him.
Head bent, Bran sought to slow his breathing while his body continued to hum with the life force that surrounded him. He still smelled the heavy perfume of a female nearing orgasm. His nostrils flared, taking it in, that heady, arousing aroma. Shuddering, he felt his skin flicker in awareness at an imaginary caress.
He was aroused, he noticed. His cock thick. Erect and straining. Pulsing with unspent desire. So this is how death would find him, the scent of a female clinging to his damp skin and her touch rippling along his flesh. He had been at someone’s mercy. But whose? A female—that was all he could be certain of.
Morgan had cursed him to be brought down by a mortal. He had always believed the mortal would be male, but the hand on his athame was definitely a woman’s.
Inhaling again, he drew the scent deep into his lungs and shuddered. He had never responded to a human female in such a way before. And yet what Sidhe female would kill her king? Morgan, of course, but he would never respond physically to her. The vision made no sense.
A twig snapped and he glanced up, snarling at the sound of someone approaching. No one dared interrupt him. Especially not here, in Nemed, his sacred circle of magick. No one would think to intrude on him, the king of the Sidhe.
“Your magick cannot keep me out, Raven.”
Except her.
“What do you want, Cailleach?” he growled between great breaths of air. The sex. He could still smell it on his skin, taste its dew on his lips. It had been centuries since he had felt this kind of lust. And like a slave he was weakening to it. Its heady scent, like a drug, went to his head, making him crave more of it, making him lick his lips so he could taste the fine, teasing drops that lingered on his mouth.
Swallowing hard, he looked down between his thighs. His cock was near to bursting. He wanted to stroke it, to relieve himself of the ache that was growing in his shaft. He wanted to close his eyes and envision a female submitting beneath him while he got off with his hand.
He wanted it hard, to empty in forceful thrusts right here in the open grove where everything was primal and male. Where everything was his.
He needed this release, but he would not have it now that she had arrived.
“Clothe yourself, Raven, so that I may approach you.”
“Does the sight of me not please you?” he taunted, knowing his consort, the supreme goddess of Annwyn, was a damn prude.
“I am not alone. Cover yourself.”
Bran stood to his full height, his erection slowly dying. But his skin was still alive and vibrant with the remnants of sexual energy. His sigils glowed gold and pewter, especially the ones where the goddess was afraid to look.
“There is no need to flaunt yourself, Raven,” she snapped in a crisp voice that was more hag than the beautiful woman she was. “I have no interest.”
“Nor do I.” He’d never been attracted to Cailleach. Not before he became king and coruler of Annwyn, and especially not after. “To what do I owe your visit?” he asked as he shrugged into his black cloak.
The tall, svelte woman dressed in a formfitting white gown stepped between the trunks of two ancient oaks. At her side was a figure shrouded in black, a hood concealing his face. Only his hands were visible, and when he emerged from the shadows into the moonlight, their markings were suddenly illuminated, turning into whirls of curling lines. In his arms, he carried a woman, clearly dead.
“There is a Judas amongst us.”
Cailleach’s proclamation sent a ripple through the life force. Bran perceived the vibration along his skin, and the evil that seemed to gather in the grove that surrounded them. Even the c
andles on the altar flared.
As Cailleach and the stranger approached the magic circle he had crafted, Bran studied the body of the woman. Her white-blond hair caressed the dark sleeve of the man’s cloak, her arms dangling at her sides. Her pale flesh, mottled in death, was marred by slashing cuts that crudely marked her arms and neck with the symbols of their world. The Lemniscate, or infinity knot as the mortals called it, was carved in the valley of her small breasts; the triscale, which was the symbol of Annwyn, was drawn above her navel. Streaks of dried blood the color of rust ran from flesh that no longer lived.
The lifeless form the stranger cradled so protectively in his arms was that of a woman of Bran’s kind. A Sidhe. A youngling, only a few years into womanhood.
The goddess motioned to the altar and her companion placed the youngling atop the black altar cloth. Brushing her hand over the face and chest, Cailleach blessed the lifeless body before raising her brilliant green gaze to him.
“Like the others before her, she has been anointed by the Dark Arts.”
Necromancy. It had returned to Annwyn after nearly two hundred years of banishment. The fact could no longer be denied that someone was practicing ancient death and sex magick. But why, when the punishment for practicing the banned art was so severe?
“May I?”
Nodding, Cailleach seemed to float gracefully away from the altar, allowing him to come forward. The stranger stood his ground, however, guarding the body, refusing to allow Bran to see her. “You are her Anam Cara?” Bran asked. The man inclined his head.
That explained his presence here and the protection energy Bran sensed radiating from the cloaked figure. The stranger was the youngling’s Soul Friend. It was the Anam Cara’s responsibility to guide the soul through the passage of birth, life, and death.
“Were you with her when this happened?”
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