Mists of Velvet (4 page)

Normally, he didn’t give a damn about Annwyn, but this was the third time in a week that he had seen Keir disperse the Enchantment spell and slip past the door into Annwyn. Not that Rhys cared what Keir did in his downtime, but it was really strange for Keir not to tell him what he was doing or where he was going. His recent behavior—agitated, almost strung-out—perplexed and worried Rhys.

Jesus. It sounded like a damned love affair—which it wasn’t. This was Keir he was talking about; Keir he was worried about.

Keir—his Shadow Wraith; his protector since birth.

“Some fucking protector,” he snarled as he slammed the door to his office. Not that he needed a babysitter. He was quite capable of handling himself, not to mention taking care of mortal or
immortal
troublemakers who liked to stir up shit in his club.

No, it wasn’t fear for his own life that had him all juiced up; it
was
worry. Something wasn’t right with Keir. Always intense, lately the Shadow Wraith had gone from quiet intensity to downright lethal menace. Keir wasn’t himself, and no one knew that better than Rhys.

In some grand cosmic fuckup, he’d been given a male Shadow Wraith to protect him from the family curse. The previous firstborn males of his line had always been given females, which was nice, considering the intimate nature of the bond between them.

But Rhys’ wraith was a male. The universe, he was sure, enjoyed shitting on him.

Be that as it may, Rhys relied on Keir’s almost constant presence to keep him safe from a curse that had spanned two centuries, and Keir’s survival depended on Rhys’ feeding him. At first, Keir had survived on Rhys’ emotions—good or bad. But with the onset of puberty, the wraith had come to crave emotions less and less, and sexual energy more and more. And, strangely enough, it didn’t bother Rhys. Their relationship was more than that of a protector and a protected. They had a deep bond, and if Keir needed to survive by sharing some hot sex with him and a woman, then so be it.

A fucked-up relationship for certain, but it was what it was. Besides, within the walls of Velvet Haven there was no end to female companions who dug the whole threesome thing.

Things had been going well, as they had from day one when Keir had parked his ass by Rhys’ cradle. Business as usual—well, as usual as it could be for a Shadow Wraith and a mortal descended from faeries. But two weeks ago, the usual had been butchered by a sadistic ritual killer who had the fucking nerve to carve up his last victim outside Rhys’ club. Throw in some dark magick, a pissed-off Sidhe king, and a dangerous fallen angel—that was the new normal.

Shaking his head, Rhys sank into his chair and scanned the papers that littered his desk. He was as much in the dark as he had been two weeks ago, when the murder happened. All he knew was there was a killer using death and sex magick, both in Annwyn and here in the mortal realm. The rest of the information was kindly spared him because he was “just” a mortal.

Not just, Rhys thought as he wiped his hands over his face. Because no other mortal he knew had a Shadow Wraith protector, or lived under a curse. Nor could any mortals he knew of boast that his great-uncle was the Sidhe king and coruler of Annwyn.

Of course, in the king’s eyes he was just a pain-in-the-ass relative with no powers to exploit and no brains to solve anything magical.

He’d expected that out of Bran, but he hadn’t expected it out of Keir. In all the thirty years Keir had been keeping Rhys alive, they’d never had secrets between them. This odd behavior wasn’t like Keir.

Fighting his second headache of the day, Rhys reached for that morning’s copy of the
Examiner
. He had a few hours yet before the club opened. Once it did, he would be busy monitoring the goings-on between the immortals and mortals in Velvet Haven. But for now, he had some time to kill. Maybe the solitude would settle his nerves and allay the gut feeling he had about Keir.

Flicking open the paper, he scanned the headlines, then flipped to the sports page where he searched for the results of his favorite teams. At the back of the sports section came the classifieds and the obits. Normally, he didn’t read them, but this morning there was a picture of a woman that sent chills down his spine.

Trinity Fergus—she had been the girl murdered outside his club two weeks ago. It was an “in memorium” write-up, and Rhys grimaced when he read that she had been only twenty-one when the psycho butchered her.

There was a mention of an ongoing murder investigation, but Rhys knew the cops would not be able to solve this case. While he didn’t know who the culprit was, he knew
what
he was. He also knew the devil didn’t leave prints. This case would go cold. There would be no satisfaction for Trinity’s family.

Skipping over the other obituaries, he came across some photos of happy couples in wedding announcements and silver-anniversary notices—not something he’d ever be putting in the paper. What woman would marry a guy who lived with another guy? A guy who was attached to him like Velcro? Yeah, not happening. Rhys knew his fate—a series of kinky chicks who liked getting it on with two guys; a life of one-night stands and no-strings-attached sex.

He’d long given up the hope that maybe he could live like a normal man with marriage, kids, pot roast on Sundays. He had only to look at his own parents to know the unlikelihood of happily ever after. His mother couldn’t hack it—the secrets, the feeling that his father was cheating on her with his “best friend,” his Shadow Wraith. Maybe if his dad had come clean, she could have stuck it out, but coming clean about Annwyn and a centuries-old curse didn’t come easily, or believably. Finally, his mother had bailed on him and his dad. Rhys didn’t know her—couldn’t even remember her. But more disturbing? He didn’t feel the loss of her.

His father had suffered, though. Regretted not telling Rhys’ mother the truth. Which only cemented the thought that Rhys would never live a normal life. He was sure no woman would believe the fantastical story, or trust him and accept him as he was.

Yeah. It sucked. But this was his life, and he couldn’t deny that he appreciated what Keir did for him. Hell, he wouldn’t be alive without him, but he did regret that his life could never be normal. And he felt bad that Keir had also been denied a life. As Rhys’ eternal shadow, Keir was chained to him until Rhys drew his last breath. After that, he had no idea what Keir’s life would entail. Maybe he would be cast back to the Wastelands where others of his kind lived. Maybe he would cease to exist like Rhys. In any event, Keir had no life of his own, because he’d been sentenced to babysitting duty.

Both of them were fucked. Even if Rhys wished to get rid of the wraith, he couldn’t. Keir was his. A wraith only ever belonged to one person. And Rhys himself? He wanted to mean something to someone—someone who needed him; someone he could protect, and make love to. Not just screw, but make love to. That sappy, bone-melting passion they showed in the movies—that’s what he wanted.

But women were constantly out of his reach—well, the kind of woman he wanted. The easy kind—he always had those. They were fine for a night, but long term? No, he didn’t want the type of woman he screwed in the back of Velvet Haven. He wanted wholesome. Lovable. Sexy—and a good cook. Hell, he was mortal. He liked to eat.

A cursed mortal, he reminded himself, which of course made him question for the millionth time that day where the hell Keir was. He hadn’t seen him since daybreak, when he opened his eyes to find Keir slinking out of bed and out the door.

Just what the hell was going on in Annwyn, and why the fuck was he being kept in the dark? Sure, he was mortal and would die. But he wasn’t a pansy ass. He could hold his own.

Rhys’ teeth ground together, making his head pulse harder. Reaching into his desk drawer, he popped open a bottle of Tylenol and took two tablets, along with a swig of cold coffee. Propping his Doc Martens on his desk, he leaned back in his chair and put his arms behind his head. Focusing on the copper tin ceiling above, Rhys allowed his mind to go blank.

It was time to locate the wraith.

Closing his eyes, he stilled his breathing, trying to sift through his anger and frustration to locate Keir’s thoughts. Their bond was strong, stronger even than his father’s bond with his wraith, who just happened to be Keir’s mother.

Immediately Rhys felt Keir, but he couldn’t hear him or see him in his mind. Was it possible he had cloaked his thoughts? Wraiths had the power to do that, but Keir had never done so with Rhys. Their thoughts and emotions were an open book. It was what made their bond so strong.

Rhys lingered in Keir’s mind, nudging a bit harder while he waited patiently for the wraith to talk. But Keir’s voice never came, and a black curtain suddenly drew down over Rhys. He’d never seen such a thing before. He had no idea what was happening—why he couldn’t hear Keir, despite sensing him—and couldn’t seem to shake off the sudden exhaustion that claimed him. Struggling against the blindness, he gave in and let the beckoning black velvet suck him in. Sleep overcame him, and he felt his arms drop to his sides and his head fall back.

The minute Rhys felt the woman, he knew he was dreaming. This was no astral projection. The thought was confirmed when he discovered he was in bed with only her. No way was that happening in real life. Keir was always present. Together they pleasured the women Rhys wanted. But this woman? She wasn’t even his type. She was too angelic, too pretty, and untouchable.

The women he bedded had a bit of an edge to them. They knew what they wanted, and he gave it to them. But this one looked shy and virginal as she kneeled on the bed before him, her pale eyes watching him with excitement but also wariness.

Her long hair was a silvery blond. Her skin was pale, except for the faint glow on her cheeks, which were stained with her blush.

She didn’t look of this world, he thought absently. She was too perfect; too ethereal. But that body was anything but ethereal and innocent. Hers was a body straight out of
Playboy
, and suddenly he wanted to tear away the strange-looking gown she wore and reveal her naked form.

The image hovered in his mind, lingering before his eyes and taunting his mind and body with the temptation to reach out and touch her, to cup one breast in his palm and clasp a hand behind her neck, bringing her forward so he could take her mouth. He had a primal, almost animalistic urge to claim her.

He realized it was not the first time he had seen her in his dreams. Once before, he’d had a fleeting image of a pale-haired woman riding him. He’d awakened sweaty and hard, shaking with pent-up desire. He’d figured his dirty mind had created both her and the sex dream. But this dream felt different—more intimate and passionate. There was an emotional as well as a visceral sensation running through his body as he watched the dream play out before him.

Who was this woman? He’d never seen her at the club, and he’d certainly remember her if she’d been one of his one-night stands.

Maybe Keir was getting lucky in Annwyn and Rhys was witnessing what was going on between them . . . Most likely that was it.

Rhys could sense and feel his wraith, as Keir could also sense him. Maybe Rhys had stepped into Keir’s thoughts while he was in bed with this woman, or maybe it was just an erotic dream Keir was having.

But that was the weird thing. He’d felt Keir’s presence before he fell asleep. But now he didn’t. He felt only
her—
this incredibly hot woman who appeared to be totally into him.

Pale hands went to the hem of her gown, and slowly she pulled it up, revealing a set of long legs and nicely shaped thighs. He swallowed, waiting for a glimpse of that tantalizing triangle between her thighs. Suddenly he was parched, and as eager as a twelve-year-old at a peep show. She shifted, and the hem skimmed over her backside that was nice and round. He saw his hand reaching out, ready to run his fingers between her thighs and feel her pussy on his fingers—when he was abruptly wakened.

Instantly alert, Rhys bounded out of his chair, crouched and ready to fight the culprit who had kicked his feet off the desk and so rudely interrupted his X-rated dream. And there he was, standing with arms crossed at the side of his desk. It was Suriel—all six and a half feet of him, wearing his trademark leather, army boots, and a shit-eating grin.

“Must have been some kind of dream.”

The bastard knew. Of course he did, Rhys reminded himself. Suriel was a fallen angel. Angels always knew what mortals were thinking and dreaming.

“Not really,” Suriel responded as he strolled, uninvited, to a chair across from the desk. “It was more what was standing at attention that gave it away.”

Rhys colored then. Shit. He was still hard and aroused, and angry as hell that Suriel knew of it. The bastard laughed as he sank into a plush velvet wingback. It was an antique, but with typical Suriel indifference, he sprawled out his large frame and swung one leg over the chair’s arm.

“All alone? Where is your little friend?”

Keir was hardly little, but Suriel liked to amuse himself by insulting the immortals who staffed the club, as well as Bran and Rhys.

Rhys sank into his own chair and carefully adjusted his denim-covered cock beneath the privacy of his desk. Man, he was still hard. Forget the dream, he thought, and deal with Suriel. That would call for his undivided attention.

“You’re like the Grim Reaper, Suriel, popping up at the most inopportune times. I thought you were in hiding, or was that just another one of your lies?”

Suriel flashed him a false grin. “Hiding with my tail between my legs isn’t my thing. I prefer to fight with guns blazing and balls out.”

Rhys snorted. Guns? Not Suriel’s choice of weapon, not when he possessed untold powers in his elegant fingertips. Now, balls out, he could buy. Suriel didn’t give a shit about anything, or anyone—most especially the mortals he was supposed to love and guide. In fact, Rhys would bet, Suriel didn’t really care if he himself existed or died. There was something tortured in his black eyes; something that told of unspeakable pain. But Suriel would never admit that.