Mists of Velvet

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.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

    “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