Mists of Velvet

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.
    Instantly, he released Cailleach.
    With a roar of outrage, the angel fought until the venom began to paralyze him. With a thud, he fell to the floor, his sightless eyesholes peering up at the ceiling.
    Rhys ran to him. “Are you the Dark Mage?” he demanded as he started to search the angel’s ragged clothes.
    “Camael,” he whispered, his mouth beginning to froth.
    “What are you doing here?”
    “My child.”
    Rhys followed Cailleach’s gaze to Rowan. “Rowan is your child?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where is the mage?”
    “Hiding. Waiting for her death. He covets what is inside her.”
    “What is inside her?” Keir demanded.
    “A symbol of great power,” spoke a disembodied voice. It was followed by the sweep of a black shadow, a flash of light, and then Suriel was revealed. “Covetina’s amulet. It is one of the keys he needs.”
    Suriel walked around the prone body of Camael and gazed down. “What has he done to you?”
    Camael ignored Suriel, and, instead, opened his palm to Cailleach. He motioned to her. With great effort he spoke. “Uriel . . . is the mage. He searches . . . for his flame. The witch Morgan stole it from him and hid it within the one she cursed.” He took a pained breath. “I was there when she did it. I heard the spell, but I do not know who it was. He is vulnerable . . . He grows more fearful as time passes without it.”
    “Carden,” Bran said. “He was cursed by her.”
    Cailleach bent to him and reached for his hand. “You will be taken back to Annwyn, where my healers will rid you of the poison. And then you will join us,” Cailleach said, her gaze pointed on Bran; then it focused on Drostan. “Griffin, summon Camael to the temple.”
    The griffin stepped forward and held out his palms. The golden light of summon magick swirled in his palms, and then Camael was gone.
    “Suriel!” Keir demanded. “Rowan is dying. Do something!”
    Suriel bent to Rowan and brushed his hand along her hair. “This is the moment, wraith, when you will