Mists of Velvet

thief of your heart,” he murmured. “I am forced to take it, to steal it, and hide it away until you come back.”
    He knew what he must do, and he reached for the athame lying on the floor next to him. Then he pulled one of the satin ties from his pocket. It was one of the ones she had used to tie him up, and it still bore her scent. He closed his eyes, inhaling it, bringing her into his lungs, and filling his soul with memories of her. Then he placed the satin over her chest and picked up the athame.
    “Your blood is precious. I will keep it with me, and, though you are unable to speak, I know you would have it so.” Keir glanced at the quartz still around her throat. It was truth enough. He could find her anywhere as long as she wore it. And then he took the tip of the athame and pricked her finger, allowing three perfect circles of crimson blood to drop onto the white satin.
    “I will find you anywhere you are,” he whispered as he kissed her cold lips. “I have the power. Come to me when you are reborn.”
    Keir watched as Rowan took her last breath.
    He had talked to her, whispered to her, told her they would find each other again, and he believed she had heard him. He had told her to come find him when her soul settled into its new vessel, and he believed she would. She had to, because he could not exist without her.
    Butterflies circled, gathering around her. One landed on his shoulder, and he watched its white wings, edged in blue, flutter elegantly. On the windowsill, his wren sang a melancholy song that matched what was in his soul.
    “We will meet again,” he whispered to the woman he loved.
    In his arms, her body turned hot, then slowly crumbled to ash, just as he had seen in a divination. Wind from somewhere came and spread her ashes, leaving nothing but dust in his hands—even the quartz pendant was gone—and on the floor, by his knee, a metal ring. Picking it up, he saw the triscale—the gems. With a start, he realized what it was. It was the first key to the prophecy, the amulet.
    As he pocketed it, Cliodna sang out a warning, which he quelled with a dark look. It was a part of Rowan, and he would surrender nothing.

    “Raven,” Suriel murmured, “come with me.”
    Bran motioned for them to follow Suriel up a long, darkened path that wound uphill. At the top, Suriel stopped and gazed down at the little chapel. “A house of mourning. A garden of pain.” Suriel’s hand encompassed the manicured gardens that shone in the moonlight before he motioned to the set of trees behind him. “A path of tears.”
    Bran gazed at the angel, and Rhys began to understand. “The cemetery is beyond those trees.”
    “And where there is a cemetery, there is statuary.”
    Everyone began running, all but Rhys and Bronwnn who stood on the hilltop and held each other. Silently they watched the chapel, waiting for Keir to emerge.
    When Rhys saw the little white butterflies begin to circle around them, he knew something had happened. Beside him, Bronwnn gasped.
    “ Dealan-De ,” she whispered. “Butterflies. Souls of the dead, and the keepers of power. No harm will come to you where you see butterflies.”
    And Rhys knew it for the truth. Butterflies were the souls of the dead. Rowan was gone, and Keir’s anguish tore through him, making him stagger.
    In the distance, he heard Bran’s cry of triumph. Carden had been found. But the joy was short-lived, for Rhys was suddenly consumed with the wraith’s need for vengeance, with a rage that swamped him and forced him to his knees. Bronwnn cried out and embraced him. But Keir had no one to hold him; no one to comfort him as Rowan lay dead in his arms.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

    Rhys stared out the window and into the moonlit garden. It had been two weeks since they had found Carden, still cursed and encased in stone. Two weeks had passed since Rowan’s death, and Keir had locked himself into his room, refusing to see anyone.
    “You must eat something,” Bronwnn whispered as she came up behind him and wrapped her arms around him.
    Holding her hands, he dropped a kiss onto her knuckles. “I will.”
    “You worry for the wraith.”
    “I hate to see him this way.”
    “You don’t have to.”
    Cailleach had lifted his curse, which had severed the bond between him and Keir. But although their bond was fading, Rhys could still hear Keir’s thoughts and feel his pain. He was alone in that room, refusing to see anyone—even him.
    “Go to him,” she