Mists of Velvet

Angelic script appeared tattooed on his palms. The ink was blue and vibrant, and Rhys felt his gaze latch on to the strange symbols. “Life, with the left hand,” Suriel murmured. “Death with the right. If you go beyond that door, this”—Suriel held up his left hand—“cannot save you.”
    “What makes you think I’ll need saving?”
    Suriel reached out, and it took everything in Rhys not to flinch as the angel touched him. Suriel’s fingers were hot as they swept beneath the neck of his shirt. “Do you believe in this symbol, MacDonald?”
    Rhys looked down to see his necklace lying in Suriel’s hand. The ornate Celtic cross glistened against the script tattoos.
    The cross had been a baptismal gift, bequeathed to each firstborn male of the MacDonald line. Daegan had brought the cross with him from Scotland. The story went that Daegan had the cross blessed with the waters from a sacred pool in Annwyn.
    It was a protection talisman; one Rhys had never taken off.
    “Do you believe in it?” Suriel snarled. The look in his eyes was rabid.
    “I believe.”
    Although he wasn’t a churchgoing type of guy, he believed, and what was more, he had immense faith in the power of the cross he wore around his neck.
    Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Suriel lifted away from him and stepped back. Rhys heard the silky sound of Suriel’s wings scraping against the hardwood floor. “Good. Use that faith. Never let it waver. You’ll need it.”
    “What is your purpose here, Suriel? The truth.”
    “Use your head, MacDonald,” Suriel snapped. “What do I care if you go into that forsaken tunnel and get yourself butchered in Annwyn? I don’t give a shit. But He does, apparently.”
    “How did you know I planned to go into the tunnel? Maybe I just wanted to open the door and have a look.”
    Suriel snorted. “You don’t lie well. Besides, how do you think I know? He told me.”
    Rhys’ gaze dropped to Suriel’s palms. The markings were gone; erased.
    “Erased, just as you will be if you venture beyond the door. Remember that. I’ve done my duty,” Suriel growled. “Now it’s up to you, stupid human, to do what you want with the knowledge I’ve given you.”
    And then the angel was gone, disappearing before Rhys’ eyes. As he shook off the unease he felt, Rhys’ gaze was drawn to the wooden box that sat on the corner of his desk. Engraved on the lid was a Celtic cross. He’d been raised Presbyterian—the Church of Scotland—and he believed. As strange as that sounded, as fucked-up as his life was, he still believed in God and the angels, in heaven and hell. A little piece of him even believed that Suriel was telling him the truth. Annwyn didn’t want him, and if he ventured into the Cave of Cruachan, God couldn’t—or wouldn’t—help him.
    The warning was clear. But then, he’d have Keir . . .
    “You needed me?”
    Rhys looked up from the wooden box to see the wraith standing in his office.
    “How long have you been here?”
    “Long enough to hear Suriel warn you away from the cave.”
    Rhys shrugged and glanced away. “Suriel’s a fallen angel. Why would you or I believe anything he had to say?”
    “Because your God speaks through him.”
    Rhys snorted. “Yeah, right. If God spoke to Suriel, he wouldn’t be fallen, would he?”
    “The Dark Times have come to Annwyn. They’ve also come to the mortal realm. Perhaps your God is in need of Suriel’s knowledge of the seedier side of the human race. Maybe Suriel is God’s hope for humanity.”
    Rhys met Keir’s electric gaze. He had looked into his eyes a million times; yet somehow tonight they looked different. Gone were the silver eyes rimmed with violet. Now they were white like ice, edged in a darker purple that looked almost black in this light. Keir was different. He was worried about something—or someone.
    “Don’t go near the door again,” Keir commanded him. “It’s off-limits.”
    The wraith’s tone made him bristle. Both of them were angry and tense, and they needed an outlet for the rage. They didn’t typically use each other this way, but it was different now. They both needed to let off steam, and they were each other’s convenient whipping post. “I’m not five anymore!”
    Keir crossed his thick forearms over his chest. The divination symbols that ran up his hands and arms began to glow softly.
    “Do not think of putting any sort of magical spell on me,” Rhys snarled. “I mean it, Keir. You think