Mists of Velvet

Daegan had had an unnaturally long life. So long, in fact, that Daegan’s son and grandson had been forced to hide him in the mansion so that no one would question how a man who was thirty years old when he arrived from Scotland could still be alive a hundred and forty years later.
    Long life was a gift to mortals, but for Daegan, it had been just another punishment, because Daegan had been forced to endure nearly a century alone without his beloved Isobel.
    Rhys glanced up at the portrait of the couple that hung above the fireplace. Isobel was beautiful, and Daegan had the Otherworldly aura of power and presence.
    “You’ve the look of the Sidhe,” Daegan had told him when he was only six. “You’re the first of my line to do so. Here, let me look at you.”
    He had taken Rhys’ chin in his wrinkled, gnarled hand and gazed upon him with his violet eyes.
    “Sidhe blood runs strong in you. You look very much like me.”
    Rhys had been horrified, of course, because what he saw was a wizened old man. He didn’t want to look like Great-Great-Grandfather Daegan. And the old man had laughed then, hearing his thoughts. “I once was handsome. And you will be, too. Come to me, laddie, and I will tell you of your heritage. For I believe that one day you will have need of the knowledge my stories will bring.”
    After that, Rhys would find himself in his great-great-grandfather Daegan’s room nearly every day. He told him of Annwyn, of all the different places, such as the Summerlands and Wastelands. He spoke of the reflecting pool and all the different races living in the Otherworld. But Rhys’ favorite stories were about the goddesses. Even at his young age, he had been entranced by the idea of a group of women, so beautiful and enchanting, yet filled with awe-inspiring power.
    One day, Daegan’s stories began to change. They became less like fairy tales and more like Survival 101. Rhys had been reminded of Cailleach’s curse against the firstborn sons in Daegan’s line, but he had also been informed of places where Cailleach’s power didn’t immediately reach. He’d learned that the reflecting pool would be safe, and Daegan made him memorize over and over how to get to the pool if he passed through the veil that led to Annwyn. He told Rhys about all the different animals and what they represented. He explained that certain animals sometimes allied themselves with humans; if one saw the same animal three times, he could assume the animal had chosen him and would be his guide and protector.
    And then he had given him this box, filled with talismans for his journey. He’d never expected to step foot in Annwyn, but somehow Daegan had suspected it was Rhys’ destiny.
    Opening the box now, Rhys stared down at the small piece of paper and the words written in Daegan’s hand. Remember the animals. They will be your guides.
    From the box Rhys pulled the torc and wrist cuffs, the marks of a high-ranking Celt. The torc was worn around the neck as a status symbol, but also as a talisman against evil.
    The ancient bronze was heavy in his hand, but the piece was stunning. At each end of the torc was a carved wolf head. And on each cuff was a Celtic cross with a wolf curled around the base. When Daegan had been banished from Annwyn, he had adopted the surname of his wife. MacDonald had become not only Daegan’s name but his clan. When they’d moved out of Scotland, Daegan had given his family a clan animal, and that was the wolf.
    It was fitting that Daegan had chosen the madadh-alluidh to be the clan’s animal ally, for the wolf, like Daegan, was cunning and intelligent. The wolf represented the ability to outthink hunters. It could read the signs of nature and knew how to pass by danger invisibly. It also knew how to outwit those who might do harm and to fight fearlessly when needed. The wolf was a loner that also belonged in a pack. The wolf was the right symbol for the MacDonalds and him.
    Rhys wondered why he had felt drawn to the box tonight. Maybe it was Keir and his mysterious disappearing acts these past few days. Maybe it was his own destiny calling him forth. Whatever it was, he felt something was close at hand.
    The pretty song of Keir’s wren made him look up. She was a drab little thing, her plumage a nondescript grayish brown. But Cliodna had the most enchanting song he’d ever heard. Many times he had seen Keir follow this bird on his divination journeys. But what the bird was doing here, he had no