Mists of Velvet

idea. She belonged to Keir.
    “I don’t know where he is,” he grumbled as he picked up the cuffs and placed them on his thick wrists. The bronze was heavy and cool against his skin, but the cuffs felt right, and damn, they looked cool, too.
    Cliodna began to sing faster and higher, and Rhys watched her curiously as he placed the torc around his neck. The wolf heads rested against his collarbone, fitting him perfectly.
    Rhys waited to feel the magic. Nothing came to him. He wasn’t certain if it was supposed to feel like a lightning bolt, or something more subtle, like a tingle of warmth. But the truth was, he didn’t feel shit.
    Maybe Daegan had really been insane. Those old stories and everything? Maybe it was geriatric dementia talking.
    The wren really began warbling out a song, which sounded almost—angry? It couldn’t be. But when Rhys looked at her, she flew off the arm of a chair and did a low buzz over his head, pulling some of his hair with her small talons.
    “All right,” he grumbled. “I’ll go with you.”
    He followed the bird out into the dark hall. It was suppertime, and all the help was busy eating before Velvet Haven opened. The hall was abandoned.
    Instead of taking him upstairs where he and Keir lived in the old part of the mansion, Cliodna guided him down the stairs and to the right, which led to the basement.
    Suddenly he knew where they were going.
    Cliodna’s warbling instantly stopped as she hovered by the corner. Her wings flapped excitedly, and he tore his gaze from her and stared at the spot. There was nothing there.
    He was about to leave, when something caught the corner of his eye . . . Smoke? No, not smoke, but something resembling vapor, like fog. It hovered, thinning and spreading out as it pressed up tight against the ceiling where it stilled for a few seconds before gathering into a tight mass and funneling down to the floor just like a tornado.
    Once the vapor and fog dissipated, Rhys saw Keir transform from shadow to man.
    Now, this was interesting. Keir had no reason to transform into a wraith here. Everyone who worked in the club knew what he was—an immortal. He moved freely between Annwyn and the mortal realm; no one questioned it. So why was he hiding the fact that he was going into Annwyn?
    And why the hell was he wearing his ceremonial robe?
    Pressing deeper into the shadows, Rhys watched as Keir pulled the hood of the purple robe over his head. Keir almost never wore the robe, or the quartz amulet that he was wearing like a necklace.
    Rhys knew that each branch of magic had a robe of power and an amulet. The robes were different colors, signifying their particular magical powers. Keir’s quartz amulet and purple robe represented his powers of divination. Both the robe and the amulet were worn during ceremonies, whether magical or spiritual; yet Rhys had never known Keir to don either of them in order to perform divinations. In truth, Keir generally practiced magic naked.
    A strange combination of fear and overwhelming curiosity consumed him. Keir was standing at the portal to Annwyn in a ceremonial robe, his head covered, palms raised, and a soft incantation filling the small, dark space between them. What the fuck was going on?
    A white light suddenly appeared around the door, and silently it opened, just enough so that Keir could slip through. As the wraith’s satin robe slipped beyond the threshold, Cliodna’s wings clipped frantically against Rhys’ shoulders.
    Rhys’ instincts were to ignore the mental shove the wren was giving him and to return to his study. But his damned mortal curiosity got the better of him, and he lunged for the door as it began to close. He made it—barely—before the heavy oak door slammed behind him.
    He expected it to be black. But the Cave of Cruachan was lit on both its stone sides by black iron sconces that looked like something out of a medieval movie. Symbolic drawings covered the walls. Some looked Pictish, and some Celt. There were animals and trees and other things that looked far more sinister—pentagrams, snakes, the number of the beast, and an inverted cross. He was definitely out of his element here—a stranger in a forbidden, forbidding world.
    Rhys took a step, and then another. He heard nothing—not even Keir’s footsteps against the stone floor.
    A few more steps, and he was at a crossroads. He could go straight, or he could take one of two tunnels—one to the left and one to the right. Both tunnels