Mists of Velvet

screamed as his hand suddenly grabbed her ankle. He was awake. And oh, God, he was moving toward her, using her ankle as leverage as he dragged himself closer.
    The man made no sound as he heaved his upper body up from the cold ground. Slowly, his dark head rose, until she caught a glimpse of strong lips and a masculine jaw. The wind gusted, blowing his long hair away from his face.
    She swayed, swallowed hard, and took a step back, just as he got to his feet and unfurled his tall body. He was now standing before her, a little unsteady, but his gaze clear. She gulped, taking in his face and the beautiful eyes glistening down at her.
    She had never seen anyone like him. The entire left side of his face was tattooed with strange symbols, the sprawling marks covering his forehead, his eyelid, his cheek, all the way down to his mouth, where the corner of his lips bore the same strange marks.
    She glanced at his face and felt her body tremble at the sight.
    It was as if someone had drawn an imaginary line directly down the front of his face, purposely destroying half his beauty, while leaving the other side unmarred, a side he would have to confront every time he looked in the mirror. A side that silently whispered, “ This is how I used to be. ”
    He said nothing, just continued to look down into her face with those mesmerizing eyes of his. A shadow shifted against the trees, and her gaze darted to it. There were wings. The man’s shoulders shifted, and so, too, did the shadow behind him.
    Rowan reached out to touch him but pulled back at the last moment. The clouds above parted, allowing the smallest bit of moonlight into the forest that surrounded them. Its glow revealed what Rowan secretly feared; the marks on the angel’s face were the same symbols as those on Keir’s body.
    “My God, who are you?” she asked.
    He took a step toward her, reaching for her. “You have the look of her.”
    “Who?”
    “Your mother.”
    Rowan swallowed hard and allowed his long fingers to graze her cheek. “And wh-who are you?”
    The vision began to fade, and Rowan felt her body pulled back toward the mirror. He reached for her, and their hands and fingers just missed each other. But she heard his voice, whispering all around her.
    “I am your future.”
    She shook her head. No, it couldn’t be. Would this be the angel to take her when she died? A butterfly, its wings a startling combination of white and electric blue, flittered between them. The angel caught it in his palm and uncurled his fingers, showing her the beautiful creature.
    “You hold the key.”
    “I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered, glancing at the butterfly’s flickering wings. “I have nothing. I don’t know anything about a key.”
    “The key to the Sacred Trine. The Healer, the Nephillim, the Oracle,” he said to her. “Two born of the same womb, but not of the same man. Keep this knowledge safe.”
    The vision ended, and Rowan was sucked backward, straight through the mirror, where her soul slammed back into her body.
    “Welcome back,” Keir whispered.
    “Oh my God,” Rowan gasped as she saw the blue and white butterfly seated on her shoulder. “What the hell just happened?”
    “I believe we have just discovered a powerful ally in this prophecy.”
    “The angel?”
    “No. You.”

CHAPTER NINE

    Rhys had no idea what time it was, because he’d slept for hours after the wolf and his goddess had left him. He was thirsty and sore, and more than a bit curious about the world he now found himself in.
    He’d managed to sit up, and thankfully his head had stopped spinning and his stomach stopped lurching. He was hungry, but there was nothing in the cottage to eat or drink. Hell, he had no idea what they even ate in Annwyn. Berries and leaves? He laughed to himself. With the size of Bran and Keir, Rhys doubted there was nothing but berries on the menu.
    Did he dare try to get himself outside? His gut told him no. Soon his goddess would come back to him. Then he would question her, and he would have his answers. She would not save him, only to promptly abandon him.
    Propping himself up by the massive stone hearth, Rhys glanced down at his body. He was naked, his thighs streaked with dirt and dried blood. His chest, however, had been washed, and some green putty-type shit was covering his wounds. He had to admit that the stuff felt good, and, as he began peeling it off, he saw how his skin was beginning to heal beneath the