Mists of Velvet

given females, which was nice, considering the intimate nature of the bond between them.
    But Rhys’ wraith was a male. The universe, he was sure, enjoyed shitting on him.
    Be that as it may, Rhys relied on Keir’s almost constant presence to keep him safe from a curse that had spanned two centuries, and Keir’s survival depended on Rhys’ feeding him. At first, Keir had survived on Rhys’ emotions—good or bad. But with the onset of puberty, the wraith had come to crave emotions less and less, and sexual energy more and more. And, strangely enough, it didn’t bother Rhys. Their relationship was more than that of a protector and a protected. They had a deep bond, and if Keir needed to survive by sharing some hot sex with him and a woman, then so be it.
    A fucked-up relationship for certain, but it was what it was. Besides, within the walls of Velvet Haven there was no end to female companions who dug the whole threesome thing.
    Things had been going well, as they had from day one when Keir had parked his ass by Rhys’ cradle. Business as usual—well, as usual as it could be for a Shadow Wraith and a mortal descended from faeries. But two weeks ago, the usual had been butchered by a sadistic ritual killer who had the fucking nerve to carve up his last victim outside Rhys’ club. Throw in some dark magick, a pissed-off Sidhe king, and a dangerous fallen angel—that was the new normal.
    Shaking his head, Rhys sank into his chair and scanned the papers that littered his desk. He was as much in the dark as he had been two weeks ago, when the murder happened. All he knew was there was a killer using death and sex magick, both in Annwyn and here in the mortal realm. The rest of the information was kindly spared him because he was “just” a mortal.
    Not just, Rhys thought as he wiped his hands over his face. Because no other mortal he knew had a Shadow Wraith protector, or lived under a curse. Nor could any mortals he knew of boast that his great-uncle was the Sidhe king and coruler of Annwyn.
    Of course, in the king’s eyes he was just a pain-in-the-ass relative with no powers to exploit and no brains to solve anything magical.
    He’d expected that out of Bran, but he hadn’t expected it out of Keir. In all the thirty years Keir had been keeping Rhys alive, they’d never had secrets between them. This odd behavior wasn’t like Keir.
    Fighting his second headache of the day, Rhys reached for that morning’s copy of the Examiner . He had a few hours yet before the club opened. Once it did, he would be busy monitoring the goings-on between the immortals and mortals in Velvet Haven. But for now, he had some time to kill. Maybe the solitude would settle his nerves and allay the gut feeling he had about Keir.
    Flicking open the paper, he scanned the headlines, then flipped to the sports page where he searched for the results of his favorite teams. At the back of the sports section came the classifieds and the obits. Normally, he didn’t read them, but this morning there was a picture of a woman that sent chills down his spine.
    Trinity Fergus—she had been the girl murdered outside his club two weeks ago. It was an “in memorium” write-up, and Rhys grimaced when he read that she had been only twenty-one when the psycho butchered her.
    There was a mention of an ongoing murder investigation, but Rhys knew the cops would not be able to solve this case. While he didn’t know who the culprit was, he knew what he was. He also knew the devil didn’t leave prints. This case would go cold. There would be no satisfaction for Trinity’s family.
    Skipping over the other obituaries, he came across some photos of happy couples in wedding announcements and silver-anniversary notices—not something he’d ever be putting in the paper. What woman would marry a guy who lived with another guy? A guy who was attached to him like Velcro? Yeah, not happening. Rhys knew his fate—a series of kinky chicks who liked getting it on with two guys; a life of one-night stands and no-strings-attached sex.
    He’d long given up the hope that maybe he could live like a normal man with marriage, kids, pot roast on Sundays. He had only to look at his own parents to know the unlikelihood of happily ever after. His mother couldn’t hack it—the secrets, the feeling that his father was cheating on her with his “best friend,” his Shadow Wraith. Maybe if his dad had come clean, she could have stuck it out, but coming clean about