Velvet Haven

his chest, Bran waited for the inevitable. Just as he did every night when the moon rose and the winds stilled, he awaited his vision.
    It was a gift, this ability to divine death. It had saved many of his people over the centuries. But now his gift was more a curse. To envision his own murder, but not when or by whom, left him wondering why the universe had allowed him this warning. Why bother, when none of the information necessary to protect himself from his untimely end was given to him?
    When would his murderer arrive and who would it be? Those two questions had plagued him for months. Tonight, he would get answers.
    Listening intently, he heard the shimmering birch leaves coalesce with the whisper of wind that swept through the dark woods. Combined, the two reminded him of a woman’s sultry laugh. The sound made his body tighten with anger he found difficult to restrain. Morgan. She was the reason behind this. Even from the Wastelands her spell bound him to her.
    Bitch .
    He should have just married the witch and been done with it. Then his brother would not have been damned and lost to him. And he himself would not be carrying the Legacy Curse.
    But now was not the time to dwell on the past. It was the future that brought him here tonight. A future he must find a way to alter.
    As the minutes ticked by, the moon ascended higher in the sky, the beams creeping through oak branches, penetrating the grove slowly, a graceful arch across the black velvet that draped the altar before which he knelt. Once the silver rays illuminated the pewter chalice, filling the body of the cup, it would be midnight and time for him to die.
    The silver beam, Bran noticed, had just crept to the rim of the chalice.
    It was nearly time.
    He stilled his mind. Quieting his breathing, he gazed deep into the glow of the candles that surrounded the altar. Almost immediately, he found himself at one with the grove, the trees, the animals in the forest. The life force of the elements wove around him, wrapping around his knees, then his body, until he felt the energy on his face. He harnessed the strength, the protectiveness, of the magick circle he had created, and watched the first glimmer of moonlight sneak into the chalice.
    Seconds later, Death arrived.
    As it always did, it claimed him in its cold, unrelenting grip. The familiar imagery floated before him and he swayed, trying to search deep within for the strength to hold on and divine as much as he could from Death’s visit.
    Bran experienced the precise moment of his death, when his lungs burned and his heart slowed. He buried the panic of waiting for the last thump of his heart, and the beat of silence where another thump should have been.
    It didn’t come. Only quiet. Followed by darkness.
    He felt his soul lift, saw his physical form lying facedown upon a white cloth. His arms were spread out, his thick wrists shackled with iron manacles, his own athame plunged between his naked shoulders.
    It was always the same. Night after night. His death coming to him in a vision that never revealed any more, or less. His death by an unknown hand and in an unfamiliar place.
    The seconds of lifelessness hovered, started to fade. Air and warmth soon began to flow back into his lungs and veins. But he fought it. He was not yet ready to return to the land of the living.
    Luring the bastard back, Bran refused to fall into any other state than the deep divination trance that would bind him and Death together.
    Death had screwed him for the last time.
    Pressing his knees to the cool, mossy earth, Bran grounded himself, sending the excess elemental energy into the ground to be dispersed. Eyes now opened, he focused on the black candles and inhaled the scent of incense as Death struggled in his grip. But Bran was stronger, able to hold Death in his grasp until darkness once again descended and he was dead once more.
    Finally. This part of the journey was all new to him. He was hit by an onslaught of sensory stimulation. Scent. The smell of female arousal mixed with nightshade and male musk. Sound . The husky pant of a woman, his own heavy breaths. Touch . The sensation was everywhere, surrounding him from all sides. His sigils, which adorned his chest and arm, neck and temple, tingled with the incredible power he felt cocooning his body. Yet there was a weakness there, too. It was draining him. Making him vulnerable. Still he craved it, that haunting touch that hurt as much as it aroused.
    Sight .