Velvet Haven

was a figure shrouded in black, a hood concealing his face. Only his hands were visible, and when he emerged from the shadows into the moonlight, their markings were suddenly illuminated, turning into whirls of curling lines. In his arms, he carried a woman, clearly dead.
    “There is a Judas amongst us.”
    Cailleach’s proclamation sent a ripple through the life force. Bran perceived the vibration along his skin, and the evil that seemed to gather in the grove that surrounded them. Even the candles on the altar flared.
    As Cailleach and the stranger approached the magic circle he had crafted, Bran studied the body of the woman. Her white-blond hair caressed the dark sleeve of the man’s cloak, her arms dangling at her sides. Her pale flesh, mottled in death, was marred by slashing cuts that crudely marked her arms and neck with the symbols of their world. The Lemniscate , or infinity knot as the mortals called it, was carved in the valley of her small breasts; the triscale, which was the symbol of Annwyn, was drawn above her navel. Streaks of dried blood the color of rust ran from flesh that no longer lived.
    The lifeless form the stranger cradled so protectively in his arms was that of a woman of Bran’s kind. A Sidhe. A youngling, only a few years into womanhood.
    The goddess motioned to the altar and her companion placed the youngling atop the black altar cloth. Brushing her hand over the face and chest, Cailleach blessed the lifeless body before raising her brilliant green gaze to him.
    “Like the others before her, she has been anointed by the Dark Arts.”
    Necromancy . It had returned to Annwyn after nearly two hundred years of banishment. The fact could no longer be denied that someone was practicing ancient death and sex magick. But why, when the punishment for practicing the banned art was so severe?
    “May I?”
    Nodding, Cailleach seemed to float gracefully away from the altar, allowing him to come forward. The stranger stood his ground, however, guarding the body, refusing to allow Bran to see her. “You are her Anam Cara ?” Bran asked. The man inclined his head.
    That explained his presence here and the protection energy Bran sensed radiating from the cloaked figure. The stranger was the youngling’s Soul Friend. It was the Anam Cara ’s responsibility to guide the soul through the passage of birth, life, and death.
    “Were you with her when this happened?”
    “No. It is not my purpose to change one’s path.”
    “So you did not see who did this to her?”
    The stranger shook his head. “I arrived just in time to keep her soul before it could be taken. It is here,” he said, showing Bran his hands. The illuminations glittered, nearly blinding him.
    “You do realize she is the ninth?” Cailleach asked, drawing Bran’s gaze away from the youngling’s body and the Anam Cara ’s glowing hands.
    “But the first woman. The other eight were males.”
    Cailleach met his gaze. “Is it of significance, do you think?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Bran walked the perimeter of the altar, taking in the woman from all angles. “May I?”
    Reluctantly the Anam Cara nodded, stepping just far enough away to allow Bran near the altar.
    The scent of burning flesh assailed him. On her mons, which had been shaved, a pentacle, point down, had been scratched onto her skin with the tip of something sharp. A knife? A sword? The jagged edges of flesh told him it might be from an athame, but the sacred knife of their rituals was never meant to shed blood. There was no greater insult than to use the sacred knife to cut flesh. And the significance of the pentacle? Inverted, it was pointing to the Shadowlands, otherwise known as hell to the mortals.
    Her thighs were bruised as well, the tops bloodied and smeared with sexual secretions. Both wrists and ankles bore red excoriations. She had been tied down. Spread.
    Bending closer, Bran inhaled the heavy perfume of incense. It was a cloying, oppressive aroma that coated her body. Pressing close to the woman’s mouth, he smelled the sweetness of death, but there was something else there as well. The pungent, nutty scent of thorn-apple. Parting her lips, he found the pod of thorn-apple that had been placed inside her mouth. Bran closed his eyes, imagining this youngling tied up. The dark magick rituals performed as she writhed in pleasure, unaware that her death would follow orgasm.
    “Where was she found?”
    “The Cave of Cruachan.”
    The passageway to Annwyn