Velvet Haven (22 page)

She looked back after she covered her body with a thick towel. The bird was watching her with his rapacious gaze.

Thank you for feeding me, Mairi,
she heard Bran say.

Then, to her amazement, the bandage fell away from its wing and the bird flew from the room.

Bran knew he had to leave. Staying in Mairi’s home was too dangerous.
She
was dangerous. Yet he felt his newly shored magic weaken at the thought of never seeing her again.

He had stayed in bird form for the rest of the day, content to stay in his cage watching Mairi and allowing his hunger to grow. She tried to feed him again, more bread, but this time from her palm. He didn’t have the heart to refuse her, so he had lowered his head and gently fed from her hand, the act as pleasurable as sex. The bond even stronger.

He had not needed food. But how could she know that what he had witnessed in the shower, combined with the lightning he had harnessed, had given him the fuel he needed?

That incredible shower scene. Bran closed his eyes, willing the memory to life. In his mind, he’d taken her to Annwyn, to his Sacred Space, and placed her on his altar. She was spread, ready for him, gentle raindrops pebbling on her skin. It was no surprise that in his fantasy it had been raining; water was his favorite element. What he hadn’t known was how damn perfect Mairi would look in his grove, splayed on his altar. She’d been regal as a queen—his queen. The feelings the thought evoked frightened him,
still
frightened him, he reminded himself. There was no place for Mairi in Annwyn, and no place for him in her world.

Still, considering they were two souls destined to live apart, she was incredibly bewitching and powerful. Watching her bring herself to orgasm in the shower had provided enough energy to fuel his magic. It had never been that way before. Watching had never been enough. It had taken hours and hours of sexual intercourse to gain what he needed. But with Mairi, it was different. His curse was not acting as it usually did.

More reason to fear, to escape.

Nothing was clear. Everything about her was shrouded in mystery. His thoughts were no longer focused. She was dangerous to him, held an unnatural hold over him. A hold he must sever if he was to go forward and find Carden and put an end to the dark magick before it overtook Annwyn. A hold that could very well be his undoing.

His brother and the Dark Mage. That had been his purpose for coming to Velvet Haven and lurking amongst the mortals. It had not been to forge a relationship with a human. A beautiful, lovely human he could no longer deny he wanted to bring back with him to Annwyn.

Sitting on the end of her bed, he watched her sleep, memorizing the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the way the air passed through her lips that he wanted to kiss. Just thinking about what he’d seen in the shower made him hot. Christ, he wanted her. Even more than last night in Velvet Haven when he had yearned to penetrate her, to feel her body hungrily grasp him. He had wanted more than a magical connection with her.
Still wanted it.

Their shared fantasy had been enough to fill him magically, but physically it had been a tease. His mind was satiated, while his body still hungered.

The connection they shared was unique. To be able to enter her dreams was a new experience for him. To know that they had been dreaming about each other for weeks now was at once arousing yet unnerving. Because even though he wanted her, he knew what she was. His murderer.

Reaching out, he trailed his fingers along her silken cheek. She’d brought him home, protected him, healed him, and in the process she had softened a place inside him, making it her own.

She’s a mortal,
he reminded himself. Not to be trusted. She was, most likely, the human who was prophesized would kill him. He should be slaying her now, in her bed, letting her blood spill out onto the sheets, never to awaken again—never able to destroy him.

In his heart he knew she was the woman in the death prophecy. His nemesis. His murderer. Yet as he looked at her he could not fathom Mairi taking a blade to him. She was too kind, too sweet to take a life, whether mortal or immortal.

As he watched her sleep, he knew he should be deciding on a plan to thwart her attempt. An attempt that would soon come. Why? How? The questions burned in his mind. But when he touched her cheek, they dissolved like mist. He knew then he didn’t want the answers. He was bigger and stronger than she was. When—if—she came to him, he could fight off an attack. There was no reason to end her life now. She had saved his life.

And how would he repay her? Slay her while she was asleep to prevent a future event that might never take place? He couldn’t. It went against everything he was. He was honorable. He did not kill his enemies in their sleep like a coward. He did not kill women.

He closed his eyes and prayed to the gods of his world to please not let it be Mairi who had been created to fulfill the spell that Morgan had cast against him.

Beside her, Clancy slept, and he rubbed the dog behind his ears.

“Take care of her,” he ordered.

He hated leaving her, especially this way, but he knew if he stayed, he’d risk his very life for a chance to feel her body against his. His body inside hers. She was too much temptation, a weakness in his armor. He had much to think of, and he couldn’t do that when she was close to him.

Sighing, she curled into him, snuggling up against his hand. She looked soft and vulnerable. It would be so easy to roll her onto her back and lie down on her, kissing her awake. But Bran knew that it was time for him to leave.

His wounded arm felt heavy at his side as he released Mairi’s cheek. The few exchanges he had shared with Mairi had given him enough power to shift into his male form. Tonight he would walk the streets of this realm as a man, not fly as a bird.

And it was all thanks to this one small human he was still alive. Alive and rejuvenated in his magical powers. Bran would forever remember those moments, of tasting her skin and feeling her pleasure pulled into his body. When his Legacy Curse once more beckoned him, he would recall that feeling of desire and he would pretend that the mortal beneath him was Mairi. Everything, he feared, would always come back to her.

Despite knowing her for so short a time, Bran could honestly say that she was like no woman he had ever met—Sidhe or mortal. His life had been lonely, a solitary existence. These past days with Mairi had made him realize that. What a fucking irony, he thought, to realize something so painful, to ache to change it and find companionship, to yearn not only for a physical connection, but a spiritual bond as well. And with the one human who could kill him.

Mairi shifted, her hips sliding against the cool sheets as she stretched. Her foot came to rest against his thigh and he touched it, allowing his fingertips to graze her skin. Every little contact was like a lightning bolt to his body. She had so much power to give, and he wanted it for his own.

Why must he endure this? Was it not enough to have Morgan curse his beloved brother? Why did she have to design a curse that would destroy him?

It was not dying he feared. It was dying at the hands of a woman he wanted. A woman he . . . he could have loved.

Love.
Bran closed his eyes. It would never be his. As king of the Sidhe and coruler of Annwyn, his duty was to his people, to their safety. Love did not factor into his life. Yet when he opened his eyes his gaze fell once more on Mairi, and his heart felt as though it had been sliced through with a sword.

She had looked so right on his altar. It had been a fantasy, but he wanted so much to make it a reality.

He must go—
now
. He was falling into a dark pit with no means of escape. She had merely been an amusement, he reminded himself, a means to an end.

No. He did not care if he ever saw her again. He would not think of her. Would not recall her expression of ecstasy. His dreams
would not
be filled with her.

Standing up, he moved quietly from the bed, never turning back to look at her. Not giving voice to the desire that suddenly welled within him.

Dream of me, Mairi
, threatened to spill from his mouth, but he forced it back and left the room.

As he opened the apartment door, his gaze caught the dog’s, who had followed him out of her room. “Protect her,” he ordered. He turned to leave, when the flashing of the stereo’s display caught his attention. Reaching behind the machine, he pulled out Cailleach’s book, his thumb stroking over the triscale pressed into the leather. It was time to get back on track—to find this Dark Mage, to save Carden, to destroy Morgan. He had spent too much time with Mairi and not enough time thinking of what he should be doing.

It was fruitless to think of her. To wish for her.

Pocketing the book, Bran shut the door, feeling the heaviness of his heart that would continue to beat for eternity. Alone. Never loved. Cursed.

Walking the dark streets, Bran scanned the unfamiliar area. He wished his arm was thoroughly healed. He needed to fly, to lift himself above the buildings so he could see. As a bird, his sense of direction was better, his eyes keener. Every second he walked in the mortal realm would weaken his newly stored magic. He needed to get back to Annwyn, or at the very least, Velvet Haven.

Mindlessly he walked the two blocks to the club. From across the street he could hear the music pounding, see the neon lights flashing from inside. He could smell the sex and corruption seeping from the stone walls.

Stepping out of the shadows, he stopped at the sight of a black shape flying from the roof of the club down to the alley beside it. Immediately his pupils enlarged, swallowing up the irises, showing him the portal to Annwyn. In the gray mist, vapors rose and the scent of death stung his nose. He saw a naked female, kneeling, neck and ankles chained to a stone slab. In a circle around her, black candles had been lit. On the floor, an inverted pentagram was drawn in red—
blood
.

Her head shaved, her pale body shivering with cold, she turned her head, which rested on her knees. Her eyes were gone, replaced by black holes. On her body were carvings, symbols of Annwyn combined with angelic script. The blood that had leaked from her wounds had dried, reminding Bran of dried tears. The agony she must feel.
The terror.

Suddenly she reached out to him, her voice dry and hoarse.

“Help me,” she begged. Then something or someone pulled at the chain, silencing her. Yet she still looked at him with those black holes and he heard the world “please” whisper past him.

The vision melted away, consumed by the curled fingers of vapor. He stumbled, disgusted by the image, and wondering who the woman was. Slowly, he gained his breath, trying to burn the memory into his brain so that he could inform Cailleach, but he was robbed of all thought when his left pupil began to open and the mortal realm swam before him. He saw Mairi. Asleep. A shadow at the foot of her bed.

Suddenly a female scream echoed in the night, taking the vision from him. Before he could think what he was doing, Bran ran across the street to the alley, where he found a woman unmoving on the ground. He bent and felt the steady pulse at her throat. She had fainted. But why? He looked up, peering through the darkness that seemed to grow thicker.

The air in the alley was stagnant with the stench of decaying rubbish, rats, and the metallic tang of blood.

Quietly he rose to his feet, stepping forward, deeper into the depths of the alley. He stopped and swore when he practically bumped into Suriel, black wings spread, long black leather trench scraping against the ground.

“What the fuck?” Bran asked in disgust.

“Raven,” Suriel murmured without turning to look at him. “I see you were able to pick yourself up off that road. How’s your wing?”

Bran ignored him and stepped closer. Suriel lifted his palms and illuminated the scene with his heavenly light. Now Bran could clearly see the two bodies pinned against the bricks in a mockery of a crucifixion; one was an angel—a guardian—his body limp, his white wings spread and pinned—
nailed
—to the sandy grout between the bricks. In the angel’s arms was a mortal woman who had been stripped bare. One black-heeled shoe remained on her foot, the other had fallen and landed in a pile of old newspapers and a grisly pool of her own blood. Her body had been desecrated by the same symbols that had marred the youngling Sidhe. Around her neck, Bran noticed a silver cord that glistened in Suriel’s light.