Mists of Velvet Read Online Free PDF Page B

angry as hell that Suriel knew of it. The bastard laughed as he sank into a plush velvet wingback. It was an antique, but with typical Suriel indifference, he sprawled out his large frame and swung one leg over the chair’s arm.
    “All alone? Where is your little friend?”
    Keir was hardly little, but Suriel liked to amuse himself by insulting the immortals who staffed the club, as well as Bran and Rhys.
    Rhys sank into his own chair and carefully adjusted his denim-covered cock beneath the privacy of his desk. Man, he was still hard. Forget the dream, he thought, and deal with Suriel. That would call for his undivided attention.
    “You’re like the Grim Reaper, Suriel, popping up at the most inopportune times. I thought you were in hiding, or was that just another one of your lies?”
    Suriel flashed him a false grin. “Hiding with my tail between my legs isn’t my thing. I prefer to fight with guns blazing and balls out.”
    Rhys snorted. Guns? Not Suriel’s choice of weapon, not when he possessed untold powers in his elegant fingertips. Now, balls out, he could buy. Suriel didn’t give a shit about anything, or anyone—most especially the mortals he was supposed to love and guide. In fact, Rhys would bet, Suriel didn’t really care if he himself existed or died. There was something tortured in his black eyes; something that told of unspeakable pain. But Suriel would never admit that.
    “So, where have you been hiding?” Rhys inquired. “Bran has been looking for you.”
    Suriel picked a speck of dirt off his coat and flung it onto the carpet. “Oh, here and there. Nothing permanent. I prefer to be nomadic. And if I wanted the crow to find me, I would have left a trail of bread crumbs.”
    Rhys could just imagine what his arrogant great-uncle would think if he heard himself being referred to as a crow. Still, Bran wasn’t here, and Rhys could use Suriel’s unexpected appearance to learn more. Not that Bran would thank him for the assistance.
    “So, while you have been . . . nomadic, what have you been doing?”
    “Facilitating a few mortal souls to their maker. Nothing too exciting. You?”
    Rhys did not feel a moment of ease at Suriel’s flippant attitude. “Just trying to keep my club going. That business with Trinity caused a huge problem with the cops.”
    “They’re not going to solve the case, MacDonald. It’s beyond them. It’s up to Bran and his merry men to do that. Speaking of merry men, where is the Shadow Wraith?”
    What the hell did Suriel want with Keir?
    “I thought you were all-knowing, Suriel,” he muttered while he cleared the papers from his desk and placed them in a drawer. “Why don’t you tell me where he is?”
    Suriel’s amused gaze flickered to his face. “You flatter me, MacDonald. But the truth is, upon occasion some facts elude me. I’m afraid this time is one of them.”
    “Bullshit.”
    Suriel shrugged. “Believe what you like.”
    “I will. And I believe that you’re here to stir up shit—again.”
    Suriel’s smile was a blend of cynical amusement and deviousness. “And why do you think that? I am fallen, not evil.”
    “Doesn’t that mean the same thing? You sinned and lost your wings, didn’t you?”
    “No, I still have those. They’re just black now.”
    Rhys leaned back in his chair and regarded the angel sitting before him. Tall. Well built. Hair that was thick and shoulder length, the color a dark brown—almost black. His eyes were dark, too, fathomless. Rhys didn’t like to look too long into Suriel’s eyes. It was the one thing in the world he feared—what he would find in Suriel’s black eyes. No doubt there was nothing but death and terror to be found inside this particular fallen angel.
    What had been his sin? Rhys wondered, not for the first time. What powers had God gifted Suriel? And what made him take them away?
    Suriel pressed forward, his eyes growing darker with hatred. “You want to know what I did? I got laid.” Suriel