Sorcha remained in her time portal until her magic was too thin to support her there for much longer. As usual, she had no idea where she’d come out, but she’d landed in enough spots, blending in shouldn’t prove a problem. She’d have to find clothes to match wherever she was, but at least Rhea hadn’t followed her.

And she’d done a good thing, saved Daria and her babe. The expenditure of power had been her undoing, but it had been worth it. A frisson of sorrow tracked down her spine. She’d miss Karl and his wife and children. Hell, she’d miss her job at the Wild Pig.

I was thinking about leaving, she reminded herself.

Yeah, but not seriously.

Besides, leaving under her own volition—as opposed to being forced to flee—held an entirely different flavor. Coercion left a bitter taste in her mouth, not that she’d ever had the luxury of leaving anywhere because she wanted to.

Except Hell.

Her casting developed grayish edges. Time to prepare for the inevitable. She cloaked herself in magic to ensure she was invisible. Nothing like popping into the middle of a bunch of superstitious humans. She’d only made that mistake once. It had cost her six months in a dungeon. One of the jailers had taken pity on her, and she’d struck a bargain.

Her body for her freedom. He’d thought she’d stick around forever, but she’d run as soon as she’d fulfilled her end of their pact.

After all, she was nothing if not an honorable demon.

She cut her journey through memory lane short and concentrated on cushioning her fall with still more magic. Her entry was all but silent; she was certain of it. A quick glance revealed a sizable cavern.

Filled with Druids.

A closer appraisal revealed three witches.

Sorcha shrugged. Better than a cave full of clerics by a country mile. The Druids’ garb and speech patterns were modern, which clued her in which accent to use—assuming she found a way out of the cave. The group appeared intent on a discussion involving Roskelly witches.

Sorcha swallowed a snort. What a surprise. Her kinswomen were known far and wide as badass bitches. If they weren’t after her, too, she’d have taken a wee bit of pride in being one of them.

And now, I’m just wasting time.

She eyed the cave’s entrance. She might have half a chance of sneaking out, but it meant threading through small groups of Druids with little room to spare. If any of them were sharp, they’d pick up on her magic as she slithered past. Her bird tightened its hold on her shoulder but didn’t say anything. It understood full well squawking would be a very bad idea since it would crack her invisibility illusion.

Telepathy would probably give them away too, with its expended magical signature.

She blew out a quiet breath, weighing her options.

She could remain until the Druids—and witches—left. Surely, they didn’t live here. It was the wisest course, the most prudent, but she’d never had much patience. Besides, remaining in one spot held its own set of problems. If anyone was quick on the uptake, they’d recognize her small area of the cave felt different.

The witch with coal-black hair twisted to stare right at her out of green eyes. She hissed menacingly before gritting out, “What was that?”

Sorcha cringed. She shouldn’t have remained still so long.

Too late now. If she feinted in either direction, the witch who’d zeroed in on her would cut through her warding like a hot knife through wax.

“What was what, darling?” the male Druid next to her inquired, not sounding overly worried. He had a head full of brown curls and whiskey-colored eyes.

“Ssht.” She jerked her chin at where Sorcha stood. “Something’s here. I felt it.”

The male Druid who hadn’t sounded concerned spun to face Sorcha. Another man joined him. Both cast magic right at her. It stung when it connected. “Show yourself,” the dark-haired Druid bellowed. “Now.”

All her senses on high alert, Sorcha pumped out power. Not that she had much left after her precipitous flight through time. From the corner of her eye, she saw a peregrine falcon fly out of a tunnel and take a ringside seat. A quick blast of power confirmed it wasn’t really a bird.

If she hadn’t been trapped, she’d have been far more curious. As it was, the falcon could have been the devil incarnate. It wasn’t her primary problem.

She eyed the tunnel. Was it a way out? Continuing to produce diversionary magic shot with color, she edged toward the passageway. If she could only reach it, maybe she could outrun this bunch.

Maybe.

Her magic fizzled and sputtered. Colors rose and fell. She was tiring fast, but the Druids couldn’t know that.

When the witches joined forces with the two Druids targeting her, Sorcha understood she was outgunned. The power bombarding her thickened with compulsion until she had a tough time breathing.

She was beaten, but she’d be damned if she’d cower before these uptight bastards. They weren’t monks. They had magic of their own. Perhaps they’d let her walk out of the cave. The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed. After all, they had bigger problems to solve than her.

“Ready?” she asked her familiar. No reason to waste magic on telepathy.

“Never readier,” it cawed.

Sorcha dropped the tatters of her illusion and strode forward, standing tall. Shoulders straight, breasts high.

“Who are you?” The dark-haired Druid’s voice carried through the cave. “I command you—”

“Stuff it.” Sorcha waved a weary hand and narrowed her eyes to annoyed slits. “Goddamned Druids. You could have left well enough alone, but did you? Oh hell, no.”

The second redheaded witch stepped toward her, eying her closely. “You’re one of us,” she pronounced.

“Us as in?” Sorcha resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. “Look, I have no idea where I am. I was running from one of my relatives who has it in for me. The best way to do that is time traveling. I wish you no ill will. Just let me leave, and—”

“Christ on a crooked cross.” The witch who’d identified her as “one of us” ran right up to her, probing with magic all the while. “I’ll be goddamned. You’re Yanna’s daughter.”

Sorcha swallowed shock but recovered fast. “You win a kewpie doll. Now can I leave?”

The witch moved with ungodly speed and gripped her upper arm hard. “You’re my sister.” She shook her head, disbelieving. “You must have been born after Mother ended up in Hell.”

“That would explain the demon blood I sense.” The dark-haired witch joined the one who had Sorcha’s arm in a death grip. She drew her dark brows into a single line. “Whose side are you on?”

“My own,” Sorcha replied tartly and jerked her arm free. “Can I leave now?”

A large black raven took shape and flew to Sorcha’s bird, touching beaks. Both rose into the air and proceeded to circle the room in a graceful aerial ballet.

An owl joined them. And then an eagle emerged and winged toward the other birds. Sorcha tried not to stare. She’d never met another witch familiar before, and here were four in the same room.

“Get back here,” she ordered her bird, still intent on leaving.

“Soon.” It flew near enough to brush her cheek with its wingtip. “These are old friends.”

“No one is going anywhere,” the dark-haired Druid said in a no-nonsense tone. “Not until we sort this out.”

Sorcha sent an appraising glance his way. He was clearly the group’s leader. Would fucking him be her ticket out of here? He was comely enough, it wouldn’t be a chore. Not at all. Judging from the way the one witch clung to him, though, that might not work. Both wore shiny new rings, which didn’t bode well. New loves were the worst. No time to become disillusioned.

The two ravens had flown to where the peregrine perched, cawing at it. She made a rude, snorting sound. Of course the familiars would recognize the falcon for what it was.

Not a bird.

She stole a glance at the tunnel. Maybe now was a time to make a run for it, while everyone’s attention was on the falcon.

“Tavin?” The curly-haired male Druid sounded skeptical.

What happened next was even more astonishing. Sorcha didn’t know what she’d expected, but she didn’t anticipate the magic sheeting from the falcon would spit out a man. Druid by the feel of him, his copper hair was braided close to his head in many small plaits that fell to mid-chest level.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he had muscles to burn. They slabbed his chest and shoulders and wound down his arms. A flat stomach led to powerful legs with a deliciously shaped phallus hanging between them.

Sorcha shook herself. She should be making good on her escape, not staring at the best-formed man she’d seen in years. Just looking at him made her juices flow and her nipples harden.

Colorful magic had no sooner stopped pulsing around the man who could shift into a falcon when he stood tall, surveyed the crowd with green eyes, and asked, “Could someone toss me a cloak?”

“Aye, but only if ye tell us how ye ended up able to shapeshift,” the dark-haired Druid said in Gaelic.

Several garments flew through the air, landing at the man’s feet. He selected a dark green cloak and slung it around his shoulders, pulling it together in front.

Sorcha wanted to scream at him not to cover himself. She’d been enjoying the play of muscles beneath tanned skin. His hands were large and calloused, working man’s hands. But why would he need to work? He could hunt and eat as a bird.

As a laggardly afterthought, she focused on what the one redheaded witch had said. Apparently, Yanna was her mother too.

Which meant she had a family. She’d never considered such a thing. All her demon father had done was donate sperm—and put her to work. Yanna had been worthless from Sorcha’s earliest memories of her.

The thought of family was tantalizing and disgusting at the same time. Sorcha cleared her mind of all of it. So what if the witch was her sister? It took more than blood to create family ties.

The Druids closed ranks around Tavin—assuming the other Druid got his name right—peppering him with questions. It looked to Sorcha like a good time to leave. Magic would draw attention to her, so she edged nearer the tunnel, stopping every few steps. The raven would follow her. It always did.

She was close now. Only a few meters to go, and she could duck into the dark passageway. She mouthed a small prayer—odd for a demon—she’d locate an exit point. Even if she didn’t, she could teleport out of most anywhere.

Light flashed and flared, and the scent of witch magic, bursting with vanilla, musk, and herbs surrounded her. She blinked against the sudden glare. When she opened her eyes, all three witches blocked her path.

The one who’d identified herself as Sorcha’s sister extended a hand. “I’m Gloria.”

“And I’m Liliana, her daughter,” the raven-haired witch said.

“Katerina here. Liliana’s daughter,” the other witch with russet tresses chimed in.

Sorcha stared at Gloria’s outstretched hand. Was it a trick? What would happen if she touched the other woman?

Gloria dropped her hand to her side. “We won’t hold you against your will.” Her tone was brisk. “But I’m excited to know I have a sister.”

“How’d you escape from Hell?” Liliana cut in.

Gloria shot her a sharp look. “Mind your manners. We don’t even know her name yet.”

“Yeah, like comportment has ever been one of your long suits,” Liliana carped back.

Sorcha smothered a grin.

“Would the two of you stop it?” Katerina rolled her eyes. Leaning closer to Sorcha, she said, “They’re always like this. One-upmanship to the max. You came a long way. My guess is nineteenth century, maybe around 1865 or thereabouts.”

Sorcha sucked in a startled breath. “Close, but how’d you know?”

Katerina shrugged. “Your clothing. I’m an anthropologist, and I’ve studied Scotland nine ways from Sunday. This isn’t your first trip to modern time, is it?”

Sorcha shook her head. “Nope. When I first escaped Hell, I ended up in 1962. Been bouncing around ever since.”

“How long is that, dear?” Liliana asked.

“Not sure. At least fifty years. Maybe a little more.”

“What’s your name?” Gloria asked.

“Sorcha.” She hesitated before adding, “Roskelly.”

The birds fluttered near, each taking up a position on the witch they belonged to, cooing like a flock of doves.

Her bird was happy, and its joy thickened Sorcha’s throat with emotion.

“Well, Sorcha Roskelly, sister mine, how’d you end up here?” Gloria’s voice was softer. She may have added a touch of compulsion, but Sorcha wasn’t certain.

“I used my magic to save a woman and her baby. It must have acted as a beacon because when I was walking back to my bed, I felt Rhea shooting toward me really fast. All I had time to do was cast a spell and run.”

“Mmph.” Katerina snorted. “She wants me to serve as a broodmare and perpetuate the Roskelly witch line. Why does she want you?”

Sorcha snorted right back. “Why else? For my demon blood. It’s quite a draw. They assume I’m even blacker than they are.”

“But you’re not. Not if you used your power to save two lives,” Gloria said.

Something about her words, their warmth and supportiveness, caught Sorcha by surprise. She’d been on her own practically since birth. Emotional validation was a foreign concept. She inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. “What do you want with me?”

“To get to know you,” Gloria replied in the same sincere tone.

“Why? I’m nothing to you.”

“Not true.” Liliana beat Gloria to the draw. “We”—she made an inclusive gesture with one hand—“are the only White Roskelly Witches in existence. You make a fourth. I’d say it’s a pretty important discovery.”

“One worth exploring,” Gloria added, “since it increases our numbers by 33 percent.”

“We’d love you to consider being part of our family. I mean, you already are since we share blood, but it takes more than blood to create family bonds. I’m sure we’ll seem strange to you at first, but our hearts are in the right place,” Liliana said, punctuating her words with a warm smile.

“Besides, you’d be our guest, and you could leave anytime,” Katerina chimed in. “Won’t you please stay a little while? We’re here to hatch up a plan to wipe Rhea and her hideous sisters off the map once and for all. I bet you’d be quite an asset in our fight.”

Sorcha had stopped listening after Katerina’s bald assertion about leaving anytime. “Say that again. The part about me being free to go.” She planted herself in front of Katerina and draped a truth spell between them. It shone and shimmered, floating in the air.

A surprised look bloomed on Katerina’s face, but she nodded and said, “I make you a vow you can leave anytime you wish. Arlen is the Arch Druid and my husband. I’ll make certain he honors our agreement.”

The silvery netting brightened, reacting to truth in Katerina’s words.

Sorcha reeled in her casting. Confusion reigned. She’d always worked alone wielding power. Always. She’d never been part of any group magic by design. Always an outsider. Always hanging about on the sidelines. It kept things simple. No one had ever disappointed her since she’d kept her expectations nonexistent.

“I don’t know.” Her gaze swept from one witch to the next. Sincerity shone from them. It felt genuine, and it kindled an odd sensation behind her breastbone. She’d stopped hoping for breaks before she was five years old, yet these women were willing to take a chance on her.

“You don’t know me. At all. Why would you risk it? For all you know, I’m masking my true intentions with demon magic.”

“You could be,” Gloria agreed. “But if you were evil, you wouldn’t have a familiar. They don’t bind themselves to darkness.”

Sorcha cocked her head to one side. She hadn’t known that little tidbit. Probably a whole lot about being a witch she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if she’d had much of a teacher.

“Is our mother still alive?” Gloria asked, the corners of her eyes pinched with pain.

“She was when I left, but she might not be now. For all I know they killed her for letting me escape.”

Liliana dropped a hand on her mother’s shoulder in wordless support. The simple gesture underscored the wasteland Sorcha’s life had been. She’d told herself she didn’t need anyone, but it was a reaction to being alone. It made her solitude if not palatable, then at least bearable.

Arlen hurried to where they stood. He extended a hand in Sorcha’s direction. “I’m Arlen MacGregor. Pleased to meet you.”

Sorcha hesitated before grasping his hand. “Sorcha Roskelly.”

His eyes widened, and he directed his next words at Gloria. “So you were right about her being your sister?”

Gloria thinned her mouth into a harsh line. “Of course I was.”

Arlen held up a hand. “Sorry. No offense meant. The goddess dropped Sorcha into our midst for a reason. Tavin as well, but we need you to join the group discussion.”

“Tavin is the one who was a peregrine falcon?” Liliana asked.

Arlen nodded. “Aye. Tavin Shaw. He’s also a Druid, but rather than disclose his unheard-of shifting ability, he dropped out of sight and has been working as a blacksmith over on the Isle of Lewis.”

“How come you never saw him there?” Katerina asked. “You’ve visited the standing stones.”

A corner of Arlen’s mouth twisted downward, and he replied in Gaelic. “I dinna see him because he dinna wish to be seen.” He draped an arm across Kat’s shoulders. “Come on. We need a bulletproof plan. Everyone gets a voice.”

He walked back toward the center of the cavern with Katerina by his side.

“Well?” Gloria caught Sorcha’s gaze and held it.

The raven bent and stroked its beak across her cheek, its way of urging her to say yes. Maybe it was her bird weighing in that turned the tide, but she nodded once, sharply. “So long as we’re clear I can be gone whenever I wish, I’ll give this a chance.”

Gloria smiled softly. “You won’t regret it.”

“No way for you to know that,” Sorcha shot back.

“She’s a hell of a one for making assumptions,” Liliana agreed. “Damnable part is they almost always come true.” She patted Sorcha’s upper arm. “Welcome to the Coven, Auntie.”

“What Coven?” Gloria looked askance at her daughter.

“Why the one we’re about to form,” Liliana answered blandly. “Looks to me like there are enough of us, and the familiars all know one another. There’s power in conjoined magic, and we’ll need every edge we can lay our hands on.”

“Liliana!” A man’s voice rose over the din of many voices.

“Chop. Chop.” Gloria clapped her hands. “Your beloved calls.”

Liliana mock punched her mother’s shoulder. “You’re just jealous.”

“Hell yes, I am. I’d love a young stud gracing my bed.”

“Christ, Mother. He’s older than you by a couple hundred years.”

“Figure of speech my dear.”

Hooking a hand beneath Sorcha’s arm, Gloria walked toward the sprawling group. Sorcha’s first impulse was to pull away. She didn’t like people touching her, but Gloria was her sister.

I don’t have to be alone anymore. Not if I don’t want to be.

The realization was heady. Almost as heady as her brief glimpse of Tavin’s sculpted body. What had Arlen said? That it was divine intervention—the goddess’s will—that had landed her in this cavern with these people. She’d never believed in such things. Always considered them so much tripe.

For the first time ever, she let herself hope he was right.

But if he wasn’t, she could always retreat to the tried, true, and familiar. Being alone would be harder, though, if she spent any amount of time with the other Roskelly women.

She stood straighter. She’d work things out. She always had.

If there weren’t advantages for her here, she’d strike out on her own. Get a job. And spend the next few centuries dodging Rhea and her malevolent witchy kin.

It was wise to have a Plan B, and she felt more settled as she found a spot to stand between Gloria and a small knot of Druids buzzing like a hyperactive beehive about Tavin’s startling magic.

She wanted to know more about it as well. Demon shapeshifters were common, but she’d never heard of a Druid who could alter his form. She focused a thin beam of power to make certain she heard every word. If he were truly a demon, masking evil intent, she’d ferret it out soon enough.