Music pounded through the smoky, crowded bistro. Drums, lutes, lyres, and the inevitable bagpipes. Sorcha made her way through tight knots of men, tray balanced on her shoulder. The raven that never left her side clung to the other shoulder, talons digging deep for purchase. Laden with tankards of ale, the tray was heavy, requiring both her hands to hold it steady, one beneath and one clutching its rounded edge.

Hands groped her as she passed, but men were pigs, and it went with the territory. Serving wenches were fair game. So far, she’d escaped being tossed onto her back for sport, but only because of her magic.

And her bird. It snapped its beak sharply if a man’s hands grew too familiar.

“Aye, lassie. Bring that here,” a man with matted red hair boomed. Swathed in a spotted tartan, Liam was one of the regulars, showing up most nights for food and drink.

“Och, but ye dinna order it. If ye want some, be quick about it, and have your money out,” she retorted and twisted to drop the tray onto a nearby trestle. More hands shot out, grappling and slapping as they fought to take possession of one of the dozen jugs of spirits.

The tray emptied fast. She collected coins, dropping them into her apron pocket. A tall, dark-haired man swathed in a filthy cloak grabbed a jug and headed for the door. “Not so fast,” she called after him, but he kept right on walking.

Sorcha shrugged and whistled once, high and shrill. It was an agreed-upon signal and guaranteed the ale thief wouldn’t make it out the front door. Not in one piece, anyway. A muffled shriek, followed by a thud, confirmed he’d been caught.

The bird squawked in satisfaction from its perch.

“Ye’re a hard woman,” Liam muttered and held onto her hand a few beats too long as he placed grimy coins into it.

She tossed her head back. “And why should the innkeeper foot the bill for those who wish to drink for free?”

Liam didn’t answer, just laid claim to the last tankard. She beat a retreat to the low-ceilinged kitchens toward the rear of the Wild Pig Inn.

“Back for another round?” The proprietor transferred more ale onto the tray. Burly and blonde with kind, dark eyes, Karl was one of those rare married men who wasn’t constantly on the lookout to exercise his cock. He offered a sliver of meat to the bird, who picked it up daintily, careful not to poke a hole in his hand.

Sorcha arched her back, rubbing the lower portion, and shouldered the tray again. No reason to say much. As jobs went, this one was decent. She had a straw tick upstairs in the stable, and no one bothered her after she crawled into it each night.

She ferried another load of spirits to the common room, and then one more. As she worked, she thought about the last year. She’d been in Glasgow longer than she’d been anywhere in a long while. She’d picked 1870 on a whim, and so far it was working for her.

She’d had to do a smidgeon of work to alter her speech to blend in, but at least no one shot her odd looks anymore.

A wry smile twisted one side of her mouth downward. Men with grubby, grabby hands were an inconvenience, one she’d put up with forever if it shielded her from the Roskelly witches. After bouncing from spot to spot, traveling through time, she wasn’t under any illusions. She’d only managed to escape detection because of her demon blood. It cut both ways, though, since it made her that much more attractive to the Roskellys. Once they’d discovered her—a few months after her egress from Hell—they’d hunted her through time and borderworlds with no signs of giving up.

How long had that been?

She narrowed her eyes in thought. Maybe fifty years, but it might be as much as seventy or even eighty. She’d never totally moved beyond her tendency to ignore days, months, and years as they clipped past.

Her mother, a Roskelly witch steeped in Black Magic, had become a demon’s paramour. Sorcha had been the result. Nothing quite like being born in Hell to make her nimble—and cautious. She’d been staying one step ahead of demons since before she could walk. Lucky for her, her mixed-blood magic was more robust than theirs.

Stronger than the Roskellys’ power too, but she’d had a few very close calls. Witches were smarter than demons, by a good big bunch…

“So are ye planning to turn loose of yon tray?” Karl’s voice broke into her thoughts.

“Aye. Sorry.” She dropped it, waiting for him to fill it once again. The raven clucked quietly, sounding more like a chicken. Karl obligingly fed it more scraps.

“Ye’re shameless,” she told the bird.

“Nay. Practical,” it replied, sounding smug

This time, Karl added baskets of coarse brown bread to the tray. Good. It wouldn’t weigh quite as much. She dug through her pockets, emptying them of coin. She’d often considered hanging onto one or two, but it was bad luck to cheat those who fed you. Karl’s good nature would evaporate in a heartbeat if he suspected her of double-dealing.

And then she’d be out of both house and job. Glasgow might be sizeable as towns went, but the innkeepers all knew one another. If she dealt dirty with one, she’d be unlikely to find another position. Not without casting spells, and any obvious use of magic might give her away.

She could always set herself up selling charms and potions, but that would alert any nearby witches, something she couldn’t risk. Rather like innkeepers, witches all knew one another. And right now, the Glasgow witches had no idea she even existed.

She had a good thing going at the Wild Pig. It had provided a lengthy break from leaping through time, trading one spot for another like an escaped hostage running for her life.

“Are ye feeling a mite off?” Karl closed a hand around her upper arm to get her attention.

“Nay. Just tired. We’re near enough to closing, I’ll be fine.” She snatched up the tray and shouldered back through the wooden, swinging door and on into the common room.

No one else had tried to make off with their food or drink, no doubt deterred by the thief who’d been clubbed in the head earlier. Half a dozen more trips, and Karl strode into the common room alongside her. Raising his deep voice, he told the men they’d be closing in a quarter hour.

Last call for spirits was always busy. Breath hissed from between her teeth as the beefy Scott who guarded the door barred it for the night. Sorcha carted her empty tray back into the kitchens and stood over the sink washing tankards in tepid water.

Rather than remaining on her shoulder, the raven perched on the edge of the sink. Its presence steadied her. Normally, familiars only presented themselves after much ceremony, but this one had been earmarked for her, had somehow known when she’d slipped her bonds and left Hell. She’d been so delighted to not be alone anymore, she hadn’t questioned it. Some boons were like that. You welcomed them, accepted their presence in your life.

The bird had a good heart, and a pure, clean spirit. It had proven its worth many times over, and she’d done her damnedest to be a worthy partner.

Once she was done with the dishes, she took her food basket and nodded goodnight to Karl. Head bowed, he sat at a table totaling up the night’s take in his ledger. A lantern shed a feeble, yellow light over his efforts.

Sorcha hesitated. It would take very little to make his light shine brighter, make it easier for him to see. She hurried away before temptation got the better of her. He was human. Any display of supernatural power would scare him, and men who were scared reacted badly. He trusted her, and she’d be wise not to rock that particular boat.

She hustled out the back door, dipping her head to avoid the low lintel. The yard was always muddy because it never stopped raining in Scotland. Behind her music played, sometimes deft, sometimes halting, as tonight’s musicians experimented with new songs or different renditions of older ones. They always played for hours, sometimes all night. She’d often wondered how they got by on no sleep, but it wasn’t any of her affair.

Besides, she was worried if she dug too deep, she’d find magic of a different sort. Power that might bite back if she unearthed it. It took magic to know magic, and she kept her ability concealed.

As was its wont, the bird launched itself off her shoulder for its nightly hunt. Or perhaps it went elsewhere. It would return before morning. It always did. “Good hunting,” she called after it, keeping her voice soft.

The high, strident cries of a raptor on the move blasted her before the raven vanished into the night sky and was lost to sight.

She let herself into the stable amid the scents of horses, cows, goats, and hay. The animals kept the stout, wooden building warm. When she’d first come to live with them, they’d been restless, no doubt sensing her demon side, but she’d soothed their fears with gentle magic, and now they accepted her as one of them.

Tucking the cloth sack with her day’s allotment of food beneath one arm, she climbed the ladder to her spot under the eaves. The scents of buttered bread and roasted meat made her mouth water. Karl was liberal with what he gave her. Most nights, she ate until she was stuffed and still had something left over for the next morning.

She sat cross-legged on her bed—straw tucked into rough, cotton sacking—and dug into her meal. As she ate, she thought about…everything. Her life. Her plight. Should she remain? Should she leave? If she left, where would she go? What would happen if the Roskellys captured her?

Rhea, their de facto leader, had nabbed her once. Sorcha wondered how Rhea and her mother were related, but she’d never know, not for certain. Shared blood was the only logical explanation for how the old witch had zeroed in on her, though. That little incident had happened only a few years after she’d made good on her escape from Hell.

Aye, my escape from Hell.

She finished the first piece of bread, chewing and swallowing before starting in on a hunk of roast pork.

Her mother was almost less than worthless. She’d lost her mind, wandering in dark places Sorcha could only guess at. The few times she’d commanded Yanna’s attention and asked how to leave Hell, her mother had first shushed her and then laughed like a mad thing.

Sorcha’s take-home message had been that no one ever left Hell, except maybe the demons who ran the place. It had given her an idea, though, a starting place. She’d taken to shadowing a few of them, watching how they came and went.

She’d been patient, spent time practicing their incantations. Her hated demon blood had been her salvation. She’d needed it to cast the same spell, the one that opened Hell’s gates. The day they’d parted at her behest, she’d stood before them, dumbstruck, losing precious moments before running like the wind, not caring what was on the other side.

Free. I’m free. I’m free, had blasted through her mind.

She reached for a waterskin and took a deep drink, washing her food down. She’d indeed been free, but she hadn’t actually expected her ploy to work. She hadn’t had the presence of mind to bring anything with her. Not even her other frock. When Hell’s entry clanged shut behind her with a shot of black lightning to add drama, she’d stood barefoot in the coldest place she’d ever been.

Rain sheeted from dark skies, and she’d begun to shiver.

She had no idea how much harder things would have been if her bird hadn’t shown up an hour into her freedom and demanded she follow it. If she hadn’t been so lonely her bones ached, she might have walked away from what had turned into her staunchest ally.

Good thing she hadn’t.

Even with the raven, everything had taken forever, but she’d figured out her new life in bits and pieces. Magic kept her warm and helped her find shelter. She hadn’t known it for a few weeks, but Hell had spit her out in western Scotland in the 1960s. The whirr of machinery and the stench of pollution became constant companions as she solved the problems of how to get what she needed to stay alive.

Taking her clothes off in a strip club where no one asked any questions about where she came from, or why she had no shoes, meant money. Money meant food—and lodging in a fleabag boarding house. When men accosted her, intent on satisfying their lust with her body, the bird stepped in. If it wasn’t enough, she flattened the horny bastards with magic.

That turned out to be her first serious mistake.

Her first brush with the Roskelly witches.

Why the hell had her mother left the fold? Dark enchantment called to its own, and Yanna’s power was as black as magic came.

The stable door creaked open.

Sorcha extended a slight thread of magic to see who it was. No one went riding in the middle of the night. Or milked cows or gathered eggs. The bird was more than capable of leveraging power to open a door, but it usually cruised through a perpetually open window near her sleeping spot.

She detected familiar energy and frowned. “Rose?”

“Aye, mistress,” Karl’s twelve-year-old daughter replied in a soft voice.

Sorcha laid her food bag to one side and pelted down the ladder, facing outward in her hurry. “What is it, dear? Is aught amiss?”

Rose’s dark eyes rounded into small moons. Long straight brown hair fell to her waist, and she was wrapped in a cream-colored wool cloak. “’Tis Mum. She’s bad off. Da, he said to ask you to come. Ye’ve the healing touch, he said.”

“Take me to her.” Alarm bells tolled. Karl was a proud man. For him to request assistance meant his wife was in serious trouble.

Sorcha rushed out of the stable after Rose. The raven materialized out of nowhere and took up its customary spot on her shoulder.

Karl’s wife, Daria, was deep into her latest pregnancy. The bairn should have been born by now, at least by Sorcha’s estimates, but Karl and his family weren’t her concern, so she’d kept her misgivings to herself. Rose was the oldest of eight. Sorcha assumed after that many children, Daria knew what she was doing.

She entered the inn and followed Rose up a back staircase. She’d been in the family’s rooms above the inn a few times to clean, so she was familiar with their layout. Below her, the intrepid musicians played on. Their attention was elsewhere, so she felt safe enough questing forward with a splash of magic. She was still gathering information about Daria’s condition when Rose held a door open.

Sorcha walked into the combination kitchen and living area for Karl’s family. The children slept on the far side of a curtain to the left of a coal-burning stove. Karl and Daria’s bedroom was behind an identical curtain on the right. A muffled moan was followed by a sharper one.

Sorcha didn’t waste time asking permission. She pulled the thick, cotton curtain to one side and closed the short distance to where Daria lay on her back on a feather bed. Karl sat next to her. Worry streamed from him in dark-gray waves of distress.

Sorcha dropped a hand over Daria’s rounded abdomen. The muscles were knotted, and not moving. Power flowed from her splayed hand, gentle, encouraging, as she felt for life within.

“How long has she been lying here?” she asked Karl.

“Doona ken.” His voice was raspy and harsh. “I found her like this. Goddammit. Why dinna she come downstairs for me? Or send one of the bairns?”

“Maybe she dinna wish to bother you.” Sorcha aimed for soothing. “She knows how busy ye are every night.” Bending forward, she added her other hand and a staunch bit of magic. Between the two, she felt the faint flutter of the baby’s heart.

“Och aye.” She fed more magic into Daria’s womb, willing the babe to live.

“What?” Karl dropped a heavy hand atop hers. “Is—?”

“Nay, the babe lives. Bring me a kettle of hot water and let me work.”

“Will Mum be all right?” Rose asked from where she’d taken up a vigil next to the curtain.

“I hope so, dear. Help your Da. I need water and clean towels or sheets. And tea. Get my herbs. They’re at the head of my bed.”

“Of course.” Karl sounded pathetically grateful to have something to do. “Aught else?”

“A few moments alone with Daria.”

“Ye’ll have that while we’re hunting your requests.”

As soon as Karl and Rose had cleared the sleeping area, Sorcha dropped all pretense of normalcy. Reaching into Daria’s mind, she established a connection and drew the woman toward consciousness. The raven wove its magic in with hers, strengthening it.

“Sorcha?” Daria’s voice was thin, thready.

“Aye. I need ye upright, walking. The bairn will be here afore ye know.”

“Nay. ’Tis dead,” Daria moaned, and her blue eyes filled with tears. Lank black hair fell around her thin shoulders and milk-swollen breasts.

Sorcha gripped both sides of her face. “Look at me. I wouldna lie to ye. The babe lives. On your feet. I need ye walking.”

She half carried, half dragged the other woman until she had her feet beneath her. Arm around Daria’s waist, Sorcha walked her from one side of the small enclosure to the other, all the while urging the unborn child with magic. Encouraging it to fight its way out.

A muted whoop escaped Daria. “’Tis working. The child is moving. I was certain when I quit laboring the babe was done for, and me along with it.”

“None of that,” Sorcha said, her tone sharp. “It tempts fate, and not in good ways.” She placed a hand over Daria’s stomach, gratified to feel the muscles flowing, laboring to expel the baby.

“It’s coming. I feel it.”

Sorcha eased Daria back onto the feather bed with her knees bent, legs spread. Sure enough, the child’s head was crowning. Karl and Rose rushed back into the alcove in time to see the baby slither into the world. Sorcha gathered it close, still deeply immersed in the power she’d summoned to ensure no one died.

Not here. Not tonight.

The sound of Rose’s soft sobs was joined by Karl’s rough words of thanks. The baby’s first cries woke something primal in Sorcha. She’d been afraid she was too late, that her magic wouldn’t be enough.

But it had been.

She’d used her ability—her tainted combination of demon and Black Magic—for good, and it gave her hope. She’d controlled the outcome here, which might mean she could do the same in any situation.

Later, she’d ask the bird how much it had helped. Its power still thrummed within her, warm and glowing like strands of quicksilver.

Sorcha kept one hand firmly on Daria’s stomach. “One more good push, dear.” Smiling through tears, Daria complied, and the placenta emerged. Sorcha severed the cord and laid the squalling infant into Karl’s outstretched hands. He wrapped his son in a length of blanket and took another rag to clean him.

The sounds of sleepy children’s voices reached her.

“Rose, tell your brothers and sisters all is well,” Karl instructed.

Sorcha rooted through the herbs they’d brought and selected black cohosh and raspberry, mixing them in an infuser in a cracked ceramic teapot. Once the tea had steeped, she poured a cup and handed it to Daria. “Drink it all. ’Twill help ye heal.”

“Thank ye a million times over,” she murmured before draining the cup.

Sorcha got to her feet. “I’ll be in the stable if ye need me.”

Karl scrambled to his feet with his son in his arms. “I canna thank ye enough, Sorcha. Ye saved my son’s life. Mayhap my wife’s as well.”

She patted his arm. “Take good care of them.” Before he said anything more, she slipped around the curtain and out of his rooms. Tonight had helped her, taught her the full brunt of her power wouldn’t sweep her off balance, make her plummet into a darkness not unlike the Hell she’d run from.

She was outside the inn, one hand on the stable’s side door, when she felt witch power closing on her. A dark, malevolent cloud, it pounded against her. The raven screeched outrage. Sorcha threw up wards. All she needed was a few moments. She’d escape into a time vortex. She’d done it before. If she constructed it right, no one could follow her.

It was how she’d escaped Rhea Roskelly a few other times, and she was almost certain the canny old bitch was bearing down on her again. No doubt drawn by the magic she’d expended.

She tossed prudence aside. She’d been discovered; no more need for caution. Nay, what she required now were speed, cunning, and as much magic as she could command. Sorcha reached deep. The bird helped, forming a crucible to concentrate her ability. Demon power boiled from her guts, joining witch magic. Working fast, she pried open a time portal and beat a path to the future. Maybe if she went far enough forward, Rhea would be dead.

The thought pleased her. Of course, Rhea was just one Roskelly, but the others didn’t seem so hell-bent on capturing her. She sealed her casting to ensure no unpleasant surprises on her journey and settled in. Karl and Daria would wonder what happened to her, but it couldn’t be helped.

Eventually, the black of her travel portal shaded to gray, and she prepared to exit. Where would she emerge this time?

Aye, and how long will I be able to remain?

Sadness filled her, but she pushed it aside. If bouncing from one corner of time to another was the price for leaving Hell, she’d pay it a thousand times over.