Tavin Shaw willed himself to silence, keeping his power as unobtrusive as possible. Druids were gathering on South Ronaldsay Island in the Orkneys. More Druids than he’d seen in one place in the last hundred years. Only thing he couldn’t determine was why.

He lived near the standing stones at Callanish on the Isle of Lewis during the spring, summer, and autumn months. He didn’t need money, but he maintained a blacksmith shop to keep busy. The forge was honest work, and it lent him a revered position in the small community. Over time, folk had grown used to him leaving toward the tail end of the year. For some unexplained reason, time had gotten away from him, and it was well into January. He should have been gone long since, but just because his annual pilgrimage south was late wasn’t a reason to not go at all.

He’d been back on the mainland and on his way to Glencoe intent on catching a train when an outpouring of magic caught his attention.

More than an outpouring. A veritable flood. He’d learned long ago to live and let live, but he couldn’t ignore such an obvious summons. What if Druids were under attack? He’d been one of them long ago, before his magic took an unexpected turn. So unexpected, he hadn’t wanted to explain himself—or become a petri dish for the others to pick apart—so he’d faded from view.

It happened with long-lived mages. Many wearied of their long lives and vanished. Insofar as he knew, no one had wasted time or energy searching for him.

Rather than leave his aging Renault in long-term parking at the train station as he’d planned, he nosed the vehicle north toward Inverness and John O’Groats. Druid power thickened around him, seeded with anger and desperation. It wasn’t until he pulled up in a deserted parking area near the ferry terminal in John O’Groats that he sensed witch magic.

Witch enchantment. What the fucking hell?

Tavin got out of his car and rocked back on his heels, scenting the air. He was certain he had to be wrong. Except he wasn’t. Since when did Druids parlay with witches? Things might have changed since he’d extricated himself from his Druid kin, but he didn’t believe they could have changed all that much.

Despite the power eddying around him, he was alone. He took a few more minutes to dig deeper into the witch scent. A harsh breath swooped through him.

Roskelly witches, blackest of the black.

He’d assumed they’d all died—or left the UK. And he hadn’t worried overmuch about which it was. Them being gone had been an enormous relief.

“Aye, except it appears I was mistaken,” he murmured, his brogue soft and thick—and troubled.

He scanned the harbor, intent on commandeering a small boat and motoring out to South Ronaldsay. It was the Druids’ traditional meeting place. They were still using the same cave they’d gathered in for at least a millennia. Blessed by Danu, the cavern was safe, protected. He spied a likely skiff and started toward it but then changed his mind. From the looks of things, the meeting would likely last days, not hours. The skiff’s owner might well need his boat long before Tavin returned it.

He balanced from foot to foot, weighing his options. Only three presented themselves. Teleporting, stealing a boat, or the reason that had driven him away from Druid society. He scratched teleporting off the list. It held an obvious magical signature, and he aimed to remain as invisible as he could. Minutes dribbled past. A familiar blast of power edging closer got him moving.

Druids, maybe as many as half a dozen, would be here in short order. He could pop out of the shadows like a long-lost relative and greet them, but then he’d be stuck either lying or relaying his eerie detour through decidedly unDruidlike magic.

He edged inside a covered marina. No reason to reveal himself.

Not yet, anyway.

Not until he had some idea what in the unholy hell was going on.

He picked a protected corner and undressed fast, shrouding his clothing with a “don’t look here” casting, so his things would be waiting for him when he returned. Naked, he resisted the urge to shiver. It was bloody cold in northern Scotland in January.

Instead, he spread his arms, shut his eyes, and reached for power hidden deep in the earth beneath his feet. It rushed to his command, thrilling as always, and his human body fell away.

In its place, wings sprouted. His nose turned into a hooked beak. Feathers cut the chill until he no longer noticed it. He shook himself, arranging his mottled golden plumage. He’d always loved falcons, but the day he’d turned into a peregrine was blazoned into his memory.

Thank every goddess in the pantheon he’d been by himself. He’d felt off that day. Odd and unbalanced, somehow. Overly sensitive to smells and sights and sounds. He’d been living in John O’Groats at the time, earning his living as a musician. He had several hours before he was due at the local tavern with his lute, so he’d gone for a ramble across barren moorlands.

No trees grew this far north. Not new ones, and not anymore. They’d been cut down for houses and firewood centuries ago. The odd hawthorn and yew remained, though. They were revered, so the government built fences around groves and posted harsh warnings to leave the trees alone.

He’d been drawn to a gnarled stand of ancient hawthorns. Druids had strong links to the natural world, and Tavin trusted his instincts, so he’d wandered through the trees, listening to their spirits, their voices. Usually, they soothed him, but their message held a different quality. It urged him to open his magic and wait.

So he had.

The same sensations he’d just summoned had been far sharper, more urgent. He hadn’t undressed since he had no idea what was about to unfold. Even in all its glorious reality, the falcon was far smaller than his human form. He’d ended up shrouded in clothing that he pecked his way out of.

It was the pecking that made him half crazy. He’d felt stretching, tearing, breaking as his body found the raptor’s shape, but it was the pecking that slapped him hard, made him pant through a beak that snapped open and shut.

He loved birds, but he’d never fancied being one.

Or any other creature besides human.

A hideous squawking had filled his keen avian ears. For the longest time, he didn’t realize the noise was coming from him. Once he did, he shut up fast. Whatever had happened to him, miracle or disaster, he’d see it through.

“Better.” A numinous voice had eddied around him.

He couldn’t talk, so he experimented with telepathy, relieved beyond belief when it worked. “Who are you?”

Rather than answering, the silky voice, low and creamy, said, “Ye’ve been given a gift, Tavin Shaw. Use it wisely.”

Before he could sift through the million questions churning through his mind—to be certain to ask the most important ones—the same ripping, tearing, breaking sensation swept through him. This time hurt far more than the first had. What was left of his clothing ripped as an arm poked through here, a leg there.

Magic had pounded around him that long-ago day, slick with the scents of wet greenery and verdant moors. Druid magic smelled like that at its finest. He’d crouched on Scotland’s perpetually wet earth and wondered if he was losing his mind.

Or if he’d fallen into a bizarre trance.

A quick examination of his shirt, rife with vertical rips from the beak that had graced his face, laid waste to his trance explanation. Around him, the trees soughed, wind whooshing through their branches. They seemed to approve of whatever had just transpired.

He’d taken a deep breath, and then another, emptying his lungs.

Could he manufacture the transformation on his own?

No time like the present to find out. First, he’d stripped out of the ruins of his clothes. It had taken him a few tries to replicate the change, but once it happened, he spread his thickly feathered wings and flew, soaring above the gnarled trees.

The sense of awe and wonder that filled him that day had never truly left. The god or goddess who’d said he’d been given a gift had spoken true.

By the time he landed and regained his human form, he’d made a few decisions. The primary one was he’d drop out of sight. He had no logical explanation for what had happened, and he didn’t want to turn into an experimental subject.

Arlen MacGregor, Arch Druid in the UK, wouldn’t rest until he’d sliced and diced Tavin’s newfound magic. The man was a cultural anthropologist, steeped in ancient rituals and customs. He’d do his damnedest to pigeonhole what felt like a miracle to Tavin…

Voices reached him. The Druids he’d sensed nearby had arrived and were discussing the best way to move themselves to South Ronaldsay. Teleporting seemed the clear winner, but Tavin didn’t stick around to hear the rest. He spread his wings and flew out of the boathouse and thence over the restless dark waters of the North Sea.

“Och, just look at yon falcon,” a woman’s voice called out.

“Sure and ’tis a beauty,” a man agreed.

If Tavin had been human, he’d have smiled. The tang of salt water filled his nostrils. Everything smelled far more intense as a falcon. Riding the night wind, he caught a small fish unwise enough to venture close to the surface. And then one more. Once he’d determined he could switch from human to bird and back with little fanfare, he’d spent a lot of time as a falcon. Maybe months. Birds didn’t mark the passage of time like humans did.

He enjoyed the freedom of flight. Of catching food on the hoof. Of not bothering with the trappings of keeping up a home. He could perch anywhere and be comfortable. Sometime during those early months, he’d ended up near the Callanish stones. He’d liked their energy and chosen the Isle of Lewis for his next home.

He rode the ground cushion of air that created an easy zone for flight and put his back into covering the kilometers to South Ronaldsay. He wanted to get there in time to hear everything. As he flew, he reviewed his information about Roskelly witches.

Gaps peppered his knowledge, but he’d come face-to-face with Rhea—their grand dame—and two of her sisters in the middle of the 1800s. A shocking amount of power bled from them, so much he’d never have escaped with his magic—or his life—intact, if a pack of Druids hadn’t responded to his distress call.

The old witch had shaken a fist in his face and said, “Ye’ve not seen the last of me, Druid. I loathe your kind.”

“Aye, we’re none too fond of you, either,” he’d shot back.

Later that evening in a smoky alehouse, he’d laughed about his narrow escape, but the laughter held sharp edges. He’d taken care to ward himself better after that, trained himself to run at the first hint of Roskelly stench.

Despite Rhea’s threats, he’d never crossed paths with her again. As he thought about it, he hadn’t sensed any witches, Roskelly or otherwise, in his part of Scotland for at least the last fifty years.

The island formed ahead of him, a dark lump against a slightly lighter sky studded with clouds. He banked right, intent on approaching the cave from a tunnel behind it. If the goddess blessed him, he’d manage to conceal himself near enough to listen to what transpired with no one being the wiser.

The small, narrow passageway that was originally designed as an escape route was right where he remembered. Rockfall had partially blocked the entrance, but he was small enough to slither through. He flew as far as he dared and then stood near an earthen wall, inviting the earth’s power to shield him from discovery.

Arlen’s voice chimed a greeting in Gaelic.

Tavin bobbed his head. He’d arrived in time. He had no idea what he’d do if the Druids had somehow fallen beneath Black Witchcraft’s heels, but he’d cross that bridge when it found him. The next nearest Druid enclave was in the Pyrenees. If his worst fears were realized, he’d drive there and talk with Europe’s Arch Druid.

Maybe the UK Druids were so far gone there was no retreat from evil.

He shook himself, keeping his feathers quiet. He was making assumptions. Never a sound move. First, he needed to listen. Then he’d determine if they even required his help.

He hated to admit it, but he’d enjoyed his solitude.

And his freedom.

Was all of it about to crash down on his head?

If it did, he’d take the necessary steps to manage things. He may not have lived hand in glove with the Druids for a long time, but he was committed to wiping out wickedness wherever it reared its misshapen head.

The rustle of bodies and soft conversation filled the neighboring chamber. Tavin hopped forward a few feet and peered at a crowd. At least a hundred Druids, many of whom he’d never seen before, milled about. And three Roskelly witches.

Two had flame-red hair, and one looked disturbingly like Rhea with midnight locks. How fitting. She had green eyes, though. Rhea’s had held a bluish cast. As he took stock, he realized the redheads both had Rhea’s unusual eye color.

Not just Roskellys, but direct relations, apparently.

One of the redheads hovered next to Arlen with a hand tucked possessively around his arm. The dark-haired witch seemed glued to Sean Weatherford, the Druids’ longtime money-magic man. A deeply sinking feeling made Tavin ill. Was this how the witches had inveigled their way in?

Sex was a tried-and-true element in witchy arsenals.

Arlen and Sean knew as much, though. Why had they fallen for the oldest trick on a witch’s dance card?

Guess I’m about to find out…

“We all seem to be here.” Arlen’s deep, rich voice rose above multiple side conversations. Tall and spare, he had shoulder-length black hair, austere features, and shrewd dark eyes. Tonight he wore a cream-colored shirt, gray pants, and a thick, blue plaid woolen jacket.

A chorus of “ayes” followed his pronouncement.

“For those of you who don’t hail from our local Druid group, let me catch you up,” Arlen went on.

A collective sigh followed by indulgent chuckles circled the cavern. Perhaps fifty meters across, it was so tall its ceiling disappeared from view above. Rush lanterns shed wavery illumination, and many of the Druids had kindled mage lights that bobbed by their sides. Though Tavin couldn’t see it, he remembered a tarn at the cavern’s far end. Water ran down over rocks, creating an aquamarine pool that had once hosted odd little fish with bug eyes, well adapted to seeing in the cave’s perpetual gloom.

“I’ll be sure to keep him on track,” Sean cut in. “But if you don’t quiet yourselves, we’ll never get started.” Shorter than Arlen, Sean moved with the grace of a jungle cat. He had curly dark hair and brown eyes that always looked as if he were laughing at a private joke.

“You do that.” Arlen sent a pointed look at his second in command.

He cleared his throat. “Sparing the grisly details, Katerina”—he dropped a hand on the redheaded witch’s shoulder—“came to Inverness on a lecture tour about two months back. She’s a cultural anthropologist just like me. I sensed fell forces had her in their gunsights. Took me a while to tease out why. She’s Rhea Roskelly’s great-great granddaughter—”

A hiss started in one corner of the room, rising in volume to the accompaniment of fingers forked in the universal sign against evil.

Sean clapped his hands together so hard magic shot from his fingertips. “Silence,” he roared. “Katerina not only knew nothing about the Roskelly witches, she had no idea she was one of them.”

“But what about her magic?” one of the Druids in the crowd called out. “Surely it manifested.”

Katerina, a tall, stately woman wearing black trousers and a green jacket let go of Arlen’s arm. “No. It never did. When my great-great grandmother began following me, I figured I was going mad.”

“Circling back to the point,” Arlen continued, “Rhea Roskelly shanghaied Kat into the past twice. She’s now my wife, and we’ve been working hard to catch her magic up to snuff.”

“Her mother, Liliana”—Sean took advantage of Arlen stopping to draw breath to speak—“is mated to me. These might be the only White Witch Roskellys in history, but go ahead, use your own magic to test them. You’ll see they carry no dark taint.”

“Where does she fit in?” A burly man with blonde curls pointed at the other redheaded witch.

“I’m Gloria Roskelly,” she said, stepping forward. “Liliana’s mother and Katerina’s grandmother. I’ve been working on defanging Rhea for years. When it was just Liliana and me, we had little chance, but there’s enough magic in this cave to get the job done.”

“What’s in it for us?” A bald Druid with bright blue eyes, decked out in an old-fashioned tartan, strode toward Arlen until only a meter separated them.

“Aye, excellent question,” several other Druids yelled from all corners of the cave.

“I’m afraid we managed to piss Rhea off,” Arlen said, keeping his voice soft. “As in really piss her off. She blames the three witches here for the death of the Roskelly witch line, and she’s not going to slink away with her tail between her legs. So far, she’s borrowed demons and dragons from Hell and dragged them across the veil.”

“She canna do that,” the bald Druid said, outrage lining his tone. “’Twill upset the natural balance of the world.”

“Which is why all of you are here,” Arlen pointed out. “I told you I’d spare you details in the interest of developing a plan rather than hashing over history, but Sean nearly died. Rhea embedded a splinter of darkness in his magical center. Liliana and Gloria saved him.”

“But first I had to escape.” Liliana’s raspy contralto rang through the cave. “Rhea ditched me in a whirling cylinder. I still have no idea where I was. If I hadn’t brought spell accoutrements along, I’d still be there.”

“And I’d like as not be dead,” Sean added sourly.

Tavin had moved closer as the tale unfolded. It was fascinating in a grisly, macabre kind of way. He’d also tested the women with his own magic and verified Arlen’s pronouncement about them being White Witches. Enough Druid power was bouncing about the cave, he’d felt safe tossing his into the mix.

“I get that ye need our help.” A Druid with brown braids crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “What, precisely, did ye have in mind?”

“’Tis exactly why we’re here.” Arlen turned to face her squarely.

“Aye.” Morgan, their antiquities librarian, supported Arlen’s statement. Silver hair was wound into a bun low on her neck. Her slight form was wrapped in a black wool cloak, and her dark eyes burned with keen intelligence.

“We’ve come up with an idea or two,” Sean said, “but with so many of us, I’m certain we can fine-tune a bulletproof—”

Air sizzled through the black-haired witch’s teeth, and she spun in a circle. “What was that?”

“What was what, darling?” Sean asked.

“Ssht.” She jerked her chin toward the rear of the cave. “Something’s here. I felt it.”

For a long, heart-stopping moment, Tavin feared he’d been discovered, but then he realized Liliana had pointed away from his hiding place. He sent power spiraling out, intent on discovering what she’d sensed, and muffled a squawk.

Witch, but demon too.

Holy hell, could this get any more disconcerting?

I’m out of practice, he told himself. Running a forge wasn’t exactly the same as facing off against evil. Once he’d been a warrior, but that had been so long ago he barely recalled the difference between an inverted wedge and a frontal assault.

Arlen and Sean spun and faced the direction Liliana indicated, hands extended and power arcing from their fingertips. “Show yourself,” Arlen bellowed. “Now.”

More invested in not missing even a second of what came next than remaining undetected, Tavin moved into the cavern and fluttered to a high vantage point. No one noticed him since they were all just as intent as he was on the tableau unfolding a few meters away.

Magic fizzled and sputtered over by the pool. Colors rose and fell.

The witches joined Sean and Arlen. Magic thickened and pulsed, filled with compulsion. Just as a sheet of undulating red was shading to violet, the kaleidoscope frittered to nothing.

A tall, curvy woman with blonde hair that fell past her ass punched through whatever she’d been hiding behind. Her patchwork skirt, homespun tunic, and ratty jacket suggested she’d come from another place in time. A large black raven rode on her shoulder, cawing at them.

“Who are you?” Arlen’s voice carried through the cave. “I command you—”

“Stuff it.” She waved a dismissive hand and narrowed blue-green eyes. “Goddamned Druids. You could have left well enough alone, but did you? Oh hell, no.”

Gloria stepped toward the newcomer, eying her intently. “You’re one of us,” she pronounced.

“Us as in?” The blonde quirked a sarcastic brow. “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.” Gloria closed the distance to the blonde. “I’ll be goddamned. You’re Yanna’s daughter.”

“You win a kewpie doll. Now can I leave?”

Gloria shot out a hand and gripped her arm hard enough the blonde winced. “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.” Liliana had joined Gloria. She drew her dark brows into a single line. “Whose side are you on?”

“My own. Can I leave now?”

A large black raven took shape over Gloria’s head. It flew to the raven on the blonde’s shoulder and touched beaks. The other bird rose into the air, and they circled the room in a graceful aerial ballet.

An owl rose from Liliana, joining them. And then an eagle emerged from Arlen’s wife and winged toward the other birds.

Tavin blinked hard. Witch familiars. He’d heard of them, but never actually seen one.

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

The ravens flew to Tavin’s perch, cawing at him. He cawed back, but the jig was up, and he knew it. Sean’s sharp gaze settled on him, followed by a blast of seeking magic. The other Druid’s eyes widened.

“Tavin?” Incredulity underscored his name.

He needed his tongue. It took less time and magic than telepathy. Power sizzled and simmered as he shifted back to human. Standing buck naked in the middle of people he used to know wasn’t high on his list, so he raised his voice and asked, “Could someone toss me a cloak?”