Tavin was restless. He wasn’t used to waiting for others or dealing with the intricacies of group decision-making. He’d done his part and provided as accurate a description of the gateway as he could. Sorcha had added a few details he’d missed since she was at ground level and he’d been flying.

She and Gloria had left. Shortly after their egress, Kat excused herself, saying she needed to tend to something to feed them tonight. Morgan teleported upstairs to Sean’s library and lore books.

He looked from Arlen to Sean to Liliana. Should he apologize for deceiving the Druids? Before his thoughts ran too far down that track, Sean said, “I promised everyone I’d do my best to take a peek into the future.”

“Not alone, you’re not.” Liliana trained green eyes on her husband.

“More magic is always welcome.” He smiled warmly. “Particularly when ’tis yours.”

“Remember what happened last time?” She arched a dark brow.

“How could I forget. You saved me, but that was a trip to the past. This time—”

“What makes you think Rhea’s travels end in the 1700s?” Liliana inquired dryly. “Or the 1800s, for that matter. She’s an all-season witch. And she knows where we are. I’d bet my familiar’s goodwill”—the owl hooted from the center of the table—“Sorcha sensed Rhea. Mom either corroborated her find—or not. Regardless, neither thought it important enough to report back.”

“I felt her.” Sean made a face that looked as if he’d bitten into a piece of rotten fruit.

“Where?” Arlen narrowed his eyes at his second in command.

“Skulking about at the edges of the warding I reinforced around this castle.” He traded the bitter fruit expression for a satisfied smile. “She can’t get in. Not this time. I’m wise to her tricks.”

“Don’t underestimate her,” Liliana broke in. “I did, and it cost me dearly. She hates to be foiled, and she’s scheming to discover a way to break through.”

“She won’t find one.” Sean stood and extended a hand, helping Liliana to her feet. The owl rose into the air and flew out the open door at the far end of the dining room.

“It remembers the way to your basement,” Liliana said.

“Aye, or mayhap it recalls the mice down there.” Sean grinned. The owl flew back into the room, hooting, before landing on Sean’s shoulder.

“That too.” Liliana walked briskly from the room with Sean by her side.

“Looks like it leaves the two of us,” Arlen said, mildly.

“Convenient, eh? Except it doesn’t appear accidental to me,” Tavin observed. “I’ve known you far too long to believe this wasn’t staged.”

Arlen splayed his hands across the table’s polished surface and skewered Tavin with his shrewd, dark gaze. He switched to Gaelic. “Don’t dress this up with excuses. Why’d ye leave?”

“Why would ye have wanted me to remain?”

Breath hissed from between Arlen’s teeth. “Since when do ye answer a query with one of your own?”

“It only sounded like a question. The answer ye seek lies within.”

“Oberon’s balls, mate. Answer me. I’m not in the mood for a guessing game.” Arlen slapped an open hand down on the table.

Tavin nodded. As Arch Druid, Arlen had an absolute right to the truth. “Ye recall the free-for-all in the cavern on South Ronaldsay?” At Arlen’s nod, Tavin went on. “There’s no easy way to explain my shapeshifting ability. I dinna understand the why nor how of it when it first occurred. In truth, I still don’t, though I’ve grown used to carrying that brand of magic.”

“Not understanding is one thing. Skulking off like a thief in the night quite another.”

“True. Ye’ll recall a few Druids engaged warding against evil through hooked fingers and suchlike. They’ll never believe I havena been taken over by evil.” He blew out a tense breath. “’Twould have placed you in an awkward position. If ye’d stood behind me, ye’d have split your community. Those who were convinced I’d fallen to wickedness would have left the fold.

“This way, ye lost only one: me. The other way, ye’d have lost better than two score judging by earlier today.”

Arlen angled his head to one side. “Ye were protecting me from myself?”

A corner of Tavin’s mouth twitched. “’Twasn’t quite so altruistic as all that. I was guarding myself as well. I felt I’d been blessed by a miracle, and I dinna wish it sliced and diced nine ways from Beltane.”

“Had we had the opportunity to ‘slice and dice,’” Arlen observed, “perhaps we’d have discovered a way for more of us to shapeshift.”

Tavin looked askance at him. “Is that a longstanding dream of yours?”

“Nay, but more magic is always welcome, particularly a variety that allows me to travel in secret.”

“Pfft. Not so secret as all that. The moment Sean laid eyes on me and looked through a magical lens, he identified me. Sorcha knew right off the falcon was more than it appeared. And the demons in the passageway—one of them, anyway—recognized my presence too.”

“Are ye back for good?” Arlen’s question required an honest answer.

“I doona know.” Tavin rolled his shoulders back, hearing the bones in his spine crack against each other. “I’d be lying if I said I’ve been miserable. I was a smith long before I was a musician. Returning to it felt right, natural. Something about the forge is soothing. The months I’m not smithing, I take my bird form and migrate south.”

“I can see the appeal.” Arlen’s somber demeanor was broken by half a smile. “Did no one on the Isle of Lewis ever question your absences?”

“Nay. They grew used to me being gone through the winter months. Most of them wished they could do the same. Beastly weather, short days. Not much to hang about for.”

Arlen stood. “We have a spot of time. Sean and Liliana are scrying. Morgan is buried in the scrolls she loves so much. Kat loves to cook, and Sorcha and Gloria are upstairs sorting through clothes.”

“What’d ye have in mind?”

“I’d like to take a quick trip to 1870 Glasgow. If we get lucky, we’ll hit the time Sorcha was there. I’d like to reassure myself she was truly a serving wench. Should be easy enough to locate the Wild Pig Inn.”

“Beyond witch and demon, what do ye believe she might be?” Tavin bit back hot words in support of her. What he said, instead, was, “She saved me. She dinna have to. She could have departed with her bird, leaving me to the demons’ mercies. For that fact, she dinna need to enter the tunnel at all.”

“My point, precisely. Why’d she put herself at risk?” Before Tavin could answer, Arlen continued. “Either she was worried about you, or she was seeking an opportunity to parlay with the demons who raised her. I’d like to put that choice to bed once and for all.”

“I’ll accompany you”—Tavin pushed to his feet—“on one condition.”

“Aye? What would that be?” Arlen’s tone left little doubt he was humoring Tavin. Not many Druids would saddle their leader with conditions.

“We tell Sorcha part of the truth. That we’re interested in where she came from and planning a short trip back there. The advantage is we can use a piece of her clothing. It should lead us to the proper spot when we employ a seeking spell.”

“And the disadvantage is she’ll know we—er, I—doona trust her.”

“Only if ye appear too guilty.” Tavin furled both brows and extended a hand. After a short hesitation, Arlen clasped it.

“What if she wants to come with us?” Arlen asked.

“She won’t. She was fond of the innkeeper and his family and felt bad about running away. No way to explain her sudden reappearance.”

A knowing look scuttled across Arlen’s austere features. “Ye got to know her rather well in a short time span.”

“Maybe so.”

“Care to say more about it?”

Tavin shook his head and made a sweeping half bow toward the door. “Shall we?”

“Aye. I’ll just make a quick stop in the kitchen to let Kat know what we’re about. We should be back in plenty of time for supper.”

“Given we canna remain long in a spot where an earlier version of ourselves resides, ’tis a safe bet. Which way did Gloria and Sorcha go? Or should I locate them with magic?”

Arlen loped from the room without answering.

Tavin followed more slowly. Deploying a slender thread of power, he sorted witch emanations and followed the ones coming from above him. Two flights up, he wandered down a hallway until he came to a partially open door and called, “Are ye decent?”

Peals of laughter met his question. “Depends.” Gloria’s deep contralto rippled with humor.

“How would you like us to be?” The door swung wider, and Sorcha walked toward him garbed in a long green skirt embroidered with golden lilies. Her hair fell to her waist, partially covering a cream-colored silky shirt and jade-green vest. Soft black leather boots graced her feet.

Tavin couldn’t take his eyes off her. He whistled. “Beautiful. Ye’re stunning.”

“Clothes make the witch, I always say,” Gloria cackled, and then added, “What’s up?”

“Arlen and I are going to make a small trip into the past. We thought we’d scout out the Wild Pig Inn.”

Sorcha’s lovely expression faded. “Why?”

Tavin stuck to Gaelic and offered up his true reason for agreeing to the journey. “’Tis the last place Rhea broke through that we know. Perhaps she’ll have left a clue or two to make it easier to find her.”

“Makes sense.” Sorcha’s tense facial lines relaxed. “I’d love to come along, but it’s not a good idea. Karl and the others would recognize me and ask far too many questions.”

Gloria closed her teeth over her lower lip. “I’d welcome the opportunity to square off against Rhea, but I need to help Sorcha with her magic. We’ll move to the kitchens since Kat’s ability is far less predictable—and not nearly as robust—as Sorcha’s.”

“Maybe I could teach her, and you could accompany Arlen and Tavin?” Sorcha suggested.

Gloria patted her shoulder. “Appreciate the offer, but Kat can barely manage simple witch spells. Arlen did a fine job polluting her witch power with Druid castings. I fear if we add demon magic to the mix, my granddaughter will never find her way.”

“Back soon.” Tavin offered an encouraging smile. “Might we borrow a small item from your discarded garments? ’Twill speed our endeavor since then we can employ a seeking spell rather than a time travel one.”

“Good thinking, Druid.” Gloria rooted through Sorcha’s discard pile and handed him a sachet stitched into a square of homespun fabric.

“Are ye not used to Druids being capable of independent thought?” Tavin asked in as deadpan a voice as he could manage.

“Take the sachet and begone.” Gloria made shooing motions. “Or remain and spar with me. I’ve always appreciated a good debate.”

“How about we save it for later?” He grinned. “Perhaps we could take up the gauntlet over supper. Druid versus witch.”

Sorcha looked from one to the other of them. “I’m not used to anyone joking around. I like it.”

“The most effective humor springs from truth,” Gloria said.

It was tough to walk out of the room. He could have gazed at Sorcha for years and never grown weary of the sight. Arlen was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. “Did ye obtain aught for our seeking spell?”

“Aye.” Tavin waggled the sachet in front of Arlen. It smelled like Sorcha, musky and feminine. The scent made him long for her.

“We’ll leave from outside,” Arlen said. “Tough to cast much of anything in the way of complicated spells from within Sean’s warding. Unless, you’re Sean, that is.”

Tavin paced Arlen down long hallways to the front door. It had quit raining, but the skies were typical Highland gray. They trotted down the front steps until they stood in front of the castle.

“My casting.” Arlen extended a hand, and Tavin dropped the sachet into it.

Magic rose, bubbling and boiling around them. Tavin remembered how strong Arlen’s ability was and didn’t add his own magic to the mix. It wasn’t needed and might muck things up.

The neat courtyard, surrounded by trees and flowering plants, vanished, replaced by the blackness of a seeking spell. Dark, quiet cobblestone streets formed in short order, and Tavin cloaked himself with invisibility. Nothing like bouncing out of thin air and startling whoever happened to be close enough to have noticed.

Or have the bad luck to attract a cleric’s attention.

Arlen drew them into an alleyway that reeked of stale urine and unwashed bodies. A quick glance reassured Tavin the people were dead to the world, no doubt drunk on cheap gin.

“We’re in the right spot,” Arlen murmured and pointed at a faded wooden sign at the end of the alley blazoned with Wild Pig Inn.

“Why wouldna we be?” Tavin countered. “Seeking spells rarely go sideways.”

“This one did. It’s nighttime, or did ye not notice?”

“’Tis mostly time-travel spells that maintain the same hour.”

“Mayhap, ’tis true with yours.” Arlen started through the narrow byway, skirting sleeping bodies wrapped in everything from newsprint to patched cloaks.

“Do we have a plan?” Tavin switched to telepathy. They were already expending magic to remain unseen with no one the wiser. Adding a spot more shouldn’t reveal their presence.

“Aye. Look for the lass. See what she’s about, and then return home.”

Tavin hurried forward and wound a hand around Arlen’s upper arm, forcing him to halt. “Ye really do not trust her. Out of the witches in residence at Sean’s, Gloria has magic to burn. It fairly gushes from her. When I left, she and Sorcha were thick as thieves. Do ye truly believe Gloria wouldna see through her if she harbored ill intent toward us?”

“I doona ken. Sorcha is her sister. Up until a day ago, Gloria had no idea she even had a sister. It may have altered her judgement.” Arlen yanked his arm out of Tavin’s grip and twisted to face him. “I’m exercising reasonable prudence. Druids have remained safe under my care. Our order has flourished. I’d be worse than a fool to blindly accept a Roskelly witch—who’s also a demon—without looking verra closely at her.”

Tavin didn’t answer, but he understood. If he stood in Arlen’s shoes, he may have done the same thing. “Come on.” He gestured toward the Wild Pig Inn sign about twenty meters distant.

They reached the dilapidated alehouse. Three stories, constructed of planks with spaces between them, it had clearly seen better days. Many of the windows had boards instead of glass. The place was shut for the night, but the sounds of musicians practicing reached Tavin. Lutes, lyres, bagpipes, and a lone violin. Careful to be as silent as possible, he and Arlen worked their way around the inn.

A stable sat on the far side. Far cleaner than the alley, it was full of the odors of hay and horses and cows. Probably a goat or two and a bevy of chickens. Mingled with the rest of the smells, he scented Sorcha’s enticing presence. She was here. Arlen’s spell had run true. Tavin guessed she slept in the stable, probably in a loft of some type, originally constructed to keep hay dry and off the floor.

A door banged, and she walked out of the Wild Pig, heading for the stable, raven perched on her shoulder. Tavin longed to reach out to her, but this Sorcha wouldn’t have met him yet. His presence would startle her—maybe propel her into fight mode. He locked gazes with Arlen, but the Arch Druid shook his head and held up a hand in the universal sign to wait.

Sorcha stopped walking with her hand on a side door into the stable. She tilted her head to one side, listening. Her nostrils flared as she scented the air. Between the length of two heartbeats, she sprang into action. A ward catapulted into being, surrounding her. Magic glistened and gleamed as she worked fast.

Tavin blinked, staring hard, but the thing he’d seen didn’t go away. A spectral, glowing form that looked human was right behind Sorcha. Not touching her but pushing her to leave with such urgency even Tavin felt its resolve.

He recognized a time-travel spell, the witchy parts, anyway and leaned closer, concerned about the ghost—for want of a better descriptor—sticking to Sorcha like a second skin. He and Arlen seemed to have shown up at precisely the time she’d fled this era. Sure enough, a whirling vortex formed creating a gateway to other times. Running hard, tattered clogs slapping the rock-studded dirt path, she launched herself into the pulsing whirlwind with the spirit dead on her heels.

They were no sooner through than it vanished behind her as if it had never existed. Tavin was impressed by her speed and her command of magic—and worried about the thing linked to her at the hip.

“What the hell was that?” he asked Arlen.

“We can figure it out later. Look sharp.” Arlen wasn’t bothering with telepathy.

Tavin kicked himself for not having the foresight to bring a long blade. He tugged a dirk from a thigh sheath, and he and Arlen turned as a unit in time to see three dead witches blast through a hole in the ether. Red-rimmed eyes glowed with fury. Skin peeled away from bone. Dressed in frayed black robes, one witch had patchy red hair, the other black, except it only grew from the back portion of her skull. The one in the lead had long silver hair shot with black. Rhea looked far worse than his memory of her, but death was hard on a body.

Magic formed a glistening nimbus around Arlen. Tavin borrowed shamelessly from it. “Halt, witches.” Power jetted from Arlen’s palms. Where it connected with Rhea and the other witches, their garments caught fire, but they batted it out with bare hands, the stench of smoldering flesh acrid and cloying.

“Leave my witches alone,” Rhea screeched.

“Nice try.” Arlen sounded much too cheerful. “One of them is my wife, but then she never considered herself ‘your witch.’”

Rhea’s face contorted into a rictus, what was left of her lips skinned back from teeth showing most of their roots. With a bloodcurdling cry, she launched herself at Arlen, ran up against his magic, and bounced off. Her next attempt was preceded by a blast of dark, jagged lightning. It split Arlen’s ward up the middle, and Rhea barreled through the gap.

The other two witches closed on Tavin, their rotten-meat smell nauseating. He didn’t bother with warding. Too hard to fight from behind it. Drawing his dirk back, he stabbed one of the witches in the eye. Gray goo spurted from her socket, and she shrieked outrage.

The other witch circled behind him, but he anticipated her and sidestepped, twisting so his back was against the stable. Having something solid behind him made things easier.

Arlen opened his mouth and uttered the long, eerie, ululating Druids’ war cry. Tavin grinned. Every Druid who heard would come to their defense. Arlen closed his hands over Rhea’s shoulders and shook her until her silver and black hair danced around her head. She swiped her filthy, broken nails down his face, leaving bloody gashes. They seemed to feed into her battle frenzy. Hissing, spitting, scratching, she kicked Arlen’s legs.

Tavin plunged his dirk into dead witch flesh so many times he lost count. They were making an ungodly racket. Where the hell was everyone? But then no human in their right mind would get involved in a battle where magic pulsed red and black, and unnatural sparks lit up the night.

Anyone who looked at Rhea and the other witches would know right off they were dead. If that weren’t enough to terrorize errant passersby, the eldritch battle unfolding would send the bravest soul scuttling behind closed doors.

“Leave my witches alone,” Rhea repeated, coating Arlen’s face with bloody spittle.

“If I doona comply?” He shook her again, lifted her off her feet, and heaved her a good ten feet into the air. She twirled and hit the dirt with a splatting noise. The crackle of breaking bones was followed by a pitiful moan.

She twisted at an unnatural angle. “If ye ‘doona comply,’ I shall hunt you through this time and all others until ye’re sorry ye were ever born. I shall loose Hell’s hordes to chivvy you. I’ll not quit until every one of your Druids dies in agony.”

Arlen shrugged. “Since when do demon spawn dance to your commands?”

She rolled to a sit, spitting broken teeth and blood. “Ye think ye know everything Druid. Hang onto your ignorance as long as ye can.”

Arlen opened his mouth, but Tavin jumped in before he could spout off about the portals. “Leave now, while ye can. Druids are approaching. Many of us.”

“Pah. Ye lie,” one of the witches he’d poked chockful of knife wounds wheezed. Blood-soaked spit dribbled down her chin.

“Look for yourself,” he countered.

“May ye rot in Hell,” Rhea yowled, following it with words in a language he didn’t know. Different from demonspeak. Perhaps the Black Witches had their own tongue.

An eerie fog, stinking of sulfur, rolled in, coating the three witches with streaming black ichor. Rhea kept up the cavalcade of words that were clearly a spell. The fog thickened. Where it touched Tavin, it burned, so he kept clear of it.

“They’re leaving,” he yelled.

“Aye, let them go,” Arlen yelled back. “We made our point.”

“But when the other Druids show up—”

“Some of them would end up dead. ’Tisn’t worth the loss.”

Tavin wasn’t certain of that, but he held his tongue.

The fog was dissipating in long, greasy black strands when at least twenty Druids, many sporting swords and sabers, poured into the small space between the Wild Pig Inn and the stable. An earlier version of Arlen led the charge.

He planted himself in front of his doppelganger. “Too late, eh?”

“Aye,” Arlen agreed. “Ye scared them off, though.”

“And offered us opportunity to return to our own time,” Tavin added.

“Is there aught more we can do?” the earlier Arlen asked.

“Spread enough magic about so no humans remember hearing or seeing what transpired.”

“Easily done.” The Druids gathered, chanting a familiar refrain.

Arlen withdrew a sliver of parchment from a pocket and walked to the far side of the stable. “What’s that?” Tavin asked.

“A wee bit of a magical scroll from Sean’s to guide us home.”

Tavin nodded. “Do it.” Home sounded welcome. Never mind it wasn’t his home. Maybe his chosen separation from his kin had run its course. He bent and wiped his dirk clean on a convenient bush before sheathing it.

Magic boiled around them. Arlen’s spell was close to full velocity when Tavin asked, “Now do ye believe Sorcha isna working the dark side of the street?”

Arlen nodded. “Aye. She’s one of us whether she wishes or no.”

Before Tavin could ask what Arlen meant, the spell caught them up in its maw. They stumbled out next to a peaceful lagoon behind the castle with swans gliding back and forth.

“Thanks!” Arlen slapped him on the back. “I’ve missed working with you.”

Tavin snorted. “Nothing like a wee battle with an old comrade in arms. Any idea what that thing shadowing Sorcha was?”

“Nay. At first, I feared she had a demon escort, but naught about it carried the stink of Hell.” He shrugged. “We could ask her, but I have other priorities just now.”

“Ye do, indeed. Rhea got you good. Best see to your face before some godawful infection sets in.”

“I’ve already sent healing magic to work on it, but Kat loves the hands-on parts.” With a lascivious wink, he started for the castle door.

Tavin followed more slowly. Sorcha was inside. He sensed her presence. He couldn’t wait to tell her about their fight with Rhea, but first he needed to clean up. He stank of Black Witchcraft and witch blood and the nineteenth century’s general lack of sanitation.

Aye. He’d take a shower and find some clothes. By then, everyone should be gathered for dinner. After their meal, he’d see if she was interested in a moonlight stroll. Of course, she’d say yes.

Tavin dove headfirst into imagining what might happen after that. By the time he trotted downstairs, chasing the luscious scents of dinner, he had at least the evening, if not the rest of his life, more or less sketched out. Sorcha was meant for him. She must be his, or else why would the goddess have thrown them together? Whistling an old Irish folk tune, he entered the dining room. Arlen, Sean, Liliana, and Gloria sat near one end of the oversized table. Morgan slid past him and grabbed a seat for herself.

He blinked and looked again. Where was Sorcha? For that matter, where was Katerina?

The swinging door from the kitchen flew open, admitting both witches carrying trays laden with food. Tavin sprang into action and ran lightly to Sorcha. “Here. Let me help you with that.”

“I’ve got it,” she said. “If you want to help, there are more of these in the kitchen.”