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Torin glanced around the densely packed trees and inhaled the rotting vegetation. He loved the forest, especially in the early evening. The serenity underneath the green canopy had saved his sanity after Fer-Diorich killed his family.

A hint of sound to his right made him freeze. His sharp eyes caught a glimpse of Makari's black fur as he crept through the heavy underbrush toward a large deer. The wolf's slow, steady movements were precise and patient as he crawled closer to the unsuspecting animal.

The leaves behind the doe rustled, and a small bleating stilled the forest around them as a tiny fawn wobbled out of the bushes on unsteady hooves. Mid-step, Makari froze, squatting close to the ground as he waited for the doe to continue the trek back to the herd.

A substantial white rabbit sprang into view, not realizing he was only inches from the wolf's muzzle. Makari lunged. One snap of his jaws broke the rabbit's neck. Trotting over to Torin, he dropped the rabbit at his feet and moved on, searching for more food.

By mid-afternoon, their hunt had been a good one. They caught five rabbits and two deer—enough for at least a week. Makari walked upright beside him, silent as usual. He was the most solemn and volatile of their small family, keeping to himself most of the time.

Torin’s thoughts touched on the Immortals and everything each persevered to overcome. His small clan was a melting pot of nationalities linked together by pain and desperation.

After catching a few more rabbits, Torin piled the fresh meat into the back of his pickup as Makari's knife scraped the skin from the last rabbit. He was well acquainted with his friend's moods, and the current one was pensive. Something bothered him, but he learned long ago that Makari would divulge whatever was on his mind in his own good time.

Torin rested his arms on the hood of his Jeep and waited. Several minutes later, the black wolf threw the rabbit into the back end with the others and gathered the small mound of fur, quickly tying it up with a string and stuffing the rolled wad into the corner before closing the door.

"Is she really your true mate?" Makari asked, his voice unusually quiet.

Torin glanced sideways at Makari. He narrowed his eyes. Instinct told him the importance of his answer for his friend. The goal of figuring out how to change the wolves back or at least give them the ability to shift once again into their human forms had kept them sane.

Lately, though, Torin had begun to notice how thin that hope had stretched. Finding a true mate, someone to share their lives with until they found the countercurse, would be a bonus.

He couldn't help but wonder if there was a woman out there who could see past their fur-covered exterior to the man hidden deep within.

Makari had stopped believing in a happy future long ago, perhaps even as soon as the Dark Fae's experiments began. After they were released, Torin did everything he could to restore that faith, but nothing had worked so far. Nothing he did would ever be enough as Makari's mood darkened, and he became more isolated.

Torin studied his friend's face, which remained blank as he waited for his answer. The long, thin scar traveling from just above his right ear down to the corner of his mouth gave him a dangerous look, which matched the wolf's personality. He was as muscular as Torin in wolf form, maybe more so, since most of his friend's time was spent outdoors.

"Yes, my friend, Gwyn is mine, but she doesn't know what that means yet." He placed a hand on Makari's arm. "Fáelán will figure out everything. You just have to hold on a while longer. He will find the answers we need."

Makari met his gaze, then gave him a quick nod. He opened the Jeep’s passenger door with a terse, "Let's go."

Torin didn't answer, anxious to get back to Gwyn. With Beltaine so close, he didn’t want to risk her safety or her sister’s. He threw the vehicle in gear, and they headed home in silence.

After dropping the meat off at his place, he shifted, wanting to check the wide perimeter surrounding their land before heading into town. Makari was already waiting for him.

With so many unexplained things happening, the Immortals had begun daily checks. It wouldn't keep the Ironclaws off their land, but the extra vigilance would, if anything, provide him and the others peace of mind.

To cut time, the wolves separated. About three miles from the house, Torin came across a recent campsite. He sniffed around, following the scent of unwashed humans until it disappeared, masked by a foul odor he knew well. Werewolves.

He nosed through the surrounding foliage but didn't find any bones. The scene is all wrong. Where are the humans?

He barked a warning to Makari, who responded with a sharp bark from the east side of the campsite. Running back into the forest, he picked up Makari's scent and followed.

Something wasn't right. He raised his head and sniffed. A movement caught his eyes, and he lowered until his body rested on his paws.

Three werewolves stood several yards to the north, thankfully, downwind. Startled by a sudden rustle beside him, he calmed when Makari slunk out from the dense bushes next to him.

"We have a small problem," Makari whispered near his ear.

Torin blew through his nose. "You think?"

"They have a bound human just inside the tree line. I caught a familiar scent." Makari's angry black eyes glittered. "Torin, the woman is Rhona's sister, Lysandra."

The hair rose on the back of his neck. An unnatural black mist hovered millimeters above the blades of grass, winding between the werewolves' feet as if guiding them away from the woman.

A heavy foreboding settled in his chest. He sniffed the air. “She’s bleeding heavily. We need to hurry," Torin whispered. Scooting out of the brush, he silently ran behind the black wolf.

Crouching on either side of the large tree, Makari stood guard while Torin sliced through the thick cords binding Lysandra's arms and legs.

Careful not to jolt her any more than they had to, he gently laid her on the ground and peeled away the duct tape from her mouth before pressing his fingers against her throat. "Her pulse is too slow. She doesn't have much time left," Torin hissed.

The black wolf raised his head and sniffed the air. A second later, Torin also smelled the beasts' stench. "We're out of time, Torin. They've caught our scent." He kneeled beside Lysandra and placed a heavy paw on her shoulder. "We need you to fight, little sister. Fight to live a while longer."

Snarling, the two Immortals launched themselves at three Ironclaws who raced toward them. At the edge of his vision, Torin noticed an undulating black mist—the same as he had seen at the archives.

This time, the substance grew until it filled his lungs, and he fought for every breath. A weight lay over his chest as a red and black streak of color flashed through his mind.

Torin shook his head, and the stinging swipe of a werewolf's iron-covered claws across his thigh pulled his attention back into the fight. Circling the creature, he shifted.

The werewolf stepped forward, his dirt and blood-encrusted mouth dropping open in a nasty grin. With an anger-filled growl, Torin lunged, swiping his long claws across the beast's face and neck, severing the jugular vein.

The werewolf crumpled to the ground, blood spurting with the last beats of its heart and pooling underneath his grotesque head. Makari sliced through the neck of his opponent, then turned and, in one fluid motion, severed the head from the second Ironclaw.

Torin glanced around, not realizing how far away they’d gotten from where they’d left the injured woman.

The third one has reached Lysandra! Hurry, Torin!

They raced back to her, but it was too late. Torin kneeled beside the body, closing her lifeless blue eyes. His gaze fell on a pool of blood lying in the center of a nearby strip of bark.

Makari's pain-filled howl echoed in the still forest. Lysandra's neck had been cut, the force so violent, the sword almost severed her head. Torin glanced back down at the blood. There was something familiar about it as it pooled in the bark, but the memory refused to surface.

He growled in frustration and anger. "Did you see the mist?" Torin asked, his voice lifeless and flat. "It was unlike anything I have ever seen. I would almost swear it led the Ironclaws away from us."

Makari dropped to the ground beside him, his gaze steady on Lysandra. "I thought I saw something but my focus was on the werewolves—keeping them away from our friend." He closed his eyes and let his head fall against his chest. "I'm so tired, Torin. I'm tired of seeing those we care for die."

"I am, too."

Makari rose, but Torin stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, his friend's dull black gaze meeting his. "Makari, your pain is my pain. When you're ready, I'm here. I always have been. Each of us battle our own hell, but we are in this together."

He exhaled, his grip tightening on his friend’s shoulder. “You are my brother, my best friend. I need you by my side in both the good and bad times, just as I will be by yours.”

Without waiting for a response, Torin shifted back into his human form and wrapped Lysandra's broken body in her long cape, cradling her to his chest as he headed back to the Jeep. He took only a few steps before Makari's long stride matched his.

* * *

The next day

The small group stood around the graveyard in silence. Gwyn hadn’t known Brother Jean-Paul, but she had considered Lysandra her friend, even though they kept their distance from everyone after their parents died. Lysandra had always checked on them.

Glancing at the faces surrounding her, drawn and sad, Gwyn’s hand rested over her stomach as grief filled her heart. Rhona and her petite, blonde companion stood by themselves, staring at Lysandra's grave as silent tears slid down their cheeks. Gwyn's heart broke for them as she remembered her own agony standing beside her parents' grave.

The wolves stood side by side in front of the two graves, each so different, yet their shared pain made them one. Torin's wolf resembled his human build with his dark brown fur so like his hair. The only difference was his black-tipped ears. He was tall and muscled, reminding her of a soldier.

Makari was the heaviest of the group, his body stocky and hinting at his hidden strength. He, too, held himself like a soldier, even more so than Torin. His black fur was flawless, glistening blue in the day's fading light. Even his undercoat was black and would render him invisible at night.

She wondered about Fáelán. His dark gray coat looked so soft. His manner was more relaxed than the other two, and he seemed comfortable as a wolf. His quiet demeanor practically screamed intelligence, reminding her of a doctor.

Today, however, he was tense, his usual smile gone. Lysandra’s and Jean-Paul’s deaths had hit him hard, but it was the continued silence from his brother that weighed on him the most. Torin and the other two wolves were worried about him.

Rafael was another matter altogether. She couldn't pinpoint why but she was a little scared of him. Behind his solid white fur and silver eyes was a barely controlled anger she hoped never to see. Torin had described him as a devil who moved on the battlefield as if he had wings. She believed that's exactly what he was.

He turned his head, his eerie gaze stabbing hers as if he knew her thoughts. She held her breath until he looked back at the two coffins nestled in the earth's embrace.

She ran the pads of her fingers over the nearest headstone; the chiseled edges smoothed from more than a thousand storms. Rhona laid a yellow rose on her sister’s headstone and walked away.

One by one, they each fell in step behind her as everyone left the small cemetery. After saying their goodbyes, Rhona and her friend drove back to Tournai, and the wolves disappeared inside their mountain home.

Sitting together in front of the large fireplace, the heaviness in the room was stifling. Gwyn glanced at her sister. “Remember how we got through Mama and Papa's deaths?” she whispered, wishing they could figure out why their telepathy still had not returned to full strength. Fáelán believed it was interference from the pregnancy.

Morgan nodded. Memories will help them heal. Morgan met her gaze, and Gwyn was thankful her sister heard her thoughts this time.

She rested her hand over Torin's and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Torin, when did you meet Jean-Paul?"

Torin squeezed her fingers but continued to stare into the cheerless fire. "He was six years old and homeless, an orphan struggling to survive on the dirty streets of Ghent. I found him dying beneath a pile of trash, trying to stay warm."

He shrugged, and Gwyn noticed the slight trembling of his chin as if he was fighting to remain separate from the memories threatening to overwhelm him as he spoke. "I understood Jean-Paul's pain. I, like everyone in this room, lost my family too soon. I took pity on Jean-Paul and carried him home. It was as if he never saw the wolf bodies, only the men underneath.”

He pursed his lips, letting the moisture in his eyes dry before continuing. “To save his life, Rafael and Fáelán gave him blood, which had the unforeseen side effect of a prolonged life." One side of Torin's mouth rose. "Believe it or not, he was a few months shy of his two hundred and fifty-first birthday."

Gwyn threw a startled glance at her sister before turning back to see Fáelán shake his head, unashamed tears soaked the fur on his cheeks. "Jean-Paul was brilliant, and we became close. We spent many hours discussing the changes around us or playing chess. He reminded us of our human side, and his bright outlook kept our hope alive that we would one day figure out a cure."

Gwyn curled up on the comfortable leather sofa, listening to the others share stories for over an hour. Staring into the comforting fire, she wondered about the small cemetery and the other seven graves. Their time-worn headstones were weathered and old, and the names etched onto the stone markers were barely legible. This graveyard had been there a long time—at least several centuries.

A steaming mug appeared in front of her, and she jerked in surprise. "I thought you might like some hot tea." Torin waited for her to sit up and take it before sitting beside her.

She sipped the hot drink, enjoying the warmth as it seeped into her chilled hands. "Torin, may I ask you something?"

He nodded.

"Who were the people in the other graves?"

He sighed, setting his cup on his thigh. "They were like us—kidnapped and used as lab rats for Fer-Diorich's experiments."

She placed a hand on his arm. "Please, tell me everything. I want to know why you fight—what he did to you and the other Immortals. This is important to me. I need to understand."

Torin glanced around the room, and, one by one, each wolf nodded. "Our clans were rounded up one by one. It was slow at first, so none of us realized what he was doing until it was too late. The women and children were of no use to him, so he killed them outright. The clans' elders gathered, comparing stories and knowledge until they figured out the Dark Fae's plans. When he discovered they knew what he was up to, he killed them as well.

"Very few survived the experiments," Fáelán added. "At first, Fer-Diorich took them in stride. But with each failure, his frustration increased until the spells he used on us delivered excruciating agony. Many of the strongest men I'd ever known begged to die."

Torin met Fáelán's haunted gaze and nodded, continuing the story. "I waited, biding my time, as family members and friends gave in to the pain, their spirits broken. My uncle was the first to turn werewolf, but he died after that first turn."

He met Makari's gaze, but the black wolf stared back, his eyes bleak but clear. "Makari was forced to kill his sons during the escape. They managed to stay alive after turning but succumbed to the dark magic. They would have become Ironclaws.” He looked at her, his usual golden gaze dim and lifeless as he relived the painful memories.

She bit back the violent sobs threatening to escape and covered her mouth with a trembling hand. Her cheeks were wet with tears, but she couldn't look away as she absorbed their overwhelming pain. Even the baby wasn’t immune, and she could feel her intense sorrow as she, too, listened.

“Dear God...," she whispered and grasped Morgan’s hand like a lifeline, feeling her sister’s grief like her own.

"Fáelán believes Fer-Diorich is after you and your sister—so he can escape the Unseelie Court.” Rafael's smooth voice broke the strained silence.

Gwyn nodded and swiped at her cheeks.

Torin took her cup from her hand and set it on the side table. He took her hand, holding it in his. "I will not lose you too, Gwyn. Not even your stubborn sister, who's as much a part of my family now as my brothers. I will do whatever it takes to make sure of that."

"Hey! I'm not that bad," Morgan muttered under her breath, wiping the tears from her face.

Rafael, Makari, and Fáelán stood and faced the girls. "As will we," Rafael said as the other two nodded.

"Before his death, Jean-Paul deciphered parts of an ancient text. He discovered stories in the Book of Taliesin with spells woven into them—once they are placed in the proper order, which is what I've been doing. He believed, and I agree, that Fer-Diorich is after one of these spells."

"What kind of spell?" Torin asked, his fingers curling around Gwyn's.

"A possession spell." Fáelán moved to stand in front of the fireplace and stared into the flickering orange flames, his back facing them. "He also discovered a missing page from these stories. He said it took him almost two years of searching, but he found it deep in the Vatican archives. Unfortunately, it was only a partial page. The day before he died, he sent word that it was hidden in a small box. I'm afraid the werewolves found it."

"We've fought Fer-Diorich before and will do so again, Fáelán." Torin's voice held strength and conviction. "This time, we have more power behind us, and our family is strong."

Makari's deep voice picked up where his left off, his Slavik accent thickening. "Apart from you, Fáelán, who else knows the power of the Druids? Your father trained you in their ways. You know the Dark Fae's power better than any of us, but I agree with Torin. When fighting, our family creates force. One even Fer-Diorich will have trouble defeating. Believe in us."

We must tell them, Gwyn.

Gwyn nodded. "Tell them."

Morgan cleared her throat. "The werewolves didn't take the document," Morgan said, fidgeting on the sofa. "Gwyn and I found it when Torin took us to the belfry the next evening. We recognized the style from a book our mother had, but we weren’t sure. We were researching it, but then the werewolves broke into our home. The vellum should still be there."

Fáelán turned around, and for the first time in two days, hope sparkled in his eyes. "We must have those spells if we have any chance of defeating Fer-Diorich and saving you both."

Morgan nodded, her gaze meeting Gwyn's. "I put it in the library. Gwyn and I were reading through some of our mother's books, trying to figure out why it was so important."

Fáelán patted her shoulder as he passed, heading back to his library. "These wonderful girls may just have given us a nugget of hope, my brothers."