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April

Torin's pace quickened as he walked along the path to the caves where he and his brothers lived. They were not blood brothers, but their kinship was forged by pain, grief, and anger. Even after the passing of centuries, he still had a difficult time remembering the pain of losing everyone he loved to the Dark Fae.

Fer-Diorich's fanatical quest for ultimate strength robbed Torin of his past, present, and future, along with those of his clan, as the Fae tried to create the ultimate weapon. His werewolves would bind the Fae Seelie and Unseelie Courts together, assuring him control of both courts.

His path of destruction had succeeded, but not in the way the Dark Fae planned. Instead of using his Ironclaws in an all-out war, Fer-Diorich had been banished to the Unseelie Court. At the same time, those he experimented on were left to live their immortal lives as outcasts, hidden from human society, in the form of wolves, not men.

Torin refused to return to his mountain home until he proved or disproved the Ironclaws’ return. He couldn’t put his brothers through that angst again on a whim. The attack on the archivists on New Year’s Eve had been the first sign. Since then, he had uncovered more and more instances of that same destruction as death spread through the city. The werewolves seemed to be searching for something, but what that something was remained elusive.

The last thing he wanted to do was dredge up old memories and pain, but now that the beasts had returned, his clan would be Tournai's only defense against the scourge that almost decimated Europe so long ago. He and the other Immortals had planted the existing story of the plague causing millions of deaths across Europe, even convincing a few monks to write about it so modern historians would pass it down as fact.

In reality, the death army of Fer-Diorich traveled from place to place, one step ahead of the deadly disease, killing and kidnapping victims for the Dark Fae. Torin believed the Ironclaws themselves caused the mysterious illness instead of flea-infested rats, but that truth would never be known.

The Dark Fae's experiments had claimed so many lives as he tried to change men into wolves—not the beautiful creatures living and hunting in the surrounding forests, but ravenous loners who hunted prey indiscriminately.

He and his clan brothers had been lucky and escaped that fate. For those who had fallen under the Fae’s spell, however, their only purpose was to create mayhem and death, which they delivered with their iron-covered claws. Cold iron. One of the only ways a Fae could be killed.

Screams rent the air, and Torin dropped to the baked earth. In the evening's fading light shadows grew and deepened, tricking the mind as the flora changed shapes. His sharpened gaze missed nothing. Raising his face toward the frantic cries of horses, he had to do something. He couldn't just let them die. Too much death stained his long life, both human and animal.

He pinpointed the agonized screams and raced toward the dilapidated barn a mile away, using his inner wolf’s speed. He huffed out a small prayer that he would make it in time to save at least a few terrified animals. As he drew closer, the biting aroma of cooking meat and burning wood filled his lungs.

What he needed the most, though, was rain—an impossibility due to the current drought. The earth hadn't felt a drop of rain in months, the proof lying in the brown landscape throughout Belgium. The arid countryside surrounding the small town of Tournai should have been lush and green.

The replenishing rains during May should have left the forest floor caked with rotting vegetation and a cool hint of moisture on the breeze. Instead, the air dried everything it touched, leaving the land dry and barren.

He hadn't seen weather this crazy since the 1300s. So many lifetimes ago. So many changes. The advancement of technology made life easier, but a part of him still longed for simpler days when one recognized enemy from friend. He was tired of constantly looking over his shoulder, ensuring someone was not sporting a camera or cell phone.

A vision of Gwyn's lovely face filled his mind, giving him a tiny sense of calm. Something about her drew him but seeing her again would be pointless. He wasn't human anymore—with nothing to give a woman.

He let out a soft snort, imagining her reaction to seeing him shift into a larger-than-life wolf. Not like the ones depicted in movies, but those versions weren't far from the truth, which surprised him.

Buried deep inside of him, he carried a sincere wish for normalcy. He wanted a wife and children—a simple life. The more years that passed him by, the worse this feeling got. He'd never considered telling anyone, much less a woman, what he was...until Gwyn. Her knowing, though, would be too dangerous for his small clan.

He scrubbed his face, his fingers rubbing the building pain at each temple. He was his brothers' caretaker, for god's sake. Stuck in wolf form for centuries, none of them could make their way in today’s world.

Technology made their lives hell and kept them tied to the caves where they had created a home. They couldn't risk someone stumbling upon one of them, taking a picture, and making a spectacle of their hard-earned solitude.

They would be no better off than when they were locked in the Dark Fae's prisons, and they were already damned close to that now, hunted for an entirely different reason.

He had learned throughout history how ruthless scientists could be. They would pick apart their bodies, trying to replicate what they were. He shook his head. He would die protecting them from the outside world.

To keep people away, Fáelán, who was the closest thing to a druid they had, made sure the magical wards surrounding their lands were powerful, but this farm was just outside of that perimeter. His pace slowed as he neared the small farm's fence line.

Hundreds of startled crows took off from the overhead canopy, their harsh caws clawing at his ears. Just ahead, several horses screamed, their agony-filled cries slicing through the night and almost drowning out another, wilder roar.

He hesitated near the forest’s edge, his leg slowly lowering to the ground again. Tuning out the shrill neighs of the horses, he listened, but whatever roared moments ago remained silent. A heavy stillness hung over the forest, and the hair on his arms rose. He wasn't alone.

Creeping toward the rotted wood fence, he let his inner wolf closer to the surface, his ears straining to pick up even the tiniest of sounds. All around him, though, the forest waited in an unnerving silence.

Standing just one foot away from the fence, he took another step when a horrible yet disturbingly familiar odor burned into his nostrils. The putrid stench of rotten eggs turned his stomach, washing over him as he leaped over the top railing and landed in the back area of the old Lemaire farm.

He held his crouched position a moment longer, drawing the caustic fiery air deep into his lungs as he tried to pinpoint where the odor came from. He needed to find the werewolf’s hiding place before it found him.

Just as he rose to run toward the barn, the windows shattered, spewing shards of glass over and around him. Ducking, he shielded his head, but not before several pieces sliced through his cheek and body. In front of him, the well-kept facade of the barn was gone, replaced by large blackened holes colored by angry tongues of fire whipping over the spikes of broken glass and shattered strips of wood.

The horses' panic rose, their screams becoming more frantic by the second. He didn’t have a moment to spare if he was going to save them. The building shuddered and groaned as the flames spread to the exterior supports.

He sprinted toward the burning frame, his wolf giving him extra speed. A dark silhouette separated from the impenetrable shadows on the far side of the barn, and Torin skidded to a stop. The cloying, rotten-egg odor of burning sulfur hung between them in the scalding air. He scowled impatiently, shaking his head in resignation.

A barn fire was nothing compared to what the Ironclaw standing before him could do if he weren’t destroyed. History would repeat itself, and everyone in Tournai would be slaughtered, unable to defend themselves against such a monster. And if there were more of them…

His gaze narrowed, focusing on the drawn lips and bloody fangs as the werewolf edged around him in a circle. The moment his gaze met the beast's glowing red eyes, Torin lunged, answering the monster's low growl with one of his own.

Torin's fingers grasped the butt of the gun tucked into the back of his jeans, but before he could swing his arm around, the beast's colossal paw knocked it from his grasp, momentarily numbing Torin’s hand. With his other hand, he reached across his body and grasped the hilt of his silver knife, pulling it from the sheath attached to his belt.

"Fás!" he muttered in the language of his ancestors, relishing the familiar flow of the Gaelic word, commanding the weapon to grow. In a blinding flash of white light, the small weapon lengthened into the razor-sharp blade of a massive sword.

With one brutal swing, the silver-coated steel cut open a long swath across the monster's ribs and shoulders, the silver slowly burning into the ravaged flesh and arresting the werewolf's ability to heal.

Dodging the deadly iron claws, he sliced the sharp tip of the sword over the hair-covered abdomen in a crisscrossing fashion until skin and muscles dangled in bloody chunks. The pain-enraged animal howled.

As the Ironclaw lunged at him, Torin dropped, kicking out one leg and catching the werewolf's thick, elongated shins. He scowled at the dying monster as it fell with a heavy thud on the hard ground. Newly made and not yet battle-hardened, it hadn’t even been worth shifting for.

He raised his sword to cut off the Ironclaw's head. Scratching deep into the hard earth with its magic-hardened claws as the werewolf twisted around.

Torin realized his mistake when the dagger-like teeth tore into his shoulder. Pushing his self-incriminating thoughts to the back of his mind, he ignored the excruciating pain and burning from the poison-coated teeth and struck hard, plunging his sword into the beast's overly muscled chest and severing the spine.

With a quick, upward thrust, he sliced the heart in two. With a loud grunt, he pushed the werewolf's corpse to the ground and stumbled a few steps back before finding his balance.

Pausing to catch his breath, he glanced toward the barn when a fluttering movement caught his attention. Along an overgrown path running beside the fence, he saw what looked like two small lumps of something lying near a scraggly bush. With a downward slash of the blade, he severed the beast's head from its shoulders.

Edging closer to the lumps, a knot formed in his gut as his gaze dropped to the bodies of two children, broken and torn. A strand of dark hair whispered across the ravaged girl's petite face.

Overwhelming sadness poured through him. He knew these children and had played with them not even a month ago. Angelique and Dominique Lemaire.

In death, the girl’s fear and pain remained, carved into her sweet features. Protective even in death, her brother’s tiny body rested in her embrace. Her white fingers splayed over the face so much like her own, shielding his eyes.

Nearby lay the girl's treasured, well-worn doll. He couldn't remember a time when the doll wasn't tucked into the vee of her arm. His sadness erupted into a fury he hadn’t experienced since finding the bodies of his own family so long ago.

A sharp cracking noise from the building drew his attention. Wrapped among the spits and pops of the fire were the deep growls of more werewolves. Torin's gaze dropped back to the children, and a powder keg ignited something deep inside him.

Boldly walking toward the front of the barn, he stopped as three werewolves emerged from the large doorway, their mouths full of horse flesh.

He held himself still, waiting for the Ironclaws to notice him. Surprisingly, they turned toward the tree line instead. Just as the lead werewolf stepped into the forest's thick foliage, he stopped and lifted his head.

Focused more on eating, the other two ran into him, snarling through their food-filled muzzles. Sniffing the smoke-filled air, the beast's large face finally turned toward him. Torin smiled.

Letting loose his anger, Torin's tightly held power exploded. He curled his lips into a merciless grin and raised his sword high above his head. The wind swirled and lashed around him, his shoulder-length hair striking his face like small whips.

As if possessed and watching his actions from a distance, he called forth the lightning in a tongue he had never heard before, much less spoken—words reminiscent of ancient Gaelic, yet not.

The beasts' bodies twisted as they tried to reach him, but with the wind's fury, flying debris pushed them backward, hitting and cutting everything in its path. Fueled by his rage, the storm increased, unmercilous in its destruction. A burst of lightning struck the beasts, and their bodies disintegrated into a heavy coating of ash that drifted to the ground as the wind instantly died.

The loud popping and crackling of the fire deep inside the barn's blackened interior sounded as if it were far away instead of only a few feet. He turned just as the roof collapsed, followed by the walls as they fell inward, sending a plume of burning embers high into the air.

His anger dying, Torin shook his head, trying to clear the momentary confusion. What in the hell had just happened? He raised his hands, palms outward, as tiny bits of remaining ash sifted through his fingers. At no time in his long life did he remember being able to call lightning. Hadn’t even known it was a possibility.

With slow, heavy steps, he returned to the children. Burying their tiny bodies didn't take long and, after tamping down the dark soil, he raised his head to the night sky and savored the sweet scent wafting from the woods as the smoke from the fire dissipated. Without looking back at the destruction, he gave in to the familiar pull of the forest he loved.

* * *

Two raven-haired women stared through the portal into the human realm. The centuries had been difficult on everyone as evil pervaded the Fae's adopted world. The Danaans' way of life was in trouble.

"Do you think this will work?" the younger female's voice trembled.

"It must. He is the chosen and the answer to our problem. If he doesn't claim my granddaughter soon, she won't be strong enough before Beltaine, and our world will die." Morrigan answered.

"You know we just changed fate," Nemain ducked behind her older sister, worrying at the silk tie synching the black gauzy dress to her petite waist as she paced through the withered brown grass of their home. Tír na nOg was dying.

Morrigan snorted. "Not really, sister. We just helped fate along a tiny bit. There is a difference. He holds within him the gift of life—life for all realms if Fer-Diorich is stopped. This plan will work. You'll see. Our young warrior and my granddaughter are the answer—along with the rest of the Immortals."

* * *

Torin savored the night's chill, enjoying the cool, gentle breeze fanning his warm skin, too tired to care about the wispy tickle of hair as it fluttered across his cheeks. His inner wolf longed to run, the change rippling underneath his skin.

He shifted without slowing, the muscles and bones tearing and popping as they changed shape. His face stretched downward, his canines lengthening to sharp points.

He lunged forward, his arms and legs shortening and thickening as he dropped to the ground. He loved to shift. Painful, yes, but it was a welcomed pain—a guilty pain. One his brothers could not enjoy. He shoved the morose thought away and lost himself as he ran through the trees with only one goal. Home.

He should have returned to the caves weeks ago, but his plans changed after finding the torn section of vellum at the archives. He pulled a few favors from acquaintances around town, trying to get more answers before he had to tell the other Immortals his fears.

Unfortunately, nothing panned out—until he visited with Rhona Símons. Only his small clan knew of her druid-like powers. Everyone else simply knew her as an eccentric shop owner. Thankfully, she was so much more. With her on the case, he and his brothers soon would have the answers they needed.

Torin, where are you? the deep voice snapped each word like a whip inside his head.

I thought you were working on your impatient streak, Makari? Hold on, I'm almost there.

It's about time. You should have returned weeks ago. Do I need to find you a map or is your old age catching up with you?

Torin paused a moment before answering, enjoying the rare teasing of his best friend's voice . We are the same age, you idiot. His snout opened in a sizeable wolfy grin at the mental snap Makari sent him.

He loved pushing the Immortal's buttons, grateful for the mental link they somehow created all those centuries ago. Torin suspected it was the only thing keeping Makari grounded and sane.

Other than Rafael, who was one year younger, he and Makari were the same age when they'd been turned. Thirty. So young in human years, but after living for almost a thousand, he no longer remembered.

Soon after escaping Fer-Diorich's prison, they paired together to protect the few remaining villagers from the rogue werewolves still roaming the area, sheltering in the very caves where he and his brothers now lived.

Blood brothers, Faelan and Kilian, himself, Makari, and Rafael, a Spaniard who’d been held captive during Spain’s Inquisition, joined them. Over time, they bonded and became as close as real brothers, which was a feat considering the number of alphas in this pack. Torin would protect the Immortal wolves with his life. They were the only family he had.

Only the two of them, he and Makari, had fought, transfusing blood to heal one another. After a while, they noticed subtle changes, such as the ability to speak to each other using only their minds, a welcomed side effect that came in handy during battles.

Now, though, it gave Torin another advantage. Empathy. He felt Makari's emotional struggles like they were his own and did anything and everything he could to help lighten his friend’s burdens. Teasing him seemed to be the only thing keeping him in the here and now instead of giving in to the ever-present depression threatening to swallow him whole.

Cocking his head, Torin’s ears twitched as he listened to the surrounding forest. The soft whistle of birds and the chirping of the cicada echoed around him, but something seemed off. Streaks of moonlight glimmered here and there on the brush around him as he lowered to the ground.

His husky frame disappeared as he merged with the ghostly mist rising from the ground. His paws touched noiselessly on the moist mulch as he crept forward.

Raising his head, he sniffed at the decay wafting toward him. Unfazed by the putrid scent, his symbiotic wolf seemed almost amused when Torin rubbed his paw over his nose, trying to rid his nostrils of the stench. It smelled worse than the werewolves.

As he drew closer, the malodor grew stronger with an underlying trace of spoor, and he pulled his spirit back, letting his wolf take the lead, sniffing the ground until he located the tracks. He knew this area well, often hunting here since the cave system his brothers called home was about a mile from where he now stood.

The churned ground lay in clumps, torn from the Ironclaws’ paw prints. Their heavy weight caused them to sink deep into the blood-soaked earth as they killed the helpless cows. From the spoor left behind, he was able to separate the stench of at least three different monsters. No wonder the area smelled so bad—it was a cocktail of werewolf stench and death.

Torin lowered his large body until he hugged the ground, not wanting to give himself away if the creatures remained nearby, but he needed to see the carnage up close. He crawled forward, his underfur dragging through the dirt as he approached the clearing.

Ferns and bushes, their roots still intact, had been jerked from the ground and lay in piles, creating a jagged path. Rising, he gingerly stepped over the debris and padded around the half-eaten bovine carcasses, trying not to look too closely at the maggots wriggling on the rotting bodies.

When alive, these two had been good-sized animals. He glanced at the small area, trying to figure out how they managed to get cows of this size into the cramped space. From what remained of their tattered and abraded hides, the poor animals had suffered.

Gruesome death masks adorned their faces with bulging eyes, their dark purple tongues hanging from their open mouths. From the diagram of claw marks scoring the hair-covered bodies and the multitude of footprints surrounding them, they had fought hard to live.

Ears upright, he listened but only heard the regular chirping and clicking of the forest and one of his brethren tending the fire outside the cave entrance. Farther away, he heard the low growls of a wolf cub, followed by a sharp yelp. Torin’s wolf chuffed in amusement.

He stepped back onto the path, and the mist rolled in again with a life of its own, licking and pushing at his legs. The silence was deafening and drew him deeper into the underbrush. The warm breeze lifted the tufts of dark brown fur along the top of his shoulder blades as he crept forward.

Inching his way among thick green ferns, he stepped on sharp pine needles and damp moss, grown dense over the rarely used path. The pungent, sickly-sweet scent of plant decay lay heavy in the air, like an actual wall he had to push through. One step, then another, he stumbled forward.

The strange barrier-like sensation remained as he maneuvered the forest's denseness. Finally, he exited the line of moss-covered trees and found himself at the edge of a small valley. Several scents brushed over him, and he crouched, uncertain where he was or how he'd gotten here.

He recognized the valley in front of him, but its location was farther north of the caves—a couple of miles from where he had found the cattle.

What in the hell is going on?

Inhaling, he caught the scent of fresh apples. Scanning the horizon, he made out a narrow stream snaking through the grassy terrain. Here and there were flashes of opalescence as the moonlight glittered on its glassy surface. Perched on one side of the stream's sandy bank was a small Airstream travel trailer that had seen better days.

The once handsome aluminum exterior was more rust than silver; in some places, the metal was gone altogether. A small side window was cracked open, allowing inside sounds to filter out into the calm night air. On the far side of the trailer sat a couple of run-down buildings.

Glancing around the valley’s perimeter, he realized there wasn't a single apple tree in the clearing. Torin's wolf chuffed again, the strong scent of magic making him sneeze as his attention returned to the two people talking inside the trailer.

He crept closer, hearing the continuous back-and-forth scuffing of paws across hard earth, one set more agitated than the others. His wolf picked up on the movement’s consistent, almost human pattern, which seemed strange. Neither wolves nor dogs held to such a steady plodding, much like pacing.

His soft bark, sounding more like a cough, filtered through the night, and he waited to see if he would get a response. Seconds later came the sharp bark of a male dog warning him to stay away. Torin sat back on his haunches.

The magic-laden air curled around him, his fur standing on end, as an uncertain awareness prickled down his back. The voices coming from the trailer changed, rising in anger. A brusque female voice rose, her magic rising with her irritation.

He thought over his options and didn't like any of them. With a grudging reluctance, he slunk toward the trailer, the voices inside growing louder and more agitated the closer he got.

Just as he reached the edge of the Airstream, a movement at the far end of the narrow path leading away from camp caught his eye. His wolf stilled, staring into the night.

Dark shadows played along the ground and edged toward the stream. With just the hint of a sigh, the tall grasses bent forward, and his gaze darted to the still weeds growing wild around him. There was no wind.

He edged closer to the vehicle, blending with the darkness lurking around the bottom of the trailer. His gaze followed the light gray mist as it twisted and turned away from him, moving along the ground. One blink later, it was gone.