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Torin's gate quickened as the dark presence grew, the evil power vibrating around the ancient watch tower. He turned the corner of the medieval landmark in time to see the sisters hurrying down the cobblestone street away from the belfry. He hesitated, wanting to follow them, but he needed to speak with Jean-Paul.

He ignored the damning thoughts in his brain, yelling at him in what surprisingly sounded like Fáelán's voice, and loped off after the girls anyway. He followed them discreetly as they walked along the cobblestone sidewalks, passing by their store through the heart of Tournai.

Their path twisted and turned like a maze through the businesses, the pale yellow light streaming from the colored glass of the owner's quarters above each. Several blocks later, they hurried past older, stately houses until they stopped and unlatched a wrought iron gate leading to the same quaint manor he’d visited a few nights ago.

Biting back a quick smile, he turned to head around back to the pretty little garden area when Gwyn turned her head. He stepped into the thick grove of trees lining the road opposite their house, his dark clothing blending with the deep shadows. Her gaze narrowed as she stared directly at him, her mouth thinning into a narrow line.

She shook her head at something her sister said, the red-gold strands of Gwyn’s hair glinting in the moon's silvery glow, holding his attention. She stood in the pale moonlight, as beautiful and magnificent as a goddess.

Gwyn continued to search the shadows for a second longer before allowing Morgan to pull her toward the front door. "I will be back, mon ange—I will be back." Telling himself he was only there to ensure the two women made it safely home—strictly because of the recent werewolf attacks—he headed back to the belfry.

Instead of using the main entrance, which led to the circular stairwell leading up to the bells at the top of the tower, he headed toward the side door, his steps slowing when he noticed the heavy wrought iron handle lay twisted as it hung at an awkward angle against the massive medieval door.

Hurrying inside, his gaze automatically found the closed door to Brother Jean-Paul's room. Under his breath, he prayed the tower's caretaker had retired early.

With a glance around the space, blood chilled in his veins at the destruction surrounding him. Tables that had once lined the outside walls for visitors to look at and discover all the archeological wonders from the ancient city had been destroyed.

The hand-hewn wooden benches he had lovingly built around the base of the circular stairway for people to sit on were nothing more than kindling. The beautiful wood, broken pottery shards, and glass littered the floor under his feet. His gaze fell on the deep gouges covering the massive stone walls, four distinct lines each.

It was Jean-Paul's job to ensure the ancient bells worked and the artifacts stored here were cared for. As the man's age advanced, he decided to move into the tower instead of walking two miles from his small home on the edge of Tournai. Torin had been glad of that decision until now.

He hurried toward Jean-Paul's room and realized the door wasn't closed as he had first thought but hung against the frame as if someone had tried to put it back in place. Inside, the small room was in complete disarray. Shredded canvases rested against their broken frames, and, like the main room, hundreds of pottery shards littered the floor, mixed in among torn and trampled papers and tourist maps.

He stepped into the room, and whether from the force of opening the door or simply timing, the long shelf system he had helped Jean-Paul hang several years ago collapsed, the loud noise echoing in the small, stone chamber.

Torin twisted the knob on the wall beside him and turned on the World War II-era lights, but nothing happened. Using his wolf's night vision, he found the small candle on the floor beside the splintered door frame and returned it to the wall sconce hanging beside the door.

"Jean-Paul?" Torin held his breath, listening with his acute hearing for any signs of life. What he did hear made his heart stutter, as a wet gurgling came from the far corner of the room. Leaping over the debris, he flung away the thin mattress and found his friend underneath.

The man's aged body had been sliced to ribbons. Through his blood-soaked brown robe, Torin saw where chunks of skin had been gouged away. He dropped to his knees, his hands outstretched, but he had no idea where to touch his friend without causing him more pain. How he was still alive...

“Holy hell, Jean-Paul," Torin whispered. The dying man coughed, the ominous gurgling told Torin the old man's lungs were filling up with blood. "You must hold on until I can get you to Fáelán?—"

The frail man chuckled. "I am beyond help, my lad,” he coughed. “Thoughtful of you all the same. The others look to you—such a heavy burden to carry."

His coughing worsened, and a steady trickle of blood seeped from one side of his mouth. "You are strong, Torin, even stronger than you believe yourself to be, but things are about to change. The moment I saw the Ironclaws, I knew. It is only a matter of time before you will face a terrible decision."

Jean-Paul's prominent Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he tried to swallow. He cleared his throat several times while he patted the ground beside him with one hand as if searching for something. Torin picked the vein-aged hand up and held it in his. His vision blurred, blurring the blood-streaked face of his long-time friend.

"I believe in you, laddie. Always have. You possess a strength of character rarely seen in the world today. Draw on it, for you will need it in the coming days…” Jean-Paul's voice faded. Torin stared into his friend's pale blue, almost gray eyes, watching as the light faded from them.

With a ragged sob, the tears flowed unchecked. Staring at the ceiling overhead, he screamed in rage, letting loose the agony of losing his friend and an honorary member of his clan until exhaustion claimed him. Torin placed the body on the ground, eyes closed as if in prayer, when another sound crept in behind him, along with the whisper of fur.

With a low growl in his chest, he whirled around and faced not one but three Ironclaws. Dried blood matted the hair around their muzzles and down their chests. The lead werewolf's crazed eyes glowed an eerie green in the candlelit room.

"You can't have him," Torin growled, allowing his hands partially to turn, his sharp claws lengthening as he dropped into a battle pose.

"We haven't come for him," the beast's voice ground out the words as if he was not used to talking. "We are here to kill you."

Torin's grief fueled the rage inside of him. “Then come and get me.” He loosened his tight control on the warrior from long ago when battles were a daily way of life. He let out the feared Celtic battle cry—the same one heard and written about by the ancient Romans—and shifted, the change from man to wolf complete in the blink of an eye as his long claws struck the lead Ironclaw across his neck. The massive beast dropped to the floor like a felled tree, his head severed from his spine.

The other two bellowed and lunged toward him. Two against one wasn't the best of odds, but Torin had always been a gambling man. He danced around them with quick steps, swiping at exposed areas and digging into their tender spots. Just when he thought he was gaining ground, Torin realized it had been a ruse, and the deceptive maneuvers by the werewolves had almost tricked him. Almost.

Turning on him, the two struck in unison. Like Jean-Paul, their iron-covered claws cut his skin to ribbons, but in his rage, he didn't feel any of it. One glimpse of the broken body of his friend gave him the strength and determination to endure whatever punishment they lashed out as he lunged toward the closest werewolf, knocking him back against his partner.

Torin latched on to the thick neck and bit deep, his jaws locking as the werewolf desperately tried to dislodge him. Pain knifed through his gut as claws pierced his abdomen, cutting their way to his organs as the beast fought for his life.

Desperate to escape, Torin's powerful jaws snapped the Ironclaw's neck, ending the death before his vengeance was appeased. The moment the body dropped to the ground, the third Ironclaw lunged. Blood poured from the massive wounds in his stomach, and Torin knew he was running out of time.

Drawing on the internal power and magic taught to each of them by Fáelán and Kilian's druid father while they were still imprisoned in the Dark Fae's dungeons, he uttered the foul-tasting words and stumbled back as the werewolf's yellow eyes widened. The ugly sneer on his black lips disappeared as he cried out in a high-pitched howl of pain. The considerable body twisted and writhed as the beast's claws repeatedly pierced his own fur-covered hide until he lay in the middle of a large pool of blood.

Torin's ravaged body fell against the door frame, which was the only thing now holding him up, and closed his eyes against the horrific site. He'd seen what this particular spell could do once before and couldn't stomach to watch it happen again. The werewolf's insanity grew as he killed himself, and with those last words, the beast's body melted from the inside out until nothing was left but a thick puddle on the ground.

Torin exhaled, shuddering as his head and arms changed to his human form, and stumbled through the belfry. Once outside, his only thought was to find Gwyn…to see her one last time. Whatever the force driving him through the darkened streets, it was the most potent feeling he had ever experienced as it pushed and, at times, seemed to carry him until he fell face down on the wide porch of her house.

Turning his head to one side, his cheek cold against the porch, he watched as the first rays of dawn spread from a deep red, then lightening to pinks and peaches as the day began.

A minute later, just as the top of the sun broke above the tree line, he heard the front door open and a shrill scream rent through the air. He turned his head and tried to smile, wanting to wipe away the horrified expression on Gwyn's face as she stared down at him.

* * *

"Morgan!" Gwyn screamed and dropped to Torin's side, taking in the horrific wounds covering most of his body. She'd never seen such damage. How was he still alive? She glanced up, her gaze following the trail of blood leading from the road to the porch. Dear God, where did you come from?

Morgan skidded to a stop behind her and tried to pull her back, but Gwyn jerked out of her grip. "We need to get him inside before someone sees him." She stared into her sister's wide eyes. "Morgan!" She said in a harsh voice. "We have to move him now ."

Gwyn scooted to where his head lay at an odd angle, glad his eyes were closed. She laid her fingers against his neck and found a pulse, but it was thready and weak. Leaning forward, she tucked her arms underneath him and turned him over. She gasped when she saw the deep claw wounds in his stomach, as if someone had tried to eviscerate him.

Desperation drove her as she shoved her arms beneath his broad shoulders and hauled him off the ground. "Morgan, hurry...help me!" Her pain-filled cry finally got through to her older twin, who rushed to his feet and wrapped her arms around his ankles.

"On the count of three, lift," Morgan instructed. Gwyn only nodded, too afraid to speak. "One, two, three! " The girls lifted the heavy man and carried him inside. With many grunts and less-than-ladylike language, they grabbed a blanket from the hall closet and pulled him into the downstairs guest bedroom.

"Either he stays on the floor, or we’ll have to use magic to float him to the bed."

Gwyn frowned. Morgan was right, but it worried her as she recalled their grandmother's warning about using their powers. Closing her eyes, she nodded. "Let's get it over with. Hopefully, the power of the new day will mute the magic enough."

She met her sister's wary gaze. "You think whoever did this is close?"

Gwyn shrugged. "I have no idea. Both Mom and Grandmother warned us not to use our magic because it could be tracked, and so did Rhona." Torin let out a weak moan, pulling her attention back down to his terrible wounds. Inside her womb, the baby kicked, her worry escalating like Gwyn’s. She laid her hands on his shoulders. "Hurry, sister."

Morgan cupped her palms over Torin's blood-soaked boots and joined Gwyn's lilting voice as she beseeched the ancient Tuatha dé Danann in the tongue of the ancient Celts to give them aid, then chanted the simple spell. Torin's body rose in the air and, as gently as a puff of air, rested back on the bed, his blood immediately soaking into the quilt and turning the cream-colored material bright red.

Gwyn pulled away all that remained of his sleeves, which revealed more deep scratches along his upper arms, the wounds raw and bloody. Gently removing the rest of his shirt and jacket from his torso was a bit more complicated as she carefully lifted it away from the deep lacerations across his chest.

Thankfully, she didn't have to remove anything from the gaping wounds in his abdomen. By the time she was done, Morgan had returned and was washing away as much of the blood as she could, which was difficult because the more she wiped, the more he bled.

Dropping the towel in what was left of the pink-tinged water, Morgan let out an exasperated growl. "This is hopeless! He's going to bleed out—we need to either use magic to heal him or do a lot of sewing." She met Gwyn's gaze.

"Magic," Gwyn whispered, feeling his life force slipping away. "It's his only chance, Morgan. Even the baby knows it. I can feel her anxiety and fear growing inside of me."

"How is that even possible?"

"We'll worry about that after he's safe and out of harm's way. There are so many wounds. I've never seen someone so badly ripped apart and still alive." She let out a harsh sob and covered her mouth, unmindful of the blood covering her palm. His skin had turned a ghastly gray shade. Before her eyes, the outer edges of his lips turned blue. She gasped. "Morgan, we must use our magic. Now!"

"Do you remember Mom's healing spell?" Morgan asked, her voice unusually high. "I'm not sure I do."

Gwyn closed her eyes and concentrated, thinking back to their many lessons. Her eyelids popped open, meeting her sister's worried gaze. "I remember it. Make sure your entire hand is on his skin. Hold his shoulder and repeat what I say." She turned her gaze to Torin's face and found him staring at her. It gave her strength. Even the babe in her womb calmed. She felt a soothing caress over one cheek as if he cupped her face with the palm of his hand. She took a deep breath and said the Gaelic words her mother had taught her so long ago.

“Mother Earth, hear our claim,

Stop the blood, take the pain.

Skin and muscles close and bind.

From nature we are, to nature we go.

Through us, let your power flow."

The sisters clenched their eyes shut and chanted the spell repeatedly until Torin mumbled something in a language neither girl understood. Suddenly, his body jerked, his back arching from the bed, then dropping back again. The dozen or more lacerations and shallower scratches were the first to disappear. The bloody holes in his stomach took longer, but the skin slowly knit together until the only remaining proof was the pink tissue surrounding the healed wounds.

He needed sleep, but other than that, they had pulled him from Death's sights...at least for the moment. They held onto him a moment longer, unsure what would happen next. His body stilled, and they released their tight hold on his shoulders after a few minutes.

Morgan sat back on her heels and swiped a strand of black hair from her forehead, leaving a thin trail of pink behind. "We did it," She raised her disbelieving gaze to Gwyn's. "I can't believe we did it. You did it, Gwynnie. I had no clue what that spell was—haven't thought about it in years."

Gwyn scooted closer to the sleeping man and brushed the hair from his forehead. Her fingertips tingled against his damp skin but touching him felt right. "If things get worse, like Rhona predicted, maybe we need to brush up on the spells Mom taught us."

"Tell me again what Morrigan...errr, our grandmother said."

"She said a Dark Fae cursed us because of a decision she made against him. Somehow, he caused Mom's death and that we're next." She wound her fingers through Torin's long hair and held it in her fist. "Whatever is happening in Tournai is because of us, Morgan. We need to stop it before it gets worse."

"How are we supposed to stop it if we don't know what it is? We'll be searching for a needle in a haystack."

Gwyn stared down at Torin's peaceful face. Her thumb rubbed away a streak of blood on his jaw. "I'm not sure how I know this, but I think Torin can fill in the missing pieces once he wakes. This mess began after New Year’s Day and has progressively worsened.” Under his closed lids, his eyes moved from side to side, then stopped, and his head slowly turned into the palm of her hand.

She met her sister’s worried gaze. “There's more to all of this than meets the eye, Morgan, and I'm afraid what's coming for us will be very, very bad.