Izzy's POV:

My name is Isabella Marie MacManus. I know, it's not the most Irish sounding of names, but my mother thought her daughter deserved a beautiful name as such, along with my dear twin sister, Delilah Anne.

I was now eighteen years old, with my father's caramel colored hair, blue eyes and possessing his spirit within my personality. In short, I tended to act on my instinct as both a sister and a daughter.

And I knew why my father and uncle had to leave my mother behind in America. It was because he was part of a dangerous job assigned only to the kind of people who fought for what they believed in.

To put it bluntly, I was the daughter of a man who spilled other men's blood for the protection of good people, for his brother and for my mother…and for his God.

Needless to say, I found it hard to believe that the Irishman who fathered me and my sister had murdered other men, but I came to understand that he only killed those who were evil.

Like the bastard who raped my mother before Delilah and I were even conceived. He, who almost destroyed what remained of her since she had already lost so much before then…

Delilah and I didn't even meet our father or uncle until we were five years old, but we loved them immediately. We were innocent, young girls shielded from the world by our protective guard of a mother.

Now that Delilah and I were old enough to absorb the dark nature of our parents' story, we tried to the best of our ability to stay calm and stoic at some the heart-wrenching and graphic details.

The mental image of my mother castrating the scumbag who violated her body, her face and hands drenched in his blood from the impact made me shiver with internal rage.

The secret of me and Delilah growing in our mother's womb and her fear of giving our father another burden to bear upon his shoulders when the Saints had been exposed to the public…

The night when she had nearly been killed after the Saints came back… and the death of her dear friend David Greenly.

And later, when Delilah and I had been kidnapped by the masked men who broke into our home and took us away from our parents. To this day, I still had nightmares about it. The blindfold being pressed above my eyes. The bitter aroma with a cloth being forced to my nose to make me be quiet and sleep…

Chloroform…

And when Da thought he had lost my mother forever, found her bleeding in the bathtub. I had to stand and leave the room. The nausea and dizziness made my stomach churn a sickening feeling inside me. The cool air of the outdoors helped as I leaned over the porch railing of our modest cottage and vomited, showing weakness when I was supposed to be the strong one.

I was the elder daughter, after all.

It was my fault I was experiencing this sensation of disgust. I had asked in the first fucking place.

Two warm hands set themselves onto my shoulders as I heard Uncle "Muffy" gently ask me why I'm reacting this way in the Gaelic tongue. His strong grip guided me to sit down next to him on the upper porch step.

That was our special way of communicating as well as practice for me to speak the language of my ancestors.

I explained about my damning curiosity about the past now that I felt I was old enough to take it. I shouldn't have given in to the temptation of digging out the events that were already behind me. It was a locked box I should not have found the key to.

Eve bit into the Forbidden Fruit and look where she wound up…

My uncle softly assured me that it was natural for me to wonder about my family's past, however checkered it was.

The door creaked open as I laid my head on my uncle's shoulder in exhaustion. Da asked his brother in English if I was alright. A cool breeze stroked my sweat-slickened face as my father pressed his lips to the top of my head.

All of a sudden, I felt like little child again, being protected by my two ultimate bodyguards. I turned to my father, intending to explain that I felt better since I had some fresh air. But, before I could, Uncle Muffy had to open his mouth and tell him that I threw up and that I might have a fever, all still in Irish Gaelic…

I couldn't blame them for their concern over me. Perhaps, it was the guilt they felt for not being around for the first six years of mine and my sister's lives.

My head rested again on my uncle's shoulder as Da leaned forward to check my forehead for a temperature. My eyes closed again as I felt my head throb with a slight ache.

Da's voice sounded worried as he removed his palm from my forehead and began to slide his arms under my knees and back. Even in their mid-forties, Connor and Murphy MacManus could still carry us women around like we weighed nothing.

Then, my uncle's voice sounded out in protesting Gaelic as a different pair of arms shifted under me to hold me close again. Da must have let Uncle Murphy hold me instead as I felt my mind float along in between the surface of consciousness and the depths of slumber.

My eyes remained closed as Uncle "Muffy" held me close, his boots creaking on the wooden floor of the cottage as he carried me through the house and presumably into my bedroom. It was one of the childhood perks I still had, pretending to fall asleep so I'd be magically transported to my room.

I didn't care how ridiculous it seemed. My father and uncle didn't mind one bit, even though Delilah and I were teenagers now.

The faint voices of my father and mother faded in my ears as Uncle Murphy made it to my bed and carefully laid me down on top of the comforter.

Turning over onto my side, I reached out for my uncle's hand, hoping he would catch it. He did, murmuring an assurance that I would beat the fever with my father's determination and mother's stubbornness. His fingers latched onto mine as he sat on the edge of my bed, keeping with the tradition of either him or Da staying with me and Delilah until we fell asleep.

They are our dark angels of protection, willing to kill for our safety and to carry us through the flames of evil so we shall not be scorched by them.