The estate may have been too grand for either Carwyn or Brigid, but the main house did have one feature that had become dear to them both. Tucked into the back corner was a private chapel that the previous owners—a family of questionable devotion, but abundant funds—had built. Covered in ivy, its windows were lit with a warm glow that called her as she walked through the misty night. She pulled open the door to see her husband kneeling at the front of the chapel, his head bent in prayer before the two lit candles. She walked toward him, lifting her own small votive to light and place next to his. Then she knelt down beside him and Carwyn put his arm around her waist.

“How was the service?” he asked quietly.

She sighed and stared into the three flames. “It was nice. Sad, of course, but the mass was well said. The music was lovely.”

“She’d have liked that?”

“Yes, Emily always liked music. Went to concerts all the time.”

He pulled her a little closer into his side and she laid her head against his shoulder. “I’m glad they had it at night so you could go. Was Murphy there? And the boys?”

She nodded. “Angie, too. Even though they didn’t know her.”

“They knew her parents. They knew you. She was under their aegis. It was right. I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you.” He pulled her up and they both quickly crossed themselves before they sat in the old wooden pews that filled the chapel.

“It’s fine. How was the meeting in Wicklow?”

He put an arm around her shoulders as Brigid continued to stare at the small altar in the front of the room. “Productive. Gemma and I discussed what she and Terry are doing in London. Deirdre received another letter from Lucien. He seems to be much improved after drinking his sire’s blood, so that cure seems to work as well as we’d hoped. Still no progress on any cure for humans who’ve taken it, but that seems to be where he’s turning his attention next.”

“Any news from Russia?”

“Not yet. We may have to send someone. We’ll see.”

They both fell silent as they watched the candles flicker. An intricately painted depiction of the Good Shepherd decorated the back wall and warm brass sconces lit the room. The chapel was one of the most peaceful places on the grounds, and she often found Carwyn sitting in it, praying, reading, or writing in his journal. She was glad he had it; she knew he missed his church in Wales, no matter how often he claimed he didn’t.

“Was Anne at the meeting?”

“Yes. Drove me home, as a matter of fact. She’s staying with some friends in town before she goes North. Said she’d come by tomorrow night.”

“Good.” Anne, as well as being a good friend, was also a close associate of Mary Hamilton, the water vampire who ran Belfast. And since Carwyn and Brigid’s first priority was stopping any further distribution or importation of Elixir into Ireland, Belfast was a place they needed to be.

“And I’ve a meeting with Gio later tonight,” Carwyn said casually.

“Oh?” Her ears perked as they always did when his American friends were mentioned. Brigid still hadn’t met them, but had spoken with both several times since their first conversation, usually to find the answer to some obscure fact, but sometimes, just to talk. She liked them both. A lot. The couple had begged Carwyn and Brigid to come for a visit, and they were considering a trip around the New Year.

“What are you two meeting about?” she asked. “Have there been any signs of Elixir in America? Has Beatrice found that scientist who—”

Carwyn cleared his throat. “It’s not—strictly speaking—about Elixir. The meeting, I mean. It’s more of a… personal kind of meeting. About other things.”

She frowned. “What things?”

He shrugged. “Nothing major. Just… things.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You two have a date to watch some wrestling match, don’t you?”

Carwyn opened his mouth, but no sound escaped.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” She tried to suppress the smile. “You were going to hide in the library, put some wrestling program on the television, and you and Gio were going to gossip on the speakerphone.”

He squirmed. “You make it sound so illicit when you put it that way.”

Brigid burst into laughter and hugged him around the waist. “You’re still such a bachelor sometimes.”

“I’ve sacrificed for married life, woman.”

“How?”

“I’ve given up… the Hawaiian shirts during mass—”

“No you haven’t!”

“Well, I don’t wear them during mass anymore.”

“You don’t say mass anymore. At least, not for a congregation.”

“Details. And I’ve cut down on beer consumption.”

“That is a lie, Carwyn, plain and simple.”

“I shave more regularly?”

“That’s true.” She snorted. “You poor man; you’re almost a martyr. Those sacrifices practically qualify you for sainthood.”

He whispered in her ear, “I do entertain very lustful thoughts on a regular basis, but only about my wife.”

The warm scrape of his fangs against her ear made her shiver, so she whispered back, “When was that meeting again?”

“Not for some time.”

Brigid gave him a wicked grin as she rose and took both his hands in hers. “But is it enough time?”