Epilogue
Blackwood Townhouse
One month later…
Thea was supposed to be finishing client paperwork.
Instead, she was straddling Alaric on the settee, lips swollen, her hair falling in wild curls as she kissed him like he’d just dragged her from the jaws of hell. Again. “You didn’t lock the door,” she murmured, hips rolling slow.
“I did,” he growled. “And bolted it.”
Celeste Blackwood—deceased four months, mother of one menace—hovered just above the mantel, arms crossed. “You see this? I told you. Degenerates.”
Beside her, Alice beamed. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Down on the settee, Alaric’s waistcoat had lost two buttons, Thea’s chemise had somehow been rucked up to her ribs, and his hands were mapping her thighs like they were lawfully his. (They were.)
“You know,” he rasped against her throat, “I think I am beginning to believe in fate.”
From the ether above, Alice sniffled. “That’s my boy.”
Celeste sighed. “If he gets her pregnant in this parlor—”
“—we’re naming it Gideon, after the ghost terrier in Plot 32B!” Alice clapped.
Thea paused, blinking up at the ceiling. “Did you hear something?”
“No,” Alaric said quickly, dragging her back down by the hips.
“You two are awful,” Celeste muttered. “There are proper places for these sorts of antics. Bedrooms. Brothels. Not beside your grandmother’s urn—”
“Oh stop,” Alice said, preening as Thea kissed Alaric again. “It’s practically romantic.”
“Practical is not the word I’d use. Have you seen what they did to the fainting couch?”
Alice sighed happily. “Yes. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Down below, Thea broke the kiss long enough to whisper, “Propose to me properly.”
Alaric’s breath caught. His thumb brushed her cheek. “I thought I already had.”
She smiled. “Then do it again.”
“I love you, Thea.”
“And I love you, Inspector Ward.” She kissed him, long and lingering. “By the way, where did you put your handcuffs?”
“Thea—”
“Oh, hush, you’ll like it. I did.”
“They’re disgusting,” Celeste murmured, though she was smiling now.
“They’re perfect,” Alice said, dabbing her eyes with a spectral handkerchief. “And you have to admit, Celeste, he loves her.”
Celeste was silent for a long moment, watching as Alaric broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to Thea’s, whispering something that made her laugh so hard she snorted. “I suppose,” Celeste finally allowed, “he’s family now.”
Alice grinned. “Welcome to the haunting, son.”
Somewhere, in the roots of the grave they’d share centuries from now, the soul of Highgate cemetery exhaled a breath of contentment.
The family plot was full.
The dead were pleased.
And the living were madly, messily, gloriously in love.
The End