Epilogue One
brIAR
Six years later
Phones ring in a chorus that never seems to stop, threads of chatter and laughter weaving between them like background music. The air smells faintly of roasted coffee beans and fresh printer ink. I step through the glass doors into the main floor and the hum of motion hits me like a wave.
A young shifter breezes past me with a stack of mail balanced precariously in one arm.
A coffee mug tips off the counter as she accidentally hits it with her elbow, but her fluffy silver tail flicks out quick as lightning, curling around the handle before it can shatter against the tile and pushing it back onto the counter.
She doesn’t even pause her stride, just smiles and greets me with a quick, “Good morning, boss! Busy day ahead.”
She’s gone before I can even respond. A smile quirks my lips up.
“They are all busy days, Sam,” I murmur to her retreating back.
At the next workstation I pass, a witch mouths the words to the song in her earbuds, hands flying over a keyboard as manila folders shuffle themselves in neat stacks beside her.
One by one, they rise with invisible precision and glide across the room, slotting themselves into cabinets that open in perfect time to receive them.
I can never admit it to anyone, but Priscilla is my favorite new hire. Not only does she have impeccable music taste, but she is extremely type-A and the chaos organizer we all desperately needed. We’d be drowning without her, with the unprecedented growth we’ve experienced in our second year.
My hand pops up to offer her a quick wave and she nods in return before getting back to it.
As I continue on, I notice the breakroom door is propped open, the hum of a microwave spilling into the hall.
A vampire stands at the counter, casually tapping his foot to a beat only he can hear, while he pours blood from a bag into a coffee mug that reads World’s Best Intern .
He gives me a smile when he notices me watching, as if drinking breakfast from a blood bag were no different than adding cream to coffee.
I can’t help the genuine smile tugging at my mouth as I move through the chaos to my office. This place is vibrant and alive in a way no castle, no compound, and no academy ever was.
And it’s all ours.
Lesha pushes back from her desk the second she spots me, practically jogging the few steps to intercept me. A pencil is tucked crookedly into her bun, and she clutches her tablet like it’s a shield.
“Ms. Van Helsing,” she blurts, breathless, “will the others be in today? Their assistants have been fielding calls since our lines opened at seven this morning, and no one’s answering.”
For a second, I just blink at her. The picture of this morning rises in my mind.
Elias leaning against the counter with his glasses–the ones he begrudgingly gave in and got after countless years of hearing that he was struggling to make out the words on his pages–sliding down his nose.
Then there was Callum stealing bacon straight from the pan and yelling about how hot it was and Dante’s fingers brushing mine under the table.
It had been perfectly ordinary. Perfectly us.
But when I grabbed my bag to head into the office, they’d all claimed they needed to run errands. Quick things, they said, and that they’d meet me later at the office.
“Hold on one sec, Lesha,” I murmur, brow pinching as I dig through my purse for my phone. The smooth screen warms under my thumb as I fire off a message in the group chat:
Briar: When did you guys say you will be in? Your poor assistants are drowning.
The typing dots barely have time to dance before Elias’s reply pings through.
My Menace (Elias): Still have a few more things to do, but if you want to block off your lunch break, I can think of another thing I’d like to add to my to-do list.
Heat blooms high in my cheeks. I smother a laugh against my hand just as Callum’s response dings in.
#1 Love of my life definitely above Elias (Callum): Sorry, baby. A bit wrapped up. Be there soon. Tell Stella she can leave an hour early today as an apology from me.
I shake my head, laughing outright this time. He must’ve changed the contact name again last night. It’s become a running joke between them, their little competition to see who can sneak into my phone when I’m not paying attention.
The third ping has my heart giving that ridiculous, traitorous flutter that it always does.
Dante Van Helsing: I don’t think I’ll make it in until the afternoon. A bit tied up–and not in the fun way.
My cheeks warm again, no matter how many times I see his name come up like that. He’d insisted on it after a drunken night years ago, declaring he’d take my last name when we married someday. Until then, he’d wanted the proof etched into my contacts, and I was helpless to his request.
I slip my phone back into my bag and give Lesha a calm smile. “Transfer their calls to me for the day. They won’t be in for a bit.”
Her eyes go wide, the pencil in her bun wobbling precariously. “But… but, you’re already booked solid, ma’am!” The pitch of her voice climbs like she’s about to unravel.
I set a steady hand on her arm, letting warmth soften the gesture.
“Lesha, take a breath. I don’t mind.” I tip my chin toward the floor-to-ceiling windows at the end of the hall, where sunlight blazes off the jagged skyline.
“Look at that view. Look how beautiful the day is. Aren’t we lucky to be here? ”
She follows my gaze, shoulders rising and falling on a deliberate inhale. “Ma’am, how do you stay so calm and grateful all the time? Sometimes life is…it’s just so overwhelming.”
I squeeze her arm lightly, the kind of fondness I reserve for the ones who remind me of younger me that was always bracing for the world to collapse. “Because I fought very hard to be exactly where I am now. I’ll never take a single day of this life for granted, even the hard ones.”
Her mouth trembles into a small smile before she snaps back into her work self, eyes sharpening. “All right. I’ll divert their calls to us for the day. Let’s do it.”
“Perfect.” I nod once and step into my office.
The door clicks softly shut behind me and I quickly settle into the leather chair, smoothing a stack of student applications out of habit.
The phone on my desk rings almost instantly.
Lesha’s voice comes through the intercom, brisk again. “A call for you from Agent Harris.”
Shock jolts through me. I haven’t heard that name in years, not since she approached me and helped lay the groundwork for this nonprofit idea. My pulse kicks faster as I answer, “Patch her through.”
“Briar,” Agent Harris’s clipped voice filters through the line, as short and precise as I remember. “Just checking in. Two years in, and I hear your program’s waitlist has doubled already.”
A smile curls my lips. “Tripled, actually. Word travels fast when there’s finally a safe bridge between our realms.”
She makes a satisfied sound, the kind of quiet approval that still carries weight. “I knew you’d make something of it.”
We debrief for a few minutes about funding allocations, the idea of a new branch opening in Chicago, and a handful of problematic cases that need review. It’s all standard and entirely efficient, but when the silence lingers at the end, my curiosity takes over.
There’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask her for a long time.
“Agent Harris,” I murmur, leaning back in my chair, “I’ve always wondered…how did you know I wanted this? Back then, after Terrance and the hunter network fell. How did you know I’d want to study in the human realm? To go to NYU, and to build a non-profit like this?”
Her answer comes without hesitation, as if she’s been waiting years for me to ask. “Because they told me.”
My breath hitches. “They?”
“Elias, Callum, and Dante.” Her tone softens in a way I’ve never heard from her.
“When we met to exchange intel to formulate that plan to take down the hunters, they were very clear in what they wanted in exchange. They said you needed a chance at college, at a life on your own terms, and demanded we put security on you as the rest of the network was dismantled. They wanted you to have everything–we only had to listen and oblige.”
My throat tightens as Agent Harris continues.
“You already had your acceptance to NYU’s exchange program. They made sure I knew that too. Honestly?” A rare laugh slips through her words. “They’re very persuasive men. Persuasive, and entirely devoted to you.”
I can only manage a soft sound that’s half a laugh, half a sigh. “Yes. They are.”
“And after meeting you and hearing your story,” she adds thoughtfully, “I knew your heart instantly, and I knew that you’d be the perfect person to help us with this. You’ve grown the program beyond our wildest dreams. Thank you.”
When the call ends, I sit for a long moment with the dial tone still buzzing faintly in my ear.
Six years with them already.
Six years of shared coffee and midnight study sessions, of arguments over laundry and making up against our loft walls. Of waking every morning tangled between the three of them and remembering I’m still alive. Still theirs. Still me.
Six years of learning who we are outside the shadows of our past.
There were mornings that smelled like burnt toast and coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
Afternoons that meant stolen naps across textbooks, sunlight spilling through wide windows as I listened to their breathing around me and let myself believe in our safety.
Nights that were louder with arguments over music options, over whether Dante really needed three different planners, over how many times Elias could burn rice before we banned him from the kitchen altogether.