Chapter 40
BLOOD AND FIRE
The string quartet spun a dreamy, lilting spell as I stepped onto the flagstone path leading from the gardens.
Dillon looked especially dapper in his suit, and I clung to the steadying comfort of his presence as we moved forward together—but the ache in my chest was relentless.
It should have been my dad at my side, and that absence throbbed with every step.
We walked as though time itself had slowed, sunlight filtering through the downward-draping fir branches overhead, dappling the path and the ferns that climbed the hillsides.
Ahead, the Bavarian Summer House revealed itself, nestled into the wooded slope overlooking Brodick Bay, appearing less like something constructed, and more like something that had quietly grown there—roots and timber rising from the earth.
The small octagonal structure was just large enough to hold the officiant, a few attendants, and—of course—a bride and groom. Guests gathered around it in a gentle ring, standing shoulder to shoulder, the double doors thrown open wide as an invitation to witness something sacred and intimate.
Inside, the walls were wrapped in dark, branch-like timberwork, arranged vertically and diagonally like entwined vines and roots.
Tall, arched windows welcomed the last wash of golden sunlight from the early fall evening, bathing the interior in warmth.
As I approached, a soft murmur rippled through the guests as they turned to look—camera flashes punctuating the hush, mingling with the chorus of crickets and the quiet calls of birds perched above us.
Just ahead on the path, Anne walked beside Robbie, finally arriving and stepping into the structure.
And there—waiting inside—stood Baird, impossibly handsome next to the vicar.
A full head taller than Robbie as he settled at his side.
Beyond him, a floral arch framed by glowing candles marked my destination, and for a moment, my breath caught—as though the world had narrowed to that single point of light, waiting for me to cross into it.
I'd given up hope of this—though I couldn't say exactly when that surrender had taken place.
Somewhere along the way, the imagining had quietly stopped.
And yet here I stood, on the cusp of an entirely new life, the man who would share it waiting just beyond the threshold.
Not fully human, perhaps—but still a man who loved me with every fiber of his being.
The certainty of it washed over me so completely that, for a fleeting moment, I felt foolish for ever having doubted it at all.
The look on his face told me everything I needed to know.
Quiet wonder softened his features, his eyes wide, missing nothing as Anne bent to straighten my train.
When our eyes met, the air tightened, then steadied, as though the moment had found its balance.
I placed my bouquet into Anne's hands, and when his fingers closed around mine, warmth spread—deep and deliberate, a slowing down of time and space that flooded me with a sense of peace.
The vows were spoken aloud—human words—but they carried a weight that went beyond sound, a spellwork to bind us.
Each promise sank into place with quiet precision, syllables settling like something being fitted exactly as it should be.
I felt them move through me, through him, binding without strain, without doubt.
When the rings were exchanged, the moment my band slid into place beside the ring that bound the Goddess's magic to me, and to him, the pulse came—once, strong and sure—then settled into a steady hum.
The heat softened, cooling as it sealed the bond, the way forged metal tempers as it rests.
What remained was not fire, but strength—solid, unyielding, and permanent.
When the vicar pronounced us husband and wife, Baird hauled me hard against him—possession and promise bound together in the strength of his hold.
I felt the vampire in him rise, powerful and undeniable, his eyes flaring green, alive with iridescent fire.
It was a show meant only for me, a heartbeat before his mouth found mine.
Cheers swelled around us, a rush of sound from the gathered crowd, but it reached me only distantly. In the still, quiet center of that moment, I offered a silent thanks to the Goddess Brigid. Whatever time she chose to grant me—a mortal—with my immortal husband, it would be enough.
The reception was in full swing less than an hour later.
Guests wandered the garden paths once more, drifting up to the upper terrace where strands of fairy lights glowed overhead, casting a warm, golden shimmer across two long tables dressed in crisp white linen.
In the gentle night air, most of the men had shed their suit coats, sleeves rolled, ties loosened.
Laughter rose and fell throughout the grounds, light and unrestrained.
There were many toasts, including one from a handsome white-haired gentleman, one Aaron Thorndale, who spoke with fond humor about his part in Baird's plan—and who, Baird whispered in my ear, was distantly related to the business partner Baird had once shared a shipping company with before marrying Agnes.
When the last toast ended and the terrace glowed with warmth and affection, Baird pulled me into his arms. We swayed together in our first dance as husband and wife, the world falling away until there was only us and the quiet certainty that we belonged here.
When the music shifted and others joined us on the floor, a memory flooded me—of Agnes's vision—the day I touched her caramel silk dress.
The whirl of dancers. The wild, unguarded joy she'd felt for a few precious moments that night in Baird's arms. And I found myself smiling, grateful that I'd been given the same chance to feel it.
The song ended, a low murmur rippled through the crowd.
At first, I thought it was about us and didn't pay it much mind—until the movement on the dance floor shifted.
The people nearest us began to step back, one by one, until the crowd peeled away like a red sea under fairy lights and a starry sky.
Only when the bodies cleared did I understand why.
A woman—no older than her early twenties, yet with eyes that carried the weight of time—glided through the space toward us.
My arms stayed looped around Baird's neck, his hand pressed into the small of my back, as though we were still dancing.
But the moment he saw her, I felt the tension ripple through him.
She was tall and spare, all long, elegant lines balanced by the sinuous curve of a hip.
The blood-red bias-cut silk dress clung to her like a second skin, the high slit flashing a length of thigh as she moved toward me.
Her hair—black as a raven's wing and cut into a sharp, shoulder-grazing bob—swayed like a pendulum with each step.
She was breathtaking—but it wasn't her beauty that rooted me where I stood. It was her presence. I had never seen anyone with such command; she radiated an intoxicating mix of power and danger, holding every gaze as though the air itself bent toward her. I was as transfixed as everyone else.
She looked achingly familiar. Had I seen her on TV? No. Not on TV. In a vision—the ruby's history: the young woman, brutally beaten and left for dead, who took her revenge the only way a vampire can—through blood and oblivion.
A hush swept across the terrace as she came to a stop before us. I let my hands fall from Baird's neck and turned to face her. He instinctively stepped in front of me, an arm outstretched to shield, but I laid my hand on his forearm, halting him.
She was dangerous—I was certain of that much. I'd seen her mete out vengeance in the vision the ruby had allowed me, and I suspected she'd claimed many more lives in the time that had elapsed since. Yet I didn't feel threatened. Not exactly.
“Mira,” she began, her voice low and smooth, each word carrying the faintest trace of an accent—eastern European, though I couldn't place it.
“I am Magdalena Veró,” she said by way of introduction.
“But those who know me call me Magda.” She glanced around, a self-satisfied smile on her lips as she took in the scene.
“I hope you'll forgive me for interrupting the celebration of your union.”
I made no move to ease her concern—if she really had any at all—and I hoped my silence told her she hadn't earned any forgiveness.
“I've come for two reasons,” she said, her gaze shifting to Baird. “First—“ She hesitated, as though testing the word. “—to congratulate my…” Another pause. Then, with the faintest curl of amusement in her eyes, “…grandson, I suppose.”
I turned and watched Baird's expression shift in quick succession—wary, confused, then blooming to anger when he understood what she'd meant. She was Bastien's maker. Granny Margaret had seen it when she warned us they were connected in some way.
“And secondly,” she said, turning her eyes to me again, “to find out what you are.” Her voice was ripe with curiosity, not hostility.
I didn't understand what she meant. Did she mean who I was? She already knew my name somehow. Or did she mean what I was to Baird? In my white dress and flower wreath, cake on a table just waiting for us to cut it and shove it into each other's faces, it shouldn't have been so hard to guess.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my engagement ring flicker to life.
Brigid's Sun began to cast golden rainbows across my hand, spinning like something alive.
With all the terrace lights twinkling around us, I couldn't tell how obvious it was to the others—but I knew.
It was reacting to her question, ready to answer for me.