Epilogue #2
“I’ll see next time,” I promised, kissing her forehead. “During proper practice time.”
She considered this, then nodded solemnly. “Kay. Grandma made cookies!”
And just like that, the moment passed—the attention span of a two-year-old being mercifully short, even one with supernatural heritage.
My mother appeared in the doorway, looking remarkably relaxed for someone who’d just spent three days with a toddler who could partially transform into a wolf.
“Welcome home,” she called, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “How was the lecture circuit?”
“Exhausting but productive,” I replied, carrying Abigail up the steps. “Thank you for staying with her.”
“My pleasure.” She accepted Rafferty’s kiss on her cheek with the comfort of long familiarity. “Though I think we need to revisit the ‘appropriate times for paws’ conversation. She tried to show the mail carrier yesterday.”
I nearly choked. “Please tell me she didn’t succeed.”
“Fortunately, no. I distracted her with ice cream.” My mother’s expression was serene, but I could see the lingering wonder in her eyes—the same wonder I still felt after five years of living with the impossible. “She’s remarkably controlled for her age, according to Rafferty.”
“O’Sullivan genes,” Rafferty said with unmistakable pride. “Strong but disciplined.”
“Combined with Byrne intellect,” my mother added. “Heaven help us all.”
Abigail, oblivious to the adult conversation, wriggled to be put down. “Cookies now?”
“One cookie,” I specified, setting her on her feet. “It’s almost dinner time, and we have Aunt Siobhan’s party tonight.”
“With cake!” she exclaimed, already darting toward the kitchen. “And presents!”
“And bedtime immediately after,” I called after her. “No negotiations.”
The sound of childish giggles was the only response.
My mother patted my arm sympathetically. “Good luck with that. She’s been talking about the party all day. I’ve packed her overnight bag for my house—figured you two might want some alone time after the celebration.”
Rafferty’s arm slid around my waist. “Thanks, Catherine. Always thinking ahead.”
“Someone has to.” She smiled knowingly. “I’ll take her home with me after the cake. You can pick her up tomorrow afternoon.”
The arrangement was familiar—my mother’s subtle support of our need for occasional child-free evenings, particularly after my trips away. It was one of countless ways she’d adapted to our unconventional family, finding her place within the complex web of human and Guardian relationships.
After a quick snack (one cookie for Abigail, coffee for the adults), we began preparations for the evening’s celebration.
Siobhan’s birthday was a major event in the pack calendar—not just for family reasons, but because she’d recently been named Rafferty’s official Second, a position of significant authority.
“Bath time, little wolf,” Rafferty announced, scooping up our daughter who immediately began negotiations.
“No bath! Just party!”
“Bath first, then party,” he countered, unswayed by her protests. “Pack leaders need to be clean and sweet-smelling.”
“Not leader yet,” she pointed out with disconcerting precision for a two-year-old. “Still little.”
“Leaders-in-training, then,” he amended, carrying her toward the bathroom. “Papa will help me pick your party dress while you get clean.”
With Rafferty handling bath duty, I retreated to our bedroom to change from my lecture attire into something more suitable for a pack gathering. My mother followed, ostensibly to help select Abigail’s outfit but clearly with conversation in mind.
“So,” she began, settling on the edge of our bed. “Early shifting. That’s… significant?”
I nodded, selecting a casual but pack-appropriate outfit from the closet. “It can be. Most Guardian children don’t manifest traits until school age. Early shifting often indicates stronger abilities.”
“Is that good or challenging?” Her question was careful, thoughtful.
“Both,” I admitted, changing quickly. “It means she’s likely to have greater control eventually, but the learning curve will be steeper. We’ll need to be vigilant about situations where she might inadvertently reveal herself.”
My mother nodded, processing this latest adjustment to her worldview. “And the pack? How will they respond?”
“With support,” I assured her. “Guardian children are raised collectively, in many ways. Everyone contributes to their development and control.”
“It takes a village, even for werewolves,” she mused. “Some things are universal, I suppose.”
I smiled at her pragmatism. “Indeed they are.”
A shriek of laughter from the bathroom suggested bath time had taken an entertaining turn. My mother and I exchanged knowing looks.
“He’s wonderful with her,” she observed. “I never would have expected such patience from someone so…”
“Large? Intimidating? Occasionally furry?” I supplied.
“I was going to say ‘energetic,’” she corrected dryly. “But yes, all of those too.”
I selected a small green dress from Abigail’s section of the closet—her “pack party” outfit, complete with embroidery that subtly incorporated the Guardian symbol. “He had good examples. Guardian culture emphasizes child-rearing as a communal responsibility. Males are as involved as females.”
“Progressive for a species that runs through forests howling at the moon,” she noted with the hint of sarcasm that told me she was entirely comfortable with our situation.
Before I could respond, Rafferty appeared in the doorway with a towel-wrapped, giggling bundle. “One clean cub, as requested. Though the bathroom might need professional restoration.”
“Again?” I sighed, though I couldn’t suppress my smile at the sight of them—my massive, powerful husband cradling our daughter with infinite gentleness. “What was it this time? Splash war? Bubble rebellion?”
“She may have attempted a partial shift while fully submerged,” he admitted sheepishly. “The physics of suddenly larger paws and water displacement is… educational.”
“For someone with a doctorate in environmental engineering, you have a remarkable talent for understatement,” I observed, taking Abigail from his arms. “Let’s get you dressed, little scholar. Aunt Siobhan’s party awaits.”
The process of dressing an energetic toddler who kept trying to demonstrate her new “trick” whenever we removed her towel was challenging but ultimately successful.
By the time we headed for The Lucky Hound, Abigail was resplendent in her green dress and tiny boots, her dark curls tamed into something approximating order.
* * *
The pub had been closed to regular customers for the evening, transformed into a private party space for pack members and trusted allies.
Green and silver decorations hung from the rafters, tables had been pushed back to create a central gathering area, and the scent of Siobhan’s favorite foods filled the air.
“There they are!” Siobhan herself called from behind the bar as we entered. “The prodigal professor returns!”
She emerged to greet us, accepting my kiss on her cheek and Rafferty’s bear hug with equal enthusiasm before crouching to Abigail’s level.
“And how’s my favorite niece? I hear you’ve been practicing some special skills.”
Abigail nodded solemnly. “I made paws. Little ones.”
“That’s fantastic!” Siobhan’s genuine excitement made Abigail beam with pride. “You’re going to be the strongest Guardian in generations.”
“Like Daddy,” Abigail agreed, reaching up to be lifted by her aunt. “Up, please!”
As Siobhan complied, I took the opportunity to survey the gathering.
About thirty pack members filled the space, along with a handful of human partners and allies.
The atmosphere was relaxed, familial—pack gatherings always reminded me of large extended family reunions, with the added dimension of shared supernatural experience.
Kieran approached, his twin boys trailing behind with the controlled energy of eight-year-olds aware of their strength. “Welcome back, Professor. Successful lectures?”
“Very,” I confirmed, accepting his forearm clasp—a traditional Guardian greeting he’d only started offering me after Abigail’s birth. “I understand you’ll be helping with Abigail’s early training?”
He nodded, pride evident in his stance. “The boys were early shifters too. They’ve got some techniques that might help.”
His sons, Dylan and Connor, had overcome their initial wariness of the “human pack member” years ago, and now regarded me with the easy acceptance of children who’d never known a time when I wasn’t part of their world.
“Professor,” Dylan greeted with attempted formality, copying his father’s mannerisms. “Is Abigail coming to practice with us?”
“Tomorrow,” Rafferty confirmed, joining our conversation. “If you boys are willing to show her some basics?”
Both puffed up with importance at being entrusted with teaching the Alpha’s daughter. “We’ll help her control her shifting,” Connor assured us with the confidence of childhood. “It’s easy once you know how.”
“Just like your father taught you,” I acknowledged, seeing Kieran’s chest swell with similar pride. For all his initial resistance to my integration into pack life, he’d become one of our strongest allies, particularly after Abigail’s birth confirmed the continuation of the Alpha bloodline.
The evening progressed with the comfortable rhythm of pack celebrations—food shared family-style, stories exchanged, accomplishments celebrated. Siobhan opened gifts with theatrical appreciation, particularly enjoying the rare Irish whiskey Rafferty and I had procured through academic connections.
“This is why we keep you around, Professor,” she teased, examining the bottle. “Your university contacts have excellent taste.”
“And here I thought it was my charming personality and extensive knowledge of Guardian history,” I returned dryly.
“That too,” she conceded with a wink. “Though the whiskey helps.”