Epilogue

NICHOLAS

I watched Holly's face as she took in the grand Christmas tree in our family's parlor, her eyes reflecting the hundreds of tiny white lights that twinkled among the antique ornaments. Some of those delicate glass baubles were older than I was, carefully preserved through generations. Now they shared branches with newer additions—including the handmade ornament Holly had bought at one of the Christmas markets on our journey, a delicate silver snowflake that caught the light perfectly.

“Your sister's children are adorable,” Holly whispered to me, nodding toward where my nieces and nephews were sprawled on the Persian rug, playing some complicated card game that seemed to involve a lot of giggling. Their parents—my sister Lillian and her husband Marcus—sat nearby on the velvet settee, taking turns dealing cards into the game.

“They're cheating, you know,” I murmured back, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her into my lap. “Vampire hearing. They can tell when the kids are bluffing.”

Holly stifled a laugh against my shoulder. “And you're not going to call them out on it?”

“And risk Lillian’s wrath on Christmas? I may be immortal, but I'm not stupid.”

From her spot by the fireplace, my mother caught my eye and smiled knowingly. She was wearing the cashmere sweater Holly had helped me pick out, its deep burgundy color perfect against her pale skin. The sight of her, contentedly knitting what looked like another scarf for her ever-growing collection of grandchildren, made something in my chest tighten. How many Christmases had I missed, thinking I wasn't welcome here?

“Penny for your thoughts?” Holly squeezed my hand, and I realized I'd been lost in memory.

“Just thinking about how right you were,” I admitted quietly. “About everything.”

“I enjoy hearing that,” she teased.

A burst of laughter drew our attention to the entrance hall, where my father was returning from the kitchen with a tray of hot chocolate—regular for the humans, and blood-warmed for the vampires. The sight of him, this ancient and powerful vampire, carefully balancing marshmallows and candy canes, was something I was still getting used to.

“Holly,” he called out, “I believe I promised to show you the family photo albums. Would you like to see just how unfashionable Nicholas was in the 1920s?”

I couldn’t believe how well my father had taken to Holly and she to him. They spent hours together, talking and laughing. And with my mother, she was trying to learn how to knit, with a modicum of success. What Holly didn’t know was under the tree was her repaired scarf. My mother had salvaged it, with a few adjustments. And Lillian and the kids were fascinated by Holly’s baking skills. Holly was already looking for a storefront in town for her bakery. She had fit in like the puzzle piece we were always missing but never knew was gone.

“Father,” I groaned, but Holly was already pulling me toward the leather armchair where he was settling with the albums.

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, perching on the armrest beside me as I sat. “I bet he tried to rock the Oxford bags look.”

“The what?” one of my nieces asked, abandoning the card game to join us.

“Wide-legged trousers,” my father explained, opening the first album. “Your Uncle Nicholas thought they made him look sophisticated.”

“They did,” I protested, but my words were drowned out by Holly's delighted gasp as my father revealed the first page of photographs.

“Oh my God, look at your hair!’ She pointed to a sepia-toned image of me looking particularly brooding against a garden wall. “How much pomade did you use?”

“A gentleman never reveals his secrets,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster, but I couldn't help smiling as more of my family gathered around to look at the photos.

The evening passed in a warm blur of stories and laughter. Lillian’s youngest discovered she could balance a candy cane on her nose, leading to an impromptu competition that even my mother joined in on. Margaret's twins convinced Holly to teach them some modern dance moves, which quickly devolved into all of us attempting to learn what Holly called "the floss." I was certain there were now several incriminating videos of that particular endeavor saved on various phones.

As midnight approached, I found myself by the window, watching snow begin to fall in the garden. Holly was curled up on the sofa, deep in conversation with my sisters about some television show they all watched. The sight of her there, so perfectly at ease among my family, made me wonder how I could have ever thought this wouldn't work.

“She fits, doesn't she?” My mother's voice was soft as she joined me at the window. “Like she was always meant to be here.”

“I almost lost her,” I admitted. “Because I was too afraid to believe things could change. Because I was too afraid to take a chance.”

“But you didn't lose her,” my mother reminded me, patting my cheek in that way she had when I was small. “You found your way back. Both to her and to us.”

A peal of laughter drew our attention back to the room—Holly was now teaching my father some complicated hand-clapping game, his usual gravity forgotten as he concentrated on getting the pattern right. My sister and her husband were calling out unhelpful advice, while the children cheered them on.

“I don't deserve this,” I whispered.

“Love isn't about deserving, darling,” my mother said. “It's about accepting. And you've finally learned to do that.”

Holly looked up then, catching my eye across the room. Her smile was radiant as she held out her hand to me. “Nick! Come help me teach them ‘Miss Mary Mack!’”

As I crossed the room to join them, I realized my mother was right. This—all of this—wasn't about deserving. It was about opening your heart and letting love in, whether it came in the form of family reconciliation, or a human woman brave enough to love a vampire, or the simple joy of teaching ancient vampires playground games on Christmas night.

“I love you,” I whispered in Holly's ear as I sat beside her.

She leaned into me, her warmth seeping through my sweater. “I know. I love you too.” Then, with a mischievous grin, she turned to my father. “Now, about those 1930s photos…”

I groaned, but I was smiling. After all, we had all the time in the world for embarrassing photos and family stories. We were home.