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"I fully intend to find out. Although I suspect you'll look considerably better than I will."

Everly laughed.

"I expect I'll have a few wrinkles of my own."

"Then we'll be a very handsome pair."

Her smile softened, and she leaned closer.

"I've never wanted to grow old with someone quite so much."

I slipped my arm around her and drew her against me.

I'd once been willing to break Heaven's laws for the chance to meet this woman. Now she was in my bed, wearing that beautiful smile, talking about growing old with me as though it were something to look forward to.

And it was.

I kissed her, taking my time, enjoying the warmth of her mouth and the way she moved into my arms.

When I drew back, I kept her hand in mine.

"I want to grow old with you, Everly. I want all of it."

She brushed her lips against mine, then rested her forehead against my own.

"So do I, Cillian."

I kissed her again, and she wrapped her arms around me, pulling me close. When she finally settled against my chest, she reached for my right hand and threaded her fingers through mine.

I brought our joined hands to my mouth and kissed her knuckles.

"Every year?" I asked.

Everly smiled up at me.

"Every single one."

Epilogue

Someone had decorated the harbor museum with an enormous papier-mâché kraken. Its violet-lit tentacles curled around the wrought-iron railings, and a group of children dressed as pirates were arguing over who would be brave enough to approach it first.

I laughed as Cillian took my hand and guided me past the gathering crowd toward the Witch Harbor Grand. The hotel's windows glowed against the evening sky, and music drifted from the open doors whenever another group of masquerade guests arrived.

"You know," I said, glancing up at him, "I think that kraken might give you some competition for best costume."

"I'd like to see it get through a doorway."

"That's rather rich coming from you."

He grinned, and I reached up to straighten the collar of his black velvet jacket.

Cillian looked magnificent. His dark suit fitted his broad shoulders beautifully, with silver embroidery along the lapels and a black silk shirt open at the throat. A black eye mask framed his face, and his familiar piercings glittered beneath the streetlamps. An elaborate pair of black feathered wings rose behind him.

The wings were spectacular.

They were also entirely fake.

I'd spent the better part of an hour helping him assemble the harness at his loft, an experience that had involved several confusing straps, an instruction sheet neither of us wanted to admit we needed, and a considerable amount of profanity.