She smiled and picked up the pace as they walked along the cobblestones. Murphy steadied her by grasping her elbow when her heel caught in one, teasing her in a friendly way about wearing proper footwear.

Friends?

Oh, Anne.

Murphy almost felt sorry for her.

Chapter Six

“DON’T DO THIS TO ME.”

Brigid crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ve done it to yourself with the ridiculous comments and always needing to be the center of attention.”

“Does our love mean nothing to you?”

The petite vampire shoved her mate toward the door of the library.

“I love you, Carwyn,” Anne said. “Don’t blame me for Brigid being mean.”

“We all love you,” Josie added. “But you need to go away now.”

Carwyn protested. “I would like it known that I am very useful for girl-talk conversations.”

“None of us want to be lectured in wrestling metaphors,” Brigid said.

“I have five—wait, how many is it again?” He frowned and closed his eyes. “Four. I have four daughters. And a mate! I am wise in the ways of women.”

He grabbed Brigid before the door closed and laid a scorching kiss on her mouth. When he pulled away, she was laughing.

“Go away, you madman. Go hunt something and run off some energy. You’re crazy tonight.”

“I’m crazy every night. That’s why you love me.”

“It’s among the many reasons, yes.” Brigid slapped his backside when he turned to leave.

“Oh, another please.”

“Go!”

All three women were in stitches by the time the door closed.

When Anne was honest with herself, she could admit that she missed the city. As much as she liked her cozy home in Galway, she missed the nightlife and the concerts in Dublin, the museums and history.

And she missed the two women she was drinking with.

“He’s mad,” Brigid said. “I know. There’s no excuse for him.”

“He’s lovely,” Anne said. “If a little loud.”

“I’m definitely writing him into a book,” Josie added. “A vampire priest who likes Hawaiian shirts? Readers would love it. But do I make him a villain or a hero? I can’t decide.”

Brigid refilled their glasses of blood-wine and returned to the sofa she’d been sharing with her husband, which was now occupied by a large wolfhound she shoved to the side.

“It gets better every year,” Josie said, sipping the wine.

“It does,” Brigid said, rubbing the hound between his ears as he cuddled in with a happy groan. “This is the batch Gemma sent last fall. It’s so much pleasanter than refrigerated. That winemaker Terry stole from France has made all the difference.”

“Agreed,” Josie said. “Wait… Terry didn’t actually steal him, did he?”

Brigid frowned. “I don’t think so.”

Anne didn’t care where the wine came from. All she knew was that it stemmed the growing hunger in her belly. Her bloodlust had grown worse since she’d arrived in Dublin. She’d had to keep her lips shut during the entire evening with Murphy so he didn’t suspect how hungry she was in his presence.

Brigid and Carwyn had supplied her with a case of blood-wine upon her arrival. She was down to two bottles.

The library was Brigid’s sanctuary in the large Dublin house. The smaller cottage she and Carwyn had lived in when they first mated had been abandoned in favor of the mansion. After the first year of their marriage, Carwyn’s clan had invaded, leaving Brigid and Carwyn with guests or family of one sort or another at almost all times.

Human staff needed to be hired, and the big house had been opened.

Anne knew that marriage to a vampire like Carwyn ap Bryn was something her friend was still becoming accustomed to. Anne had worried about Brigid, but the friendship of Tom Dargin’s quiet wife had helped.

Josie Dargin was, without a doubt, the most unusual vampire Anne had ever known. And for a vampire psychologist, that was saying something.

Turned at the edge of a wasting death, Josie still carried an ethereal air that made Anne’s head turn to fairy stories and ancient myths. If Brigid looked like an angry pixie, Josie resembled a fae. Her features were too striking to be pretty. Her wide eyes and long nose leaned toward drama, not beauty. She was tall, thin, and claimed her dark hair had never been cut. It often hung wild around her face when she was in a writing daze. For though it was a secret to all but a select few, Josephine Dargin had been a prolific author for over a century.

Using different pen names, she’d written fantastical horror stories since she’d been a human. Gothic romances and macabre fantasies were her favorites, but Josie had tried some of everything. She changed her pen name when it suited her, and none of her publishers over the many years had any idea it was the same woman. A woman who was, in fact, one of the mythical creatures she wrote about.

Anne adored Josie. She had since the moment she’d met her when her friend was still human. But even Anne could admit that Josie was just a bit… different.

She was prone to lingering fugues. Anne had been there when Murphy turned her, knew he’d struggled with the decision, as humans turned during sickness could be unstable in immortality. Tom would have had it no other way. He adored his wife. A more unlikely pair Anne had never met, but they were fiercely devoted and unutterably happy.

“I had a dream the other night,” Josie began, pursing her lips and whistling for another of the hounds, who dutifully went and laid his furry head on Josie’s lap. “It was a lovely dream, Anne. You and Murphy reunited and you moved back to Dublin. And then you were all mine again, and we could have such lovely dinners.”