Time moved in cycles now that I had my soul back. We settled into a new routine at Invermoore manor – Samael and I frolicked in the gardens during the day, in our human forms he had taught me a glamour to manage, and donned our black robes and bones at night to tend to the souls in Sheol. I had become Lady Death, and Invermoore was freed from its curse. No more magicians came to harangue us, fearing a dead vampire who was now full Reaper, and her "Satan" of a husband.
Our wedding was at the old stone church in the middle of town, and Rosy administered our vows. Peter and Annis followed us to the altar soon after, and by the time they were through making more Rangers, had four boys and five daughters between them – all golden skinned, brown eyed redheads.
Cook Panetta made feasts each night, and Samael and I – we traveled the world, knew each other as husband and wife, and the Line of Cain was snuffed out for good.
On our wedding night, he laid me down in the meadows behind Invermoore.
"Are you ready... for your first time?" he asked, breath heavy, his blue eyes like sparkling jewels as he nursed at my breasts.
I ran a hand through his thick black locks, tension rising in my stomach. His erection strained against his breeches, and I thumbed the head of his penis, wet precum on my fingers.
"Yes."
I began to bob and suck, lick and caress. Heavy heat grew in my legs as he moaned, playing with my white, bone-pale hair.
"You have the lips of an angel," Samael sighed, dreamy, content beyond measure. "I shall not finish in your mouth – quiet your passions and let me return threefold the pleasure."
I blushed as he undressed me. He looked like a Greek god, Apollo, with chiseled muscle and olive flesh. He laid me down and performed cunnilingus, his wicked long tongue supping at the jewel of my sex, into my canal as his fingers thirsted.
When he speared into me, softly at first, then hard, his large thick long member finding a rhythm to milk my canal with delicious friction, our eyes met, our mouths crashed into each other like comets, and when we came again and again, for the rest of the days, each time, I saw the Mourning Star in Samael's eyes.
And in my heart, burned a black eye. The Ayin. It had been mine – and Samael's, my husband dear's – all along. The secret is, no one escapes Death, not in the end – not even Enoch.
Samael and I were sitting at Invermoore, watching the sun set, twelve years after we had slain our mortal enemy. We held hands as Annis and Peter's children played with Samael's Irish Mastiff.
"I would do it all again, Abby. Wait 300 years for my one and only equal. My stoic Lady of Invermoore, the banner of my heart," he smiled, us both in our human forms, as he squeezed my hand.
I kissed him, truly, deeply – and we are still kissing today, centuries down the line.
They say, if you come by the heath, in the Highlands, you can see two shadows dancing in clothes old and gray. That their ghostly laughter and bells follow the fallen sheafs of wheat.
That the little red haired, black eyed Stonecrofts that live in the Sedgewood to this day, are friends of something powerful that lives in Lleuwinda's woods.
And Samael and I? We danse macabre, across the Black Moor.
Always, always
In love.