Page 33 of His Lucky Charm

More hands, more questions—some thoughtful, some combative. I handled them all with the practiced ease of someone who regularly navigated between revealed truth and necessary secrecy.

As the session wound down, I noticed a familiar figure leaning against the back wall of the auditorium—tall, broad-shouldered, with auburn hair and a beard now touched with the first hints of silver at the temples. Rafferty, my husband of four years, watching with undisguised pride despite having heard variations of this lecture dozens of times.

“Thank you all for your attention and engagement,” I concluded, gathering my materials. “My latest paper on protective entities in Scandinavian folklore will be published in next month’s Journal of Folkloric Studies, for those interested in further reading.”

As the audience dispersed, several students and colleagues approached with follow-up questions and requests for consultation. I addressed each one patiently, aware of Rafferty’s amused observation from the periphery. He knew these post-lecture interactions were important for my professional network, even if they delayed our plans.

Finally, the last persistent graduate student departed, leaving Rafferty and me alone in the now-empty auditorium.

“Professor Skeptic strikes again,” he teased, approaching with that fluid grace that still made my heart beat faster. “Convincing the academic world that werewolves might be real without actually saying werewolves are real.”

“It’s called scholarly restraint,” I corrected, accepting his hello kiss with practiced ease. “And it’s kept your furry secret safe for five years while advancing legitimate research.”

“Our furry secret,” he reminded me, helping gather my presentation materials. “How was the Q&A? Anyone get too close to the truth?”

I shook my head. “The usual suspects. Some genuine curiosity, some determined skepticism. No one connecting the dots between my research and the fact that my husband coincidentally disappears during full moons.”

“Good.” He took my briefcase, slinging it over his shoulder as we headed toward the exit. “Ready to head home? The pack’s gathering at seven for Siobhan’s birthday.”

Home. Still Cloverton, though our living arrangements had expanded to accommodate our growing family. The cottage at the forest edge now featured an additional room for our two-year-old daughter, Abigail—named after an elder who had passed peacefully in her sleep the year before our wedding.

“More than ready,” I confirmed. “These guest lecture series are exhausting. Three universities in five days is too much, even for academic advancement.”

Rafferty’s hand found the small of my back as we navigated the university corridors. “You could cut back, you know. The book royalties are solid, and the consulting work for those ‘folklore tourism’ developers pays well.”

“I know.” I leaned into his touch. “But I enjoy it. Sharing knowledge, challenging perceptions. Besides, how else would I collect data on how supernatural entities are perceived in contemporary society?”

His laugh echoed in the empty hallway. “Always the researcher.”

“You knew what you were getting into when you married me,” I reminded him.

“I did indeed.” He pressed a kiss to my temple. “And have never regretted it for a moment.”

* * *

The drive from Burlington to Cloverton took just under an hour—time we used to catch up on the days we’d been apart. Rafferty updated me on pack business, local gossip, and most importantly, our daughter’s latest achievements.

“She shifted for the first time yesterday,” he announced, a mixture of pride and concern in his voice. “Just her hands, and only for a few seconds, but definitely a shift.”

I nearly dropped my phone. “Already? I thought Guardian children didn’t manifest until at least age five or six.”

“Usually, yes.” His hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “But the O’Sullivan line has always been strong. And with her being raised in pack territory, surrounded by the energy of the convergence point…”

“Is she okay?” Concern overrode my academic interest. “Was she frightened?”

His expression softened. “She thought it was hilarious. Kept trying to make it happen again. Your mother was remarkably calm about the whole thing.”

My mother—originally skeptical about my move to a “backwater town” and subsequent whirlwind romance—had become an unexpected ally in our unusual family dynamic. After Abigail’s birth, she’d relocated to Cloverton to help with childcare, adapting to the revelation of her werewolf son-in-law and potentially werewolf granddaughter with surprising resilience.

“She’s had practice adjusting to the impossible,” I pointed out. “First a son who prefers men, then a son-in-law who prefers running through forests as a wolf once a month. A granddaughter with occasional paws is practically normal by comparison.”

Rafferty laughed. “Fair point. Though she did suggest we might want to postpone her playgroup until we’re certain she won’t ‘wolf out’ during finger painting.”

“Probably wise.” I made a mental note to adjust our observation schedule. Abigail’s development had been meticulously documented since birth—a collaborative project between proud parents and curious researchers. “We’ll need to implement the control techniques earlier than anticipated.”

“Already on it.” Rafferty’s confidence was reassuring. “Kieran’s bringing his twins over tomorrow. They were early shifters too. They can show her some of the focusing exercises.”

Our conversation shifted to logistics—childcare arrangements, full moon planning, the upcoming pack gathering—the ordinary extraordinary details of our life together. By the time we reached the Cloverton town limits, I’d mentally reorganized my research schedule to accommodate our daughter’s accelerated development.