Page 34 of Dance in the Stones

“Damon?” Redford’s voice came through the stone. “Damon? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Give me a second.” Damon carefully lifted the journal, half-expecting it to crumble at his touch. But the magic had preserved it, just as it had preserved the tower. The leather remained supple, and the pages were intact.

He opened to the first entry, written in elegant script that looped and swirled across the page. The date made him whistle low - 1565.

“Redford, you’re not going to believe this.”

“Tell me.”

“From what I can tell, this whole castle was a safe house for paranormals.” Damon skimmed the entries. “There’s a whole network documented here. Covens helping shifter families escape to the Highlands, gargoyles providing sanctuary in their territories, even a few witches and demons running an underground railroad of sorts.”

“During the Scottish witch trials?”

“During and after, by the looks of things. The network operated for centuries.” Damon turned pages carefully. “They hid families here, helped them establish new identities, and then arranged passage to other countries when needed. This tower was the coordination point – a beacon for people in need to look for.”

He could hear Redford moving outside, probably pacing. Damon gathered the journal and letters, tucking them carefully inside his jacket. The logbook was larger, filled with names, dates, and destinations, all evidence of the hundreds of paranormals who’d passed through Duncarrick Castle seeking safety.

When Damon translocated back, Redford grabbed his shoulders. “Thank the Fates you’re all right. Now show me.”

Making their way carefully back down to the main floor, where they’d left a few battery-powered lanterns, Damon spread the documents across a relatively clean section of floor, and they knelt together, pouring over the documentation.

“Look at this.” Redford pointed to an entry dated 1626. “A gargoyle family from Edinburgh, fleeing after their youngest daughter accidentally shifted in public. They were hidden here for three months before being relocated to Norway.”

“And this one.” Damon indicated a letter from 1598. “A witch writing to thank the castle keeper for saving her coven. She’s the one who warded the tower as payment for the sanctuary provided.” He traced the signature at the bottom. “Beatrice MacKenzie. She had to have been powerful.”

“Definitely, seeing as her wards are still functioning five hundred years later.” Redford sat back on his heels. “This changes everything. The tower isn’t just historically significant or an important part of this castle’s architecture, it’s actually a part of paranormal heritage. A monument to the ones who risked everything to protect our kind.”

“It’s quite humbling, in a way.” At least Damon thought so. “We’re not just restoring a building.”

“No, it’s so much more than that. We’re preserving a legacy.” Redford picked up the logbook, and Damon noticed how careful he was being with the pages. “Do you know how rare this is? Most records from that era were destroyed deliberately to protect the families involved. But this” - he shook his head in wonder - “this is a complete archive.”

“Hidden where only someone who could translocate would find it.” Damon grinned. “They were damn clever, that’s for sure.”

They spent another hour reading through the documents, discovering story after story of paranormals who’d found refuge at Duncarrick. Some stayed only days, but others spent months there. The castle keeper – who was never named and always simply referred to as “the keeper” - had maintained meticulous records while somehow keeping the operation secret from the humans living and working in the area.

“The wards would have helped with that too,” Redford said, running his finger down a page. “Beatrice didn’t just protect the structure, she wove secrecy spells into the stones, making sure humans wouldn’t notice the increased traffic or ask uncomfortable questions.”

“Some of those spells are probably still active.” Damon glanced around at the tower’s shadowed interior. “Which explains why Duncan never mentioned the castle having any interesting history as such, and why the villagers don’t seem to know much about it beyond the basic facts. The magic makes it forgettable to humans.”

“But not to us.” Redford’s dark eyes caught the lantern light. “We were meant to find this.”

Damon hadn’t thought of it that way, but his hound agreed completely. What were the chances of a gargoyle who could read the stones pairing with a hellhound who could translocate and sense wards, all in the one place where both of those skill sets would be necessary to uncover the hidden history?

“The Fates have a twisted sense of humor,” Damon muttered.

“Or impeccable timing.” Redford carefully closed the logbook. “We need to preserve these. I’m thinking climate-controlled storage, magical protections, the works. This is irreplaceable paranormal history.”

“Agreed. But first…” Damon gestured at the cracked walls surrounding them. “We save the tower. I kinda feel Ms. Beatrice would approve.”

They gathered the documents, wrapping them in cloth Damon zapped from the cottage. As they worked, Damon caught Redford looking at him with an expression that made his hound want to prance around and jump on furniture.

“What?”

“You keep surprising me.” Redford tucked the wrapped bundle under his arm. “I came here thinking I’d spend three months doing basic repairs before selling this place and going back to work. Instead, I found my mate and a historical site that needs protecting.”

“You’re welcome?”

Redford laughed, that gravelly sound Damon loved. “Thank you for suggesting we investigate, for finding the chamber, and most of all for caring about this place as much as I do.”