Page 38 of Dance in the Stones

Yours in faith,

Margaret Duff

“They had safe houses all over Scotland.” Redford set the letter down, his mind reeling. “A whole network of people helping paranormals stay safe.”

“During one of the worst periods of persecution in history.” Damon’s voice was rough with emotion. “These people risked everything.”

Redford returned to the journal, skimming through entries that detailed close calls, successful evacuations, and the occasional loss. One entry made him pause.

November 1567

Beatrice came today to renew the wards. She says the magic will hold for centuries if properly maintained, but only for the right guardians. When I asked what she meant, she smiled and said the castle would know its protectors when they arrived - those with stone in their bones and fire in their blood.

Redford’s breath caught. “Damon.”

His mate looked up.

“Listen to this.” Redford read the entry aloud, his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart. When he finished, Damon was staring at him.

“Stone in their bones,” Damon repeated slowly. “Gargoyles.”

“And fire in their blood. That could only be hellhounds from the Underworld.” Redford set the journal down. “The wards were keyed to us specifically. Not just any paranormals, but gargoyles and hellhounds.”

“That’s why you’re so in tune with the castle stones.” Damon leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “And why my hound went absolutely idiotic the second I knew you were coming here. My hound already knew we were waiting for you. The castle wasn’t just calling to us as mates, but because of what we are.”

“It was calling us home.” The words settled over Redford like a warm blanket. He wanted to wallow in it for at least a moment, but his mind wouldn’t stop. “There’s still some stuff I don’t understand. I mean, I inherited this place five years ago and never came. Why now?”

Damon’s dark eyes met his. “From the sounds of things, you’d been flat out busy up till now, and perhaps because now was when you needed this place. When we needed it.” He gestured at the documents spread between them. “You were burning out, Red. You said it yourself - you couldn’t keep going the way you were.”

Which was a fair and very true assessment. To Redford, his job had been consuming him, case after case, emergency after emergency, until he’d forgotten what it felt like to just stop or rest.

“In the meantime, I’d been living here for three years,” Damon continued, “waiting for something I didn’t even know I was looking for.” He grinned and winked. “Until you showed up.”

Redford picked up another letter, this one dated 1602, detailing the arrival of a gargoyle family fleeing religious persecution in France. The writer described how the wards had strengthened when the gargoyle father touched the walls, and how the stone itself had responded to his presence.

The castle knows its own, the letter concluded. It will always protect those meant to guard it.

“I never expected to own a place like this,” Redford admitted. “I have a house and a vacation home, but I never saw myself settling anywhere permanently. My work was everything.”

“Was?” Damon raised an eyebrow.

Redford set the letter down, glancing out at the ruins visible through the kitchen window. “The renovations are going to take months, maybe longer. And that’s just the structural work. If we’re going to properly restore this place, honor what it was...” He trailed off as the implications settled over him.

“I’m guessing you can’t do that and run an FBI task force,” Damon finished quietly.

“No.” There it was. The word was out in the open and instead of immediately wanting to take it back, Redford felt relief. “I can’t.”

He’d spent his whole life behaving responsibly, being someone a person could come to with problems, and later when he formed the paranormal task force for the FBI, he was the one who caught the criminals. But as Redford sat in the quiet cottage in the shadow of a castle, he had to wonder when was the last time he’d done something simply because he wanted to, or had prioritized his wants and needs – hell, his life – over what everyone else expected from him.

“Wilson can handle things,” Redford said, more to himself than Damon. “He knows what to do, he just needs the confidence, and without me there, I think he’ll find that.”

Damon reached across the table, his bare fingers finding Redford’s gloved ones. Even through the cotton, Redford felt the warmth. “You don’t have to decide everything today.”

“I know, but I’d already been thinking about it. Since that case when I first arrived…and then later when you were the one who suggested I set boundaries, I realized something had to change.”

He’d let the job consume him because it was easier than acknowledging how lonely he’d been. Now he had Damon, but it wasn’t only his mate strengthening his decision to make changes. The castle had called him home, and Redford wasn’t going to ignore that.

“I want to do this right,” Redford said. “This is not a case of just slapping some repairs on the tower and calling it done. I want to restore Duncarrick the way it deserves and preserve its history.” He gestured at the documents. “And maybe, in some quiet way, tell its story.”