Page 7 of Dance in the Stones

It’s going to be a long three months.

The hound rumbled his agreement. Damon pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window, trying to make sense of his thoughts and feelings, which were not skills hellhounds typically had. It just gave him a headache.

In the caravan, Redford’s light finally went out, but Damon could still feel him out there, a presence in the darkness that pulled at something deep inside Damon’s chest. He stayed at the window long after he should have gone to bed, watching over a man who wasn’t his mate…probably wasn’t his mate…definitely wasn’t his mate…

His hound’s snort echoed through his skull. You keep telling yourself that.

Chapter Four

“This is a bloody disaster.” Three days, or perhaps more to the point, three nights in the godawful caravan, and Redford was ready to admit defeat. Put simply, the caravan was too small for someone his size. He was so cold that even his gargoyle couldn’t keep him warm – in fact, his gargoyle complained all the freaking time because he didn’t like the cold, not at all.

The one time Redford plugged in the one bar heater, he’d blown all the fuses in the caravan so he couldn’t have that on and the lights at the same time.

The shower was a trickle of lukewarm water that kept cutting off every thirty seconds, and he didn’t even want to think about the composting toilet that wasn’t going to last a week, let alone the month Redford had been told it was guaranteed for.

He’d spent the previous night wedged into a bed clearly designed for somebody a foot shorter, his shoulders cramped and his back protesting every movement. But he was stubborn, and that stubbornness had him determined to stick it out. He refused to impose on Damon, not when Damon had no idea that they were mates.

You’re being foolish, his gargoyle grumbled. Your pride is keeping us from our mate.

“It’s not pride,” Redford muttered as he shaved in the tiny mirror. “It’s me being considerate.”

His gargoyle’s derisive snort echoed through his skull – not helpful, but Redford was getting used to it. The days of working at the castle were as bad as staying in the caravan. They were just a different kind of torture. Every moment with Damon was something Redford wanted to memorize and go over again and again when he was alone, but there were other issues.

Like the stones singing every time Damon was near him, and after five hundred years of wondering what it might be like to hear those dulcet tones, now Redford couldn’t get them out of his head.

Damon was, in a word, everything. He was strong, competent, and kind in a way that seemed effortless. He moved heavy stones like they weighed nothing. Just the day before he’d scaled a wall that was definitely wobbly, causing Redford to basically stand mute, his fists clenched, doing his best not to shift into his gargoyle form, fly up, and save his mate. But Damon didn’t seem scared or even worried.

Redford had no idea what Damon did for a living – or if he even did anything at all - but he had a confident manner that the contractors seemed to trust. The workers were going to Damon for advice on how to handle various situations, and Damon never seemed put out about it. He wasn’t even part of the crew, but the men respected him.

Realistically, that was probably a good thing. Redford spent every day constantly distracted. Like now, for example, standing on the east tower, supposedly discussing foundation repairs with the structural engineer.

Instead, his gaze kept drifting to where Damon worked below in the courtyard, his muscles flexing as he hauled more debris. Damon’s T-shirt had ridden up, exposing a strip of tanned skin on his lower back, and Redford’s gargoyle rumbled his appreciation.

“Mr. Stone,” the engineer’s voice cut through his thoughts. “What do you think about the timeline?”

Redford forced his attention away from the curve of Damon’s ass. “Sorry, yes. That sounds reasonable.” The engineer seemed happy and wandered away, which was just as well, because Redford had no idea what he’d just agreed to. I really should be focusing on more than Damon.

By midafternoon, Redford had watched Damon do that “thing” again - that thing that confirmed he was definitely paranormal. Damon apparently needed a crowbar and, checking to make sure nobody else was watching, he reached toward empty air, and suddenly one materialized in his hand. It just appeared as if summoned from nowhere.

The first time it had happened, Redford had nearly dropped the stone he was carrying. He was more used to it now, but he was still fascinated, wondering what kind of paranormal could create objects from thin air.

He thought back to a case he’d worked a few months earlier involving a journalist by the name of Lamont, a man who’d been caught up in corporate espionage. Lamont was a hellhound, an extremely rare paranormal who apparently couldn’t scent their mates. From the brief details Redford learned, hellhounds could only know who their mates were for certain due to some form of test. The lack of “knowing” had caused some complications in his mate’s case, because while the mate knew who Lamont was, Lamont didn’t have a clue until much later…almost too late, from what Redford could recall.

Could Damon be a hellhound, too? It would definitely explain why Damon seemed oblivious to their bond, although the chances of Redford meeting two hellhounds in the space of a year, when he’d barely been aware of their existence for decades, were slim.

But it did help put the “he doesn’t know he’s my mate” aspect into context. Gargoyles didn’t rely on scent either. They knew their mates through touch and, if they were handy, singing stones. So Redford had known the moment Damon’s hand clasped his that they were meant to be.

But if Damon was a hellhound, then perhaps that’s why he didn’t know, and he wouldn’t be able to know until…

“You’re staring again.” Redford’s head snapped up. Damon stood a few feet away, wiping stone dust from his hands, a knowing smile playing at his lips.

“Sorry.” Redford felt the heat flood his face. “I was just thinking about what the structural engineer had been telling me. Something to do with the integrity of the foundations.”

“Are you sure it was the foundations you were thinking about, or was it me?” The words were light and teasing, but there was something else underneath them, an awareness that made Redford’s pulse quicken. Their eyes met and held, the moment stretching between them so heavy with possibility. Damon’s pupils had dilated, and his breathing quickened. Redford could feel his own gargoyle pushing at his skin, desperate to reach out, to touch, to claim.

“Mr. Stone,” the architect’s voice shattered the moment. “I need your approval on these plans before we can proceed.”

Damn it. In that moment, Redford would’ve happily said “to hell with the castle,” and taken Damon somewhere private to see if the promise in his eyes was as good as Redford was sure it could be.