Chapter Fourteen
“Coffee?”
Redford cracked one eye open, squinting against the overcast afternoon light coming through the bedroom window. Afternoon? Damn. They’d slept through the entire morning, and yet Redford couldn’t bring himself to care.
Damon stood in the doorway, mug in each hand, wearing nothing but sleep pants slung low on his hips.
“You’re a vision,” Redford croaked.
“Flattery won’t make this coffee taste better, but nice try.” Damon crossed to the bed, handing over one mug before settling beside him. “Though I’d accept other forms of payment.”
Redford took a grateful sip, then another. “What time is it?”
“Past noon. Malcolm texted asking if we died.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“That we were busy.” Damon’s grin turned wicked. “He said to take our time, and the crew can handle things for a few days.”
Redford snorted. The whole village probably felt they knew what the “new couple at the castle” were doing, although they’d only be half right. “Well, if we’ve got a bit of time, then we should look at those documents again and go over them properly this time.”
They’d been too caught up in the discovery the night before to really process what they’d found. Now, with clear heads and daylight, Redford wanted to understand exactly what he’d inherited.
Damon’s expression grew serious. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about that.” He drained his mug. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll set everything up in the kitchen.”
Redford found Damon at the kitchen table, the journal, letters, and logbook spread across the worn wood. He’d materialized a pair of white cotton gloves for each of them and set out more coffee, always thinking ahead.
“Here.” Damon handed him the gloves. “The papers have held up really well for their age, but they’re still fragile.”
Redford pulled them on, settling into the chair across from his mate. The journal lay between them, its leather cover showing signs of age, but still intact. The writing inside was cramped, the ink faded to brown, but legible.
March 1565
Three more arrived last night. A wolf shifter and her cubs, fleeing Edinburgh after her neighbor accused her of witchcraft. The wards held strong - the magistrate’s men rode past the gates twice without seeing them. Beatrice’s magic continues to serve us well.
Redford’s chest tightened. He turned the page carefully.
The castle grows crowded. Twenty souls now shelter within these walls, waiting for safe passage south or across the sea. James says the network extends far wider than the Highlands now. Every paranormal clan and pack in this fair land knows Duncarrick will hide them.
“It’s fascinating that this wasn’t just a one-time thing,” Redford said quietly. “They ran an entire operation here.”
Damon nodded, his finger tracing down a page in the logbook. “That’s what I’ve been thinking. If you look at this - names, dates, and destinations - they kept records of everyone who passed through.” He flipped forward several pages. “This goes on for decades and includes hundreds of people.”
Redford picked up one of the letters, written in different handwriting.
To the Keepers of Duncarrick,
I write to inform you that the family you sent to us last spring has settled well in the village. The children attend the local school without incident, and their mother has taken work at the inn. No one suspects their true nature.
We stand ready to receive more who seek refuge. The times grow dark, but we shall prevail.
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.”
Damon’s smile widened as he nodded. “Yeah?”
“Yep.” Redford squeezed his mate’s hand. “But that means being here, really here, and not distracted by cases or checking my phone every five minutes to see if something’s gone wrong. I want to work on this with you.”
“You won’t hear any objections from me. Speaking of authorities and cases, however, the Paranormal Council should probably be told about what we’ve found,” Damon said.
“These records about such an important part of history should be preserved, and the council might have resources to help with the restoration.”
“I’ll contact them.” Redford’s mind was already working through logistics. “I have more than a couple of contacts there. I still want to secure the originals, and I want to get copies made for the council, perhaps. But I think the ledger, journal, and letters belong here.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Planning.” Damon’s smile took the sting out of the words. “Working the problem like it’s a case file. You’re clearly good at it.”
“That’s probably because it’s what I’ve always done. Old habits,” he muttered.