Chapter Twenty-One
Two weeks had passed since the castle had greeted Warner, and life at Duncarrick had settled into a semi-regular routine.
Finn no longer startled at his own shadow.
He’d mastered his shift control by working with Damon every morning, and spent his afternoons researching universities where he could enroll under a new identity.
The kid had dreams of studying veterinary medicine, and the castle seemed to approve - it kept manifesting books about animal anatomy on the kitchen table.
Kara had found work at the pub in the village, thanks to Malcolm mentioning she needed employment.
Margaret, the pub owner, hired her immediately, declaring she needed “someone with fire in them” to handle the weekend rush.
Kara was no longer so defensive, and she was growing in confidence.
Damon had caught her a few times chatting to the castle, as though it was her friend.
Damon wasn’t sure what Kara got out of it, but it seemed to be working.
The castle itself had transformed from challenging sentinel to helpful guardian.
It stoked fires before residents woke, warmed rooms they were heading toward, and occasionally left small gifts like a favorite snack for Finn, a book Kara had mentioned wanting, and a particular blend of coffee Redford preferred.
Underneath the domesticity, though, the castle was still evaluating things, and the shift happened on a Thursday afternoon.
Damon and Redford were in the west wing, discussing possible changes they wanted to make, when the castle’s presence suddenly intensified. The air grew heavy with magic, and through the stones beneath his feet, Damon felt the castle’s intent crystallize into action.
“It’s doing something,” Redford said, his hand pressed against the nearest wall. His dark eyes went distant, focused inward on whatever the stone was telling him. “The east tower. It’s...it’s fucking rearranging the thing.”
They ran. The east tower’s entrance sealed behind them the moment they stepped inside.
The familiar layout had vanished entirely, replaced by a maze of shifting corridors.
Walls that hadn’t existed an hour ago branched in impossible directions.
Staircases led to dead ends or looped back on themselves.
“Another test,” Damon muttered.
“A complicated one.” Redford closed his eyes, using his senses to find a way through. “The paths keep changing. I can feel the structure shifting beneath us.”
“There’s a center point.” Damon was paying attention to his hound. “The castle wants us to reach it.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” Redford’s hand reached out, and Damon took it.
They worked together. When a corridor sealed itself with massive stone blocks, Damon’s hellhound strength shifted them aside while Redford sensed which direction the path would open next.
When the floor dropped away into darkness, Redford’s wings manifested just enough to catch them both, gliding to safety while Damon translocated their landing platform into existence beneath their feet.
No words were needed. Their bond carried intentions and instincts faster than speech. Damon felt Redford’s awareness of structural weak points, Redford sensed Damon’s certainty about which obstacles could be moved versus destroyed.
The maze adapted to their progress, creating new challenges.
A chasm too wide to jump required Damon to translocate them across in stages while Redford used his stone affinity to stabilize the landing points.
A corridor filled with razor-sharp crystals needed Redford to sense the safe path while Damon’s hellhound let him shield them both when the margins grew too narrow.
An hour passed…then two. Finally, the maze opened into a chamber Damon had never seen before.
It was small, circular, with walls covered in detailed murals. But unlike the stories told by the journal and papers found in the crystal room, the paintings showed depictions of violence, death, and betrayal.
In the center of the room was a pedestal that had only one thing on it - another leather journal, its pages yellowed with age.
“I guess this was what we were expected to find,” Redford said quietly.
Damon approached slowly. Through his connection to the castle, he felt its pain pressing against him - old wounds torn fresh by remembered trauma. “It wants to show us more details about why it shut down, I think.”
The journal belonged to Alastair MacKinnon, the sanctuary’s last keeper before the castle went dormant.
His early entries were similar to the journal they’d already read, detailing a thriving network and the dozens of paranormals moving through Duncarrick to safety each month.
He wrote about his pride in the work, his determination to protect everyone who sought shelter.
Then came an entry from autumn 1647:
Today I trusted the wrong person. Callum assured me his contacts in Edinburgh could expand our reach and help more paranormals escape before the witch-finders caught them. I gave him the locations of three other safe houses, thinking I was saving lives. Instead I was condemning them.
Damon’s chest tightened. He already knew how this ended.
The raids came at dawn. Edinburgh, Perth, Stirling - all three locations hit simultaneously. They knew exactly where to look, exactly when our people would be most vulnerable. Twenty-three paranormals were captured, and seventeen of them were executed before we could mount rescues.
Callum sold us out for gold and promises of power from the very humans hunting us. He took our trust and weaponized it.
The entries grew darker, more desperate. Alastair tried to rebuild trust, to salvage the network, but paranormals who’d relied on the sanctuary’s secrecy now feared it had been compromised too thoroughly.
The final entry was dated winter 1648:
They came for Duncarrick tonight. Fifty men, armed with iron, silver, and witch-stones. Callum was leading them.
I’ve activated the castle’s final defenses. Everyone currently sheltering here will be able to escape through the old tunnels, but I cannot go with them. Someone must stay to ensure the castle seals properly, to prevent the intruders from following, or from learning the tunnel locations.
I thought being a keeper meant protecting people. I never imagined it would mean dying to keep my failures from destroying everyone else.
The castle deserves better than me. I pray someday it finds keepers who won’t fail it as I have.
The journal ended there.
Damon’s throat burned. Through his palm pressed against the pedestal, he felt the castle’s anguish. The betrayal hadn’t just killed Alastair, it had shattered the castle’s ability to trust, to believe anyone would protect it rather than exploit it.
“It’s not testing our competence,” Redford said hoarsely, and Damon could feel how hard he was affected. “It’s testing whether we’ll stay when things get hard. Whether we’ll betray this place and what it represents for personal gain.”
“It’s afraid we’ll be another Alastair.” Damon closed the journal carefully. “That we’ll mean well but fail when it matters most.”
Through the stone beneath his feet, through the crystals in the undercroft, through the very bones of Duncarrick itself, Damon felt the castle’s question: Can I trust you with this? With everything I represent? With everyone who might seek shelter here?
“Yes,” Damon said aloud. “I swear on my existence, on every life I’ve guarded across millennia. We won’t fail you.”
Redford’s hand covered his, their bond flaring bright. “We’re not just promising this as individuals. We’re promising it as mates. Our bond is permanent. We can’t betray you without betraying each other.”
The castle’s presence pressed closer, desperate to believe, but it was clear it still wasn’t sure. Damon wondered what it would take. We’ve got plenty of time, he reminded himself.
/~/~/~/~/
That evening, Damon’s phone rang.
“We have a problem,” Moira said without preamble. “A group of paranormals has been tracking Duncarrick’s magical signature since you woke the castle. Some are curious allies. Others are decidedly hostile.”
Damon put her on speaker so Redford could hear.
“There’s a coalition that calls themselves the Keepers of the Old Ways,” Moira continued.
“They profit from keeping paranormals hidden and afraid - running underground markets, controlling access to safe territories, charging exorbitant fees for protection. A paranormal version of the mafia, if you like. An active sanctuary threatens their entire power structure.”
“How many are involved, do you know?” Redford asked, his expression hardening.
“At least seven. A powerful mage leading them, a vampire who’s roughly four centuries old, and several strong shifters.
From what we’ve found out, they’re planning on visiting – and I use that term loosely – tomorrow night with a view to making you shut the place down, or they’ll take control of the sanctuary for themselves. ”
Damon’s hellhound surged beneath his skin. This was exactly what the castle feared - people wanting to exploit it, to corrupt its purpose for personal gain. But this time, someone would fight back.
“Thank you for the warning,” Damon said. “We’ll be ready.”
Hanging up, Damon immediately opened his pack link, reaching all eleven of his brothers.
Be alert, there’s a chance the sanctuary we’re building here will be under attack tomorrow night. I’ll be calling on you.
Responses came back immediately from all of them, mentioning using the Underworld as a babysitting service and a safe place for smaller mates, while every hound committed to coming on Damon’s word.
“That’s all it takes? All of them?” Redford watched Damon coordinate through the pack link, disbelief pulsing through their mate bond. “The entire original pack?”
“This is what pack means,” Damon said. “When one is threatened, we all respond. Get Faron to tell you the Wendigo story one time. The castle needs to see that it’s not just you and me protecting it - it’s got the backing of the most powerful shifters on Earth.”
/~/~/~/~/
That night, the castle created another test. Damon was walking from the kitchen to their bedroom when reality rippled around him.
The corridor stretched impossibly long, the bedroom door receding into the distance.
Through the bond, he felt Redford’s similar confusion - his mate had been sealed in the bathroom, the door refusing to open.
They could feel each other clearly through their bond but couldn’t reach each other physically. Then the visions started.
The castle showed Damon images of Redford returning to the FBI, his mate leaving Scotland because the work called to him, because Redford couldn’t resist being needed, because ultimately staying with Damon wasn’t enough.
The visions were so vivid it was like it was happening in real life.
Damon was forced to watch as Redford packed his things, explained he couldn’t give up his old life, and then drove away. Over and over again.
Through their bond, Damon felt Redford experiencing his own nightmare. His seemed to be a vision of Damon abandoning the sanctuary to live with his pack brothers, choosing them over the mate bond, deciding Redford had been a pleasant distraction but ultimately insufficient.
Damon couldn’t imagine how the castle thought that would be something Redford feared, because his gargoyle had never mentioned it, and both Damon and Redford understood how fated mate bonds worked, but clearly the castle didn’t.
Which is why the visions rang hollow. Even if the fated mate bond wasn’t a factor, neither scenario was real.
Redford had finally resigned from the FBI after their last talk, and recommended Wilson for the position.
Damon had spent thousands of years apart from his brothers and hadn’t even considered leaving the home they’d built together.
I’m not leaving, Damon sent through their bond. I’m right here. This isn’t real.
I know, Redford replied, equally steady. The castle is trying to make us doubt each other. But I can feel you, I know exactly where you are, and I’m not going anywhere.
There was no point fighting the illusions, and it wasn’t as though images in the head were a physical aspect they could fight. Damon and Redford simply waited, in their separate spaces, to be allowed to be together again.
Tomorrow’s going to be rough, Damon sent through their connection. Seven hostiles minimum, all of them powerful. Are you worried?
About the fight? No. About keeping Finn and Kara safe during it? Yes.
Kolton will handle evacuation if needed. He’s good at protecting the vulnerable.
What’s the plan otherwise?
To show them that threatening a hellhound’s home is a spectacularly bad decision.
They talked through their bond for what felt like hours.
There was no point in dwelling on the fight ahead – they would deal with that when it happened.
Redford talked about some of the crazy cases he’d dealt with when he was a new special agent, and Damon shared stories about some of his travels while on the race circuit.
Slowly, the illusions faded, and finally the bedroom door unlocked.
Redford came racing down the hall, and Damon realized he’d been sitting by the door the whole time. Reaching out, he swept Damon into his arms, and Damon melted under Redford’s lips.
“It’s still afraid,” Redford said quietly when they finally pulled apart.
“I know,” Damon said, but then he raised his voice. “Tomorrow, you’ll finally see what we’re really made of.”
“Tomorrow,” Redford echoed.