The Blood of Blackstone Castle

Episode One

Blackstone Castle had been in my family for nearly five hundred years, which sounded impressive until you actually looked at it. Half the foundation was crumbling, three generations of cheap repairs clung to the walls, and one of the towers leaned far enough to make me nervous on windy days. Most sensible families would have sold the ruin, pocketed whatever some eccentric millionaire was willing to pay, and moved on. My grandfather was not sensible. Grampa intended to pour his savings into restoring the place and turn our ancestral disaster into a bed-and-breakfast. More importantly, whenever I suggested selling it, he gave me the same answer: Blackstone Castle stays with Blackstone blood. I had always assumed that was sentimental nonsense. I was about to discover it wasn’t. I tried not to stare at the man before me as he listed off the things that were wrong with the building. I had my phone against my ear, relaying what the man had told me. “Grampa, he says the same thing the last six contractors have said; the castle is in really bad shape. He can restore it, but it will take longer than you want.” Gramps grumbled over the phone, “Tell him I don’t care what he says, I want the castle restored. I’ll pay whatever it takes, you tell him money is not a problem.” He hung up on me before I could argue. I shook my head, “He says money’s no object, if you can get it done.” The man nodded, “I have a man who can restore it to the original. The price will definitely go up. My guy is a little eccentric, but he can do the job faster than I could.” “Just do it, we’ll get the money together somehow.” A bit of lint clung to his five o’clock shadow, and I had the absurd urge to brush it away. Dressed in dusty coveralls, he was not what I had expected. The other contractors I had called for estimates had not been this alarmingly handsome. He continued, “I’ll call him. He loves old castles.” He opened his notepad. “Can I get your full name? For the estimate?” “Mm…yes…It’s Evelyn Blackstone, but you may call me Evie. I never got yours,” I said, trying to conceal my interest. He hesitated, then murmured. “Percival Johns.” I blinked. His name did not fit the face, so I repeated it to make sure I’d heard correctly. “Percival?” “Johns, not Percival,” he countered. “You don’t like Percival?” “It’s been a source of annoyance.” Against my will, I snickered. “Noted, Mr. Johns.” “Just Johns is fine.” “Okay then, Johns, how much do I owe you for the estimate?” “Thirty dollars for the estimate and twenty for my buddy,” he said gruffly, handing me the finished estimate. “One more question, will you be handling the project or will your friend take on the job alone?” “He works for me, so you will only have one bill when it’s finished.” I stared at the estimate. It was enough money to make my stomach hurt, but Grampa had made himself perfectly clear: he wanted the castle restored properly, and apparently his retirement savings were willing to die for the cause. Johns Restorations also had the strongest reputation of every company I had researched. If anyone could rescue Blackstone Castle, it seemed to be Percival Johns and his mysterious eccentric employee. Johns promised his man could do the job and my research had not found anyone displeased with his services. I signed the contract before I could talk myself out of it. Two days later I met Grady O’Leary, and Johns had undersold him. Grady spent three mornings meditating in every room, cupboard, and closet, consulting his “wee folk” before he so much as touched a tool. Johns only winked. “Don’t worry. They always say yes to him.” By the third day, I half expected one of Grady’s imaginary friends to pop out of a wall. My patience wore thin as Grady moved to another room. “Mr. Johns, this isn’t what we agreed on. You said he’d work quickly, but he’s spent three days negotiating with imaginary friends and hasn’t lifted a finger. Get him started by the end of the week, or I’ll hire someone else, no matter what Grampa says.” “Call me Johns, please. Mr. Johns makes me feel old,” he said, grinning. “I will talk to my man, but I’m not promising anything,” he added, walking to his truck. “I want to warn you, he doesn’t like to be rushed and this may go badly for you.” “The only way that could happen is if he actually did something. I haven’t seen him actually do anything yet, have you?” I muttered under my breath. He waved, climbed into his truck and drove away. I returned the following day, to find Johns and Grady on the wall next to the footbridge. Johns hopped off the wall. “Miss Blackstone, Grady wanted me to ask if you wouldn’t mind leaving, he says you’re a distraction he doesn’t need…” Johns began. I interrupted, “Mr. Johns, my grandfather put me in charge, I’m not leaving.” Grady suddenly appeared beside me, holding his hat in his hands. “Ma’am, there are certain things I cannae abide. Being watched and being rushed sit right at the top of the list. I’ll work faster and better if ye’re not here. I’d be much obliged if ye’d stay away for two months. If, at that time, ye’re not satisfied with my work, I’ll not charge ye a penny.” He held out his hand. “Deal?” “Wait. You’re telling me Johns Restorations will complete the entire job within two months, and if you don’t, we don’t pay for the restoration?” Grady nodded. “That’s the bargain.” I looked at Johns. “And your company is actually agreeing to this?” Johns closed his eyes briefly, as though asking himself the same question. “Apparently my foreman has just volunteered me for the most expensive guarantee of my career.” Grady grinned. “Have a wee bit of faith, Boss.” “Faith isn’t generally something I budget for.” Grady nodded, his hand still extended. What choice did I have? I called Grampa and explained Grady’s strange terms. The chance to get the castle restored for free was all Grampa needed to hear. He told me to take the deal. Reluctantly, I shook Grady’s hand, even as my gut warned me I might regret it. I took one last look at the castle, fixing the image in my mind for my return in two months. I turned the car towards home. Reaching the end of the driveway, one thought hit me: I didn’t get it in writing. I stopped, tempted to turn back. No, a deal’s a deal, I shook my head and continued home. I made it almost to the highway before I considered turning back. Not because I distrusted Grady. All right, entirely because I distrusted Grady. Three days of meditating in cupboards had not inspired confidence. Neither had the fact that I had just handed a ruin worth a small fortune over to a man who apparently took construction advice from invisible people. Still, a deal was a deal. I kept driving. That night I woke shortly after three to the sound of tapping against my bedroom window. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. I pulled back the curtain. Nothing was there. No branch. No bird. No rain. The tapping stopped. Then, very faintly, I heard what sounded like tiny hammers. Hundreds of them. I told myself I was dreaming. Two months, I thought, rolling back into bed. Whatever Grady O’Leary was doing to Blackstone Castle, I had promised not to look. I had no idea the castle had already started looking for me.

Episode Two

By the fourth day of my enforced exile from Blackstone Castle, I had discovered that staying away from a place was much harder when everyone involved kept behaving suspiciously. Johns called once each afternoon with an update. The first call was reassuring. Work had begun. Grady was finally satisfied with whatever invisible consultations had occupied his first three days, and the restoration was moving ahead. The second call was less reassuring. Johns told me progress was better than expected, then immediately changed the subject when I asked how much better. By the third call, I had begun to recognise the pattern. If I asked about foundations, wiring, permits or costs, he answered clearly. If I asked what Grady was actually doing inside the castle, Johns became a man suddenly fascinated by weather, invoices and the reliability of modern plumbing. Something strange was happening at Blackstone Castle. I just could not prove it. My problem was that Johns sounded so calm whenever he lied to me. Not convincing. Calm. There was a difference. On Thursday afternoon, I heard an enormous crash behind him while we were on the phone. It sounded as though part of the castle had fallen into another part of the castle. Johns assured me it was only some old cabinetry being removed. A moment later came another crash, followed by a rapid series of smaller knocks. He went quiet. I asked whether Grady had finally started working. After a pause, Johns said that technically, yes, he had. Technically. That word bothered me for the rest of the afternoon. So did the fact that I was smiling when I hung up. I had not intended to like Percival Johns. He was my contractor. Worse, he was the contractor currently helping an eccentric Irishman keep me away from my own family property. That should have made him irritating. Unfortunately, it mostly made him interesting. The tapping at my bedroom window returned that night. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. I opened my eyes and stared into the darkness. For several seconds I wondered whether I had dreamed it. Then it came again. I switched on the bedside lamp and pulled back the curtain. Nothing. No wind. No rain. No branch close enough to touch the glass. I checked the garden anyway. Everything was still. When I finally climbed back into bed, there came a soft scraping from somewhere inside the wall beside me. I sat upright. The sound stopped. I waited. One tiny knock answered me. I slept with the light on and told myself old houses made noises. The fact that my house was not particularly old seemed an unhelpful detail. The next day, Johns called while I was at work. I decided not to mention the tapping at first. Instead, I asked for photographs of the restoration. He refused. Not directly. Johns was far too smooth for that. He explained that Grady worked best without interruption and had apparently decided photographs counted as interruption. That was when I informed him I was considering driving out to see the work myself. The answer came so quickly that it startled me. No. Not probably best not. Not Grady won’t like it. Just no. I sat back in my chair and listened while Johns softened the refusal into something more reasonable. I had made a bargain. Grady was meeting his side of it. The structure was safe. The project was ahead of schedule. If I arrived unannounced and upset him, Johns could not guarantee Grady would stay. It all sounded sensible. Almost. Then I heard Grady shouting somewhere in the background. Most of the words were lost beneath another burst of banging, but one phrase carried clearly through the phone. Something about taking away the “wee ladders.” Johns abruptly found a reason to end the call. I stared at my phone for a long time afterward. Wee ladders. Perhaps Grady built models. Perhaps he had an unusual system for restoring difficult sections of historic buildings. Perhaps I was desperately inventing explanations because the alternative was admitting that an elderly man who meditated in cupboards might actually believe tiny people were renovating my castle. I sent Johns a message telling him that his behaviour was making me more suspicious, not less. His answer came a few minutes later. He asked me to trust him. I put my phone facedown on the desk and concentrated very hard on work. The following morning, a courier delivered a cardboard tube containing updated plans for Blackstone Castle. The plans were extraordinary. Grady had marked original beams, concealed stonework, later additions that should be removed, and sections that could be restored to something close to their sixteenth-century appearance. I had spent months searching old records. Grady had apparently learned more about the building in a week than I had managed to uncover from archives, council documents and family papers. One notation stopped me. Behind the later brickwork of the ballroom fireplace, Grady had marked the location of an original Blackstone crest dated 1589. I had never heard of it. Neither had any historian I had spoken to. I called Grampa. He was maddeningly unconcerned. When I asked whether he knew about the crest, he said old castles were full of things people forgot. That answer irritated me enough to ask the question I had been circling for months. Why was keeping Blackstone Castle so important to him? For once, Grampa did not immediately brush me off. There was a silence before he reminded me that the castle belonged to our family. I pushed harder. Spending most of his savings on a ruin required a better reason than family pride. His reply was the same one he had given me all my life. Blackstone Castle stays with Blackstone blood. This time, the words did not sound sentimental. They sounded like a rule. I asked him what they actually meant. He claimed they meant exactly what they said, then suddenly remembered someone was at his door and ended the call. I was beginning to think every man connected to Blackstone Castle had attended the same school for evasive conversation. Johns rang that evening. By then, our daily calls had stopped feeling entirely professional. The project updates still came first, but somehow they had begun drifting into other things. I learned he had started construction work with his father when he was sixteen and later taken over the company. He preferred restoration because new buildings, in his opinion, had no history to uncover. I told him old buildings had entirely too much history and mine appeared determined to keep most of it secret. He laughed. I liked hearing him laugh more than I wanted to admit. There was an ease between us that had not been there at the castle. Without Grady interrupting or crumbling walls demanding attention, Johns was funny. Dry rather than loud. He also had the irritating habit of remembering little things I had mentioned days earlier. At one point, I asked how he had met Grady. Johns told me it was a long story and promised he would explain it another time. Another time. It suggested there would be one. I was still thinking about that when the tapping began again. This time it came from the kitchen wall. Three tiny knocks. I stopped speaking. Johns noticed immediately. I told him what I had been hearing since leaving the castle: the tapping at the window, the faint hammering, the sounds inside the walls. His reaction bothered me more than if he had laughed. He became serious. He asked whether there were branches near the window, whether the pipes were making noise, whether anything in the house had been disturbed. Then he asked me not to investigate it. I almost laughed. He knew me well enough already to realise that telling me not to investigate something was practically an invitation. I moved closer to the wall. Before I could touch it, Johns told me to step away. I froze. He could not see me. When I asked how he knew what I was doing, he said he had simply guessed. Perhaps he had. But the certainty in his voice made the back of my neck prickle. The tapping stopped. For several seconds, all I could hear was Johns breathing through the phone. Then he asked me to stay away from Blackstone Castle for a few more days. Not because of the contract. Not because Grady would be angry. He simply asked me to trust him. I agreed. After the call ended, I stood in my kitchen staring at the wall. Nothing moved. Nothing knocked. Still, I could not shake the feeling that whatever was happening at the castle had somehow followed me home. By the end of the week, curiosity had become a physical itch. I considered driving out there more than once. I even made it halfway to my car one evening before reminding myself that I had given Grady my word. So I stayed away. Every afternoon, Johns called with another suspiciously positive update. Every evening, I found myself looking forward to hearing his voice. And almost every night, the tapping returned. Never loud. Never threatening. Just three or four tiny knocks somewhere close by, as if something very small was checking that I was still there. I stopped believing it was the plumbing. I stopped believing it was coincidence. And slowly, against every sensible thought in my head, I began to feel something else. Not fear. Recognition. Blackstone Castle was miles away, yet I could almost feel it waiting. The building I had spent months thinking of as Grampa’s expensive obsession no longer felt empty. It felt awake. And somehow, impossibly, it knew me.

Episode Three

The week after Grady banned me from the castle, the building inspector called: he needed me there the next day. I fibbed that I was out of town, and he agreed to accept Johns as my proxy if I emailed a signed liability form. I called Johns to tell him about his new role. After a quick project update, he cleared his throat. “One more question—would you have dinner with me tonight? I don’t normally do this, but Grady said something about seizing the day, and I thought…” My jaw dropped. I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at his display picture. “Uh…I guess. I could meet you somewhere. Do you have a place in mind?” “No, not really. Do you have any suggestions? I usually eat burgers and pizza, so I don’t know any good places.” I wondered what my restaurant choice would say. Was this a business date or a get-to-know-you date? Oh, the hell with it, I thought. “Martha’s Diner has a great dessert menu and ribs to die for.” I blurted it out before I knew what I was saying. “Oh yeah, I’ve been there a few times for take-out. Great choice. I will meet you there around…what time do you get off work?” “It varies, but I’m usually out by six. I’ll have to go home and change clothes. How does seven thirty sound?” I said, my heart skipping beats. “Why don’t I pick you up? Save you from driving back into town after working all day?” “That would be nice. I’ll see you at seven-thirty then.” I gave him my address then hung up. The rest of the day had me glancing at the clock every few minutes. The moment my last client left, I grabbed my things and rushed home. By six-thirty, my bedroom looked like a tornado had touched down. Dresses covered the floor, dresser, and bed before I settled on a casual T-shirt dress, white sneakers, and a light cardigan. I pinned my hair into loose curls, checked the clock too often, and nearly jumped when the doorbell rang. Right on time. I opened the door and found Johns standing there clean-shaven, wearing a fitted polo shirt, tailored tan slacks, and holding a fresh bouquet of red and white roses. This was a date, date. He was dressed to impress, and apparently my knees thought he looked good enough to swoon over. I gripped the doorframe. “Is something wrong?” he asked, alarmed. “No, nothing. Right on time. Let’s go,” I said in a hurry, closing the door and locking it on the way out. He took my hand gently and raised it to his lips. “You may want to put these in water before we leave.” He lifted the flowers in his other hand. “Oh no, you’re right. I’m sorry.” I turned around, reached for my purse, and realized it was still hanging on the coat hook inside the house. In dismay, I looked back at Johns. “I think I may have locked myself out.” “Not to worry, I have just the tool for locked doors. I’ll be right back.” He handed me the bouquet. He headed over to a sleek little red convertible instead of his work truck. In our dealings, I had assumed that the truck was his only vehicle. He went to the boot and returned with a small contractor’s lockout kit. I folded my arms. “Why do you own that?” “Renovations. People lose keys.” “That answer sounded rehearsed.” “Because people ask.” Less than a minute later, the lock clicked. I stared at him. “Percival Johns, should I be concerned that my contractor can break into my house?” “Only if you stop paying your invoices.” I laughed. “That was not reassuring.” I went in, found a vase for the flowers. I turned and found Johns had followed me inside. “You have a nice little place here. I can see a few things that could be improved upon, but overall, it’s a nice setup.” “Yeah. It was my grandparents’ house. My grandpa couldn’t bear to live here after my grandmother passed. They were married seventy years.” “That’s a long time to be married to the same person.” he glanced around the small living room; at the antique furniture and framed photographs. “I think some places hold on to love better than people do. You can feel it here.” My throat tightened. “That’s either the sweetest thing anyone has ever said in this house, or the strangest.” “I’m a contractor,” he said. “We notice things like that.” I smiled “And what about you, Percival Johns? Do you believe in that kind of foundation?” He grinned, “It’s Johns and I used to think I didn’t. Lately, I’m wondering if I was wrong.” Johns gestured me ahead, checked that I had my key this time, then took my hand and walked me to the car. After helping me into the low passenger seat, he slid in smoothly—until his belt snagged on the steering wheel. I laughed before I could stop myself. He glanced over, pushing the steering wheel up and sliding into place, “Something funny?” I dared to tease, “Nothing at all, Percival.” He turned his head towards me frowning. “That makes twice you’ve called me that.” I stared past him, “I think it gives you character, it’s a dignified name. Noble, really. Knightly.” “I prefer Johns,” he groaned. “Sir Percival Johns,” I continued, giggling in between words, because apparently I wanted to ruin our first and possibly last date, “Defender of crumbling castles. Rescuer of damsels in distress, who lock themselves out of their own houses.” The corners of his mouth twitched upward, despite his best effort. “You finished?” “Not even close.” I retorted. “Then I should warn you, Miss Blackstone, this car goes fast.” “Is that a threat?” I teased, truly testing my boundaries. “No, it’s a promise. The sooner we reach the diner, the sooner you’ll have ribs in your mouth instead of my first name.” He grinned and winked at me. I laughed as he floored the accelerator, leaving rubber on the street and curious faces peering out of windows. Before he could say anything else, the screen on the dash lit up with Grady’s face. Johns pulled to the side of the road and pushed the answer button. “What’s up, Grady? You’re on speaker, and I am with Miss Blackstone at the moment.” “Boss, ye’ve got to get here fast. The wee folk are missin’. I’ve looked everywhere. That inspector’ll be here tomorrow, and I dinnae ken if I can finish it alone.” “On my way.” He put the car in gear and headed to the castle. “You need to drop me off, first. I can’t go to the castle; I made a deal with Grady.” I shouted above the wind. “The wee folk are more important than the deal. If we don’t get them back, the castle will never be done in the time,” He shouted back. When we arrived at the castle Grady was pacing back and forth in front of the footbridge. “Just for the record, the deal’s off,” Grady said as I stepped out of the car. “But I’m glad ye’re here. I have a feelin’ about ye. Ye might be able to help find ‘em. Come inside, and let me get a readin’ off ye.” I looked at Johns and he shook his head and took my hand, following Grady inside. The interior was not the shambles I had remembered, a few open panels here and there but other than that it was finished. “Grady, you did all this since I’ve been away this past week?” I asked. “No, the wee folk did all this. I only do the rough work, shorin’ up walls and foundations. I could do the rest, but they love the work so much…” He stopped, choking up. I turned to Johns. “I don’t understand. What’s he talking about?” “Grady, show her what you can do.” Grady nodded and closed his eyes, stretched out his hands, and started humming softly. The wall on the opposite side of the room shimmered then vanished, an archway appeared into the kitchen then the wall reformed. The room tilted. I grabbed the back of a chair before my knees could betray me. “No,” I whispered. “Do that again.” Grady blinked. “Miss?” “The wall. Do it again.” “Evie,” Johns said carefully. “Either I just watched a man move a wall with his bare hands, or somebody slipped something into my coffee. I would very much like to establish which.” Grady looked at Johns. Johns looked at Grady. “Oh, wonderful,” I said. “You both knew.” That was when my shock became anger. Grady twisted his hat in both hands. “Aye, and I’m sorry for it, miss. I didnae mean to frighten ye.” Johns glanced at him, then back at me. “Evie, the wee folk are gone. Not hiding. Gone. Grady can’t hear them, can’t feel them, and he thinks they may be in danger.” My throat went dry. “What does that have to do with me?” Grady lowered himself onto the chair opposite me. “The wee folk were here before the oldest part of this castle was built, miss. But somewhere along the way, they bound themselves to the Blackstones. Every generation had a keeper—someone they could see, someone they trusted. Then the family stopped living here, and the old ways were forgotten.” I thought of Grampa insisting the castle remain in the family. Blackstone Castle stays with Blackstone blood. A chill moved through me. “And you think I'm the next keeper?” “I think,” Grady said quietly, “they knew exactly who ye were the day ye walked through the gate.”

Episode Four

I composed myself enough to let Johns and Grady lead me downstairs. In the center of the ballroom, Grady had arranged a small cairn of stones. He asked me to sit on the floor before it, then positioned himself behind me and rested one hand on my shoulder. “Boss, ye’ll want to step back a bit,” Grady said, pointing Johns toward the far side of the room. A low hum gathered in the air as Grady began to sway behind me. A tingling sensation crawled up the back of my neck, followed by a sudden, tight pull on my arm. Something was dragging me away. The ballroom vanished. I knew my body had not moved- I could still feel Grady's hand somewhere far away on my shoulder but my mind was falling. Stone rushed upward. Darkness swallowed me. Then I was standing in a chamber beneath the castle, seeing through eyes that were somehow mine and not mine. The dirt floor reeked of mould and rot. Torchlight flickered along walls I had never seen, yet something in my blood recognised them. I could see into the next chamber and gasped at the guillotine standing in the center. Along the wall beside me, a large cell held dozens of small people cringed a corner. A whooshing sound rushed up behind me. I turned. Something stood behind me. It had chosen the outline of a man—tall, hooded, almost human—but the disguise was wrong around the edges. Its shadow moved before it did. Its hands were too long. Beneath the hood there was no face, only a darkness that seemed deeper than the room surrounding it. I understood instinctively that it was not a man. It had simply learned that humans were more frightened when monsters wore familiar shapes. It passed through me, entering the other chamber. I heard a clank and the cell door flew open. The thing returned and dragged one captive out, the door clanging shut. I stepped back as he dragged his captive into the next chamber. He forced the prisoner to kneel before the guillotine and place his head in the opening. I wanted to look away. I wanted to run. But the vision held me there, helpless, as the blade fell. A pale shape rose from the dead body like smoke and flowed into the creature. It smiled, glaring at me. My scream tore through the darkness. The vision shattered. Johns was shaking me, then lifting me into his arms and holding me close while Grady shouted for him to let me go. “What happened?” I whispered, struggling to steady my voice. “You were screaming,” Johns said, turning on Grady. “She can’t do this. It’s too much. Look at her. She’s white as a sheet.” “She’ll be right in a minute,” Grady insisted, though his voice shook. “Boss. I dinnae ken what she saw, but it mattered.” “I have to go back, Johns. I saw them. There’s a dungeon beneath the castle. They’re being killed, and I have to find a way to free them.” I looked at Grady. “Do you know how to reach the dungeon?” “Aye, missy, I do,” Grady answered. “No, Grady,” Johns said. “You can’t do this; she needs time to rest.” His gaze fell on my face, “Evie, You don’t have to do this.” His voice cracked and for one impossible second, the dungeon, the missing wee folk, and the horror of what I had seen all blurred around the edges. All I could focus on was Johns holding me, scared for me and trying not to show it. “Why?” I asked softly. “Why does this matter so much to you?” Johns looked away, his jaw tight. “Because every instinct I have is telling me that if I let you walk down there, I may not get you back.” My chest squeezed. His gaze came back to mine. A lump formed in my throat. “Johns, you barely know me,” I said. “I saw one of them murdered. If I wait, more of them could die. I have to go now.” I held out my hand. “Help me up.” Johns lifted me to my feet and held me for one extra heartbeat before glaring at Grady. “If anything happens to her...” Grady nodded, pulling me away from Johns. He rummaged through his toolbox by the door and found a couple of flashlights. “This way, missy. I found it this mornin’. Heard noises behind the wall, so I had the wee folk open it. They didnae want to, but I pushed ’em. Behind the panelin’ was an iron door. The wee folk near tore me coat tryin’ to stop me opening it, but they couldnae tell me why. Their memories of the place were muddled. I thought they were frightened of an old cellar.” His face drained of colour. “I broke the first seal. There were stairs beyond it and another stone passage. I never reached this chamber. The moment that iron door opened, every wee one in the castle started screamin’. Then they disappeared.” His voice cracked. “I let the thing out.” Grady paled. “Saints preserve us. What have I done?” I glanced into the cells with my light, empty. I was too late, I thought. “Can ye see ’em, missy?” Grady whispered near my ear. “Huddled there in the corner?” He turned away from me, shook the cell door, and took off his hat, speaking to the wee folk only he could see. “I shoulda listened when ye didnae want that door opened. Can ye ever forgive me? I didnae know.” “Grady, you can beg for forgiveness later,” I said. “We have work to do. Ask them if they know how to open that door and how to get rid of the one who’s holding them.” Grady lowered his voice. “Have ye an answer for the missy, wee ones? We could use yer help. Me magic’s no good down here.” “Grady listened to someone I could not hear. “The elder remembers,” he whispered. “Pieces of it.” He swallowed. “Centuries ago, a Blackstone lord went beneath the castle lookin’ for power. He found somethin’ instead.” “The thing I saw?” Grady nodded. “He thought he could command it. He couldnae. It started using the castle like a doorway.” “So someone trapped it.” “A Blackstone woman and a warlock. Her blood gave the binding somewhere to anchor. His magic forged the seal. The wee folk stayed behind as its keepers.” “And the talisman?” Grady listened again. His expression changed. “It wasnae only part of the prison. It was made for Blackstone blood. If the seal ever broke, one of yer family was meant to claim it and close the door again.” I stared at him. “Nobody thought that information was worth passing down?” Grady looked miserable. “Apparently yer ancestors were as good at family communication as mine.”

I went into the chamber, trying not to remember my vision. “In my vision, I saw a man’s head chopped off by that thing,” I said, not realizing that the body was still lying next to the guillotine. Grady came up behind me and gasped. “’Twas their leader. It didnae even have the decency to remove the body.” He moved to the lever and pointed above it. “There’s the talisman.” “The elder says ye have to take it,” Grady said. “Take the thing that has been keeping that monster locked away?” “The old seal's already broken. The talisman's only an anchor now. It needs Blackstone blood before the creature takes it for itself.” That explanation did not make me feel better. Grady pulled the lever. The cell door groaned open. Above it, the talisman began to glow. “Now, missy.” I reached for it. The moment my fingers touched the metal, something in the darkness screamed. Grady screamed and hurtled across the chamber, striking the wall headfirst. The disc slipped from my fingers. I hurried to his side. “Grady!?” “Look out! It’s got the talisman. Grab it!” he cried before slipping into unconsciousness. I whirled and saw the talisman floating toward the archway. I lunged, closing my hand around it. Searing pain scorched my palm, and I screamed as I hit the floor, still clutching the ancient metal. Something slashed across my forearm. Blood ran over my wrist and into my palm. One drop struck the talisman. The world stopped. The metal flashed gold. Not because of Grady's magic. Not because of the creature. Because of me. Blackstone blood. The words entered my mind with memories that were not mine: women standing in this chamber, generation after generation, palms cut willingly over the same piece of metal. Keepers. Guardians. My family. The creature lunged. I closed my bloody fist around the talisman. “Not yours,” I said. Light exploded through the dungeon. “Evie, Evie,” Johns cried in my ear. “Please, please, open your eyes. Please Evie, come back to me.” Johns cradled me on the cellar floor, rocking me against him. When I finally opened my eyes, Grady was slumped against the far wall, injured but breathing. My arm throbbed where four claw marks scored the skin, though the bleeding had stopped. I opened my fist and stared at my palm. The talisman was gone. In its place, an oval mark burned beneath the skin, alive with a faint, steady power. I could feel it working through me, not trapping the evil, but keeping it close. “I’m okay, check on Grady,” I whispered to Johns, seeing the fear in his eyes. Johns tore his shirt into strips and bandaged my arm, then helped me sit up. He went to check on Grady. He called for an ambulance. Johns went to his truck, grabbed a ladder, and brought it down to the dungeon to help cover our story about Grady’s injuries. He tossed me a jacket so I could hide my quickly healing slashes. The puddle of blood had seeped into the ground and disappeared. A half hour later, Johns and I stood on the drawbridge, watching the ambulance crew load a cursing Grady into the back and drive off. Forcing a smile Johns slumped against the railing. I leaned against the bridge railing. “Percival.” He looked at me. “I believe this officially qualifies as the worst first date I've ever had.” For a second he simply stared at me. Then a laugh escaped him—small, shaky and almost painful. “We never even made it to the ribs.” “Tragic.” His smile disappeared as quickly as it came. He touched my face carefully. “You scared the hell out of me.” The honesty in his voice stopped every joke I might have made.

He kissed me. It was a kiss full of fear, relief, and maybe something more that we had yet to fully grasp. I gripped the front of his shirt because the world had tilted again. A ripple of light moved through every window, soft gold spilling across the courtyard. Johns broke the kiss but did not let me go. Behind us, somewhere deep in the castle, tiny voices rose like bells, fragile and joyful. “They’re free,” I whispered. High above us, the tower window flared once, then went dark and the mark in my palm began to burn.

Episode Five

I gripped Johns’s hand and turned him toward the tower. “Did you see that?” “See what?” he said, puzzled. “A light flashed in that window.” I pointed at the tower. Johns followed my gaze. “Do we need to go up there?” My palm burned again. With the pain came another fragment of knowledge—old, broken, but unmistakable. The creature could no longer touch the wee folk. The mark had anchored it to Blackstone land. I had not defeated it. I had merely shortened its leash. I groaned. “We have a problem.” Johns followed my gaze toward the castle. “How big?” “Ancient evil trapped on the property big.” His gaze softened, lingering on my face. “Tell me what you need from me.” His mouth tightened. “I’ll take you home. You need to rest. We’ll talk about this in the morning.” I wanted to argue, but the truth was, I was too tired. My palm flared again, I whirled around. Johns grabbed me. “What?” “There’s something here.” I whispered. “I don’t see anything,” Johns said. I raised my palm toward the castle; the burning pulsated in rhythm with my heart. My fingers opened up and the oval blazed white-hot under my skin. Something old and ancient travelled up my arm and into my chest. The talisman searched for my blood, using me to restore itself. The grass flattened at the base of the castle wall as a shimmering distortion dislodged itself, rushing across the yard towards me. My arm snapped out behind my palm and a beam of light shot from it. It struck the shape in mid-lunge. The thing shrieked, falling back to the grass, writhing in pain. I could feel its fury as it fled back to the castle wall, weakened and defenseless. The talisman shot out another beam at the creature as it disappeared into the wall. My body trembled and I felt myself collapsing. “What just happened?” Johns rushed up and caught me as I stumbled, my legs unsteady beneath me. “The thing learned that I bite back. It won’t be back tonight. I wounded it,” I replied. My knees buckled. Johns caught me before I hit the ground. I stayed conscious this time. Barely. “Still here,” I muttered into his chest. “Good. I'd really like you to stop terrifying me tonight.” “Put it on the list.” The mark faded from white to a dull gold. Somewhere inside the castle, the creature hissed. It was afraid of me now. The next morning, I awoke in my own bed with sunlight stabbing my eyes, the mark burning my hand, and Johns asleep in a chair beside me, gently holding my hand. “Good morning” Morning had arrived far too quickly. My first instinct was to reach for my phone and check the time. My second was to laugh at myself. Work could survive one day without me. Ancient castle demons apparently could not. I called in sick. Johns watched from the doorway, coffee in hand. “Good decision.” “Don't sound so surprised.” “I was preparing to confiscate your car keys.” “Try it and I'll introduce you to my haunted palm.” He looked at the mark. “Fair.” Grady was awake at the hospital and furious about the pudding. The inspector had passed the sections Johns had already scheduled for review. For the first time since the night before, nothing was actively bleeding, screaming or attempting murder. So I packed a bag and went back to Blackstone Castle. The moment I stepped through the door, the castle changed. Tiny people were everywhere. On scaffolds. Under tables. Hanging from ropes no thicker than string. One woman stood on Johns's toolbox with a miniature hammer tucked through her belt, glaring at him as though she owned both the toolbox and the man. I stopped breathing. They stopped working. Then every wee person in the hall bowed. One elderly man stepped forward and lifted his cap. “Welcome home, mistress.” Tears blurred my vision. “Oh,” I whispered. Johns touched my back. “What?” I laughed through the tears. “They're real.” He smiled. “Told you.” “No, you didn't. You spectacular liar.” The little woman on his toolbox nodded enthusiastically. Later, when the castle quieted, Johns carried me to the master suite, but he did not put me on the bed right away. He stood there with me in his arms as if he were giving me one more chance to change my mind. “You asked me last night to stay with you…” he whispered as he held me tightly. I could feel him trembling. I tightened my arms around his neck. “But you said no last night.” “I said no because you were exhausted, hurt, and reeling from magic, wee folk, and everything else this castle threw at you. You were in no shape to make a life-changing decision. I had to stop, even when every part of me wanted the opposite.” “Johns, I don’t know what part of this is magic and what part is me,” I said. “But I know what I feel when I’m with you. This is ridiculous and impossible, and maybe tomorrow we’ll both have questions we can’t answer.” I noticed a tear rolling down his face. I cupped his face and kissed him. The last of his restraint broke slowly, carefully. He kissed me with everything he had held back: fear, relief, hunger, promise. I felt treasured. Wanted. Chosen. His hands moved slowly over me, not with the urgency of the night before, but with the care he had shown when he bandaged my arm and stayed beside my bed. Neither of us rushed. There was no castle emergency. No screaming entity. No Grady appearing with another impossible revelation. Just Johns. Just me. And the strange certainty that whatever had begun between us was no longer something I could dismiss as attraction to a handsome contractor with an unfortunate first name. Much later, I lay curled against Johns with my marked palm resting over his heart. The castle was quiet. Too quiet. Then the mark began to burn. I sat upright. “Again?” Johns groaned. “Apparently evil has terrible timing.” But this felt different. The talisman was not warning me. It was calling me. I followed the pull downstairs. Johns came with me, barefoot and carrying a fireplace poker, which was both useless and strangely reassuring. The wee folk gathered behind us as I descended into the dungeon. The broken iron doorway waited at the bottom. Beyond it, the creature twisted in the darkness, weakened now, unable to cross the light cast by my palm. And suddenly the final memory opened inside me. I understood what every Blackstone keeper before me had known. The talisman had never been meant to imprison the creature alone. It needed a living keeper. Someone who chose the castle. Someone whose blood belonged to it. I stepped forward. Johns caught my wrist. “Evie.” “I'm not sacrificing myself.” “You'd better not be.” I looked around the ancient chamber, at the frightened wee folk, at the castle my grandfather had refused to abandon, at the mark glowing beneath my skin. “I'm accepting the job.” I pressed my palm against the iron door. “Blackstone blood opened this place,” I whispered. “Blackstone blood closes it.” Light raced through the stone. The creature screamed. The wall sealed. Not repaired. Not disguised. Sealed. The mark in my palm cooled for the first time since it appeared. Behind me, the wee folk erupted into cheers. Johns lowered the fireplace poker. “So that's it?” I looked at my palm. A faint black oval remained beneath the skin. “It's contained.” “Forever?” “As long as there's a Blackstone keeper.” He stared at me. I stared back. “Oh,” he said. “So we're keeping the castle.” “Apparently.” “Good.” “Good?” He slipped his hand into mine. “I've already put too much work into it.” I laughed all the way upstairs. In the weeks that followed, Blackstone Castle finally became what Grampa had always insisted it could be. The walls stood straight. The roofs stopped leaking. The wee folk finished rooms faster than Johns could invent believable invoices for the materials. Grady returned from hospital with a bandaged head, a collection of stolen pudding cups, and absolutely no sense of guilt about the trouble he'd caused. Grampa moved into the east wing and accepted the existence of the wee folk with considerably less surprise than I did. “Blackstones always knew,” he told me. I nearly strangled him. The bed-and-breakfast opened three months later. Guests came for the castle, the gardens and the history. None of them knew why objects occasionally moved by themselves, why tiny footprints appeared in spilled flour, or why the door beneath the west staircase was never opened. Johns knew. Grady knew. And I knew. Blackstone Castle had never needed an owner. It needed a keeper. After five hundred years, it finally had one again. And every night, when I locked the front doors and felt Johns's hand settle at my waist, the mark beneath my palm gave one quiet pulse. Not a warning. A heartbeat. Home.