Chapter 3

Beckett's view of a nice, quiet evening included good coffee, delicious chocolates, an interesting book, and no interruptions. It did not include a knock on her door at nine p.m., interrupting the book and coffee. The chocolate was long gone, of course. Chocolate never lasted long around Beckett.

She humphed, rose, and opened the door, perfectly certain that it was Castle, which indeed it was.

"What is it?" she growled.

"I was bored, so I came to see you."

"Buy a fidget toy."

"Why would I do that when I could talk to you? You're much more fun than a fidget toy, though you'd be even more fun if you let me fidget with you – shutting up now."

"No." Beckett's glare would have boiled rocks. Unfortunately, it didn't boil Castle.

"No?" he said, widening his eyes.

"No, I am not a solution to your boredom problem, or your hyperactivity, or your inability to be content with your own company. I agreed to have dinner with you tomorrow, so why are you here tonight?"

Castle's ears turned a delicate shade of pink. Beckett waited. And waited. She could outwait hardened criminals, so she expected that she could outwait Castle without difficulty. His ears shaded from pink to red, and he shifted from foot to foot until he realised that he was doing so, when he plonked down on the couch.

Castle had, in fact, been utterly consumed by his own curiosity about what Beckett really was, and had let that carry him all the way to her apartment. When she opened the door, however, he had second thoughts, considerably too late, and now he couldn't think of a good explanation, especially in the face of Beckett's patented Interrogation Silence, which was sufficiently intimidating, even though he was used to it, that all he wanted to do was admit the truth.

He lasted another full minute before caving in. "What are you?" he blurted.

Beckett managed a slack-jawed, gaping stare. "You what now? You know I'm a detective. That's why you shadow me. What on earth do you mean?"

Castle suddenly thought that Beckett might genuinely not know that she wasn't human. In which case…oh, shit! "Well, you won't even tell me your birthday. What star sign are you?"

"Astrology is nonsense," Beckett said, privately thinking that she might just have got away with concealing that she knew exactly what he'd really meant. "But my birthday's in November."

Castle made an exaggerated "thinking" face. "Scorpio. Ambitious, controlling, and sexual."

"Like I said, nonsense."

"I'm an Aries," Castle said, ignoring Beckett. "Confident, positive and playful."

"Does it mention childish, annoying, and stalking?"

"Mean. You like having me around."

(You do. Shut up. Meanie. Remember what Sienna said? Shut. Up.)

Beckett drank her coffee, and refused to comment on Castle's assumption, very loudly and very obviously.

"Why don't you believe in astrology?"

"Because it's ridiculous. How can flaming balls of gas, that we only see as they were thousands or millions of years in the past, have anything to do with personality? Personality is part nature, part nurture. It's got absolutely nothing to do with the night sky."

"Oh?" said Castle, who was certainly up for that sort of a debate. "So do you fall on the nature or the nurture side?"

"I just said, both. There's no all nature or all nurture, it's a mixture." She paused, and then grinned evilly. "Unless you're claiming that your personality is all down to your mother?"

"I wouldn't say she nurtured me," Castle said dryly, "so no, I think if it's anything to do with nurture it's from a series of teens who looked after me for pocket money or the boarding schools I went to."

"You mean you've always been like this?"

Castle's mouth opened, then closed again, following which he smiled a touch dryly. "Very neat, Beckett. I've always been handsome, talented and charming, yes."

"If not modest."

"Modesty is over-rated. Nobody believes it anyway, so why bother?"

"Good manners?"

Castle snorted. "Good manners is not eating with your mouth open or holding doors for people."

"Or respecting people's privacy," Beckett said with an edge.

"I shadow you."

"Right into my home?"

"Yep." He smiled sunnily. "I'm bringing happiness into your life." Beckett's mouth twisted, but she didn't say anything. "Anyway, I am respecting your privacy." Now. "I'm not asking any questions about you." He wasn't even Looking into her, in fact. Not at this precise moment. At some later moment…that might be different. For now, he knew what he needed to know, from the previous night. Beckett wasn't evil. She might not be human, but she wasn't evil. He could safely proceed, and coming here this evening had been a part of that process.

He'd only rarely been to Beckett's apartment: for the first three months of their acquaintance she'd strongly discouraged any contact outside the precinct; for the summer she'd made it bitterly clear she didn't want to know him anywhere: precinct, home, alive or (preferably) dead; and even now that they were on moderately good terms, her apartment was off limits; he'd been stopped at the door. Mostly, they went to a bar, or Remy's, or for pizza. He'd have taken her to any of a dozen better places, but Beckett, without ever actually declining, made it clear that she wasn't into glam and glitz. Unobtrusively, he had a good look around.

Beckett's apartment didn't fit Beckett's work persona. Her precinct desk was ruthlessly kept clear, the space around her was empty, there wasn't a single clue to her life or personality on or around her workstation, except for a little set of china elephants. Her apartment was a total contrast. Soft plump furnishings, wooden bookcases stuffed full, double stacked, volumes on top. Two books on separate small tables, with bookmarks in them; a Kindle on the coffee table beside her. An eclectic assortment of pictures on the walls, and some small knickknacks on the small tables, surrounding two matching lamps with cloisonne bases.

"Public cool, private comfort," he said.

"Huh?"

"Your apartment. It's cosy. Comfortable." She stared. "Your desk's as bare as a rock face, but this is cute."

"Cute?"

"Yep. Instead of scary-cop Badass Beckett, it's friendly."

She muttered something that might have been I'll have to change that if you start invading, which Castle easily ignored. He stood, then wandered around, looking at everything, picking up a small white stone bear from its green stone plinth, finding that it was polished smooth. Beckett glared, and he replaced it.

"I guess you want a coffee?" she said, but her tone was a little softer than the bald words.

"Yes, please."

He watched Beckett unfold from her curled-up comfort on the couch, and thought that she was as beautiful in sloppy sweats as in the dress he'd chosen for the MADT ball. That had been fun. The little shop, with Umber the brownie, who'd demanded a description, stared at the photo he'd surreptitiously taken, listened to his commentary on her face, form and figure, and then gaped at him. "So, Witchfinder," she'd said. "You've finally fallen?"

"She's gorgeous," he'd deflected, unable to lie to another non-human, and truthfully, then, still unsure of his feelings. "I want to give her a dress worthy of her, and you're the only one who can." The brownie had asked a few questions, and Castle, safe in the knowledge that Beckett (as he thought, full human) would never meet her, had spilled out every last thought. He hadn't realised how much he'd said even then, until long after he'd left. Umber had, as usual, refused payment with money, and demanded an invitation to the wedding. Castle had happily obliged. Were there ever to be a wedding, Umber would be the first name on the guest list.

Beckett returned with coffee for both of them, interrupting Castle's reverie. He wondered what she'd wear tomorrow, and then remembered that he'd only be able to arrange their dinner at midnight tonight. "Thanks," he said, taking the mug, and buried his nose in it. "That's better."

"Mm?"

"I was writing, and then I ran out of words."

"Don't you have a dictionary or a thesaurus?" she teased, suddenly relaxed. Coffee, it seemed, had convinced her that he didn't have nefarious purposes in visiting.

"Of course I do," he pouted. "But that's just random words. I need to have organised words."

"You organise? Wow. Tell the press, quick. Judging by your crazy theories, I thought your life was chaos and confusion." She grinned. "Who knew?"

"Murder mysteries and thrillers have to be organised." Castle frowned theatrically at her. "Otherwise nobody would like them. You sure wouldn't. You like answers, and endings that make sense, and a logical progression."

Beckett, not best pleased with a description that made her sound more boring than a plain clay pot, scowled. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"Nope." Castle smiled. "That's why you're the inspiration for Nikki Heat."

"And a thousand fantasies."

"You could make them reality," he smirked. Beckett rolled her eyes. "It would be great."

"You have no idea," she purred, just as she had back in March, "and you're not going to find out now."

Castle clamped his lips firmly shut on does that mean I can find out later? since Beckett could kill him with two moves and a nail file, and Lanie would help her hide the body.

Oh. Lanie. He hadn't Looked at Lanie, and he should. He drained his coffee, checked his watch, and found that it was after ten. "Time for me to go." He stood, and, unexpectedly, Beckett stood too. He realised that in sweats and fluffy socks she was rather shorter than usual: almost pettable.

He couldn't resist. One short step later, he'd wrapped this appealingly cosy Beckett into a hug, plopped a kiss on her forehead, and then escaped out of the door without being shot. He could hear spluttering as he went – but not swearing or imprecations. He sauntered home, perfectly happy.

Beckett fell back on to the couch, dumbfounded. Castle's hug had seared straight through her, and all she could presently think was more. Some five minutes later, when she'd got past more, Sienna's words floated back to her. He's very good at being very bad. You certainly wouldn't be disappointed. But would he…? There hadn't been anyone since Will…

(Dumbass. It doesn't go off. Not when there's that sort of heat between you. You thought about jumping him when you interrogated – at least until he started on the clichés. Didn't. Yeah, right. You do know I'm you, yeah? So I know the truth. Shut up.)

Beckett didn't approve of the voice in her head. It said far too many uncomfortable –

(And desirable – Not desirable. It's naughty to lie, even to yourself – Too many uncomfortable things. You just tell yourself that, and then ask yourself why you went out to buy a knock-'em-dead dress? You like him. Really like him. He spied on me! He checked you out. He didn't know what he'd find. I'm pretty sure he didn't expect you to be non-human. Come to think of it, he probably thinks you don't know you're non-human. He backed off the what-are-you pretty fast. He'll find out tomorrow at dinner, won't he?)

Beckett looked at her watch, squeaked at the time, and hastily put herself to bed, where she dreamed of her glorious dress and woke thoroughly self-satisfied, then swung into the precinct and began to tear through her in-tray with predatory enthusiasm. A little later the boys turned up. She waggled her fingers but didn't look up, intent on wrestling the paperwork into total capitulation in the shortest possible time.


Castle, having sauntered smugly home, had then waited a bare half-hour before going out again, to meet an old friend. Well. So to speak. Acquaintance might be a better word, though Castle himself would have been happy to be friends.

Baron didn't make friends, and didn't want to; nor did he feel the lack of them. Castle, naturally, found him fascinating. So, shortly before midnight, he slipped into the cemetery of Trinity Church Wall Street, sent out a request, and waited, perfectly at ease.

Shortly, a skeletally thin figure, easily overtopping Castle's six-foot-two before taking into account the silk top hat, dressed in black from head to toe and twirling a cane, arrived and sat down.

"Witchfinder Castle," he greeted Castle. "What brings yuh to me?"

"I need to evoke the epicurean delights of Mardi Gras," he said, "though parades and spectacle aren't required." Castle frowned. "Shame, but…she wouldn't like it."

"She?" Baron asked, amused. "No a human woman, den, since yuh're here."

"No…but I'm not sure she knows it." He smiled ruefully. "I've no idea what she is. I've never seen anything like her before."

"Yuh ask the brownie?"

"Umber?"

"If that's de name she use ti yuh. Me know her as Rosewood." He smiled too, much more sardonically. "She's seen nearly everything. More dan me, even, an' I'm much older dan me look. Like Rosewood."

"You were there long before the colonisers," Castle agreed. "I might ask Umber – Rosewood."

"She might even tell yuh." Baron's smile softened. "So, Witchfinder, what's yuh plan?"

"Dinner. As part of the supernaturals' Hallowe'en Ball, because if she knows what she is, then she'll appreciate it, and if she doesn't know, then she'll find out pretty fast. I don't think she knows what I am…apart from the guy who follows her around and brings her coffee every morning…but she needs to know the truth before we…" He trailed off.

"Yuh're courting her," Baron said. "De Witchfinder, found." He snickered.

Castle shrugged. "That's the theory. Now, it's rather up to her."

"There be potions…"

"No, thank you," Castle said definitively. "I want to give her a truly excellent dinner, at the Ball, and I know that if you aren't arranging the food and wine, you'll know who is." He grinned. "You're responsible for all sorts of debauchery, but I simply want to eat wonderfully at the Ball."

"An' after?" Baron asked, leering through his skull-white visage.

"That depends on her, again."

"Dat, man, de correct answer. To answer de other question, dis year, de food coming from de Dagda's cauldron. Him quite de celebrity chef dis century. Him get a whole cookin' school, in County Meath."

"Times change," Castle said. "As long as there won't be battles over the dinner table. She'd arrest them all."

"Tap there, man! Yuh chatting bout Katherine Beckett?"

Castle stared. "How did you know?"

"Everyone knows bout her now. Rosewood tol' us all she exist. She already legendary. Nevah mixed – till now. Yuh bringing her? Yuh is caught, man. Yuh is truly caught." He sniggered. "Yuh say she don't know wha' she is? Yuh been fool. She know. She know, but she don' know bout the rest of us. We all know bout her, though not what she is. Rosewood, she tol' us all," he said again. "Oh, man, yuh is so dead. Yuh is so dead even me cain't bring you back." He rattled with bone-shaking laughter. "Oh, me hafta see dis." He managed to stop laughing, though occasional snickers sneaked out. "Go see the Dagda. He up in Hell's Kitchen, chatting to him descendants. See yuh t'morrow night."

Baron raised a glass of rum that hadn't been there a moment before, sucked in smoke from a similarly appearing cigar, and blew a smoke ring out through his bony nostrils.

"Till tomorrow," Castle said. "That's very helpful."

He left Baron enjoying his cigar, doffing his hat as Castle departed.

Castle caught a cab to Hell's Kitchen, found one of the many Irish bars, and, with a beer, settled into a corner of the raucous pub, sending out a request once more. Shortly, a huge man muscled in, greeting Castle with a rib-shattering clasp.

"Witchfinder," he said, with a thick accent. "What's the craic?"

"Baron tells me you're providing the food at the Ball tomorrow."

"Baron did? And why's he tellin' you that?"

"I asked him." Castle smiled. "I'm courting a woman – mostly a woman – and I'll be bringing her with me tomorrow. I want to give her the best meal ever."

"Well, and isn't that the t'ing? The bhoy's a-wooin'? Who might this fair bloom be?"

"Kate Beckett."

The Dagda stared. "Bhoy, by the auld sod of Erin, what are you doin'? She's already a legend, and we only found out about her six hours ago. Mahogany's dressin' her, and she's told us all there's been not'in' like her since way back in the Old Country. Ye, bhoy, are goin' t' be fightin' the others off."

"She can do her own fighting," Castle pointed out, and then caught up. "Umber is dressing her? How?"

"Yer lady spotted the shop and walked in. Mahogany asked what she was, an' was shown."

"What is she? I've never seen anything like her."

"Mahogany wouldn't say. Said we were all to be surprised." He chortled. "So, ye'll be bringing her, an' ye want to make sure that the meal I serve ye is the best in all the world?"

"Yep."

"Sure, bhoy, ye've come to the right man. What does the lady like?"

"She never lets me take her to a really good restaurant," Castle grumped. "Chocolate. I know that for sure."

"Ah, and can't I give her the best chocolate dessert that's ever been tasted?"

"You can."

"The rest…a challenge. Are there any restrictions? Dairy free? Gluten free? Vegetarian? The cauldron will provide for anyt'ing. I'll spare ye the colcannon." He grinned confidentially. "I don't like cabbage much meself."

Castle considered Beckett's diet – or collection of preservatives with occasional nutrition, possibly by accident. "No restrictions."

"And is she fussy? Will she eat, or is she one of t'ose who niver let a calorie pass their lips wit'out fretting?"

"She eats." Beckett disposed of enough burgers with every topping known to Remy's, then followed them up with dessert and washed them down with thick milkshakes, that Castle was certain she ate properly – when she remembered to eat, that was.

"Sidhe be thanked," the Dagda said. "A table for two, and the best meal ye'll ever have eaten, at the Hallowe'en Ball. The meal's at nine t'irty in human time, wit' the grand unveiling at t'irteen o'clock, ye'll be needing to know, and ye'll have to talk to Cedar and Oak about the table and all that. They'll be wanting the craic too."

Thirteen o'clock, thought Castle. The time that only existed at the Hallowe'en Ball, on Hallowe'en itself, and lasted for as long as the Ball. Time out of time.

"Where are Cedar and Oak tonight?" he asked.

"Where should they be but at their offices? Ye'll be knowing that they're event planners now."

"I did."

"On Google, like the rest of us. It's much easier to find yer allies than it used to be. No need for riders and horns t'ese days."

"I'll look them up now. I eagerly anticipate your meal."

"One condition."

"Yes?" Castle said suspiciously. "You can't have Alexis!"

"No, no. Should she marry ye, I'll provide the meal."

"If she does, you can, with my blessings for your talents."

"'Tis agreed. May the wind be always at yer back," the Dagda said solemnly, then grinned, "and the whiskey always at yer lips."

Castle laughed. "And at yours," he complimented, and left.


Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially guests whom I can't thank directly.

"Baron" will be explained later on. Guesses in reviews are welcome, and will (if I can reply) be answered. :) The accent and dialect comes from a translation programme specific to the area from which he hails.

The Dagda is an Irish god: a huge man of immense power, father-figure, provider of food and drink from his never-ending cauldron, and one of the kings of the Tuatha De Danann, Irish supernatural beings. He also has a magical harp and club. For my nefarious purposes, his associations with a cauldron of plenty (basically, a cornucopia) sent me down this path. The accent is my poor attempt at a really thick Irish voice, assisted by the voice of Sean Kelly, pro cyclist and TV commentator, who appears never to have met a "th" sound that he liked. (He is a great commentator, but "thirty" comes out as "turty".)