Chapter 6

The crowd roared, but at Baron Samedi's sharp shake of his stick, fell instantly silent: a hungry anticipation rising through the night.

Castle stood, offering Beckett his hand. Her face promised murder, and then cleared to a world-shattering blankness. The musicians began to play Saint-Saens' Danse Macabre, as, Beckett's hand on Castle's arm, they moved across the empty dance-floor to its centre. Castle bowed to the crowd. Beckett stood tall, not conceding a single breath to the waiting audience.

"I am the Witchfinder," Castle said. "You all know me. I Know you. Greetings and good fortune on this All Hallows Eve." The formal words fell clearly. He turned to Beckett, and with one tiny flicker of fingers, invited her to speak.

"This is who I am," she said, as plangent as the strokes of the earlier bell, catching up every eye.

Suddenly, she was gone, leaving only a swirl of moonlit diamond sparkles where she had been. The crowd drew breath as one; watching the swift play of light on crystal. Castle raised a hand, but the sparkles simply passed through it, leaving only a memory of clear, bright shining sparkling flashes: uncaught, uncatchable.

And then the noise began: a screaming, yammering howl of amazement from hundreds of non-human throats, as every supernatural took on their original form. Selkies and pookas; naiads, dryads, oreads; undines; brownies and spriggans; elves and fairy-fellas; witches and warlocks; a wendigo and the thunderbird; heroes and heroines of myth and legend; finally, Baron Samedi and the Dagda took on their full aspect.

"There has been no Moonshimmerfor centuries," the Dagda boomed, "but now the Witchfinder has brought one to us!" The horde screamed approval. "Let them open the Hallowe'en Ball!"

Castle waited, for one horrible instant thinking that Beckett wouldn't reappear. Just as the throng caught up with that possibility, and dead silence fell again, she reappeared: a very strange, swiftly gone, expression shadowing her face. "Beckett?" he queried quietly.

"We have to open the Ball?"

"Yep. I know you can dance: we danced really well at the MADT fundraiser." He smiled, open-hearted, and swept her a bow. "May I have this dance?" he asked clearly.

"Of course." She curtsied slightly, and extended her hand. Castle took it, and let her precede him to the centre of the dance-floor. The musicians struck up a waltz: one of Beckett's hands rested itself upon Castle's shoulder; one of his clasped her waist; their other hands linked. The assembly sighed romantically at the sight, and the hungry atmosphere changed to soft appreciation.

Beckett slipped into Castle's waiting arms as if she'd been made to fit there, only fractionally shorter than he in her heels, perfectly aligned. His broad hand rested warmly on the small of her back, sending small ripples of heat up and down her spine, holding her just closely enough. He smelled delightfully of cologne and desirable male. (You desire him. Go on. Snuggle in. You could try a wiggle, too. He'd like it.) Beckett resisted the voice's temptation. Snuggling in, or indeed a provocative wiggle, would be – (wonderful. No!) dumb. (Maybe not in public. Save it for later.) She gave herself up to the waltz. Castle, as she'd known, danced extremely well. It was so easy just to fall into step and let him twirl her around the floor, forgetting all the hundreds of eyes upon them, and so she did. It was…heavenly.

Castle took Beckett into his arms with a feeling of something slotting, finally, into place in his world. She felt so right there, so perfectly suited to his form. Her perfume wafted seductively around him, her lithe body soft in his embrace, her feet following his lead with perfect poise. Dancing with Beckett was…heavenly.

The strains of the waltz drew to a close, and the dance-floor was instantly engulfed in a wave of would-be dancers. Castle, safe in the knowledge that he'd filled Beckett's dance card for the first four dances – excluding the opening waltz, which he hadn't quite expected, kept her close, shielding her from the press of people who appeared to be keen to get rather closer than Castle would like – or Beckett, for that matter. She wasn't big on casual touching, but she seemed to be quite happy with the, um, deliberate touching that the dance required. He brought her a tiny bit closer, and she didn't protest. In fact, he thought that might even have been a tiny move inward on her own part. He didn't protest. The closer she came, the better it felt. His hand spread, a little lower, not – yet, perhaps – intimately close, but suggesting that it could be. She still didn't object: indeed, there was a small, barely-there-at-all curve into his palm.

The music changed to a slow dance, and Castle seized the opportunity – at least, he would have, but Beckett had already leant in, so all he had to do was ensure he was holding her close to match her inward movement. He wrapped her in, and she sighed contentedly, her hands around his neck, his linked behind her back, as close as lovers, swaying in perfect harmony – to each other, as well as the music.

"Excuse me, Witchfinder," came an unwelcome voice, "but this is my dance." Castle jerked out of his happy, Beckett-snuggling reverie, to find the Dagda looming over them.

"Oh," Beckett said, as discombobulated as Castle, "Yes. Excuse me." She found herself, somewhat to her surprise (not to mine, so why you're surprised I do not know, since I'm you – anyway, you're upset to be taken away from your Castle. 'M not. Are so) to be uncomfortable with being separated from Castle. Surely, she told herself firmly, it was just that supernatural Hallowe'en Balls weren't her natural element. Nothing to do with his large, reassuring, protective presence at all. And certainly nothing to do with his (hotness) aromatic cologne and excellent dancing. (Like I said. You don't want to be out of his arms. Isn't it lucky that you wouldn't have to be, later on? What? Well, you could – should – just take him home. Mmmm.)

The Dagda extended his enormous arm. Beckett, unintimidated, put her hand on it, and smiled at Castle. "Back soon," she said, as she was whisked off: even in heels feeling tiny against the Irish god. His presence was considerably more, well, present than her pal O'Leary, and she wouldn't even be able to tell O'Leary that she'd met his illustrious ancestor without him thinking she'd run crazy.

The music, thankfully, had altered to an old-fashioned cotillion, which didn't entail too much closeness. Sadly, it didn't prevent talking, and the Dagda seemed inclined to talk.

"Well, milady, ye an' the Witchfinder?"

"He's my partner," Beckett said repressively.

"There's a word that can cover a lot of ground, indade. The bhoy's besotted, truth to tell. He ran round all the day makin' sure that everyt'ing would be perfect for ye – speakin' of which, did ye like the chocolate dessert?"

"It was wonderful."

"Good. He ordered it specially."

Beckett blinked.

"As I say. He's besotted wit' ye. Ye can't miss it." He grinned. "Ye're a much better idea than t'ose exes of his. What the bhoy was t'inking uv, I've no idea." Beckett refrained from commenting. "An' that playbhoy attitude isn't helpin' him much, though I t'ink it's mostly for show." He looked down at Beckett. "Now, I'm sure that ye don't want to listen, but I'm goin' to tell ye anyway. Take him seriously, because he's nine-tenths in love with ye an' ye don't want to go breakin' hearts."

"I hear your counsel. I'll take it under advisement."

"Listen well, Moonshimmer Inconnue. Ye've done it all yourself so far, an' that's admirable – a tale for sagas and bards – but when the chance of true love comes along, best ye take that chance."

Beckett merely smiled enigmatically.

"Ah," said the Dagda. "Like that, is it? May the wind be at yer back, milady."

"And at yours," Beckett said politely, as the music stopped.

Immediately, Castle appeared at her shoulder. "My dance, I think," he said, and swept Beckett back into his arms. Behind them, the Dagda grinned broadly, and said something quiet to the nearest spriggan, who ran back to the musicians. Another waltz began, and Beckett melted happily into Castle's clasp, back where she belonged –

What?

(You really are dumb. You belong right here in his arms. Stop trying to explain it – and you – away, and just get used to it.)

They floated around the dance floor, completely oblivious to anyone (or anything) else around them, for another handful of waltzes, until a tall, gaunt figure tapped Castle on the shoulder.

"My dance, I believe," it said.

"Wendigo," Castle greeted it. "Well met on the journey."

"And you, Witchfinder." The Wendigo smiled. "I see you've taken the most beautiful woman here from under our noses."

"It's up to her," Castle said hastily, before Beckett trod on his foot, mauled his nose, or pinched his ear, and moved out of the way.

The Wendigo bowed, Beckett curtsied, and a quadrille struck up.

"Lady Inconnue," it said. "An honour to meet you. I understand you're a detective?"

"Yes. What are you – outside the Ball, that is?"

"I run a security firm – with Thunderbird. He's over there." The Wendigo gestured, and Beckett looked around to find a raptor approximately the size of a rhinoceros. "We're very popular with people who want discreet guards." He smiled. "Of course, we also work for the people here. Your Witchfinder uses us pretty regularly. He worries about his daughter."

"He's a good father."

"He'd make a good husband, too," the Wendigo said casually.

Beckett almost tripped over her own feet. "What is it with you all? The Dagda was just as bad."

"We want to see him happy."

"Him? What about me?"

"Well, it's pretty obvious he'd make you happy. You were positively dreamy while you were waltzing, and he wasn't seeing anything outside of you. Perfectly matched, I'd say. Thunderbird agrees. Take your chance, milady. You won't regret it."

Beckett was still gulping like a fish out of water when the quadrille ended and Castle collected her again. "I need a drink," she said. "Can we sit down?"

"Sure." Castle slipped an arm around her, and guided her back to their table, now cleared of all dishes except a tray of small petits fours, but with clean crystal goblets and a bottle of the same Sauternes as they had drunk with dessert. A French press of coffee and two delicate cups flanked the wine cooler, and Castle automatically poured coffee for them both and then, observing Beckett's stress levels, wine. She took a small Florentine from the tray of petits fours, and snapped her teeth through it.

"What's up?" Castle asked.

"How many more of your friends are going to plead your case?"

Castle choked on his coffee. "What? What are you talking about?"

"The Dagda and the Wendigo both sang your praises – and practically told me to marry you here and now!"

"They what?" Castle drained a full glass of the excellent wine (which didn't deserve such cavalier gulping-down) and boggled at her. "They told you to marry me?" He paused. "Not that it isn't a wonderful idea, but don't you think we should at least date for a while first?"

"That is not the point!" Beckett jabbed.

"It's a pretty good point," Castle argued. "But I still think we should date for a while."

"The point is that your friends are pushing me!"

"I didn't ask them to." He didn't stop to think. "But I'm glad they are." She stared. "C'mon. You're having a great time dancing with me, and you've even snuggled in. You're reluctant to dance with anyone else. I think, Detective Beckett Moonshimmer Inconnue, that you might even like me."

Beckett stared into her coffee, and tried not to blush. She failed. Castle put a hand over hers, and wriggled his fingers to interlock with hers. "C'mon," he said again. "You thought you were coming out for a good dinner, which is a date. So it's not like you didn't want to come on a date, it's just a little more, um, er…it's just a bigger event than you thought it would be." He put a hand under her chin and lifted her face so her eyes met his, then took both her hands between his. She didn't drop her gaze, meeting the sincerity in his look with her own. "But you did agree to a date, so, um…let's enjoy it?" He brought her hands to his lips, and kissed them.

The kiss scorched down Beckett's hands, wrists and arms, gathering heat as it went and burning though her nerves. She sat, fixed in place, falling into the endless blue of Castle's eyes, unable to move. He kept her hands at his mouth, completely enclosed in his own, as lost in her eyes as she in his. "Yes…" she agreed, though to what she was agreeing wasn't entirely clear, even to her.

Castle kissed her fingers again, lightly, then released one hand, keeping the other but dropping the linked hands to the table. She looked questioningly at him. "Can't have you unable to drink your coffee, or your wine – or eat the chocolates. You'd be unhappy, and that's no fun."

Suddenly Beckett smiled in a thoroughly feline fashion. "No, she said. "We should have fun." She drained her coffee, then sipped her wine, still smiling. "Let's dance some more."

Castle certainly wouldn't object to that. He bounced up, noticed that the music was changing to another slow dance, and drew Beckett as close as possible. She wiggled into perfect alignment, clasped her hands behind his neck, and leaned in. In her heels, she was too tall to nestle her head on his shoulder, but she could be cheek to cheek, and she was.

(You could do something useful. What? Do something useful. Kiss him. His cheek is right there, so take advantage of it. What? Kiss him, dumbo. But… Oh, for God's sake.) Beckett's brain had absolutely nothing to do with the next instant, in which she turned a fraction and dusted a will-o-the-wisp kiss over Castle's clean-shaven cheek. He gasped, and his arms clamped tight around her. "I need to breathe!" she panted.

"Sorry, sorry." Castle loosened his clasp marginally. "You kissed me!"

"Uh…"

"You did. I knew you liked me. Can I kiss you now? If you've kissed me you obviously think that kisses are a good idea so let's do some more of them" –

"Stop babbling, Castle! I'm not having a make-out session in the middle of a dancefloor!"

"That's okay. When the Ball is over, we can have it then." He smiled wolfishly. "Anticipation is the best sauce." His hand slipped wickedly lower, and stroked the curve of her slim rear, then glided back up to the small of her back and discretion. She'd already curved into the first stroke, humming with pleasure. Castle breathed a kiss into her temple, and swayed her gently around the floor, both of them completely unaware of the whispers of approval around them.

When Baron Samedi came to claim his dance, even the rest of the guests made displeased noises. It didn't bother the Baron at all. "Dis one dance," he said, "an' den yuh can spend de rest of de night with de Witchfinder." He leered. "An' me don' just mean at de Ball."

"Enough, Baron," Castle snapped. "That's going too far."

Baron opened his lipless mouth, and then looked at Beckett's face, ice-cold. "You go much too far, Baron Samedi," she said frigidly.

He actually cringed, then bowed. "Me sorry," he said. "Me didn't mean harm."

"Accepted," Beckett allowed. Baron Samedi led her into the dance, but it was clear to Castle that he was treating her like spun glass. Good, he thought, still irritated by Baron's smirching of something that wasn't even truly there yet.

On the dance-floor, Beckett was as untouchable as she'd ever been. Baron Samedi, a tad hangdog, was taking considerable care not to give her further offence, but eventually he spoke again. "Me didn't mean harm," he repeated, "but me want to see de Witchfinder happy. He needs to have some happiness. Otherwise, he be troubling de rest of us, an' dat's not good. It don't make any of us happy. If yuh can make him happy, den we'll be cheering yuh on."

"What Castle and I decide is precisely none of your business," Beckett said. "Stay out of it."

"Or?"

"I've never arrested a supernatural," Beckett said, "but I won't mind starting now."

"You got guts, milady. Me stay out." The music finished, and Baron Samedi swept Beckett a bow so low that his nose scraped the floor. "Me appreciate de dance," he said.

"I do too," Beckett said, not entirely truthfully. She'd much rather have been dancing with Castle than with a skeleton in a tux. Fortunately, she recalled, there was no-one else on her dance card, and it was nearly the end of the night. On the thought, Castle arrived, confidently took her hand, and swirled her on to the dance-floor. Every one of Beckett's senses flared into hyper-awareness of his presence. The end of the night, suddenly, couldn't come soon enough. Castle's grip was firm; his touch assured; his eyes intent – and his body hard.

(Mmmmm. You're no help. Mmmmm, the voice said again. Rub up against him? What? You heard. Don't you want to know too?)

The truthful answer to that was yes. Beckett wasn't feeling like being truthful with the voice, though. Even if it was right.

(You should listen to me, the voice said smugly. I'm always right. Beckett blew an internal raspberry.)

She decided to ignore the voice, and simply drown in the feelings of being guided around a dance floor by a man who was tall and broad enough to let her feel enclosed and protected, who was a good dancer, and who was totally sexy. Even at his most irritating, right from the beginning he'd been sexy.

And now she had the chance to do something about it. (Or just do him.) That damn voice could use some subtlety. Still… She curved closer, and appreciated the firmness that she found there.

The last dance began, and Castle found Beckett curling closer yet, as the musicians played a slow, romantic melody. The dance-floor emptied: a slow ebb of people returning to their tables; returning to their human-seemings; but Castle and Beckett danced on until the last chord drifted, diminuendo, into silence, and only then returned to their table, his arm around her waist. As they sat down, the Ball hushed as one, and Baron Samedi took the stage once more.

"Me declare de Hallowe'en Ball at an end, till de next year comes." He bowed to the company. A ghostly bell began to toll, and the tables began to empty. Castle and Beckett left, almost the last.

Outside, Castle checked his watch. "It's ten o'clock," he said. "Let's find a taxi."

"Come back to mine?" Beckett said. "I think we should talk."

(Talk? Something involving tongues, maybe.)

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

The next chapter is M-rated. It's also the last full chapter. There will be a short epilogue, posted on Monday to be on Hallowe'en.

The supernaturals: a round-up

Selkies are a Scottish/Irish seal-folk

Pookas are Irish - fae horses

Naiads, dryads, oreads - Greek spirits of rivers, trees and mountains respectively. Cimarron is a naiad. (Cimarron river in Oklahoma/Colorado)

Undines - female water elementals

Fairy-fellas - from the painting The Fairy-feller's master-stroke, by Richard Dadd

Wendigo - a Native American/Canadian First Peoples monster

Thunderbird - Native American spirit, sometimes thought to control hail, storms, and rain.

undines; brownies and spriggans; elves and fairy-fellas; witches and warlocks; a wendigo and the thunderbird