Doon

by Carey Corp

  I tapped Kenna’s shoulder, and she lowered me unsteadily to the ground. Pointing in the direction we needed to go, I followed as she crept along the wall to the gap and quietly slipped through. Moving between strips of light and shadow, we found space among sets of feet and settled with a decent vantage point. Through the slats, we could see most of the arena.

  Directly in front of us, a square area marked off with ropes like a large boxing ring drew the focus of the crowd seated on the other set of bleachers. The audience became strangely quiet, their anticipation palpable as a whisper rushed through the stands like a wave.

  “Good ladies and gentlemen, lads and lassies, this be the contest ye’ve been awaiting!” A cheer rang out. The disembodied voice continued. “Knight against knight! Champion versus champion! Brother against brother!” A roar went out, and the bleachers shook over our heads as people stamped their feet in approval. Sawdust coated our hair and lashes, causing me to doubt the wisdom of our hiding place.

  “Never in the esteemed history o’ Doon has there been a more anticipated event!” At the mention of Doon, I elbowed my best friend.

  Kenna swatted my arm away and hissed, “Save your I-told-you-so dance until we’re sure they don’t have lions.”

  “Without further ado, may I present the brothers MacCrae!”

  At the name “MacCrae,” my focus zeroed in on two men, riding the biggest horses I’d ever seen toward the center ring. They were dressed identically, from their kilts and knee-high boots to the blue and green strip of plaid fabric draped diagonally across their bare chests.

  As they dismounted, I focused on the closest guy, surprised how young he appeared despite his mammoth size. He was tall and broad with short-cropped dark hair and a boyish excitement that was obvious in his animated movements. His opponent, who faced away from us, was the complete opposite. I watched as he lifted his plaid sash over his blond head, his muscles shifting fluidly beneath sun-darkened skin. Donning what looked like a heavy armored vest, he turned to reveal an all-too-familiar profile.

  Jamie MacCrae.

  My spirit leapt, straining toward him even as my knees buckled beneath me. Grabbing the bleachers, I pressed my face into the gap between two sets of dusty boots. My gaze fused to his awe-inspiring form as he pulled an enormous broadsword from the scabbard at his waist as easily as if it were a toy. He was even more beautiful in person than he’d been in my visions. His honey-colored hair, longer than I’d realized, curled slightly against his broad neck.

  As he inspected his weapon, a fierce concentration marked his brow, contrasting with his brother, who grinned and posed for the crowd. Side by side, the dark-haired brother looked like a linebacker, and Jamie—a couple of inches shorter, but with perfect muscle definition—more like a quarterback.

  As they entered the ring, the officiator’s voice rang strong and clear. “I’ll be havin’ a clean fight. Ye both know the rules.”

  The man, now visible, paused and bowed to each warrior in turn. “Prince Jamie, Prince Duncan.”

  Prince Jamie? A freaking prince! Are you kidding me?

  Breathlessly, I watched a slow, confident grin spread across Jamie’s face as he bowed to his brother. The familiarity of that smile sent my pulse into overdrive, even as tingles of fear ran over my skin. He was about to fight his massive brother … with seriously sharp swords!

  Then the smile gave way to intense focus and he attacked, pushing his burly opponent across the ring with powerful sweeps of his blade. Each strike was deliberate and lightning fast—like an avenging demigod straight out of mythology.

  Kenna grabbed my arm in a vise grip and whispered, “I told you we had to be careful—it looks like they’re going to kill each other. Who do you think’s gonna win? The giant ogre or the surfer dude?”

  “Wait. What?”

  “I’m putting my money on the ogre.”

  The big one swung his weapon down toward Jamie’s head, and I pressed the palm of my hand to my mouth to keep from crying out as Jamie blocked using the flat of his sword. With a mighty heave, he pushed his brother off balance and then punched him in the kidney. As the crowd went wild, I blew out a long breath and extricated Kenna’s fingers from the flesh of my arm.

  The dark-haired boy straightened and retaliated by smashing his ham-sized fist into Jamie’s gut.

  “Yes!” Kenna bounced on the balls of her feet. “That’s how you do it.”

  She turned to me and, noticing my hands curled into tight fists, patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Vee. This is so choreographed, faked for maximum entertainment, like world wrestling.”

  For a brief second, the brothers seemed frozen, their swords locked together. Then Jamie lifted the hilt of his weapon perpendicular above his head. The motion elevated his brother’s sword, and the resulting momentum flung him past Jamie in an ungainly stumble.

  Jamie spun, his blade slicing towards his brother’s ribcage in a powerful arch. I sucked in a sharp breath. He would kill him! At the last second, the brother dropped and avoided Jamie’s sword by what looked like centimeters.

  At the end of his summersault, the boy Kenna kept referring to as the ogre sprang to his feet. With a smile, he winked at Jamie, and then bellowing “Ho!” shoved him halfway across the ring. As Jamie stumbled backward, his brother paused to lift his arm above his head and incite the crowd to its feet. He even blew kisses to a group of fawning girls on the opposite side of the stands.

  Kenna scoffed. “What a jerk. I changed my mind. I’m rooting for Surfer Dude.”

  Reluctantly, I pointed to Surfer Dude. “The blond one with the long hair … uh … that’s Jamie. The guy who’s been appearing to me in the real world.”

  “Kilt Boy?” For once in her life, Kenna was speechless. She stared at me, mouth open and twitching until it transformed into a smile. Then she laughed—not in hysterics, but with real honest-to-goodness joy. “So that’s what all this was about?”

  From our cramped position, Kenna drew me into a bear hug. I pulled away and closed my mouth with an audible click, stunned that my confession hadn’t set off my best friend’s hypersensitive psycho meter. “What do you mean?”

  She continued to grin as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. “After we ended up over the rainbow, or whatever, I worried … being Gracie’s niece … that I was here to do something. That I’d have to battle flying monkeys or drop a house on the white witch. But this is all about you, sweetie. I just need to figure out how to get us home.”

  I didn’t know whether to hug her again or punch her. All I knew was the boy of my dreams was real, and as long as he didn’t get himself killed in the next few minutes, I—

  A hand like iron clamped down on my arm, followed by something cold and wickedly sharp against the side of my throat. A breath, close and stale, assaulted my senses as its owner growled, “Don’t ye dare move, lassie, or I’ll run this knife through yer gullet.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Veronica

  Although unable to see the threat, I clearly felt it on my bicep and the tender skin of my neck. I froze. If I cried out, would Jamie hear?

  A second masculine voice cautioned, “I wouldna try anything if I were ye.” Kenna’s soft yelp confirmed she was also at some thug’s mercy. My courage sank as I realized any resistance on my part would put her in danger.

  Forced out from under the risers, I stumbled back through the stone wall and down the hill. Shuffling sounds behind me indicated that Kenna and her captor followed close behind.

  As the boisterous cheers of the coliseum faded, so did my hopes Jamie would come galloping to the rescue on his big war-horse. Then again, we’d only been walking a few minutes. Maybe he would sense I was in danger and leave the tournament. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to project my thoughts into his head, like he’d done with me. Jamie, it’s me, Veronica. I’m here in Doon. I need you!

  I opened my eyes, and waited expectantly.

  Nothing.

  Perh
aps he’d heard me and I couldn’t hear him.

  Right. Or maybe I’d wake up back in Alloway, snug in my four-poster bed at Dunbrae Cottage, and realize this was all just a dream.

  “That hurt, you big troll!”

  I twisted around to see if Kenna was okay, but only succeeded in tripping on a bump in the path. My captor jerked me back onto my feet, practically yanking my arm out of the socket. I sucked in a breath through clenched teeth.

  “Keep goin’,” he demanded.

  A sharp pinching sensation stung my throat, followed by warmth I knew was a thin line of blood trickling onto the collar of my hoodie. This was no dream. If my prince wasn’t going to save me, I’d have to save myself. Too bad I hadn’t paid more attention during those self-defense phys-ed classes. The only moves I remembered were the eye jab and the knee to the privates. Since the instructor had never mentioned how to accomplish this while being held at knifepoint, I decided to try reasoning with my captor. “Sir, I can explain—”

  “Silence!” He tightened his grip on my already aching arm, and I decided to listen.

  We walked a good distance and around a concealing bend before our abductors stopped. The knife still hovering near my throat, I moved with care as the creep holding me addressed his cohort. “Quit yer laggin’, Fergus.”

  As I got my first good look at the guy restraining Kenna, I stifled a gasp of surprise. He was the size of an evergreen tree. At least a foot and a half taller than me, he had the sort of fair-yet-ruddy complexion that turned his skin every shade of mottled pink imaginable. His hair, a long shock of yellow, was baby-fine with two slender braids extending from his temples. And his face—his face looked so young and innocent I had a hard time believing he would hurt anyone. Ever.

  The man-boy, Fergus, regarded me for a moment with pale blue eyes and then frowned in a way that made me want to give him a cookie to make things better. “I was just thinkin’, Gideon. Shouldna we inform the MacCrae?”

  My captor—presumably Gideon—relaxed his grip slightly, allowing me to twist away from his blade to look at him. He had a good thirty years on Fergus. A few inches taller than me, he was bald and slight, but comprised of sinewy muscle as if he’d spent every day of his life running a decathlon. Weathered by sun and age, his bearing said hunter and tracker. More importantly, it said, “Don’t mess with me.”

  Gideon glanced back the way we came. “Later. Fer now, let’s get them to the castle. We’ll be takin’ the low gate.”

  Whatever the “low gate” was, it caused Fergus a moment of concern that he did his best to hide. He acquiesced with a solemn nod.

  Encouraged by his hesitation, I addressed him. “Excuse me, Fergus?”

  “Silence, lassie! You wenches will remain quiet unless spoken to.”

  Fergus grimaced. “Let the lass speak.”

  “And let her beguile me? Notta chance!”

  “Och, Gideon, we donna know they’re in league with the witch.”

  Witch? Cold slithered down my throat and dropped into my stomach, like I’d swallowed an ice cube. Maybe Kenna was right and the people of Doon were burn-witches-at-the-stake-Puritans after all.

  Gideon tightened his iron grip on my arm. “There’s magic afoot, I tell ye. How did they come to appear in our land? The Brig o’ Doon does no’ open fer another fortnight.”

  Kenna took a step forward, but the giant didn’t let her move far. “We used my aunt and uncle’s rings.”

  “Show me.”

  When Kenna lifted her hand, Gideon yanked the ring off her finger so carelessly that she cradled her hand to her chest and bit her lip. He examined the ring with a catlike hiss, then looked at me with a manic gleam that gave his blue eyes a purplish glow. The tip of his knife bit in farther. “Yers too.”

  I wriggled the ruby ring from my finger and held it up. Like a savage, Gideon snatched the band and waved it in the air. “Is this not all the proof ye need, Fergus Lockhart? I’ll no’ be bewitched!”

  The giant continued his attempt to make his partner see reason. “The witch has never been able to breech the borders o’ Doon. Not on the Centennial, or in between.”

  Gideon’s eyes bulged from their sockets. His red face revealed the fervor of his argument. “But her minions kin. These’re clearly the witch’s minions! Need I remind ye of the last time we underestimated that devil woman? Now move. Tha’s an order!”

  “Yes, Captain.” The giant saluted, yet his eyes remained troubled as he watched his superior pocket the rings.

  Gideon half-pushed, half-dragged me down a narrow trail. The path looked neglected—surely not the correct way to our destination, the castle. But as we curved back toward the lake, I saw a wall of stone rising from the rocky hillside. Between the imposing stone columns was a small door of heavy wood and black iron. The door looked like it hadn’t been used in ages.

  From around his neck, Gideon produced a large key on a rope and proceeded to wrestle the lock open. The prehistoric door gave with a whoosh, swinging inward to reveal a dark, dank corridor. With the help of a shove, Kenna and I entered the “castle”—but it wasn’t a part of the castle I’d ever wanted to see, not in a million years.

  As Gideon locked the door from the inside and the darkness swallowed us, he chuckled. “Welcome to the dungeons o’ Doon, witches.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Veronica

  A dank, smelly dungeon wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind for my storybook castle. As Gideon forced me down a dim corridor lined with rusty iron cells, I wondered if I would meet Jamie for the first time from behind bars. Or if maybe Gideon would hold a private trial, convict us of witchcraft, and drown us in the moat before Jamie even had a chance to know I’d come.

  Gideon shoved me through an open cell door and I stumbled forward, grabbing a table to right myself. Kenna rushed in after and the door clanked shut behind us.

  “You okay?” Kenna leaned in and examined the cut on my neck.

  “I guess.” As good as expected considering we’d traveled through a magic portal, found an enchanted kingdom, and been immediately convicted as trespassers. “You?”

  She pulled back and fastened her turbulent stare to mine. “They took the rings. And they think we’re witches! What’re we going to do?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  Her eyes swept our surroundings, and hope filled her voice as she asked, “I don’t suppose you have any mad cheerleader skills that could get us out of here?”

  I snorted. “Like what?”

  “Like the ability to backflip up to that open grate above the door.”

  “I’m a cheerleader, Kenna, not a ninja.”

  “Right.” Mumbling something about Sweeny Todd under her breath, Kenna paced away and began peering into shadows and pressing random stones protruding from the walls. But there was no secret escape passage. Wishful thinker, that one.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know the dungeon was inescapable—and disgusting. The only furniture in the room was crude: a rough wooden table with two mismatched stools; a lumpy potato-sack mattress with straw sticking out at odd angles; and in the farthest, darkest corner sat a rusty metal bucket whose purpose I refused to contemplate. As far as dungeons went, this place warranted a one-star review.

  I pulled Gracie’s journal from my hoodie and place it on the rickety table. As I did, Kenna circled and gestured toward my pocket. “Would you happen to have anything useful in there? A screwdriver or stun gun, maybe?”

  I pressed my lips together for a second before answering. “You do realize who you’re talking to?”

  “What about a knife or mace?”

  With a much-deserved eye roll, I listed the meager contents of my pockets. “I’ve got tinted lip gloss and an empty baggie. Oh, and this.” I pulled out my cell and examined the screen.

  “No bars—but look.” A pale square of light illuminated the open journal as I turned my phone into a flashlight.

  Clearly impressed, she whistled. “
I never would’ve thought of that. That’s why you’re the brains and I’m the talent.”

  I ignored her as I turned my attention to the one thing that might help us out of this situation. The journal. “There’s got to be answers in here somewhere.”

  Kenna resumed pacing the perimeter of our cell. “We can figure a way out of this. We’re modern women with history and technology on our side. So let’s think creatively … Do you think they know what political asylum is?” I kept searching, unwilling to encourage her by answering.

  Undeterred by my silence, her stream of consciousness continued unabated. “We’ll think of something. We certainly can’t stay here. That bed looks like you could catch scurvy from it.”

  I didn’t look up from the journal as I admonished, “You can’t catch scurvy from a mattress. You contract it because of a Vitamin C deficiency, and it mostly afflicts sailors.”

  “How do you know that stuff? And why? Anyway, you get the point. It’s icky here.”

  Now I looked up. “It’s a dungeon, Kenna. By definition, dungeons are icky.”

  She ignored my patronizing look and grumbled, “I’ll bet if Fergus had his way, we wouldn’t be in here.”

  Now that was a good idea.

  I moved to the iron door and craned my head to see out of the tiny, barred window. As I’d hoped, a man-shaped shadow lurked just outside. In a tone similar to the one I used with my dance students, I called into the darkness, “Hello there? Can you hear me?”

  Several seconds passed before an unfamiliar voice stiffly answered, “Aye.”

  “Do you know Fergus?”

  “Aye.”

  “Can you please get him for us?”

  Coming to my aid, Kenna pressed her face next to mine. “This is probably totally beyond you, but we’re Americans and are, therefore, entitled to a phone call. But since you people don’t have phones, we’ll settle for speaking to Fergus.”