Destined for Doon (13 page)
“Two-and-a-half months?” I wouldn’t have been more stunned if she said Doon had been attacked by flying monkeys. “I completely forgot about the time difference between the real world and this one . . . Argh! I’m an idiot.”
I remembered the third month after the bridge incident. I’d buried my grief in tearful ballads and Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia — and consequently spent months four and five in the gym, hating my life in a whole new way. “It’s only been two-and-a half months here?”
Vee nodded.
When I opened my mouth to ask her what she’d been up to during that time, a giant yawn popped out. Suddenly, I was exhausted. Blinking to regain focus, I regarded my bestie unsteadily. “I want to hear about you.”
“We can talk about me later. There’s actually not a lot to tell. I mean, what could go wrong in two months? . . . Other
than the limbus, which is enough.” Vee stood, reached for my hands, and pulled me to my feet. “Let me show you your rooms. They’re just across the hall.”
Mutton Chops joined us in the corridor to unlock the guest suite. Despite my warm reception from the queen, the guard continued to give me the evil eye as I stepped past him into a slightly smaller version of Vee’s rooms awash in sunflower yellow.
I expected Vee to follow but she paused in the doorway to address her personal guard.
“Eòran, will you ask Emily to set up a meeting for early this afternoon?”
“’Tis already arranged, Your Majesty.”
“By whom?” Although she was doing her best not to react, I could hear her surprise.
“Prince Jamie hisself. By your orders, m’am.”
“I see. And did he give you the particulars of my orders, such as what time I requested and who needed to attend?”
To his credit Mutton Chops didn’t judge — or if he did the expression was lost under all his facial hair. Blandly, he replied, “Aye. One o’clock with hisself, Fergus, Fiona, Prince Duncan, the vexing American lass, and you, Your Highness, in Her Majesty’s privy chambers.”
“Thank you, Eòran. That will be all.”
As she shut the door, Vee chewed her lower lip. Before turning around, she inhaled — her whole body rising with the controlled breath — and exhaled slowly. Calm restored, she clapped her hands together as she pivoted to face me. “Ready for the grand tour?”
Although I’d been gone for nearly a year, we still shared a brain. I knew that Jamie hadn’t been acting on any order from his queen. Which meant two months had been enough time for things to go wrong. The trillion dollar question was, how wrong?
K
enna’s melodious snores filled the air as I backed out of the door and locked it behind me. She would be safe in the Princess Tower, but after everything she’d been through, I wasn’t taking any chances.
I practically skipped around the circular hallway, passing another empty room. The tower was one of the largest in the castle, designed for the queen-to-be and her female relatives. Being there alone had somehow felt wrong. I slipped into my suite and leaned against the door, the joy inside me spreading across my face. No more Rapunzel locked away in her tower. My family was here!
I crossed the sitting room, picked up pillows, righted toppled books, and gathered the pieces of a broken candle holder. Kenna was like a mini tornado, chaos following her everywhere she went. But having her here was worth any mess.
Too hyped up to rest, I grabbed my copy of
Persuasion
and took the three stairs to my favorite part of the suite — a turret that jutted off the main tower, creating a hexagonal sunroom. I
curled up on the plush window seat, opened the book in my lap, and stared at the words blindly. Not even the great Jane Austen could hold my attention tonight.
Setting the book down, I unlatched a window and pushed it open. The chilled breeze brushed against my face, bringing the scent of pine and a hint of early autumn frost. I stared into the inky-black night. It was that in-between time when the stars were fading, the moon had set, and the sun was yet to rise. Too late for sleep and too early for the day to begin. Even in my happiness, I couldn’t relax — couldn’t forget my duties as queen. I wished I could celebrate my best friend’s return with abandon, without fears and worries crowding out my joy. But those carefree days were no longer my reality.
I rose on my knees and leaned out the window. The kingdom was cloaked in pre-dawn shadow, and I strained to see any sign of the zombie fungus — as Kenna had so eloquently named it. I searched for any denser blackness or crows flying into nothingness, but I saw only the same shrouded hills and valleys, the same indigo waters of the loch that I saw every night. I slumped back onto my heels.
How had my best friend been able to see it? I’d been wearing the ring when we’d inspected the Northern Border where Drew Forrester had disappeared. The creep factor was off the scale — the forest projecting a foreboding that would put the black gates of Mordor to shame. But outside of the ebony petunias, I’d seen
nothing
. No pulsating void or ravaged trees. No zombified birds. Nothing like what Kenna described. Shouldn’t the queen of Doon be able to see when her kingdom was in danger? Why would the Protector grant that power to another?
Then it hit me. This was why Kenna had to come back — the reason for my vision. Just like when we’d defeated the witch, we were stronger together.
Suddenly, the protesting villagers, my problems with Jamie, and even the cursed borders were no longer insurmountable obstacles.
I jumped down from the window seat and was halfway to the door before I remembered Kenna was exhausted and sleep deprived. Creating our master plan to save the kingdom would have to wait. Instead, I jogged into the bedroom, yanked my nightgown over my head, and slipped on my running clothes. I did my best thinking when I was moving.
After a brief confrontation with Eòran, I raced down the endless spiral stairs and catapulted out the door. I lengthened my stride and pushed myself faster as I crossed the courtyard, anxious to get out of the castle and away from my ricocheting thoughts. I’d promised Eòran to stay on the grounds. But with the misty morning stretched before me and my Nikes slapping against the cobbles in rhythm with my breath, I wasn’t sure I could keep that promise.
I crossed the drawbridge and turned down a path that curved behind the castle. Never having taken this trail before, I was unprepared for the unevenness of the terrain and almost tripped over the shadowy rocks. I was too focused on the questions that had begun to bombard me to pay close attention to my feet. Now that Kenna was here, was defeating the limbus as simple as touching our rings together and calling out some magical spell. No, something told me it would never be as simple as that.
But I still had no idea where we should start. We didn’t even know what was
causing
the limbus. We suspected Addie had something to do with it, but if I’d stripped all her power, how could she have activated it?
A low shape loomed out of the darkness. Before I could dodge it, I was flat on my face. Lying still for several seconds, I
determined that I had no serious injuries and then pushed up on my elbows. Eye level with a flat, rectangular stone, I stared at the broken writing carved into its face:
Here lies Lynnette . . .
Here lies?
I was in a freaking graveyard!
My vision dimmed as I tried to get my legs under me, but they were stuck. Something held my feet! I kicked and squirmed until a ripping sound stopped the blood in my veins. I whipped my head around, anticipating a hunched, drooling ghoul tearing my shoes from my ankles. But instead, I found my laces tangled in a knee-high wrought iron fence. A chuckle of relief, and shame at my own stupidity, gushed out as I turned to free my feet from the metal.
After retying my shredded laces, I stood. The golden glow of the sky in the east illuminated lines of crooked stones and life-size statues. The stained-glass windows of the royal chapel behind me, the ground covered with tributes to dead kings and queens — I’d stumbled upon the MacCrae family cemetery.
Remembering how the auld laird’s body had been burned on a pyre in the loch, I wondered if these stones were for memorial purposes only. I squatted in front of the marker I’d started to read and wiped the grime from the pitted stone.
Here lies Lynnette Elizabeth Campbell MacCrae.
Mo . . .
,
Wife
,
Sist . . . and Queen.
May ye reign fo . . . ver in . . . hearts.
I plucked out stalks of overgrown grass at the foot of the stone. Chunks had fallen from the base, rendering the set of dates illegible. But I didn’t need to see them to know I’d found the grave of one of the early queens of Doon — the very queen who’d passed on during the witch’s first attack. I scrubbed dirt from a faded carving of a face above the inscription. I traced the lines of her hair and cheeks with my finger, unable to make
out the overall picture. Swallowing a lump that tasted like grief, I whispered, “How would
you
save the kingdom, Lynnette?”
Not hearing an answer — not that I expected to — I rose and made my way to the other end of the yard where newer, shinier stones resided. I approached a headstone covered in fresh heather and bluebells.
Maureen Elise McPherson MacCrae.
Jamie’s mother.
A series of rhythmic clangs echoed through the air. My chest seized as I spun around. The sound continued unabated for several minutes. I moved toward it, down the hill and around an expanse of moss-coated castle wall. The noise grew louder, vibrating against my ribs, a powerful clash of metal against metal.
I rounded a corner and came upon an arched doorway set into the lowest level of the castle. Light emanated from the space, drawing me closer. The clanging stopped. I crept forward and paused inside the entrance of a cavernous room, the ceiling at least two stories high. There were wood and metal contraptions all over the space: a wide wooden ladder with no rungs, just a row of metal brackets cradling a single bar; something that looked like a narrow set of uneven bars; and a workbench covered with medieval tools. Swords, claymores, daggers, bows, and wicked-looking arrows in all shapes and colors covered the walls.
Had I stumbled upon some kind of primitive torture chamber?
The ring of metal began again, accompanied by grunts and the shifting of feet on dusty stone. Spotting movement toward the back of the vast room, I tiptoed toward it and passed a row of painted targets and burlap dummies hanging like faceless scarecrows. Ahead, a man moved through a vertical maze of metal bars while hefting a broadsword, the dark coils of a Celtic
tattoo covering one shoulder. He slammed the sword into the pipes in a controlled sequence, sweat glistening over his muscled arms and back. His catlike grace sparked a familiarity in my gut. I took a step closer as he spun into a pool of light, the blade swinging over his blond head.
“Jamie!”
His eyes widened only fractionally before he lowered the sword, left the maze, and bent at the waist in a quick bow. “The one and only. Yer Majesty.”
“When did you get that tattoo?” It was an inane question considering I’d just found him working out in a dungeon straight out of a Stephen King novel. But I was curious all the same.
He shoved drenched strands of hair off his forehead. “A few weeks past. Wanted one when I turned sixteen, but my ma threatened to skin me. Said it was ‘marrin’ God’s perfect creation.’ ”
Fascinated, I approached and circled him to get a better view of the tattoo stretching around his shoulder. The loops converged in the middle, creating a trinity symbol entwined with a heart. On the front and back of his arm the design arched into two roaring lions in profile. I traced the intricate swirls that ended in dagger-like points on his slick bicep. He shivered, sending a jolt of awareness pulsing through me. I dropped my hand and stepped back.
“What does it mean?” I whispered.
Jamie didn’t speak for several beats. Tension hung almost visible in the air as he turned to me, his dark eyes unreadable. “The Triquetra denotes fealty to the Protector. The lions symbolize ferocity and courage, and the blades, an oath to defend Doon with my life. Yer Highness,” he added with a slight bob of his head before he turned and walked over to set his sword in a metal rack.
His formal tone grated against my already frayed nerves. We’d never discussed our argument at the Rosetti Tavern since that night, but clearly he was still angry. And by being here, I was going against the one thing he’d asked me not to do — leave the castle alone. As he busied himself straightening his perfectly aligned weapons, I felt awkward, like I’d invaded his personal space. Taking a few steps back, I called, “I’ll just be going — ”
“Why?” He turned and stalked toward me, his brows hunched over his eyes. “Why do ye insist on putting yerself in danger at ever’ turn?”
I backed into a solid object and stopped. “I . . . er . . . just needed some air.”
Wait.
I was the queen of Doon. And if I wanted to go for a run, I was going to do it! I straightened my spine and lifted my chin as Jamie advanced on me. “You can’t expect me to stay cooped up in that stale castle all day like some dried-up old prune. I won’t do it.”
“At the verra least, take a guard — ” He stopped before me as comprehension dawned, and his face turned stormy. “What kind of fool . . . I’ll beat that blasted Eòran to a bloody pulp!” He slammed his fist into his palm.
Looking at him now, all broad, glistening muscle, I had little doubt he could do it.
“Don’t be too hard on him.” I couldn’t help the smirk that slid across my face. “In order to stop me, he would’ve had to go against a direct order from his queen.”
Jamie stilled and met my gaze. “I see.”
Was that appreciation I saw in the slight crinkling of his eyes?
“Well, ye dinna look like much of a queen in that getup.” He tugged on the tip of my ponytail and looked over my tank top and yoga pants.
Time for a change of subject. I walked over to the uneven bar contraption and ran my hand along the metal frame. On a far wall there was a type of scoreboard with Jamie and Duncan’s names written at the top and rows of hash marks underneath. “What is this place, anyway?”
