Doon (Doon Novel, A) (18 page)

“I would like it verra much if you would come sit next to me.” He patted the ground next to his thigh, indicating where
he wanted me to sit. Then he stared directly into my eyes, leaned forward, and picked up a lock of my hair, brushing the ends across the pad of his thumb. “Please, Verranica?”

Something warm settled in the pit of my stomach, my limbs going all rubbery. With a sigh, I closed the remaining distance between us. A girl could only take so much.

Promptly, Jamie wrapped his muscled arm around me and tucked me close to his side. His delicious scent enveloped me—clean pine and the wind before a storm, a combination that smelled perfect to me. Although I couldn’t remember ever being so glad to comply in my life, I threw out one last jab. “Happy now?”

“Aye.” There was a smile in his voice.

“Have you ever gone swimming in the ocean?” I asked, desperate to diffuse the sparks his knuckles created as they brushed rhythmically against my arm.

“I canna.”

I stared at our legs stretched out in front of us, side by side, trying to focus my thoughts on something other than throwing myself into his lap and kissing him until neither of us could breathe.

“So you can’t swim?”

“Nay, I can swim.” His voice sounded slightly higher than usual.

“Didn’t I see a path in the rock over there?” I pointed to our left to indicate the steep trail leading down and out of sight.

“When I say this is the northernmost border o’ Doon, I mean this cliff. We can see the ocean but never touch it. Except for the Centennial, o’ course. But during the last Centennial I hadna yet been born.”

“What would happen if you tried to go down to the beach?” Gray clouds were gathering, darkening the sky. The wind
picked up, whipping the waves below us into a frenzy. Jamie’s hand stopped moving against my skin.

“’Tis complicated, but if I were able to cross the border, the kingdom and everyone in it would cease to exist. They would all vanish into the mist as if they never lived.” The timbre of his voice had turned low and anguished.

His words confirmed the legend, but there was something I didn’t quite understand. “What do you mean, ‘if you were able to cross the border’?”

“Why are ye asking me this?”

“I’m just trying to understand how it all works.” The intensity of his expression sent shivers of apprehension up my spine.

“Why—” He cut himself off, his body going still beside me as he whispered, “The price.”

“The price of what?” I searched his face, but he just stared at me, a furrow between his brows.

“My mother always said there was a price for everythin’.” He looked out at the water and said something under his breath that sounded like, “the price of true love.”

“What did you say?” I breathed, afraid to move or break the spell.

“I shouldna have brought you—” He stopped. With a blink of his eyes and a clench of his jaw, my Jamie was gone, and the heir to the throne was back. “We need to return.”

“But—” He was slipping away from me. I was watching it happen but didn’t know how to stop it.

Standing, he turned and helped me to my feet, promptly releasing my hand afterward. “Ye need not worry about it, Verranica. It is my responsibility alone to bear.” His reply was terse, almost accusing.

And in that instant, the fragile peace between us shattered.
The reality of my situation—the choice I needed to make—crashed down around me.

As he turned to go through the rock passage, I clutched his bicep and dug my fingernails into the granite muscle, not willing to let him walk away from me. I needed answers. “Don’t you dare shut me out! What about the Calling?”

He turned, the strength of his gaze piercing my very soul. “What Calling?”

My heart plummeted to my feet and I removed my hand from his arm. When I spoke, it was a whisper. “Did you see me before I came here?” I held my breath for any sign of emotion but his eyes were hard as obsidian.

“Aye, I saw you in my dreams. But it doesna matter.”

“How can you say that?” I shook my head. “Isn’t the Calling sacred in Doon?”

His eyes locked on mine and something stirred there, something volatile that sent fear rushing though my body.

“Aye, but that’s not what we have.” His jaw clenched, his posture going rigid. “Not all dreams are sacred.”

Cold rushed down my spine, I swallowed hard. “What are you talking about? Jamie, you can trust me.”

He moved so fast, I was unprepared when he grabbed me. His strong fingers wrapped around my upper arms, and he pulled me onto my toes, bringing my face to within inches of his.

“Really? I can trust you? You have no idea what yer saying! The very fate of Doon rests on me. And you …” His face contorted with torment. “You touch me and I’m ready to throw it all away!” He shook me as if the violent movement would make me understand. “What I feel doesna matter. If yer truly connected to the witch … there will be no mercy. I have to remain strong. Don’t you see? I dinna have a choice!”

“Strong, how?” I whispered as tears stung the back of my eyes. I already knew the answer—strong because he had to deny what was between us, so he could objectively sentence me to death or whatever punishment Doonians reserved for conspiracy to commit witchcraft.

He abruptly loosened his hold on my arms, and I stumbled back several steps. He reached out and steadied me but stepped away quickly. “This”—he gestured toward me and then back at his chest—“canna go on.” His voice was strong and sure, but his eyes filled with regrets.

Thunder bellowed across the sky. All the blood seemed to drain out of my body as I took a step toward him. “Jamie, please believe—”

“M’ laird!” A shout in the distance cut me off. The male voice was familiar, but too distorted with agitation for me to place.

Jamie turned toward the passage without a backward glance and began to run. Cursing my stupid skirts, I yanked up the material to my thighs and followed.

Ahead, Fergus burst through the trees, his face mottled crimson. Leaning over to catch his breath, he watched us approach with anxious eyes. “M’ laird,” he gasped, “’tis yer father. There are horses waitin’ for ye on the low path. Duncan’s already gone ahead. Ye must make haste.”

Jamie put his hand on Fergus’s massive shoulder. “Stay with the lasses. See them safely back to the castle.”

“Aye.”

Then without so much as a word, or even a glance in my direction, Jamie MacCrae was gone.

I
plodded along behind Fergus through the forest and back toward the glen, dragging my battered heart behind me. Not even Eric had emotionally sucker punched me like the future king of Doon. Guys were idiots. Plain and simple.

I knew the connection between Jamie and me was real—more real than anything I’d felt in my life—so why did he think he had to resist it? Did he really believe I was in league with the witch? Or maybe his history with Sofia trumped anything he felt for me. I kicked a pebble, sending it shooting through the underbrush. I still didn’t know if we’d shared the same visions, or dreams—whatever they were.

And why did I care? Obviously, he didn’t.

Fergus stopped so abruptly I almost smacked into his arm. Quick as lightning, he drew his weapon and maneuvered me behind him. “Gideon, man, ye better start talkin’.”

“I arrived and found the girl standing over them.” Gideon’s voice sounded strange, even for him—agitated, almost frantic. “I subdued her for my own protection.”

Peeking around the giant guard, I had to blink several times before I comprehended what I was seeing. Kenna sat rubbing the back of her head, looking dazed, surrounded by bodies. Dead bodies—soldiers I recognized from the castle guard—with faces frozen in various stages of terror.

“Lass, do ye know how this happened?” Fergus asked Kenna, his tone carefully modulated. These soldiers could’ve been his friends, men he’d worked alongside every day.

Kenna seemed on the verge of tears. “I … I don’t remember how I got here.”

“She’s killed them wi’ her evil magic. The witch must die!” Gideon proclaimed, his skeletal face emanating zealous triumph. Gideon held a broadsword in one hand and a wicked-looking dagger in the other.

Like a scene from a movie, Gideon charged at Kenna, his face contorted in rage as she let out a strangled cry. Racing against Gideon, who was just a dark blur in my peripheral vision, I leapt forward and tackled Kenna. We both slammed into the ground. The air whooshed from my lungs as I gripped her shoulders and braced for the impact of a sword in my back.

But it never came.

Jerking my head toward where the guard should be, I sucked in a sharp breath. Fergus and Gideon were engaged in battle not two feet away. The tension left my body in a surge of relief, and I thanked God for Fergus Lockhart—our guardian angel.

Gideon shouted a jumble of accusations and curses. Flecks of froth appeared at the corners of his thin mouth as he swung his weapon with the appearance of superhuman strength. But the raving madman was no match for Fergus, who disarmed his captain with a deft movement and a great heave, then finished him off with a swift uppercut. Gideon crumpled to the ground, out cold.

“Kenna, are you okay?” I asked, rolling onto the grass.

“I’m fine, but you’ve been holding out on me.”

As we both sat up, I blinked at her in confusion. “What?”

A small smile formed on her lips. “I thought you said you were a cheerleader, not a ninja.” Her voice hitched, betraying the feelings behind her words.

I smiled, tears filling my eyes as she threw her arms around me. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Och, lass! Were ye trying to get both of you killed?” Fergus scolded as he squatted down beside us. “Next time, wait for my signal.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered as Kenna and I broke apart.

“Mackenna, are ye hurt?”

“I’ll be fine. No permanent damage—at least to me.” She absently rubbed the back of her head as she looked around.

“And you, Veronica?”

Meeting Fergus’s pale blue eyes, I searched for answers I knew he didn’t have. “I’m fine.”

“Go on and get back ta the trail. I’ll be right behind ye.” He picked up Gideon’s rag doll body and effortlessly hoisted it over his shoulder.

I picked my way down the rocky trail with care. How had those poor men died? The Doonians were certain the witch had no power here—but I was beginning to wonder. A conversation I’d had with Fiona after the tavern incident circled through my mind. There had been no crime in Doon before we came. No violent acts, no unexplained disappearances, no black petunias growing on dead ground, and certainly no murders—aside from the time long ago when the witch had bewitched a man into doing her bidding. What were the odds of Doon having a sudden crime wave at the same time the two American girls showed up?

My heart squeezed in my chest—everything Jamie thought of me could be true. It was possible that when we crossed the Brig o’ Doon we made the kingdom vulnerable to the witch’s influence. And if we didn’t find a way to stop it, more people could die.

The next morning, I sat curled in the alcove of the window seat and stared into the crackling fire, picking out patterns in the flames. It was hard work keeping my mind blank, but everything that’d happened in the last twenty-four hours hurt too much to contemplate. Kenna and I had been ordered to stay in the turret room—for our own protection, according to Fiona. But with a guard inside the suite, as well as outside the door, the confinement felt more like a prison sentence.

Kenna paced the other side of the bedroom, mumbling to herself. The occasional word reached my ears: “mob,” “pitchforks,” “dungeon,” “beheading.”

We’d both fallen into bed after dinner the night before, too exhausted to speak. Now, listening to my friend babble, I realized I couldn’t put it off any longer.

“Ken, please stop. We need to talk.” I patted the cushion next to me.

She flopped down, her arms crossed under her chest and her lip jutting out like a kid who didn’t get the last pink balloon at the fair.

“Yesterday in the meadow, what happened before I got there?”

“One minute I was urging Duncan to go to his father … and the next, I was lying on the ground surrounded by a bunch of dead guys.” Her eyes were silver with tears. “I have no idea what happened to those poor men.”

I nodded and took her hand. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

She shrugged and then wiped her cheeks. “I can’t find a single box of Puffs in this joint.”

I bit my lip against a chuckle, popped up, and jogged into the bathroom. Thankfully, Doon was progressive enough to have toilet paper. As I wrapped a few pieces around my hand, I stopped and stared up at the toilet tank above me. Maybe the tiny book hidden there contained some clue that I’d missed. What I’d said to Kenna was true; the deaths weren’t her fault. But I couldn’t absolve myself so easily. I’d been the one obsessed—the one Kenna followed to the bridge.

Jamie’d said there was a price for everything. It seemed as if the price I’d paid to enter this paradise was costing my best friend as well as innocent Doonians. After delivering the tissue to Kenna, I sank down at the table. I cradled the journal in my hands, knowing it was too late to turn back the clock, but praying there was a way to stop what I’d inadvertently set into motion.

Hours later, I closed the journal with a sigh and picked up the page of notes I’d taken. The pieces were here; I could feel it. But for some reason I couldn’t fit them together. I ran my finger across the last paragraph of my notes.

The Rings of Aontacht are purported to do different things depending on the Protector’s will. Page 47 says that their purpose is to enable individuals to cross the Brig o’ Doon at times other than the Centennial. This seems consistent with pages 73 and 109. But on page 148 Gracie says the symbols on the rings indicate they can be used for the purposes of protection and substitution. The prominent symbol indicates that someone can take the place of another at a spiritual level. Sacrificial substitution.

Opening
Doon: An Esteemed Legacy
, I flipped to the chapter on ancient symbols.

Kenna, fresh from a nap, flitted around the room, singing snippets of show tunes and lighting lamps to push back the growing darkness of the stormy afternoon. When she stopped to light the lantern on the table in front of me, I lightly touched her hand. She paused mid-song, her brows pinched together.

I pointed to the open page at a three-looped knot labeled Unity. “Does this look like the first symbol on your aunt’s rings?”

“I think so.” She sat across from me. “Why?”

I ran my finger down the drawings, to another one that looked familiar. “And this one?”

She leaned over and studied the triple spiral. “I do remember that one. What does it mean?”

I read the tiny script beside the picture aloud. “The Triskele is the symbol of substitution or rebirth.” I moved to the next symbol I recognized. “And this one represents sacrifice or an exchange offering.”

“It’s pretty, but I wouldn’t get it tattooed on my lower back or anything.” I glanced up to find Kenna’s scrutiny on me rather than the symbol. “What’re you doing, anyway? As soon as the bridge opens, we’re gone. We’ll probably never see those rings again.”

“Has it occurred to you that all the horrible stuff going on in Doon started after we got here?”

“I guess, but I figured that was just a coincidence. I mean, Glinda and Elphaba we’re not.” She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “But I could totally get my Glinda on if you think it’ll get us out of here faster.”

Not in the mood for one of her
Wicked
sing-alongs, I shot my best friend a dirty look as a succession of knocks sounded.
Our eyes darted toward the door and then back toward one another for reassurance. After so much time in isolation, the implications of that knock felt ominous.

At the guard’s signal, Kenna and I moved to the bedroom and waited for him to answer the door and then sound the all clear.

When we returned to the living quarters, Fiona stood beside a flushed Fergus, whose bright red nose and eyes told me he’d been crying. The giant guard turned to me, lifting his chin in an attempt to hide his anguish. “Our good king seeks an audience with Miss Veronica.”

My heart stuttered, my eyes darting to Fiona and then back to Fergus. “Why?”

Fiona lifted her pursed lips and exchanged a meaningful glance with Fergus, then said, “The Laird MacCrae doesn’t have long for this world.”

I’d figured as much, but that didn’t explain why the king wanted to see me. Unless it was to punish me for what I’d allowed into his kingdom. I fastened my concentration on Fergus, hoping he was gifted in cryptic conversation. “Does the laird—uh—know about the meadow?”

Fergus cleared his throat, a sheepish look on his mottled face. “Ye kin speak plainly in front of Fiona. She knows about the guard’s deaths, as does Duncan. But we’re keeping it from Jamie and the Laird MacCrae, fer now.”

“What about Gideon?” Kenna asked. “I figured he’d be screaming my guilt from the rooftops by now.”

“Hard to do when he’s locked in the dungeon.” The corner of Fergus’s mouth lifted in a hint of a smile. “Everyone thinks he and his men are on a border mission for Centennial preparations.”

Fiona’s pretty mouth in turn twisted into an expression that
was equal parts smile and frown. “Veronica, you should go. I’ll stay with Mackenna until ye return.”

Fergus placed a meaty hand on my bicep, his voice both reassuring and urgent as he guided me toward the door. “That’s true. We need ta hurry, m’ lady.”

As I moved with the giant, I glanced over my shoulder and met Kenna’s guilt-ridden face. Without exchanging a word, I could tell she was relieved she wasn’t going with me and at the same time ashamed she felt that way. “Don’t worry,” I said, fostering confidence I didn’t feel. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”

Right.

Knees shaking like an arthritic granny as I descended the stairs, I tried to reassure myself with worst-case scenarios. When visions of public execution and slow torture brought on by Jamie’s orders didn’t do the trick, I focused on the only positive I could find—I could protect Kenna. I would shoulder any blame if it meant getting my best friend across the bridge at the Centennial. That way, at least one of us would live to see our dreams come true.