Doon

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.”

“Nay.”

I nodded and took a step back, giving her permission to let him have it with both barrels.

“Pleeeeeease?” That particular whine had gotten us more than our fair share of candy before dinner back in the day. It chaffed like sandpaper on a sunburn. “I reeeeeally need to speak to Fergus. It’s a matter of life or death. Pleeeeaseeeee?”

From farther down the corridor I heard heavy, measured footsteps moving in our direction and then stop.