Not Without Juliet

chapter FIFTEEN



It was morning again. As Jules and her kidnappers entered through the massive open gates, a whirlwind of emotions entered with them, nicely contained in her gut. First of all, she was relieved they had arrived anywhere at all. Her butt was sore and she was anxious to see if her legs would even work again. Secondly, she was intrigued by the sight of the huge castle perched on a plateau that hung over the sea, and it looked as if she was going to get to see inside. Next, she was pissed that she’d been taken so friggin’ far North, away from Castle Ross and her little escape hatch—so pissed she was going to make her new set of captors effing sorry they’d ever laid eyes on her!

And last but not least, she was nervous and excited to see what Fate had in store for her. For the last mile or so, she’d had the growing sensation that something very important was just ahead. It was like the foreboding she’d had before climbing up into the tomb, only this time it was a good foreboding. And since her premonitions were pretty reliable, she was almost giddy. But she wasn’t about to give these Bozos any points for escorting her there.

She threw an elbow into the ribs of the tall one sitting on the saddle behind her. “Get me off this friggin’ horse.”

He took a long deep breath, like he was trying to control his temper, and she realized she might be messing with the wrong guy. Just because she’d felt ten feet tall and bullet proof since she’d gotten away from the Feds, didn’t mean it was true. Besides, these guys didn’t use bullets, they used blades. And they all had at least one.

“Please,” she added.

The guy laughed and jumped to the ground. He was still smiling when he reached up for her, thank goodness.

When some ragamuffins ran forward for a good look at her, her captor told them she was a witch. The kids scattered. A few minutes later, there was a mob.

"We're havin' a hanging and a burnin' in the morning, Cheval. We can easily add this one for kindling." This news came from a grubby looking Scot with either a kilt that was too short or skinny legs that were too long. When he got close enough to see her face, he looked surprised. “Or perchance she’d be a poor choice for kindling after all.”

“Bonjour, Percy,” said the man she’d ridden with, apparently named Cheval.

"The fire might smell a mite better," someone hollered.

Oh, hell. In what century did they burn people as witches?

She tried to think, tried to put years to movies she’d seen, then realized they probably burned witches in all of them. But they couldn’t burn her. She had a date with the New York District Attorney in eight days. And the only way to make that date was to convince these people she was worth more than a little firewood.

She laughed loud, to get everyone’s attention.

"Burn me? Are you kidding? There is a huge red-headed man near Castle Ross who would pay a fortune for me. And you want to burn me?"

She'd broken her stick on the redhead’s face, but thankfully she'd slipped off the wolf's tooth first. It was the tooth, held tight in her hand, that kept her from worrying too much. She’d gotten out of a lot of tight spots in the last day. What was one more? Wolfproof. Bulletproof. Fireproof. It was all just the same delusion; she just needed to keep it up.

She was getting mixed looks from the crowd. The kids were slack jawed. Some adults looked worried, like they expected her to burst into flame on her own. But some of them just looked...hungry, and she got that stew meat feeling again.

She was pushed and pulled through a door built for yet another giant, but before she got a good look at the vaulted ceiling, she was shoved into a side passage that eventually led to a stairway.

Going down. Again.

Maybe these guys have their own witch’s hole.

She picked up the insults where she’d left off when the castle had come into sight. Cheval, the Frenchman who'd insisted she come to this party, had tried to dish them back, but his were all in French. When he'd get pleased with himself, she'd just laugh because she had no idea what he’d been saying. Eventually, he stopped talking to her. Why he never thought to gag her was a mystery.

Izatt was still a viable target, however.

"I hope, Mister Izatt, that when Debra boils your balls, you'll be able to feel it, even in your shallow grave." Jules spit the words over her shoulder as she was pushed through the mother-of-a-castle’s mother-of-a-cellar.

She wanted to make sure the man remembered Debra’s promise, that if he harmed Jules, he’d be boiled along with his clothes next time. After riding sidesaddle for hours the night before, then again that morning, she was a little cranky and wanted her captors to be as uncomfortable as she’d been.

She should have kept her jeans. In a skirt, she’d had no choice but to ride sideways or the inside of her legs would have been rubbed raw by horsehair. Now her right thigh was sore and her left butt cheek was in a knot from trying to grip the strange saddle. Walking straight was impossible. Add a hump to her back and she’d make a great character for a horror film.

She was lucky the floors were flat since her eyes were having a hard time adjusting back to torch light after all that bright sunshine. After a few minutes, she wondered if her vision was stuck.

They went down another stairway, then came out into an actual dungeon.

Jail cells? Basement of a castle?

Yep. Dungeon.

“Percy Gordon wants this one locked up," Cheval announced.

An old man came out of nowhere and juggled his keys, though he didn't look at them. Cheval gave her a gentle shove, telling her to follow the guy. After the key man managed to open a cell that looked far too shiny to be medieval, he turned a sad smile in her direction. His pupils were white.

"I'm sorry, miss," he said, as Izatt pushed her through the opening.

She reached out and gave the old man’s arm a squeeze. "Don't you worry about me."

Izatt grunted. "I thought you was blind, Martin Woolsey."

"I am. Dinna tell me ye canna smell how pretty she is."

Izatt slammed the gate shut behind her. She was sure he stole a little whiff in her direction before he released the bars and headed for the stairs.

"I smell naught," he muttered.

"Maybe you should wash more than your kilt, Izatt,” she jeered.

Then she remembered, in Scotland, they didn't call them balls, they called them—

"Ballocks! I meant ballocks! When Debra boils your ballocks, I hope you feel it! Every bubble!"

Izatt groaned on his way out. Jules started to laugh until she realized he was taking the last torch with him.

"God have mercy, let me be dreaming!" The anguished shout came from behind her and she spun around and backed against the cell door. She could see nothing in the dark.

"Who's there?" She still had a voice, but the bravado had fled with the light.

"Jillian? Tell me ‘tis not you!" The man’s voice was deep, the brogue Scottish, but he spoke English. The chills it produced danced against her skin like musical notes.

It was him. It had to be.

Then her heart sank. She was dreaming again. But in her dreams, it had never been pitch black. She needed to see his face!

His breath was ragged, like he’d just returned from a run. He was waiting for her to say something.

"Mister Ross?" she whispered.

His breath caught, then he moaned. "Jillian! Tell me it’s not you, lass. Make me believe it!"

"Okay. I’m not Jillian."

There. The truth was out there. The fact that she’d been flippant and he wouldn’t believe her wasn't her fault, right?