Not Without Juliet - By L.L. Muir Page 0,46

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