The Parchment Scroll (2 page)

Jules couldn’t stop smiling, despite the weight that still settled over her chest. She sighed for the hundredth time that morning and sipped water, watching as the cute bartender moved on to fill another order. Every time she caught his eye he winked.

She glanced at her watch and frowned. Fidgeted on the stool. The chick that’d answered her ad was late. The caller had been the one to pick the pub, so she had to know where the place was.

I assume, anyway.

“What gives?” Jules dragged two fingers through the condensation clinging to the side of her glass.

Glancing over her shoulder, she scanned the pub, but no one seemed to be searching out someone they didn’t know.

Small groups of mostly guys sat, chatting or watching the television on the wall. Scottish brogues, as well as other accents—tourists like Jules—graced her ears, and the atmosphere made her shoulders loosen. There was no urgency. People laughed as they talked, enjoying their food and drink. Two waitresses balanced trays as they moved around the place, both smiling as they interacted with patrons.

Jules swallowed sigh one hundred and one, and studied the shelves of bottles perched on the wall across from her at the bar. All types of alcohol were on display, with the usual expensive stuff up top.

The words “By sea and by land” were carved into a wood plaque above the shelf.
MacDonald
was in all capital letters below it. Some sort of crest was beside that, wrapped in a plaid dominated by red. It was too dim in the bar to catch the rest of the colors.

The bartender shut the cash register drawer with a
ching
, and threw her another wink. “Sure I canna’ get you somethin’ else, lass?” He made his way to her. The smile he wore was infectious.

“No, but thank you. Meeting someone.”

“Ah. He shouldna keep you waitin’.”

Jules grinned at the sudden disappointment on his face. “I’m just anxious ‘cause
she’s
late.”

His broad shoulders loosened, that appealing smile back in place.

Her eyes trailed his chest. The short-sleeved hunter green shirt wasn’t skin-tight, but hinted at defined pecs. Jules tried not to stare or imagine his abs. It’d been a while since she’d been with anyone, and even longer since she’d had a relationship, and this guy was tall like she liked them.

Maybe she was just lonely.

“Rob MacDonald.” He threw his hand out for a shake.

“Jules.” She put her hand in his, liking the feel of his calloused skin against her palm. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too. Jules, huh?” Her name in a Scottish accent made him even more tempting.

“Juliette, but it’s too formal for me.” She grinned.

“Jules fits you, like fine jewels.”

If she was in her right mind, she’d roll her eyes and disregard the cheesy pick-up line, but she winked at Rob. “MacDonald, huh? Like that plaque up there?” She pointed.

“Aye. Clan MacDonald’s crest. My family’s been on Skye a long, long time.”

So Jules had discovered when she’d looked into the history of the Isle of the Hebrides Claire had been most fascinated with. “MacDonald and MacLeod, right?”

Rob nodded. “Dunvegan, the MacLeod stronghold, still stands. Armadale, my clan’s castle, doesna, unfortunately. But there are ruins and a garden popular for weddings. Open for tours, I believe.”

“I’ll have to check that out.”

His eyes grazed her face and Jules tried not to squirm. Rob’s lips parted as if he was going to say something. Her gut screamed that he was going to volunteer to show her around.

“Juliette McGowan?” The feminine voice cut through the cute bartender’s almost-proposition.

Dammit.

Jules swiveled the bar stool around. Her gaze collided with a pair of dark brown eyes. “That’s me.”

“I’m Bree. I can take ye to yer sister.”

Yup, the accent was Irish, not the distinctive Scottish brogue she’d grown used to since landing in the country. The woman was dressed oddly, too. Red track pants sporting a white stripe from waist to ankle on the side, some tan hunting boots that looked three sizes too big, and a tight green V-neck shirt with purple and pink polka dots.

Bree was wearing a thrift store.

Or thrift store rejects.

Jules tried not to stare and slipped off the stool at the woman’s urging.

“Come, let us find a more private place to speak.”

She followed Bree to the back of the pub—in the darkest corner, really. Her pants
swoosh-swooshed
as she walked and the boots
clunked
.

Definitely too big for her.

Bree slid into the booth, her eyes darting around the pub. She stared at the large flat screen TV mounted on the wall and swallowed. When she averted her eyes, she shifted on the padded seat, like she had some aversion to soccer—football as the UKers called it.

A cell phone rang and Bree jumped, a scowl twisting her mouth. She looked around again, rubbing her bare arm below her short sleeve, and fidgeted.

“Are you okay?” Jules asked as she took a seat across from her mystery caller.

Dark eyes darted to meet her gaze and Bree visibly shook. But then she squared her shoulders and sat taller. “I am well. Considerin’.”

“Considering what?”

The woman shook her head, shifting her ebony hair. It was long and loose, hanging almost to her waist and swaying when they’d headed to their seats. No doubt it touched the bench’s vinyl padding.

A waitress appeared at the edge of their table. “Can I get you lasses anythin’?” She smiled, flashing dimples. Her hair was red as well. She had to be the bartender’s sister. The resemblance was clear.

Bree jumped again.

“No, I think we’re good,” Jules said.

“Call fer me if you change your minds. I’m Megan.”

Jules nodded, and turned back to her strange companion.

What’s this chick’s problem?

She was acting like a meth head.

If she was high on something, it wasn’t meth, though. Her olive complexion was creamy and clear. Bree wore no makeup, and her face held no pockmarks, one of the physical side effects of methamphetamine use.

If she’s high, can I trust anything she’s about to tell me?

“Ye look like her,” Bree blurted.

“Where’s my sister?” Jules demanded.

“No’ where.
When
.”

Jules’ heart kicked up a notch.

When.

Could Claire’s scroll be true?

No.

“When?”

“Aye.”

They stared at each other in silence. A cheer went up in a bar. Jules didn’t need to glance over her shoulder to know the Scottish team had scored.

“How do you know my sister?” She forced the words out when the woman shifted on the bench, averting her eyes.

“I opened a portal to this time by accident. She came through it, back to
my
time.” The words were even, understandable despite the thick Irish brogue.

It was Jules’ turn to shift in the booth; her heart plummeted to her stomach. She schooled her expression, calling upon all the police professionalism she could muster.

It can’t be true. Doesn’t make sense.

“My grandma was Fae. So I’ve magic.” Bree’s conversational tone—as if they were talking about the weather—made Jules swallow hard.

Her temples throbbed. “Magic?”

“Aye. The rift in time was an accident; I only meant to go into the Fae Realm.”

Fae Realm?

Rift in time…

Jules couldn’t muster words. She dug in her pocket. Her shaking hand slid the scroll across the table.

Bree accepted it; unrolled it, but didn’t look down long enough. “I canna’ read. Wha’ does it say?”

“You can’t read? Then how did you know to call me?”

“I saw Lady MacLeod’s picture in the...the…newspaper, a man called it. I showed it to him. He dialed his…his…strange device. Yer voice came from it.”

Jules smirked. “Cell phone? You’re really not from around here, are you?”

Bree swallowed and shook her head. “Nay. I was born in the year of our lord sixteen hundred and forty-eight.”

She gasped. “I don’t believe this.”

“What does the scroll say?” The woman looked back down at the words Claire had carefully inked onto the fragile parchment.

“It says that my sister went back in time, to 1672. It says that she’s going to miss this guy, some Duncan MacLeod dude. It says that she doesn’t regret anything, but wanted him to know she loves him. That she didn’t regret marrying him. It’s written to
him
, but she gave it to me.”

“Then ye know everythin’.” Bree nodded and rolled the scroll tight. She reached across the table and put it in Jules sweaty palm.

“Everything? I know
nothing.
This is all nonsense. Time travel? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“’Tis true.” Bree’s voice was hard.

“All I know is that my sister disappeared four weeks ago. The damn tour company didn’t bother to call me until days later. They didn’t even call the police.
I
had to make the missing persons report. Then she appears on the beach and falls into my arms,
naked.
She gave me this,” Jules pointed to the parchment, “and then disappeared—literally.”

“That’s tha way of it. She went back.”

“What?” She frowned. “You realize you sound crazy, right?”

Bree nodded. “I’ve not been in yer time long,” her voice cracked, “but I’ve learned magic is no longer revered. I canna’ find anyone to ‘elp me get home.”

“Revered? Because it’s
not real.
That’s why.”

“’Tis real.”

Jules sighed. “None of this is real. It has to be some dream. Some sick joke. I’ll wake up in Texas. Claire will call me and complain about her job. I’ll tell her to quit for the hundredth time, and we’ll set up a lunch date, or plan to see a movie this weekend.” She cursed the shake in her words and met the crazy chick’s gaze.

Bree’s dark eyes were misty. “I need ta get back ta my time.” The words were fragmented; Jules could sense desperation.

“Right.”

When Jules met Bree’s gaze again, she saw no more desperation—only determination. “Ye still doona’ believe? I’ll show ye.”

“This doesn’t mean anything.” Jules gestured to the weathered headstone. It was worn, but the etched words were still visible.

Claire MacLeod. Loving Wife to Duncan and devoted mother to her children.

Right above the early eighteenth century date that didn’t make any sense in relation to her sister.

“And we’d better go. I think we’re on private property or something.” Jules’ words were rushed and she swallowed hard.

Bree arched a dark eyebrow, but said nothing.

“I mean, Claire is an English name. It was common even then, wasn’t it?” Jules drummed her fingertips on her bottom lip, her heart thundering.

“’Lovin’ wife of Duncan?’” Bree’s whisper went ignored as she started to pace.

“It means nothing. Duncan’s a common Scottish name. I’m sure there was some other Duncan MacLeod. Some other chick named Claire.”

“This is tha proof ye demanded, since a letter written by yer sister’s own hand isna’ enough.”

Jules stared at the boots she was forcing in the damp grass around her sister’s— “
No
. Just, no freaking way.” She made a cutting gesture with her hand.

“Nay? There isna’ a date of birth. Doesna tha’ mean somethin’ to ye?”

She stilled, meeting her companion’s deep brown eyes. “None of this means anything to me. Except that Claire is still missing.”

“She’s no’ missin’.”

“She is.”

Bree crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ve more I can show ye.”

“Like what?”

Why did you say that, idiot?

You don’t need to feed into her shit.

The chick would see it as a dare.

“There’s no middle name,” Jules blurted before Bree could speak. “Claire’s middle name is Grace. It doesn’t say that on there.”

“Doesna matter.” Bree’s voice was hard, as was her expression.

“It
does
matter.” She sucked in a very un-cop-like whimper.

It just can’t be.

But repeating it over and over did nothing to change the scroll in her pocket, the headstone on the ground in front of her, and the Irish woman claiming to be from 1672 beside her.

“Ye
still
doona’ believe?”

Jules shook her head, because a bodily response was she could manage. Easier than words.

“Verra well. I shall take ye to the Faery Stones.”

“Faery Stones?”

Bree nodded. “The portal is opened through the magic of the Faery Stones.”

“If you have that all figured out, why are you still here? Why don’t you just go home? What’s the catch?”

Pink kissed the Irish woman’s high cheeks bones. “I canna’ do it myself.”

“Why?”

“Magic is weak in the Realm of the Humans.”

“Realm of the Humans?” Jules frowned.

“Aye. Only when I was in the Realm of the Fae did my magic come easily for me.”

“Realm of the Fae?”
Wait. She said that at the pub, too.
“Lady, just when I think I can start to make sense of things, you take it another turn for nutso.”

“I’m no’ a lady.” Bree sighed and cast her eyes upward. “I know no’ wha’ ta do to have ye believe wha’ is right before yer eyes.”

“Nothing. None of this is real. But for you, and what you’ve got going on here,” she gestured to Bree’s mismatched outfit. “Well, they have meds for that.”

Dark brow knotted, Bree stared.

Is she insulted, or is that confusion for real?

“Perhaps I’ve made a mistake seekin’ ye ou’.”

“Look, I just want to find my sister.”

“I’ve tol’ ye I can take ye to her. Ye’ve but to believe.”

“Believe? What does my belief or disbelief have to do with
anything
?”

“Everythin’. If ye doona’ believe, ye canna’ help me.”

“Help you? I thought
you
were supposed to be helping
me
.”

Bree sighed as if Jules should’ve known exactly what she was talking about. Maybe she would’ve if they
both
lived in Looneyville.