Romeo Redeemed (Juliet Immortal)

by Stacey Jay

  “Yes,” she says, while her eyes flash “no.”

  “I want you to promise.”

  “You trust me enough to take my word?”

  She cocks her head to one side, considering me down the slope of her button nose. “About this. Even if you break it, I’ve already seen you naked, so …” Her shoulder lifts, a seductive roll of bone that hints at the sensual nature she’s been too guarded to indulge since discovering her date with Dylan was a prank.

  “You’ve only seen me nearly naked,” I correct, wishing I had more than stolen memories of being tangled up with Ariel. “But I won’t break my word. Even if you beg me to.”

  Her lips twitch. “I’ll try to control myself.”

  I grin. “You have a sarcastic streak.”

  “I do.”

  “I like it.”

  “I thought you might.” Her playful tone makes me want to grab her and tickle her until she squeals. I haven’t tickled a girl in centuries, and it’s such a nice excuse for getting your hands where they aren’t usually supposed to be.…

  “Dylan?”

  First her ribs. Then, when she leans forward, I’d circle her waist with my fingers, find the ticklish spot right where—

  “Dylan?” She props her hands on her hips.

  “Yes?” I blink, banishing my comparatively innocent fantasy.

  “Are you turning around?” Her smile makes me suspect she’s guessed the direction of my thoughts. It’s a smile of discovery, timid, but with a burgeoning sense of power, the grin of a girl learning the influence she has over a boy. It wasn’t what I set out to achieve this morning, but I’ll take it. Ariel could use some empowerment, and I can use anything that makes her want to keep me around long enough for her to fall in love with me.

  “Turning, turning.” I offer her my back, giving her privacy, distracting myself from thoughts of dressing and, more important, undressing by studying the paintings on the wall. The bold color and deft line make my brain squirm agreeably. Her work is technically excellent, with a whimsical, slightly morbid subject matter that I, for one, find charming. “These are wonderful.”

  “Thanks.” She sounds nervous but pleased. “Some are really old, from when I was twelve. They stink, but I keep them up there. They remind me of how much I’ve learned.”

  “I like them all.” I knew Ariel was an artist from my last turn through her life, but I didn’t remember her work being so evocative. My Mercenary eyes functioned, but did they see?

  I’m guessing the answer is no. If they did, I wouldn’t have overlooked the painting on the lower left. I remember it from when I was in this room before, skulking in the shadows, waiting for Juliet, but I wasn’t drawn to it the way I am now. I cross to stand in front of the landscape, the familiarity of the windswept hill hitting me like a fist in the gut. It looks so much like my hill, the one where the human Romeo died and the monster rose in his place.

  And the boy …

  I lean closer, inspecting the delicate swirls of paint that form his hair and simple cloak. The face is too small to be recognizable, but it could be mine, the one I was born with, the one on the body that is at this very moment trapped by Ambassador magic in that mountain cave, rotten and raving with its bones showing through its rapidly deteriorating skin.

  Now that my soul has left the specter, he is once again driven by the need to hunt me, to take my hand in his and reunite my body and spirit. He is a part of myself, left over from what I would have been, influenced by what I’ve become, and compelled by primal forces beyond human understanding to balance the cosmic equation I unbalanced when I became a Mercenary. The specter is a wretched thing because my soul is wretched. I never expected to see myself any other way, ever again.

  But now …

  “Who is this? In the painting?” I turn to find Ariel buttoning her jeans. Our eyes meet, and awareness thickens the air between us before I spin back around with a quick, “Forgive me.”

  “It’s okay. I know you didn’t …” She clears her throat. “He’s no one. Just a boy I imagined.”

  A boy she imagined. A boy in a period cloak on a lonely hill, shoulders bowed by shame and grief. It’s probably a coincidence. What else could it be? Still, it’s hard to look away, even when a knock comes at the door and Ariel urgently orders me, “Under the bed. Hurry!”

  “Tell her you’re sick. Get her to call the school,” I whisper, inspiration striking. “We’ll go to the art museum in Santa Barbara.”

  “What?”

  “Play sick, and we’ll play hooky. I want to look at beautiful things together.”

  She shakes her head, but I can see that she’s tempted. “I can’t. I—”

  “Ariel,” her mom calls from out in the hall. “Are you awake? It’s seven-fifteen.”

  “Just a second, Mom,” Ariel calls. “Under the bed. Please!” she mouths to me as she backs away. I hit the floor and roll onto the dusty carpet beneath the bed just as the door opens and a sleepy-sounding Ariel wishes her mother “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  “I thought you were going to sleep late, Mom.”

  “I was, but something woke me. I felt rested, so I decided to get up.” She pauses before letting out a surprised, “Your purse! I thought you said you lost it.”

  “Um, no.” Ariel’s feet shift as she presumably turns to look at the purse lying in a saggy brown lump by the window. “I found it on the floor last night. I must have forgotten to take it with me.”

  “Well, that’s good news.” Her mom sighs. “Now I won’t have to call the phone company during my break. One thing off the list.”

  “Yeah,” Ariel says with a cough.

  “So how are you? You look pale. Tired after your big night?”

  “Yeah, a little. Tired and … kind of sick to my stomach.”

  Under the bed, I smile. The more time I spend with this girl, the more I like her. She’s full of surprises. Even considering that some of them aren’t pleasant, I’ll take surprising over predictable any day.

  “You’re probably hungover,” her mother says.

  “I don’t think so. I feel sick. Like the flu or something.”

  “That’s what a hangover feels like, Ariel. That’s why you should have one glass of wine, not four.” The mother doesn’t sound amused, or particularly sympathetic. “There won’t be any more going out on school nights if this is what happens the day after.”

  “I know, Mom. I’m sorry.” Her voice is so small and remorseful that I’m certain she’s decided to give up on our adventure. But then she coughs. And clears her throat, and sniffs a sickly sniff. “I just … I really don’t feel good. Could I stay home today? Just this one time?”

  Her mother sighs, a tired exhalation ripe with defeat. I grin, sensing the battle is won. “All right. Since you haven’t missed a day all year.”

  “Thanks so—”

  “But if this happens again, there will be no more dates on school nights and we’ll have to talk about a curfew.”

  “I understand. Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.”

  “Right, right.” She laughs beneath her breath. “Go ahead and get back into your pj’s. I’ll call the school and tell them you won’t be there today.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I’ll call Wendy and tell her not to pick me up since you won’t be needing the car.” I watch the mother’s feet move away before pausing in the doorway and turning back. “Is there anything you need before I leave?”

  “No,” Ariel says. “I’m going to go back to sleep. I can warm up some soup if I get hungry later.”

  “All right. Since I’m up, I might as well head out and grab a few things at the store. Call my cell if you think of anything you want me to bring home tonight. Just remember I probably won’t be back until after eleven.”

  “Right. Thanks, Mom. I … I really appreciate this. And last night.”

  “You’re welcome. Call me later. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”


  My next breath feels sharp in my lungs. Love you. The words are sweet when she says them, but a part of me is already dreading the day she’ll say them to me. I need her love, but lying is becoming harder than it used to be, especially not knowing what will happen when I’ve fulfilled my mission. Juliet’s nurse said she would take care of Ariel, but how can I trust her? The woman who spoke so easily about the fortunate nature of Ariel’s murder in another reality?

  Ariel’s upside-down face appears to my left, peering into my hiding place. I rush to banish my scowl.

  “I feel awful,” she whispers. “I don’t like to lie.”

  “It’s for a good cause.” I stay where I am, watching as she lies down on her belly and scoots under the bed beside me. I imagine how different this would feel if we were both on top of the bed instead of underneath it, how easily something childlike could grow adult possibilities. I clear my throat. “Besides, a museum is twice as enlightening as anything going on in that school.”

  “True.” She smiles. “And I’ve been dying to go. I haven’t been in almost a year.”

  “I’ve never been. This will be my first time.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle,” she says, with a blush that makes her joke almost unbearably cute.

  “Naughty.”

  Her blush deepens. “Yeah, well. I figure if you can’t beat ’em …”

  I laugh, a real laugh that soothes away the sharp feeling in my chest. “That’s okay. You don’t have to be gentle. I like it rough. Just don’t make any bets involving my virtue. Only wastes of flesh do things like that.”

  “You’re not a waste,” she murmurs.

  “Just stupid?”

  “You’re not stupid, either.” She considers me with an intensity that makes me glad I’m hidden in the shadows. “That’s what makes it so hard to understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Why you made the bet in the first place.”

  I shrug. “Maybe I am stupid.”

  “Or maybe you’re a different person.”

  I lie perfectly still but for the curl of my fingers into the dusty carpet. Could she know? On some level does she realize the truth?

  “I mean, you’re one person at school with your friends. You practically ignored me last week except at rehearsal,” she says. “And then, when we’re alone, you’re completely different. Even the way you walk is different.”

  Ah. Not the truth, but she’s getting warmer. “You’re right.”

  “So which one is the real Dylan?”

  Neither. The real Dylan has left the building. You’re stuck with me, the thief of hearts, and I’m sorry for that. More than I thought I could be.

  “I don’t know,” I say instead. “But I’d like more time as the person I am when I’m with you.” I meet her eyes, but can’t muster up a sappy smile. Pretty lies sound so ugly this morning. “Thank you for forgiving me.”

  “Thanks for forgiving me back.”

  There’s a crawling feeling in my throat, a skip in the rhythm of my pulse. I feel … guilty? Yes, I think that’s it. I know I should reach out, take her hand, make the most of this moment hiding in the shadows beneath her bed, when she’s happy and open to a romantic gesture. But I can’t. I can only nod and ask, “When do we leave?”

  “Thirty minutes. Maybe an hour. As soon as my mom leaves for work.”

  She crosses her arms and lays her cheek on top. I do the same, forcing myself to watch her watch me, to whisper and plan, and to pretend the warmth growing between us isn’t fueled by deception.

  EIGHT

  Ariel

  I can’t believe this. Any of it.

  The past fourteen hours are a dream that keeps getting progressively more bizarre. First finding out about the bet, then the near disaster in the car, then Dylan acting as if he likes me—maybe even a lot, maybe even for real. And now this easy escape from my crushing routine. I can’t believe it.

  I can’t believe I undressed with Dylan in the same room. I can’t believe I’ve been flirting like it’s my new job. I can’t believe I conned my mother or that I’m skipping school or that I called the office and pretended to be Dylan’s dad’s girlfriend to keep him from getting detention. I can’t believe Dylan and I shared a large coffee and three sticky pink donuts, or that we listened to his favorite playlists and talked music the entire way down to Santa Barbara, or that he’s made me smile more in a few hours than I have in months. Maybe longer.

  If it weren’t for the episode last night and the nightmare this morning, I’d think this was all some pretty dream I’m going to wake up from any second.

  But it’s not. It’s real.

  I’m really standing here in the Works on Paper wing. Dylan Stroud is really hovering over my right shoulder, staring at an Egon Schiele painting of a gaunt man with sunken cheeks and footless legs. He’s really close enough for me to smell the detergent on his tight gray T-shirt. Close enough that his breath kisses my neck when he speaks.

  “I like this.” His voice is hushed. It’s as if he feels it, that charge straight to the heart I get whenever I look at something by a master. Who would have imagined?

  I guess I would have. Back when he sang that song for me at the spring formal rehearsal, I did. I believed he felt the way I felt, that books and music and art dug into his guts and rearranged his molecules and seemed more real to him than real life ever does. And maybe I was right. Maybe the way he acts at school is a cover to hide that part of himself that other people wouldn’t understand. Because most people don’t see the world the way we see it.

  We. Could we be … we? Maybe. Today I say … maybe.

  I still don’t trust him. Not entirely. He’s too different. He watches me like a stranger, like someone who hasn’t sat across the aisle from me since first grade. We’re having a great time, but a voice in my head warns me to be careful, to keep my distance. Still, distance isn’t easy. Looking at art alone has always been a transporting experience, but looking at art with Dylan is completely … sexy.

  I close my eyes, and my entire face starts to burn. I’ve never even thought that word, but since the moment Dylan crawled through my window this morning I’ve been feeling it. All my senses are heightened and conspiring against me. The sunlight slanting across the room, the warm, soapy smell of Dylan mingling with the old-book-and-older-paint smell of the art, the hint of coffee floating up the stairs from the café, and all the raw emotion hanging on the walls.

  It’s sensual, heady. Sexy.

  It makes me want to turn around, wrap my arms around his neck, and press against him the way I did last night. I want him to kiss me again. I know it would be better than it was the first time. More authentic. Maybe even the most authentic thing I’ve ever felt.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “I love it.” I turn my head and find his lips only inches from my cheek. I don’t know whether to hold my breath or breathe deep, to pull back or give in.

  “You don’t think it’s ugly? Disturbing?” His dark eyes flick to my lips. I know he’s thinking about kissing me, too, and I start to worry that my heart might injure itself from all the slamming it’s doing behind my ribs.

  I shake my head. “No. It’s real. It’s beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  I tuck my chin, letting my hair fall over my ruined cheek. For a second I’d actually forgotten about the scars. I never forget about them. Never. That’s why I’m wearing a billowy long-sleeved blue shirt and jeans even though I know it will get warm today. I always cover the scars on my arms; I always keep my hair arranged to conceal as much of my face as I can. I can’t believe I let my guard down. Even for a second.

  “Don’t.” His fingers trail up my throat, and my breath shudders out in a way that leaves no doubt about what he makes me feel. A part of me is ashamed, and demands I run before Dylan laughs and confesses this is all a prank.

  But another part wonders …

  I look up. He isn’t l
aughing. “Don’t hide. There’s no reason to.”

  “Yes, there is,” I whisper. “People stare.”

  “Have you ever thought they’re staring for a different reason?” His fingers curl around the back of my neck, and my body hums like he’s touched me everywhere, all at once. “Because you’re too beautiful not to stare at?”

  “No.” I swallow, keenly aware that his lips are slowly moving closer. “I haven’t.”

  “Well,” he whispers. “Maybe you’re dumber than you seem too.” And then he kisses me, a soft brush of his lips against mine. It’s feather-light and fleeting, and he’s gone before I can even think about kissing him back, but it doesn’t matter. It still feels like my soul is going to explode, like I’m going to shatter into a thousand pieces and all of them will grow wings and fly wild through the room.

  “Come on. I want to see more.” He takes my hand. After only a moment’s hesitation, I let him. “Let’s check out the special exhibit.”

  “We can’t. It doesn’t open until this weekend.” I’d been both disappointed and relieved when I’d read the dates on the sign downstairs. I love Schiele’s work, but a lot of it is on the … erotic side.

  I stop walking at the closed door to the exhibit, holding still when Dylan gives my arm a tug. “Really. It’s not open to the public.”

  “And?”

  “We’ll get in trouble if we go inside. They might have an alarm on the door.”

  “They might.” He looks over his shoulder, eyes glittering. “We’ll never know unless we open it.”

  Something in my chest rumbles, like a motorcycle revving up. Exciting, wild, and way too similar to what I felt last night when we stole that bottle of wine. Daring is exhilarating, but it can also be dangerous. “The last time we broke the rules, I ended up drunk and forgetting things.”

  “No, the last time we broke the rules, we ended up having a lovely drive and eating some pink donuts with extra sprinkles,” he says, urging me closer to the door. “We agreed to forget about that other time that I can’t even remember because I’ve forgotten about it so completely.”

  He reaches for the handle, and the rev inside me builds to a roar. I look over my shoulder, noting the lack of cameras near the ceiling, half wishing the museum guard we saw in the other room would wander in and keep me from giving in to this reckless side of myself. But he doesn’t, and when the door opens with a squeak—and no alarm—I let Dylan draw me inside the softly lit room.