Romeo Redeemed (Juliet Immortal)

by Stacey Jay

  I’m sick of the uncertainty, of being at the mercy of everyone’s desires but my own. Right now I don’t want to think about Ambassadors or Mercenaries. I want to be here, with Ariel in my arms.

  “Dance with me. Please.”

  “Okay,” she whispers.

  I take her hand, keenly aware of every shift of muscle and bone that it takes to thread my fingers through hers. I can’t remember being this nervous before. I feel like a boy again, but worse. Back then I had no idea how precious moments like this would be in my many lifetimes of wickedness and pain. Now I do, and it makes my hands shake as Ariel and I find an empty place in the crush of swaying bodies and I pull her close.

  The song about lady luck has ended, and now a girl in a skintight black gown that makes her look like an eight ball with legs wails about finding her love at last. It’s a heartbreakingly happy song, with soaring violins and tripping drums, and the girl works every note in a way that gets under my borrowed skin.

  Borrowed. Stolen. Almost gone. I’m getting ready to expire, and every moment with Ariel is becoming more precious.

  “You smile, you smile,” the girl onstage sings. I think about the first time I saw Ariel smile, that night by the side of the road when I was still stupid enough to think I was in control. I hold her tight as I spin in a circle, making her cling to my neck and her breath rush out.

  When I set her back on her feet, she ducks her head. “People are staring,” she murmurs against my shoulder.

  “Let them.” My fingers spread at the small of her back, mesmerized by the warmth seeping through the fabric. She’s so alive. I can’t imagine her any other way. I won’t. “Promise me you’ll keep moving. No more than a few days in Las Vegas, and don’t call anyone. I’ll meet you on Sunday if I can. If not, buy a ticket and get on a bus. Don’t wait for me. If I’m held up for some unexpected reason, I’ll find you later.”

  She sighs. “My mom is going to be so upset. She’s going to lose her mind.”

  My fingers curl. I know Ariel doesn’t want to leave her mother, but there’s no other choice. There’s no guarantee that I’ll be here to protect her. Running is Ariel’s best chance at survival. “If you stay, she’ll be more than upset,” I say. “She’ll be dead. And so will you.”

  “I know,” she whispers.

  “I don’t want to scare you, I just …” I force my fingers to relax. “No. That’s a lie. I want you to be scared. I want you to be so scared that you never, ever stop running. Even years from now, when you imagine that the creatures hunting you must have turned their attention elsewhere. They won’t have. They’re ancient. A year, ten years, twenty, is nothing to them. They will hunt you until the day you die. Promise me you’ll do as we’ve planned.”

  She’s quiet for a long, unsettling minute. I try to catch her eye, but she won’t look at me. She stares at the disco ball lights swimming like tadpoles across the floor, tension turning her mouth into a crooked line.

  “Please.” I sway to a stop, sickened by the thought that she has changed her mind. “If I have to leave without knowing you’re safe, I don’t know what …” I do know. I’ll go mad. “Please. If you love me at all, do whatever it takes.”

  She lifts her chin, and I see unspoken questions in her eyes, but still she doesn’t say a word.

  “What’s wrong?” Silence, and for a moment she seems flatter, hollow, like a picture of herself instead of the living, breathing person I’ve known. But then she blinks, and Ariel is back.

  “Nothing’s wrong. I mean … everything’s wrong, but you’re right.” She stands on tiptoe and brushes her lips against my newly smooth cheek, the one she helped me shave with her pink razor. “I’ll keep to the plan. I promise.”

  I kiss the skin near her ear. “Thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. Just … tell me you love me again.”

  “I love you,” I say, wishing she knew how much more those three words mean to me now that I’ve met her. “More than anything.”

  A sad grin licks the edges of her lips. “You’d better go.” The girl singing the Etta James number finishes her song, and a boy with heavily gelled hair starts a country-inspired version of “Maria” from West Side Story. “You’re on after Logan, right?”

  “Yes.” I squeeze her hand. “Come with me. Stand by the stage. I want to see you when I’m up there.”

  “Okay.” She tucks her chin, hiding her face as we thread our way through the couples paired up on the dance floor.

  Some sway stiffly back and forth, but the more daring are dancing in a way that leaves no doubt what they’ll be doing later. Hips roll and hands roam, and I suddenly can’t stop thinking about last night, about Ariel’s long legs wrapped around me. I cast a glance over my shoulder, wondering what she’s thinking, but she’s still looking at her feet, shoulders hunched.

  She’s too busy worrying about the future to focus on our last happy moments. But I can do something about that. I’ve seen the way she looks at me when I sing. I’m going to sing like I’ve never sung before, then I’m going to pull her back onto the dance floor and we’re going to dance like people are supposed to dance, wild and wanton and free, until we forget everything but her and me and the music.

  “Don’t move.” I release her hand at a shadowy spot near the wall—dark enough for her to feel comfortable, but light enough for me to see her from the stage.

  “I won’t.” She accepts the kiss I press to her cheek, but doesn’t look up. Her gaze is still fixed on some distant nothing, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Again, I get that sense that she’s emptier than she was before.

  “Are you all right?”

  She meets my eyes, but something is still … off. “No. But I will be.” She smoothes the hair away from my face. “Now go. It’s your cue.”

  I nod, but the off-kilter feeling follows me through the curtains into the backstage area, making my jaw tight as I take the microphone Mrs. Mullens offers, and cross to the holding area. I remind myself that leaving one’s family and setting out alone in the world is enough to make anyone shell-shocked, but I don’t believe that’s the reason for Ariel’s vacant expression.

  Even before the girl in the black hooded sweatshirt slips from her hiding place in the curtains, I wonder if something else is to blame. And then I see Gemma’s face, her haunted eyes, and know my troubles are much bigger than I believed.

  “What are you—”

  “Shut it, Stroud. We don’t have time for your stupidity,” Gemma hisses. “You’re a sorry excuse for a person and I hate you like cancer, but I don’t want you dead.”

  Dead. The word lands in my gut and lays there like a bomb waiting to explode, heavy and full of dreadful potential. Back when I was a Mercenary, I was nearly impossible to destroy, but now …

  I’m not even an Ambassador. If I’m killed while I’m in Dylan’s body, I don’t know where I’ll go, but I don’t imagine it will be a good place. Maybe I’ll reach the mists of forgetting and wander there for eternity like the Ambassadors I killed, or maybe I’ll bypass the slow rot my Mercenary maker had planned and go straight to being one of the lost souls that howl in Ariel’s mind. Either way, I’ll be useless, helpless to protect or serve anyone.

  “You can’t go onstage.” Gemma grabs the sleeve of my jacket and holds on tight. “I know you think I’m crazy, but trust me—don’t go out there. Sneak out the other side of the curtains, go out the back door, and—”

  “Why?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I’ll believe you,” I insist. “I promise I will.”

  She hesitates, but then the music shifts and I see her decide there’s no time to argue. The song’s almost over.

  “When Ariel brought me my jewelry this afternoon, she told me she didn’t want me to come to the dance. She said she was afraid I’d be spotted.” Gemma pulls in a breath, and continues with obvious effort. “I told her I didn’t care, I wasn’t going to miss seeing you get what’s coming to you. We snuck
into the cafeteria earlier today and—”

  “I know about the video.”

  Her jaw drops. “What?”

  “I don’t care,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. “It’s no big deal.”

  Gemma grabs my elbow and shakes it until I turn back to her. “What about this? Is this no big deal?” She tugs the hood off her head, revealing a bloody gash at her temple. The blood has dried to a dark umber, but the wound is fresh. “When I told Ariel she was acting nuts and I was calling her mom, she lost it. She told me to leave Solvang and not come back or I’d end up dead. Or an accessory to murder. And then she hit me with a lamp.”

  Time slows; the music piping through the speakers goes twisted and strange. I can barely breathe. Ariel said she and Gemma shared a Coke and parted with promises to stay in touch. But she must have been lying. She has to be lying, because there’s no way Gemma is. The grief and horror on her face are too real.

  And there’s only one reason Ariel would lie to me.

  One nightmarish reason.

  “I passed out for a little while. I don’t know how long.” Gemma brushes the sleeve of her sweatshirt across her nose. “Mike got back to the room an hour ago and woke me up. He tried to convince me to leave, but I told him we couldn’t go without warning you.”

  “Dylan! Get ready, it’s time,” Mrs. Mullens hisses behind me. The last notes of “Maria” echo through the cafeteria, and Logan slips through the curtain. She’s right. It’s time. I have to go out there and face the music. And the girl. And the evil that has nearly won the battle for her soul.

  I step forward, but Gemma latches on to my arm. “No!” she says. “You can’t. I think this is when she’s going to do it. Hurt you. Maybe even kill you, I don’t know.”

  “It’s all right.” The intro music begins to play. “I have to go.”

  Gemma groans in frustration. “Please! Don’t! I’m the one who said Ariel should get revenge on you. If you’re hurt, it’ll—”

  “Don’t worry. She loves you, and I love her.” I turn and hug Gemma against me, a swift squeeze that shocks her silent. “Leave. Now.” I step toward the opening in the curtain. This time, she lets me. “Find Mike, go to Washington, and stay away from Ariel.”

  “I didn’t know she was really crazy,” she whispers.

  “She’s not.” Before Gemma can respond, I flick my mike to the on position and step out onstage in time to sing the first words of Dylan’s song. I search the shadows where I left Ariel, but I’m not surprised to find them empty.

  Devastated, but not surprised.

  Ariel’s not crazy. She’s doing what she has to do to earn a position as one of the ultimate bad guys. The Mercenaries have gotten to her. Her lies this afternoon were inspired, so pitch-perfect that even someone with hundreds of years of excellence in the art didn’t see through them. The way she colored each falsehood with a hint of truth … Exceptional. Even when I said the Mercenaries wouldn’t attack me in public, she didn’t flinch, though she knew I would escort death to the dance on my arm.

  Maybe she plans to shoot me now, as she confessed. Maybe she’s going to wait until later, when we’re alone, on the way to the bus station. Either way, she played me perfectly, the way I played hundreds of pretty young girls who wanted to believe that love could conquer all. She made a fool of me, a sopping, starry-eyed fool.

  But who am I to judge her? I’ve done what she’s done, been what she will become. Even now—as the room fills with laughter as the video begins to play and I wonder if Ariel’s out there ready to use this distraction to destroy me—I can’t hate her. I still love her. It’s hopeless, but it’s real.

  It wasn’t all a lie. For a day or two she loved me and I loved her. She has changed me, and I will never be the same.

  I take a breath and keep singing, voice so full that the people closest to the stage stop laughing. “Till I’m buried … buried in my grave.”

  Buried. This would be a poetic time. Ariel is a romantic with a flair for presentation. She’s going to bring terrible beauty to her work.

  Just the way I did.

  “Oh bring it to me.” I lift my arm to the side, a gesture of surrender, an offering. “Bring your sweet lovin’—”

  The shot cracks through the air, cutting off the music, inspiring a ripple of screams that becomes a wave of terror as the shooter fires again and the disco ball shatters. Slivers of glass rain down onto the dance floor. Students cover their heads and run. Teachers and chaperones scramble to open doors, and couples grab hands and race for the exits. Mrs. Mullens runs by the stage, shouting for me to “Run!” But I don’t.

  She’s done it. It’s over. I am Juliet on the floor of the tomb, with a knife in my heart and the person I love to blame. Ariel hasn’t hit me yet, but she will, and I can’t bring myself to run and hide.

  I drop the microphone, the thud as it hits the ground echoing through the room. I clench my fists, brace myself for the pain. I’ll feel it any second, the slam of the bullet, the fire as skin and organ and bone make way for blood to pour. This is poetic justice at its finest. This is the saddest waste in the world. I loved her, and I stupidly thought that would be enough. I’m still hoping I get to see her again, that she takes the time to look me in the face before …

  There … in the doorway to the coat check. Right where she said she’d be.

  She leans against the doorframe, the glow from the room behind highlighting her silhouette through the gauzy fabric of her dress. I can’t see her face, but I know she’s looking my way. I can feel her eyes on me, inspiring a dizzy mix of fear, misery, and a hint of plain old lust. The realization makes me smile. Seems I haven’t become such a good boy, after all. I’m still sick enough to be turned on by a girl who’s trying to kill me.

  “Are you going to do it?” I shout. “The suspense is killing me.”

  “Suspense would be too gentle,” she calls back.

  She’s done it, confirmed all my suspicions. She’s a trickster and a liar and is holding a smoking gun in one of the slender hands hidden behind her back. Still, I can’t believe this will be easy for her, and I can’t believe she hates me—at least not completely.

  “You’re doing a great job.” I step closer to the edge of the stage. “Your first murder, and already proficient with the witty banter. Give you a few weeks and—”

  “Romeo!” The whisper comes from behind me, the urgency in the woman’s tone making me suspect it isn’t the first time she’s called my name. I turn to find the Ambassador hiding behind the curtains, one brown eye and one white hand peeking through. In the hand, she holds a gun.

  A gun. But I thought … I …

  She holds it out to me. “Take it. You know what you have to do.”

  I stare at the weapon for a moment before looking back at Ariel. She’s still in the doorway, a perfect target, all lit up. I’m an excellent shot. There’s no doubt I’ll hit my mark with the first bullet. I can already imagine the way the red will burst from her stomach, staining the white fabric like a flower eating up her insides to feed its bloom.

  “She’s beyond salvation.” The Ambassador tosses the weapon. It lands at my feet and spins in a lazy circle. “It’s better that she dies quickly. We can’t allow her to take the Mercenary vows.”

  “I …” I turn back to Ariel. Why is she standing so still? Why doesn’t she run or pull her own weapon? Is there a part of her that still cares? That’s waiting for me to give her a reason to stop the madness?

  There was a time when I would have agreed that Ariel’s death was for the best—if she’s come this close to becoming a Mercenary, there will be no turning back. But looking at her now, at the graceful lines of her body and the tip of her chin and the rise and fall of her shoulders as she draws breath …

  “I can’t,” I say.

  “No. I can’t,” the Ambassador whispers. “It is forbidden by my magic, but you can kill her. If you do, I promise I will make you one of us. It will be your final murder, a noble sacrifice
made for the greater good.”

  Noble sacrifice. Greater good. Noble. Good. Sacrifice.

  The words swirl through my head, shocking in their resemblance to what the Mercenary who created me said that night on the hill.

  Apparently the light and the dark have even more in common than I believed.

  I crouch, pick up the gun, and move slowly back toward the edge of the stage, a suspicion forming in my mind.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Ariel

  I watch his fingers curl around the gun, but I’m not hurt or miserable anymore. I’m not even relieved to see evidence that the Ambassador was right, and Romeo really is a killer with some unseen accomplice behind the curtain.

  All I feel is anger. Sharp and deadly.

  I lift my chin and clutch my pistol tighter. I have to take care of him before the people who ran call for help, before Romeo shoots me, or whoever’s helping him steps out with their own weapon. The Ambassador warned me that Romeo would have another Mercenary watching over him, but that his colleague will abandon Romeo when it’s clear that he’s failed, when I put an end to him with a bullet through the heart of both his bodies—one borrowed and one so nearly bought.

  Dylan is in front of me; Romeo’s old body is tied up in the room behind. The Ambassador kept her word and had him waiting for me in the freezer at the back of the kitchen. During the uproar as Dylan’s striptease played, no one even noticed me leading the vacant-eyed boy in his tattered clothes into the coat check and closing the door. No one saw me tie him up, or climb the storage shelves to fetch my grandpa’s gun from the ceiling. And now all the witnesses are gone. It’s just Romeo and me.

  It’s time. Now. Now.

  I lift the gun, pulse racing so fast, I can see it leaping at my wrist, throbbing between the muscles straining to hold the heavy weapon.

  “Wait!” Romeo shouts. “Please.” He jumps from the stage to the dance floor, where puddles of silver are all that remain of the disco ball’s racing lights. I hit both the sound system and the disco ball on my first tries. Apparently I’m a good shot. I should be able to kill Romeo before he can lift the gun in his hand.