by Stacey Jay
“Help! Help us!” I scream. I point a finger her way, but she remains unmoved. It’s no surprise that she wants us both dead, but surely she can see this isn’t justice. “If you’re truly on the side of good, you can’t let her die! It’s pointless. She won’t hurt anyone here.”
You underestimate the girl’s capacity for evil. And your own. I hear her voice in my head, a disturbing sensation that makes me wince.
“She’s not evil,” I whisper, but I know the Ambassador can hear me. “In this time, a woman is the property of her father or her husband or the Church. She won’t have the power or freedom to—”
Women have their own power, Romeo. Look how she’s made you her slave.
“You’re the one who would have made me a slave!” I shout, though I know this argument is pointless. There’s only one thing left to say that might move her. “No matter what you believe, it’s against your vows to watch two people die and not lift a finger to help.”
My vows prevent me from doing harm to any living thing, she says, a sly note in her voice that reminds me of my maker. But there were no living things in this church when I started the fire.
I shake my head, more repulsed than surprised.
I’m sad it had to end like this, Romeo.
I ignore her, and gather Ariel into my arms. We’ll have to go up the stairs to the bell tower. It’s our only choice. The path to the low windows is catching fire, and the Ambassador stands between us and the nearest escape.
If it offers any comfort, I’m going to save Juliet. I will pull her from the tomb and give her another eternity of happiness and light.
“Another eternity of slavery!” I spit as I stagger to my feet. Ariel can’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds, but she’s dead weight, and the smoke is making my head spin.
Juliet will not be a slave; she will be a savior of the world.
If I weren’t choking, I would laugh at the delusion in her voice. She’s insane. As mad and murderous as I once was, and I will not allow her to have Juliet if I can help it.
I turn my back on her and stumble toward the stairs, mind racing with possibilities. The bell tower steps are made of wood, but the tower itself is made of stone. Hopefully the fire won’t spread as quickly there. If I can find something sharp, I can cut the rope tying the bells and use it to lower Ariel to the ground. I’ll follow her down and hide her somewhere safe. Then I’ll find Juliet and—
“Romeo. There you are,” a low voice speaks from the darkness inside the tower door, making me cry out and nearly fall in my haste to back away. I know that voice. I know it even before the friar steps from the shadows with the knife we used to murder Juliet held in his hand.
“No.”
“Where have you been hiding? I waited for you on the road for hours,” he says, leaving no doubt that this is the friar as I knew him, when he was inhabited by a Mercenary and he tricked me into destroying the girl I loved. “I searched all the usual places, but it was as if you had … vanished from the face of the earth.”
I let out a shaking breath. He’s speaking in medieval Italian, and he doesn’t seem to know about our past. Or future. Or whatever it is, now that I’ve looped back upon my long life and come once again to the moment when my eternity of evil began.
“Come,” he says, motioning me closer. “We have business. There is still time to get through the flames if we hurry.”
“Go away,” I whisper like a child to a feral dog met on the road. But this man won’t listen any more than a dog would. He is unreachable by reason or pleading or prayer, which only makes the cross swinging from his neck that much more ironic.
His eyes narrow, moving from me to Ariel and back again. “Juliet was telling the truth, then. You have had a change of heart.”
“Leave Juliet alone. She’s worthless to you.”
He smiles, waves a wisp of smoke away with a calm hand. “You’re correct. There’s no need to bother with Juliet. She isn’t the one you love, is she?” He holds out the knife, handle first. “Take this with you to the tower; spill the girl’s blood before she wakes. It will be simple and painless. I’ll be there soon to administer the vows.”
He moves closer, pressing the knife into the fingers I’ve curved around Ariel’s knees. Then he takes my cheeks in his papery hands and leans in to kiss my forehead, inspiring a rush of such pure fear that it clears my head and pumps my weakening body full of strength. If I could run, I would, but he blocks the path to the only safe place. I remind myself that I’m the one holding the knife, but I know it won’t make a difference.
The friar can kill with a finger, a thought, a smile. I’ve felt the hands on my face dig under my skin like razor-tipped worms. He has shot a killing thought through my mind and sent my brain exploding out the other side, and kept me alive to suffer through the aftermath. He is every nightmare I never wanted Ariel to dream, and here he is, close enough for me to smell the bitterness of his breath.
“This one loves you. Her heart is on fire with it,” he whispers against my skin. “And your aura glows for her, as bright as it ever did for Juliet. Brighter, even.” He smiles and shifts his eyes to a spot over my shoulder. “I once knew a love like that. My wife and I went our separate ways, but she’s been putting her finger in my affairs of late. That is not something I will tolerate, Romeo, even in my favorite enemy.”
I follow his gaze across the flames to where the Ambassador stands behind the screen.
His wife.
Once this terror and the witch behind me were bound by love. Now all that’s left is magic and hatred. I can see it in his face, all the things he plans to do to Juliet’s nurse if he can reach her before she finds a way out.
“Please … don’t do this.” I close my eyes for a moment and hope that some true force of goodness will hear my prayer.
“I won’t do a thing. You will.” He pats my arm and shifts me closer to the stone steps. “Make this sacrifice, and you will be my brother in every way.”
“No. I won’t.”
“You will,” he says. “You’re a smart boy, Romeo. You are banished. This is your only way out. When the flames reach the top of the stairs, you’ll be ready with that knife and will send your love to dance with the angels. Then I will come to take you away. We’ll walk to the burial ground on the hill, and I’ll show you all my wonderful secrets.”
I shake my head, the memory of the horror rotting in the stone-covered grave filling my mind. I clench my jaw against a wave of nausea.
“Go.” He lifts his palm, and I feel the force of his will shove at my shoulders. I step back in response, a puppet to be controlled by his power. He can still influence me. Maybe enough to make the choice of whether to sacrifice Ariel no choice at all. I shiver and clutch her so tightly to my chest that she moans again.
The friar smiles. “Get some air, and do your work. I will join you in a moment.”
As soon as he turns toward Juliet’s nurse, I whirl and stagger up the stairs, all too ready to escape his presence, knowing that every second will count. I have a knife. I’ll be able to cut the rope holding the bells and fashion a sling to lower Ariel to the ground. Then I can crawl down after and free Juliet from her tomb. If I can manage it all before the Mercenary finds me again, there will be a chance for us all to escape. If not, I have the knife, and I’ll do what I have to do.
I don’t want to die, but I refuse to live to hurt her.
“Ariel, please,” I pant in English as I climb. “Wake up. Ariel, wake up, wake—”
“Romeo?” she murmurs, her voice scratchy and raw. My arms shake. I’ve never been so happy to hear my own name. At least now she’ll be conscious while I lower her down, and able to run from the church even if I can’t join her. And I can tell her I love her one more time. Maybe this time she’ll believe me. “Romeo? Is—”
“We’re alive, but we’re in danger. There’s a fire.”
“What? I don’t understand,” she says in perfect medieval Italian. She must have assi
milated the language during the shift, the way I always assimilated the language of whatever country I happened to find myself in.
“We’re in danger,” I repeat in my native tongue, surprised by how natural it feels after so many hundreds of years out of practice.
“What?” Groggily she loops her arms around my neck. “Where are we?”
“We’re in a church.” I don’t want to tell her too much. She’s already confused. Mentioning where we are might scramble what’s left of her mind. “But there’s a fire and—”
“You have to put me down.”
“If you think you can—”
“Put me down. This isn’t right. Especially in the church.” She shoves at my hands, and I have no choice but to set her feet on the floor. I’m careful of the knife, but it catches the hem of her skirt as I pull it away, tearing a rip in the fabric. “My dress!” she exclaims, as if I’ve committed some unforgivable offense.
I stand staring for a moment, dumbfounded. “Ariel, there’s a fire,” I repeat as patiently as I can manage. “Your dress is the least of our worries.”
“But people will think—”
“What are you talking about? What people?”
“Are you mad?” She presses back against the wall. “Where is your head?”
“Ariel, we’re going to be burned alive if we don’t get out of here.” Not to mention that there’s a man downstairs who’s plotting to force me to drive a knife through your heart as soon as he finishes torturing his ex-wife. “We can talk more when we reach the top of the tower.” I hold out my hand, but she only cringes closer to the stones. “Ariel, please—”
“What are you saying?”
“Ariel! Listen to me!”
“Why are you calling me that?”
I freeze, my hands hovering in the air as if she’s thrown up an invisible barrier between us. “It’s your name.”
“Romeo, you frighten me,” she says, big blue eyes filling with tears. “You know my name. We’ve known each other since we were children.”
My hands knead the air, searching for something to cling to. “I … I don’t—”
“It’s me, Rosaline,” she says. “Don’t you remember?”
Rosaline. Ariel. Rosaline. Ariel looks nothing like Rosaline, but obviously she thinks she’s Rosaline DeSare. Or maybe Ariel is Rosaline now. Just like …
“Benvolio,” I whisper, thinking of that day on the street in the twenty-first century when Benvolio was so certain he was someone else. What if he … What if Ben Luna …
“Your cousin?” Rosaline asks. “Is he here?”
What if … Could he and Ben … Could Ben …
“Romeo, please. Let’s find Friar Lawrence. He can help. I know he is your friend and confidante.”
Her words snap me out of my thoughts. It doesn’t matter who’s who or what’s changed or why. There are some very important constants to consider. Fire rages in the church, and two supernatural creatures want us dead. If we waste time sorting out our thoughts, we’ll have no brains in our heads left to think them.
I take Ariel’s … Rosaline’s hand and hold on, my grip gentle but firm. “I’m sorry if I’ve frightened you. The smoke must have affected me. I’m better now.”
“You are?”
“I am. But there’s a fire downstairs. We’ll be burned if we go down the steps. Our only hope is to reach the top of the tower and for me to lower you down to the ground with a rope.”
Her eyes fly wide. “All the way down? From the top of the tower? But I—I can’t.”
“You must.”
“It’s too far.” She tries to pull away, but I hold tight. “I’ll be frightened to death.”
“Rosaline, please. It’s the only way. Will you trust me? Will you let me help you?” I look deep into her eyes and try not to think about how painful it is to see her so … changed.
She is earnest and sweet and good, but she isn’t Ariel. She’s not my fierce girl with her head full of pain and her heart full of passion. She’s not the person who listened to my secrets in a way I’ve never had anyone else listen. She’s not the love I held in my arms and memorized the way she breathed. This girl with her hand in mine isn’t Rosaline, but she isn’t my Ariel, either. She doesn’t breathe the same way. She won’t kiss the same way or love the same way or hate the same way or feel or dream or hope or rage or laugh the way my Ariel did.
It makes my heart ache, but I ignore that, too. The Ariel I knew might be gone, but her body and some version of her soul are still here, and there is no time to mourn what’s been lost. “Please. Hurry with me. I don’t want you hurt, and I know your parents would be devastated to learn of your death.”
“My …” Her lips blanche. “All right.”
I nod and start back up the stairs, hoping we haven’t wasted too much time. I concentrate on the feel of the creaking wood beneath my leather boots and the smell of the smoke drifting up the stairwell, refusing to think about what has been lost.
TWENTY-SIX
Ariel
This time, I am the screaming thing, the intruder with the voice no one else can hear.
I’m here! Please! Let me out! Romeo! I’m here! Please!
Please, please, please …
I scream and scream, but Romeo doesn’t hear me. Neither does Rosaline, this person wearing my body and using my mouth to speak a language I can’t understand. But I can understand her thoughts and fears, her stupid worries about her torn dress and propriety and modesty and what her father will think when she gets home.
I hear her thoughts. I even feel her emotions, but it’s not like I’d feel them if they were mine. It’s like when your foot falls asleep and the tingling blocks out some of the information traveling from your foot to your brain. I’m still aware of going through the motions—walking and talking and holding Romeo’s hand in mine—but the sensation’s not all there.
I’m not all here. I’m not here at all. I’m nothing. Only a voice screaming in the dark inside a mind that can’t even—
Rosaline says something, and my hand flies to my forehead. For the first time I really feel my skin. Her fingers … my fingers … are cold. They shake as they press against my temple. She’s wondering … she’s starting to …
She …
She’s not a she. I know the thought wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, but to me it’s a revelation. I’m suddenly connected—mind, body, and soul. I’m still not in control, but I’m a part of this. Rosaline isn’t another person; she’s a different version of … me.
Deep, deep down, where the secrets of blood and bone determine what a person is and what they’ll become, Rosaline and I are the same. Rosaline is what I could have been if I’d been born in a different time, raised a different way, taught different things. If my dad had stuck around, if my mom hadn’t had me all alone, if we’d had family to help us, if I’d never been burned or stared at like a freak, if I’d never heard the screaming things and learned too much about fear and anger, if I’d spent my time daydreaming about spiritual rapture instead of the flesh and blood kind I had with Romeo.
In a way, it’s comforting. I can feel how easy it would be to relax my hold on Ariel Dragland and let myself become a part of Rosaline. She would absorb me like a sponge. It wouldn’t be like dying, just … forgetting. It would be what I wished the doctor could have done for me when I was little. When I first visited the child psychiatrist, I thought she was going to fix me, erase all the bad things in my head and make me normal. I was devastated when I learned she didn’t have that power.
But now I could have my wish. All I have to do is loosen my grip and fall into the welcoming darkness of Rosaline. I could let go and forget, and it would be like all the bad things in my life never happened.
A week ago I would have leapt for oblivion without a thought. But now … I can’t. Because forgetting all the bad things would mean forgetting all the good things too. I’d forget my mom and how much she loves me. I’d forget Gemma and our flaw
ed, but precious, friendship. I’d forget Romeo and how much I love him. I’d forget everything he meant to me, and how he loved me enough to forgive me when I didn’t deserve to be forgiven. I’ll never get to tell him that I forgive him, too, and he’ll live the rest of his life with that haunted look in his eyes. He’s in his old body now, but it’s full up with the soul I fell in love with. I know it’s him, just like he knows the girl next to him isn’t me.
He thinks I’m gone. Maybe even dead. I can see it in the way he looks at me, feel it when he brushes the hair from my face and begs me to, “Please, keep going. Let me carry you if you can’t walk. There’s no time.”
“I … I can’t,” she says, shivering as I push against the thin wall separating the two of us. I can understand her now, and imagine how my lips would move to speak this language. “I feel … ill.”
Please. Let me out, I beg. He needs me. You need me.
I send feelings of strength coursing through our body. She doesn’t have to be afraid of the world or life or growing up anymore. She doesn’t have to hide in a convent. She has another choice, and the courage to discover all the things that lie outside the walls of her father’s estate, beyond the city of Verona, out in the wide world that’s as scary as she’s imagined, but also wonderful. There are horrible things in life, but there is also hope and beauty and art and adventure and … Romeo.
If she’ll take the chance, I can show her magic, the highs and the lows and all the astonishing potential of the human heart. We can paint and laugh and play and dance and make the most of every moment with the boy we love, no matter how numbered the moments are.
“I’m afraid,” she whispers, and I know she isn’t talking to Romeo anymore.
And that’s the only thing you have to lose, I say softly. There’s no need to shout. The truth is as loud at a whisper as at a scream.
She’s spent her life locked away by fear—her father’s fear of her honor being compromised, her mother’s fear of losing her only daughter, her own fear of leaving the parents who’ve loved her too tightly for her to know who she is without them. I can see their kind faces in her mind—a man with a red beard a shade darker than his hair, and a blond woman as pale as my mother. But she’s not Mom. She’s not.
