Enthralled: Paranormal Diversions

by Melissa Marr; Kelley Armstrong

  “Will you . . . um . . . Jeffrey . . .” Lawrence struggles for words as he takes the glasses from the bartender. It’s a moment before I understand what he’s asking. What he doesn’t want to say.

  “You want to know what Jeffrey is wishing for?” I ask, forgetting the bartender can hear me. He gives both Lawrence and me strange looks. I respond by sipping my wine, but cringe at the taste. We turn our backs to the bar and look at Jeffrey, who has wandered into the main hallway.

  Focus, Juliet. I study him, wait for him to glance this way. It’s easiest to tell wishes if you can see their eyes. . . .

  “Never mind,” Lawrence says loudly, stepping in front of me, breaking my line of sight. “I never should have asked anyway, to be honest.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It just seems . . . wrong. I’ve had it used on me before. I can’t believe I was going to do it to someone else. To use magic and find out about people I . . .”

  “Love?” I say eagerly.

  “No.” Lawrence cuts me off quickly. “Not even close. People I’m interested in.”

  “But it was part of our deal,” I say, a little frantic—how am I supposed to get kissed without Lawrence’s help?

  “Relax, I’ll still help you,” he says. “Although really, you could introduce yourself to people. You don’t need me, you know. Just try it.” We stand together for a moment while I think about the possibility of walking around, talking on my own.

  What would I talk about? I’ve been to this world plenty of times, but I can count the number of conversations I’ve had with humans on one hand.

  “Lawrence?” a voice from behind the bar asks. It’s a boy I don’t recognize, with short hair and blue eyes that seem too bright for his face. Lawrence nods at him.

  “Sampson, hey,” he says. I turn away from them. I can do this. I walk toward the other side of the room, arms crossed. First person I see wishing to talk to me, I’ll introduce myself to. It’ll be easy. I turn and look, and a wish seems to grab me. It tugs at me desperately, the longing to talk to me hot behind the boy’s eyes.

  Behind Jeffrey’s eyes.

  LAWRENCE

  Sampson is confident, certain. While everyone else looks at his sculptures with a slightly bewildered expression, he looks thrilled. He talks me through how he creates them, and by the time I turn around I’ve lost track of Juliet. This place has so many walls that unless she’s standing in the main hallway, I won’t be able to see her. I notice Jeffrey has disappeared as well.

  “Are you okay?” Sampson asks. “You’re not looking for a way to run out of here, are you? Because that’s occasionally the reaction to my long explanations about sculpting.”

  I laugh. “No, not at all. I was just looking for my friend. The girl I came in with?”

  “Pretty, dark-haired girl?”

  “That’s her.” I nod. “Let me go make sure she’s not getting into trouble. . . .” Sampson nods and claps me on the back as I walk away, back to the room with the dog sculpture.

  JULIET

  “Did you lose Lawrence?” Jeffrey says, glancing at his hands like I make him nervous.

  “No, he was talking to someone else,” I answer. Now that I’ve seen one wish, it’s impossible not to see dozens of them flooding out of Jeffrey. He likes me. He wants to hold my hand. He wants to see what kind of music I listen to and know if I saw the play he was in.

  “Oh. Hey—have you been in this room yet?” he asks, pointing toward another gallery room. There are paintings in there, mostly portraits of the sculptures that are to the front, but the room is darkened so that the lights on the paintings shine bright in comparison. I shake my head.

  Lawrence wants Jeffrey. I know this.

  Jeffrey wants me.

  I want to be kissed. I want to break the spell. The spell that makes jinn different than humans, the spell that keeps us from understanding love. I want it gone.

  I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, then follow Jeffrey into the darkened room.

  LAWRENCE

  Juliet isn’t like Jinn. He was cocky, overly sure at first. He always had a plan, till Viola turned it upside down. I’m sure Juliet can take care of herself—she’s a genie, after all. Still, it makes me nervous that I can’t find her, knowing people can see her—I’m more protective than I realized, I guess. I set my wine down on the edge of a table and weave through the small crowd. I keep an eye out for Jeffrey as well, wondering if he’s looking for me.

  I hope he is.

  JULIET

  “I have to say,” Jeffrey muses, “there is no way I would hang these things in my apartment.”

  “Yeah . . . me either,” I answer honestly—we don’t really have art in my world. Certainly not art like this.

  “Makes me feel sort of mean,” Jeffrey says. “Because it’s not that it isn’t good.”

  “No. It’s really good,” I say. I keep watching the doorway for Lawrence, unsure what to do. Jeffrey is looking at me, eyes on mine. His gaze never drops to my body, but his hands do reach out. He grazes my arm with his fingertips. It makes me jump, makes me warm, makes me almost disappear without meaning to.

  I could change him. I could change him right now, make him not want me. Make him want Lawrence, even. Maybe I should. It would make Lawrence so happy. He should have someone like Jeffrey, if that’s what he wants.

  But that doesn’t seem like a very nice thing to do to someone you’re interested in, even if you’re only interested in a kiss.

  I can’t help myself. I lean forward a little.

  Jeffrey smiles softly and gently, carefully. I squeeze my hands into fists. I shouldn’t do this. Lawrence loves him, or wants to love him or plans to love him. I shouldn’t do this.

  Jeffrey kisses me.

  His lips brush across mine so easily that I barely know we’ve kissed at all.

  Until he pulls away. Until I understand exactly what has just happened.

  LAWRENCE

  “Hey,” I say to Jeffrey, who is standing in the center of the darkened painting room. He looks at me, eyes confused. “Have you seen Juliet?”

  “Actually . . . yes and no,” Jeffrey says. “She was here, like . . . seconds ago. And now she’s gone. I have no idea how she did that. . . .”

  Was she called back to Caliban? That’s how it happens— I’ve watched them disappear before. Here one minute, gone the next. Did I somehow get her in trouble? I lick my lips, unsure what to feel—I’m surprised to find I miss her. She’s the first ifrit I’ve ever missed.

  “Did she say she had to leave or anything?” I ask, walking toward him—I suppose there’s a chance she just left the party, in which case, I should keep looking. Even though I’m worried, the dryer sheet smell coming off his clothes wraps around me; I take the scent in with a deep breath.

  “No . . .” Jeffrey shuffles his feet. He sighs. “I’m sorry, Lawrence. But I think I upset her.”

  “How?”

  “Well, she’s just . . . she’s beautiful, and I guess . . . we were in here looking at art, and everyone says I need to stop being so shy all the time.”

  “I like that you’re shy,” I break in with a smile.

  Jeffrey gives me a strange look before continuing. “So I . . . well . . .”

  I blink, waiting.

  “I kissed her,” Jeffrey finishes, deflating. “Nothing serious, just really quick, and then she was . . . gone.”

  I don’t move. I can’t move. He kissed her.

  Her.

  And I guess she got what she wanted, and now she’s gone. She’s no different from the other ifrit after all. Just as selfish. Just as cold. I grit my teeth and try not to look at Jeffrey, try not to think of his lips on hers instead of mine. Her; he wanted her, not me. I feel sick.

  “I know, it was stupid. I’m sorry,” Jeffrey says, holding up his hands.

  “No. It’s fine. She’s fine, I’m sure.”

  Jeffrey doesn’t seem to know what to say. Neither do I, as I’m way too busy re
playing every time he’s looked at me. Every time he’s invited me somewhere. Every time I clearly interpreted a friendly gesture as a romantic one. I want to smash my forehead against the nearest painting, crush the canvas and tear it to shreds with my fingers.

  “Maybe we should look for her,” I suggest flatly. I lie to myself: I don’t actually care where she is. I don’t care where Jeffrey goes looking for her.

  “Okay,” Jeffrey says, and it’s obvious he knows something is wrong. He steps away from me, stealing the scent of his clothes away with him. “I’ll take the upstairs?”

  “Sure.”

  Jeffrey nods and walks out to look for Juliet, whom I’m sure is long gone. I look at the paintings and try to pick which one would be best for head smashing. I feel stupid. I feel used—she knew how I felt about him. I told her. I am furious, hurt, angry, stupid. I am . . .

  Unloved.

  I shake my head, clench my fists, and turn to leave. I’ll walk fast, get out the front door, go back to my dorm. I think about calling Viola, but to be honest, I’m not sure I want to talk to someone happily in love at the moment. I take the first angry step toward the door.

  “Wait.”

  Her voice is small and fragile, but it snares me easily. I whirl around and see her, lurking in a shadowy corner. Her arms are folded and her head is down. She steps toward me. I bite my tongue to keep from snapping. Juliet comes closer, and I finally see, to my surprise, that she’s crying.

  JULIET

  My kind don’t cry, not really. But when Jeffrey’s lips touched mine . . . I thought of Lawrence’s eyes, of the way he watched Jeffrey, of the thousands of hidden wishes that must be beneath his calm surface, so many of them the same as mine: to understand love. To be loved.

  Maybe the kiss worked. Maybe it broke the spell. But maybe the spell wasn’t what I thought it was. I don’t understand love, but I understand pain, I understand regret in a way I didn’t only a few moments ago. And now I’m here, crying in front of a boy I barely know over the love that neither of us have. Our kinds are more alike than we think.

  He should yell at me. I wait for it.

  “Don’t . . .” Lawrence looks at the ceiling, then his voice softens, defeat still lacing his tone. “Don’t cry.” A couple enters the room; they can’t see me. Lawrence nods his head to the door and mouths, “Let’s go.” I follow him to a side door, and we slink outside into the night.

  We’re in a wide brick stairwell, one on the side of the building with an iron railing. Lawrence sighs and sits down on the top step, mouth a firm line. I pause, unsure, then sit down beside him.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, winding my fingers through my hair. “I didn’t see the wishes ahead of time. I’d have warned you he wasn’t interested in you. Not the way you were interested in him. And the kissing, it just . . . it just happened. . . . I disappeared as soon as I did it, I didn’t know it would feel like this. . . . I didn’t know kissing was like that.” I don’t know what to say, don’t know how to explain myself to him. Everything feels cheap, like a poor imitation of friendship, and I shut my mouth before any more of it escapes.

  “Right,” Lawrence says, exhaling. His breath is visible in the chill, fluffy clouds by his lips. “I believe you. I just . . . I don’t know how to make you understand.”

  But I do understand now, in a way: I understand that love is not kissing. Love is not movies or laughter or any of the things I so carefully studied. It is something else, and that’s what’s still a mystery to me. Lawrence gets it, I can tell—even if he hasn’t experienced it. He gets it in a way I don’t. I wish he would show me, let me into his mind for just a moment.

  I look at him meaningfully, desperately, and Lawrence sighs. He closes his eyes, and in one swift movement, his walls collapse.

  LAWRENCE

  Jinn is the only one who has ever seen my wishes—really seen them. But I give in. I don’t want to fight anymore, don’t want to hold back. I feel spent, like I’m falling to my knees after a race. I’ve always held off the ifrit by keeping a single image alive in the back of my mind—a smooth, white snowscape, one that covers all of my desires.

  I let it melt.

  I hear Juliet gasp, see her eyes scanning me, like she’s watching too many fireworks at once. I sit still. I know what she’s seeing. I wish for the fairy-tale romance. I wish it involved Jeffrey. I wish it involved anyone, really, that would love me unconditionally, without restraint. I wish for a thousand other things that have nothing to do with love, but I’m sure that at the moment, the wish to be loved is the strongest. I can feel it all around me, like the wish might swallow me whole. I’m not sure if I’m showing her what love is. But at least she can see what wanting it feels like for me. For mortals. I wonder if she’s ever felt like this before.

  Juliet reaches forward and gingerly places her fingers on my hand. I turn it, and she responds by sliding her hand down, gripping mine tightly.

  “Did you get some research out of this, at least?” I ask. My words are supposed to be teasing, but they mostly come out defeated. I manage a weak smile at her, and she sniffles and blinks away a few last tears.

  “I guess,” she says, shrugging. “I still don’t understand. But I get the impression no one does.”

  “Maybe mortals and immortals aren’t as different as we thought,” I answer. I lift her hand in mine and kiss the back of it. I have to admit, of all the ifrit, she’s the only one that I’ve liked. Even if she kissed Jeffrey. She smiles at me, and for the first time I don’t think she’s analyzing anything, researching anything. She’s just smiling.

  The door behind us swings open and, to my surprise, Sampson is there. He looks at me strangely, then takes off his shoe to prop the door and keep it from locking behind him.

  “You talking to yourself?” Sampson asks. Juliet jumps up as Sampson sits down beside me on the top step.

  “Yeah,” I say instantly. “I do it from time to time. Voices in my head, you know.”

  Sampson laughs, bright and powerful. Heat from inside the gallery trickles out and flattens itself against our backs. Juliet, standing a few steps down so that we’re eye level, watches. Her cheeks are chapping in the cold.

  “I’m glad you came by. How many of my sculptures are going to give you nightmares?” Sampson asks, grinning. His smile makes me smile back, like I don’t even have a choice in the matter.

  “A good half,” I admit.

  “Excellent,” Sampson says. “I’ll never be the classic poor, starving artist if I start creating stuff everyone wants in their bedroom.”

  “He wants to sit out here with you. He hasn’t stopped thinking about you since you came in,” Juliet says suddenly. I see her eyes on Sampson, intent, focused, like she’s reading very faraway text. I start to shake my head at her, but her words seem to have thawed me. I lean back a little, exhale.

  “I don’t know. That’s the type of stuff certain rock stars might want in their home. I bet if you added a naked girl in the shower of one of those houses, they’d pay you millions.”

  “Sculptor of the stars . . .” Sampson nods, thinking it over, then grins again.

  “He doesn’t know what to say to you. He wishes you’d tell him more about yourself. Or ask him more about himself. Or anything, really . . .” Juliet’s voice drifts off and she meets my eyes hopefully, almost desperately.

  I mouth “thank you” at her, which makes her beam. She glances from me to Sampson a few times, and then vanishes. Emptiness sweeps over me. I turn back to Sampson, who is trying to figure out what’s in the blank space I’m staring at.

  “I get distracted easily,” I say, turning my body toward his. “So, are you studying creepy-ass sculpture, or is that concentration not officially offered here?”

  JULIET

  Here are the things I learned about love:

  It involves kissing.

  It changes you.

  It’s never where you expect it.

  Niederwald

  by Rachel Vincen
t

  mma, wake up!” I shook her shoulder and she jerked upright, blinking, her normally golden complexion tinted green by the clock numbers blinking in the dashboard.

  “Where are we?” she asked, pushing long blond hair from her face as we passed the road sign that answered her question.

  NIEDERWALD, TEXAS, POPULATION 542. What the sign didn’t say was that only a dozen or so of those were human.

  “We’re still about three hours from home.” After the world’s lamest extra-credit road trip to some bullshit cultural fair. I would not be writing the corresponding essay.

  “Why are we stopping? Where’s the highway, Sabine?” Emma twisted to stare out the rear windshield, like I-35 might magically reappear.

  “Took a detour. I have to do something.” A couple of things, actually. I’d only come with her in the first place because my car wasn’t running and Em’s trip would take her within shouting distance of where I needed to be. But the downside of my free trip to Neiderwald was an entire day spent with my ex’s new girlfriend’s best friend. Em and I had nothing in common other than Nash and Kaylee, and calling the two of us friends would have meant redefining the term entirely.

  I turned right into the Sac-N-Pac parking lot, the only break in acres of empty farmland, other than the occasional mobile home and a few houses in clusters too small to be called neighborhoods. I parked in front of the building, a couple of spaces down from several other cars. Two sets of eyes watched me from the first vehicle, colorless reflections of light, and I could feel more from the other cars.

  I hadn’t been to Neiderwald in nearly a year, but nothing had changed.

  Emma frowned. “Fine, we’ll take a bathroom break. But then I’m driving. No more detours.”

  I pulled the keys from the ignition and pointedly shoved them into my pocket, letting a small beat of alarm and intimidation pulse through my carefully constructed mental shields—feeding her fear, like fattening up a cow before the slaughter. A reminder that just because I hadn’t turned her into a quaking mass of terror and tears didn’t mean I couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.