by Stacey Jay
These boys have treated her as subhuman fodder for their own amusement. They’re the ones who never let her forget that she’s damaged, who have told again and again the story of her scars and the day she wet herself on the playground, until she became a living urban legend that the stupid children laugh at and the smarter children fear.
They have locked her in an invisible cage with a warning not to feed the Freak, and she hates them for it. She hates them and fears them, and is denied even the pleasure of unleashing her anger because of the screaming things that will be summoned by her rage.
It is … hell. They’ve put her through hell.
And I hate them for it. Hate. And it feels wonderful—sharp and hot and blissfully uncomplicated. This is what I know. Tender feelings and concern are foreign emotions I can’t manage. But I know exactly what to do with hate.
I spin with my fist raised at the perfect angle, my centuries as a dealer in violence and bloodshed serving me well. I catch the redheaded Craig in the jaw with a satisfying thud, and the boy in the green flannel shirt—Tanner or Brodie, I don’t care enough to search Dylan’s memories to figure out which—above his left ear. The second boy howls in pain, and someone on the other side of the street cries out for us to stop, but I barely notice.
This is perfect, magical.
The darkness that was my constant companion in my Mercenary life surges to the surface, a friend I welcome with open arms and tight fists. I rush forward, punching the third boy twice in the back as he runs away, thud, thud—right above the kidneys, where I know it hurts like hell. He falls to the ground—groaning, writhing—and I spin to look for Jason with a smile on my face. This will be a pleasure, a skin-bruising, teeth-smashing pleasure.
It takes only a moment to find him. He has lacked the sense to run down the street. Instead, he’s cowering in the doorway of a closed toy shop a few storefronts away, whimpering, maybe even—
“Tell me you aren’t crying!” I shout as I stalk down the sidewalk. I catch Ariel’s eyes for a moment—see the faint curve of her lips and the straightness of her spine—and a rush of satisfaction lifts me even higher. I’ve pleased her, defended her. She’ll love me now, save me. She’ll have to! “You should be ashamed of yourself,” I growl. “You pathetic excuse for a—”
A hand grabs my elbow. I spin with a clenched fist, expecting to find that one of the other boys has come back for more. Instead, I see … a ghost.
My arm falls to my side and my face goes slack.
No, not a ghost. He’s alive. His fingers are warm, his eyes flash with anger, and I can hear him draw breath before he tells me to “Back off, man.”
“Benvolio?” I croak, disbelief tightening my throat. How can this be? How? My cousin died hundreds of years ago.
But despite the modern clothes he wears—jeans and a black T-shirt—there is no doubt this is Benvolio, not some twenty-first-century look-alike. I know my cousin. I grew up with this boy, spent fifteen years of my life with him as my closest friend.
He releases my arm with a cautious flick of his wrist. “Do I know you?”
“It’s me. Romeo,” I whisper. “Benvolio, I—”
“Ben,” he says. “Just … Ben.”
“Ben.”
“Ben Luna.”
No. No, this can’t … This isn’t …
“I started school here last week.” He casts a glance over my shoulder. “I have gym with that guy.” I turn to see Jason scuttling across the street, taking advantage of my distraction to escape his beating. I think I should be angry. I think I should follow him. I think I should make sure Ariel’s okay. But all I can do is shift my gaze back to Benvolio, and watch his lips move, and fight the wave of panic surging inside me. “I get why you’d want to pound his face, but none of those guys were doing anything to you,” he says. “And my brother’s going to be here in a few minutes to meet me for coffee. He’s a cop, so …” He shrugs. “I figured you’d rather avoid getting arrested.”
“Yes. I would. Thank you … Ben.” Not Ben. Benvolio. This is my cousin, not the boy who fell in love with Juliet. He lacks the morose sincerity that made me want to stab Benjamin Luna in the gut a few dozen times—just to give him something to be so goddamned tragic about. This is Benvolio. From his soul to his skin to the way he props his hands on his hips in a vaguely menacing fashion.
But he seems to believe he’s Benjamin Luna. What does that mean? What the hell does it mean?
And where is the real Ben?
“No problem,” he says. “What was your name again?”
“Dylan.”
His eyes narrow, and I see my savvy cousin peeking out, suddenly suspicious. “That’s not what you said the first time.”
I never could fool Benvolio. I can’t fool him now, though he’s obviously fooled himself. Or someone has fooled him. Someone or something.
The Ambassador sent me back in time to a different reality. Perhaps some supernatural force has sent Benvolio forward in time? But why? To what purpose? If Benvolio were here to hurt me, he would hurt me. Right here, right now. Benvolio is nothing if not straightforward and to the point. So perhaps there is no point. Perhaps this is simply a strange, cosmic coincidence.
I force a laugh. “I mistook you for someone else, a friend I did theater with last summer. He played Benvolio. I played Romeo.”
“Yeah?” He knows I’m lying. “What play was that?”
“The one with Romeo in it,” I say, losing my patience. “Romeo and Juliet?”
He acknowledges my smart-ass tone with a lifted brow. “Never heard of it.”
“You’ve never heard of Romeo and Juliet? Do you live under a rock?” I sense movement out of the corner of my eye. It’s Ariel creeping cautiously to my side.
Shit. I’d practically forgotten her, a mistake I can’t afford, no matter how mind-bending it is to have a conversation with my cousin six hundred and something years after he should have turned to dust.
I smile, and wrap an arm around her waist.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Perfect. You?” She nods and shoots Ben a nervous look. My arm tightens, pulling her closer, wanting there to be no doubt in Ben/Benvolio’s mind that we are together. The other Ben Luna definitely had a thing for willowy blondes—this one in particular. “Ariel, this is Ben. Ben, Ariel.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says with a warmth that makes me want to smash in his toothy smile. That’s not Ben Luna’s smile; that is Benvolio’s smile, the one that would have won him more than a few hearts when we were young if he hadn’t been too honorable to tamper with a girl’s virtue.
“Ben was telling me he’s never heard of Romeo and Juliet.” I drop a kiss on top of Ariel’s head, marking her as mine.
“Oh.” She sounds distracted, tense. Probably wanting to talk about the fight, to thank me for defending her. “What’s that? A band?”
“A play,” Benvolio says. “Don’t feel bad. I didn’t know what it was either.”
Didn’t know what it was either. What the …
Suspicion, sick and insidious, churns in my gut and I wonder …
And then I wonder some more.…
And then I know I have to make it to a library. Immediately.
“So sorry, Ben, but we have to go. Pressing business at the school library,” I say, pulling Ariel back toward the car.
“Okay.” His gaze shifts between Ariel and me, as if trying to judge if she’s a willing companion or a captive. I barely resist the urge to bare my teeth and hiss at him.
Instead I grin and say “See you around” before turning back to Ariel. “I’m sorry. I know I promised you coffee and breakfast, but I—”
“It’s okay.” She pulls her hand from mine, crossing her arms as we walk. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
I pause by her door, forcing myself not to rush her into the car. She seems upset, and I can’t afford to lose any ground. “Why? Did I do something wrong?” I hang my head, trying to look properly ashamed. �
�I’m sorry if I scared you. I couldn’t control myself. I wanted them to know they aren’t allowed to hurt you anymore.”
“I wasn’t scared. I … loved it.” She looks up, her wide, anxious eyes meeting mine. “I loved watching you hit them. I was sad when that other guy stopped you.” She swallows, then adds in a horrified whisper, “I wanted you to make Jason Kim bleed. A lot.”
I blink, surprised. And pleased, though I know I shouldn’t be. I’m supposed to be turning Ariel away from her dark side, not indulging her taste for bloodshed. But then, I didn’t really believe she had one. She seems so good to me. At least, most of the time. When she isn’t trying to commit murder/suicide by driving a car off the road or proclaiming her undying hatred.
“It’s okay.” I draw her close, tucking her beneath my chin. “I think it’s normal to feel that way about someone who’s hurt you.”
“Is it?”
I sigh. “Well, maybe not normal. But … I understand.”
“I know you do.” She rests her cheek on my chest, and lets out a long breath. “Thank you.”
My arms tighten. “Don’t thank me. I’m … sorry.”
She tilts her head back. “What for?”
“I don’t know. I …” I can’t meet her eyes. I look over her head and scowl. Ben is still standing there, watching us though he pretends to watch the street. I pull away and reach for the car door. “Let’s go. We’ll talk in the car. I don’t need an audience.”
“Me either. There’s something weird about that guy,” she whispers as she slips into the car, bringing an unexpected smile to my face.
Ah, Ariel. Some might say she has poor taste, but I can’t help but be flattered.
Take that, knight in shining armor. This lady prefers the knave. I give Benvolio my nastiest smirk as I pull the car out and drive away, bound for the book that will put my fears to rest.
TWELVE
Ariel
I cling tight to Dylan’s hand as he hurries up the walkway toward the cluster of hunkered brown buildings that make up Solvang High. It’s another beautiful day, and most of the school is out on the grass eating breakfast or hanging on the benches that line the path, soaking up the morning sun before heading for homeroom. Everyone seems to be in an unusually cheerful mood, but the loud conversations and bursts of laughter fade as Dylan and I rush by.
Heads turn, and voices drop to a whisper. It’s obvious people are shocked to see us together—the school bad boy and the shy, strange freak. I can feel their attention like fingers poking into my skin, leaving tender places behind. I risk a peek at our audience from behind my braids. Most people look curious, or skeptical, or amused, but a few of the girls are smiling with melty looks in their eyes. They seem happy. For me.
It’s crazy. Impossible.
I can barely believe this is real, that twenty minutes ago Dylan bashed in the faces of his friends for me. That he defended me, and kept his promise to make sure everyone knows I matter to him. It boggles my mind, makes me feel dizzy and off center as he veers off the path toward the library.
Even in my most secret, cheesy, romantic imaginings, I never let myself whip up anything like this.
I tip my head down, hiding a smile I can’t control. This is nuts. This is a fairy tale. This is my life. I hold the knowledge tight inside me, letting it burn until it feels like my heart is catching fire. But in a good way. I can’t imagine being cold or lonely or scared again. Not so long as Dylan’s hand is in mine and we are we.
We are we. I don’t think there’s any question about that after what just happened, but we might as well make it official.
“So,” I whisper as Dylan pushes into the library and stops to scan the shelves. “I guess we’re …” Boyfriend-girlfriend? Dating? Maybe just “Together?”
Dylan makes a vague sound beneath his breath as he crosses to the drama section. My smile curdles. He’s been so distracted since we left the Windmill. He said he forgot about a homework assignment and needed to hit the library before class, but it’s hard to believe that homework has inspired such urgency. Earlier he acted like he couldn’t care less about blowing off our English assignment, and he’s never been what anyone would call a diligent student.
As if sensing my worry, he reaches out and gives my braid a gentle tug. “I’ll only be a second.” He drops his backpack onto the ground and runs one hand over the spines of the worn library bindings until he comes to an especially fat book that he snatches out with a grunt.
I have time to see that he’s chosen The Collected Works of Shakespeare before he flips the book open to the table of contents. His finger traces down one column of plays and then the other, pausing at the last title on the list. His face falls, and I know that something awful has happened. I just can’t imagine what. I touch his back, but he flinches and shoots me the strangest look, as if he isn’t sure who I am.
I drop my backpack beside his. “Are you okay?”
He flips through the pages, turning them so fast, they snap. “This is impossible. There must be some mistake.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Complete works, my ass.” He slams the book closed and shoves it back onto the shelf. “You’re certain you’ve never heard of Romeo and Juliet? The Shakespeare play? The most tragic love story ever told?”
I bite my lip. “I love Shakespeare, but I haven’t read every play. I might have missed—”
“No. You wouldn’t have missed Romeo and Juliet. They’ve made dozens of movies, and books, and musicals inspired by—” He breaks off and turns to me, pointing a finger at my chest, a slightly manic smile on his face. “West Side Story! You’ve heard of that. It’s based on Romeo and Juliet. The character of Tony is Romeo and Maria is Juliet.” His hopeful tone becomes a touch impatient. “You remember. ‘Maria.’ It’s the song you asked me to sing the night we met.”
“We met in first grade.” The words are true, but they feel like a lie. I may have known Dylan almost my entire life, but I’ve only known this Dylan a couple of days.
Maybe that’s why I’m not entirely freaked out when he takes my hand in his and whispers, “We both know that isn’t true. You know me, Ariel, and you know I’m not him.”
I have no idea what to say to that. The only thing that comes to mind is “Tristan and Isolde.”
“What?”
“Tristan and Isolde. That’s the legend West Side Story is based on.”
The last hint of hope drains from his face, until he’s so pale he looks sick. “Tristan and Isolde. The Irish story, about the knight?”
I nod. “The knight who’s taking the princess, Isolde, home to his king. She’s supposed to marry the king, but she and Tristan drink a love potion on their way back and fall in love forever. That’s when Tristan, Tony in the musical, sings the song about Maria.”
His hand falls to his side, and my fingers slip through his. The loss of contact shakes me, but despite my nerves, I go to him, the same way he came to me when I was upset after the fight. I’m not going to let fear keep me from him. He wants me. He needs me; I can feel it.
I wrap my arms around his neck, drawing him close. For the first moment he stays stiff, and my fear threatens to turn to terror. What if I’m wrong, what if this is still just some enormous joke? I’m so accustomed to expecting the worst that it’s almost impossible to relax and believe. Hope is dangerous, a hole in my soul’s armor. I can feel the vulnerable place pulse and ache, begging me to seal myself up before it’s too late. But then, slowly, Dylan’s arms come around my waist.
He drops his head into the curve of my neck and exhales, his breath warm on my skin. I feel his relief. It’s my relief too. My arms vibrate with it.
“Ariel,” he sighs. “I’m in trouble, I think.”
“Why?”
“I … I’m not sure I exist,” he mumbles into my hair. “Or if I did, things didn’t happen the way they did before. I don’t know what it means.”
I pull him closer. He sounds crazy, but then,
I know what it feels like to be labeled a nut without my story being heard.
What could he mean? Is his twin brother still alive? Has he somehow stepped into Dylan’s place and taken over his life? It sounds like the stuff of soap operas, but there’s no denying that the Dylan I hold in my arms is very, very different from the one I knew up until nine o’clock Tuesday night.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “But I want to. You can tell me … whatever it is.”
“You really won’t believe me now,” he says. “You’ve never heard the story. There might not be a story.”
“You told me the screaming things I hear might be caused by magic, and I still got in the car with you this morning. And I’m here with you now, and I …” I lick my lips, but find I’m still afraid to say out loud how much I care, no matter how real the emotion is starting to feel. “I want to help. Just … try me. I think it’s obvious I’m not your average skeptic.”
He stares down at me for a long moment, his defenses dropping until I’m looking straight into his soul. Finally. This is it; the walls are down. I’m about to find out the truth.
“Once upon a time, in the city of Verona, Italy, a long, long time ago, there was a boy named Romeo,” he says, the catch in his voice telling me this is no fairy tale. This is a closer story, one that tears at him on the way out. “He was sixteen years old and very angry with his father, and the world, and god, though he’d been raised to fear the Church too much to confess that, even to himself.
“He was from a wealthy family and had more than his fair share of leisure time to devote to dwelling on his anger. And when Romeo wasn’t angry, he was heartsick. He imagined himself quite the tragic lover.” He laughs as he scans the row where he shelved Shakespeare’s complete works. “He fell in love at least once a fortnight, and it always ended desperately. No girl was ever as perfect as he imagined, until the one girl who captured him completely. She was from a very strict family.”