Romeo Redeemed

by Stacey Jay

  An impossible tear slips down my cheek. “No.”

  “Juliet, some of us are called to serve a higher cause.”

  “There is no higher cause than love.” My flagging heartbeat thuds in my ears. “After all your centuries defending it, you’d think you … of all people.” I turn away from her, rolling my head weakly on the hard ground. “But you aren’t a person.”

  “No. Not anymore.” She pulls her hand from my forehead. “But I have a heart. I won’t let Romeo become an Ambassador. I’ve found someone to eliminate him,” she says. “For you.”

  “You’ve never done … anything … for me.” I’m panting, barely able to form words. The end is close. I can feel it in the electricity that flashes through my brain, causing parts of what make me Juliet to explode. Stars going out, burning, dying.

  She sighs. “But my self-interest is also in the best interest of the world. Can you say the same? Juliet … I’d hoped for so much more.” She grows still, as still as the graves that surround us, some of them empty and awaiting their charges, some of them with bellies full of the dead. I knew some of those bones, loved some of them. Tybalt and Grandmother and my baby cousin Louisa, who died before she was three. Perhaps I’ll see them when I open my eyes in the world beyond.

  I could let go now. I can feel how easy it would be. But for some reason I can’t stop thinking about this other life that Nurse said I could have had if she hadn’t interfered, this happiness with a husband and babies and another fifty years of human life. It’s hard to imagine loving anyone but Ben, but …

  Ben. If only I could have held him one last time …

  My lids flutter and I see his face, and my fear slips away. He is with me. He will always be with me.

  “You just need more time.” Nurse pulls me from my peace with a firm hand on my side.

  First there is pain—sharp enough to make me gasp—but then her power pulses across my skin and the pain abates. I take my first deep breath in many long minutes, but before I can wonder at what she’s done, she’s lifting me in the air, carrying me the few steps to the tomb, and laying me inside.

  Inside. Back inside the tomb. No. No!

  “No,” I choke out. I would scream it if I could, but I’m not strong enough to scream or fight. I’m not even strong enough to lift my hands in protest as the stone slides slowly back into place.

  “I will return for you,” she whispers through the hole where the friar poured the water. “In a few hours. No more. I will put an end to my business with Romeo and come straight here. I will have a new body, but you will know me. As you always have.”

  “The friar … He …”

  “He won’t hurt you,” she says. “He’s using you as bait, but I am the one stringing this line. I will keep us both safe, and finally be rid of him. You’ll see. We will live on, Juliet, and our next seven hundred years will be different. You will have great power. We will win this world back from the Mercenaries and bring peace to humanity. Together, I believe we can.”

  And then she is gone. Outside, I hear a muffled thu-thump as the body she left behind crumples to the hard ground. Nurse is an old woman, with pain in her back and legs. Without supernatural magic coursing through her, she would suffer from a fall like that. But she doesn’t make a sound.

  “Nurse,” I call as loudly as I dare. “Nurse!”

  She doesn’t answer. There is only silence outside, no breath, no stirring on the floor of the tomb. I suspect Nurse was dead before the Ambassador used her body to come to me. Only Mercenaries are supposed to inhabit the dead. Ambassadors are supposed to be above such desecration.

  Ambassadors aren’t supposed to steal lives or play judge, jury, and executioner. Ambassadors aren’t supposed to plot murders, or bury people alive.

  If this is what the “good” side has come to, I fear not only for myself and Romeo—wherever he is—but for the world.

  NINETEEN

  Ariel

  The morning sun floods in through the window, giddy and pure and perfect, like heaven is smiling down on my room, approving of Romeo and me. Romeo and me. It’s a beautiful morning, but even if it were dark and gray and the sky were pouring frogs and locusts and fire, I wouldn’t regret what we did.

  I love him. I love loving him. If I thought I could get away with it, I would play sick again, hide Romeo in the closet until my mom went to work, and keep him in bed with me all day. Nothing but tangled sheets and his skin hot against mine, and our Selves spilling over into each other as we whisper beneath the covers.

  “Stay.” I hold tight to his arm as he lifts the window. “Just for a few minutes.”

  “There isn’t time.”

  “We’ve got an hour before school.”

  He looks back at me, the sun creating a halo around his messy hair, making him look like the world’s sexiest fallen angel. I decide right then that I’ll paint him just like this—one foot out my window, caught between us and the world. “I can’t,” he says, but I can feel him wavering.

  “You can.” I stand on tiptoe and kiss him, my head spinning. I thought his kisses would be easier to take after last night, but it only made his effect on me worse. It’s like my entire body is caught up in a whirlwind shot through with lightning. I’m dizzy and electrically charged and alive and so happy. I don’t ever want to let him go, not even for a few minutes. “Come back to bed,” I mumble against his mouth, heart beating faster as his hand slides past my cheek into my hair.

  “You’re making this very difficult,” he breathes as he draws his leg back into the room.

  I smile. “No. You’re making this very difficult.”

  “I have to go. I’ll meet you in an hour, maybe less. But this has to be done. It’s important.” There’s an edge in his voice that wasn’t there before. He’s worried, maybe even afraid.

  “Is this about …” I don’t know the witch’s name, but I wouldn’t say it even if I did. I don’t want to let her into this morning. This moment belongs to me and Romeo and no one else.

  “It’s something that will be good for us. For you.”

  “Then let me help. Wait just a second. I’ll come with you.” I grab my jeans from the floor—he’s wearing the same clothes; I might as well too. I stuff one leg in and then the other, moving so fast, I stumble. He reaches out to grab my arm, making my skin tingle as I button my jeans and pull up the zipper.

  “I have to do this alone,” he says.

  “But I—”

  “No buts. Not on this. I need you to stay safe. Go straight to school, then straight to class, and don’t talk to strangers.” He starts back to the window, but stops before he throws his leg over the sill. “Better yet, don’t talk to anyone, not even your mother if you can help it.”

  “Okay.” I cross my arms, suddenly cold, though my cami felt warm enough a second ago. But I remember what Romeo said last night. The man in my dreams is one of the Mercenaries, and could come for me in another form, even in the body of my mom or one of my teachers. If he kills someone I know, he could take them over and I might not find out until it’s too late. There’s no one I can trust. Except Romeo.

  “You really think Mom’s in danger?” I ask, heart beating faster. “Isn’t there anything I can do to keep her safe?”

  He sighs. “I’d tell you not to worry, but …” He takes my hand, wrapping my cool fingers up in his warm ones. “Just be careful, and I promise I’ll do whatever I can to keep you and your mom and everyone here safe. I’ll see you in class.”

  “All right.” I pull my hand from his. “Be careful. Call if you need me. I’ll have my phone.”

  “Take your mother’s car if you can. Or the bus. I’m not sure walking is safe.” He swings himself out the window, dropping to the ground with a soft grunt. I watch him start across the grass, my heart lifting when he stops and turns back. I’m glad he can’t just walk away. Really glad. “Ariel?”

  “Yes?”

  “I … love you.”

  “You too.” Our eyes c
atch and hold, and for a moment there is nothing but Romeo and me and shining golden light. And then he turns and walks away. I watch until he reaches the fence and climbs over with an easy pull of his arms, and try not to feel like everything good has disappeared behind those faded gray boards.

  But when I turn back to my room, the world seems shabbier than it did before. I straighten the bed with a quick jerk of the covers, then pull off my jeans and throw them into the dirty-clothes basket. I’ve got an hour to kill before I start for school. I might as well take a shower and make an effort to look nice. I grab fresh jeans and a clingy red sweater with a deep V in the front that I’ve never dared to wear before, and head for the bathroom. I shower, dress, dry my hair, and even take the time to put on the layers of makeup I know Romeo won’t care if I’m wearing. Still, I find myself dressed with twenty minutes to kill before I have to leave the house. I pace my room, trying to think of something else to do to keep my hands busy. The busier my hands, the quieter my mind. I’m afraid if I stop moving, I’ll drown in the worry flood.

  What if I never see Romeo again? How could I let him go anywhere without me? How am I going to get Gemma’s stuff from her house if I’m not supposed to talk to anyone? What am I going to do if there’s nothing I can do to save the people I love, to save Romeo? To save myself?

  I’ll die without him. At least, I know I’ll want to. Even the thought of spending one day alone makes me sick to my stomach, let alone the rest of my life. Still, I’ve got to eat something. Maybe pancakes from scratch. Or crepes. Something that takes time and attention and will leave less brain space for all the scary questions.

  I head into the kitchen—mentally ticking off the ingredients I’ll need for crepes, hoping we have eggs left in the fridge. But as I walk through the doorway, I catch a flash of green at the kitchen table, trip over my own feet, and barely keep from screaming.

  Gemma lifts her hands into the air. “Don’t freak out. I know where you hide the key, and I was dying for coffee. The shit at the hotel was gross, and I was afraid someone would recognize me if I went through a drive-through. I was going to tell you I was here, but you were in the shower.”

  I press a hand over my racing heart and stare hard at Gemma. She looks the same—more casual than usual in her green sweatshirt and ripped jeans, with her hair wavy and no makeup except yesterday’s smudged eyeliner—but that doesn’t mean anything. She could still be the enemy. I can’t be too careful.

  “What are you doing here?” I stay where I am, too nervous to take another step into the kitchen.

  “Wow.” Gemma gives an exaggerated one-two blink. “Thanks, Ree. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so welcome.” She pushes her chair back. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No, of course not,” I say, trying to act normal. If this really is Gemma, I don’t want to hurt her feelings. “I’m sorry. You surprised me. I thought I was going to meet you at your hotel at four.”

  “You are. I mean, I assume you are. I just …” She grabs her coffee and wraps her fingers around the mug. “I wanted to talk to you before then, without Mike around.”

  “Why? Are you two okay?”

  “We’re great.” Her smile lights up the shadowy kitchen. “We’re crazy in love, and I am Sesame Street happy. I should have gotten married years ago. My parents could have betrothed me at twelve and saved themselves a ton of money on crappy therapists.”

  “Right.” My lips twitch. “If that weren’t illegal. And gross.”

  “There’s nothing gross about love, dear Ree.” Gemma hugs her steaming mug to her chest. “Love is happiness wrapped in a sugar-sprinkled burrito and covered with awesome sauce.”

  I laugh, and the last of the worry seeps from my shoulders. This is Gemma, no doubt about it. I don’t know anyone else who wraps things in metaphorical burritos. “You’re probably right.” I head for the coffee she’s made. I don’t usually drink coffee, but I’m fuzzy this morning. Romeo and I didn’t get much sleep.

  Romeo. His lips, his hands, his … everything. The sense memories rush through me as I pour half a mug and fill the rest with milk, making me smile my new, silly smile.

  “What’s up with you?” Gemma asks as I settle into the chair across from hers.

  “Nothing. Just happy.”

  She studies me over the rim of her mug, eyes suddenly serious. “Why? What’s made you so happy?”

  I cover my hesitation with a long sip of coffee. What should I tell her? The truth is impossible. Gemma doesn’t believe in fairy tales or curses. I doubt even her own happily-ever-after has changed that. “I’m glad to see you. That’s all. I’m glad you and Mike are so good together.”

  “Bullshit.” She sets her coffee down with a loud thunk. “No one smiles like that because someone they care about is getting laid. They smile like that because they’re getting laid.”

  “Gemma!” I blush and dart a furtive look toward the doorway. Thankfully, we’re still alone. If Mom walks in on another conversation like the one she heard the other night, I’m going to be on my way to Planned Parenthood for a birth control prescription faster than you can say safe sex. The condoms that Romeo and I used aren’t enough security for my mother.

  “What? I’m right, aren’t I? You did the deed.” Her tone is flat and ominous, like she’s pronouncing a death sentence.

  I blush harder and shrug. “Maybe.”

  “Oh god.” She buries her face in her hands, muffling the soft “Shit” that is her next word on the subject.

  “What’s wrong with that?” I ask, starting to get irritated by the drama. “I thought you’d be happy. You’re the one who said I was too ancient not to have seen a boy naked in real life.”

  And you started sleeping with guys in the eighth grade, I silently add, but know better than to say out loud.

  “Yeah. I am,” she says. “I would be, anyway. If you’d picked a different boy.”

  I sigh. I get it. This is about Dylan and how much she hates him. I can’t blame her. If he were still Dylan, I’d hate him too. Maybe I’ll even hate him again, if Romeo leaves and the old Dylan comes back to brag about what we did last night.

  But even as the nasty possibility zips through my brain, I can’t stop thinking about the way Romeo held me, like the most precious thing he’d ever touched. No matter what happens, I don’t regret my decision. One night with the boy I love is worth a hundred days of torture from Dylan Stroud.

  “I understand,” I say. “But don’t worry. I can handle Dylan.”

  “Um … no, you can’t. Sorry, Ree. I love you and you’re supersmart and could probably be a doctor or something if you’d wake up and realize your true level of awesomeness, but you can’t handle Dylan. He’s crazy.”

  “So am I. So are you.” I force a laugh. “Isn’t everyone crazy in their own way?”

  “Not like him. He’s evil, Ree.”

  “He’s not—”

  “He’s a compulsive liar. He’s so good at it, he can make anyone believe anything.” Gemma leans her elbows on the table and gives me a superintense look that makes all my easy protests seem inadequate. This wasn’t what I was expecting. “Really. Anything. I think he even believes his lies himself for a while, but then he remembers it’s all pretend and he turns back into the same horrible person he was before. Except worse, because he knows he played with your brain and won.”

  My fingers tighten around my mug. I’m not going to let Gemma make me doubt Romeo, but I can’t help but be bothered by what she’s said. Really bothered. “Since when do you know so much about Dylan? I thought you hated him.”

  “Yeah. Ever wonder why?”

  I shake my head. “I thought … I know you think his band is lame.”

  “Dude, this goes way beyond something stupid like that.” Gemma laughs a sad laugh, and I recognize her “gearing up to say things I don’t want to say” face. “You remember when I was hanging out in Santa Barbara a lot? At that bar that didn’t card?”

  “Yeah.”

&
nbsp; “Well, I wasn’t hanging out alone. Dylan showed up one night after I’d already had a couple beers, and came over to my table.” She stares down at her fingers, picking at the skin around her cuticle. For the first time I realize how rough her hands look.

  I’ve never seen Gemma when she’s gone more than a week since her previous manicure. Her mom has a woman who comes to their house to do manicures and pedicures and facials every Sunday afternoon, and Gemma always looked perfect come Monday morning. Now, seeing her ordinary hands, I feel closer to her than I have in a long time. But I’m also scared. Gemma isn’t big on talking about her feelings or personal stuff. She lets her wall down only when she really, really has to. The fact that she thinks this is one of those times makes my skin break out in goose bumps under my sweater.

  “Anyway.” She blows air through her lips. “I thought he was trying to get me to buy him a drink, but he bought me one instead, and we started talking. He was really different that night. Nicer. Easy to talk to. Damn sweet, really.” She shakes her head but keeps her eyes on her fingers. She can’t even look at me. It leaves no doubt that this story is going to be as bad as it is familiar.

  A sweet Dylan. Nice. Easy to talk to.

  A knot rises in my throat, but I force myself to swallow another sip of coffee. I felt Romeo’s soul in my body yesterday when the screaming things came. He knows about the lost souls and the man in my dreams, and I know his story isn’t a lie. Dylan couldn’t make up something that elaborate.

  “I told him things I’ve never told anyone, not even you,” Gemma continues. “And he told me a lot of stuff too. About his dad and this friend of his dad’s who … did things to him. Touched him and stuff. When he was little.”

  She threads her fingers together and makes a tight fist. A tiny drop of red appears near the edge of her pointer finger, where she’s ripped the cuticle so deep, it’s starting to bleed. I watch the ruby liquid swell, and try not to think anything at all.

  If I let myself start thinking, I’m going to think dangerous things.