romeo remeemed

chapter 3

Meat. Glorious, glorious meat. Succulent, juicy, red, and bloody, seasoned with butter and herbs, every bite better than the one before. The myriad of flavors explode on my tongue, shimmy through my mouth, slap my taste buds and call them filthy little bastards, and I love it. Love. I’ve died and gone to heaven, and it is this feast on my plate. I moan, and shovel in a forkful of cream cheese and chive mashed potatoes. Beside me in our corner booth, Ariel laughs beneath her breath. “That good?” “Better. I’m having a religious experience.” “God is a filet mignon.” “No. Filet mignon is God.” I stab another bite and lift it to her lips. “Taste it.” She hesitates only a moment before opening her mouth and trapping the steak between her small, white teeth. I watch her chew and swallow, pleased to see her cheeks grow pinker the longer I watch. She really is lovely, and so much naughtier than I expected. I certainly hadn’t anticipated that I’d be dancing in the nearly nude tonight. She lost her courage there at the end, but not before proving herself a great deal more entertaining than her friend Gemma led me to believe the last time I inhabited Dylan’s body. But maybe Ariel is a little different in this reality. According to Dylan’s memories, several things are. Gemma has run away from home; it hasn’t rained in weeks; and instead of performing in West Side Story, I’ll be singing a solo at a school dance on Friday night. I’m relieved. I don’t know if I could go onto that theater stage again, to the place where I stabbed Juliet and stood over her as she began to bleed. It was Juliet’s soul that suffered, but it was Ariel’s eyes that closed in pain. We’ve only just met, but this girl and I already have a tragic history. It should hurt to look at her, but it doesn’t. Ariel is not Juliet, and she’s alive. All I feel when I look at her is a desperate relief. A few hours ago, I was a damned creature without a hope in the world. Now I am a handsome young man eating a fine dinner with a beautiful girl. More proof that Fate is a capricious mistress indeed. Just in case the fickle bitch decides to change her mind again, I take a stab at the pasta on Ariel’s plate. “You like the steak?” I pop the gnocchi into my mouth and shiver with pleasure. Ecstasy. I never appreciated what a gift it is to taste, until I couldn’t. “Yeah, it’s really good.” “Good? It’s orgasmic.” “Right,” she mumbles, brushing her hair over her shoulder to hide her face. In the warm glow of the candlelit restaurant, her hair is honey-colored instead of silver. I’m tempted to run my fingers through it and tell her how beautiful it is, but I reach for a roll instead. All in good time. No one appreciates anything that’s too easy to get, and I’ve already played the besotted young lover once tonight. And a stunning performance it was. I took the few things Dylan’s memories told me about Ariel and spun them into romantic gold. If Juliet’s nurse had seen, she would have administered the peacekeeper vows on the spot. It would be madness to let a talent such as mine go unclaimed for the forces of goodness and light. Goodness and light. The notion is still vaguely repellent. Luckily, I’m more skilled at seduction than I am at being a good boy. “Are you two going to need anything else?” The waiter hovers at the edge of the table. The restaurant in Los Olivos was nearly empty when Ariel and I arrived. Now we’re the only people still seated, and this man with the ponytail and patchy goatee is ready to call it a night. “Anything else for you, darling?” I ask. Ariel arches a brow, but I can tell a part of her enjoys the tongue-in-cheek endearment. “No, thank you,” she says. “I’m stuffed.” “The lady is stuffed.” I turn back to the waiter with a smile. “And so am I. We’ll take the rest of her dinner wrapped to go, and the check.” I wait until he disappears into the kitchen with Ariel’s plate before sliding from my chair, crossing to the bar, and snatching an open bottle of red wine. Wine never hurt a new love, and I’m dying to see if it tastes as wonderful as I remember. I ease back beside Ariel, shove the bottle between my knees, and cover it with the tablecloth just as Patchy Goatee returns. Thankfully, Ariel doesn’t say a word as I pull out my wallet and pay for our dinner. “Everything was wonderful. Keep the change.” I hand the black leather folder to the waiter and loop an arm around Ariel’s shoulders. “Ready?” “No,” she whispers as Patchy heads back into the kitchen. “What are you doing?” “Getting us something to drink. And saving someone from a rancid glass of wine tomorrow. It will be awful after it’s left open all night.” “You’re stealing.” “I’m appropriating.” “We’re underage.” “Which is why I have to appropriate rather than buy this bottle. The shortsighted laws restricting teenage drinking have forced me into this,” I say. “It’s the Man you should be angry with, Ariel. I am innocent.” She lifts a wry brow. “Innocent isn’t a word I’d use.” “What word would you use? Wait—” I hold up a hand between us. “Don’t answer that. Not until you’ve had a glass of wine and think I’m pretty again.” She makes a sound—half growl, half nervous giggle. “Seriously.” She leans forward, anxiously watching the door where our waiter disappeared. “If you get caught, they might call the police.” “All part of the fun.” I wink and slide the bottle under my shirt. “You go first, and I’ll hide behind. In case the hostess is still in the lobby.” “You’re crazy.” “So are you. We make a great team.” Ariel rolls her eyes, but when we leave the booth, she walks in front. We make it across the restaurant—past the hostess, who wishes us a good evening—and out into the cool air without being discovered. As we walk toward the car, Ariel nudges me in the ribs with one bony elbow. I turn to catch an unexpected spark in her eyes. “What?” I ask. “We did it.” “We did.” “That was … kind of fun.” Her smile holds a hint of wickedness that makes me laugh. “It was.” She glances over her shoulder before whispering, “I’ve never stolen anything before.” “You still haven’t. But you should try it sometime. Great rush. No chemicals required.” “You’re a bad influence,” she says, a purr of approval lurking beneath the words. “I’d promise to be good … if I thought you really wanted me to be.” Her smile wilts. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “A joke,” I say, realizing I’ve taken the teasing too far for my sensitive silver-haired princess. “Just a joke.” “It’s not funny.” “Sorry.” I wrinkle my brow, doing my best impression of a decent person capable of deep feeeeeeling. “Honestly. Sorry. Okay?” “Okay,” she says, but it takes a long moment for her to relax. As I move closer to her half of the sidewalk, I warn myself to be more careful. “Pretty night,” I say. Faint piano music drifts from the hotel across the street, but otherwise, the night is quiet. Still. Beautiful. I pull in another breath. Flowers and wood smoke and spring bursting out in the trees, and another dozen smells I can’t quite place. “Gorgeous.” “It is,” Ariel says, that cautious note still lingering in her voice. “I love spring.” “I love life.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls away. She stops; lets out a shaky breath. “Okay. Fine. I’m sorry, all right?” “For what?” “For … you know.” “I’m the one who should be sorry. And I am.” I pull the cork from the bottle and sniff. Hm. Good stuff. Port. Stronger than wine, but just as delicious. My mouth waters, and I debate whether taking a swig will lessen the impact of my reassuring words. “But I could have killed …” Ariel catches me sniffing and squints critically in my direction. I let the bottle drift back to my side and try to act as if I’m troubled by things like homicidal/suicidal tendencies. “But you didn’t.” I drop my voice in a show of respect for the terrible seriousness of the topic. “And you won’t do anything like that ever again.” She shakes her head. “No. I won’t. I … No.” I resist the urge to laugh. “You could sound more convincing.” “I honestly can’t believe I did it,” she says. “But at the time, and right after … I was so angry, I really wished that we both …” I slip my arm around her waist. She flinches but doesn’t pull away. “I can understand why you’d want me dead.” I lean down until her smell weaves its way inside me. She smells even better than the night. Lovely. Intoxicating. My arm tightens, her breath catches, and I whisper my next words inches from her lips. “But don’t ever put yourself in danger again. Not for me. Not for anyone. You deserve a long, happy life.” “You think?” “I know. You’re a good person,” I say, imagining how proud Juliet’s nurse would be to hear me steering Ariel toward her better nature. “Hm.” The sound is skeptical. “I thought you said I was crazy.” Her hands push lightly at my chest, but I don’t set her free. “You can be crazy and good. All the best people are crazy. I’m crazy, and I’m very fond of myself.” “Obviously.” Her nose scrunches. It’s adorable, and the curve of her waist feels nice. Very nice. “So …” I urge her closer, smell the hint of our dinner on her breath and think about how long it’s been since I’ve tasted a woman. “Think you’d be crazy enough to let me kiss you again?” Before I can blink, she’s twisted her hips and escaped from my arms. “Not tonight.” Well. Can’t blame a long-deprived man for trying. “Tomorrow night?” I ask with a wink. She doesn’t say a word, only crosses her arms and stares at me with those big blue eyes that seem so out of place in her young face. She’s practically a child—all gangly limbs and rounded edges that haven’t settled into the planes of adulthood—but her eyes are … old. As old as Juliet’s, though not as ancient as my own. I have seen more than any creature ever should. I am an old, old, ooollld man. If Ariel knew how old, she wouldn’t let me near her. Even for a minute. This body might be eighteen, but my soul is old enough to be her great-grandfather’s great-et-cetera-grandfather. She’d be repulsed. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d understand that my centuries trapped in the dead seem like a nightmare from which I’ve only begun to awaken. I betrayed Juliet when I was barely sixteen, and, despite all I’ve lived through, a part of me feels like a young man still. Ariel might understand something like that. She seems to know a thing or two about nightmares, this girl with the haunted eyes. “No,” she says, unimpressed with whatever she’s seen in my face. “Why not?” “I don’t trust you.” And you shouldn’t. Not ever. I nod. “Understandable. Lamentable, but understandable.” A wrinkle forms above the bridge of her nose. “Lamentable.” “Regrettable; sad; worthy of much lamenting, wailing, gnashing of teeth.” I smile, ready to put the serious moment behind us. “I know what it means. I just don’t know where you’ve been hiding the vocabulary.” “In my boxer briefs,” I say with a silly grin. “If you’d let me take them off, you would have seen for yourself.” Her laughter dances through the night, making the stars shine brighter. The happiness in it surprises me. I think it surprises her as well. She pulls in a breath, swallowing the sound. The absence of her amusement makes the quiet seem … emptier than it was before. “Yeah, well … So …” She gives the wine in my fist a pointed look. “Are you going to drink that or not?” “Only if you’ll join me.” “Sure,” she says, surprising me again. After her lecture in the restaurant, I expected more resistance. I pull the keys from my pocket. “Well then, shall I drive while you drink?” “No. We shouldn’t drink in the car. I know a place we can go. It’s deserted at night,” she says, then quickly adds, “but there are houses close by. People will hear if we talk above a whisper.” “Good.” I nod thoughtfully. “So if you try to take advantage, someone will hear me when I scream.” “Ha ha.” Her grin is wary, assessing, but still, a grin. “Funny.” “I’m even funnier after a few drinks.” She cocks her head and lifts a jaunty shoulder. “We’ll see.” I follow her across the street, away from the main drag. The antiques shops and gaslights disappear, replaced by normal streetlamps and an eclectic mix of houses—painstakingly restored Victorian homes, ramshackle boxes with toy-filled yards, and a bungalow with iron sculptures sprouting from the flower beds. After a few minutes, she turns left up a gentle hill. At the top is a playground surrounded by a chain-link fence, lit by a single floodlight. Ariel pads up to the gate and reaches over to open it from the inside. “Gemma and I used to come here,” she says. “There’s never anyone around after dark.” “It’s perfect.” I tip the bottle back as we crunch through the gravel toward the playground equipment. Ah, sweet and potent. Ariel climbs the steps to a platform with an awning shaped like a rocket ship and sits down near the top of the slide. I settle in beside her and pass the wine, studying her profile as she takes a cautious sip. “Wow.” Her tongue darts out to catch a drop escaping down the neck of the bottle. “That’s really good.” “Oh, come on. You’ve had good wine before. Isn’t Gemma’s dad some sort of vineyard overlord?” I reclaim the bottle and tip it back. “Yeah. But I’ve always been too nervous to drink at the Sloops’.” “Why?” “Gemma’s dad … He’s pretty scary. Sometimes Gemma and I would steal a glass of chardonnay from the fridge at my house when Mom was working late, but it didn’t taste like this.” There’s sadness in her voice. It isn’t difficult to guess the cause. I put on my troubled face and test my newly rediscovered empathy. “You’re worried about her. Gemma.” “Yeah.” She takes the bottle but doesn’t drink. “Sometimes I think she’s fine and just ran away to get back at her dad, but sometimes I’m afraid something happened to her.” “She’s fine.” I put my arm around her slim shoulders, wishing I could tell her that I have it on Ambassador authority that Gemma and her soul mate, Mike, are safe and deeply, disgustingly in love. “I bet she eloped with some dashing young man and is already halfway to happily-ever-after.” “Right.” She takes a long drink and sets the bottle back on the boards between us. “Do you talk like this around your friends?” “Like what?” She shrugs. “I don’t know. The vocabulary and the … old-fashioned stuff.” “Old-fashioned, huh? Well, I have been reading a lot of poetry lately.” Her big eyes get even bigger. “Poetry,” she says, clearly dubious. “Like who?” “William Cullen Bryant, Sir Walter Raleigh,” I say, tossing out the first Gothic greats that come to mind. “And Shakespeare, of course. Sonnet 138 is a particular favorite. Therefore I lie with her and she with me, and in our faults by lies we flattered be,” I quote, savoring the words, rather surprised I can remember them. But then, “I’ve always enjoyed the poems written to his Dark Lady.” “I love all the sonnets,” she says. “I like Shakespeare’s plays a lot, but I love the sonnets.” “Me too.” “That’s … hard to believe.” “Believe it or not.” I scoot closer as she takes another sip. I suspect I should be trying harder to behave like Dylan, but Dylan is a shallow brute and about as charming as stepping in warm shit. Ariel enjoyed his pretty face, but in order to win her heart, I’ll need more than looks. I’ll need wit and charm—things that will be hard to come by if I stay completely true to Dylan’s personality. Besides, Nurse didn’t tell me I had to successfully impersonate Dylan Stroud; she said I had to make Ariel believe in love, and I’ve never been one for going above and beyond the call of duty. “Does my enthusiasm for poetry offend?” I ask, though I know damn well I’ve won several romantic bonus points. “No! Not at all.” She tries to cover her enthusiasm with another drink, but it’s too late. I grin, and take the bottle when she offers. “I was just thinking about what your friends would say.” “My friends are idiots.” I tip the bottle back, surprised by how light it feels. Ariel’s sips must have been gulp-sized. I wonder if I should have warned her that port is stronger than table wine, but decide that a mellow Ariel could work in my favor. The looser she gets, the easier it will be for me to sneak past her defenses. “But you know what I mean. I’m sure Gemma’s fine, and not spending her nights alone.” “Maybe.” I snort. “We both know she doesn’t have trouble finding company.” Ariel’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Nothing.” I know better than to say a word about Dylan’s personal experiences with Gemma. According to his memories, Dylan and Gemma’s “friends with benefits” relationship is one thing that’s the same in this reality as it was in the other. Ariel, however, has no clue that her best friend used to enjoy slumming with Dylan Stroud on the mattress on his filthy bedroom floor last fall. Best to keep it that way. “It was definitely something,” Ariel says. I hug her closer. “She has a reputation,” I say gently. “You know that.” She turns to me, shrugging off my arm as she moves. “If she were a guy, you’d think that reputation was cool.” “I don’t think it’s cool or uncool,” I say, not understanding why she suddenly seems so angry. I smile, hoping to defuse the moment. “I don’t care if Gemma sleeps with sheep. You’re the one I care about.” “Why? Because I’m the one you’re betting on?” She stands, swaying on her feet, stumbling and grabbing hold of the slide railing for balance. Sweet Dionysus. She can’t be that drunk, can she? But then, she doesn’t weigh much, and confessed to having little experience with alcohol. “Ariel, we’ve talked about this,” I coo. “There’s no bet anymore. I promise.” I stand and reach out to steady her, but she knocks my hand away. “How did you know I was a virgin, anyway?” In truth, Gemma told Dylan. They’d laughed about how strange Ariel was, and made bets on how old she would be before she got her first kiss, let alone her first anything else. It was that conversation that aroused his interest, made Ariel something he wanted to spoil. But of course I can’t tell her that. I shrug. “Your lack of a love life is hardly a secret. And I know—” “You don’t know. You don’t know me. I could have a whole other life. I could have secrets,” she says, slurring the last word. “I could have dark, scary secrets.” “You could,” I agree, amused. She’s glorious when she’s angry, but she’s downright cute when she’s drunk and belligerent. “Do you have dark, scary secrets? I’d love to hear them.” She points a wobbly finger at my nose. “Don’t make fun of me.” “I’m not. I’m fascinated. Genuinely.” I take a step closer. She trips and nearly tumbles down the slide, but I catch her before she falls and pull her close. All the places where a girl is soft and a boy is not press together, and a new awareness crackles in the air between us. I feel it—the spark of genuine attraction—and I know she feels it too. Her lips part, my head spins, and I wonder if maybe I’m drunker than I thought. But then again, I shouldn’t be surprised that a pretty girl is affecting me the way pretty girls always did when I was alive. I should be taking advantage of Ariel’s attraction and wine-lowered defenses. As heavenly as the wine tasted slipping down my throat, I know being skin to skin with Ariel, blood rushing as I lose myself in her, will make that heaven pale in comparison. With a little seductive pressure, I could have her, could sate the lust she inspires when her body shifts against mine. I tip my head, letting my lips hover near the shell of her ear. “I have dark, scary secrets,” I whisper, the thrill of the dare making my pulse race faster. “Let’s share our secrets, shall we? I’ll show you mine … if you’ll show me yours.” She stiffens, and I realize too late that innuendo might have best been avoided. “I can’t believe you.” She tries to pull away but stumbles again. “You thought you’d get me drunk and I’d do whatever you wanted!” “I didn’t.” At least, not at first. “You did!” She pushes at my arms, but I hold her tight. “I’m not compelled to get girls inebriated in order to convince them to sleep with me, Ariel. And I would never—” “Oh really?” She stops struggling, but I can feel the tension still simmering beneath her skin. “So I guess you’ve had a lot of girls?” “I’ve had … a few.” My tone is cautious, but not cautious enough. “Then why don’t you go find one of them and—Leave! Me! Alone!” She throws her weight into me, pushing so hard I stagger off the platform, heels scrambling as I tumble down the steps. My arms fly out, catching the handrails halfway down, but it isn’t easy to stop my momentum. My fingers cramp and the muscles in my arms tremble, and I barely avoid a backward swan dive onto the pavement. I curse as I finally regain my balance. My heart slams in my chest, the unexpected moment of weakness making my blood race with fear. As a Mercenary, I had superhuman strength and an insidious ability to heal. I know that Ambassador converts aren’t quite as strong, but Juliet held her own in a fight. She was definitely stronger than a normal girl, and even she hadn’t been able to push me around like this. A sour taste fills my mouth. That redheaded witch cheated me! Juliet’s nurse sent me here without an Ambassador’s true strength. How will I defend myself? What if I encounter Mercenaries? They’ll see the golden light in my aura and know what I’ve become, and once they do, they’ll stop at nothing to destroy me. How am I to fight off an immortal warrior of darkness with this puny human body? “Shit!” I kick the metal stair, remembering too late that I have an audience. A very important, very angry audience. “I knew you were lying.” Ariel’s voice shakes, and her eyes shine with unshed tears. “I knew it!” “No. You don’t understand. I—” “I understand perfectly!” she shouts. “And I hate you!” “Please.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “Listen, I—” “No. I won’t listen. And I’ll never—” She breaks off, eyes focusing on something in the distance. Whatever she sees stuns her motionless, into the hyperalert stillness of rabbits and other animals accustomed to their roles as prey. For a moment she is frozen, and then, just as suddenly, she curls into herself like a leaf set aflame. Before I can turn to see what’s frightened her, before I can ask her if she’s all right, she dives for the slide. “Don’t follow me!” She rattles down the metal, hits the ground at the bottom, and sprints for the gate like she’s being chased by the devil himself. I spin, scanning the playground and the street beyond, but there’s nothing, no one. We’re as alone as we were a moment ago. I rush down the stairs and across the yard. “Ariel, wait!” “Don’t follow me!” she screams again as she races down the dark road. A few houses down, a dog begins to bark and a porch light flickers on across the street. I ignore them both and chase after her. She’s drunk and seeing things, and I can’t afford to risk her getting run over. I need her alive and in love with me. I need her—The headlights of a car parked on the street flare to life. I skid to a stop, lifting my arms, squinting in the harsh glare. I didn’t hear a car pull up while Ariel and I were on the playground. Whoever this is must have been sitting here for a while. The car door opens, and I brace myself for an altercation with some concerned citizen who’s seen Ariel running and assumed the worst. I drop my arms and affect my most stricken expression. I’ll tell whoever this is that my girlfriend just found out she was pregnant, and that we were fighting over whether she should put the baby up for adoption. I want to keep it, but she says we’re too young. But is there such a thing? I’ll ask. As being too young to love a child? The lie is already tickling my lips when the long, willowy silhouette circling the car becomes a person I can see. A person I recognize. My jaw clenches. “What are you doing here?” “I think I should be asking you that question.” Juliet’s nurse props her hands on her hips. I ball my hands into fists, prepared to fight, though I know it will do no good. This woman has incredible magic. She could hurl another ball of light my way and I’d be done for, banished back to my monstrous body. But I won’t go quietly. I won’t make it easy for her. I’ve never made anything easy for anyone. “Get in the car,” she says. I hesitate, some mad part of me screaming that I should run. “Get in the car, Romeo,” she orders again. “Or I will cease to be disappointed and begin to be angry.” “But Ariel is—” “Ariel is presently beyond your reach. If you’d like that to change, come with me.” She turns and walks back to the car. With one last glance down the road, I follow her. If I hope to win a place among the Ambassadors, I have no choice. Taste and touch and newfound feeling aside, I am still a slave and I must obey.