romeo remeemed

chapter 7

Damn! Caught. I wave my hands and hold up Ariel's purse, trying to stop her scream before her mother comes running. I should have ducked down the second she opened her eyes, but I couldn't resist the urge to watch her wake. She was strangely compelling, all soft with sleep, hair fuzzy and tangled, smiling that smile.... That smile, the one that makes her look so young and innocent and good. Standing there with the dew soaking through my shoes, I was possessed by the desire to make sure that she stays that way, that she never knows what it's like to be poisoned by her own mistakes. The need came from a genuine place, separate from the fear that kept me awake most of the night, reliving every terrifying step into the cave. Now the fear is back. I have only three days. Three days to transform the sight of me from something that makes Ariel scream to something that makes her smile that smile. It might be impossible, but I have to try. I have to do more than try. I have to succeed, or I am lost, and the world along with me. Screw the world, I think, but the thought doesn't feel as true as it once did. I don't want the Mercenaries to win, I know that much. "I came to bring your purse. I only want to talk," I whisper, hoping Ariel can hear me through the window. The glass looks thick, but I don't want to shout and risk disturbing her mother if she hasn't already been disturbed. "I'm sorry," I mouth. She presses her hand over her lips and glances at her bedroom door, watching it for a tense moment before throwing off the covers and stepping out of bed. She's wearing a tight white shirt with thin straps that reveal the scars on her arm, and loose striped pants. The pants ride low on her hips, exposing a strip of pale skin and the curve of her stomach. The bit of skin mesmerizes me. I can't keep from imagining what it would be like to run my hands over her sleep-warmed body, over those long arms-one perfectly smooth, one beautifully damaged. She really is beautiful. Despite the scars. Or maybe ... because of them. She's a walking reminder of how precious and fleeting life can be. No one lucky enough to be pulling in breath should take that for granted. No one should hold back when they can reach for what they want with both hands. Want. I'm suddenly drowning in it. I want to touch her so badly that it hurts, that it makes my tongue sluggish, and I sputter when she throws open the window. "What are you doing here?" she demands. "I-I ..." I want to touch you. I want to curl into bed beside you and see if you can teach me to dream something that won't make me wake up screaming. "I ..." I shake my head, hoping to jostle free a few words I can actually speak. "I-I-" She grabs the purse from my hand and sets it on the floor inside. "My mom will freak if she sees you outside my window," she whispers, casting another anxious look over her shoulder before turning back to me. "There's a lock on the fence gate. How did you get over?" Breathe. Concentrate. "I climbed." I stare at a spot over her shoulder and tamp down the last of the ridiculous weakness. I can't remember ever feeling so damned needy, even when I was a child and my father set fire to the nursery after my brother's death. The plague doctor told my parents that boiling sheets and possessions in hot water might keep the infection from spreading. Instead, my father burned everything. Every piece of furniture in our shared nursery, every article of clothing, every wooden whistle and block and all my brother's carved animals. Even the blue blankets our mother had embroidered. We'd gone to sleep with them every night since the day we were born. How I ached for that blanket when it was gone. Almost as much as I ached for my brother. I went to sleep each night after the fire with my tiny fists pressed to my chest, wondering if I would die from the aching. But even that wasn't as strong as this desire to wrap my arms around Ariel's waist, press my face into her stomach, and beg for some kind of comfort. Pathetic. Weak. I'm losing what's left of my mind. I have to focus. I can't let this sudden need for human connection distract me from my course. There will be opportunity for connection in all its forms at a later date, in another body, after I've won my place among the Ambassadors. I know Juliet was careful not to use her borrowed bodies for selfish pleasures, but I don't have to do the same. As soon as I'm safe, I can find a dozen girls as lovely as Ariel-lovelier-to hold me in their arms. The thought should offer solace, but it doesn't. I lick my lips, taste my own desperation, and hope she can't see how close I am to the edge. "I needed to see you." "Why?" "I was worried you might not have made it home." "I did. Obviously. I ..." Her eyes drop to the wet grass at my feet. "Everything's fine." Everything's not fine. You hold the fate of the world in your hands, and the person sent to help you is being eaten alive by his own fear. Damn Juliet's nurse. I was fine before she forced me into that cave. Her "motivation" has only brought me closer to failure. "No, it's not," I say. "You're mad at me." "I'm not mad at you." She doesn't sound convincing. "Are you sure? You weren't very happy with me when you left last night." "I ... can't really remember." Her eyes meet mine, apprehensive, uncertain. "I know we argued, and I have a feeling I should still be mad at you for something, but ... it's fuzzy." I take a breath, finally feeling it's safe to smile again. She doesn't remember. Thank mercy for small favors. "I'm sorry. You should be mad. This is my fault," I say, pouring on the charm that seemed to be working before I made the mistake of introducing alcohol into the equation. "We were drinking port. It's fortified, a lot stronger than normal wine. I should have warned you." "Oh." Her fingers tug at a tangled lock of hair. "I didn't know." "Again, my fault. Forgive me?" The edge of one lip curves. "You didn't hold a gun to my head and make me drink." "I also didn't chase you down and make sure you got home." I brace my hands on the windowsill and lean in, tipping my head back to look up at her, struck by how much this moment reminds me of the night I stood beneath Juliet's balcony. Maybe that's why I'm such a useless mess. That was one of my last nights as a relatively innocent boy in love. The friar and I spoke the next day, and the slow seep of poison into my heart began. Even now the effects linger, forcing me to lie and deceive, to pretend a love I don't feel for a girl who deserves better than this. Better than me. "Are you okay?" she asks. Her fingertips brush the back of my hand, inciting a wave of pleasure-pain that skitters across my skin. Pleasure to be touched, pain to know I am so unworthy of her compassion. "Fine." Not fine. But I can't remember the last time fine was a word that applied to my existence. "You must be cold." She peeks over her shoulder one last time. "Come inside." "Thanks." I pull myself up on the sill and hop down beside her, close enough to feel the heat of her body, to smell the lavender lingering in her hair. "I really am sorry," I whisper, not wanting to frighten her away. "I could hardly sleep. I was worried about you." "It's okay," she says, swaying closer. I hold my breath, the possibility that she might brush against me making my heart beat faster. "I'm sorry too." "For what?" I ease her hair over her shoulder, letting my fingers hover near the skin at her neck. I hold her gaze, waiting for permission to touch her again. Her throat works and her lips part and her mouth drifts closer to mine, and for a dizzying moment, I think she might kiss me. Instead she lets out a breathy laugh and shakes her hair back around her face. "For being weird." She steps back, crossing her arms, as if suddenly uncomfortable in her thin top with the thinner straps. "Let's just forget about it." "Forgotten." I drop my hand and force a friendly smile. "Want to go get breakfast?" Hopefully getting Ariel out of this bedroom will help me pull myself together. "I'm craving something deep fried and covered in sugar, maybe with some syrup on top." "Sounds healthy." "We're young. Who cares?" Her mouth curves again. "I could eat. Where do you want to go?" "Wherever. Your choice." "I don't care, just not the Windmill." She captures the same lock of hair and gives it another tug. "I don't want to see anyone who might know about ... you know." She doesn't want to see anyone who might know about the bet. I nod. "We'll go someplace else. And before the day's over, I'll make sure everyone understands that the bet's off and I'm an idiot. Especially the idiot part." Her smile tries to stretch, but she traps it with her teeth. "Sounds good." "Then let's go eat." "I need to get dressed first. Do you want to wait for me out-" "No." I don't want to be apart from her for a moment, not until I know we're firmly back on course. "I'll turn around. I won't look." She lifts a dubious brow, but I see the spark of trouble from last night in her eyes. "You promise?" "Do you ... want me to promise?" "Yes," she says, while her eyes flash "no." "I want you to promise." "You trust me enough to take my word?" She cocks her head to one side, considering me down the slope of her button nose. "About this. Even if you break it, I've already seen you naked, so ..." Her shoulder lifts, a seductive roll of bone that hints at the sensual nature she's been too guarded to indulge since discovering her date with Dylan was a prank. "You've only seen me nearly naked," I correct, wishing I had more than stolen memories of being tangled up with Ariel. "But I won't break my word. Even if you beg me to." Her lips twitch. "I'll try to control myself." I grin. "You have a sarcastic streak." "I do." "I like it." "I thought you might." Her playful tone makes me want to grab her and tickle her until she squeals. I haven't tickled a girl in centuries, and it's such a nice excuse for getting your hands where they aren't usually supposed to be.... "Dylan?" First her ribs. Then, when she leans forward, I'd circle her waist with my fingers, find the ticklish spot right where-"Dylan?" She props her hands on her hips. "Yes?" I blink, banishing my comparatively innocent fantasy. "Are you turning around?" Her smile makes me suspect she's guessed the direction of my thoughts. It's a smile of discovery, timid, but with a burgeoning sense of power, the grin of a girl learning the influence she has over a boy. It wasn't what I set out to achieve this morning, but I'll take it. Ariel could use some empowerment, and I can use anything that makes her want to keep me around long enough for her to fall in love with me. "Turning, turning." I offer her my back, giving her privacy, distracting myself from thoughts of dressing and, more important, undressing by studying the paintings on the wall. The bold color and deft line make my brain squirm agreeably. Her work is technically excellent, with a whimsical, slightly morbid subject matter that I, for one, find charming. "These are wonderful." "Thanks." She sounds nervous but pleased. "Some are really old, from when I was twelve. They stink, but I keep them up there. They remind me of how much I've learned." "I like them all." I knew Ariel was an artist from my last turn through her life, but I didn't remember her work being so evocative. My Mercenary eyes functioned, but did they see? I'm guessing the answer is no. If they did, I wouldn't have overlooked the painting on the lower left. I remember it from when I was in this room before, skulking in the shadows, waiting for Juliet, but I wasn't drawn to it the way I am now. I cross to stand in front of the landscape, the familiarity of the windswept hill hitting me like a fist in the gut. It looks so much like my hill, the one where the human Romeo died and the monster rose in his place. And the boy ... I lean closer, inspecting the delicate swirls of paint that form his hair and simple cloak. The face is too small to be recognizable, but it could be mine, the one I was born with, the one on the body that is at this very moment trapped by Ambassador magic in that mountain cave, rotten and raving with its bones showing through its rapidly deteriorating skin. Now that my soul has left the specter, he is once again driven by the need to hunt me, to take my hand in his and reunite my body and spirit. He is a part of myself, left over from what I would have been, influenced by what I've become, and compelled by primal forces beyond human understanding to balance the cosmic equation I unbalanced when I became a Mercenary. The specter is a wretched thing because my soul is wretched. I never expected to see myself any other way, ever again. But now ... "Who is this? In the painting?" I turn to find Ariel buttoning her jeans. Our eyes meet, and awareness thickens the air between us before I spin back around with a quick, "Forgive me." "It's okay. I know you didn't ..." She clears her throat. "He's no one. Just a boy I imagined." A boy she imagined. A boy in a period cloak on a lonely hill, shoulders bowed by shame and grief. It's probably a coincidence. What else could it be? Still, it's hard to look away, even when a knock comes at the door and Ariel urgently orders me, "Under the bed. Hurry!" "Tell her you're sick. Get her to call the school," I whisper, inspiration striking. "We'll go to the art museum in Santa Barbara." "What?" "Play sick, and we'll play hooky. I want to look at beautiful things together." She shakes her head, but I can see that she's tempted. "I can't. I-" "Ariel," her mom calls from out in the hall. "Are you awake? It's seven-fifteen." "Just a second, Mom," Ariel calls. "Under the bed. Please!" she mouths to me as she backs away. I hit the floor and roll onto the dusty carpet beneath the bed just as the door opens and a sleepy-sounding Ariel wishes her mother "Good morning." "Good morning." "I thought you were going to sleep late, Mom." "I was, but something woke me. I felt rested, so I decided to get up." She pauses before letting out a surprised, "Your purse! I thought you said you lost it." "Um, no." Ariel's feet shift as she presumably turns to look at the purse lying in a saggy brown lump by the window. "I found it on the floor last night. I must have forgotten to take it with me." "Well, that's good news." Her mom sighs. "Now I won't have to call the phone company during my break. One thing off the list." "Yeah," Ariel says with a cough. "So how are you? You look pale. Tired after your big night?" "Yeah, a little. Tired and ... kind of sick to my stomach." Under the bed, I smile. The more time I spend with this girl, the more I like her. She's full of surprises. Even considering that some of them aren't pleasant, I'll take surprising over predictable any day. "You're probably hungover," her mother says. "I don't think so. I feel sick. Like the flu or something." "That's what a hangover feels like, Ariel. That's why you should have one glass of wine, not four." The mother doesn't sound amused, or particularly sympathetic. "There won't be any more going out on school nights if this is what happens the day after." "I know, Mom. I'm sorry." Her voice is so small and remorseful that I'm certain she's decided to give up on our adventure. But then she coughs. And clears her throat, and sniffs a sickly sniff. "I just ... I really don't feel good. Could I stay home today? Just this one time?" Her mother sighs, a tired exhalation ripe with defeat. I grin, sensing the battle is won. "All right. Since you haven't missed a day all year." "Thanks so-" "But if this happens again, there will be no more dates on school nights and we'll have to talk about a curfew." "I understand. Thanks, Mom. You're the best." "Right, right." She laughs beneath her breath. "Go ahead and get back into your pj's. I'll call the school and tell them you won't be there today." "Okay." "And I'll call Wendy and tell her not to pick me up since you won't be needing the car." I watch the mother's feet move away before pausing in the doorway and turning back. "Is there anything you need before I leave?" "No," Ariel says. "I'm going to go back to sleep. I can warm up some soup if I get hungry later." "All right. Since I'm up, I might as well head out and grab a few things at the store. Call my cell if you think of anything you want me to bring home tonight. Just remember I probably won't be back until after eleven." "Right. Thanks, Mom. I ... I really appreciate this. And last night." "You're welcome. Call me later. I love you." "Love you, too." My next breath feels sharp in my lungs. Love you. The words are sweet when she says them, but a part of me is already dreading the day she'll say them to me. I need her love, but lying is becoming harder than it used to be, especially not knowing what will happen when I've fulfilled my mission. Juliet's nurse said she would take care of Ariel, but how can I trust her? The woman who spoke so easily about the fortunate nature of Ariel's murder in another reality? Ariel's upside-down face appears to my left, peering into my hiding place. I rush to banish my scowl. "I feel awful," she whispers. "I don't like to lie." "It's for a good cause." I stay where I am, watching as she lies down on her belly and scoots under the bed beside me. I imagine how different this would feel if we were both on top of the bed instead of underneath it, how easily something childlike could grow adult possibilities. I clear my throat. "Besides, a museum is twice as enlightening as anything going on in that school." "True." She smiles. "And I've been dying to go. I haven't been in almost a year." "I've never been. This will be my first time." "Don't worry. I'll be gentle," she says, with a blush that makes her joke almost unbearably cute. "Naughty." Her blush deepens. "Yeah, well. I figure if you can't beat 'em ..." I laugh, a real laugh that soothes away the sharp feeling in my chest. "That's okay. You don't have to be gentle. I like it rough. Just don't make any bets involving my virtue. Only wastes of flesh do things like that." "You're not a waste," she murmurs. "Just stupid?" "You're not stupid, either." She considers me with an intensity that makes me glad I'm hidden in the shadows. "That's what makes it so hard to understand." "Understand what?" "Why you made the bet in the first place." I shrug. "Maybe I am stupid." "Or maybe you're a different person." I lie perfectly still but for the curl of my fingers into the dusty carpet. Could she know? On some level does she realize the truth? "I mean, you're one person at school with your friends. You practically ignored me last week except at rehearsal," she says. "And then, when we're alone, you're completely different. Even the way you walk is different." Ah. Not the truth, but she's getting warmer. "You're right." "So which one is the real Dylan?" Neither. The real Dylan has left the building. You're stuck with me, the thief of hearts, and I'm sorry for that. More than I thought I could be. "I don't know," I say instead. "But I'd like more time as the person I am when I'm with you." I meet her eyes, but can't muster up a sappy smile. Pretty lies sound so ugly this morning. "Thank you for forgiving me." "Thanks for forgiving me back." There's a crawling feeling in my throat, a skip in the rhythm of my pulse. I feel ... guilty? Yes, I think that's it. I know I should reach out, take her hand, make the most of this moment hiding in the shadows beneath her bed, when she's happy and open to a romantic gesture. But I can't. I can only nod and ask, "When do we leave?" "Thirty minutes. Maybe an hour. As soon as my mom leaves for work." She crosses her arms and lays her cheek on top. I do the same, forcing myself to watch her watch me, to whisper and plan, and to pretend the warmth growing between us isn't fueled by deception.