Dylan looks up. “I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.” Mom props her hands on her hips. She doesn’t sound angry—only matter-of-fact—but that doesn’t make the atmosphere on our side of the room any less stressful. “I had Ariel when I was nineteen, but I want her to have time to learn who she is before she has to learn how to be a mom.”
“Me too,” Dylan says, his voice soft, almost … wistful.
He has that sad look on his face again, the same one he had when he talked about his brother. I wonder if he’s thinking about him now. Or maybe he’s thinking about his mom, who, according to the rumors, ran off and left Dylan and his dad right before they moved here. Either way, I wish I were beside him, holding his hand.
Then do it. He put himself out there, and all you’ve done is stand and watch.
Right. I force my wobbly legs to move, crossing to Dylan and slipping my hand into his. He glances over at me, surprised. Then he smiles, and suddenly I don’t feel awkward or embarrassed or unsure anymore. Whatever his secrets, Dylan needs me. Maybe as much as I need him. Maybe even more.
“Well then. I guess we’re all on the same page.” Mom sighs a funny little sigh. I look up to see her leaning against the archway leading into the family room, watching us with a faint smile. “You have all your homework done for tomorrow?”
I nod. “As far as I know.”
“Okay. Then you two can watch some more TV if you want. But Dylan should be gone by ten-thirty, and you in bed by eleven, Ariel. You need to get some rest.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be in my room with the door cracked, and I’ll be able to hear everything,” she says. “Nice to meet you, Dylan.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Dragland. Thank you.”
She smiles. “You’re welcome.”
After she’s gone, Dylan and I stand in the darkness holding hands, the soundtrack from the menu screen of the Carrie DVD playing softly behind us. Despite the creepy music, I suddenly feel like laughing. We did it. We survived.
And Dylan is still here.
But when I turn to him—expecting to see him as relieved as I feel—his smile has slipped and gone sad again. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I’m … afraid.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he whispers.
“You didn’t. She’s not mad anymore, I can tell.”
“I don’t mean that. I …” He pulls his hand from mine. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then don’t,” I say, feeling stiff and nervous now that we’re no longer connected.
“Things aren’t that simple.” He props his hands on the back of the couch, his shoulders hunched. “There are things I can’t control.”
Oh. I see. I should have known we couldn’t go on like this, so easy and comfortable. We’ll be back in the real world tomorrow, and my life there is still as crappy as it’s ever been. Still, there’s no reason Dylan has to get down and wallow in it with me.
“Is this about school?” I ask. “Because if it is, I … We don’t have to act like … you know.” I was about to say we don’t have to act like we’re together, but we haven’t talked about being together, and I hate the idea of pretending he means nothing to me, that I mean nothing to him. I bite my lip. “I mean, if you’re worried about what your friends will think, I—”
“No.” He turns, shaking his head. “I told you, I don’t care about my friends. It’s … something I can’t talk about.” He looks away, focusing on a spot over my shoulder the way I’ve noticed he does when he’s nervous. I know so much more about him than I did this morning, but I want to know more. I have to know what he’s hiding.
“Why not?” I ask. “We’ve talked about a lot of things.”
“Nothing like this. You’ll think …” His eyes meet mine for a second before shifting away again. “I don’t know what you’ll think.”
“Try me,” I whisper.
He stares into the kitchen, like he’s searching our faded cabinets for the answer to some unspoken question. “Maybe I will,” he finally says. “But not right now.”
I sag, feeling like I’ve failed a test. “Give me a hint?”
“A hint?”
“Yeah. Just so …”
So I know you’re not keeping something awful from me. So I know I’m not going to find out that everything I think about you is wrong. So I can keep falling for you and know it’s okay, because at this point I’m not sure I can stop.
“I’ll sleep better,” I say instead.
“I’m not so sure about that.” He hesitates, and I’m starting to think I’ve heard his final word on the subject when he asks, “Do you believe in magic?”
“What kind of magic?”
“The kind that has the power to change the future. Spells that make people gods and slaves and monsters. That kind of magic. Real magic.”
He isn’t joking. I can tell. “I don’t know,” I say, seriously considering what he’s said. “I’ve always wanted to believe in magic, but …” I think about my life, about pain and monotony and unfairness broken only by moments when I’m too lost in my art to care. I think about my missing friend with her miserable excuse for a dad, and Dylan’s messed-up home life, and the cliquey people in this town who never gave my mom a chance to fit in. I think about crooked politicians and global warming and greed and selfishness and apathy and hate and my increasing assurance that there is no way out to a better place from these dark times, and sigh. “No, I don’t.”
“Really?” he sounds surprised.
“I don’t see much evidence to support believing in magic.”
“You don’t find your life magical?”
I almost laugh. He’s got to be kidding. “No, I don’t. Is there something about my life that you find especially magical?”
“More than you know.”
“Like what?”
“More than I can tell you right now,” he says, still frustratingly vague. “But I will say this: I believe in magic. I know it exists, and I know that some of it is good, and some of it is unreservedly evil.”
The way he says evil makes my skin itch, like I can feel all the bad things in the world circling around me, drawing closer and closer. I think about my dream and the man in the robe, and shiver. “How do you know?”
“I’ll tell you. Soon.” He lifts a finger and traces the place on my cheek where soft becomes bumpy. Even this morning I would have cringed, but now his touch only makes my heart beat faster. He really thinks I’m beautiful. That alone is almost enough to make me consider the existence of magic. “But in the meantime, be careful,” he says. “And don’t get angry if you can help it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.” He tips his head, bringing his lips closer to mine. “I think those things you hear are real, the result of some bad magic, and connected to some very dangerous beings.”
“Don’t joke,” I say. “Not about that.”
“I’m not. I’m serious. Just in case I’m also right, it’s safer if you don’t attract their attention.”
I shake my head, too overwhelmed to know what to think, or which of the dozens of questions racing through my mind to ask first. Before I can decide, Dylan stops me with a finger on my lips. “I promise I’ll tell you more. Right now you need some rest.”
“You think I can rest? After …” My hands scoop the air, gathering up everything he’s said. “You just told me you think I’m cursed, or something. You’re either joking or crazy or—”
“Or right.”
I pause, assessing him. “There’s no such thing as magic.”
“I wish you were right.”
My skin prickles. I’m getting close to his secret. I can feel it. “How do you know? Where did Dylan Stroud learn so much about the supernatural?”
“A better question would be, what if I’m not Dylan Stroud?”
What? What the heck does that mean?
“Haven’t you heard you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover?” he asks. “Especially if all the words inside are different?”
His words skip across the surface of my brain, leaving disturbing ripples behind. If I ignore common sense, I can almost see the image the ripples are forming, a flowing map to guide me from the changes I’ve noticed in Dylan to the reason for them. But I can’t. It’s too far to travel. If I start down that road … if I even let myself consider …
“That’s crazy,” I whisper.
“Yes. But something to think about.” He smiles. “Think your mother will let me drive you to school tomorrow? Now that we’re all friends and united by a belief in the careful use of contraception?”
My cheeks burn, the memory of my mother’s mortifying behavior distracting me for a moment. “Yes,” I mumble. “I think so.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. Seven o’clock. We’ll get breakfast.” He kisses my forehead, and moves toward the door.
For a second I think about begging him to stay, but I don’t. I stand and watch him slip into the night, wondering which of us is crazier—him for introducing such an insane possibility, or me for thinking about believing it?
ELEVEN
Romeo
When I swing into her driveway at six-forty-five, Ariel’s already waiting outside, backpack slung over one shoulder.
“You’re lovely this morning.” She is—gauzy white shirt, dark jeans, and long white braids tied with leather at the ends. “Like a very pale Indian princess.”
She smiles and says “Thank you” as she slides into the passenger seat. “You’re early.”
“Couldn’t sleep. I needed to see you again.”
“I couldn’t sleep either.” She closes her door, and I pull out of the driveway, aiming Dylan’s car toward downtown. “I’ve been up since two working on a new painting. I think I might actually need coffee for once.”
“That can be arranged,” I say, waiting for her to bring up the subject that must be plaguing her mind.
But she doesn’t say a word about my cryptic warnings last night. She remarks on the uncommonly beautiful day, reminds me that the homework for English—which I haven’t bothered to complete—is due, and asks if I’m ready for the last rehearsal for the spring formal performance after school.
“Of course.”
“Of course,” she echoes with a roll of her eyes. “You aren’t nervous at all, are you?”
“I don’t get nervous unless it’s a matter of life or death,” I say, the words coming out heavier than I intended. Two days. Just two more days. Two, two, two, two. I banish the disturbing mantra with a grin. “Besides, it’s a low investment performance. One song—on and off the stage in five minutes—and I’ll have the rest of the night to spend with you. We get to wear our own clothes, so I won’t even have to change out of costume.” I reach out, turning down the heat. It suddenly feels warmer with Ariel in the car. “Which reminds me—I need to go shopping. Up for a trip to the thrift store later this afternoon?”
“Sure.”
“I’m thinking a vintage tuxedo. Something in pastel if we can find it.”
“Okay,” she says with a laugh. “Sounds like fun.” And then she takes my hand and holds it all the way into Solvang, and I am … torn.
Is it best to pretend I never hinted that I’m another soul in Dylan’s body? The change in Ariel after only a day of undivided romantic attention is remarkable. Maybe continued commonplace, banal romantic pressure will be enough to save my skin. But can I trust “maybe” at a time like this? When less than forty-eight hours remain and hell awaits me if I fail? Or should I follow my instincts and tell Ariel the highly abridged, creatively edited, and largely false version of my sad tale?
My gut tells me that Romeo Montague—one of the most famous, most tragic lovers in history—will have a better chance of winning Ariel’s heart in the time we have left than Dylan Stroud will. I’ve used my real identity countless times in the past, to twist the human heart and bend a potential Mercenary convert to my will. It’s amazing how quickly an otherwise perfectly rational human being will believe the extraordinary in the name of being part of an epic love story.
And the nagging worry remains—what will happen to Ariel when Dylan’s soul returns, if I don’t tell her some version of my truth? How can the Ambassadors trust that Ariel will continue to believe in love if the person who’s touched her heart reverts to his old, nasty ways?
Yes, Dylan will retain some of my memories of seducing Ariel—minus the details about the Ambassadors and the Mercenaries—but he won’t love her. I’m pretending to care to save my own skin. Why will he believe he was pretending? What story will his sick mind create to fill in the gaps made by having his body inhabited by another person’s soul? And will that story destroy Ariel’s faith in love’s power?
Or will her faith stay strong and her light be snuffed out by Mercenaries once she’s no longer useful to their cause?
Who cares? The Mercenaries might kill her, but at least she’ll be free to die a normal death. You can’t say the same. Keep your head, or you’ll find it filled with rot before the sun rises Saturday morning.
“Dylan?” Ariel gives my arm a gentle shake. “Are we going to breakfast?”
“Yes,” I snap, then realize what I’ve done and gentle my voice. “Yes. Can’t face a day of learning on an empty stomach.”
“Okay.” She sounds cautious, guarded, leaving no doubt she heard the anger in my voice. “Well, you passed the pancake house two blocks ago, so …”
“I thought we’d hit the bakery, have coffee and a chocolate croissant or five. My treat.” I pull into a parking spot on the street, only a few doors down from the Windmill Bakery.
“No, I want to buy,” she says, hesitation in her tone. “You got dinner the other night and everything yesterday.”
I wave her concern away and jump out to open her door. “I scored a couple twenties from my dad.” I take her arm and help her out of the car. “I’m a rich man.”
“Won’t you need that later?” she asks, dragging her feet as we step onto the sidewalk. “For the thrift store?”
“No worries. I’ve got everything under control.” I do. I won’t let fear or worry or anything else divert me from my course. I must catch this girl any way I can, the way a spider catches a fly. And the spider doesn’t let concern for the fly divert it from its course; the spider does what it must to survive.
“Wait,” Ariel says, stopping abruptly at the entrance to the bakery, pulling her arm from mine. “I can’t.”
“Why? What—”
“I just can’t. I told you yesterday I didn’t want to come here.” She backs away as the door behind me opens with a tinkling sound. I glance over my shoulder, and see precisely what has my fly so terribly upset.
“Aw, man! No way. I already spent that sixty bucks.” The loud male voice is followed by a chorus of louder, meaner male laughter. “You suck, Stroud.”
Three lanky boys and a shorter, more solid boy with spiked black hair and a cruel smirk emerge from the bakery. They prowl across the sidewalk, jackals smelling easy prey. I stop, frozen in place as I meet the pitiless eyes of the shortest boy. Jason Kim. Memories of the way he laughed as he tortured me for betraying Mercenary secrets rush inside me, filling my mouth with the taste of blood and fear.
My maker, Friar Lawrence, inhabited this boy’s body during my first go-round in this time. It was his fault I was forced to kill Juliet and her new love. He left me no choice, and then he left me no way out, banishing me to my soul specter, condemning me to more misery and horror.
My fists ball, and something inside me curls into a poisonous knot. What if it’s him again? What if he’s still lurking in Jason’s body? Will he know me? And if he does, what will he do? Will he take me now, banish me to my specter, and steal away my second chance and Ariel’s future? If it is him, he will try to turn her. And if he can’t turn her, he will kill her, and I will be he
lpless to prevent him.
Helpless, a dog snapping at the ankles of those who hold the power.
I decide right then that I must tell Ariel whatever it takes to keep her safe. I must make her believe my lies before anyone else can hurt her with theirs. My lies will protect her. Theirs will steal her immortal soul and make her a monster. Like me.
“Why didn’t you call me yesterday, dude? I thought the Freak cut your junk off or something.” Jason’s voice is higher than I remember, and his grin makes check marks in his plump cheeks. Soft cheeks, with no memory of what it feels like to have an ancient evil working the muscles beneath. And his eyes … They’re cruel, but not malevolent.
My maker isn’t in that body. It’s not the friar; it’s just a boy. I take a deep breath, coming back to myself enough to realize Ariel is no longer by my side.
“Five hundred dollars, bro,” Jason continues. “That’s pretty sweet. Once everyone pays up, we can get those new amps.” He reaches a hand out for Dylan to clasp in victory. I stare at his white palm and thick fingers—thinking I’d like to cut them off—and then turn my back on him. He doesn’t matter. Ariel matters.
I find her already a block down the street, blond braids swinging as she retreats. I’d been pleased that she’d pulled her hair back this morning, and eliminated the shield she hides behind. But seeing her now—hunched and broken and seething in pain—I am pleased at nothing. Damn Jason and the other boys. Damn Dylan.
Damn myself.
“Ariel, wait!” My cry is echoed by the mocking voices of Jason’s three minions, pathetic shadows with names like Craig and Tanner and Brodie, names that mean nothing to me. But they mean something to Ariel. I can see it in her expression when she turns, in the mix of fear and despair and anger pulling at her face.