Mission nearly accomplished. I should be pleased.
Ariel is so close to loving me. I can feel it in the way her lips move against mine, in the eager hands that pull me close. I’ve almost won her heart and paved the way for my departure. When Dylan comes back to this body, she won’t be surprised or hurt. She’ll be able to hold on to the memory of our time together and weather the fallout. I’ve even planted the seed for a love-filled future, with my noble request that she find someone else if I’m not able to stay.
Even with the strange absence of Romeo and Juliet in this world, I know I should be congratulating myself. Giving myself a mental high five and an exploding fist bump and tossing off the worry that has felt as if it will eat me alive.
Ariel is a sure thing. I won’t ever have to go back to my rotted corpse. I will be an Ambassador. The world is saved—at least for the time being—and the Ambassadors and Mercenaries will continue to duke it out for control of however many realities there are, for however much time is allowed them. It’s exactly what I hoped for, and if I had to color the truth to win Ariel over to the light, who cares? It’s best for everyone if she never learns her capacity for evil.
So why does her touch fill me with pain? Why are her lips the most bittersweet thing I’ve ever tasted?
Because she’s a dead woman. No. A dead girl, and you know it, you worthless, faithless coward.
It’s true. But I’ve known from the beginning that what I was sent here to do would put Ariel’s life at risk. In the beginning, the Ambassador’s promise to “take care of her” was enough to set my guilt aside. But suddenly it’s not. Not nearly.
Look at how that Ambassador “took care of” Juliet. She enslaved her in ignorance for centuries and then abandoned her to be killed by the Mercenaries. How can I risk leaving Ariel to a fate like that? How can I justify what I’ve done, no matter how much good will come of it?
I don’t know. All I know is that here, in her arms, with her bones resting on mine and her pulse racing beneath my lips, I can’t imagine anything worse than a reality without Ariel in it.
Then do something. Take action, before tomorrow night.
I will. I must. At the very least, I can warn Ariel more specifically, make sure she’s as prepared for Mercenary evil as a human being can be. Perhaps knowledge can save her. And if not …
Then I’ll do what I have to do. Like the Ambassador said, I’m not one of them yet. I can still lie and cheat and kill to get what I want, and what I want is Ariel alive.
FOURTEEN
Ariel
His voice is still beautiful—even more beautiful, though I wouldn’t have thought that possible a few days ago—but it isn’t Dylan’s. It’s higher, sweeter, and so pure it makes my bones tingle and the hairs on my arms stand on end. Listening to Romeo sing is a full body experience. It would be even if I hadn’t spent the day dreaming about how I want to spend what I pray isn’t our last full night together.
My toes curl in my shoes, and my hands shake as I load my paint supplies into the cart I’ll wheel back to the art room tomorrow morning. I can hardly wait for him to come down off the stage, take my hand, and run with me until we find someplace where we can be alone. Together.
Together together. Me and Romeo. Tonight.
Just thinking about it is enough to make me want to spin in giddy circles. I can’t decide if I’m more terrified or excited, but everything I know about fairy-tale curses points to this as a potential solution. In the stories, love is always the answer. Love breaks the spell and turns the frog into a prince, the beast into a man, and would have kept the Little Mermaid on land with legs and the man of her dreams if the stupid prince hadn’t fallen in love with someone else.
Romeo and I have certainly shared true love’s kiss—shared it well into first period, in fact, and got yelled at by Mr. Stark for coming in late to English—but I still haven’t said the words. I can’t. Not yet. There’s a part of me that refuses to believe this is real, a snarky voice inside that insists I’ve finally gone off the deep end. But I know how to silence that voice. Tonight, when Romeo is as close to me as another person can get, when I look up into his eyes and see straight into his soul, I’ll know there’s no reason to hold back. I’ll tell him then. That I … love him. Because I do, I really think I do.
Being with Romeo makes me feel more alive than I’ve felt in my entire life. Before I met him, it was like my skin was completely made up of scars, a numb shell too afraid to give pleasure a chance. But now my skin is awake and wild and as determined as the rest of me.
I lift my eyes, find him standing center stage, commanding the attention of the room. His last note hangs in the air, filling the cafeteria, catching and holding every listener captive.
The rest of the choir stands motionless at the base of the stage, the cafeteria ladies have stopped their after-school cleanup in the back rooms, and the teachers and students working the decorations committee for the dance are frozen—tissue flowers and gossip forgotten. In the silence after the music fades, we’re as quiet as residents of a graveyard for one breathless moment before first one and then another person sighs in relief. It’s awful that it’s over, but in a way we’re glad. It can be painful to listen to something so perfect for too long.
The silence gives way to enthusiastic applause and a “whoot, whoot” from someone in the choir, but Romeo either doesn’t realize the effect he’s had or doesn’t care. He just slips the microphone back into its stand, glances at Mrs. Mullens—who gives him a shaky thumbs-up—and grabs his jacket from the floor of the stage. He hurries down the steps as I tuck the last clean brush into the cart.
“Hey.” His voice is full of the same wonder that has made me feel like I’m floating a few feet off the ground all day.
“Hey.” I smile.
“You ready?” He holds out his hand.
“Completely.” I twine my fingers through his and let him lead the way out of the cafeteria, feeling more sure of my decision with every step. His hand feels so right in mine. I know everything else will feel just as right. Perfect. As magical as Romeo himself.
Romeo
“Maybe we should hold off on shopping. Are you sure you even want to go to the dance?” Ariel asks. She dawdles at my side as we cross the parking lot, as decidedly un-thrilled by our errand as she was ten minutes ago when I aimed the car toward the Goodwill store over by Highway 101. “We don’t have to go, you know. I don’t—”
“Of course we do,” I say. “Dances are fun.”
“No, they’re not,” she deadpans, the flatness in her tone making me laugh.
I grab her hand and loop it through my arm. “Have you ever been to a dance?”
“No.”
“See there. You don’t know if they’re fun.” I stop in front of the store and turn to her, smile faltering at the look in her eyes. It’s the same look she had the entire time she was painting, the one that leaves no doubt what she’s thinking about. And knowing she’s thinking about that makes it impossible for me to keep from thinking about that. About her long fingers on the buttons of my shirt, my hands pulling her blouse over her head, her lips on mine as she starts to work on unbelting and unbuttoning and—
“So. Yeah.” I clear my throat and scan the parking lot, pretending I’m checking where I parked the car while I pull myself together.
Just yesterday I was determined to enjoy myself with Ariel if the opportunity presented itself, but it’s different now. No matter how much I want to be with her, it doesn’t feel right. I’ll be gone by tomorrow night. That’s the truth, no matter what false hope I’ve allowed her to cling to in the name of making our short time together happier.
And when Dylan comes back, I don’t want him to be in possession of any of those types of memories. I don’t want him to have ammunition he could use to hurt Ariel. Even more important, I don’t want to share. I don’t want another boy, even one whose body I’m using for my own purposes, to know Ariel in that way. I’m sure it will hap
pen for her eventually—when our days together are a dim, surreal memory—but I’ll be in the mist by then, awaiting my call to service from the Ambassadors, safe from the knowledge that she’s found someone else.
“Besides,” I say in a falsely upbeat voice. “I want to go to the dance.”
“You want to go,” she repeats. “I don’t—”
“I want to go with you,” I correct her, wrapping my arms around her waist. “I want to hold you close and inhale the magical scent of hot-glued felt flowers and old burritos and boys wearing too much cheap cologne.” She rolls her eyes, but I can feel her relaxing. “And I want to remember you being as beautiful as I know you’ll be tomorrow night.”
She drops her chin to her chest. I can tell she’s thinking about tomorrow night being our last night, but thankfully she doesn’t say a word. If she asks me about it again, I might tell her the truth, and the truth isn’t good for anyone.
She’ll hate me if she learns that Juliet didn’t simply die but was tricked into killing herself. That I am the one who did the tricking, and that I was sent here to deceive her in much the same way. She’ll be angry, horrified. It certainly won’t make her love me or turn her heart toward the light. Unburdening my conscience would be an entirely selfish act.
So why do I feel so compelled to tell her everything?
I don’t know. But a streak of madness deep in my bones urges me to pull her back to the car, drive her up to the mountain cave where the specter of my soul raves in his prison, and confess every sordid, shameful detail of my past. I suppose a part of me thinks she might be able to forgive me. And if she can forgive me, then maybe … maybe …
You don’t deserve forgiveness. Your own, or anyone else’s.
“Okay,” Ariel says, calling me back from the dark corners of my mind. “But I don’t know if I’m going to find a dress here. They usually don’t have much in my size.”
“We’ll find something. Don’t worry.” I urge her toward the entrance. “In addition to my killer charm and haunting singing voice, I happen to have an eye for fashion.”
She smiles. “Of course you do.”
“Undeniably.” I motion to the ensemble I pulled together from Dylan’s sad little closet—dark jeans, a khaki button-up rolled at the sleeves, and a burgundy sweater vest I found in a box. I suspect the vest was his mother’s, but I put it on anyway. “I mean, look at me.”
“Gorgeous.” She pinches my stomach as she walks by. “And so modest.”
“Modesty is for lesser men.” I hold the door open as she steps through. Inside, the air is warm and pungent with the smell of dusty old clothes. It’s strong, like the scent lingering in a barn, and I can’t keep from wrinkling my nose.
Ariel giggles beneath her breath. “Powerful, isn’t it?”
“We’ll wash everything twice. Three times if we have to.”
“Right. But you know … Well, I wouldn’t want to wear it, but I kind of like the smell.” She leads the way to the back of the store, past aisles of faded blue jeans and circular clothes racks stuffed with sagging sweaters. “It reminds me of when I was little. My mom and I didn’t shop anywhere else until I was in junior high. We still come once a month or so.”
“So you know the lay of the land.”
“I do.” She smiles, and reaches back to claim my hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you the way.”
Her words send a sizzle of electricity across my skin. I try to ignore it, but it’s damned difficult. All I want to do is touch her. Being near her has become frighteningly imperative. I stand too close as we flip through a rack of hideous suits. My fingers nip her bare waist when she reaches up to slide a red dress from its hanger, and I squeeze her hips through her jeans when she grabs shiny white leather boots from the floor.
By the time we make it to the dressing room—arms full of smelly clothes in various shades of obnoxious—I can barely resist the urge to pull her into the curtained partition with me. There’s a girl’s curtain and a boy’s curtain, but the old woman working the cash register has glasses an inch thick and a hearing aid the size of a piece of cauliflower sticking out of each ear. She won’t notice if Ariel slips in with me.
And watching her getting dressed and undressed, and knowing you can’t touch her, won’t be torturous. Not at all.
“I do enjoy a little torture now and then,” I whisper, visions of my fingers tugging zippers up and down for Ariel making my mouth run dry.
Ariel turns, hand lingering on the curtain of the girl’s room. “What?”
“I said you have to come out and show me everything.”
“You too. I especially want to see the plaid one.” She smiles that wicked grin that makes her thin lips even thinner. The one that makes me want to kiss her. But then … what doesn’t?
Damn. I have to stop dwelling on temptation, or there will be no doubt about if I’ll give in, only when.
I duck into the dressing room, determined to achieve some level of control. My choice of wardrobe helps. The suits I’ve picked are deliberately awful. My motto for fashion: If you can’t afford to make an elegant statement, make a ridiculous one. Hence the plaid suit jacket, the pleated olive-green pants with the camouflage sweater, and the skin-tight acid-washed jeans with the “Jesus Rocks My World” T-shirt. All of them get a laugh from Ariel, but when I come out in the robin’s-egg-blue bell-bottom tuxedo with brown piping and the ruffled collar, I know I’ve found a winner.
“You’re kidding me.” Her laughter bubbles up from deep inside her, and a silly grin blooms on my face.
Her laughter. It makes me so stupidly happy. Like a small child. Or a dog. I should be ashamed of myself—enjoying her so much when all I’ve done is lie and put her life in danger—but I’m not. I need this, just an hour or two to relish the innocent pleasure of her company.
“It’s only sixteen ninety-five,” I say with a flutter of my lashes.
“You’re serious.”
I prop my hands on my waist and stick out a hip, striking a pose worthy of a supermodel. “Look at me. Don’t I look serious?”
She collapses into the chair outside the dressing room in a fit of giggles so cute they make my insides fizz. “No! You must be stopped,” she says.
“Why?” I strut down an aisle of yellowed lingerie, swiveling my hips, batting bras with flicks of my fingers. “I will be the king of the disco. I will be—” I spin and strike another pose. “An inspiration.”
She sniffs and swipes at her eyes. “The real Dylan would die before he’d be seen in public in something like that.”
“The real Dylan is boring.” I brace my hands on the arms of her chair and lean down until our faces are a whisper apart. “And he’s not one fourth the kisser I am.”
“Is that right?” Her lips quirk.
“You know it is.”
Her smile melts, and her breath comes faster. “Yeah. I do.”
“So don’t even think about kissing him again after I’m gone.” I manage to hold on to my playful tone, but only barely. “You’ll be very disappointed.”
She exhales, and the last of her merriment floats away. “I don’t want to kiss anyone else. I don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t want to go.” My voice is as rough as the scars on her face. I dip my head and press a kiss to her cheek.
Her arms loop around my neck. “Please … can’t you tell me something? Help me help you.”
“I wish I …” I duck my head, knowing the lies will come easier if I’m not looking her in the eye. “I can’t say a word, or the magic keeping me in Dylan’s body will vanish.”
Her cool fingertips dig into my skin. “I hate the woman who did this to you.”
“Don’t hate her. Don’t hate anyone.” I kiss her other cheek. “You’re too beautiful for hate.”
“You realize you’re the only one who thinks I’m pretty, right?”
“I didn’t say pretty; I said beautiful. And I wasn’t talking about the way you look. I’m talking about who yo
u are.” She looks up at me, lips parted, but this time I know she doesn’t want a kiss. She wants to know if I’m serious.
I pause, stare deep into those naked blue eyes and realize … I am serious. “I’ve told a lot of lies in my time,” I say, hoping she can see that I’m speaking from what’s left of my heart. “And I’m really, really good at making people believe them. But I’m not lying about what I see in you. You are unique and wonderful and powerful, and, if you let yourself, someday you’ll be fearless. You’ll change the world. Make it better.”
And I wish I could be there to see it.
“If I do,” she whispers, “it will be because of you.” She kisses my forehead, and I die a little. I’m not worthy of her respect or affection, and I never will be. “Okay.” She runs a fond hand through my hair, making the hurt a little worse. “I’m glad you’re wearing this monstrosity.”
I swallow, fighting to keep the self-loathing from my expression. “Why?”
“It’s hard to be completely sad when you’re wearing so many ruffles.” She flips my collar before standing and crossing to her dressing room. “So you’ve picked out your … statement. Now you have to help me find something.”
I plop down in the chair, cross my arms, and affect a pout, determined to recapture our playful mood. “How can I? When you didn’t model any of them for me?”
“I couldn’t. The red dress was way too big, and I won’t have time to alter it before tomorrow night. The pink one was too short, and really ugly, and made me look like I was ten. The plaid skirt and sweater were okay, and they would have matched the plaid suit coat, but with you wearing the blue tux …”
“Hold on a second.” A memory of the store window flickers through my mind. “Get in there and get naked,” I say, heading toward the front of the store.
“Now, that’s what I’ve been waiting to hear.” The words are softly spoken, even a little shy, but there’s no missing the sultry note in her tone.
FIFTEEN