Eternal: More Love Stories With Bite (14 page)

Mantua was where things had gone wrong. Where he had not received the letter informing him that she was lying in a stupor in the Capulet tomb, waiting for him to wake her with a kiss. The architect of that fiasco, Friar Lawrence, had promised she would one day return to her beloved. Insisted that he'd arranged for it to happen. But the old magician had died a failure in that as well, refusing at the end to be saved from death in the way he had saved Romeo.

"Better to die," the old man had said, gasping, "than to become like you."

"Tormented," Romeo had whispered through his fangs. "As you made me."

For centuries Romeo had roamed the world, seeking her.
Juliet, Juliet, where art thou, Juliet?
Paying magicians, then torturing them, to force them to do what Friar Lawrence had promised. Studying in monasteries, fasting, scourging himself. Praying, threatening. Friar Lawrence had sworn that she'd return. But she had not.

His despair was the cause of his temper. Take love from him, and light was absent. He was a vampire, a creature of darkness, whose black deeds were born in a heart that was dying of loneliness, and regret.

Then, by love's light wings, he'd found her—on Face- book. His search engine had pointed to her after she had quoted the Shakespeare play about them. Then he had seen the confirming crescent moon on her shoulder. Not a tattoo, but a real birthmark, like Juliet's. The chances of finding her in such a seemingly random manner made him wonder if there was a God after all, one that could perform miracles. He had long ago ceased to believe in magic, though Friar Lawrence had sworn on his immortal soul that magic would bring her back. After the first fifty years of waiting, and then the first century, Romeo probably would have killed the old monk-cum-sorcerer for the sin of false hope, if Lawrence hadn't died first.

Juliet.
G
iulietta.
Her contemporary name was Claire Johnson, and she lived in Tampa. He sent her email messages and chatted with her online, making up reasons for why he wouldn't use a webcam. The truth was, he wouldn't be visible on it. It took him several months to reveal the truth.

She had been convinced much more quickly than he would ever have imagined. Convinced, and accepting.

"I
haven't had a great life,"
she wrote.
"My parents were horrible to me. I ran away when I was fourteen. I've been on the streets so long, seen so many things. . . Sounds like you have, too."

Then Lucenzo had flown to Florida in a private jet to collect her. Romeo had paced, slept, fed, and paced some more. He knew he shouldn't expect his lady to wear velvets and silks, but it was still a bit of a shock when she arrived in Italy tanned, wearing capris and an empire-waisted paisley blouse, earbuds in, and chewing gum. Shaking, he held himself back as she walked into the villa, gazing around, saying, "Wow." And then when she saw him, raising her eyebrows.

Lucenzo had said the only difference was his paleness. And when the bloodlust was on him, the red eyes and fangs. But she looked a little shocked.

"Hey," she said. She smiled. It was a weak smile, but it was there. "Romeo."

No curtsy, no courtly language. Just "Hey, Romeo." But it was enough. He trembled, so badly; tears spilled down his cheeks, and she came to him then, saying, "Oh, wow, shit," and she put her arms around him.

"Juliet," he whispered brokenly. "My life, my wife."

She put her head on his chest. They communed in silence; he felt her soul pouring into him.

"You don't have a heartbeat," she said.

"Yes, I do. It beats outside my chest," he replied, daring to put his hand on her hair. He breathed in her scent— gum, coconut oil, Juicy Couture perfume—and shut his eyes tightly.

"That's so sweet," she told him.
"You're
sweet."

"I'm not," he replied. And he felt despicable, horrible. But he'd had to do all the evil things that he'd done, to live for her. What if he hadn't grabbed onto life and wrestled it from the catacombs? What if she had come back, and not found him waiting? What would have happened to her own sweet soul?

He stirred, feeling panicky at the mere thought of failing her. But he had done it, he reminded himself. She was here.

Still . . . maybe not Mantua. He was the one longing for the old days, while she didn't even remember them. He'd put himself on hold for centuries, not living in the world but lingering in the shadows, as he waited for her, searched for her, performed unspeakable rites to obtain her.

Unspeakable.
He spared half a glance in the direction of the old man as two lackeys laid him on a blanket and the others resumed cleaning the room.

Romeo walked into his study. He leaned against the black glass brick surrounding the enormous tank of tropical fish. Then he opened the drawer in his ebony desk and took out a small octagonal box covered with Italian mosaics. He lifted the lid and studied the dust inside.

One letter, sent to him via her nurse. No one hand wrote anything now. It was all electronic, immediate and fleeting. But she had sent him reassurance of her love, after he had wooed her on her balcony, after her family's party.

Romeo, oh, Romeo,

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep.

The more I give to thee, the more I have, For both are infinite.

Juliet

He dipped his forefinger in the dust. He hadn't known how to preserve the note, and it had disintegrated. But he had kept it with him always, and the words were engraved on his heart. He had spoken the words aloud to Juliet in her new incarnation as Claire. She had giggled, then smiled and put in her earbuds.

Wooing women was different then.

Death had been even more different.

* * * *

Verona, 1336

Blackness. Romeo floated in it, as if he had no body. It was cold, and his face was wet. Was he crying?

The last thing he remembered was the sight of his dead love, his new wife, Juliet. After Romeo had been banished for killing her cousin, she had died of grief. For him: the poison had been very painful, but the agony had been short.

Why, then, was he floating in darkness? He was a suicide. Was this hell?

Then Romeo realized he was lying on his back in a ditch in the cold, soggy ground, and mud coated his face, his chest, and his arms. He'd been buried in the earth, not in his family's crypt. Buried alive? Stars, what punishment was this for the sin of suicide?

Attempted suicide, as evidently he had failed. He wanted to rage against his fate. Then something was thrown over his face—rough cloth; someone lifted him up in strong arms. He tried to speak, but he could only groan softly.

I'm alive,
he thought. Then,
Let me die.

Then he sank into blackness.

After a time, there was more movement, something pressing down on him. Someone covering him. As he gathered his thoughts, a hot poker burned his neck; fire shot through his veins and coursed through his body. The pain was unimaginable, like being plunged into eternal flames, the hellfires of damnation.

He screamed. Then a hand covered his mouth. In the blurred glare of a torch, Friar Lawrence's moon-shaped face came into view. The friar's heavy brows met over the bridge of his large nose as he stared down at Romeo. Someone was standing behind the friar, but Romeo couldn't tell who.

He was no longer cold. But his heart. . . what was wrong with his heart? It ached. And he was so thirsty.

"Hssst," Friar Lawrence said. "You must be silent."

The friar glanced backward, over his own shoulder. "Do you have the . . . blood?" he asked.

"Si," said a voice, low and deep.

Romeo fought against the friar's hand again, and the friar bent down and grabbed Romeo's head with his other hand. The other figure remained in darkness.

"You must make no sound, for we have very little time. You must trust me, my son." Friar Lawrence sighed heavily. "Though you have no reason to do so."

Romeo struggled. If
he
hadn't died, what about Juliet? Maybe it had all been a terrible dream, and she was alive, and waiting for him. Romeo bolted upright, pushing the friar away.

For the love of God, he saw—

The figure moved out of the shadows, revealing himself. He was tall, dark-haired, and dressed in a long black robe with black mutton sleeves. He wore a black-and-scarlet cap decorated with a gold tassel. His face was long, and pale, and his eyes glowed crimson. And his
teeth
were long, and sharp, and pointed at the ends, like daggers.

"Vampiro,"
Romeo whispered, crossing himself. He knew of such things—damned creatures, shunned by God, attacking the living and ripping out their throats. Unholy.

To his shock, the creature hissed and took a step back. Romeo lifted his hand weakly, making a cross with his thumb and fist.

"Romeo, you know me as your father confessor," Friar Lawrence told him, holding him tightly, demanding his attention. "But I dabble in other matters. Matters of magic, and sorcery."

"W-what evil is this?" Romeo managed, staring at the silhouette of the vampire. "What of my love?"

"Listen carefully, and make no sound," the friar said again. "My plan went awry. I gave Juliet a draught of poison that gave her the mien of death, and sent you a message telling you to rescue her inside the crypt of Capulet."

"I received no such letter!" Romeo cried.

"That letter, alas, never reached you. When you found her, to all appearances dead—you took a poison. If you'd drank any more of it, it would have killed you. As it was, your flesh cooled with the slowing of your heart, and your parents' physician declared that you had expired. Next
she
awoke, believed you dead, and stabbed herself through the heart. And that, alas, did send her to the angels."

Romeo grabbed the friar's hand. "Then kill me, Father. Feed me to that monster so I might hasten to catch up with her!"

"Hush, listen," Friar Lawrence said fiercely. "You would have been a different matter, easy to revive, save that before I could intervene they spirited your body away and put you in the earth. They had no way of knowing that they had buried you alive."

"God's blood!" Romeo cried in horror. "And I thought I was being punished."

"The ordeal was too much for you. You were near death when I found you." He paused. "Too near."

"But Juliet
is
dead," Romeo groaned, gripping the man's hand more tightly.

"Hsst, man. Attend me." The priest peered into his eyes. "Recall that I told you I know of matters magic."

Romeo crossed himself again. "Of sorcery?" He dropped his hands to his side. "What care I then, if you have appealed to the devil himself? If there is hope, then tell me. If not, let me die."

"There is," Friar Lawrence confirmed. "The soul of Juliet is under an enchantment now, and by my charge, she will find her way back to you, and only you—if you are alive to welcome her. To love her."

"Then let me make haste to find her," Romeo ordered the friar, swinging his legs over the side of what he now realized was the friar's homely cot. He was in Friar Lawrence's cell, beneath his rows of books and bottles of herbals.