Eternal: More Love Stories With Bite (15 page)

The old man lowered his head. "It is not so simple as that. I have committed many sins in this, my son. I usurped Juliet's father's authority and performed the holy rite to wed her to her mortal enemy. I thought I could succeed in forcing peace in Verona, when even our prince had failed. And I arranged false death for her, which came to true death in the end.

"The poison and your untimely burial claimed your life, Romeo. This is the worst of my sins: I have done a thing to make you come back. But not as you were." He raised a hand, and
the
vampire stepped forward, holding a simple brass goblet. Steam rose into the chill air.

Romeo stared at it, bewildered.

"Drink, and live," the vampire said to him as he drew near, and held the goblet out. There was a deep gash in the vampire's wrist.

The coppery scent of dark blood wafted toward him. Romeo licked his lips, horrified, aware that he wanted it with all his slowing heart.
Needed
it.

"What have you done?" Romeo demanded.

"All that I could. And so must you," Friar Lawrence said.
"For
Juliet."

"For Juliet," Romeo rasped, as the vampire gave him the cup.

He parted
his
lips, and his world shattered.

* * * *

Verona, the Present

How much blood have I drunk since then? How many spells have I attempted, how many prayers have I uttered, in my endless waiting? How much pain have I caused?

In his villa, Romeo gazed out at the gardens for a moment. Lavender, roses, orange-tree flowers, and lilies. He knew that the rosy pull of dawn splashed against the plaster and stone walls, and he must go into his coffin and rest. The preparations to celebrate Juliet's transformation would continue—the villa scrubbed from top to bottom by dozens of servants; her coffin elaborately carved. Rose petals would cover the satin shrouds his love would lay
in
before she lived forever.

I have found her. She's mine again.

She
hadn't yet answered
his text.
The little fear snaked its way into his mind once more.
The
fear of losing her again was as consuming as the
fear
that he had lost her forever.

His boots rang on the marble as he turned a corner and walked down the hall toward Juliet's bedroom. The little
maid
was using a carpet sweeper on the runner—
he hated
the grinding cacophony
of
modern
vacuum
cleaners.
She
was the
one
with the scars
on
her face, and the limp.
He
couldn't remember her name, nor what kind of accident had ruined her so badly. She was of no importance, except that she stood between him and his Juliet. She hurried to move aside as he passed by.

He reached Juliet's room and rapped expectantly on the
door.
His hearing was excellent:
on
the other side
of
the door, Juliet's heartbeat quickened.

He took that for an invitation and opened the door.

Claire Johnson, his Juliet, was seated before the ornately engraved mirror of entwined cupid's arrows and roses, listening to her iPod and typing
on
the laptop
he'd
bought
for
her. Of course she wasn't sending out any email; that was forbidden. She was here in secret, and must so remain. To that, she had enthusiastically agreed.

His gaze lingered on her, even while the hideous noise from her iPod jangled his nerves. She was wearing the white
linen nightgown he had
ordered for her
from
Padua over a
pair of
ripped black leggings and
a
purple tank
top. She
was barefoot.
He
felt
a small disappointment. Not at
all ladylike. Somehow, given
the
closeness of
the
hour,
he had
thought
she
might
take
more
pains
with her appearance.

Her blue-streaked hair had grown out more slowly than he'd wished—it had been as short as his was now when she arrived—and it only curled around her ears. That would be its length, then; the Change would make her changeless. She'd taken out her piercings in her
eyebrow
and
her
nose—so barbaric!—and had stopped painting her fingernails
black.

Romeo had taken her
on
nigh
t
time
tours
of
Verona, and descended with her into
the
Capulets' tomb.
There
she
had
seen the bones and dust
of
a
thousand
years
of
Capulets.
He
had
shown her the oil portrait
of
Juliet herself, and Claire
had
grown
dizzy
and
pale,
and fallen to her
knees.

"It is me,"
she'd
whispered. "I'm Juliet."

He
had expected the shock to restore her memory—that she would be "more" Juliet than she was now. Perhaps in time.

She would have eternity to remember.

Claire-Juliet looked up from the dressing table. Of course she couldn't
see
his reflection—
he no
longer
had
one—but
when she
half-turned and saw
him
standing
in
the doorway, color rose
in
her cheeks and
she
pulled
the
earbuds out. They
dangled around
her neck and
rested
against the deli
cious
pulse of her vein. She
closed
the laptop lid and
rested
her hands
on it.

He put
his
arms around her, gazing down with rapture.
"I
texted
you."

"Oh." She hesitated. "I can't find my phone."

"Careless girl," he said lightly. "Again? I'll buy another. Twenty. When I awake tomorrow evening, I will rise as a bridegroom. And you, Juliet, will live—and love—forever with me."

"Right," she said again, and smiled briefly. Her heart was thundering.

"I know you're nervous," he said. "But you won't feel the things I felt. I'll give you the painkillers first." But not the tetrodox. It was too strong. He remembered his anger, that someone had tampered with the old man. His promise to punish the transgressor. "It will be over so fast!"

"Cool," she said. She reached up on tiptoe and kissed him hard. She was trembling. He could feel his fangs beginning to lengthen and took a courtly step away. She came toward him; he eased her gently out of reach.

"I love thee," he whispered.

"Awesome," she replied, her voice cracking.

* * * *

The poisoning's culprit had not yet been found, and Romeo felt his good humor sink with the moon. Love for Juliet had softened his mood, but now, as he remembered the foul taste and compared it with Lucenzo's good blood, he felt himself grow angry once more. He told Lucenzo to keep looking, surveyed the preparations, and yelled at the staff for not hanging the festoons properly.

Then Romeo went down into the little tomb Lucenzo's grandfather had helped him design—Lucenzo was mortal, and his family had served Romeo for centuries. Romeo had not bestowed the gift of vampirism on any of Lucenzo's ancestors—in part because they had not wanted it—but Romeo knew Lucenzo had hopes.

Romeo pushed back the lid of the stone sarcophagus. He sank into the coffin layered with earth from the churchyard of seven hundred years before. Weariness washed over him, and he crossed his hands over his chest—most comfortable for sleeping—and closed his eyes. The preparations for Juliet's initiation into vampirism would continue in the daylight while he slept.

The sun leeched his strength and he began to doze. When vampires slept, they had no sense of the passage of time. That was one of the first things his vampiric maker, Scarlatti, had taught him. The noble bloodsucker had trained him in many things—how to hunt, what could kill him, how to pass among humans as mortal. Then Scarlatti had met the True Death at Romeo's hands. The older vampire took too many chances, hunting too closely to Verona.
Self-defense,
Romeo had told himself. Friar Lawrence had been shocked to his core that Romeo could so easily kill the vampire who had given him life.