Eternal: More Love Stories With Bite (16 page)

* * * *

Verona, 1372

"Your blood is cold," Friar Lawrence had whispered. He was very old by then, doddering, and forgetful.

"My blood is dead," Romeo retorted.

"I
did not foresee this. I
thought you would remain the gold-hearted youth that you were."

Romeo drew himself up. "And so I have. Look in any mirror." He lips curled
in
cruelty. "Ah, but
I
have no reflection.
I
am as you would have me made."

The friar raised a palsied hand. "To help you."

"To torment me."

"She will come," Friar Lawrence promised.

But as the years passed, and Juliet
didn't
arrive, Romeo's dead blood grew icy. He gathered up Friar Lawrence's books and threw them in the river. Tore the old man's cell apart and burned the bed and his study desk in a bonfire. He went on a rampage, slaughtering innocents even when he didn't need blood.

"You have become a monster," Friar Lawrence had told him, cowering from
him.

"Then
give me what
I
want!" Romeo had shouted at him. "If you be a man of magic,
bring
her to me!"

Friar Lawrence shook his head. "You must have patience."

"I must have Juliet!"

Romeo struck the friar, forgetting that his unnatural strength was twice that of a man. Friar Lawrence sprawled on the stone floor of his cell. Hard-hearted, Romeo made no move to help him up. Instead,
he
turned his back and disappeared into the shadows.

Friar Lawrence had written him a letter that night, which Romeo found after the
old
man had died:

Romeo,

This is the last letter I shall write in this world, and I address it to you. You were such a good youth, a chivalrous gentleman, but you have become a heartless knave. Your love for Juliet has driven you mad. I urge you to repent. Perhaps it is God's will that you should let her go.

Friar Lawrence

After Friar Lawrence's death, Romeo's fury scourged the countryside like a force of nature. The sorcerer was gone, and with his magic, and Romeo was alone. Let Juliet go? Never.

Sorrow and anger festered inside him, burning away his humanity. He became meaner, crueler. He outlived generations of Capulets and Montagues, hating them all, because none of them were Juliet.

And then . . . Claire.

Romeo smiled in his sleep, his fangs glistening.

* * * *

Verona, the Present

He awoke with the rising of the moon and pushed back his coffin lid. Nearly delirious with joy, he climbed the stairs. He was shaking like the eager youth beneath his true love's balcony.

The time had come.

He unlocked the heavy steel door separating his crypt from the rest of the villa. His servants were shouting and running everywhere. Lucenzo turned, spotted him, and hurried over. His face was as pale as ash.

"She's gone," Lucenzo said. When Romeo didn't seem to understand, he added, "Clara. Giulietta." He was clearly stressed, using the Italian version of her name.

"What?"

Romeo pushed past Lucenzo and raced to Juliet's room. The drawers of her dresser were open, the bed rumpled. Her laptop lay on top of the pillow.

"She took nothing but what she brought," Lucenzo said, "and . . . money. She took money."

Romeo tore through the room. The gauze gown was there. The ripped leggings, not. The iPod, gone. He was dizzy. He could barely think.

Then he picked up the laptop and opened the lid. Plopping onto the bed, he typed
in
her password—
Juliet
—and waited for her mail to open.

There was a letter for him:

Dear Romeo,

I'm gone. Please don't try to find me. Please just let me go.

I wanted to believe that I'm your Juliet, but I know I'm not. I don't know why I have the birthmark and stuff but I just can't go through with it. I tried to be how you wanted but it's just too scary. You're too scary. I tried to tell you but I
knew you wouldn't listen. For a while I thought you were just eccentric, you know, some rich crazy Italian guy,
but. ..
you're real.

I met this guy. We're together now
so
please just leave me alone.

I hope you find your Juliet.

Claire

"No!" Romeo roared. He hurled the laptop at the wall; Lucenzo dove, grabbing it like a soccer ball and skidding across the stone floor. "Find her! Find them both! Drag them back here!"

His servants scattered, both to obey his orders and to stay out of his way. Romeo tore the sheets off the bed. Ripped the pillows to shreds. Whirled around and pushed over the dressing table. Wood shattered and cracked. Glass shattered. He pounded the wall. Plaster fell in clumps. Then, he fell to the floor and sobbed.

Then he grabbed his cell phone and called her. It went to voice.

"Juliet," he whispered. "Come back."

Someone was standing in the doorway. Looking up sharply, he saw a flash of movement and darted with blinding speed across the threshold.

It was the ugly little maid, retreating as fast as she possibly could.

"Stop," he ordered her.

She obeyed. She was no taller than his shoulders; she was wearing a white blouse and black trousers, the uniform of his servants, and black athletic shoes.

"Turn around."

Her black hair hung around her face as if she were trying to conceal the scars that zigzagged across her cheeks. Her mouth was twisted to one side, and her nose was too big. Her eyes were chocolate brown, quite deep-set.

"What do you know of this?" he demanded.

"Nothing,
signor,"
she said.

Before her gaze shifted to the floor, she glanced at him with obvious pity. He was incensed. Who was
she
to pity
him?

"Then go away,
donna brutta,"
he sneered at her.
Ugly woman.

She flinched and did as he asked. Lucenzo approached, skirting around the maid as if she weren't there. He was waving a little notebook.

The maid disappeared down the hall.

"She got into a blue Fiat Panda with a young man," Lucenzo announced. "He pulled over and she got out. He had to talk her back into the car. A boy walking a dog saw the whole thing."

Romeo took that in. "And?"

"We're looking,
signor
," Lucenzo said, sounding less enthusiastic than when he had been waving the notebook.

"You
didn't find them?"

"They had a head start." Lucenzo licked his lips. "I've sent cars after them, sir. Motorcycles."

"Get out there and look yourself! Or don't come back!" Romeo's face changed. His fangs lengthened and he hissed at the man. He heard Lucenzo's heartbeat pick up and a sadistic thrill rushed through him.
Be afraid,
he said.
Be afraid for your life, if you don't come back with her.

"Sir," Lucenzo ventured, "if she's
not
Juliet, then why—"

"Because she is!" Romeo shouted. To his horror, he burst into tears again. "She is!"

* * * *

He called, left messages. Texted.
Where are you? Come back!
Seven hundred years! Seven centuries! God could not be so cruel. Or maybe He was. Maybe this was Romeo's punishment for trying to kill himself. God dangled hope in front of him, snatched it away.

"Then I defy you, stars," he ground out, stumbling into the garden, pulling over statues, knocking over stone benches; ripping out vines, flowers, ferns. He was destroying his home. His sanctuary.

His holding pen.

All night he ranted, raved, demolishing anything he could lay his hands on. He destroyed the music room, where her transformation was to have taken place. A bit of drugged wine, and draining her nearly to death. Then giving her his own blood to drink. Then forever, together, eternally young.

Now . . . nothing.

He called her again. Again. The villa was quiet. The servants were hiding. The sun pulled on him as it began to rise, burning him from the inside out. It hurt, and made him clumsy. He slammed inside the protective walls like a man on the verge of losing his sight.

Three hours later, a text message came in on his cell phone.

Help.

It was from her phone. Then his phone rang, and wild with joy, he connected.

"We've found them," Lucenzo said through the speaker.

"Is she all right?"

"She's afraid."

He frowned. "Of . . . ?"

"Of you, Romeo."

Romeo flinched. How could that be? Afraid of him? Of
him?

"Sir?" Lucenzo said.

"Bring them here." Romeo's voice was hoarse. The sun was about to spread its rays across the horizon. "Keep them until I rise."

"Keep
them ..."

He paused. "Safe," Romeo said.

Hurting, he lay down in the earth.

Vampires lose track of time when they're asleep, and they don't dream. But that day, Romeo dreamed that he was holding Juliet. They were very old, and they sat before a fireplace surrounded by their children and grandchildren. Juliet was showing them love letters they had written to each other, smiling at Romeo with so much love as she picked up stack after stack. Some were written on parchment. Others, on modern-day, heavy stationery the color of cream. All these hundreds of years, she had written him letters, not knowing where to send them. And now they were his.

When Romeo woke with the night, he charged out of his coffin and raced up the stairs. He remembered his dream about the letters, and it gave him hope.