NOT FOR SALE Read online

  "Claire?"

  The sun was threatening to rise, but he had to know who was there.

  The heartbeat pumped against his eardrums like the clang of a distant buoy. He cast off through the shambles of his once-exquisite garden—across wrenched fields of orange- tree flowers and lilies, listening as the heartbeat grew.

  There, beneath a toppled Grecian column! It was strongest there, although it was very weak. It was the heartbeat of a dying person.

  He rushed toward the white cylinder. Black athletic shoes stuck out from beneath it. He made his way around to the other end, moving as through mud. The sun was rising. He should go back.

  The column had fallen at an angle, just missing the head of the horribly scarred little maid. Claire's cell phone lay in her outstretched hand.

  As he approached, her eyes fluttered open. For a moment they were blank, and then they focused on his face. A strange, strangled cry bubbled out of her mouth, along with a trickle of blood.

  "Romeo," she whispered, and then he knew.

  It was she.

  "Oh, God, oh, my God," he cried. "Juliet."

  Juliet.

  Juliet.

  Juliet.

  He fell to his knees and covered her disfigured face with kisses. Gray light glowed against the scars. Sunlight.

  Juliet.

  Juliet.

  Juliet.

  More blood trickled from her mouth.

  "You texted me for help?"

  "You came," she whispered brokenly.

  "Why didn't you tell me who you were?" he cried. But he knew why: he had become a demon, a heartless fiend. Evil.

  "Ugly," she whispered, echoing his thoughts.

  "I, yes, I have become ugly." He wrapped his arms around the column, grunting as he yanked and pulled. It was too heavy. He couldn't budge it, not when he was so weak. It was crushing the life out of her, as the sun was smothering the life out of him. His back began to smoke. He felt prickles of heat along the nape of his neck, his scalp. It was too near day. "I have become a monster, hopeless, loveless."

  "No. I am ugly," she said.

  "Oh, Juliet, is that why you hid from me?" he wailed as he dug in his heels and pushed against the cold, unforgiving stone. "Only that?"

  "Hie hence, be gone," she murmured. "More light and light it grows."

  "I have more care to stay than will to go," he replied, fighting back tears.

  He stared at the blood on her lips. It would replenish him. Then he would be able to push the column off her, carry her into the house, and transform her. They would be together, at last. If he had time, only a little more time . . .

  "Ah," he moaned, as the pain washed over him. Then he realized: "You drugged the old man. To stop me."

  "Si." Her heartbeat slowed even more, barely beating. She was on the verge of death. And he, as well, for the sun was about to break through the last vestiges of the night.

  He was flooded with remorse. "I thought she was you. Did I betray you, love?"

  "I almost lost you," she whispered.

  "Never. You would never lose me." He choked back a sob, clenching his teeth as the lassitude, so like death, gripped his limbs.

  "I wrote you letters," she said. "I have them all."

  "I will read them," he promised her. He realized that had been the message of his dream, and tears streamed down his face.

  "In heaven," she said faintly.

  He bowed his head. "This is my doing, all of it. I was too blind, too rash. If only I had seen that I was to come to you . . . that you were here."

  "I am here," she echoed. And she gazed at him with the love he had waited for, for seven hundred years. Did she smile with that twisted mouth? Or was she squinting against the sun's glare?

  "My love ... as boundless . . ."

  "Lovely. Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear," he serenaded her.

  ". . . as the sea."

  "Oh, my love, my wife." He tried to hold her, and to comfort her. The sun had fully risen. He was out of time. He was timeless.

  "Thus, with a kiss, I die." He pressed his lips to hers, forever.

  Which happened first, her death, or his? As he burned in the blazing sun, gazing down at that dear, beautiful, ruined face, Romeo dreamed that they died at the same instant; and that because of her goodness, her faithfulness, and her love, he went to heaven with her. Whoever it was said that vampires did not dream, was a liar.

  And for those who believe that true love never dies . . . they live in a state of grace, from one century of dreams to the next.

  The Other Side

  Heather Brewer

  Blinding pain ripped through Tarrah's shoulder and she wrenched away from it, snapping from sleep and shuffling off her disturbing dreams like she would a too-heavy blanket. She opened her eyes, but was no better off for having done so—the room was pitch-dark as night, its blackness weighing down on every inch of space that surrounded her. But that wasn't the strangest part of what had woken her; not by a long shot. She was on her side, her hands bound behind her, something cold and metal linking her wrists— handcuffs, she was almost certain.

  The floor felt like concrete. It was some kind of stone, so cold and hard that her skin burned against it painfully. She couldn't help but wonder how long someone would have to lie on cold concrete to make their skin feel like it was on fire, but imagined it would take a few hours, at minimum. And judging by the rumbling of her stomach, it had been at least that long. Stretching out her shivering fingers, which were all but numb from being bound for who knows how long, she brushed their tips against more metal—a cylinder, like a pipe or pole. The cuffs attached her to it. She was tied up, trapped, in a dark place, and had no memory whatsoever of how she'd gotten here. Terror painted her insides, but she forced herself to remain calm. Her hands slid along the pole, feeling, hoping that she'd be able to either yank or lift her way free, but her explorations found nothing but metal . . . that is, until they met with flesh.

  Someone else's flesh.

  Hands, cool and still, also ringed with handcuffs, also attached to the pipe. Tarrah jolted at the touch. The hands were larger than hers, masculine. Her thoughts skidded to a hall. Now there wasn't just the mystery of how she got here to solve; there was also this.

  She wondered briefly if the man she was attached to was dead. He might be, and if he was, who had killed him? Shaking, Tarrah turned her head, scraping her cheek on the concrete as she tried impossibly to get a look at her fellow prisoner in the darkness. She squinted her eyes, wanting to get a good look but hoping to block out any gore—if there was any gore. If he was a corpse, she didn't really want to see. She didn't want to see him anyway, she had to see him, had to know if she was lying in a cold, strange room handcuffed to a pole with a dead guy.

  But she could just barely make out his silhouette in the darkness.

  Parting her now trembling lips, amazed by the aching dryness of her mouth, Tarrah whispered into the air, hoping like crazy that he'd respond, even with something as insignificant as a grunt. Anything at all that indicated life. "Hey . .

  Her voice seemed horribly foreign and somehow wrong in the blank emptiness of the room, but she had to speak. It was the only way to reach the man she was handcuffed to, the only way to check his pulse without touching him again. He was cold. Cold like death. Or was he simply chilled from spending time on the freezing concrete floor? It felt like the air-conditioning was on, but there was no breeze from any vent. It was almost like being inside a cooler.

  "Hello?" Her whisper sounded empty, hollow in the night air. Night. Was it night? Or were they locked in a cellar, far away from the reaches of sunlight? How long had they been here? And who had put them here? Desperation fueled her cries. "Hey! Wake up!"

  Silence was the only reply. And then Tarrah knew that the man attached to her with handcuffs and a metal pole was dead. Images filled her mind. Dark, disturbing images of a bloated stomach and creepy crawly awful things dancing on his tongue. She turned her
head away as the tickle of a scream edged up her throat.

  "Wh-what's going on? Tarrah?" The man's voice was muffled, as if he were just waking from a heavy sleep. From behind Tarrah came scraping noises, as he struggled his way into wakefulness, possibly moving from one nightmare to the next. Corey. It was Corey. Relief filled her immediately. If she had to be tied up in a strange place, at least it was with her boyfriend. If he still was her boyfriend after the argument they'd shared. She lay quietly, trying to block out the horrible things she'd said to him the last time they saw one another, and allowed him his moment of utter terror, giving him time to accept the reality of their present predicament. There was something comforting about his fear. Just knowing that he was frightened and confused as well settled her heart into a more normal rhythm.

  Once he'd stopped struggling, she said, "Oh thank god, Corey. I thought you were some dead guy."

  He shifted, maybe to get a little more comfortable, and said, "Why am I naked?"

  Tarrah whipped her head around to her boyfriend, who was grinning. He was also completely clothed, as she saw when her eyes finally adjusted to the darkness. She shook her head. Why did he always have to act like that in moments of stress? He had a weird way of easing the tension in any given situation, but she didn't exactly appreciate his brand of humor at the moment. "Don't be a jerk. This is serious. Do you remember how you got here?"

  She reached back in her own memories, straining to recall the last thing she'd done before she woke up on this cold floor. After a moment of contemplation, she remembered. She'd just gotten out of the shower and put pajamas on, getting ready for sleep in her usual ritual. She was just brushing her teeth when everything went completely blank. Her memories went dark, as if there were nothing at all to remember between that moment and now.

  Corey's breathing was settling now, the panic slipping from it some. Even in the darkness she could see that his false grin was fading fast. "Last thing I remember is sitting on my couch, messing with my Gibson. This one song, by this band The Mopey Teenage Bears, it's a killer. The bridge has been messin' with me for weeks. I just can't seem to nail it. Oh, and I thought about calling you, but when I looked at the clock I realized it was getting pretty late . . ."

  Corey's voice had slipped from alarmed and deeply disturbed to one of casual conversation, as if they weren't both tied up and chained in someone's basement. And as if they hadn't gotten into a big fight the last time they'd talked. It sent Tarrah into flights of panic. Her teeth chattered as she shouted, "Stop it, Corey! Stop talking like we're not going to die!"

  What other reason would some psycho have to chain them up in this way? If their lives weren't in danger, then just what the hell was going on?

  Corey grew quiet then. After a moment, perhaps in an effort to calm her down, he said, "Who says we're going to die?"

  Low, metallic laughter pierced the darkness. The kind of laughter that sends chills up your arms and makes the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand at full attention. Tarrah ignored the voice in her head—the one that screamed for her not to look, not to turn her head toward the frightening, horrible laughter, to squeeze her eyes shut and will it all away—and looked toward the spot she was sure the laughter had come from. All she saw was darkness, but the moment her eyes connected with the spot she knew the voice had generated from, it spoke. "There's no avoiding death. Eventually, it comes to us all."

  Tarrah's jaw was shaking from the cold. She peered into the darkness, but still couldn't see anything. If she could just see the creep, she'd feel better in some small way. Hell, if she could see anything, she'd feel at least some small comfort.

  "But before you die, you will suffer, I'm afraid, for my needs." The voice was sarcastic and cruel in Tarrah's ears. Then there was a sound. The sound of something being dropped. Light pierced the darkness. The beam of a small flashlight slashed through the black with brilliant white, then tumbled forward, toward Tarrah and Corey, as it rolled away from the faceless speaker across the room. Tarrah's eyes followed the beam, trying desperately to steal glimpses of where they were, so that maybe they could find a way out ... if they ever got out of the handcuffs, that is.

  As the light moved, it bounced this way and that, showing cinderblock walls, not a single window, and the concrete floor that they were already well acquainted with. Then the light's movement slowed, and the beam fell on Tarrah. The faceless voice clucked its tongue, and Tarrah wished very much that she could somehow curl up inside her head, where the voice could not reach. Its tone was oddly complimentary. "My, you are a pretty thing. A shame. Death comes too quick for some. But it always comes, children. No matter how loudly we beg for it not to. And we all do. Money says you will, too."

  Behind her, Corey's silence spoke volumes. She hoped that he was horrified for her. For them. Because she was pretty damn horrified herself.

  The sadistic chuckle found its way again from the darkness, giving itself form as it bent over to retrieve the fallen flashlight. The man squatted there in front of her, and at first, Tarrah was certain he was ogling her in some perverted way. But then she realized where he was looking. He was focused only on her neck, and nothing below.

  Tarrah became fixated on the man's face. His features were shadowed, but she could tell that his jaw was sharp and angular, almost feminine. In any other situation, Tarrah might have given him a second glance. He was handsome, almost pretty. His nose was smooth and straight. And his eyes. . .

  Tarrah gasped aloud and drew back—as far back as she could—away from the man, the . . . creature that was now crouching just inches in front of her, leaning in closer with a bemused smirk on its lips.

  His—its—eyes were piercing. A shining glint of darkness, even in the pitch-black room. This creature ... it wasn't right. It wasn't normal, not at all like she and Corey. It was something else entirely.

  As if in response to her unspoken thought, the creature leaned in closer and spread its lips into a grin, revealing porcelain teeth that glistened in the low light. Tarrah sat, fascinated and frightened, staring at those teeth, not knowing what to make of them. Just as her mind had settled on a word to describe the beast, the word flitted away again, and she was left only with her racing thoughts sprinting to catch up with her racing heart.

  Corey's voice broke the moment. It was eerily calm and collected, as if he were strangely accustomed to defusing situations like this. She had no way of knowing whether he had spied the creature's eyes or teeth before he spoke. "I don't know who you are or what you want, buddy, but if you don't let us go, you're going to regret it. I can promise you that."

  Wordlessly, their captor collected the flashlight and stood, and then moved around Tarrah to Corey. Tarrah wrenched around to watch as it withdrew an ear thermometer from its pocket and put the medical tool to Corey's ear—Corey, who had normal teeth and crystalline blue eyes; Corey, who defiantly did not shrink away at the man's touch. After the thermometer beeped, the man—the creature—sighed and said, "That settles it then. You're first."

  Tarrah watched the thing closely as it reached for Corey's cuffs. It pressed a finger to the center of Corey's handcuffs and the lock released with a small click, as if the cuffs had been programmed to release only at the monster's touch. Then it pulled Corey roughly up by his arm. Corey didn't fight back. In fact, he looked too exhausted and too damn cold to fight off the creature.

  A horrible feeling curled up in the pit of Tarrah's stomach—one that told her something bad was coming, and that this might be the last time she ever saw Corey alive. "What are you doing? Where are you taking him?"

  Her last word was cut off by the slamming of the door. She hadn't even realized a door was being opened—there was no light behind it, nothing at all to indicate that a portal to somewhere other than this room had been opened. But when it closed, when that metallic thunk had sealed her once more inside, Tarrah felt her insides go soft, as if they'd given up before her fight had even begun.

  She was trapped. She was bei
ng held in a dark, cold place by a monster. And she had no idea how to escape.

  And Corey . . . poor Corey. Who knew what the creature was doing to him now? Torturing him? Drinking his blood? Worse? With those teeth, who knew what the thing was capable of? Devouring Corey? Certainly. Like a monster from a fairy tale. But that was impossible, she knew. Those things existed only on the pages of books or in the flicker of film upon a screen.

  Didn't they?

  Tarrah pulled at her restraints, but they wouldn't give. After a few deep breaths, she focused on relaxing every muscle in her body. She thought if she relaxed enough and wiggled just so, she might be able to slip from the cuffs. Isn't that what Houdini did? He controlled his breathing, relaxed his muscles, and voila! He was free of his binds. She'd read about it in some book Corey had given her a few years ago. But after fifteen minutes or so of relaxing, and then wriggling, pulling, cursing, and trying desperately not to scream, Tarrah realized that Houdini she was not. A tear slid down her cheek to the floor below, and Tarrah flew into panic, flailing against the cuffs in a desperate attempt to break free. Her panic gave way to sobs, and after a while, her throat felt raw and hollow.