NOT FOR SALE Read online

  He balled his fists. Sometimes he wanted to lock Juliet in her room, as men had done back in his time to protect their women. The world outside was dangerous. Look what had happened to Juliet herself, sneaking out to meet him. Her father had been too permissive. And his daughter had come to grief.

  Nothing could have stopped us, he thought. Not locks, nor fathers. We were fortune's fools.

  He'd thought long and hard about recapturing those days for her. About making sure nothing happened to her. He could move them to a more old-fashioned, isolated villa—a place in the Italian countryside, where people lived slower, simpler lives. Maybe in Mantua; he hadn't minded his brief exile there. The sunsets there had brought tears to his eyes.

  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. Giulietta. 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 Lawr
ence 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.

  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 nighttime 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 doorwa
y, color rose in her cheeks and she pulled the earbuds out. They dangled around her neck and rested against the delicious 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.