Juliet Immortal

wait to tell Ben. I can’t wait to kiss him until he is as breathless and believing as I am.
    One scene flows into the next in front of sets that would make any production proud, and then we’re nearly finished with the first act. The fight-scene music trills through the theater, ominous, but beautiful, skin-tingling. I join the other Sharks onstage, creeping through the spaces in the flats, slinking fromone pool of light to another. Then the Jets are there and the fistfight begins. Left fist, right fist, careful not to touch, careful not to hurt. It’s all part of the dance, perfectly contained violence boxed in by choreography, clean and safe.
    And then Romeo is there and the knives come out. The music rises, pounding faster and faster as we jab forward and back, hitting the marks we’ve learned in rehearsal.
    Shuffle to the right—swipe. Shuffle to the left—jab.
    Swipe, jab, swipe, jab, and the music pulses louder, faster, louder, and he comes for me with his blade to end the first act, to send the audience out to the soggy lobby for the lemonade and popcorn the seniors are selling to raise money for the graduation dance.
    The one Ariel might have gone to with Ben if he weren’t being sent away. The one she might have gone to with Gemma—just to say she’d gone—if they’d still been friends. But now she won’t go, and she might not even be alive to mourn the lost chance.
    I see it a second too late—the lights reflecting off a blade too shiny to be plastic or retractable. A blade made of steel and sharpened to such a fine point that it slides into my stomach like I’m made of butter. Soft, warm things inside me burst, giving way without a fight as Romeo shoves the knife deeper and deeper, using his hand on my shoulder to urge my torso forward as he guides my body to the ground.
    My head hits the stage floor with a sound that echoes in my mind. Above, the lights glare bright gold like the glow from an Ambassador-enchanted mirror, illuminating Romeo’s curls. He is a dark angel sent from heaven to hear my confession, leaning close while the rest of the actors dance away, stickingto the steps that will take them into the wings, seemingly unaware that the knife—and the blood spilling onto the stage—is real.
    “This is better,” Romeo whispers in my ear. “Better to die than to be turned or stolen away to the mist.” His voice catches and something damp falls on my neck. “You can rest now, sweet Juliet, and perhaps that heaven we haven’t dared believe in will be there for you after all.”
    And then he’s gone, running off the stage as the music fades and the police siren sound effect blares through the theater, warning the Sharks and Jets that their rumble has been discovered. The audience bursts into applause that crashes over my face, making me flinch and tremble.
    It seems Romeo has grown a conscience.
    And it is just as deadly as the rest of him.

TWENTY-TWO
    T he lights go down, and for a moment I am blind in the dark. Trapped. Dying. In the dark. Just like the first time.
    But I refuse to give up. I’m surrounded by people, and the lights are about to come on again. Mr. Stark will see what has happened and call an ambulance. As long as I make sure Romeo doesn’t get his hands on me again, I can make it through this.
Ariel
can make it through this.
    Moving slowly, carefully, I roll onto my side and then climb onto all fours and begin crawling toward the help that waits in the wings. My Ambassador-given gifts are fading, but I’m still healing faster than a mortal girl. I can feel the torn pieces inside of me doing their best to mend. If I can get toa hospital, if I get help holding life inside this body, then maybe—
    A burst of sound cuts through the air and someone in the audience screams. Then another person, and another, fear spreading like a fire through the auditorium. Despite the darkness still blanketing the stage, I think they’ve seen me, the bleeding girl dragging herself across the boards, leaving a gruesome, shining trail in her wake.
    But then I hear the sound again and know what it is. Gunfire. Coming from the other side of the stage. Someone is firing into the audience.
    With a soft groan, I turn to look over my shoulder. Romeo stands downstage at the end of the apron, gun aimed just high enough not to hit the people running from the auditorium. He isn’t shooting to kill; he’s shooting to ensure that chaos rules, to make sure no one comes to my rescue.