Enthralled: Paranormal Diversions (Wicked Lovely 5.50)

“Sure.”

Jeffrey nods and walks out to look for Juliet, whom I’m sure is long gone. I look at the paintings and try to pick which one would be best for head smashing. I feel stupid. I feel used—she knew how I felt about him. I told her. I am furious, hurt, angry, stupid. I am . . .

Unloved.

I shake my head, clench my fists, and turn to leave. I’ll walk fast, get out the front door, go back to my dorm. I think about calling Viola, but to be honest, I’m not sure I want to talk to someone happily in love at the moment. I take the first angry step toward the door.

“Wait.”

Her voice is small and fragile, but it snares me easily. I whirl around and see her, lurking in a shadowy corner. Her arms are folded and her head is down. She steps toward me. I bite my tongue to keep from snapping. Juliet comes closer, and I finally see, to my surprise, that she’s crying.

JULIET

My kind don’t cry, not really. But when Jeffrey’s lips touched mine . . . I thought of Lawrence’s eyes, of the way he watched Jeffrey, of the thousands of hidden wishes that must be beneath his calm surface, so many of them the same as mine: to understand love. To be loved.

Maybe the kiss worked. Maybe it broke the spell. But maybe the spell wasn’t what I thought it was. I don’t understand love, but I understand pain, I understand regret in a way I didn’t only a few moments ago. And now I’m here, crying in front of a boy I barely know over the love that neither of us have. Our kinds are more alike than we think.

He should yell at me. I wait for it.

“Don’t . . .” Lawrence looks at the ceiling, then his voice softens, defeat still lacing his tone. “Don’t cry.” A couple enters the room; they can’t see me. Lawrence nods his head to the door and mouths, “Let’s go.” I follow him to a side door, and we slink outside into the night.

We’re in a wide brick stairwell, one on the side of the building with an iron railing. Lawrence sighs and sits down on the top step, mouth a firm line. I pause, unsure, then sit down beside him.

“I’m sorry,” I say, winding my fingers through my hair. “I didn’t see the wishes ahead of time. I’d have warned you he wasn’t interested in you. Not the way you were interested in him. And the kissing, it just . . . it just happened. . . . I disappeared as soon as I did it, I didn’t know it would feel like this. . . . I didn’t know kissing was like that.” I don’t know what to say, don’t know how to explain myself to him. Everything feels cheap, like a poor imitation of friendship, and I shut my mouth before any more of it escapes.

“Right,” Lawrence says, exhaling. His breath is visible in the chill, fluffy clouds by his lips. “I believe you. I just . . . I don’t know how to make you understand.”

But I do understand now, in a way: I understand that love is not kissing. Love is not movies or laughter or any of the things I so carefully studied. It is something else, and that’s what’s still a mystery to me. Lawrence gets it, I can tell—even if he hasn’t experienced it. He gets it in a way I don’t. I wish he would show me, let me into his mind for just a moment.

I look at him meaningfully, desperately, and Lawrence sighs. He closes his eyes, and in one swift movement, his walls collapse.

LAWRENCE

Jinn is the only one who has ever seen my wishes—really seen them. But I give in. I don’t want to fight anymore, don’t want to hold back. I feel spent, like I’m falling to my knees after a race. I’ve always held off the ifrit by keeping a single image alive in the back of my mind—a smooth, white snowscape, one that covers all of my desires.

I let it melt.

I hear Juliet gasp, see her eyes scanning me, like she’s watching too many fireworks at once. I sit still. I know what she’s seeing. I wish for the fairy-tale romance. I wish it involved Jeffrey. I wish it involved anyone, really, that would love me unconditionally, without restraint. I wish for a thousand other things that have nothing to do with love, but I’m sure that at the moment, the wish to be loved is the strongest. I can feel it all around me, like the wish might swallow me whole. I’m not sure if I’m showing her what love is. But at least she can see what wanting it feels like for me. For mortals. I wonder if she’s ever felt like this before.

Juliet reaches forward and gingerly places her fingers on my hand. I turn it, and she responds by sliding her hand down, gripping mine tightly.

“Did you get some research out of this, at least?” I ask. My words are supposed to be teasing, but they mostly come out defeated. I manage a weak smile at her, and she sniffles and blinks away a few last tears.

“I guess,” she says, shrugging. “I still don’t understand. But I get the impression no one does.”

“Maybe mortals and immortals aren’t as different as we thought,” I answer. I lift her hand in mine and kiss the back of it. I have to admit, of all the ifrit, she’s the only one that I’ve liked. Even if she kissed Jeffrey. She smiles at me, and for the first time I don’t think she’s analyzing anything, researching anything. She’s just smiling.

The door behind us swings open and, to my surprise, Sampson is there. He looks at me strangely, then takes off his shoe to prop the door and keep it from locking behind him.

“You talking to yourself?” Sampson asks. Juliet jumps up as Sampson sits down beside me on the top step.

“Yeah,” I say instantly. “I do it from time to time. Voices in my head, you know.”

Sampson laughs, bright and powerful. Heat from inside the gallery trickles out and flattens itself against our backs. Juliet, standing a few steps down so that we’re eye level, watches. Her cheeks are chapping in the cold.

“I’m glad you came by. How many of my sculptures are going to give you nightmares?” Sampson asks, grinning. His smile makes me smile back, like I don’t even have a choice in the matter.

“A good half,” I admit.