Unwelcome (20 page)

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Authors: Michael Griffo

BOOK: Unwelcome
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Narrowing her eyes, she had one final question. “Do you like her?”
“She's the only girl I've ever felt comfortable with,” Michael replied honestly. “Until now.”
I'm not sure if you can hear me, Ronan, but I like this one,
Saoirse said silently.
I really hope he stays part of the family.
“Okay, then, say hello to Phaedra's new roomie.”
In the distance they could hear the school bell ring; the impromptu family reunion had to end. Before leaving, Michael said he would talk to Phaedra, but assured them both she would welcome a new roommate. Outside, Ronan looked around and, when he was convinced they were alone, lifted Saoirse in his arms and raced to St. Albert's. When he placed her down on the floor of the lab, she screamed so loud at the sight of Ciaran that she didn't even hear Ronan say he would see her later during lunch.
Fine, go to him; he's the one you really came to see anyway.
Ronan tried to catch their eyes but was unsuccessful. They were too busy reconnecting with each other, and when he left the room he shook his head dejectedly. Once again the favorite son was the outsider.
 
Saoirse was so excited to see Ciaran that she didn't ask why he shoved the bloodstained handkerchief with the lilacs on them into his drawer, she had so much more important stuff to tell him. After about ten minutes of prattling on about her horrid French boarding school, the horrid French food they fed them every day, and the horrid French language she was forced to speak with her superiors, Saoirse finally paused and was intrigued to find that she was embarrassed to see Ciaran staring at her arm. She must have absentmindedly pulled up her sleeve. Maybe she did it deliberately, whatever, it didn't matter, the deed was done. “Aren't you going to ask me why I would do such a horrid thing?”
Ciaran didn't have to ask. He understood all too well why people did things that to others seemed inconceivable. “I'm sure when you're ready you'll tell me.”
Saoirse touched Ciaran's hand. It was so soft, so simple, it almost made Ciaran weep. “That's why I like you best, Ciar,” his half sister said. “You may not look it, but you really are the coolest.”
Maybe I really have spent too many hours locked alone in this lab,
Ciaran thought.
The tiniest act of kindness makes me feel like I could cry. Wait a second, was that even a kind thing to say?
“Um, thank you . . . I think.”
For the first time since she'd arrived, Saoirse looked serious. “This room isn't bugged, is it?”
Ciaran had forgotten how infuriating privileged teenage girls could be—one second funny, then sincere, then just a little bit insane. “No, of course not.”
“Don't say it like you think I'm crazy! You know these vampire folk cannot be trusted.”
For a split second, Ciaran thought about David. But no, he wanted Ciaran to work with him, he wouldn't be spying on him. “No, this room isn't bugged.”
Relieved, Saoirse continued. “Okay, here it is. I started cutting myself to do some experiments on my blood to figure out, you know, why I am the way I am. But I'm no good at science. That's why I came here, so you can do some tests on me.”
Take that, Ronan. Our sister didn't come to Double A to see you, she came here to see me, because I'm the only one who can answer the riddle of who she is. Wildly excited, Ciaran kept his expression flat; he didn't want to make Saoirse think he wasn't cool, after all. “You don't have to ask me twice,” he said. “Of course I'll help you.”
This time when Saoirse hugged Ciaran, he hugged her back even harder, crying was the furthest thing from his mind. First David, now her. Finally people were discovering that he had talent, that he was worth talking to, that he was worth hugging. “I only have one stipulation,” Saoirse said. “This is our secret. You can't tell anyone. Not Ronan, and definitely not Edwige.”
Amazing, just as soon as a feeling of pride and happiness fills you up, a wave of sadness comes to knock it out of your system. “Well, you know, she and I hardly ever speak, so that . . . that really won't be a problem.”
If Saoirse could tell that her words hurt her brother, she didn't let on. She had a day of adventure ahead of her, a day filled with freedom to do whatever she wished. She didn't want to waste any more time in a stuffy lab. “Thank you, Ciar!” she cried, hugging her brother again before racing for the door. “I'm going to tour the campus and check out my new home. Let me know when you want to get to work!”
“Make sure nobody sees you,” Ciaran cried.
Standing in the doorway, Saoirse turned around. “Don't worry, I may be a scientific curiosity,” she replied, “but I ain't stupid!”
Ciaran waited several minutes after she left before moving. Her new home? Oh, how he'd love to see Edwige's response once she heard that news. But since Edwige didn't dwell on him, he wasn't going to dwell on her, he was going to do what he did best—what helped him feel worthwhile and important—he was going to use his mind. Reaching under his desk, he pulled out his notebook, found a clean page, and started to write some words:
Saoirse
,
experiment
,
bloodline
.
His sister was back and it was about time he discovered why she defied human nature.
chapter 12
Michael was trying hard to concentrate, he really was. He was trying to understand the difference between mid-segments and perpendicular bisectors of triangles, he was calling upon The Well's strength to focus on what Father Fazio was saying, but his class work held no interest. All he cared about was what was happening in his personal life.
He heard the priest's words, but they made no sense to him, they were just sounds, clusters of vowels and consonants that held no meaning. He saw the diagrams the priest was drawing on the large white Smartboard at the front of the class, but again they meant nothing, they were just a bunch of lines that intersected at various points. It was as if a cloud were descending in front of his eyes, replacing his teacher with an image of Saoirse, then Phaedra, Imogene, his parents, anyone except the person who should have been commanding his attention.
I'm really trying, Ronan,
Michael told himself.
I want to do well in school, but there's too much other stuff going on.
When his mind wandered, as it was doing now, he couldn't believe just how much stuff there really was. So much was happening to him so quickly, he just wanted to make it all stop. Near-death attacks, visions, ghostly apparitions, new questions about his past, old issues about his father, the intensity of his feelings for Ronan—the combination and culmination of all these things were beginning to make Michael wish he had never come here, wish that he was back home, secluded in his bedroom. Well, almost wish, not fully. He wouldn't want to be without Ronan, but all the other things, yes, those other things he could do without. Except maybe the vision of his mother. Learning the truth about her or at least a portion of her truth was remarkable, one of the good things that had happened to him that wouldn't have happened if it weren't for Imogene and, boy, it was nice to see her again even if the circumstances cemented the fact that she was dead. And of course Phaedra, for the most part, was a godsend. Even if she couldn't protect him like she used to, she was still an amazing friend and someone he definitely wanted in his life. On and on and on the thoughts came, circling his brain, pulling his mind away from the classroom until he felt dizzy. Clutching his forehead, Michael didn't even hear himself scream, “Stop it!”
“Dude, I just want to show you my first solo effort.”
When the haze lifted from Michael's eyes, he saw Fritz standing in front of his desk, the first post-Penry issue of
Tales of the Double A
in his hands, the rest of the students mostly ignoring him as they hurriedly exited the classroom.
I didn't even hear the bell ring,
Michael realized,
not a good sign.
“Sorry, Fritz, it looks great.”
“You didn't even look at it!” Fritz yelled, slamming the comic book on Michael's desk.
Apologizing again, Michael inspected Fritz's latest endeavor much more closely. He was right the first time. The cover was a depiction of Archangel Cathedral during a snowstorm with the self-explanatory title “Archangel Avalanche.” “It really does look great.”
Convinced that this time Michael was being honest, Fritz beamed. “You really think so, mate?”
The artwork was not as imaginative or as detailed as Penry's, but it was a close-enough imitation, plus Fritz had included some of his own technique, with the edges of the church softer and rounder, the colors just a bit more intense so they popped against the white, snowy landscape. The total look was more primitive than Penry's efforts, different. But that was to be expected. It was, after all, the beginning of a whole new chapter in the series, and some degree of change was necessary. Keeping his eyes on the comic and not on Michael, Fritz asked, “Do you think, um, do you think Penry would approve?”
Without a doubt Michael knew the answer to that question. “Wholeheartedly.”
“Are you sure?” Fritz asked again. “I decided not to put Double P, you know Penry, the superhero, on the cover. Thought it might be too sappy.”
Michael smiled. “Afraid you're getting too sentimental?”
Scratching his tight curls, Fritz replied, “You know how it is when you, you know, really like someone.”
Michael couldn't help teasing his friend. “Phaedra?”
Fritz whacked Michael with the comic book. “Who else, ya git?! Of course Phaedra!” Trying to keep his voice as gruff as possible, he continued, “I was pretty upset when she was sick. I didn't want it to affect my work, you know, detrimentally.”
Michael surprised himself by maintaining a straight face, “Oh, of course not, that would've been devastating.”
“I know,” Fritz replied. “It is, after all, a comic and not some daft romance novel.”
Laughing heartily, Michael commented, “No chance of confusing one with the other!”
Good! Relieved, Fritz blew out a breath and then instructed Michael to read the issue tonight and give him a critique in the morning. “But don't let Ronan read it.”
“Why not?” Michael asked, surprised by the dictate.
As they walked to the classroom door, Fritz shrugged his shoulders and crinkled up his forehead. “Because he's posh, that one.”
“Posh?” Michael asked, stopping in the doorway.
“He's always reading big books, what do you call them?” Fritz replied. “Classics! He's always reading those big, classic novels. I just don't think he's going to get
Tales of the Double A,
you know, not like you and me do.”
As they continued on down the hallway, the noise of the crowd forced Michael to raise his voice. “You may have a point there.”
“He's a good mate and all, don't get me wrong,” Fritz clarified, speaking even louder than Michael. “He's just not like you and me.”
“Is that so, Fritzie? Didn't know you were switching teams.”
Walking past them was Alexei, the junior who could never make it past the B team in swimming. Despite being a few inches taller and wider than Fritz, he could never intimidate him either. “Say that to my face again, Russkie, and I'll knock you on your arse!”
With a chuckle and a wave of his hand, Alexei disappeared into Father Fazio's classroom. When Fritz turned back to face Michael, he realized an apology might be in order. “Sorry, mate, but, you know, I've got a reputation to uphold.”
Far from being angry, Michael knew that Fritz didn't care about his sexual orientation and that his comment wasn't hypocritical or hateful, it was merely Fritz being his boyish, obnoxious self. “No worries, Germany.”
Again Fritz's forehead got all crinkly. “What?”
“Germany,” Michael repeated, then explained, “You call me Nebraska 'cause that's where I'm from, so I called you Germany 'cause that's where you're from.”
Amused, but not willing to show it, Fritz felt the need to put Michael in his place. “Nice try, but that's just not going to work.”
“Why not?” Michael said, disappointed that his catchword wasn't accepted.
“Because I said so,” Fritz replied. “That's why.”
The phrase made Michael's head start to spin again, not because it made him angry but because it reminded him of his father. That's what Vaughan always said whenever he didn't want to explain himself, whenever he didn't want to have a conversation with his son, which was pretty much every time they spoke. The anxiety Michael felt during class rushed back, flooding his body with the same intensity as this morning's feeding, but without any of the exhilaration. It was the same sensation he experienced during his vision, a foreboding, a feeling that while unknown pieces of his mother's life had been revealed to him, more elements of his father's life were being concealed. Right as they were about to leave St. Albert's and dash to their next class, Michael made a decision. “Fritz, could you cover for me?” Michael asked. “Tell Joubert I got sick and went to the infirmary.”
Shocked at the implication, Fritz's jaw dropped. When he spoke, his tone of voice was as indignant as his expression. “You want me to lie? In theology?”
“Oh, like it's gonna be the first time,” Michael said honestly, destroying any chance Fritz had of keeping up his ruse.
Good-naturedly, Fritz replied, “Can't argue with that, Nebraska. So why are you ditching class? Afternoon rendezvous with you-know-who?”
I wish.
“No, I just have to take care of something and it can't wait any longer.”
“Okay, I'll take notes,” Fritz said. “That is, if I can stay awake.”
Michael started to feel the adrenaline bubble under his skin. He had never cut class before, never been so consciously defiant. Maybe he was reacting to the new energy pulsating throughout his body; maybe he just had to quell the nagging doubts he had. Whatever the reason, he had to confront his father, he had to put together a few more pieces of the puzzle before things got too out of control. Feeling almost as powerful as he did when he knelt before The Well, Michael remembered there was another task he needed to complete. “One more thing, Fritz.”
What now?
“Seriously, mate, I'm not your personal secretary.”
“I know, I know,” Michael appeased. “Tell Phaedra I need to see her later. It's important.”
Fritz nodded and then started to walk down the hallway, but made it only a few steps. “What's so important that you have to talk to my girlfriend?” Fritz asked, spinning around. His question, however, wasn't heard. Michael had vanished and was already in front of St. Joshua's trying to act as if he were rushing to his next class and not rushing toward a long-overdue confrontation.
 
Even though he knew it wouldn't be easy—talking to his father never was—it felt right, his bones tingled, and he felt his spirit lift. This is why Imogene had come to him; this is why she allowed him to see his mother, hear what she had really said. It was all so he could make his father admit the truth, whatever that truth was, no matter how hard it was going to be for him to hear.
Stopping near the oak tree that he and Ronan would sit under during the spring, Michael questioned the rationale of his spontaneous decision.
Maybe the truth is something I really don't want to know, maybe it's something that should stay buried. No, no! I want to move forward, I want to let go of the past, and I can't do that if I keep treating myself like a child, like a scared kid. Whatever my father is hiding, whatever he doesn't want me to know, I'm going to make him tell me. And I'm going to make him tell me a bunch of other things too, like why he never called when I was growing up and why he didn't protest when my mother moved me halfway across the world—and why the heck Brania is walking across campus
?
A few yards away from him on the other side of the tree, Brania looked like a St. Anne's student who was trying awfully hard to get detention. Her red platform shoes were an inch too high, her skirt was hiked up an inch too short, and her bare legs were in violation of dress code policy. Michael had heard Phaedra complain countless times about how uncomfortable their mandatory navy blue stockings were, but the way Brania was walking, almost prancing, each step more of a strut, it was as if she wanted to be noticed instead of trying to blend in. It was so weird. Up close she really did look like a teenager, like someone who belonged here, but from where Michael was standing, she looked very much like an outsider.
Where was she going anyway? She was moving in the direction of St. Martha's, but she had less of a reason to go to the dining hall than he did. Curious, Michael wanted to follow her. There was absolutely no reason for her to be at Double A, so obviously she must be up to no good. She must be in the middle of some plan, some plot, something that was probably against him and the water vamps. But if that were so, why would she be walking in plain sight? She was capable of a stealthier approach; in fact Michael realized she was probably capable of more things than he could imagine.
Maybe if I keep my distance and follow her,
he thought,
I can figure out what she's up to, but no, no, do not stray from your purpose! Concentrate! I do not need to channel Agatha Christie and follow Brania into the woods. I have more important things to do.
 
Brania completely agreed. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she tilted her head slightly and cast a sideways glance. Yes, her gut instinct was correct; she was seen by a water vamp. She only saw a swatch of blond hair, but it was enough for her to deduce that her watcher was Michael. Thank God there aren't that many of them, she thought; otherwise they might be harder to keep track of.
Bounding across campus, her arms swinging freely by her sides, she relished the feeling of being observed. It was nice to be the object of someone's attention even if that someone was an enemy of sorts. A hint of danger always put a little lilt in her step, but allowing more than a hint to creep into her world was simply the act of a fool, and Brania was many things, but not foolish.
When she came to a fork in the road she stopped and bent down, acting as if she was tying a shoelace that had come undone. Looking all around her, peering into every crevice, within every shadow, she saw that she was alone. Michael was nowhere to be found.
Good, no need for him to see me visiting Father.
Not that she was even certain that Ronan had informed Michael of their connection; it was just that every once in a while, Brania liked to play it safe.

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