The feelings Ronan stirred within Michael were indeed more powerful than the ones he felt while sitting next to Jean-Peal. Sure it was exciting, gratifying to feel his stare, but this, the magnetic pull between him and Ronan, was unique, and Michael recognized that. He couldn't promise that he wouldn't take Jean-Paul for another spin if he offered, but he could promise that he would never do anything with him except drive. Kissing, feeding, and all that other good stuff was reserved for only one person. “Well, love,” Michael said, imitating Ronan's accent, “let's go eat.”
As usual, Ronan led the way and while their friends continued to paint banners and glue material onto wood, Michael stood next to Ronan on a ledge six stories high, outside the hospital room of a woman who was closer to death than the ocean is to the horizon. Ronan slid open the window, and a whiff of death floated past them. It was an artificial smell, though, this woman was being kept alive by machines that were interfering with nature. The scent of death should be intoxicating, not manufactured. Maybe this was Ronan's revenge, run off with a handsome man and your reward is an unsatisfactory feed. No, not this time. Before they could enter, Michael heard a noise in the distance and then an intoxicating smell engulfed him, the unmistakable smell of someone who was about to die naturally. “Follow me,” Michael ordered.
Ronan watched in shock as Michael jumped off the ledge. He wasn't worried that he would hurt himself, but Michael had never taken charge during a feeding before. Things were definitely changing. Instead of feeling apprehensive or concerned, Ronan found himself feeling proud. And when they stood on the top of the overturned truck, the wind carrying with it the delightful scent of a life about to end, Ronan grabbed Michael's hand and kissed it. It was a small gesture, but hopefully one that communicated a great many emotions. Standing high above the ground, his hair windswept, his chest puffed, Michael truly looked like a young king and Ronan his loyal servant. Michael understood what Ronan was trying to convey and he was grateful, but now he too was ravenously hungry.
The handsome man, sprawled on the grass a few feet from the truck, was barely conscious. He didn't feel the shards of glass sticking in his chest and arms, but he did feel something pierce his neck, something sharp, oddly pleasurable, and then he felt his blood swirl underneath his skin. Crouched over the man, Michael was gripping a handful of his curly brown hair tightly as he sucked the blood from his thick, muscular neck. He was so enraptured by the experience, so absolutely becoming an extension of this man, that he didn't stop feeding until he felt Ronan's hand grip his shoulder. Extending his tongue to flick the stream of blood that dripped from the side of Michael's mouth, Ronan whispered, “He needs to feed both of us.”
Not only was their feeding unusual, so too was the ceremony at The Well. They knelt, they drank, they prayed, and then they were plunged into darkness just as Michael's vision prophesied. “Ronan!” The only response was a flash of light. The break in the darkness frightened the boys even more because, when they looked into The Well, a distorted image, a grotesque face, stared back at them before the darkness returned.
At the same time, David's mirror turned to black. “No!” he shouted, the wings he was still holding fluttering in the air. “Zachariel, don't abandon me!” Slowly his reflection returned. Gone were the images from St. Sebastian's, gone was his miraculous vision. Only he remained in the mirror. A rumbling started to grow within the room. The walls vibrated, the floor shook, and David fell to his knees when Zachariel spoke. “As you ask your children to be patient,” the angel growled, “I ask the same from mine.”
Suddenly, The Well was flooded with light. Ronan was standing next to Michael, where he belonged, and from the cave's ceiling fell the most beautiful white roses, like the ones that grew outside of St. Joshua's. The shower of roses was such a lovely antidote to the grotesque face they had seen that they beamed. The roses clustered together and hovered a few feet above their heads, one giant bouquet, suspended, until the petals separated and fell, their softness gently brushing against their skin like wisps of satin.
The feathers from the eagle's wings began to separate and lift, encircling David, until every last one was sucked into Zachariel's carved image. The archangel had accepted his sacrifice. David heard a crackling and saw that the torso of the eagle had burst into flames, all that remained of the animal was fire, then ash, then nothing. Overjoyed, David realized this was a turning point in his immortal life, his first undeniable communication with Zachariel, the archangel of the sun.
Two separate rituals, two different resolutions. The three of them, however, had no idea how closely they were all connected.
chapter 15
Ronan woke up with a plan. Ever since Saoirse took a risk by going out in public to decorate for the school's upcoming carnival, he knew he would have to take action. He didn't want to, but it was inevitable. So instead of going to first period, he was going to see Edwige.
His mother would not be happy to hear that Saoirse ran away from Ecole des Roches to avoid expulsion; that Phaedra impersonated her to assure the French headmistress that Saoirse was safe, sound, and living with family; and, most disturbingly, that Saoirse had been cutting herself out of peer pressure. But his mother needed to be told, his sister needed guidance, and Ronan no longer wanted to act like her parent. It was time for Edwige to resume that role.
Racing out of his dorm room, he kissed Michael good-bye and wished him luck on his British lit quiz. “Don't forget. Charles Dickens got paid by the word,” Ronan reminded him. “That's why he was so long-winded.”
“What was Proust's excuse?” Michael asked, feeling ohso-literary.
“Self-indulgent,” Ronan replied. “But don't give that as your answer. McLaren's got a stiffy for the old bugger.”
Now Michael felt confused. He thought Ronan was off to confront his mother and yet he was cheerier than he had been in days. Standing in the doorway, he called out, “You're in an awfully good mood this morning.”
Climbing back up the stairs two at a time, Ronan almost collided into Michael. “Trying to be more like you, love,” he said, throwing his arms around him. “And put a positive spin on something I really don't want to do.”
When Ronan looked down, a clump of hair flopped out of place. Michael brushed the loose strands back with his fingers. “You don't have to. You could force Saoirse to call her mother and take responsibility for her own actions.”
Ronan's laughter filled the stairwell. “That's one of the reasons I love you,” he said. “You've got a cracking sense of humor.” One quick kiss on the lips, one more for good luck, and Ronan was once again racing down the steps. Running out of St. Florian's, he shouted, “See ya at practice!” but he didn't pause for Michael's response. He was determined to get to his mother's flat before he lost his courage.
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Standing outside Edwige's front door, his hand poised to knock, Ronan almost turned to run all the way back to school. He could already hear her shouting, going off on a tirade, blaming him for not making Saoirse return to school, beg forgiveness, and get herself unexpelled. He knew it was going to be his fault because he should have understood the gravity of the situation and how dangerous it could be to have Saoirse in such close proximity to David, Brania, and the rest of their kind, and that he should have immediately asked Edwige for her help. He was wrong.
“I'm so very proud that you've been taking care of your sister.”
“What?! You've known all along she was at Double A?!” Standing in front of the oval mirror, Edwige secured the gold pin to her chocolate brown crushed velvet poncho, one complete shade darker than her suede knee-high boots. The pin was the silhouette of an ocean wave with two crests, a simple design. But the contrast it made against the brown material made it look as expensive as it was. Underneath the poncho she wore a tight-fitting cream-colored cable knit dress that fell a few inches above the top of her boot. She absolutely loved the look. Swinging around to face Ronan, she caught a glimpse of her movement in the mirror, the poncho flouncing at her waist, and thought what a shame she had never experienced London's Carnaby Street in the sixties. She would have been so popular. “The headmistress called several weeks ago to inform me that Saoirse had run away.”
Ronan no longer had to worry that his courage would falter. His anger gave him strength, if not focus. “I can't believe you didn't look for her. Why didn't you say anything? How did you know she was in Eden?!”
Fists on her hips, Edwige was becoming as angry as her son, but for wildly different reasons. “How many questions are you going to hurl at your mum before you ask her where she found this smashing outfit?!”
She's insane! That's another thing I have in common with Michael. Both our mums are absolutely bonkers.
“Will you listen to yourself?!” Ronan pleaded. “Your daughter ran away and you didn't even go looking for her! What the hell kind of mother are you?!”
Two long strides and Edwige was standing inches from Ronan. Looking up to him, she forced herself to remember that he was her child, her favorite, the only one who had not caused her pain so she didn't want to inflict pain on him, but he was getting very close to feeling her hand across his face. “The kind of mother who knows that her daughter is being protected by that curly-haired creature,” Edwige said slowly. “And the kind of mother who knows that her daughter would like some time on her own before I swoop in to ruin her life.”
Ronan raised his chin so his mother had to tilt her head back even further to look him in the eye. So she knew Saoirse was staying with Phaedra. Somehow she knew everything she wasn't supposed to know and yet she never knew how she was supposed to act. Despite her calm rebuttal, despite her logical reasons for not taking action, Ronan didn't believe she had given Saoirse a second thought until just now. The only thing he did believe was that her thoughts were not of a positive nature. “And is that what you plan to do, Mother, ruin her life?”
Yanking open a drawer, she grabbed her brown suede gloves and started to put them on, careful not to catch her nails on the cashmere lining. “I plan to do what a mother does best,” Edwige declared. “Give her child an ultimatum.”
Unbelievable! She really doesn't get it, does she?
“Is that what you think good parenting is? Abandonment and ultimatums!”
Stealing a glance at the mahogany box near the window, Edwige wished that Saxon were still alive. With him by her side, she knew how to be a mother, she knew how to handle her children, but ever since he left her, ever since he was ripped from her life, it had become much more difficult. She was always saying the wrong words, doing the wrong things, and worst of all, she was beginning not to care. “I haven't abandoned my daughter,” Edwige said wearily. “I've been waiting for the right time to reach out to her.”
“And when exactly would the right time be, Mum?” Ronan asked.
“Now.”
Outside Edwige's flat, Ronan scuttled after her, even though she was half his size, he was finding it difficult to keep up. Down the block, around the corner, through an alleyway, Edwige brought them to a deserted part of her neighborhood, not stopping until she reached the train tracks. “Call your sister.”
Dutifully, Ronan flipped open his cell phone and started to dial until he realized he had no idea what to say. “What exactly do you want me to tell her?”
Closing her eyes, Edwige lifted her face toward the sun, its warmth pleasing, appreciated, and told Ronan to make sure Saoirse was in her room and to stay there until he arrived. When he was done with the call, Edwige asked, “Is her babysitter with her?”
“No,” Ronan replied. “She said Phaedra was in class.”
“Pity. I was going to bring her a hot-oil treatment as a thank-you.”
Shaking his head in amazement, Ronan marveled at how shallow Edwige could be even during moments of crisis. And how easily she sucked those around her into her superficial musings. “Phaedra really doesn't care about her appearance and such,” he said.
Twirling to face her son, allowing her poncho to whip around her for full effect, Edwige commented, “Such idiotic thinking will make her one very lonely efemera.”
The train whistle prevented Ronan from explaining that there was no chance Phaedra would be lonely as long as Fritz was around, so instead, he followed her silently as she sprinted down the tracks toward Double A. Less than five minutes later, the train miles behind them, they arrived at St. Anne's, but outside the door to Saoirse's room, Ronan heard something that ticked him off even more than his mother's attitude and made him want to abandon his entire plan. He heard laughter. Saoirse didn't care that he was trying to protect her, all she wanted to do was goof off with Ciaran. “We should go,” Ronan announced. “It's not worth the trouble.”
“Don't fret, I'll be civil,” Edwige replied. When she saw that Saoirse had company, a large part of her wished she had accepted her son's proposal.
“Look, Ciaran!” Saoirse cried. “Mum's finally come to visit!”
Awkward. That was the only way to describe the impromptu family reunion. It was as if Edwige's body had turned to stone, her body, her face, became rigid. Ronan and Ciaran were just as motionless except their eyes grew wide and darted about the room, at each other, their mother, their sister, trying to figure out how they had all wound up in the same space and how it might be possible to leave without being noticed. The only one who seemed to be enjoying the meeting was Saoirse. She bounded off the bed and gave her mother a hug that was barely reciprocated, but when she stepped back to stand between her brothers and spoke, the tone of her voice belied the sincerity of her actions. “Wow! A poncho,” she said. “I thought they went out of style. Again.”
As Edwige crossed to the other side of the room, as far from her children as she could get, Ronan and Ciaran both bit their lips to stifle a laugh. It was only when they each turned to slap Saoirse in the arm for her comment did they realize they both found their sister's rudeness highly amusing. Edwige pulled out one of the desk chairs and sat. “No, darling, you're mistaken,” she replied tersely, taking off her gloves. “Just like you're mistaken that you'll be able to get away with this latest escapade.”
Saoirse actually batted her eyes several times before speaking. “Whatever do you mean, Mummie?”
Hunched forward, her hands clasped, Edwige looked at her three children as they formed a tentatively united front, and was comforted. She didn't feel the pangs of maternal affection, but it was good to know her children were bonding.
For Ronan, it was disquieting. One minute he was the outsider, the next included in the inner circle with his siblings. But he had to admit he preferred the latter location even if it meant being on the opposite side of his mother.
So did Edwige. Even though Ronan was her treasure, her hope, he was also a reminder that she was something she no longer wished to be, a mother. But could she really be that cold, that apathetic toward her own flesh and blood? Blood. Maybe that was it. Maybe she had spent so many years feeding alone without a partner, searching for the perfect victim by herself that she had become content in her solitude, resentful of those who relied on her, offended by those who wanted her to do anything more than accept their bodies as a final offering, to be a participant in their death but not in their life. Victims she could handle; children seemed to be beyond her capabilities. But they were her children, shouldn't she try harder to act like their mother? Isn't that what Saxon would have wanted and expected from her? “I mean, dear, that you need an education,” Edwige began. “So you have a choice.”
Wary, Saoirse glanced at her brothers, both of whom ignored her, more interested in knowing what options Edwige was going to offer the girl. “I'm listening,” Saoirse said.
“You can either enroll in St. Anne's,” Edwige replied. “Or be homeschooled by me.”
Saoirse took all of three seconds to decide. “I'll pick the saint over the sinner.”
As she expected, Edwige was overcome with disappointment. Hardly the sign of an emotional breakthrough, she wasn't disappointed because Saoirse didn't want her as her teacher; she simply hated being rejected. Unfortunately, it was something she was getting used to. “Come, then,” Edwige said.“I've already scheduled an appointment with Sister Mary Elizabeth.”
Ronan almost stopped them from leaving, he wasn't sure enrolling Saoirse in St. Anne's was the best solution. But on second thought, if they couldn't keep her sequestered at a foreign school, keeping her in plain sight might be the smartest thing to do. It would be much more difficult for anyone to harm her if her location was public knowledge. Ronan's plan to force his mother to take action had turned out to be successful. Now that they were alone, he hoped his attempt to have a conversation with his brother would be equally triumphant. “Some screwed-up family we got saddled with,” Ronan said.
Thrilled that Ronan spoke first, Ciaran heard the words pour out of him. “That's a bloody understatement! We'd be quite normal, though, if you erased our family history and, of course, gave Edwige a personality transplant.”
Usually, Ronan stood up for his mother, but today she revealed a bit more of her true self and he wasn't happy with what he saw. He was, however, quite happy right where he was. “Can you imagine if Saoirse wanted to be home-schooled?” Ronan asked, plopping down on the bed next to Ciaran. “Mum's bloody head would've exploded!”
Roaring with laughter, Ciaran reveled in the possibility. “Would've served her right to have to teach Saoirse algebra and bio; she's even less academic than she is maternal.”