Unwelcome (32 page)

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Authors: Michael Griffo

BOOK: Unwelcome
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Even in a cemetery, among shadowy relics of the past, Ronan was struck by how Michael's lighthearted nature shone through.
I want to be more like that,
he thought. But a shift in personality would have to wait. Right now, Ronan had to make amends. Brushing Michael's cheek softly with his thumb, Ronan said, “I may take you and the kid up on that, but first I need to show you something.”
Smiling devilishly, Michael leaned in close. “Come on, Rone, I've already seen you naked.”
Delightfully shocked, Ronan didn't have a good comeback, so he just grabbed Michael's hand and seconds later, they were standing in the middle of a different past. Graves and tombstones were replaced with books and portraits; they were in the anteroom of St. Joshua's Library. “What are we doing here?” Michael asked.
Ronan started to speak and then realized the anteroom and the library proper were filled with students studying, reading, lounging, eavesdropping. Any one of them could overhear what Ronan might say, and these days, during these uncertain times, he knew it was better to err on the side of caution. He sat on the velvet couch and telepathically instructed Michael to sit next to him. But Michael's mind was so confused, he didn't hear him.
Forced to use more pedestrian means of communication, Ronan patted the cushion next to him and Michael finally got the hint. Sitting next to Ronan, Michael felt a bit dizzy having traveled so fast from Weeping Water and he had to blink several times so the brown and gold paisley pattern of the sofa would stop swirling, stop threatening to come alive and suffocate him. If he knew what was coming up next, he probably would've gotten up from the couch and fled the room.
“I need you to listen.”
This time when Ronan spoke to Michael telepathically, he was heard.
“I want you to look at the portrait.”
Michael looked up over the fireplace to the portrait of Brother Dahey, the monk who was one of the founders of Archangel Academy. “Why?” Michael responded quietly. “We look at it practically every day.”
“Telepathically!”
“Sorry,” Michael said.
“I mean, sorry.”
“I need you to look at it differently,”
Ronan replied.
“I need you to look at it with a vampire's eyes.”
Glancing around the room to make sure that no one was close enough to see his face, Michael allowed his eyes to narrow, to become truly vampiric so he could receive the full benefit of his preternatural vision. Adjusting himself on the couch so he was looking directly at the painting, Michael looked at the monk and tried to see beyond the brushstrokes, past the drab colors and patina, but all he saw was a fifteenth-century face with a really bad haircut, staring back at him.
“All I see is the same old picture,”
Michael said, his frustration resonating loudly even though his words were silent.
Staring at the portrait, Ronan said, “
Look into the eyes, look at the mouth.”
This time when Michael stared at the monk's face, he remembered waking up right here on this couch a while ago and sensing that the monk was staring at him. It had been only for a fleeting moment, but he knew there was something strange about the way the eyes in the painting were glowering, how they were fixated upon him, and now he knew why. The face didn't belong to a monk, it didn't belong to a student of religion or a defender of Christ. It did, however, have everything to do with eternal life.
“He's a vampire!” Michael said out loud.
Ronan's eyes bulged out and he put a finger up to his lips to remind Michael that they needed to be quiet.
“Keep looking.”
Straining to push himself further into the portrait, to the truth that lay behind the canvas, Michael started to get lightheaded. He was still a novice at these vampire skills, but he could tell by Ronan's attitude that it was imperative that he keep trying. With his eyes acting like laser beams, he saw that the monk's teeth were actually fangs, his eyes pools of blackness, the rest of his features malformed and distorted. This was definitely the portrait of a vampire. But then the colors of the painting started to shift, brighten, the fangs receded, the eyes turned more human, and another image appeared on the canvas. At one time, Brother Dahey may have been a monk, but today he was a headmaster. “Oh my God! David Zachary is Brother Dahey?”
Whipping his head around, Ronan didn't think anyone heard Michael, but he couldn't be sure. He understood this news was shocking, but he needed Michael to understand how important it was to keep this information a secret.
“Not out loud,”
Ronan shushed.
“I'm sorry,” Michael replied, then continued on in silence.
“This is crazy! How is it possible?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Ronan told Michael the truth, which was that he didn't really know.
“I know I've been a vampire a little longer than you, but there's a lot about them that I don't know,”
Ronan explained.
“And I know even less about Them, you know, the ones with the capital T.”
As wild as it sounded, it all made sense. David and Brother Dahey both had red hair, a commanding stare, and a link to Double A. It also explained why David so effortlessly and immediately gained the respect and admiration of the entire student body. Hawksbry was beloved, sure, but he had been there for years, he'd earned the trust of the students one term after the other. Zachary used his vampire skills to cast a spell and hypnotize them into thinking he was some sort of academic god, which, Michael surmised, in a way he was.
“But what's he doing here?”
Michael asked.
“A powerful vampire like that has got to have better things to do than spend his days cooped up in a boarding school.”
“Well, I have a feeling it might have something to do with the fact that David is also Brania's father.”
Seriously?! Michael did some quick genealogy in his head.
Brania is David's daughter, David once lived with Edwige, Edwige is Ronan's mother, which could only mean one thing:
“David is, like, your stepfather!”
“Michael!” Ronan shouted, then corrected himself and told Michael telepathically that he had to stop talking out loud.
“I'm sorry, you know I'm not used to this mental thing,”
Michael responded silently.
“And FYI this news is really blowing my mind!”
Ronan couldn't argue with that. Learning he had a familial connection to David was indeed mind-blowing. Nevertheless, it needed to remain secret.
“You're right. But David was never officially my stepfather,”
Ronan said.
“We didn't live with him and Brania for very long and he never married my mother. In fact, the day she got her inheritance, we left. I never saw David again until he walked into St. Sebastian's announcing that he was our new headmaster.”
Michael sank back into the cushion and shook his head. The more truth he uncovered, the more confused he got.
“So you really think he's taken this position just to be close to Brania?”
Michael asked.
“She, um, isn't all that pleasant to be around, you know.”
Phaedra is right; Michael really does find humor in most every situation.
“I don't know why he's here,”
Ronan replied.
“But I know he never does anything without a self-serving reason.”
Suddenly, Michael got very excited and started waving his hands and pointing first to the portrait and then to his chest. If anyone was watching them, they would have thought they were playing a game of charades.
“I think I know why he's come back,”
Michael said.
“He wants to separate us.”
Ronan's forehead wrinkled. He wasn't following Michael's logic.
“It's like my dream, Ronan, and when we were at The Well and separated by darkness. The face I saw in The Well must have been David's.”
As tidy an explanation as that might be, Ronan knew it wasn't plausible. Only water vamps could connect with The Well physically or spiritually. It was impossible for David or any of his kind to infiltrate such a holy place. The Well and the cave where it existed were impenetrable to outsiders.
“I don't think that's possible, Michael,”
Ronan said. “
But it doesn't matter anyway, because we'll never be separated. Remember, you're forever mine.”
Even though he continued to speak telepathically, Michael still leaned in close to Ronan, just because he felt like it.
“And please remember that I'm also forever beautiful.”
Laughing out loud, Ronan no longer cared who heard them. “I want to do something for you, for both of us really,” he said. “I want to bring you to your real home tonight.”
That works for me.
“I wasn't planning on going anywhere other than our room.”
“No, love,” Ronan said. “I don't want to sound like some bloke in those cheesy movies you and Phaedra cry over . . .”
“We do not cry!” Michael protested.
“Right! And I understand the bloomin' appeal of Henry and Kumar,” Ronan cried.
“Harold,” Michael corrected.
“Whatever,” Ronan said. “Home isn't just a place, it's where your family is. And like it or not, my family is now yours.”
Thinking about all the members of Ronan's family, Michael realized there were more good than bad. “I would really like that.”
“Smashing!” Ronan exclaimed. “I think it's about time that Edwige acted like the mum she is and had us all over for dinner.” Michael tried not to crack up but couldn't stop himself. “I know, I know, Mum's hardly a domestic, but that's okay 'cause most of us don't eat anyway.”
Michael kept on smiling because he no longer wanted to cry. “Thank you.”
 
After they left, Lochlan MacCleery was still in shock. Sitting in the high-backed chair behind the couch, he had heard every spoken word Michael and Ronan shared. David Zachary a fifteenth-century monk? And a vampire? It was insane, illogical, and yet the doctor believed it completely. Alistair's note finally made sense. Evil
had
come to Archangel Academy, but it didn't come as some abstract concept; it came in the form of a new headmaster.
If there was any doubt left in Lochlan's mind, he got all the confirmation he needed when he looked up at the portrait of David Zachary disguised as Brother Dahey. The eyes had turned completely black and at both sides of the mouth hung two very sharp fangs.
chapter 19
Edwige did not like playing hostess; she did not like entertaining people in her flat, even if those people consisted mainly of her children. That's why when Ronan asked her, as the Glynn-Rowley matriarch, to throw a dinner party, a family gathering, she immediately said no.
But then Ronan pleaded, confessing that he wanted the party to unofficially welcome Michael into the family since he had effectively become an orphan, and Edwige felt guilty. Ordinarily she ignored feelings of guilt, but Michael was Ronan's chosen life partner, and the recent revelation of his father's duplicity and evil nature were the result of her own orchestrations, which is why she relented. Giving into guilt and her son didn't change the fact that she didn't like company, however, so when she heard Ronan and the others stampede into her home from behind her locked bedroom door, she made them wait.
Hearing her silent order, Roan told the others—Michael, Ciaran, Saoirse, and her dorm mate and new best friend, Phaedra—that Edwige was running late and they should wait for her in the living room. He ad-libbed, saying she wanted them to make themselves comfortable, not realizing how difficult a task that would be. Edwige's living room, while eliciting admiration from visitors for its tasteful decoration, didn't provide comfort.
When Ciaran sat in the brown leather side chair, he was surprised to find the seat's soft cushion didn't extend to the back of the chair, it was like leaning against plywood. And when he propped his feet up on the small hassock, he realized that the embroidered surface—depicting a scene of a Christopher Columbus Era sailing vessel coming face-to-face with a heretofore unexplored tropical paradise—merely covered a similar hard surface, its purpose ornamental, not utilitarian.
Ronan and Michael were tucked on opposite sides of the cornflower blue velvet settee, sitting hunched forward, their elbows resting on their knees so Saoirse could squeeze in between them while Phaedra sat at the mirrored desk in the clear acrylic Ghost chair, gorgeous to look at, its seamless construction a marvel, but every time she shifted her weight, the back of her thighs stuck to the seat of the chair, making a sucking noise as if someone were peeling an adhesive bandage off of a wound. It made the girl, already nervous being in Edwige's flat for the first time, even more anxious.
Not that she was the only one who felt uncomfortable. Ronan might not be the host, but he was the ringleader, the reason they were all gathered here, and he was completely aware that it felt more like a group detention than a party.
Maybe I jumped the gun,
he thought,
maybe I pushed too hard? Too late now, you prat, this whole mess is your fault. Wait, maybe if I look like I'm enjoying myself and at ease, it'll catch on?
Smiling at Michael, Ronan was glad to see that his look of happiness was contagious. Too bad Michael was only being polite.
Smile. Don't let Ronan see that you're freaking out inside.
Michael liked Edwige, but after their unexpected meeting on campus a while ago that left him feeling as if she would become a more hands-on mother-in-law, he hadn't seen her again. He knew she accepted that her son had a boyfriend; he was just no longer convinced that she believed he was the ideal choice for that role. He hoped this get-together would dispel his fears, but the evening was not getting off to a rousing start.
Meanwhile, Ciaran was shocked that he even got an invitation. “Are you sure she said she wants me to come?” he had asked Ronan when told of the impromptu event.
“Of course,” Ronan assured him. “It's a family party and you're family.”
In name only,
Ciaran thought. But if Edwige was making an effort, why not attend? It wasn't like he'd be walking into the lioness's den alone. He would have backup, right? Glancing at the tense, wary faces around the room, Ciaran had the urge to flee for the more comforting silence of the lab.
Thankfully, Saoirse was able to put an end to the awkward silence. Biting into a piece of a raw baby carrot, she crunched so loudly, everyone thought she'd broken a tooth. “Careful,” Ronan chided. “The tooth fairy doesn't visit teenagers.”
Dipping the rest of the carrot into the small silver tureen filled with what looked like ranch dressing, Saoirse snipped, “Like you wouldn't fancy the chance to put on a tutu and slip a few pounds underneath my pillow.” Her comeback was just what the so-called party needed—a reason to laugh.
Ronan, however, was too shocked to join in. “A
few
pounds for one bloody tooth?”
Spitting the carrot into her hand when she tasted the unexpected flavor of curry, Saoirse replied, “Notice how my brother doesn't balk at the idea of wearing a tutu.” She grabbed a napkin, wrapping the half-eaten curried carrot in it. “P.S. Food-eating people, the dip is gross.”
“Not as gross as Ronan in a tutu,” Ciaran joked.
Laughing along with the rest of them, Michael felt the need to defend his boyfriend. “I think Ronan's got the perfect legs for a tutu.”
Saoirse opened her mouth to respond, but before she could utter a sound, Ronan warned her, “Another peep out of you and I'll make you scarf down that whole bowl.”
Unable to allow her brother to have the last word, Saoirse squealed, “Ooh, I'm scared!” Running behind Ciaran's chair, she continued her mock cry for help. “Save me, somebody, the big bad vampire's gonna force-feed me an appetizer!”
This time when the rest of the group cracked up, Ronan joined them, laughing heartily, thrilled to be the brunt of a joke. His laughter grew louder along with that of the others, the cheerful noise drowning out the sound of the string quartet that filled the air, and stopped only when Edwige entered the room from the hallway. “Blimey, Mum!” Saoirse shrieked. “What've you gone and done to yourself?”
Smiling stiffly, Edwige sauntered into the center of the room. She knew her daughter wasn't commenting on her ensemble; the look she spent the last hour crafting was stunning. She wore impeccably tailored cream-colored leather pants, cropped at the ankle to show off, to maximum effect, her matching colored patent leather pumps with four-inch heels, and topped off with a long-sleeved, hand-knit, fuschia sweater made of Scottish mohair. The sweater came high across her neck, but in the back swooped low to reveal taut muscles and to create several layers of draped material that bounced every time she moved. It was magazine-perfect. No, her daughter was commenting on her hair.
“Saoirse's right, Mum,” Ronan said. “Why'd you go and switch colors again?”
Posing beneath the oversize painting of the two male swimmers she so adored, Edwige tried to think of Ronan as one of the idealized figures in the artwork and not as the son who was questioning her appearance. “I woke up this morning and realized I was bored with being a blonde,” she said. “So I rang up Marcel, and he restored my natural beauty.”
“I think it looks beautiful, Ms. Glynn-Rowley,” Phaedra said. “It's almost like you're standing underneath the moon in the painting, it's so shiny.”
Edwige had no idea how to respond to a style comment from a girl who, to her eye, never used a hair-care product in her life, so she simply smiled and then, of course, instructed her to call her Edwige. Unlike Phaedra, Saoirse wasn't as kind. “Come off it, Mum, you dyed your hair black again because you couldn't stand the competition,” she said, twirling around so her own long blond hair swung like a yellow pinwheel.
This is only good-natured teasing, harmless, normal,
Edwige thought.
Then why do I wish they would all shut up and disappear?
Noticing Edwige's discomfort, Michael interjected, “Are you looking at the same woman? Your mother doesn't need to worry about competition from anyone.”
That's lovely. The outsiders compliment me, my own flesh and blood don't even have the decency. Clearly, Ronan has chosen well this time.
“Thank you, Michael,” she said. “You are indeed a welcome addition to the family.”
Beaming, Ronan led a round of applause that only turned into another chorus of laughter when Saoirse, plopping onto Ciaran's lap, asked her mother why she couldn't pay as much attention to food preparation as she did to her wardrobe. “I still can't get this disgusting taste of curry out of my mouth!”
Shaking his head, Ronan couldn't believe how effortlessly sassy his sister could be. Whatever she thought just rolled off her tongue. It was a trait he mostly admired but, in the presence of his mother, made him nervous. The combination of his sister's sass and his mother's quick temper could be volatile. So far, Edwige seemed to be in a pleasant mood.
“Sorry, dear,” she said. “I attempted to make some homemade dishes, but after that one failure, I decided it was best to cater.”
“If you knew the dip was goppin',” Saoirse said, “why'd you leave it out for us to eat?”
A smile formed on Edwige's lips that made Ronan reconsider her pleasant mood was just a façade. “Darling, you know how I hate to waste food.”
After dinner, it was clear there was no risk of that. The dishes of those who had eaten were wiped clean. “That was delicious,” Phaedra remarked.
“Yeah, you sure picked a great caterer,” Ciaran added.
Lifting up his glass, Michael toasted the hostess. “And this is the best water I've ever tasted.”
And you, Michael Howard, are the best boyfriend ever.
Ronan telepathically welcomed Michael to his nonconventional family and thanked him for his compliments to Edwige. They seemed to be keeping her calm, which in turn helped Ronan relax. After he'd convinced his mother to throw a family gathering, he wondered if it was a smart thing to do. Maybe a family should be left alone to coast and exist within its framework, each playing the part they've come to portray so well instead of being forced to acknowledge that the framework could use some reinforcement and that their roles needed to be reexamined. Maybe Ronan's own personal desire for growth had made him think the rest of his family wanted the same. Well, things did seem to be going smoother than expected, but they still had to get through dessert.
“Be honest, Michael,” Saoirse said, stabbing the middle of a cream puff with her finger. “You can't tell me you don't miss eating dessert.”
Watching Saoirse devour the filling, Michael replied, “I never really had a sweet tooth.”
Ciaran stuffed the rest of his second cream puff into his mouth and swallowed hard before adding, “C'mon, mate, there's got to be something you still crave.”
He thought a moment and then replied, “French fries.”
“Really?” Ronan asked. “You fancied chips that much?”
“Yeah,” Michael replied. “That's the only food that I really miss eating.”
Her eyes bulging, Phaedra understood. “I love French fries! Just the other day at St. Martha's, Fritz made me a plate smothered in cheese and brown gravy. I told him I could eat them every day.”
Edwige rose from the table. “Not a wise idea, darling, if, of course, you want to maintain your figure,” she stated. “Excuse me.”
After she left the room, Saoirse told Phaedra not to mind her mother and whispered, “She's just jealous 'cause she's old and doesn't have our metabolism.”
A minute or so later when Edwige hadn't returned from the kitchen, Ronan thought he should check on her. Before he entered the room, Edwige peered out into the hallway and said, “Go on back to our guests. I'm preparing a little surprise.”
A surprise? The idea should have filled Ronan with joy, but instead he was filled with terror. A surprise from Edwige had the potential to be a disaster. When Ronan informed the others what Edwige was up to in the kitchen, his opinion was shared.
“Maybe she's planning on poisoning us all,” Ciaran whispered.
Hysterical, Saoirse grabbed her two brothers by the hand and dragged them onto the sofa. “Before she makes us drink the Kool-Aid, let's have some sibling bonding time.” Squashed in between Ronan and Ciaran, she called out, “You guys don't mind, do you?”
From across the room Michael shook his head. “Not at all.” In fact it was perfect. He had been dying to talk to Phaedra privately all night. Since the evening started, he had been trying to figure out what was different about Phaedra, when she stood under the crystal chandelier that hung near the minibar and was illuminated by the harsh light, he thought he had his answer. “Riddle me this, efemera,” Michael whispered. “How'd you manage to get a tan in April in England?”
Glancing in the mirror, Phaedra touched her cheek. It was true, her usually pale complexion had a darker undertone, not quite brown, more reddish. “You've noticed too.”
Michael looked at Phaedra's reflection, then at the girl herself examining her skin tone. “You're not as fair, all right, even your arms,” Michael said. “Oh my God, do not tell me you found a tanning salon in Eden? I know those things are deadly, but I could use a jump start on my summer tan.” Phaedra tried to interject, but Michael kept rambling, “Wait a sec, what am I talking about? A few ultraviolet rays can't hurt me now. I'm no longer human!”

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