Unwelcome (6 page)

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Authors: Michael Griffo

BOOK: Unwelcome
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“Forgive me,” David said, not only to Fritz but also to the crowd that appeared just as speechless. “I didn't mean to cause you any pain, any of you. On the contrary, I thought it would gladden you to know that your friend, one of our own, lives on even though he is no longer among us.”
No, because he doesn't live on, you stupid fool,
Fritz thought.
He's dead.
Michael felt the same way except that he knew Penry wasn't merely dead, he had been murdered. He sought out Ronan, the only other person who could understand his grief, the only other face that could offer solace, but Ronan was focused on David. Why was he staring at him so intensely? Why did he look as if he were standing before The Well and about to transform? And why was Fritz running out of the gym?
Phaedra started to follow him, but David called after her, “Miss Antonides, I don't think that's wise.” Had she not been so concerned about Fritz, she might have caught something interesting flash across David's face, something unnatural, but her thoughts were elsewhere. “The gift is for Fritz alone. And besides, I believe the rest of you have classes to attend.”
For a moment no one moved until Blakeley shouted for everyone to file out. “Assembly's over!”
Using only his mind, Ronan told Michael that he had a free period and was going to the library. They agreed to meet later at St. Martha's during lunch period, but before Ronan could leave the gym, Lochlan grabbed his arm.
“Can I help you, doctor?”
“I think you can,” Lochlan replied, his eyes involuntarily darting in David's direction. “Come back to my office so we can talk.”
It was clear that the doctor distrusted David just as much as Ronan did, for entirely different reasons of course, but Ronan wasn't ready to enter into an alliance. “And why in the world should I do that?”
“Because I saw the way you looked at him,” Lochlan hissed. “And you can trust me.”
Ronan almost laughed in the doctor's face. “Since when?” Not waiting for a response and unwilling to be cornered any longer, Ronan walked away, leaving Lochlan to be swallowed up by the crowd exiting the gym. Just as Ronan was about to leave, he saw Brania once again sitting by herself in the bleachers, dressed like she belonged, waving. But this time she wasn't waving to Ronan, she was saying hello to her father. Without hesitation or concern, David waved back.
chapter 3
Luckily, Ronan had practice concealing his thoughts. It was one of the perks of being a vampire, but when he used the power, it didn't always make him feel like a good person because all he was doing, really, was hiding the truth. Like he had done all day with Michael.
There are certain things Michael doesn't need to know just yet,
Ronan kept reminding himself,
certain things that he needs to be shielded from.
And since he created Michael, brought him into his world, Ronan could choose what he wanted to reveal to him, how much information, how much of his mind, he wanted to share. In The Well, their souls were joined together as equals; outside Ronan had the upper hand.
Watching Michael sleep, the angles of his face softened by the shade of the moon, his vibrant flaxen hair and the rosy color of his cheeks replaced with the black-and-white shadows of the night, Ronan thought he looked like a memory. So young, so innocent, so unprepared. “I have to protect him,” Ronan heard himself say out loud. Then he remembered what he told Michael just the other day, that knowledge gives us power, and a part of him wanted to wake him up and tell him everything he knew about David Zachary. But what good would that do? Michael wouldn't fully understand or believe that David was anything more than a charismatic and passionate headmaster, a man who had come to Archangel Academy with no other purpose than to steer the students toward a more promising future. He wouldn't accept the truth, not just yet. David had made sure of that by using his immense power to dazzle his audience. No, he needed advice on how to handle the situation, and there was only one person Ronan could think of, only one person Ronan knew who would understand the situation. He gave Michael a soft kiss on his forehead and then left to see his mother.
 
Edwige was one of the few people Ronan couldn't hide anything from. He didn't understand her control over him, but he assumed it was simply the maternal connection between a mother and child, heightened because they were both vampires. She didn't transform Ronan, but in a very similar sense her blood ran through his veins, and that somehow bestowed with Edwige power over her son, it somehow allowed her to know what he was thinking when he was in her presence or even sometimes when they were separated. She didn't always care what her son thought—the thoughts of most people, in fact, typically bored her—but it was a wonderful tool to possess because Edwige always preferred to be in control.
“Do you think this painting would look better in a smaller room, my bedroom perhaps?” Edwige asked. “Then I could feel as if I were in the ocean as I drifted off to sleep; that would be comforting.” Ignoring her son's presence, Edwige gazed at her prized painting and imagined how the cool salt water, a blend of deep, rich blues, must feel as it wrapped itself around the naked bodies of the two men. Actually, she didn't have to imagine. She knew exactly how the ocean water felt against a naked body; she had made the glorious journey to The Well of Atlantis each month for over a decade. And although for the most part she had made the journey alone, there was a time when she had a male companion.
It's been far too long since I've swum with someone by my side,
Edwige noted.
I think the time has come for a change.
“Everything's changed, Mother,” Ronan proclaimed.
Did he say something? “What? No, I think I'll keep the painting right here,” Edwige announced. “It needs room to breathe.” And Edwige didn't need to be reminded of loneliness each night as she drifted off to sleep. She did, however, need to be reminded that she wasn't alone.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“I have heard every word you've said,” Edwige replied, without taking her eyes off the two male figures, the couple whose skin touched barely but permanently, in her painting. “There's a new teacher at your school, hardly earth-shattering, and hardly a reason to leave that beautiful boyfriend of yours alone in your bed.” If Ronan could read his mother's mind he would have heard her final remark, that beds were meant to be shared, but since Ronan was having a hard enough time maintaining a verbal conversation with Edwige, it really was better that her private thoughts remained unshared.
“Not just a teacher,” Ronan corrected. “The new headmaster.”
Pressing her fingers to her temples, Edwige felt the onset of a headache. She dug underneath her close-cropped bangs, careful not to scratch herself with her newly manicured fingernails, and massaged her skin. The pressure felt good. It didn't alleviate the pain, not at all, but did add a layer of pleasure. And lately that's all she had been craving, pleasure, enjoyment, escape, but her craving went unfulfilled and instead she was presented with a child who, although the reasons were still foreign to her, had a problem. “Well, someone had to replace that other one who left.”
“Hawksbry didn't leave, Mum, he was killed and you know it!” Ronan charged. “You've always known it!”
“Will you stop yelling?!” Edwige demanded more than requested, clutching her forehead. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, but unmistakably filled with disgust and impatience. “Turned into one of Them or killed by Their hand, what does it matter? Either way it's eternal damnation.” Finally she turned to her son, hoping her action coupled with her words would be perceived as a dismissal. “Now, if that's all the news you have to dispatch, I think it's time you left. It is, as you children say, a school night.”
Sometimes you really do have to talk to her like she's the child,
Ronan thought. “Brania's father is the new headmaster,” he announced.
Imperceptibly, Edwige's expression changed. “Why didn't you say so?” Turning her back on Ronan, she walked across the room to the small glass and steel minibar. She lifted a stout pitcher, clear except for delicate etchings of fish that randomly adorned the circumference, and poured herself a glass of water. It was the one liquid her kind could drink, and even though she wasn't thirsty, she did need time to think. The water tasted clean, fresh, not nearly as intoxicating as blood of course, but it served its purpose, it gave her a moment to make her son think his news hadn't startled her. “You must learn to present the most important piece of information first instead of, pardon the pun, vamping.”
Ignoring his mother's jeer, Ronan pressed on. “So you agree that this is important, we're in danger?”
“I would hardly say we're in danger,” Edwige replied, the glass making a louder clank than expected when she placed it back onto the surface of the bar. “It means just as you said, Brania's father is your new headmaster.”
Why does every conversation with her have to be so frustrating?
“And why in the world would he take on that role if he didn't want to hurt us, if he weren't trying to make some sort of statement?” Ronan asked.
Why does every conversation with him have to be a challenge?
“David has always acted like a little boy,” Edwige said, sitting on the acrylic Ghost chair next to the bar, her fingers absentmindedly stroking the smooth, clear armrest. “So it's quite fitting that he would want to be the leader of an allboys school.”
Ronan started to pace the room. How could he make her understand that this situation wasn't funny; it was potentially lethal. “He's already a leader,” Ronan cried. “Of our enemy!”
Edwige pointed a finger at her son, the red lacquered nail aiming at him like a blood-tinged arrow. “They are not our enemy. Are you forgetting the truce?”
“They broke the bloody truce when they killed Penry!”
“That human was not one of ours!” Edwige hated to lose her temper with her son, but she also hated to hear her son talk like an idiot, she had raised him to be so much better than that.
He has such potential,
she thought.
His destiny could be limitless, if only, if only he would end this asinine fascination with the lower classes.
Rising from her chair, looking as statuesque as her petite frame would allow, she softened her voice and approached her son. “I know you are fond of these people; you consort with them and you find them to be useful, entertaining, which I will admit they can be, at times, but you must remember that we are not like them.”
“But we used to be,” Ronan said, sounding more like a child than he cared to admit.
“Past tense,” Edwige stressed, then added with unequivocal authority, “We are unto ourselves.”
The space between Ronan and his mother was suddenly drenched in shadows and silence.
Could their differences ever be bridged?
Ronan thought.
Yes, of course, we're different, better in so many ways, but the reason we're better is because we're connected to our past, to our humanity. Has she really lost sight of that? Does she really think we exist, that we could exist, without that link, without being bound to humans?
Staring out the window of Edwige's flat to the world below, Ronan saw some people walking in the darkness, scrambling to get somewhere, to someone, and he thought of Michael sleeping alone in his bed, and he suddenly ached to be alongside him, breathing in his smell, drifting off to sleep, secure, loved. He thought of his friends and his teachers, the people he spent his days with and learned from, and it was so clear to him that a contract was broken when two of those people were murdered. Why couldn't she see that?
“They killed both Penry and Alistair without cause and there was no retribution from either side,” Ronan said quietly. “They hate water vamps, and now their leader is in control of Double A. This cannot be good for us.”
One minute stupid, the next perceptive.
Edwige didn't know if her son was contradictory because he was a child or a man. “David's kind has always hated us; that is nothing new,” she allowed. “But the murders of your friend and your former headmaster, while unfortunate and unnecessary, were not declarations of war.”
“Just the first steps toward the acceptance of one.”
She was not going to win this argument. She was not going to convince her son that there was nothing to worry about, that David was just playing an innocuous game because he woke up one morning and decided that he wanted to do something different. So she chose a new tactic. “You have a point.”
“I do?”
“A muted, not entirely substantiated point, but a point nonetheless.”
Oddly, Ronan felt ambivalent at hearing Edwige agree with him. That is what he wanted, confirmation that his instincts were correct, but if they were, if he did understand what was going on, what David was trying to orchestrate, it only meant that they were all in serious trouble. “Really? Are you sure?”
He was definitely more of a man. Give a man exactly what he asks for and still he's not satisfied. Honestly, would she ever understand that gender? Would she ever be given the chance again? Edwige caught sight of herself in the oval, frameless mirror that hung over the bar, and inspected her reflection with a bit more intensity than usual. Her hair, still very short and very blond, was flattering, and her unlined face looked youthful without appearing innocent. She knew she was enticing to men, she wondered, however, if she would ever find one man who could entice her and satisfy her needs.
She heard the din of Ronan's voice and knew he was talking, knew he was asking questions, formulating theories, but she couldn't tear herself away from her image or her thoughts. Recently, she imagined that she could have found satisfaction with Michael's father, Vaughan, but she was too late, Brania got to him first and transformed him into one of Them. So even though he was quite handsome, extremely handsome actually, he was, what was the polite word? Contaminated? Yes, and in any case, no longer available. She glanced over to the mahogany box on the table next to the window and realized that whenever she thought about men, she inevitably thought about him. Yes, there had been men in her life other than Saxon, but none of them ever satisfied her the way he did, even if she led them to believe otherwise.
“Oh, David, I have never felt this way with another man before.” She remembered speaking the words to Brania's father years ago, before she became financially independent, before it became unnecessary for her to rely on anyone other than herself, and she recalled how surprised she was that he believed her. Men really are daft. They really only hear words, not subtext, intent, falsehoods. But Edwige had been speaking a kind of truth—she had never felt as repulsed or demoralized than when she lay embraced in David's arms—so she shouldn't be too harsh on the man. He accepted what she said; he just never suspected her words had a less flattering meaning.
In the mirror, she saw Ronan behind her, staring at her imploringly, and she suddenly realized that she needed to be challenged as a woman and not just as a mother. She loved her son, but it was time she made him leave. “I don't believe there is cause for alarm,” Edwige said, turning to face Ronan. “But I do believe there is reason to be careful.”
“So what should I do?”
“You should go home and get into bed next to Michael before he wakes up and notices that you're gone,” Edwige instructed, then she answered his next question before it was asked, “And no, do not tell Michael who David is. Sharing that knowledge at this point will serve no purpose.”

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