“Ah, yes, your little ritual,” David said haughtily. “Which is my cue to exit.” At the door he turned, knowing all three would be watching him. “Ladies, it has been my pleasure.”
After David left, calm was not entirely restored. Saoirse was a bit nervous that her induction into her new school, and therefore her separation from her mother, was not yet complete. “Exactly what kind of task is it?” Saoirse asked.
Sister Mary Elizabeth explained that each new student was required to hand-sew a patch of the Blessed Mother onto her vest, alone and in silence, as a symbolic gesture to their patron saint. “Do I get a few tries if I mess it up?” Saoirse asked.
Laughing at the girl’s honesty, the nun reassured her that the Blessed Mother didn’t judge any of her children by how well they sewed, she loved them all equally and unconditionally simply because of their effort. Acceptance? Being loved unconditionally? No wonder Edwige was hurrying out of the room. “Thanks, Mum, this is going to work out for the best,” Saoirse said, grabbing the vest and sewing kit from the desk. “For all of us.”
Edwige wished she could believe her daughter’s prediction, but when she glanced at the font of holy water and noticed that the liquid had frozen over in an attempt to protect itself from David’s spirit, she knew better. She also knew better than to confront the man, but she needed him to understand a few things.
Standing in the anteroom to his office, the ornate décor already a significant improvement over the nun’s quarters, Edwige hated to admit it, but she felt more in her element. She ignored the fact that she was closer to evil than to good and took solace instead that she felt welcomed in the presence of the angels. Well, almost all of them.
Entering David’s office without knocking, she caught him on the phone, by the sounds of it on a business call that had nothing to do with academia. Waving Edwige to come closer and sit, David continued his conversation until he noticed she was restless. “Sorry,” he said, hanging up the phone. “Even in the more civilized world of education, business never seems to end.”
Holding the sides of the armchair firmly, Edwige kept her gaze on David firm. “Is that the only reason you’ve come here, to conduct business?”
She’s nervous, David thought. That’s unusual for her. “One of the reasons,” he replied. “The other is to be closer to your flesh and blood.”
He’s lying, Edwige realized. How typical of him. “David, old friend, you’re as welcome to my flesh as you ever were, but my blood is off-limits.”
Laughing like the untrusting ex-lovers they were, David and Edwige parried and sparred, tossed a few double entendres into the air, reminisced about the old times they had shared, ignored the veiled and not-so-veiled barbs they threw at one another, until Edwige could no longer make small talk. “I hope your newfound focus on Archangel Academy doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten our truce.”
Remembrance does not equal obligation. “Of course I do,” David said. “I have a wonderful memory.”
“Our species, while separate, were joined in peace,” Edwige stated. “I trust you’ll honor that memory.”
Examining Edwige closer, David changed his earlier opinion, she didn’t look that bad, not for a water vamp anyway, and they had shared some truly passionate moments. It was a shame to have to look into her eyes and lie. Luckily he didn’t have to. When the phone rang, David automatically pressed the speaker button so he wouldn’t have to answer Edwige’s question, they were both surprised when Vaughan’s voice filled the office. “David, I have the factory on the line; we may have a problem.”
Startled, David ripped the phone from its cradle and noticed the way Edwige’s body stiffened; she recognized Vaughan’s voice. That’s all right, just two men conducting business. “If you’ll excuse me, darling,” David said. “Duty calls.”
Walking as slowly as she could, Edwige froze when she heard David speaking Japanese. Her worst fear was confirmed. Vaughan’s factory, their special contact lenses, David’s arrival, all part of a plot against her people. They were more than business colleagues; they were two vampires who were working together in order to attack her race. Willing herself forward, she finally made it into the anteroom and shut the door behind her. Disgusted by her reflection, she could hardly look at herself. Such a stupid woman you’ve become, such a stupid, pitiful woman! Trusting men, allowing them to lie to you, conceal their despicable motives and turn you into a fool! What in bloody hell have I become? What have I allowed these men, these fiends, to turn me into?! Their actions are unacceptable, unforgiveable! Edwige didn’t need to fully understand the connection between David and Vaughan to want revenge. She needed only to know how to make it happen. Sneering at her image, she decided Vaughan would be the first to pay. Leaving the anteroom, she sped like a missile, like a white-hot burst of furious light until she reached her destination, a secluded cave nestled within the bowels of The Forest of No Return.
Throwing back the coffin lid, she told Imogene to shut up and stop singing. “It’s time for you to show Michael the truth about his father.”
chapter 16
When she was alive, Imogene thought free will extended to the afterlife. She assumed that as long as you didn’t go to hell, you could sort of create your own existence, do what made you happy, do all the things you never got a chance to do on earth. When she died, she realized she was wrong.
She was basically a prisoner. She couldn’t roam the world, she couldn’t visit deceased relatives or eavesdrop on old friends to find out what they were saying about her, she could only do what Edwige told her to do. It wasn’t that bad. Edwige only ordered her to do things with Michael and she liked him, so it could be a lot worse, she could be forced to befriend Nakano, whom she totally despised. It was just that she had hoped in death she would reconnect with Penry. What Imogene didn’t realize, what she wasn’t yet able to comprehend, was that while she had been killed, she wasn’t technically dead.
When she was murdered, there was a witness. Brania had watched—her eyes brimming with a mixture of respect and jealousy—as Edwige drained Imogene of her blood. But after Brania left, having grown tired of seeing her nemesis feeding on the prize she felt should have been hers, Edwige let some of that blood rush back into Imogene’s body to keep it from decomposing. She then slashed the palm of her hand with her fangs and allowed some drops of her own preternatural blood to mix in with Imogene’s. That’s when the confusion began.
The vampire-tainted blood that flowed through Imogene’s veins contained some life-altering properties that tricked her body into thinking it was still alive. As long as Imogene’s body didn’t start to decay, her soul clung to its physical host. And as long as her soul was intact, she would never see heaven. So even though her home was now a coffin, she was still conscious; her mind alert but effectively brainwashed; her body now possessing some incredible powers, yet seemingly unable to make a move on its own; and her soul, innocent, but stuck in limbo. Stuck to do as Edwige commanded, even if Imogene disapproved.
“But he’s my friend,” the girl said without speaking. “I don’t want to hurt him.”
“Michael needs to know exactly what his father is capable of,” Edwige declared. “Trust me, you’ll be doing your friend a favor.”
I don’t trust you, Imogene thought, but for whatever reason, I’ll just do as you say. Imogene nodded in agreement, as Edwige knew she would, for as long as Edwige’s blood ran through her veins, she believed any attempt by Imogene to refute her wishes would be pointless. “You’ll be giving your friend the best gift of all, dear,” Edwige said condescendingly. “The gift of knowledge.”
“That knowledge will devastate him.”
The voice rang through the crypt strong and clear, but neither Edwige nor Imogene saw anyone speak. Until Grace materialized. Her image hung in the air, undulating at the foot of the coffin, soft as a breeze, the voice that emerged from the translucent vision, powerful and bold in contrast. “Don’t do this, Edwige,” she said. “Don’t hurt m
y son because you want revenge on his father.”
Despite loathing interruptions of any kind, Edwige wasn’t upset by Grace’s intrusion. On the contrary, it made her curious. Maternal concern that transcended mortal life—now, that was radical thinking. Here was a woman, dead for several months and yet still protective of her child. But instead of seeing the beauty within that concept, Edwige saw only its futility. Why not use Michael? she thought. Children shouldn’t stand in the way of a parent’s happiness.
“I’m asking you as one mother to another,” Grace cried. “Don’t use my son to get to Vaughan!”
“But I want Vaughan to pay for his actions,” Edwige replied. “Certainly, you must want the same thing.”
“I do! Vaughan deserves to pay for everything he’s done!” Grace shouted. “But please, Edwige, I’m begging you, please don’t use Michael to make it happen!”
Grace no longer inspired curiosity in Edwige; she inspired revulsion. “Please, I’m begging you,” Edwige mocked, then added pointedly, “Don’t ever beg in my presence again.”
Turning from the specter, so angry that she missed how the flutter of her poncho resembled the flutter of Grace’s image, Edwige looked at Imogene, who was sitting up in her coffin, and telepathically gave her instructions. “Now go!” But Imogene didn’t move. She was staring at Grace, her face showing the barest hint of some emotion, empathy, pity, dread. Edwige had no idea which it was, but the connection between one form of the undead and another made her incredibly uneasy. “Do as you are told!”
When Imogene walked through Grace’s spirit, she felt the woman’s desperation and for the first time, for just a fleeting moment, Imogene’s body listened to her mind and she stopped moving. Her rebellion was short-lived, but not unnoticed. Edwige thought Imogene might be different, but she was just like her other children, defiant and disloyal. It disheartened her terribly to have to admit what she had come to suspect, that children were completely overrated. So were overprotective mothers.
“Please, Edwige,” Grace said, her voice and her image growing fainter. “Don’t do this.”
Edwige couldn’t take it any longer—Grace’s supplication, Imogene’s impertinence, Vaughan’s betrayal, her children’s disrespect—no one was simply listening to what she said and doing exactly what she wanted. No one was treating her the way she wanted to be treated! This was not the life she thought would be hers when she and Saxon offered their souls to The Well, it was not the life that she was promised, and soon, yes, very soon, things would change. But for now, the feeling of disgust that was rumbling in the pit of her stomach lengthened and rose until it reached her throat and needed release. “I SAID MOVE!!” Edwige’s shriek was loud enough that it made both Imogene and Grace disappear. Alone, breathing deeply, she clutched the side of the coffin and closed her eyes, waiting to be engulfed by the peace that, thus far today, had eluded her.
Imogene wasn’t completely at peace, but she was hopeful. Outside, walking toward The Forest, still unable to resist Edwige’s command, she realized her pause had given her hope that maybe her intuition wasn’t wrong, maybe someday she would reclaim her free will and have the type of death she had always dreamed about. However, when she remembered what she was setting out to do, the feeling of hope was lost and she felt like the sky that was starting to change from dusk to night. Her dreams might still come true, but right now she had to destroy her friend’s.
Michael stopped when he heard the sound, da-da-DAH-DA, da-da-da. Looking up, he saw the meadowlark perched on a branch that slanted steeply toward the ground, almost as if the weight of the tiny bird was too heavy a load to carry. Michael knew how the branch felt. Sometimes he just wanted to shake his shoulders, force the burdens that clung there to fall, fall, fall and be swallowed up by the earth so he could walk lighter, with more freedom. “Sometimes I just want to stop moving,” Michael told his friend. “Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my way.”
“And sometimes you feel amazingly happy,” the lark added.
Smiling, Michael nodded in agreement and the lark understood. He felt wonderful, not so wonderful, like he would never feel wonderful again, sometimes all in the same minute, as if he had multiple personalities and they were all jockeying for position simultaneously. He felt his head and his heart would explode at any moment, and at any moment it felt either exhilarating or terrifying. “Am I going crazy?” Michael asked.
The bird hopped toward the end of the branch, causing it to bounce slightly, its yellow feathers ruffling, bringing light to the darkening sky as it sang da-da-DAH-da, da-da-da. “Just means you’re still more human than not.”
That was a relief. As much as Michael embraced being a water vamp and reveled in his new powers, he just didn’t want to lose sight of what he used to be. Maybe it was simple math. He had been human for much longer than he’d been an immortal creature, so it made sense that he would cling to what was familiar, what was more natural. “If x means that Michael was human for sixteen years and y means he’s been a water vamp for six months, how long will it take for him to feel more like y than x?” Michael mused. Father Fazio would surely appreciate that he was giving theoretical principles a practical use. The lark, however, had a more abstract response.
“Sometimes our journeys lead us to unexpected places,” the bird said. “Places we don’t want to go to, but that we must if we want to grow.”
When Michael looked up to question the meadowlark, make him clarify his vague pronouncement, he saw that the branch was empty; his friend was gone. But Michael wasn’t alone. Imogene had returned.
As she held out her hand, Michael’s first instinct was to tell her that he couldn’t go with her because he was on his way to swim practice, but then the lark’s comment echoed in his brain. Imogene’s arrival was no coincidence, she was here to take him on another journey, to a place that most likely he didn’t want to go. He felt like turning around and running to St. Sebastian’s, breathe in the familiar scent of chlorine, hear Blakeley’s whistle blow, signifying the start of yet another practice meet, but he wanted to grow, as painful as it sometimes was, he wanted to grow up, so he reached out to grab her hand.
And then they disappeared.
Michael wasn’t the only one who was skipping practice. Standing on the shores of Inishtrahull Island, Ronan looked out at the ocean, the cold water rippling over his bare feet, reminding him that he was forever connected to the glorious water. It also reminded him that he was forever connected to his inglorious mother.
The morning spent with Edwige haunted him all day, he just couldn’t get over how callous she had become. It shouldn’t have hit him like a revelation. She was acting no differently from the way she had been for years, but maybe it was because for the first time he stood in solidarity with his siblings, so when he looked at his mother, he was looking at her through their eyes, and the view was enlightening.
It was so obvious that over the years she had changed drastically, become much less of the mother he remembered and more like, well, more like a woman he’d like to forget. But could he do that? Could he banish his own mother from his mind? Could he actually sever all ties with her? Yes, no, why was it so confusing?! Sitting on the beach, clutching his knees close to his chest, Ronan tried to make sense of it. He knew that she loved him and would protect him, but he also had to admit that a very large part of her wanted nothing to do with him. As long as he carried out The Well’s mandate and spent his eternity loving Michael—which he had every intention of doing—she would be fine with never seeing him again, and the feeling was doubled where Ciaran and Saoirse were concerned. What had happened to the mother who cradled him in her arms? Who told him bedtime stories of an enchanted land called Atlantis? Who made him want to be just like her when he grew up?
“Don’t be a stupid prat, Ronan,” he said, chastising himself. “You know exactly when she started to change.”
“Burn the devil!”
The growling voice burst into the present from Ronan’s mem
ory, bringing along with it a disturbing image of Saxon tied to a stake, half his body consumed by fire, his eyes closed as if he were dreaming. He looks so different from Mum, Ronan thought. Daddy looks like he’s sleeping and Mum’s woken up from a bad dream.
On the beach Ronan shuddered, remembering how Edwige looked as she watched her husband’s body melt, her eyes containing more fear than he thought possible, her mouth wide, the sounds she made like a wounded animal’s, her body twisted, contorted as it tried to break free from the two men who were holding her back. He remembered as a little boy calling out to her, “Sssh, Mum, you’ll wake up Daddy.”
As a child he had no idea the turmoil Edwige was experiencing or the self-control she was displaying. She looked like a woman who had lost all her inhibitions, but she was actually a water vamp who understood that if she revealed her true self, she would find herself disintegrating alongside her husband. It wasn’t the unthinkable pain that she feared, it was knowing that if she died, she would leave her children orphans in a brutal, barbaric world. She kept her truth hidden so her children could at least have one parent.
“We still need you, Mum,” Ronan heard himself whisper to the waves.
He heard Edwige reply, “Mummie needs you, Ronan, now more than ever.”
But it was a request from the past. Physically exhausted, her eyes swollen and red, Edwige simply couldn’t pick up Saxon’s ashes all by herself.
Michael picked up the straightjacket and wondered why Imogene had brought him here. He knew exactly where he was and it was not a place he wanted to visit, either in real life or in a vision. Being inside the psychiatric clinic where his mother died was not exactly what he would call appealing. Throwing the jacket on the makeshift bed, Michael silently asked Imogene to take him away from here, but she turned her head. In order for Edwige to have her revenge, it was necessary that he stay.
Unwelcome Page 25
