Unnatural aa-1

by Michael Griffo

  Nakano swallowed a nasty comeback. “Yes, Brania. I understand.”

  “Good, because I have a gift.” She kept smiling at Nakano, but snapped her fingers at Jeremiah. “Trunk, please.”

  Before Jeremiah could move, his cell phone rang. It wasn’t a standard ring, but the ending to Nessun dorma, the famous aria from the opera Turandot. The music swelled in the air, wrapping around the trees and the leaves and rising toward the stars. Brania closed her eyes and seemed entranced, as if she wanted to immerse herself within each note. “Don’t answer it.” Jeremiah wanted to, but he, like Nakano, didn’t dare betray Brania’s order. When he saw the caller’s name written on the phone, however, he grew concerned enough to speak.

  “It’s Vaughan.”

  The spell was broken, the music contaminated. Brania opened her eyes to look at Jeremiah, taken aback that he would interrupt her reverie. “I said don’t answer it.” She then asked no one in particular, “Why is no one doing as I say?”

  Jeremiah wasn’t as confident in this girl’s company as he’d like to be. Unconsciously, but nervously, he bit his bottom lip until the tender skin broke. A small slit, horizontal and deep, but producing no blood. “But … but he’s expecting me to pick him up.”

  Leaves crunched underneath Brania’s shoes as she took a step toward Jeremiah. He wasn’t worth making the full trip to walk right up to him; however, one step should create the illusion she was after. “And whom, may I ask, do you work for? Vaughan or my father?” It worked. Jeremiah didn’t hesitate but turned off his cell phone and returned it to the inside pocket of his jacket. Then, following the tilt of Brania’s head, he continued on to the trunk and opened it. The trunk light shone on a plain cardboard box that had some symbols written on it in black marker.

  Nakano peered into the trunk and read the symbols on the box, which were written in his native language. “Contacts. Are they new?”

  “New and improved,” Brania corrected. “Straight from the factory.”

  Brania reached in and, with one hand, ripped open the box without breaking a nail. She pulled out two smaller boxes and gave them to Nakano. “Wear these. And please, for all our sakes, do try to fit in.”

  His usual sarcasm was replaced with sincerity. “I will. Thank you.”

  She touched his face; his skin was as smooth as a girl’s. “Long ago, my father made it so we would all be protected. You shouldn’t act so surprised when an act of kindness befalls you.”

  If Brania was acting like the caring mother, Nakano took on the role of the petulant child. “Is that why you stopped me from going after them? I could’ve taken Michael right in front of Ronan! Now it might be too late.”

  Brania’s soft touch turned into a firm grip and for the second time that day, someone stronger, someone much more powerful, grabbed him by the throat. She held him tightly and brought his bewildered face close to hers. Nakano held the two small boxes between them in a desperate attempt to create some distance between himself and this odd, odd creature. “Ronan will not take Michael tonight. He’s not thoughtless and impulsive like you. He will need time to gain Michael’s trust.” Brania yanked Nakano and brought him closer to her so when she spoke, her lips touched his ear. Shaking, Nakano dropped the boxes and could do nothing but listen. “So what you will do, what your only job will be, is to watch them, and just before Ronan is about to transform Michael, you will sweep him away from Ronan and forever change their destiny.”

  “Oh” was all Nakano could say.

  “Yes. Oh,” Brania scoffed. “And when we own Michael, we’ll have the leverage we need to make Ronan turn his back on his heritage and become one of us.” She released Nakano’s throat from her grip. He stumbled back and coughed, then bent down to pick up the boxes he had dropped. Brania looked down at him with what could only be described as a mother’s disgust. “And don’t you ever tell me to shut up again.”

  In between coughs, Nakano was loath to concede that the plan Brania spelled out was perfect. He wasn’t happy being reprimanded, but he couldn’t think about that right now; all he could think about was the hunger growing within him. He looked up at Brania like a poor, homeless child. “But, Brania, I’m so hungry.”

  This was the part Brania loved to play the most. Yes, the bitchy schemer was fun; yes, the woman in charge had its kicks; but being the one who could grant gifts and miracles, that’s the role she loved the most. She extended her hand to Nakano and he took it, rising up to stand and face her. Once again she caressed his face; he was after all just a child. “And that’s why I brought you a feast.”

  Next to the box in the trunk was a blanket. Brania lifted the blanket with the flair of a magician and tossed it to the side. She watched approvingly as it floated and undulated to the ground. Presentation was so important. Then she stepped out of the way to reveal what lay underneath the blanket. It was a body. The body of Alistair Hawksbry, naked and unconscious, and full of precious, warm blood.

  Nakano ripped off his sunglasses and the two black holes that were his eyes couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was the headmaster. This was being inconspicuous?! Nakano didn’t care about the consequences right now; he was overwhelmed. The headmaster smelled so ripe and pungent and Nakano could hear his blood pumping through his veins, still strong and compelling. Jeremiah scooped up the body and tossed it at Nakano’s feet.

  Brania smiled at her minion. “What are you waiting for? Dig in.”

  chapter 11

  The first bite into flesh still held a thrill for Nakano. And when Alistair’s blood, thick and flavorful, filled his mouth, he felt dizzy.

  As the headmaster groaned, awakened slightly by the intrusion, Nakano dug his fangs deeper into his neck, making the connection between the two even more solid. With his right hand he cradled Alistair’s skull and with his left he pressed into his shoulder, one hand gentle, the other firm, creating a balance. Tender and rough. He was giving Alistair incredible pleasure even as he was taking life from him.

  Underneath Nakano, Alistair’s muscular body rose and fell into a slow rhythm. His eyes quivered but remained closed, and escaping from his mouth were a series of sighs, soft and involuntary, making it clear that although he was being violated, it was not at all an unpleasant experience. And that made Nakano’s head spin even more. He was a mere student, only a sophomore, and yet here he was, bringing such joy to the headmaster. God, how he loved being a vampire. He had such force, such liberty to do as he chose, take what he wanted, and, when he was so inclined, give unparalleled ecstasy to those inferior humans around him. But what he had yet to grasp was that even vampires need to understand limitation.

  “Enough, Nakano,” Brania said.

  Nakano didn’t hear her. He was trying to figure out what spice he tasted in Alistair’s blood. Was it curry? No, it wasn’t that sharp. It might be coriander, but no, he couldn’t place it. Well, whatever it was, Alistair’s blood definitely had zest.

  “I said enough.” This time Brania grabbed Nakano by the shoulder and yanked him back, his fangs letting go of the headmaster’s flesh reluctantly. He looked at Brania, his lips still smeared with warm blood. “Why did you do that?”

  Looking at him, Brania tried to remember what it was like for a young vampire, when every sensation was new and overwhelming and almost unable to resist. When every feeding felt not only like the first, but as if it would be the last as well. She tried to remember so she could find patience. “Because others are hungry too.” Nakano’s eyes followed Brania’s as she looked over at Jeremiah.

  “Oh,” Nakano said, “sorry.” Then he extended his tongue, longer and more flexible now than when he was mortal, and licked from one end of his lip to the other. First the top lip, then the bottom, until no blood was left. Cumin! Yes, that was the spice. Satisfied, he stepped back so Jeremiah could take his turn, but before the driver could plunge his own fangs into the headmaster, Brania placed a hand on his shoulder. “Remember, we don’t want to drain him.” Jeremiah nodded and un
derstood. He wasn’t the brightest vampire on the face of the earth, but he took orders relatively well. And Brania liked to reward those who behaved, so just as his fangs were about to enter the still-gaping holes that Nakano had created, she added, “Just yet.”

  A cold wind passed by and Alistair’s body trembled. Jeremiah ignored the movement and continued feeding, but Brania placed a hand on Alistair’s thigh to soothe him. After a moment, his body was calm and warm, and when Jeremiah released him from his grip, Alistair looked like he was merely taking a nap in the woods. Brania smiled and marveled to herself: Looks could be so deceiving.

  She was sure that when people, men especially, looked at her, they had no idea what they were truly looking at. They thought she was just a girl, mature for her age, curvy, but still a girl. She was also certain that when Michael looked at Ronan, he thought he was looking at another sixteen-year-old boy, nothing more. How she wished she could see the expression on his face when he learned the truth.

  A cold wind flew through her, taking with it all thoughts of Michael and Ronan. It was a reminder that she still had work to do. “Put him back in the trunk, Jeremiah,” she ordered. “My father wishes to speak with him.”

  “Your father?” Once again he unconsciously bit his lip, but this time he was full, so blood oozed from the pierced flesh, Alistair’s still-warm blood, which Jeremiah immediately flicked with his tongue. Mustn’t waste a drop of the red ambrosia.

  As Jeremiah resolutely carried out his task, Brania took the opportunity to cast an even stronger spell over Nakano. “Thank you, Kano,” she said sweetly.

  He was startled. His mind was just beginning to calm after the frenzy that always followed a feeding and he had no idea why she was thanking him. “Uh, of course,” he muttered, trying to sound convincing, but was then compelled to ask, “For what?”

  Her moist, ample lips formed a smile, no teeth exposed, no fangs revealed, just her lips meeting and curving upward, making her cheeks plump and her eyes twinkle. She knew that while Nakano preferred the intimacy of boys, he wouldn’t be able to resist the intimacy that she now offered him, because his looks were also deceiving. He presented an outward persona of fire and arrogance, but his hidden truth was that he was simply a lonely kid. “For obeying and trusting me,” she replied. “You can always count on me, Kano.”

  She really is so compassionate, Nakano thought, so maternal. Hell of a lot more than my own mother ever was. “I know that, Brania,” Nakano said. “And that means the world to me.”

  Hiding her arrogance with yet another smile, this time less full and more wistful, Brania embraced Nakano and told him to go home and rest. “You may be a child of immortality, but you’re still a student at Archangel Academy.” And then she threw her head back and roared, “And I am quite the poet!” She was still laughing sitting alone in the backseat of the car as Jeremiah drove away, but if she wasn’t so preoccupied she would have been able to read Nakano’s mind, and then her laughter surely would have stopped. The instant she was out of sight, he forgot about her empathy, her motherly thoughtfulness, and saw her simply as yet another person to whom he had to answer, yet another person who wanted to control him. “Someday, Brania, I’ll be the one giving the orders,” Nakano told himself. “And you, and Jeremiah, and even your father, will do as I say.” And then because he didn’t have decades upon decades of practice like Brania did, he was unable to hide his own arrogance, so he yelled after the car as it sped out of the forest, “I swear to it on my blackened soul!”

  At that moment, another gust of wind ripped through Ronan. This one was sudden and much stronger; maybe a storm was brewing, maybe just a warning. Either way, Ronan didn’t hear a word Michael was saying as they walked toward his dorm, not because he wasn’t interested; he just couldn’t concentrate. In the back of his mind he knew that Brania and Nakano were up to something and it was as if the wind were trying to tell him he was right, even trying to offer him a clue. He was grateful, but he didn’t really need the wind’s help; he knew the moment they met Nakano that somehow he and Brania were working together. Brania was sly, but Ronan was savvy, and he noticed her expression change ever so slightly and felt her temperature rise by a degree or two when they bumped into Nakano and Penry. He knew Penry meant nothing to her, but Nakano—they were linked and for some reason that thought frightened him. So even though he didn’t want to leave them together to roam the campus freely at night, his first priority was to get Michael away from them and back here, to the safety of St. Peter’s.

  The building itself didn’t offer foolproof protection—although the golden frieze over the front door depicting a series of crucifixes and chalices would definitely deter a vampire who was out to kill from entering—there was an inhabitant of the building who would never give Nakano or Brania permission to enter their dorm after dark. Ciaran knew better. Ronan didn’t have to ask him to refuse them entry; Ciaran just knew it was not a wise thing to do.

  “I’m sorry,” Ronan said, “I didn’t hear what you said.” Ronan hoped that Michael would think he didn’t hear him because Ciaran was listening to the radio while taking a shower and the mixture of music and the loud hum of water pumping through the pipes drowned out his words.

  “You see, I’m right,” Michael said.

  “About what?” Ronan asked.

  “Ever since Brania showed up, you’ve been preoccupied.” Michael sat on his bed and unlaced his sneakers. He doesn’t just kick them off and toss them into a corner like I do, Ronan thought. “It’s almost like you’re afraid of her.”

  He’s too perceptive, Ronan thought as he tried to come up with a diversion to steer the topic of conversation away from Brania and toward another, less complicated subject. “Are you seriously putting your sneakers back into their shoe box?”

  Michael looked perplexed. “Don’t you go avoiding my question by pointing out my quirks.”

  “That’s no quirk, Michael, that’s downright queer.” The word hadn’t even made contact with the air before Ronan’s cheeks turned red; by the time it hit the ground, Michael’s jaw dropped in delightful surprise.

  “Well,” Michael said, “if the sneaker fits.” He shrugged his shoulders and tossed the shoe box into his closet. Correction, he placed the box on top of a stack of other boxes and then closed the closet door. Both boys couldn’t help but laugh, and Ronan was glad he was able to change the subject. But Michael wasn’t finished talking about Ronan’s sort-of half sibling. “So is there a specific reason you don’t like her or just her general nature?”

  He’s not going to let this go, so think of something, Ronan, give him an answer. “We’ve just never gotten along.”

  By Michael’s expression, Ronan knew that wasn’t a good enough answer. “Really? She seems to genuinely like you,” Michael said. “Though it is hard to know when she’s being genuine. She was acting like a completely different person tonight than when I first met her. I’m not sure which one is the real Brania.”

  I hope to God you never meet the real Brania. “It’s complicated,” Ronan started. “We were like family for a while and then our parents separated.”

  “Because your mother didn’t want to get married?”

  Ronan didn’t like talking about his mother, but he had to put an end to this topic, so he felt he had little choice. “My mother … she never loved Brania’s father and, trust me, he wasn’t heartbroken when she left him. He never loved her, either.” Ronan stopped himself to make sure he wasn’t revealing too much.

  Sounds like Ronan’s mother might be as complicated as mine. “So why did you guys live with them in the first place?”

  Ronan noticed another photo he hadn’t seen earlier. It was of a handsome man holding a young boy, no more than a year old, in his arms. The photo captured the boy in mid-swing. They were in the country somewhere, in the middle of a wheat field maybe, or just a field of sunburnt grass. It could have been Nebraska, it could have been the English countryside. Ronan couldn’t tell. He could tell
, however, that the man looked very much like Michael and had straight, very blond hair and the same high cheekbones. Ronan assumed it was his father. This is what Michael will look like if he grows older, if he ages. If I let him. Did he just say something? “What?”

  Michael repeated his question and this time Ronan fixed his gaze onto Michael himself and not onto the image of what he could look like if he had a normal future. “Contrary to what Mr. Wilde wrote, women are geniuses and much more than just the decorative sex,” Ronan said, and then explained further. “My mother was skint broke, she had no money, we had no place to live, so she convinced Brania’s father that she loved him and that we should live together as one big happy family. Worked fine for a while until my mother received an inheritance and we no longer needed assistance to survive. So we moved on.”

  Just like we did, Michael thought. Grace got tired of the man she was living with just like Edwige got tired of hers. “Sounds like our mothers really do have a lot in common.”

  By this time, they were both sitting on Michael’s bed facing each other, the way they were before being interrupted. “Don’t get me wrong, Michael. What my mother did wasn’t right, but she’s my mother, she’s all I have. I can’t really condemn her, can I?”

  Michael thought about all the things his mother did, especially her last successful act, and although he was angry with her often and he didn’t approve of her actions, he realized he didn’t condemn her; he couldn’t find it within himself to judge her that harshly. “No, you can’t.”