When Alistair was directly in front of Ronan, he finally spoke. “You disgust me, Ronan. I don’t know who you’re trying to fool, but you and your kind make me sick. You are not superior. You’re all an abomination, a foul plague that needs to be destroyed. And I for one cannot wait for that day to come.”
For the second time in less than an hour, Ronan felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer and slammed it into his stomach. He reeled back and watched the headmaster calmly turn and walk back to his office. As he did, an emotion that was becoming much too common overwhelmed Ronan: fear. He knew! He knew exactly who he was just like MacCleery did, no, more so than the doctor. The doctor just suspected, the headmaster actually knew that he was a vampire. But how could he? It didn’t make sense. Once again he felt lightheaded and he gulped down long breaths of air and clenched his fists to regain some strength. He was out in the open and yet he felt like he was trapped inside a small box that was growing smaller still. Uncharacteristically, he let the fear control his body and he didn’t fight the urge to run.
When Alistair entered the main building, he started to walk to his office but couldn’t move past the huge mirror in the waiting room. The golden archangels looked at him with wide eyes, but when he saw his reflection, half man, half beast, looking back at him, he cringed. Then when he felt the hunger that was becoming all too familiar rise up within him, he cursed himself because he knew what he had to do.
He entered his office and locked the door behind him and immediately knelt at Brania’s feet. “Very good, Alistair,” Brania exclaimed. “You remembered all of your lines.”
Ashamed, Alistair avoided her eyes and stared at her arm. “May I feed now? Please.”
Brania extended her arm and tried to conceal her contempt for the pathetic creature kneeling before her. “Of course you can. I always keep my promises.”
As Alistair bit into her arm and sucked the centuries-old blood from her veins, Brania hardly took notice. She was too busy looking out the window, watching Ronan run, run, run from a danger he wasn’t even certain of, and she wondered how much longer she’d have to wait before she would have permission to destroy his world completely.
chapter 17
“I can’t be your date for the festival,” Ronan declared.
“I think it’s best if we don’t go together,” Ronan stated.
“I’m not feeling well,” Ronan said. “I, um, don’t think I’m up to going.”
No! Ronan swiped the air with his fists and paced his room. He ripped off his suit jacket, flung it onto his bed, and yelled at his reflection in the mirror, “You can’t do this to him! You can’t cancel at the last minute!” He knew that at this very moment Michael was looking in his mirror, wondering if he looked good enough, wondering if he would make Ronan’s heart skip a beat. Oh, of course he would, he always did. And Ronan couldn’t wait to hold him in his arms, kiss his beautiful mouth, and roughly rip every piece of clothing off of him. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t continue this charade any longer. “No!” he screamed. “Call it what it is, this lie!” He covered his face with his hands for a few seconds, then calmer, forced himself to face his reflection. “I can’t be your boyfriend, Michael. It’s over.”
The pain that ripped through Ronan’s body had nothing to do with his own emotional anguish. It was coming from somewhere else, it was coming from deep within the waters of The Well. Ronan lurched forward, his head crashing into the mirror, fracturing it. Lines like a spiderweb spread across the glass, causing some shards to fall to the floor, followed by Ronan, who could no longer stand.
He pressed his hand down on the hard wood to brace himself and felt a piece of glass pierce his flesh. Crying out in agony, he watched blood seep from the palm of his hand and slowly trickle toward the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. He was changing even though he wasn’t near The Well, even though he wouldn’t feed for nearly a month. He could feel his feet inside his shoes growing, straining against the leather. He looked up and he saw his true self, multiplied tenfold by the cracks in the glass, and then he saw The Well’s message.
Behind him stood Michael. One clear image spread out among all the cracked pieces of the mirror, radiantly handsome, his features never softer, his eyes never brighter, his fangs never sharper. Ronan shuddered, but Michael placed a webbed hand on his shoulder and steadied him. “Don’t be afraid, Ronan,” Michael said. “This is all meant to be.”
He turned around to look at Michael, but there was no one there. When he turned back, the mirror was unbroken, the image gone, and so too was the pain. For the first time in his life, The Well had communicated to him, and Ronan knew instinctively that it was reassuring him that he and Michael were each other’s destiny. He watched the cut heal itself, his features retract, and he was filled with a sensation of pure joy because he knew The Well was never wrong. The feeling only grew stronger when he opened his door and saw Michael standing before him.
His blond hair was neatly parted on the side and combed over, the gel he’d used creating a glossy curve. His green eyes were wide, nervous, but very happy. In his narrow-tailored dark blue suit, white shirt, and olive green tie, Michael looked like the perfect gentleman. He acted like one too. “I brought this for you.”
Ronan accepted the small, white rose from Michael’s slightly shaking hand. “It’s beautiful.” He tucked it into his lapel to match the one in Michael’s. “From outside St. Joshua’s?”
“Yes,” Michael admitted. “Ciaran told me that most guys pluck a rose from the bushes for their date to bring them luck.”
“Michael, you don’t need luck,” Ronan said, sliding his hand to the back of Michael’s neck and bringing him closer so they could share their first kiss of the night. “This is all meant to be.”
Michael was amazed that once more Ronan looked handsomer than he did the last time he saw him. His hair was slicked back again to show off his masculine features, his blue tie was almost as bright as his eyes, and his black suit somehow made his muscles seem even more pronounced. Michael caressed the skin of Ronan’s earlobe just because he had never touched that part of him before and said, “You must be right because I have never, ever been happier in all my life.”
Ronan smiled, his red lips parting to reveal strong white teeth. “And the night hasn’t even begun.”
Outside the door to St. Sebastian’s they could hear the music blasting on the other side, the voices of the kids laughing, in full celebration. It was enough to stop Michael in his tracks. “Everything okay?” Ronan asked.
Michael looked at the doorknob and realized that once he entered with Ronan by his side, he would no longer be able to hide. Up until now, he and Ronan had blended into the crowd. Yes, their close friends knew what was going on between them, but once they entered the gym together, everyone, for better and for worse, would consider them a couple. “This is just a big step for me,” Michael replied.
Ronan looked at Michael and thought how wonderful that, decades from now, centuries even, he would look just as beautiful underneath the moonlight. “Take your time,” Ronan said. “I’ll follow you whenever you’re ready.”
Michael’s laughter shattered his tension. “Do you always say the right thing?”
Rubbing the small of his back, Ronan grinned. “You know me, I probably read it in some book.”
What in the world are you waiting for? Michael asked himself. This is the feeling you’ve been craving, the feeling that was always out of your grasp, of being connected, being accepted, feeling utterly natural. “Let’s go in.”
The noise and color of the crowd washed over them as they entered the gym, not separately but together, shoulder to shoulder. Everywhere they looked, their friends were clustered in groups talking and laughing or dancing on the hardwood floor that now covered the swimming pool. Penry was right; the room wasn’t overly decorated like most American high school dances, but like most things at Double A, the décor was tasteful and with a nod to the celestial beings for which the
school was named.
From the ceiling hung several rows of clouds that were simply large pieces of Styrofoam with cotton balls glued to them. But in between were more elaborate creations—wings—some small and pure white, some feathery and expansive, others sprinkled with silver glitter so they created sparkles of light as they rotated overhead. Michael looked up and thought it was magical.
On the walls were hung tapestries depicting the various archangels in flight or in action, all powerful and majestic, all woven mainly in deep, masculine colors of burgundy and plum, but with softer, more feminine-colored accents like lilac and chartreuse, which gave the fabrics a brightness they would otherwise lack.
The centerpiece was an immense ice sculpture that was placed in the middle of the wall of windows, a sculpture of St. Michael in his iconic pose, standing about seven feet tall, with his wings spread almost as wide. Michael felt a surge of pride knowing that he was somehow linked to this fearless warrior. For now they were linked in name only, but Michael was certain—how, he couldn’t say—that if necessary he would be able to find the same strength and courage within himself to defeat any foe who dared try to harm him or the ones he loved.
Feeding off some of that courage, Michael let his fingers wander closer to Ronan’s, but just as they were about to clasp, Ronan shoved his hands into his pant pockets. He saw the headmaster standing at the entrance and was reminded of their last encounter. Alistair, however, didn’t seem to remember a thing. “Ronan, Michael, welcome to the Archangel Festival,” the headmaster said, extending his hand to greet both boys. Bending his head toward Michael, he whispered as if sharing a secret, “It’s our hundred and twenty-second, you know.”
“Wow, maybe it’ll catch on,” Michael teased.
“I hope so, Michael.” Alistair laughed. “It is a highlight of our year, isn’t that right, Ronan?”
“Yes, sir” was all Ronan could say. The headmaster was looking at him as if he were just another student, not the foul being he cursed at a few days ago. The disgusting creature whom he wanted to watch die, his entire race be annihilated. Ronan thought it might be a game, but when he looked into Hawksbry’s eyes, he saw only the usual kindness, not the hatred he saw the other day, not even fear.
“And it might just be coincidence, but this year the festival committee has chosen St. Michael to be our featured archangel.”
Now that Michael assumed Hawksbry was having an affair with his father’s driver, he felt oddly relaxed in his presence. He was still a figure of authority, somewhat intimidating, but now more of an equal, so Michael was able to joke. “It may not be the humble thing to do, but I’m going to take some credit for that.”
Again Hawksbry laughed, confusing Ronan even more. “Well, go enjoy yourselves, boys,” he ordered. “The night will be over before you know it.”
When they were a few feet away, Ronan turned back to see if the headmaster’s expression changed, but he was still smiling, still looking out over the crowd of students as if they were all his children, which to some degree they were. But when Ronan turned back around, Hawksbry’s expression did change, not because of Ronan, but because of the man who questioned him.
“So, Alistair, where’ve you been hiding?” Dr. MacCleery asked, looking less doctorly now that he’d swapped his white lab coat for a brown corduroy jacket, and his shirt was, for once, tucked into his pants.
When Hawksbry turned to face the doctor, benevolence was replaced with contempt. “I don’t recall having to answer to you.”
Lochlan looked at Alistair as if he were his patient instead of his colleague and he did not like what he saw. He had learned after years of treating uncommunicative teenagers to listen for symptoms concealed behind words, and he heard very loudly that Alistair was in trouble. He didn’t know what kind of trouble, but he knew that something, whether it be physical or otherwise, was trying to destroy him. “I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful,” MacCleery said. “I’m merely concerned.”
Alistair saw the look in the doctor’s eyes; it was the same look he saw lately when he found the strength to gaze into a mirror. But no matter how often he saw it, he still abhorred pity. “Don’t waste your concern on me, Lochlan,” Alistair said. “It could be put to better use.” On the contrary, his remark only made the doctor’s concern deepen.
Not as deep as Ronan’s, however, when a while later he saw his mother standing in front of the ice sculpture. He couldn’t tell by her expression if she was admiring or objecting to St. Michael’s flamboyance. All he knew was that twice in the same week, he had to ask his mother the same question, “What are you doing here?”
“Darling,” Edwige demurred, “is that any way to greet your mother? Especially in front of your … companion.”
Don’t flip out, Ronan, she won’t do anything here, not in public, not with everyone watching. “Michael, this is my mother, Edwige.”
“Mrs. Glynn-Rowley,” Michael said, extending his hand, “what a pleasure.”
Edwige gripped Michael’s hand firmly, not letting go until she was finished talking. “Lesson number one, call me Edwige. Mrs. Glynn-Rowley only comes alive once a month when I need to sign the back of a check, which thankfully is quite a large one.”
Behind his back, Ronan’s hands were clasped so tightly his fingers were gnarled. “Mother, why are you here?”
Waving her hand in front of her face so the diamond and ruby bracelet twirled halfway down the sleeve of her black lace dress, Edwige explained that she was here to be a chaperone. “You know how I love a party even if I have to be responsible and make sure things don’t get out of control.”
“You could have told me you were coming.”
“And spoil the surprise? Where would the fun be in that?” she asked. “Isn’t that right, Michael?”
This woman was not at all what Michael was expecting. He surmised from what he had heard that Ronan’s mother was quite different from his own and not at all matronly, but he never expected her to look quite so … sexy. Yes, she was petite and her hair was cut like a boy’s, but there was a confidence about her, something Michael guessed some women learned as they got older, a knowledge his mother never acquired. All he knew was that in her long-sleeved backless black lace minidress, Edwige looked like no mother he had ever seen. “Absolutely, Mrs. Glynn … I mean, Edwige.”
“You’re a quick learner,” Edwige said, smiling approvingly. “I like that.” She then turned to Ronan and added, “You’ve chosen well.”
Ronan was going to chastise his mother for making such an inappropriate comment but realized Michael hadn’t even heard her. He was too busy staring at the man talking to Hawksbry. “That’s my father.” If Ronan didn’t catch the sound of fear in his voice, he saw Michael’s face turn white and knew that he was even unhappier to see his father than Ronan was to see his mother.
“That’s Vaughan Howard?” Edwige asked.
Michael was so thrown by the unexpected presence of his father that he didn’t even question how Edwige knew his name. He just nodded, and then excused himself, telling Ronan that he needed to get some of Fritz’s punch. “Don’t worry, dear,” Edwige said. “I’ll handle this.” Before Ronan could plead with his mother not to make a scene or say anything that would make Michael even more uncomfortable, she turned to him and remarked, “Oh, and do you realize that the man Michael’s father is speaking with is a vampire?”
Alistair Hawksbry. Headmaster. A vampire? “What?! Are you sure?”
The body of a man, but the mind of a child. “I may not be maternal, dear, but my other instincts are finely tuned and I can recognize a vampire half a world away.”
Stunned, Ronan watched his mother saunter across the dance floor, ignoring the stares of every heterosexual teenage boy in the room, and wondered just how she knew Hawksbry was a vampire. When Nakano walked over to him, Ronan thought he at least figured out how he had become one. “What the bloody hell did you do to Hawksbry?”
“I didn’t do anything to him!�
�� Nakano protested. “And bugger off if that’s the way you’re going to talk to me.”
“Well, if you didn’t do it, who did?”
His answer came when the front door opened and Brania walked in arm in arm with her date—Ciaran. Not only were they a surprising couple, they were a poorly matched one as well. Dressed in a royal blue halter dress that highlighted and enhanced every one of her many curves, her hair teased up dramatically and held in place, in part, by an antique sapphire and silver comb, Brania effortlessly eclipsed Ciaran who, in a light gray suit, yellow tie, and dour expression, looked frail and sallow in comparison.
Stunned for the second time in less than a minute, Ronan watched his mother casually turn Michael’s father around, his back now facing the gymnasium, so they could greet the latecomers. From where he stood, Ronan saw Brania never lose her smile, but saw her eyes narrow when Alistair nervously looked away from her. She did it. She may not have been the one to pierce his flesh, but she most certainly gave the command. Ronan couldn’t believe she was the cause of such change, and for a different reason entirely, neither could Fritz.
“So Ciaran’s not a poof after all,” Fritz announced.
“Language!” Phaedra scolded, slapping Fritz on the arm.
“Oh, come on, like you didn’t think the same thing,” he protested. “That Brania lassie must have some special powers.”
Phaedra sighed while swooping a loose tendril of hair back behind her ear. “You go to an all-boys school, Fritz. Half the student body is lusting after the other half. It’s only normal.”
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