Unnatural aa-1

by Michael Griffo

  Mauro wasn’t sure if Michael hit him with his knee or his foot, but whichever it was, it hurt. Lying on his back on the grass, Mauro shook his head and got up. He hadn’t had a good fight in weeks and even if Michael had gotten a bit stronger since he left town and even if he had the help of his skinny, fairy boyfriend, he was still no match for Mauro.

  “Come on, faggot! I never got a chance to say good-bye,” Mauro shouted. “My way!”

  This is more like it, Nakano thought as he crouched down and folded his hands, letting his arms rest on his knees. Michael can test his new vampire skills and I’ll get a show.

  When Michael saw Mauro race toward him, it was as if all the anger he felt against Ronan and his grandfather boiled to the surface. Unable to contain his rage any longer and unable to direct it at the people he really wanted to punish, he unleashed it against Mauro. He saw a tooth fly out of his mouth as he punched him in the jaw, and as he watched Mauro careen sideways for a few seconds and then fall onto the grass, he didn’t feel sorry for the boy at all. In fact, he felt quite good.

  “Get up!” Michael ordered, but he didn’t recognize the voice; it was deeper, gruffer. “I said get up!”

  As he struggled to right himself, Mauro spat on the ground and Michael felt himself get dizzy. Mauro spat again, a mixture of blood and saliva that was absolutely tantalizing. Nakano smelled it too, and he left the sidelines to get closer to the action.

  “I lost a tooth,” Mauro whined. “You’re gonna pay for that, faggot!”

  Before he could fully stand, Michael kicked him in the stomach so hard that when he hit the ground a few feet away, he continued to roll until he crashed into the fence that surrounded the high school track. Mauro clutched his side and knew that something wasn’t right. This wasn’t the Michael he remembered; he had to get the hell away from him.

  He reached up, his fingers struggling to grab on to the cold metal of the fence. When he finally had a solid grip, he pulled himself up so he was kneeling. But before he could pull himself up farther, he heard some dried leaves crunching and knew that Michael and his Jap boyfriend were getting closer. Just let me get over the fence, then maybe I can run to the football shed and lock myself in; there’s a spare key at the end of the bleachers. It was a good plan, but Michael was too quick.

  Just as Mauro threw a leg over the fence, Michael grabbed him by the back of the neck. “Where you goin’, fat boy?” He flicked his wrist and Mauro flew backward, landing at Nakano’s feet. When he rolled over, the smell of blood flooded Michael’s throat. Mauro’s mouth was still bleeding and so too was his forehead. Drawn to the scent, Michael found himself on his hands and knees next to Mauro, his fangs exposed, curving over his lips. It had been almost forty-eight hours since he was transformed into a vampire, since the hunger began, and Michael didn’t care about fighting this newfound desire, prolonging the inevitable. He wanted to drink blood. And he wanted to drink it now.

  “Who sounds like a girl now?!” Michael asked, his fangs pressing into his lips, making speech a bit difficult. Which was okay since Michael was more interested in feeding than speaking.

  Valiantly, Mauro tried to free himself from Michael’s grip, but to no avail. And even if he got away, Nakano was hovering close by, sort of Michael’s tag team partner. “Help me! Somebody help me!”

  The anger of a lifetime bleeding out of his body, Michael gripped Mauro by the shoulders and brought his face inches from his own, “Now you know what it feels like to be helpless!” Flung back toward the ground, Mauro’s body bounced twice before lying still, his head conveniently tilting to the side, exposing his sweaty, fleshy neck.

  “Go ahead, Michael,” Nakano hissed from behind. “Enjoy your first kill.”

  Kill? Is that what he said? This is what I’ve become? Michael thought. Not only a vampire, but a murderer too? Looking into Mauro’s eyes, he couldn’t find one reason to offer him a reprieve, to extend to him any compassion, but he couldn’t find one reason to kill him either. And so he let him go.

  “Get out of here,” Michael muttered. “Go! Before I change my mind.”

  Unsure if this was a trick like the kind he used to play on him, Mauro hesitated until he saw Michael staring blankly ahead, his face back to the way it was. He had absolutely no idea what kind of game he was playing, what kind of sick game he had learned at that new school of his, but he wasn’t going to wait to find out. Scrambling to his feet, Mauro stumbled off toward the school, one quick look back to make sure no one was chasing him, and then he was off as fast as his shaking legs could run.

  “Are you out of your mind!?” Nakano screamed.

  “I’m not a killer,” Michael said.

  They’re always so sanctimonious in the beginning, Nakano thought. “Oh, really? Guess again!”

  When Michael turned around, Nakano was nowhere to be found. In the shadow of Two W, he was once again consumed by a feeling of lonesomeness. But the feeling wasn’t long-lasting because within a matter of seconds Nakano returned, dragging Mauro by the arm, his body scraping the ground. When the boy landed at Michael’s feet, he saw the bloody gash on his neck and knew that he had about ten more seconds to live.

  “Now eat,” Nakano ordered. “Before your dinner gets cold.”

  Half a world away, Edwige felt the same way Michael did at that very moment—horrified. When she had arrived at Vaughan’s door, she noticed it had been left ajar. She thought perhaps that she and Vaughan were psychically connected and he left the door open as an invitation so she wouldn’t feel as if she was intruding. Now, standing in the room, she saw that Vaughan already had a female intruder.

  Lying on his couch was Vaughan. Kneeling beside him was Brania. Edwige was repulsed because she knew the blood that dripped from her fangs was most definitely his.

  As Michael bent down to shut Mauro’s eyes, he felt the same feeling of revulsion because he simply couldn’t bring himself to suck the blood out of the dead boy’s neck. He had no way of knowing that while he was unable to become a predator, his father had just become prey.

  chapter 22

  Home. Michael didn’t know where home was any longer. It was supposed to be a place that offered comfort, protection, a place where he could breathe easily. But he didn’t know where on earth he’d be able to find any of that. None of it could be found in Weeping Water; his mother was gone from there; so was his grandmother. The only thing the town held for him now was an angry, spiteful grandfather, and a makeshift grave that contained the body of a bully. No, that town was lost to him forever.

  Unfortunately, Archangel Academy, a place he had grown to love, didn’t offer him much more. There was no comfort knowing this was the place where his life ended, and no protection since he had no idea what else might happen to him here. And breathing? Was that what he was doing? Did vampires even breathe? He could hardly believe that vampires were real and that he was one of them. God, could that really be possible?! He felt like he was sleepwalking, like he was reading a book and suddenly the words had ripped themselves off the pages and infected his life. He had become Dorian, except that he had become an immortal unwittingly, a victim unknowingly. He felt so incredibly lost, so willing to shut out the world and hope that he would fade from it that he fell asleep seconds after he felt the softness of the pillow cradle his head. He vaguely remembered hearing Nakano ask Ciaran to watch over him while he slept. “I guess that makes me Double A’s resident babysitter,” Ciaran had said. “First Ronan and now Michael.”

  Ronan. That name still made Michael ache with longing, pleasure, pain. But what was Ronan to him? Was he his boyfriend? His lover? A liar? Or just a fellow vampire? There’s that insane word again, that piece of fiction that was now, impossibly, fact. No, better not to think about it or him, better not to question at all. Just dream.

  The rain was coming down in straight lines from the sky; there was no accompanying wind, no thunder, just long vertical rows of rain. Ronan was standing in front of the cathedral, the moonlight illuminatin
g him from behind to create a glow around his face, an aura that made him look like an angel, like his face should be a carving on the cathedral itself. His black hair was plastered down in bangs, his white T-shirt so wet it looked as if it was sealed to his skin. He looked like a statue, unreal. But then he spoke. “Welcome home, Michael.”

  “This isn’t my home!” Michael shouted, tears sliding down his face alongside streaks of rain. “You destroyed everything we had! Everything that could have been!”

  “No,” Ronan gently corrected, rain dripping from his bangs onto his eyelashes, down to his unshaven chin, “I’ve made everything possible.”

  Tossing in bed, Michael mumbled his name. He felt a hand on his shoulder, but even asleep he knew it was someone else’s touch. That was all right. Maybe dreaming was the only way he’d be able to be with Ronan again after what he’d done to him. So in his dream, Michael gave in to his passion and kissed Ronan. His lips tasted so sweet, wet with rain and rich with desire. It was only a few days since he had really kissed Ronan, but it felt like a lifetime. Underneath his T-shirt his skin was slick with rainwater, his body as hard as ever, and Michael felt like a warrior returning home to his lover after a long journey. Their passion intensified by their separation, their kisses a mere hint of the love they would share later on in the privacy of their own bedroom. If only this could be real, then yes, yes, there was no doubt in his mind that he would live his life with Ronan whether his life lasted for a day or for an eternity. But outside of his dream he just didn’t know if he could live his life as a vampire.

  When he heard the voices, he knew they weren’t coming from inside his head. He was no longer alone. But he was too weak—physically and emotionally—to answer questions or speak with anyone, so he kept his eyes closed and listened.

  “Thank you for calling me,” Ronan said, his voice quiet and scared.

  “You don’t have much time,” Ciaran replied. “Kano won’t stay away much longer.”

  Michael felt two strong arms lift him off the bed and he knew his head was resting on Ronan’s shoulder. His breath warmed his face, Ronan’s beautiful lips mere inches from his. He was taking him somewhere, maybe to that well, maybe somewhere far, far from here. It didn’t matter. Wherever Ronan was taking him, Michael couldn’t resist, so he decided not to open his eyes until they got there. Before they left the room, however, Michael felt Ronan pause.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, Ciaran,” Ronan said.

  “Does one brother ever fully understand the other?” Ciaran replied. Michael couldn’t see, but he sensed Ciaran had more to say. “I just ask … that no matter what happens from now on, no matter what happens to me, you continue to try. “

  Tension spread throughout Ronan’s arms, his grip on Michael tightened, and Michael could feel Ronan nod his head hesitantly. “I promise.”

  When they stopped moving, Michael opened his eyes and didn’t see a well; he didn’t see some exotic landscape. They were back in Ronan’s dorm room. They were back on the bed where they had first made love, where Ronan had taken his life. Desperately, Michael tried to cling to the memories of being ravished, but all he grabbed on to were the memories of being destroyed. If he had more strength, he would have hurled questions, accusations at Ronan, but what would that do? What would that change? Nothing, absolutely nothing. There was no way to erase what was already done, so he remained silent.

  Ronan desperately wanted to explain his actions to Michael, but words were useless now. He knew that Michael didn’t want to hear that they were bound by love, bound by destiny and the wisdom of The Well. He didn’t want to hear Ronan admit that he was scared to tell Michael the truth, the real truth about his being a vampire, because he was too afraid of losing him, too afraid of Michael turning away from him forever. And Michael definitely didn’t want to hear Ronan confess that Michael made him forget he had ever been hurt and betrayed and that he reminded him eternal love was possible. No, nothing Ronan could say would change what he had done. He was completely aware that very soon they would both have to find a way to live with the consequences of his actions, but for now he, like Michael, chose to live in silence.

  Surrounded by quiet, the two boys sat on the bed, a small, but impenetrable space between them. It was as if the fog had returned and created a physical barrier. But even though they didn’t touch, even though soft never made contact with rough, their eyes never left each other. His eyes are still so beautiful, Michael thought, looking at them, into them, fully aware that Ronan was doing the same to him. Their gazes unencumbered by words, Michael embraced the tranquility. How wonderful to be silent after all the chaos, the upheaval, the unsettling events at Weeping Water. It was nice to have a moment not filled. But even though the room was silent, it was full.

  Beauty, ugliness, love, outrage all were embodied in the silence, each finding a home there. For now they shared the space equally, but Michael and Ronan both knew that soon the balance would be broken and one would become the stronger. Which one would prevail, neither boy could guess.

  Outside, the wind stirred, rattling the window, a reminder that movement was inevitable. Ronan realized he could say nothing to explain away his actions or beg for forgiveness. He was certain that Michael had agreed to give his heart and soul to him when he thought they were both human; he only prayed he would give them to him now when they were not. But the decision had to be Michael’s alone.

  Quietly, he got off the bed and, with one more look at the boy he loved but without a word, left the room. Left before Michael could see the sadness engulf his body, left Michael behind to decide if love would consume the space that existed between them or if outrage would win out. After the door closed, Michael waited. He waited for the silence to be replaced with a moment of clarity, a moment that would give him direction. But none came. The quiet was replaced, however, by music.

  Getting off the bed, Michael held on to the end table and then the dresser to steady himself before picking up his cell phone. “Hello?”

  “Michael, it’s your father. How was the funeral?”

  Blunt as ever. “Depressing, final, like most funerals.”

  Still rebellious, Vaughan noticed. I guess this insolent, teenaged thing is going to last a while longer. “Well, I’m glad that you were able to say good-bye. I’m just sorry I wasn’t able to be there with you.”

  “No, you’re not.” Aimlessly, Michael started to walk around the room. “You never liked Grandma and you never liked spending time with me.”

  Taken aback by his son’s bitterness, Vaughan stopped pacing the floor of his own bedroom. “That isn’t true.”

  “Oh, come off it! I’ve seen you twice since you made me move here.”

  Why, the ungrateful punk! “Made you? May I remind you that you wanted to come to England? You jumped at the chance.”

  “To be with you! To find out what it’s like to have a father!” Michael shouted. Standing in the center of the room, Michael was so furious he didn’t realize his legs had stopped shaking, his stance was firm, stronger than ever. “But you’ve done nothing but treat me like somebody on your payroll!”

  Vaughan ran his fingers through his hair, stopping only to hit himself in the forehead several times for being unable to control his son. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Michael. I’m doing the best I can.”

  Howling with laughter, Michael reached for the bathroom doorjamb with his free hand. “Seriously?! Well, I got a newsflash for ya, Dad. Your best really sucks.”

  “What did you say to me?”

  Still laughing, Michael replied, “You might be a brilliant businessman, but as a father you totally suck.” Michael turned off his cell phone and paced the room again, mentally adding his father to the list of people who were gone from his life, not that he was ever really in his life to begin with. When Michael thought about it, examined their relationship, he found it hard to keep laughing. Vaughan never wanted to be a father. Getting Michael out of Nebraska, away from his moth
er’s family, was merely a business coup, something that made him feel like he won a deal. No, for better or worse, Michael had no family. For the rest of his life, he could very well be alone. For the rest of his life—or in other words—for infinity.

  “Damn it!!!” Michael roared, flinging his cell phone across the room in frustration. He grabbed the bedspread and yanked it off the bed. It floated to the floor slowly and by the time it fell in a clump next to Michael’s feet, he was already finished kicking the end table. He didn’t stop because he was tired or because his aggravation was quelled; he stopped because he saw something familiar.

  Bending down, Michael picked up the drawings, variations of the ones Ronan had made of Michael months earlier. They had fallen out of a book that had been hidden underneath some other papers in a drawer of the end table. Pushing the drawer to the side, Michael realized the papers had fallen out of the oversize red book that contained page after page of Ronan’s unmistakable handwriting. It was Ronan’s journal.

  Sitting on the floor amid the debris, his back against the bed, Michael began to read, and slowly his anger and frustration were replaced with a kind of peace.

  No such luck for Vaughan. He tried but was unable to find peace with his son, himself, or his current situation. Failure was becoming an all-too-common occurrence in his life. He had failed at his marriage, he had failed at being a parent, he had even failed in his attempt to secure his own future by uniting Michael with Brania, the daughter of the most powerful man he knew. “My son, it seems, is quite cross with me.”

  “Sons usually are,” Brania said, zipping up her skirt. “The relationship between a father and daughter is much more satisfying.”