Unafraid aa-3 Read online

  “Did you enjoy your meal?” David asked, his massive chest slowly rising up, then down.

  “He was surprisingly tasty,” Morgandy replied, “for a vagrant.”

  Laughing grotesquely, David ran his fingers through the thick mass of red hair on his chest and replied, “Every man does have a purpose.”

  Peeking around the side of the trees, Michael and Ronan saw David circle Morgandy and carelessly step onto the dead man’s leg, the bone snapping in two underneath his weight. It was when he turned around, however, that they were really shocked. He had two deep gouges in his back, vertical in shape and on top of his shoulder blades. They weren’t bloodied, but congealed, like scar tissue, and must have been old wounds, because the rest of him was unscathed. Plus, when he put his shirt on they saw that there were no rips or tears in the cloth. They didn’t want to ponder the many reasons why David would be wandering through the woods without his shirt on, so luckily he interrupted their thoughts.

  “This is just the beginning, my son,” David said, placing his hands on Morgandy’s shoulders. “So many more surprises await you.”

  Reading Ronan’s mind, Michael got glimpses of information that helped him understand that Ronan was incredibly perplexed. Morgandy had been The Guardian of The Well, destined to protect it; now he was one of Them. It didn’t make sense; more than that, it violated rules. Michael couldn’t grasp everything at once and deliberately blocked out the images and thoughts that were invading his brain.

  Leave them for Ronan for now; he could ask questions later. The most important thing to do was to get out of here before they were seen. Or before Ronan accidentally exposed them.

  So frazzled, Ronan forgot where he was and allowed his emotions to lead him. Impulsively, he stepped forward, not looking at the ground, and heard several branches crunch under his feet. Yanking Ronan back, Michael pulled them behind the thickness of the trees just as David and Morgandy looked up to find the source of the noise.

  Ronan’s heart beat loudly against Michael’s chest, and Michael could feel him shake in his arms.

  He wasn’t going to scold Ronan for acting foolishly. The events of the day and the incredible stress had finally gotten to him. All he needed to do was hold his boyfriend until the danger passed.

  Several seconds later it did just that, and they heard David and Morgandy retreat deeper into The Forest. For the time being, thanks to Michael, they were safe.

  chapter 12

  After spending a few hours in his own bed Ronan finally felt safe. Unfortunately, he also felt restless.

  He couldn’t concentrate on his reading. As far as he was concerned Edith Wharton had abandoned the English language and had written The Age of Innocence in Russian. He saw letters on the page, and he knew that they formed words, but his mind was so troubled, his body so worked up, that he couldn’t comprehend one sentence of the novel. He had read the same paragraph over three times and still had no idea what she was trying to say. Maybe it was because his age of innocence had been over a long time ago, ever since Morgandy took it away.

  Not eager to start philosophizing about his own complicated history, he slammed the book closed, startling Michael who was sitting at the desk typing up a Latin essay for Professor Volman.

  Turning around, Michael thought Ronan looked like he was just taking a break from reading. He was leaning his head against the cherry wood headboard; his arms were wrapped around the book that lay on his chest; his eyes were shut. But Michael knew better, he knew that Ronan was trying once again to get in touch with his mother.

  It was all he had talked about when they first got home from The Forest. I have to talk to my Mum. I have to let her know that Morgandy’s back and he’s one of Them. She’ll know what to do. That’s all Ronan kept saying. Michael remained quiet and just nodded, knowing that Ronan was too anxious to listen to anything he had to say. It was interesting—more often than not Michael was the one who was revved up and unable to listen to reason or logic. Now the roles were reversed, and even though Ronan was lying quietly in their bed instead of pacing the floor of their dorm room, he was just as incapable of being calmed down. Michael had no other choice but to watch and make sure he was there for Ronan when he needed him.

  Turning back to his laptop, Michael resumed typing his report on Latin etymology and didn’t see Ronan frown and his body twitch. Try as he might, Ronan couldn’t connect with Edwige. She wasn’t responding to any of his telepathic messages. Now that so much time had passed since he had last heard from her, there could only be two reasons for her silence: either she was hurt and physically unable to reply or she was simply ignoring him. And Ronan knew it couldn’t be the latter.

  “Mum’s done a lot of things,” Ronan said. “But she’s never deliberately ignored me.”

  Pia, matris quod filius, amour mater. His mind focused on Latin word origins, Michael didn’t hear Ronan speak. So much for being there when his boyfriend needed him.

  “Michael,” Ronan said. “Don’t you agree?”

  He typed one last sentence at lightning speed, then turned away from his laptop and crawled onto the bed. “Sorry, what did you say?” Michael asked, placing his hand on the bedspread just above Ronan’s knee. He watched as the waves in the ring Ronan had given him moved up and down as he massaged the bone and skin through the thick material; it was as if they were from the sea and not bound in silver. Michael hoped his touch would release a little bit of Ronan’s tension, but Ronan’s expression didn’t change.

  “She must be hurt,” Ronan said quietly, trying to keep his voice strong. “I can’t think of any other reason why she would disregard me like this.”

  He didn’t want to agree, but Michael had come to the same conclusion. “This might sound stupid, but do you think you can ask The Well to intervene?” Michael asked. “I mean it’s connected to all water vampires, right? Wouldn’t it be able to tell us where Edwige is?”

  Despite his growing fear, Ronan smiled. It wasn’t because Michael’s suggestion was a brilliant solution; it was because of the use of one word— us. Ronan wasn’t alone; he had Michael by his side, so no matter what had happened to Edwige, whether it was good or bad, he would be okay. “You’re right about The Well’s connection to our people, but I don’t think it works like a GPS, love,” Ronan said, placing his hand on top of Michael’s. “I wish it did, though, because I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  Tossing Edith Wharton’s tome to the side, Michael got under the covers with Ronan. They lay on their sides facing one another, enveloped in silence and shadow. Michael realized that for all Ronan’s strength and muscles and preternatural abilities, his eyes still shined with the ideals of a little boy. The only real safety a child could know came from his parents. When that link was severed, it was like being plunged into an unquiet darkness, each step unknown, each step bringing with it uncertainty.

  Michael knew exactly what that felt like, and he wished he could spare Ronan the same fate.

  Wrapping his leg around Ronan’s, Michael held his hands, rubbing his thumb against Ronan’s smooth skin. He knew a kiss wouldn’t resolve anything, so instead he spoke. “I’ve been thinking about reaching out to my father,” Michael whispered.

  “Really?” Ronan said, unable to conceal his surprise. “What made you change your mind?”

  “Edwige.”

  Ronan figured that all the talk about his mother’s disappearance from his life had made Michael realize that even a parent who was wildly flawed was better than no parent at all. That was only part of it.

  “If something has happened to Edwige, and that’s a really big if, ” Michael started, “we know that David and his people are behind it.” Ronan’s body tensed up a bit, and he held onto Michael’s hands harder. “My father’s one of Them, so he’s got to know what’s going on, and if he doesn’t know he can find out, especially if he sees how worried his son is.”

  Now that was a brilliant plan. And the perfect excuse for a kiss. “Thank yo
u,” Ronan said, his breath lingering hot on Michael’s lips.

  Their bodies moved closer together. One of Michael’s hands disappeared inside the sleeve of Ronan’s T-shirt and caressed his shoulder while Ronan’s fingers stroked Michael’s chin. “Honestly, I don’t know if I can ever forgive him,” Michael confessed. “But I don’t know, I just thought that maybe I should make an attempt before it’s too late.”

  “I’m really proud of you,” Ronan said, his leg rubbing against Michael’s softly. “It’ll be bloody hard, no doubt, but even if he knows nothing about Edwige, I think it’ll be worth it.”

  Running his hand up and down Ronan’s arm, Michael could almost feel the blood race underneath Ronan’s hard flesh. His boyfriend was trying desperately to remain calm, but he was so agitated, Michael half-expected him to scream out loud.

  Not too far away in a secluded enclave, Imogene did just that.

  “Nooooo!!!!”

  This time Imogene’s cry didn’t fill Brania with interest, but with irritation. Yes, she understood that her ward’s uncontrollable and highly vocal actions were the first steps in her plot for revenge against her father, but they were still annoying and disruptive. Children should obey and display good manners; they shouldn’t rip lids off of coffins or scream bloody murder on a quiet evening. Staring at Imogene, Brania didn’t feel an ounce of maternal affection.

  Not when she saw her grip the sides of the casket as if she was holding on for dear life.

  Not when she saw panic etch into her face.

  Not when she heard her wail once again echo throughout the cave.

  None of that affected Brania. None of that prompted her to walk toward Imogene and try to console her, not until she heard the girl speak.

  “I know where Edwige is,” Imogene declared.

  Now that, Miss Imogene Minx, is a reason for me to move, Brania thought.

  In less than a heartbeat, Brania was at Imogene’s side, prying her fingers off of the edge of the cold, metal casket. She held the girl’s icy hands in between hers and rubbed warmth into them. “Imogene, tell me where she is,” Brania said, getting right to the point. “Tell Mother everything.”

  When Imogene shook her head in silent refusal, Brania involuntarily rubbed her hands harder, all the while keeping her face a mask of concern. “Please,” she begged. “Let me help you.”

  Imogene’s eyes darted around the cave frantically, looking at everything, focusing on nothing. “I don’t want anyone else to hear.”

  Afraid that if she kept rubbing Imogene’s hands she would separate flesh from bone, Brania let go of the girl. She let her own hands drop inside the coffin and grazed her fingers across the white satin interior. The smooth, silky touch was calming, and after a few seconds Brania was able to speak in a more reassuring tone. “Darling, we’re all alone,” she said. “It’s just you and me.”

  Imogene’s eyes were still wide and untrusting. “You can’t be sure of that,” Imogene corrected, then added in a hushed whisper, “Not everyone can be seen.”

  The girl had a point. Brania had lived for centuries, and even she didn’t know all of the supernatural species that roamed the earth. She also knew that like humans, God’s other creatures could evolve and transform; Imogene had done that earlier by proving she could turn invisible, seemingly at will.

  Chances are she wasn’t the only one who possessed that power. No, Imogene was right, and if Brania’s plan were going to succeed, she would have to move forward with an overabundance of caution.

  “Then let’s play a game,” Brania said cheerfully.

  Despite her attempt to lighten the suffocating mood, Imogene’s expression didn’t soften. “I don’t understand.”

  Climbing into the casket, Brania sat cross-legged facing Imogene. She looked as if she were setting herself up so they could play a game of patty-cake like two little girls in a field of snow. The game Brania wanted to play, however, was not nearly as innocent. “It’ll be like our very own secret game.

  Won’t that be fun?” she said. “All you have to do is whisper right into my ear and tell me where Edwige is.”

  Imogene leaned in close; she breathed in deeply and could smell the heat rising off of Brania’s neck, sultry and familiar, but abruptly she sat back. “And you promise no one will ever know the truth?” Imogene asked desperately.

  Brania couldn’t promise that, and so she didn’t. “I promise,” she replied, “that I will never tell another person.”

  Finally satisfied, Imogene leaned in again and didn’t stop moving until her lips brushed against Brania’s anxious ear. Then she told her where Edwige was.

  After she spoke, it was as if a great weight had been lifted from Imogene’s shoulders. She felt relieved and, more than that, grateful that Brania was both her protector and confidant. She rewarded her in the best way she knew how, in song.

  As Imogene’s voice, mellifluous and strong, floated in the damp air, it surrounded Brania, but for the first time the sound couldn’t penetrate her thoughts. She was still reeling from what Imogene had told her about Edwige’s whereabouts. It was so obvious, but she would never have guessed it. Now that she knew the truth, all she could think about was that Imogene wasn’t the only little minx around.

  chapter 13

  Michael felt like he was being followed. He didn’t feel as if he was in danger, but he knew that despite the early morning hour he wasn’t alone. The fall weather had already turned, and the dew on the grass was thick. It hadn’t turned to ice, but it wasn’t only moisture. It meant that when the grass was stepped on there was noise, even when it was stepped on by an immortal being.

  Unafraid, Michael didn’t turn around. He kept walking, walking, walking and didn’t stop until he reached the imposing, wooden door that was the entrance to Archangel Cathedral and gave a nod to the carving of his namesake that majestically adorned the apex of the door. He looked up and marveled at how the faint sunlight was turned into a burst of fiery colors as it bounced off of the stained glass window. Standing there awash in the natural spotlight, Michael turned around out of curiosity and not concern and was surprised to find the grounds leading up to the cathedral were empty.

  He was sure someone was behind him. Switching from human to vampire vision, Michael peered into the surrounding area, but still he could see nothing except for a few proactive squirrels gathering nuts in preparation for the upcoming winter. Maybe he was letting Ronan’s anxiety rub off on him.

  When he entered the cathedral he realized he had been right all along.

  How did she get here first? Michael asked himself.

  Even though her back was to him, Michael knew it was Brania sitting in the last pew, and although two priests were lighting candles near the front altar, he also knew instinctively that she had been the one following him. How she got into the church before him, he couldn’t say. Just another everyday mystery. Like the color of her hair.

  Just outside the grasp of the light that poured into the church her deep auburn hair looked like blood mixed with dirt. It wasn’t entirely unattractive, but definitely was not the vibrant shade it had been the first time he saw her in his father’s hotel room. Perhaps he just remembered it looking more luxurious or perhaps Brania was starting to show her age. It was time for a closer look.

  Sitting next to her he saw that not only was her hair darker, she was also showing signs of emotion.

  Her eyes were bloodshot, and if she hadn’t just finished crying, she looked as if she would start at any moment. Brania didn’t turn to face Michael. She didn’t need to; she was well aware of his presence.

  However, neither of them was ready to speak, so they both breathed in deeply, their lungs filling up with the smell of incense that clung to the air just as Dr. MacCleery had once clung to the gold cross hanging above the tabernacle.

  “My father murdered the doctor,” Brania said, her harsh words tarnishing the serenity of their holy surroundings. “Even if he wasn’t the one whose hands got bloodied.�
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  Was this remorse that Michael was witnessing? He couldn’t be sure, so he took another deep breath to prevent himself from speaking and fought hard to latch on to his self-control. He had learned in one of his classes that silence is the best weapon to coerce your opponent into speech. It proved to be an accurate lesson.

  “I don’t know why he felt compelled to do something so bloody unnecessary, so ... so vile,” Brania said, ignoring the tears that now fell down her pure white cheeks. “But it was the first time I realized he had become something I could no longer love.”

  Michael knew exactly how she felt, and he could no longer remain silent. “Fathers do terrible things, really, really awful things,” Michael said. “And they do them totally convinced they’re justified.”

  Looking at Michael for the first time, she asked, “How can they justify murder?”

  The irony of her statement wasn’t lost on either of them. “Well,” Brania said, shrugging her shoulders, “you know what I mean.”

  Michael did. MacCleery wasn’t killed for food; he was killed for sport, as a warning. What Michael hadn’t known until this very moment was that Brania didn’t support her father’s actions. He had assumed she had fallen in line behind him, in theory and in practice, and approved of the vicious murder. He never imagined that she not only disagreed with her father, but that she would admit her condemnation, especially to him. Maybe they had more in common than he thought.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Michael started, “but he’s still your father.”

  Her laughter startled the priests in the front of the church, their robes swaying as if caught by a breeze as they turned to inspect the intrusion. “I guess it’s hard to let go of human optimism.”

  It was Michael’s turn to shrug his shoulders. “And human truth,” he replied. “I’m learning that just because you’re a vampire doesn’t mean you can live without your family.”