Unwelcome Page 6

  In the mirror, she saw Ronan behind her, staring at her imploringly, and she suddenly realized that she needed to be challenged as a woman and not just as a mother. She loved her son, but it was time she made him leave. “I don’t believe there is cause for alarm,” Edwige said, turning to face Ronan. “But I do believe there is reason to be careful.”

  “So what should I do?”

  “You should go home and get into bed next to Michael before he wakes up and notices that you’re gone,” Edwige instructed, then she answered his next question before it was asked, “And no, do not tell Michael who David is. Sharing that knowledge at this point will serve no purpose.”

  Ronan understood what his mother was saying. He agreed with her, but in spite of that, he felt uneasy. That’s because you’re going to lie to your boyfriend, Ronan reminded himself. Not lie, just protect. Oh, stop it! He didn’t want to contemplate his decision any further, he didn’t want to argue with himself, he just wanted to know what his next action should be.

  “But what about David, what should I do about him?”

  “Nothing,” Edwige instructed. “You treat him as if he is simply what he says he is, Archangel Academy’s newest ruler, and I will keep an eye on him.”

  For the first time since the assembly, he felt more calm than anxious. No matter how frustrating, how infuriating his mother could be, she really never let him down. He might not understand or agree with how she treated others, but he could always trust that she would help him.

  “And by the way, his name’s not David O’Keefe anymore,” Ronan said. “Now he’s going by David Zachary.”

  Edwige laughed. “Of course he is.”

  David examined his reflection in the mirror and was pleased. The centuries had been kind. He had seen firsthand that immortality did not always guarantee physical resplendence, so he was grateful that he looked as he did when he first converted, even better if he dared say, and why shouldn’t he? There were very few around to contradict him. And even if one of the old-timers, if one of those who knew him from that period disagreed with his current assessment, they wouldn’t risk contradicting him. They knew what the consequences would be.

  He was equally delighted with his office’s décor. The furniture was of the old-world, thick, substantial, built by craftsmen who knew their trade, quietly ornate but supremely functional. Things should be beautiful, but they should also have purpose. He especially loved the anteroom to the office. The forest green walls were the perfect counterpoint to his red hair, and standing now in the center of the room, he was reminded of the holiday season that had just passed. “I am like Father Christmas,” he said, laughing along with his reflection. “Revered, immortal, and the giver of so many gifts.” He laughed harder, making his reflection distort even more than usual. In the mirror, his blue eyes were a ghastly shade of charcoal, his formidable frame hunched and lopsided, his creamy complexion stained and, in some areas, burnt. “What is reality and what is perception?” he asked himself. The only response that came was another laugh, this time sinister and without any suggestion of a light heart. “And how have you angels survived without me for all these years?”

  David’s eyes traveled around the mirror’s elaborate, carved oak frame, from archangel to archangel. He was filled with a glut of emotions, not all of them good, and one by one he surveyed the spiritual creatures, casting his eyes upon their likenesses as if they were long-lost relatives. David glared at the figure of Gabriel, his lips forming a sneer to express his rejection of the archangel whom he condemned as loud and ostentatious. His eyes then fell upon Uriel and Ramiel, whom he thought of as more resourceful angels since they used fire and thunder as their weapons, and Raphael, whom David viewed as weak, but allowed his eyes to linger long enough to admire fully the splendid curvature of his muscled arms.

  Next he focused on Sariel, whom he appreciated for protecting the dead but acknowledged that he was nothing more than a collector of bones that were the spoils of someone else’s victories and, therefore, a disappointment. And then he stared at the one he truly loathed, the thing known as Michael. So much glory, so much recognition, and why? Because Michael was a narcissist, God’s pet, a minor player who demanded praise for one questionable conquest. The fact that Michael had outshone them all for eons in the courtroom of public opinion enraged David, but all that anger, all that resentment was forgotten when his eyes landed upon Zachariel. His reflection softened and for once appeared vaguely human as he looked at the carving of the deity who was, according to David, the true sovereign of the archangels.

  He was astounded. Even while resting against a wooden replica of the sun, that magical orb, Zachariel’s face shone brighter than the others. He exuded warmth, wisdom, and incomparable power. Power that was given to him by the great sun itself. His upturned chin, sharp eyes, and unsmiling mouth were a welcome to those who were worthy and a warning to those who were not, a notice that their time had come to an end. “I am the embodiment of you,” David said with reverence. “And I have taken your name out of honor and in sacrifice.”

  David traced the outline of the sun that framed Zachariel’s face, gently, cautiously, afraid the wood might disintegrate from his touch. But he was unable to resist. He commanded his courage to rise and he let his fingers fall across Zachariel’s hair, his cheek, his eyes, the eyes that had witnessed more beauty, invoked more fear, than David could ever hope to. “I have returned here to uphold your commandments, your principles,” David whispered into the one small wooden ear that was visible, and then abruptly pulled back from the sculpture and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the beautiful blue irises were gone; so too was any indication of white. All that covered both surfaces of his eyes was black.

  As David stared into the wooden eyes of his namesake, it was unclear whose were more lifeless but obvious whose were more consumed with vengeance. “And I will not rest until I rid our land of those who do not belong, those who have tarnished our legacy,” David seethed. He closed his eyes and when he reopened them this time, they had resumed their color. Once again they were sparkling blue, as if reborn. Tenderly he kissed Zachariel’s lips, feeling not wood but the breath of eternal life. “Oh, Father,” he sighed. “It is so good to be home.”

  When he heard the joyful singing fill the air and invade his private ceremony, David believed it was confirmation, a message to him from Zachariel that he approved of his plan. He could not have been more pleased.

  And Michael could not have been more disturbed.

  “Ronan?” Michael wasn’t completely awake, but one quick look around the room and he knew he was alone. He glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand and saw that it was a little after two A.M. Where could Ronan be? And what was that sound? He had heard the singing in his dream. He and Ronan were resting on the beach, Ronan sitting against a dune, Michael leaning into him, their eyes closed, not thinking, only feeling, feeling the beautiful music. Now awake, he heard those notes again, soft, lilting, and, most of all, familiar. “Is that you?”

  Michael lifted open the window and peered out, ignoring the bitter cold breeze, and scoured the trees in search of the music’s origin. Could it be? Could it possibly be the meadowlark that traveled with him from Nebraska? The same lark he heard from his bedroom window back home? Who witnessed Michael and Ronan emerge from the ocean after offering their souls to The Well? He hadn’t heard his beautiful melody since that day and it brought him such delight to know his friend, his companion, had returned.

  Throwing on some clothes and sneakers, Michael left his room and ran downstairs. He couldn’t resist; he had to get closer to the music and see if he was right. But when he walked outside, he forgot about his mission; he was overwhelmed. He felt as if he had stepped inside peace. Overhead a full moon shone brilliantly, its grayish-white light luminous, making the night sky look like an immense sheet of black velvet in contrast. Michael couldn’t believe how luxurious it looked, he wanted to wrap himself in the night, let the texture of t
he unknown embrace him. Just when he didn’t think it could get any more perfect, the sky changed. Speckles of light appeared in the darkness like tiny silent firecrackers, and Michael thought the stars had come out of hiding, but it wasn’t stars. It was snow.

  Slowly, Michael watched pieces of white fall from the darkness, floating without care, without concern, their only ambition to touch the earth. He looked up and smiled as the first snowflakes landed on his cheeks, his nose, moist and cold. He didn’t mean to impede their journey, but he was compelled to make contact, so he stuck out his tongue and savored the fresh taste of winter, laughing at how childish he was acting, but loving every second of it.

  And then he heard a noise.

  The sound took away his youth and immediately he remembered who and what he was and the kind of danger that existed in the world in which he now lived. Then in the next moment, he remembered what kind of protection also existed in his new world and, calmer, yet still heedful, he waited for the fog to come, to encase him and separate him from whatever was out there in the darkness. But nothing happened. The fog didn’t appear. The darkness wasn’t joined by mist. He was still alone. And now even the music had stopped.

  The noise, however, was getting closer.

  Standing near St. Joshua’s, David could no longer hear the music. He had followed the sound for as long as he could, drawn to its notes, its melancholy, but as abruptly as it began, it ended, replaced by the silence only nature could produce. David stood motionless in the snow, his arms outstretched like a forgotten scarecrow in an abandoned field, and accepted the chill as it penetrated his skin, the white flakes as they fell freely all around him, and he listened to the quiet.

  Until it was interrupted.

  He stared into the night, through it, using his preternatural vision like a beam of light to illuminate the dark. With no movement of his head, his eyes darted left, then right. Nothing. Although he was certain the sound came from the direction he was facing, he quickly turned around and scoured the area behind him. Still he could see nothing, alive or dead, nearby.

  And yet he heard the sound again, this time even closer.

  Phaedra, I need you! Michael didn’t speak the words but shouted them inside his mind. He had never called out to Phaedra before, never asked for her help because he never had to, whenever he was in danger, she appeared. But now, just like the other day in the swimming pool, she was nowhere to be found. Why was she abandoning him? He had no idea if she could hear him, but he called out to her again, and still no response. Didn’t she just tell him she would continue to protect him? Was she somewhere with Fritz right now, preoccupied, concerned with her own pleasure and not his safety? Michael didn’t want to prevent Phaedra and Fritz from starting a relationship, but seriously, wasn’t this the reason efemeras existed in the first place, Michael thought, to respond to the silent pleas of those in need? Then again, perhaps there was no danger; perhaps he was just overreacting. When he heard the growl, he knew his first impression was correct.

  Involuntarily, he felt his fangs descend and his eyes narrow. He watched his fingers elongate and the space in between them turn into webbing; he felt the leather of his sneakers stretch and he knew the same change was happening to his feet. The beating of his heart quickened as his body prepared for battle even while his mind prayed a fight would never come. He hated feeling this way, apprehensive, no, that wasn’t being completely honest, he was afraid. Still afraid like the boy he used to be. What’s the use of being immortal if I’m afraid to defend myself? If I’m afraid of being defeated? If I’m just the way I always was?

  His fear was short-lived, however, and replaced by the will to survive when he was struck from behind.

  Breathing deeply, David recognized the scent, it was one of his own. Pungent and thick, it quashed the more appealing aroma of the snow-filled air and, for a moment, David was greatly annoyed. He hated wanton intrusion. But one of his children was restless or possibly in trouble and like every good father, he had a duty to come to the aid of his child, to offer comfort and, of course, punishment if that was deemed necessary.

  When he got to a clearing and saw what was happening, saw that Michael was being attacked from behind, he knew there would be no need for punishment or reward, but merely intervention.

  Michael felt his fangs cut into his lower lip as his face crashed into the snow, small droplets of red tarnishing the otherwise white landscape. What was happening? Who was on top of him? Of course, it had to be Nakano! He knew that he wasn’t going to allow Michael to get away with embarrassing him in front of his classmates, forcing him to quit the swim team. He wanted revenge, and Michael stupidly gave him the perfect opportunity by wandering outside alone.

  He felt Nakano’s hand grab the back of his head and he knew that if he didn’t escape, if he didn’t get out of this position, his head was going to be bashed into the ground until his skull shattered. The anger he felt breathing down his neck was that potent. Michael had no choice, so he allowed his instinct to take over. Instead of fighting against the fear, he let it fill him, he let it consume his mind and his heart so he could take action. Reaching back, his hand over his head, he grabbed ahold of Nakano and pulled at his hair until he heard him cry out in pain. Michael pulled with all his strength and he could feel the strands of hair stretch, forcing with it Nakano’s scalp. He had to keep pulling until Nakano couldn’t take the pain any longer and fell off of him so he could be free. But wait, no, something wasn’t right. Nakano’s head was practically shaved; he didn’t have hair long enough to pull.

  Someone else was on top of Michael, someone else who just wouldn’t give up. Until that someone was ordered to.

  David admired loyalty, but this action was premature, he did not want death to mar his homecoming. And it was not well planned. Death, like life, should have purpose. Just as David gave the command to release Michael, he heard the roar. He had to admit that it was a touching sight, Ronan coming to the aid of his young companion, but he felt a greater sense of relief watching his devoted subject scamper away, on all fours close to the ground, like a wild animal. “Good, you were unseen, which means you cannot be prevented from trying again,” David said. “When, of course, the time becomes right.”

  “Did you see who it was?” Michael asked, his breathing beginning to return to normal.

  Ronan shook his head. “What are you doing out here?”

  What was he doing outside? He tried to remember, but he felt as if he was in a trance. “Music.” Yes, that was it. “I heard music and I thought it was . . . so I came out here to find out . . . I . . . I couldn’t find you. . . . Where were you?”

  Ronan felt the tears sting his eyes. If I’d returned just a few seconds later, you might not be alive; if I hadn’t gone out at all, you would never have been in danger. “I wasn’t where I was supposed to be,” Ronan cried.

  David turned away, not interested in watching the two boys embrace, one comforting the other, and started to walk back to his office when something else just as irritating caught his eye. “Those damned roses,” he hissed. “Will they never die?”

  Along the outside of St. Joshua’s Library, as always, was a row of white roses in full bloom, their petals soft and shimmering despite being sprinkled with snowdrops. David yanked one out of the hardened ground, its roots dangling between his fingers, and slowly crushed it in his hand, smiling cruelly like an angry child clutching a fly in its tiny fist.

  Michael looked into Ronan’s eyes and knew that he should be angry with him for leaving him alone, but he couldn’t. He saw in his expression such tenderness, such gratefulness that Michael was safe and unharmed, that all he could feel was the love that had been in his heart from the moment he laid eyes on Ronan. Kissing his boyfriend under the moonlight, the snow tumbling around them, Michael felt like both a man and a child, aware of the passion burning inside of him and relieved to be held by someone stronger, someone he could always trust.

  Opening his fist, David stared in disbe
lief as he watched the crumbled rose spring back to life, reclaiming its robust form. Some things just cannot be trusted to stay dead! It was then that he felt her presence. Startled, he looked around and, for the first time in decades, no, more like centuries, his confidence waned. He couldn’t see her, but that didn’t matter, he knew she was there.

  He wasn’t the only one who had returned home.

  chapter 4

  Phaedra stared at Michael. Michael stared at his food. Neither of them spoke a word.

  It just won’t work, Michael silently complained. He was attempting yet again to make his shepherd’s pie disappear from his plate, master a vampire trick that would fool others into thinking he was eating when all he was doing was making his food evaporate by using his preternatural vision as a sort of laser beam. It was a handy trick that Ronan had been trying to teach him, that Ronan could execute with the skill of a bored magician, but Michael just couldn’t do it. He knew it was a necessary alternative for times like now, when he was sitting at a crowded cafeteria table in St. Martha’s and it wasn’t possible to use his incredible speed to toss his food to the side, but no matter how hard he tried, his uneaten meal remained on his plate for all to see. Aggravated, he glanced at Phaedra sitting across from him and thought he should ask her for help. She was, after all, the expert at transforming solid matter into thin air, but then he realized she was the real problem. How could he focus on dematerializing his lunch when all he could think of was how much he wanted to confront her?