Ronan smiled but didn’t think anything Michael had just said was funny. “Why were you walking around last night?”
Looking away, Michael’s impulse was to remain quiet, but he then reminded himself that secrets had no place between boyfriends. “I had a … well, I had a little fight with Ciaran and ran out. It was dumb, but I got mad and just left.”
“What do you mean, a fight?”
“Oh, you know Ciaran,” Michael said, patting his damp hair with the towel. “He said something, then I said something. You know how it can be with a roommate; I don’t even know exactly …”
Ronan grabbed Michael’s hand to make him stop. “What did he say?”
“Look, I shouldn’t have said anything, I don’t want to cause any trouble between you guys. It was nothing, really.”
“It was enough to make you storm out.”
Michael buried his face in the towel, breathing in Ronan’s scent. He couldn’t take back what he said, so he leaned in close to Ronan and whispered, “He said … you’re not like us.”
Luckily, a few more kids burst into the anteroom to escape the downpour that continued outside, and distracted Michael so he didn’t see fury mask Ronan’s face. His porcelain cheeks grew red; his lips clung to each other tightly. What the hell was Ciaran thinking? When Michael turned back around, Ronan had regained most of his composure. “Not sure why he’d say such a thing.”
Taking a deep breath, Michael said what was on his mind. “Do you think he could be jealous? I mean not of us, me and you; he’s your brother and all. But just that we’re together and maybe he’s jealous that he doesn’t have a boyfriend of his own.”
If Ronan weren’t so upset at the moment, he would have laughed out loud. “Ciaran isn’t gay.”
“What?!” Michael shouted so loudly, heads turned.
“My brother isn’t gay, Michael, just very British.”
Michael thought back to the first time he met Ciaran; he appeared so refined, so guarded. And what about his comment about girls? “If you go for that sort of thing.” He thought of his look, his demeanor. “You’re kidding me?”
“Trust me, I know my brother. He may not have a girlfriend, never had one really, but no, he’s straight.”
“Then why in the world would he tell me that you’re not like us?”
Ronan knew; he just couldn’t explain it. “My brother likes to fit in, to be accepted. Maybe he is a little jealous that I spend more time with you than with him.” Ronan didn’t know if he was making any sense, so he just kept talking. “He knows you’re gay, probably did from the first moment he met you, and so he let you think he was the same and tried to get you to think I’m different.” If there was logic in that statement, Michael didn’t recognize it; all he heard was that Ronan thought that anyone who looked at him would immediately assume he was gay.
“Oh, so you’re saying I can’t even pass for a straight guy?”
Ronan smiled. “Michael, there is nothing wrong with appearing on the outside exactly what you are on the inside.”
A log in the fireplace twisted and fell, causing the flames to stir and crackle loudly. Michael shrugged. “Unless of course you’re Dorian.”
Ronan stared into the fire, watching the embers burn, and it reminded him of things that Michael couldn’t comprehend and things Ronan hoped Michael would never have to see. “You don’t have to worry; your soul is far from black and burning.”
There it was again, Michael thought, the melancholy, the sadness that sometimes took over Ronan’s eyes. He wished he was back outside with Ronan underneath the tiny stone roof, so he could hold him in his arms and tell him that he would protect him, that he would help prevent those feelings of sorrow from ever returning. He couldn’t do that, but he could make a small gesture. He placed his hand over Ronan’s and let his fingers caress his briefly, hoping that his touch conveyed compassion. Michael couldn’t tell because Ronan’s eyes drifted back to the flames, orangey, red, and some a deep chestnut brown, the color they were just before they turned black and evaporated into smoke. The same exact color as Phaedra’s hair.
“What are you doing here?” Michael asked when he noticed the girl standing next to him.
“I picked a fine day to search for a book,” Phaedra replied, her normally curly hair plastered down against her face.
Michael handed her Ronan’s towel. “Doesn’t St. Anne’s have its own library?”
Rubbing her head furiously, Phaedra’s words shook a bit when she spoke. “Yes, but it’s not as complete as yours.” She explained that she was writing a paper on the Brontë sisters, and the library on St. Anne’s campus didn’t have a copy of Agnes Grey.
“Which one wrote that?” Michael asked.
“Anne,” Ronan answered, staring at Phaedra.
“Impressive,” she said, tossing the towel back to Michael and wiping away some remaining drops of water from beneath her eyes. “Not everyone knows there’s a third sister.”
“There were actually five sisters; two died of tuberculosis at boarding school,” Ronan said. “And there was a brother too. Branwell.”
“Branwell Brontë?” Michael said. “Sounds like a character from one of their novels.”
“His first name was Patrick,” Ronan explained. “But he was a bit of a dandy in his day and ’Patrick’ lacks luster.”
Michael was so happy that his boyfriend and this girl, whom he already considered a friend, had so much in common. He imagined that the three of them could spend hours chatting about the Brontë siblings, Oscar Wilde, and a ton of more unliterary topics. He never imagined that both Ronan and Phaedra were trying to hide their growing suspicions of each other behind innocuous conversation. “Maybe I should get you to help me with my paper. My lit professor wasn’t too thrilled with my antifeminist take on Virginia Woolf.”
Ronan leaned back, folding his arms against his chest. “I’m sure you’re being modest.”
Phaedra smiled as the fire roared behind her. “Yeah, just a little. You know us urban snobs; we’re perfectionists.”
“Well, I’m just a laid-back country boy,” Michael joked. “I don’t believe in trying too hard.”
“Miss Antonides, I have your book,” the librarian called out, interrupting them. “And an umbrella that you may borrow.”
Phaedra bent forward, her damp hair hanging loose in the space between her and Michael. “Which is code for the girl intruder must now leave the premises.” They all laughed, Michael much more than Ronan and Phaedra. Before she disappeared, she said, “See you Saturday night at the festival.”
The Archangel Festival! In all the excitement the other day, Michael had forgotten about asking Ronan to be his date. Coinciding with Archangel Day, the annual festival was held in early November and was the only official event that brought together Double A with Saint Anne’s on the same turf, the gymnasium at St. Sebastian’s. Penry had told Michael that it wasn’t as posh as the high school proms Americans were known for, but it was fun, and Fritz could always be relied upon to sneak some alcohol onto the grounds. Penry, of course, was taking Imogene, and rumor had it that Fritz had asked Phaedra. Now it was Michael’s turn. “Would you like to be my date?”
“What?” Ronan replied, startled since he was paying more attention to the girl leaving the room than to the boy sitting next to him.
“Oh, I, um, just thought, that we could, maybe go together,” Michael stuttered. “But that’s okay. We don’t have to.”
“No, of course we’re going together,” Ronan declared. “I’d be honored to be your date.”
“Excellent!” Don’t get too excited, Michael reminded himself. It’s just a dumb dance. “You just sounded, you know, surprised, like it was the last thing you wanted to do.”
Best to be honest, Ronan, or as honest as you can possibly be. “I’m not sure if I like her.”
“Phaedra?”
“There’s something, I don’t know what exactly, but I don’t trust her.”
“Maybe it’s because Ciaran’s right. You’re not gay and you think she’s kinda hot.”
Despite the fact that they were sitting in a crowded room with a bunch of other students all trying to dry off from getting caught in the sudden downpour, Ronan grabbed Michael’s hand and leaned into him so they were a breath away. “You are the only person, Michael, male or female, that I’m attracted to. And that’s not going to change. Not ever.”
“I have to get to geometry,” Michael replied. It wasn’t an appropriate response, but it’s all Michael could think of. Well, it was the only thing he could think of saying or doing that he had the guts to say or do in public. He would have to wait until later when he and Ronan were again alone to respond the way he wanted to.
But as Michael turned to leave, he noticed that no one was really looking at them. They were all engrossed in their own conversation or drying themselves off, so he grabbed on to impulse and bent forward to give Ronan a quick kiss on the lips. Chaste, but courageous. He left without saying another word, not that one was necessary.
Alone, Ronan was conflicted. He loved the fact that Michael was brave enough to kiss him in public. It meant that his feelings for him were growing, that their relationship was indeed moving forward, perhaps, maybe, toward where Ronan wanted it to end up. But he hated the fact that he had come face-to-face with a liar. Phaedra hadn’t come to St. Joshua’s searching for a book; she had come searching for them. She obviously didn’t know that he, against his mother’s wishes, bought an entire collection of first-edition Brontë’s and, after reading them, donated them to St. Anne’s library. Agnes Grey was right there on the shelf, aisle four, third row from the top, if Ronan remembered correctly. It was a clever lie but, like most, not foolproof.
Could Phaedra possibly know the truth about him? Ronan wondered. The simple answer was that he just didn’t know. He hated questioning himself. As a vampire, Ronan was physically superior to almost every creature around him, which made it more difficult to admit when he was intellectually stumped. He had no idea what Phaedra was up to and he didn’t yet know how to go about uncovering the truth. Ciaran, however, was a different story. He knew exactly how to deal with his brother.
The rain had finally abated and only a few lingering drops still fell to the earth; the sky itself had returned to the beautiful shade of blue it had been that morning before the darkness swooped in unexpectedly to take over. Ronan strode toward St. Albert’s, the science library, where he knew he would find Ciaran during his free period, sequestered in one of the back rooms, conducting yet another pointless experiment. He would demand the truth from him and only heaven could protect him if he chose to lie.
St. Albert’s was on the other side of campus, tucked away in a secluded enclave with two other buildings that comprised what the students referred to as the Einstein Wing. It normally took ten minutes to walk there from St. Joshua’s, but Ronan was in a hurry to confront his brother, so he used his preternatural speed and got there in about five seconds. When he reached the front door, he paused to take several deep breaths; he wanted to maintain the upper hand and couldn’t do so if he couldn’t control his anger. Out of the corner of his left eye he saw the statue of St. Albert bent and placing a hand on the side of a lamb. The white marble was cold and formidable, but the statue still exuded compassion and illustrated the power of healing. It reminded students that scientific research meant nothing if mankind couldn’t benefit from the result. The hell with that, Ronan thought; sometimes research was just the beginning of revenge.
“I’m not going to ask you again, Ciaran. Why did you tell Michael that I’m not like the two of you?” This time when Ronan spoke, his deep voice vibrated throughout the Spartan room. He had found Ciaran where he expected him to be, in his favorite lab, in the farthest corner of the basement of the library. It was a small room with only two lab tables, one on which sat a few microscopes in different sizes and a second where Ciaran spread out his notebooks and stainless steel test tube racks. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a bookshelf that housed both reference books and less important lab paraphernalia. Ciaran loved it for its simplicity; Ronan appreciated it for its seclusion. He pounded the granite tabletop with his fist so hard that Ciaran had to grab the largest microscope to keep it from falling over. “Answer me!”
“Because it’s the truth,” Ciaran responded quietly. “Doesn’t Michael deserve that?”
“I told you that I will tell him everything.”
Ciaran squeezed the eyedropper, and a small amount of greenish liquid fell onto the slide. “Of course you will.” He covered it precisely with another piece of glass and placed it under the microscope. “In your own time.”
Ciaran had not planned on this, he had not planned that his accidental comment to Michael would find its way to Ronan’s ears. His words were not deliberate, but they were proving to be fortuitous. The moment Ronan spoke, Ciaran knew that he was being presented with an opportunity to fulfill a dream and he decided to take it. He followed his instinct and could tell it was working, his calm composure, his arrogance, was having its desired effect. Ronan was growing angrier by the second. And when Ronan got angry, he got violent. Ciaran was able to ignore his racing heartbeat, but he knew Ronan would not be able to ignore the familiar tingle in his mouth. “Who gives you the right to decide when Michael should know the truth?!”
“I don’t need to be given the right, Ronan. I have the knowledge,” Ciaran replied, his eyes looking at the slide through the microscope, “and when you have knowledge, you have power.”
Ronan was airborne before Ciaran gasped, and before he took his next breath, he was lying flat on his back, Ronan on top of him, his eyes narrowed and shining against his will. “You don’t have any power! You have nothing!”
It was happening just the way he had dreamed. Ciaran swallowed hard, swallowed his desire; he had to keep his longing hidden, make Ronan think he didn’t want this to happen. “And what do you have?” he whispered vilely, struggling underneath Ronan, which he hoped his brother would believe was an attempt to break free from his hold. “A virus in your body? An affliction that makes you want to kill, makes you drink blood?”
Slowly, Ronan felt his fangs descend, not hungry, but filled with rage. “I can destroy you right here!” Ronan growled. “Among these stupid tools that you love so much!”
Tears escaped Ciaran’s eyes, tears that were always just beneath the surface. They fell down the side of his face to the cold floor below. Do it, Ronan! Please, God. make him do it! Ciaran couldn’t resist any longer and with his free hand he reached up and grabbed the back of Ronan’s neck. He pushed down with all his strength and brought Ronan’s mouth closer to his neck. “Take me!” Ciaran begged. “Please, Ronan, make me a real part of our family.”
Ciaran closed his eyes and felt the glorious sharpness of Ronan’s fangs scrape his neck. It was happening, it was happening to him before it was going to happen to Michael, before it would happen to anyone else. Ronan was going to take him, his brother, and bring him to his rightful place, make it so that he could stand next to him as an equal. End the loneliness, end the solitude, end the pain.
One fang pierced flesh, and Ronan gripped Ciaran’s body so tightly he could no longer move no matter how valiantly he struggled. He just closed his eyes and willed Ronan to press into him deeper, harder, until both fangs were plunged in as far as they could go.
But then Ronan opened his eyes.
He saw his reflection in one of the mirrored slides that fell to the floor, he saw his fang beginning to enter his brother, his own flesh and blood, and he saw the tears stream down the sides of Ciaran’s face. Then he saw his own eyes, wild, enraged, like an animal’s. They were everything he fought so hard not to become. And here after one confrontation with his sibling, whom he loved and whom he hated, he had turned into the kind of creature he loathed.
Frightened and fearful, he pulled himself off of Ciaran, but just as he did, Ciaran reached out, arms scram
bling to keep the connection. “No! Do it, Ronan!” Now Ciaran was like an animal and lunged at Ronan, grabbing the back of his head and thrusting it to his neck. A guttural cry erupted from his throat, “Take me!”
Ronan pushed his brother away hard and Ciaran slid across the floor into the wall. Dazed, but only for a few seconds, he shook off the impact and limped toward Ronan, grasping blindly in front of him until he fell to his knees and caught hold of his foot. He tried to pull Ronan closer to him, but Ronan kicked his hand away and Ciaran fell onto his side. Undaunted, he got up and crawled back toward Ronan, unaware that Ronan’s fangs had receded, his eyes were once again normal. He was no longer a vampire, but only a brother, and he was heartbroken. “Ciaran, what are you doing?”
The emotions could no longer stay silent; the feelings had to be given a voice. “I DON’T WANT TO BE ALONE ANYMORE!” Ciaran howled. He wanted to continue speaking, but the sobs made it impossible. On all fours, he let his head hang low and wept. Ronan sank back on his haunches and gripped the legs of the table. He felt dizzy and needed to hold on to something or risk passing out. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and he couldn’t believe what he had almost done. “You don’t mean that. You … you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“It’s all I ever wanted!” Ciaran cried, his body heaving with each word. Ronan didn’t know what to do so he simply watched his brother, raw and exposed. When the sobs ran their course, Ciaran slowly raised his head and looked at Ronan. He lifted himself up so he was now kneeling, but his arms were limp, his eyes stained with tears. “And how would you possibly know this isn’t what I want? You’ve never taken the time to listen to one word I’ve ever said.”
“That’s not true,” Ronan said, reaching out to help Ciaran stand, but his brother pushed his arm away.
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