Unafraid

by Michael Griffo

  “So tell me,” Edwige said. “What could my son possibly have done that would bring you here to the so-called lion’s den?”

  Taking a deep breath, Michael wasn’t really sure how to begin. When he found the words, he realized he needed to whisper so his father didn’t overhear. “It’s really about Ronan and Saoirse,” Michael started, his words causing Edwige to sit upright. “Morgandy’s back.”

  As Michael explained the situation and what had just transpired a few blocks away, the color drained from Edwige’s face. Her green blouse began to work against her complexion, creating a dull pallor in her cheeks. When Michael stopped talking, Edwige had one simple request. “Keep him away from my children.”

  “I plan to,” Michael replied. “But I’m not sure if I can do it alone. Morgandy has David on his side. I may need some help.”

  Edwige understood the question; she hoped Michael would understand the response. “For right now my children are better off without me.”

  “That isn’t true! They need you, Ciaran needs you, and so do I,” Michael implored. “We all wish you could just see that so you wouldn’t feel so alone.”

  “But she isn’t alone,” Vaughan corrected. Silently he had entered the living room, curious as to what his son and his ... well, whatever label he bestowed upon Edwige—girlfriend, lover, eternal life partner—were talking about or simply because he got bored sitting by himself. When he placed his hand on Edwige’s shoulder, she didn’t flinch at his touch, but she didn’t melt into him, either, the way Michael and Ronan did. She simply remained sitting in the exact same position as if Vaughan wasn’t touching her, as if he was somewhere far, far away. “She has me,” Vaughan said.

  In spite of Edwige’s protestations to the contrary, this was a very odd relationship. Even if Michael could have stayed all night to talk through the pros and cons with them, he knew he still wouldn’t understand it. He had other things to do anyway.

  “I should get going,” he announced, getting up, but not moving toward the door.

  “I hope you’ll come again, son,” Vaughan said, not making a move either. “You know the door is always open for you.” His next remark proved that, if he wasn’t entirely fatherly, at least he was honest. “And perhaps next time you’ll want to spend some time chatting with your old man.”

  It was time for Michael to be just as straightforward. “When I feel like chatting, Dad, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Before Michael could exit on his own, Edwige spoke. “Let me walk you to the door.” She grabbed Michael gently by the elbow, fully aware that Vaughan was scrutinizing her actions. At the door she positioned herself so Vaughan could only see her from the back, and when she spoke, she barely made a sound. “You did the right thing telling me about Morgandy. Thank you.”

  He didn’t know if he moved first or if it was Edwige, but suddenly they were hugging. And he was speaking just as softly in her ear, his eyes deliberately avoiding his father’s gaze. “We’re going to feed.”

  Edwige knew she was being offered an invitation, but it, unfortunately, was one that she couldn’t accept. “And may it be glorious.”

  Sitting on the shore of Inishtrahull Island, his arms wrapped around Ronan’s still wet body, Michael realized Edwige was wrong—their feeding had been more than glorious; it had been the most passionate yet. He supposed it was simply that after the evening they had had, they needed to reclaim their love for each other, acknowledge it, explore it, taste it more deeply than ever before. Smiling before he spoke, Michael was happy this relationship thing was starting to feel completely natural. Things that might have been difficult to express a few months ago were getting easier to share. “I stopped by my father’s apartment to speak with your mother,” Michael confessed. “I thought she should know about Morgandy.”

  Not a flicker of disapproval appeared on Ronan’s face, only delight. “Crikey, Michael, you really are trying to be the ideal husband, aren’t you?”

  Holding Ronan closer, inhaling deeply the heat and the ocean that clung to Ronan’s body, Michael wasn’t sure what he meant. “You have to stop speaking in that literary code of yours, Ro.”

  Turning to face Michael, Ronan explained himself. “Your relationship with your dad is still pretty baltic, and yet you went there because of me. Thank you.”

  Now that was about as direct as Michael could hope for. “You’re welcome.”

  Michael wasn’t the only one who was hopeful. Far off in the distance, Edwige was watching her son and his boyfriend and cried, quietly but joyfully, as she watched the easy way they held each other. She prayed that their love would last for eternity and that they would never experience the kind of pain she had endured when Saxon was taken from her. She didn’t want any of her children to know such inconsolable grief. But she also knew that if it was meant to be, there was absolutely nothing she would be able to do to prevent it.

  chapter 20

  A new year, a new term, same old practice.

  The minute school resumed after the holiday break, Blakeley started drilling the swim team like they were preparing for the Olympics. Swim Team Nationals was a prestigious event, but no matter many how many races Double A students won, no one was going to end up on a box of Wheaties or with a million-dollar endorsement deal. Bragging rights and a keen looking trophy were about all they could hope for, yet Blakeley refused to ease up. Standing on the side of the pool, Ciaran was catching his breath in between heats talking to Ronan who was putting on a pretty good show of looking equally exhausted.

  His chest heaving, Ciaran wiped his forehead, not knowing how much of it was water and how much was sweat. “I still can’t believe Mum didn’t want to spend the holidays with you.”

  Ronan was bent over, his hands pressed into his knees, watching the water drip off his nose onto the gym floor. “It’s her life, mate,” he replied. “If she’d rather spend Christmas and ring in the New Year with Michael’s father instead of her own children, well, that’s her own bloody problem.”

  Ciaran knew Ronan’s offhanded comment was only an attempt to hide his true feelings. No matter what he said, his brother was upset and hurt by their mother’s actions. Ciaran, however, was used to being ignored by Edwige and had developed a much thicker skin as well as a self-serving philosophy. “I’ve resigned myself to the fact that for all intents and purposes I’m an orphan,” he said, fully expecting the look of sorrow that spread across Ronan’s face. “And don’t make that face. You know I’m right.”

  Ronan held Ciaran’s gaze for as long as he could, then shifted to watch a patch of water develop into a puddle on the gym floor. “Well, just ’cause I’m immortal doesn’t mean I don’t still need my mum,” Ronan said quietly. Instantly he realized he didn’t sound as flip as he had wanted. It wasn’t that he was ashamed to speak so truthfully to his brother; he just didn’t feel like having a heart-to-heart in the middle of St. Sebastian’s, so before Ciaran could respond, Ronan made sure he got in the next word. “And if you repeat that to anyone, I’ll deny it ’til my dying day,” he quipped. “Which you know won’t be coming round anytime soon.”

  Yes, Ciaran knew all too well that most of his relatives would outlive him by centuries at the very least. Unless, of course, something about his DNA changed, which he knew was a distinct possibility. Not one that he spent much time dwelling on, but one that offered him solace when he woke up in the middle of the night wondering what his future was going to be like. But at the moment, he didn’t want to think about the future. Pressing a towel into his face, Ciaran stifled a sudden laugh when he remembered the recent past. “The only nice thing to come out of Mum’s absence was that we all got to spend the holidays together,” Ciaran remarked.

  “A jolly good time was had by all,” Ronan said, smiling and nodding his head in agreement. “I think the best part was seeing you razz up your guts after drinking too much whiskey.”

  Just the thought of it made Ciaran’s head spin all over again. “Don’t remind me!” he
pleaded. He buried his face in the towel, which was not the wisest thing to do since the towel reeked of bleach and the smell, added to the memory of throwing up, made him cough fiercely. “Damn that Fritz for introducing me to the stuff.”

  Bending over again, but this time because he was laughing so hard, Ronan said, “I don’t think you’re supposed to wolf down three helpings of bangers and mash before drinking the whole bottle.”

  Ciaran snapped the towel at Ronan playfully. “I didn’t drink the whole bottle.”

  “Well, no, not at once!”

  “Aw stuff it,” Ciaran said, now laughing just as hard as Ronan.

  They could have spent the remainder of the practice session laughing over the dumb things they had done over their break—Ronan singing every single Christmas carol too loudly and disastrously off-key; Michael screwing up his mother’s recipe for plum pudding so badly that even the deer in The Forest refused to eat it; or Saoirse, who proved she wasn’t completely over Morgandy by making a snowman, putting a curly blond wig on its head, and then decimating her creation with a shovel until it was nothing but a small mound of snow and curls—but then they’d have to deal with Blakeley’s wrath, since he didn’t consider lollygagging a laughing matter. Like Michael and Fritz, who were sitting in the bleachers taking an unofficial break, were about to.

  “You ladies want to have tea or do you want to win Nationals?” Blakeley bellowed.

  Just as Fritz opened his mouth to speak, Michael kicked him hard in the shin. “Ow!” Fritz cried, clutching his leg.

  Extending his own leg, Michael replied, “Just stretching out a cramp, sir.”

  Blakeley eyed them suspiciously. He knew they were lying, but they were also two of his best swimmers, so he was willing to cut them some slack the first day back. But just some. “Ya got five minutes,” he shouted. “And I don’t care if you’re cramping so bad you need Dr. Sutton to make a house call. I want you both back in the water.”

  Still rubbing his leg where Michael had kicked him, Fritz exclaimed, “What’d you do that for?”

  “A preventive strike,” Michael said. “I know you were about to say that you could go for a spot of Earl Grey.”

  “Umbrage, Nebraska! I take umbrage!” Fritz protested, acting as if he was highly insulted before breaking out into a huge grin. “I was actually going to ask for a spot of orange pekoe,” he clarified. “My grandmum makes it for me with the best homemade scones and clotted cream.”

  Michael just knew the basics about Fritz’s family background, so he wasn’t sure if Fritz was joking. “And would that be your grandmum on your German side or your Ethiopian side?”

  “Grandmum Zara from Ethiopia,” Fritz replied, as if it were the most normal response in the world. Noticing Michael’s perplexed expression, Fritz filled in the blanks of his family tree. “She came to England when she was seven and worked as sort of an indentured servant in the house of some duke, at least I think it was a duke.” Fritz thought for a moment, but it didn’t help; he still couldn’t remember. “Well, the bloody chap had some kind of a title, and she went on to become his head chef,” Fritz explained. “She wrote a cookbook, and on the day it was published, the duke, or whatever he was, hung himself in the kitchen from one of those hooks they use to hold really big pots, because he had lost his fortune in a poker game.”

  “That’s horrible!”

  “For the duke, maybe, not his finest moment, for sure,” Fritz granted. “But the timing helped turn Grandmum’s book into a bestseller, and she made a couple million pounds.”

  No reason to be surprised. Of course a character like Fritz would have an ancestor who was just as colorful and entertaining as he was; that was expected. Michael had never expected Fritz to be insightful as well. “So fess up. What’s going on with you and Morgandy?”

  Startled, Michael wasn’t sure how to answer the question. Ever since finding out that Morgandy was both Saoirse’s and Ronan’s ex-boyfriend and what his true identity was, they had all agreed to keep the complicated matter confidential. Clearly, Fritz had picked up on some of the tension. “Nothing’s up between us. I don’t even know the guy that well,” Michael replied, unconvincingly trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Nebraska, you lie!” Fritz accused. “Just like you lied when you told me my idea to give Double P super stretchy arms and legs was brill.”

  Thankful to be given a topic that would steer them away from Fritz’s original question, Michael stomped his foot in a perfect imitation of Saoirse when she didn’t get her way. “I did not lie,” Michael protested. “I still say rubberized limbs are great powers that any superhero would kill to have.” Turns out the idea was also perfect fodder for almost every Double A student seeking revenge on Fritz, the consummate prankster, and wanting to make him the butt of a prank for once.

  “Tell that to my mum!” Fritz yelled. “I had to listen to her effing and blinding at me for almost a month when she saw all the rubbers everybody sent me.”

  Recalling the fiasco and the crazy amount of condoms the kids had stuffed in Fritz’s schoolbag and flung through his bedroom window, all of which were found by Fritz’s mother when she picked him up before the holiday break, Michael laughed harder than ever, stopping only when Fritz reminded him how they had stumbled onto the subject in the first place. “Don’t think I forgot,” he said smugly. “What’s your beef with Morgandy? Did you guys tell him to sod off ’cause he was seeing Saoirse on the sly?”

  Suddenly, laughing was the furthest thing from Michael’s mind. He had to think. If Fritz knew about Morgandy’s involvement with Saoirse, what else did he know about the guy? Unable to focus, Michael glanced across the gym and saw Morgandy chatting with Alexei and wished he could use his enhanced hearing to listen to what they were saying to each other instead of continuing his conversation with Fritz. But he didn’t want to give his friend any more reason to be suspicious. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “My girl, Ruby, told me,” Fritz replied, deliberately putting extra emphasis on Ruby’s name.

  “Your girl?”

  “That’s right,” Fritz declared. “You’re not the only one with a love life, Nebraska.”

  As much as Michael was happy that Fritz was experiencing what it felt like to be romantically involved with someone, he couldn’t give the relationship his blessing; he knew too much, about Ruby and about the other girl in Fritz’s life. “That’s great,” Michael said, hoping he sounded more enthusiastic than he felt. “I just wish, you know, that things could’ve worked out between you and Phaedra.”

  Surprisingly, Fritz didn’t make a joke or come back with a quick retort. He simply responded to Michael’s observation honestly. “So do I, mate, but what’s the bloody phrase? Just not meant to be.”

  Staring at Morgandy and then at Ronan, Michael was thrilled that in their case that cliché had been accurate. If not, well, Michael didn’t want to think about that.

  “Maybe he’ll just up and drop out too.”

  “Who?” Michael asked, not sure who Fritz was talking about.

  “Morgandy,” Fritz clarified, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “The Swede Saoirse was sweet on.”

  Something else that Michael felt wasn’t meant to be. David had brought Morgandy here for a reason. There was no way he was going to send him on his way or ship him off to another school because things hadn’t worked out between him and Saoirse. No, as much as Michael would like it, as relieved as he would be, Morgandy definitely was staying put. Fritz wasn’t as confident, and he really had good reason. “Give him some time, and he’ll up and leave like all the rest,” Fritz said. “Phaedra, Imogene, Hawksbry, Doc MacCleery. Even Diego—no one’s seen the bloke since before that daft holiday of yours.”

  “Christmas isn’t exclusively American.”

  “No, the other one,” Fritz replied. “Where you hoodwinked the Indians and stole their land.”

  “Thanksgiving?”

  “That’s the one,” Fritz said. “Don’t know why y
ou’re all so bloomin’ proud of yourselves over that coup. You stole their land you know.”

  “Oh, and the Brits never stole land that wasn’t theirs?”

  Smiling and leaning back into the bleachers, Fritz responded, “We did it for Her Majesty. You did it for corn on the cob.”

  “You’re a lunatic, Fritz!”

  Tilting his head in acknowledgment of Michael’s praise, Fritz switched topics yet again. “Perhaps I am,” he said. “But if I were in charge of this school, no one would ever go missing.”

  If only Fritz or anyone could ever have that power. “Really?” Michael asked. “And how would you prevent that?”

  “I’d inject every one of us with a GPS device, so when somebody goes missing, the headmaster’ll be able to track ’em down.” Fritz slapped Michael so hard on the back he actually felt the sting for a few seconds. “What a corking issue that would make!” Fritz exclaimed. “Double A turns out to be built on a bloody wormhole and more people start vanishing from the school than in a missing person’s unit.”

  Little did both Michael and Fritz know that not all missing persons remained missing.

  When Blakeley’s whistle blew, Nakano jumped. When Blakeley announced that he wanted the A Team of Ronan, Michael, Morgandy, and Fritz to practice the four-man relay, he sat back down. When Blakeley stood with his back to the windows that opened out to The Forest and Imogene materialized behind him, Nakano ran out the side door.

  Lucky for them Blakeley was fixated on watching the technique of his starting team and Kano could run faster than most people could blink, so he wasn’t seen by anyone leaving the gym. He was, however, seen by someone entering The Forest.

  “Get away from me, you murderer!” Imogene cried.

  “Are you completely off your trolley?!” Nakano shouted back.

  Imogene was furious that Nakano was ruining her excursion. When Brania had raised her hand to slap her, Imogene took the opportunity to fade out of that claustrophobic cave and fade into one of the places that had brought her so much joy when she was alive: St. Sebastian’s.