Unwelcome

by Michael Griffo

  That’s what Vaughan’s company manufactures? His curiosity piqued, Ronan wanted to ask some more detailed questions but decided it best to see if Jean-Paul’s response would fill in any blanks.

  “I do not know; I’m just zee driver.”

  So much for detail. Before Ronan could attempt to pry more information out of Jean-Paul, Michael spoke. “You sound just like Jeremiah, except, you know, you talk in a French accent,” he observed. “Hey, whatever happened to him anyway?

  “I was told he got a better job and quit,” Jean-Paul replied, taking off his hat, a few strands of hair falling across his face. “Though I can’t imagine a better job than working for Howard Industries or for your father.”

  Preoccupied with trying to figure out how to subtly ask more detailed questions about Vaughan’s business, Ronan didn’t notice Jean-Paul’s agile fingers tuck the loose strands of hair behind his ear, but Michael did. Michael also noticed how erect he stood and how he had maintained eye contact with him ever since he introduced himself, his dark eyes never looking anywhere else except right at him. Michael wished he could be that poised.

  “It’s a privilege to work for such a good man,” Jean-Paul added.

  He might be a member of Team Enemy, but his accent was easy to listen to, enticing, and Michael wanted to hear more of it. He was desperately trying to think of something to say when it became so obvious. “Have you ever heard of Ecole des Roches?”

  Jean-Paul and Ronan were both surprised by the question, but for different reasons. “Of course,” Jean-Paul remarked. “Eet eez a very famous school. Why do you ask?”

  Interrupting Michael before he could say Saoirse’s name, Ronan asked, “How did you come to work for Michael’s father?”

  “A mutual friend introduced us.”

  Really? Michael wanted to ask who, but he didn’t want to appear to be overly interested. But he did want to keep the conversation going. What else? What else can I ask? “Are you from Paris originally? You look like you’d be from Paris, you know, very fashionable.” Cringing, Michael felt like a fool. What a stupid thing to say. He’s wearing a uniform, a chauffeur’s uniform, that isn’t fashionable, that’s just a job requirement.

  “I was born in Lyon,” Jean-Paul said, his eyes smiling and reflecting the moonlight. “But I studied in Paris, so I guess that makes me an honorary Parisian.”

  “If you keep talking, you’re going to make us late.”

  Three heads snapped in the direction of the passenger’s side of the sedan. When the tinted mirror fully descended, both Michael and Ronan were shocked to see Nakano sitting in the front seat, looking angry and smug. “Mon cher, we’re not going to be late.”

  Mon cher? Doesn’t that translate to mean something like “my love”? Why would this driver, who was definitely older than they were, be using that kind of language to talk to Nakano? Unless . . . no, that was ridiculous, it couldn’t be. From Michael’s perplexed expression, Nakano knew exactly what he was thinking.

  “Yes, Michael, Jean-Paul is my new boyfriend and we’re on a date, so he doesn’t have time to play twenty questions with you.”

  If Jean-Paul was embarrassed by Nakano’s outburst, he didn’t show it. He was, after all, professional. Instead he put on his cap and offered a small bow in Michael’s direction. “Please accept my apologies on your father’s behalf.” Then he turned slowly, almost as if he knew he was being watched, and walked back toward the driver’s side of the car.

  “Tell my father,” Michael started, but when Jean-Paul turned back around to hear the message, Michael couldn’t think of anything he wanted to say to his father that he should repeat in public. “Forget it; don’t tell him anything.”

  Another slight tilt of his head and Jean-Paul was gone. Out of view, Michael imagined that he was leaning back against the black leather interior of the car, feeling its warmth, reaching over to touch Nakano’s waiting hand, whispering something to him in French, something sweet and provocative.

  “That doesn’t add up,” Ronan said.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Michael agreed. “How did Nakano ever land somebody like that? Jean-Paul’s like . . . an adult.”

  Ronan remained quiet. He didn’t contradict Michael and inform him that he wasn’t referring to Nakano’s latest conquest but to his father’s latest contentious action. Once again, Vaughan was unable to follow through with a plan, and that didn’t make sense. He seemed so eager to have dinner with Michael, so willing to bridge the gap that was separating them, and then he just up and leaves to fly halfway across the world without even calling his son. And to make matters worse, he sends an employee to apologize. What could be so important with his factories that he couldn’t take a moment to call Michael himself? And why did families have to be so complicated?

  “I’m sorry,” Ronan said. “I guess you were right.”

  “That my dad’s a workaholic and a jerk?” Michael said.

  “Yeah, well . . . I was hoping I was wrong too.”

  Ronan kissed Michael gently and slid his hand into his coat pocket. Their fingers interlocked and the soft, fleece lining embraced their hands, making them feel warm and cozy. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you flirting with the Frenchie.”

  Caught, Michael tried to escape from Ronan’s hold, which only made Ronan hold on to his hand even tighter. “I was not flirting,” Michael protested.

  Kissing him again, this time a bit rougher, to remind him of the passion they shared, Ronan felt Michael’s hand stop resisting. No need to resist because it was exactly where it ought to be. “Yes, you were,” Ronan whispered. “But remember, an Irish brogue is a lot sexier than a French accent.”

  He was right about that. “Let’s go home,” Michael said.

  Walking home with Michael, his arm around his shoulder, Ronan wished everything could be this simple, glitches, bumps in a relationship were expected and should be resolved quickly. But he knew better. He knew that fathers couldn’t be relied on to stick around and that sisters would always cause trouble. Family simply couldn’t be trusted.

  chapter 7

  At first the flame only flickered. Like a baby trying to stand for the first time, it was unsure that it could succeed, take root, and flourish, but soon, its confidence building, its strength growing, the flame expanded. Just as the baby’s outstretched arms clutched at the air, claiming more territory for its own personal space, the flame devoured more of the haystack, burning the straw until it turned black, then disappeared to be reborn, violently, miraculously, as fire. The man tied to the stake that stood in the center of the haystack didn’t see the transformation take place, but when he felt the heat intensify under his feet, he knew what was happening.

  “Burn, demon, burn!” the voice cried.

  Ronan had never heard such hatred before. He never knew a voice could be capable of such a sound, so harsh, so brutal, so inhuman. His parents’ voices were always filled with such kindness, such love, especially his father’s, except now his father remained silent as all around him the voices grew louder.

  Saxon closed his eyes when the first flames nipped at his feet. He didn’t want his son to see fear, he didn’t want him to know that his father had spent his last moments on earth frightened, uncertain if God would welcome him or if he would be plunged into a larger pit of fire as the men, the mortals rioting around him, encircling him, murdering him, had predicted. He knew he was going to be destroyed. He didn’t want his son to suffer the same fate.

  Eyes shut, he focused on a different, much happier, time. He watched himself entering the cave, kneeling before The Well, Edwige by his side, her long black hair cascading down her back, the back he loved to touch, caress, and he could hardly feel the flames devour his feet. He was stronger than these men, they would take his life, but they would not take his spirit. When he opened his eyes, he was confident that he would not make his son afraid, only more powerful. It would be a wonderful final gift.

  “Go back to the devil that spawned ya!�
�� the man holding the torch cried.

  Ronan was confused. He recognized the man and had thought he was a friend. He often saw him leaning his head close to his mother’s, smiling at her, putting his arms around her to make her feel good and happy like Daddy did to him after he fell and scraped his knee or was feeling sad. This man shouldn’t be yelling so loudly; he shouldn’t be trying to hurt Daddy with the fire, that’s not something a friend would do. “Leave my daddy alone!”

  His mother’s friend reeled around and stared at Ronan, his eyes gleaming bright, illuminated by the sparks. “You want to join your old man?!”

  “Ronan, come to me!”

  He heard his mother’s voice, but he couldn’t see her, there were so many people, all of them shouting, jumping up and down, filled with excitement as if they were watching a parade instead of his father. Maybe he was performing some magic trick. Yes, that had to be it! They were all shouting because they were being entertained.

  Ronan looked up and saw his father smiling at him like a magician smiling at a spectator just before doing one last spellbinding trick. And what a trick it was. A column of fire surrounded the lower half of his body, red, orange, and yellow flames floating all around him like autumn leaves swirling in a sudden gust of wind. He could hear the flames crackle and there was an odd smell in the air, but his father never stopped smiling, so everything was all right, there couldn’t be anything wrong. But why was his mother still shouting?

  “Ronan! Come to me!”

  Didn’t Daddy tell her that he was going to perform a trick for all the people? Didn’t she know that everyone had come to see the magic?

  The man with the torch spoke a few more words that Ronan didn’t understand, but the onlookers must have, because they gave a great cheer when he was finished. This man, who had to be his father’s assistant, threw the torch onto what remained of the haystack, turning it into an inferno of heat and vibrant color unlike anything Ronan had ever seen. He stood up on his tiptoes to try and find his father amid all the fire, but he was no longer there, his smile, his whole body, all that he remembered, was gone. That’s okay, he thought, he just disappeared, went some place where there wasn’t any fire, it was all part of the trick. But if it was, why was his mother crying?

  “Ronan!” Edwige was running toward him so swiftly it was as if she were flying. How lucky he was that both his parents had special powers. She scooped him up in her arms and held his body tightly to hers. He could feel her heart racing. Daddy’s magic show must have made her as excited as the crowd. She whispered in his ear, repeating the same words over and over again, “I told you to come to me.”

  Standing outside of St. Florian’s, there were no flames, no heat, only the cold night air and the fallen snow. There were no crowds obstructing Ronan’s vision, no people at all, no one except Edwige. “Mother,” Ronan asked. “What are you doing here?”

  Wearing a white fox jacket, a winter white beret that hid almost all of her hair, and wide-cut pants of the same color, Edwige was almost invisible. If it weren’t for the slash of red lipstick, she might have receded into the background, become part of the landscape, but Edwige was not one to blend. “I want to know how dinner went with your father-in-law,” Edwige said.

  A breeze blew past them, lifting some snowflakes from the ground, disturbing their slumber so they could be airborne once again. Ronan crossed his arms and wished that he had put on some more clothes before answering his mother’s telepathic command. He wasn’t cold of course, but standing in front of his mother, wearing only a T-shirt and boxer shorts, his bare feet pressed firmly into the snowy ground, he felt more submissive than he preferred. He thought it best to make up for his vulnerable appearance with a more insolent tone. “You couldn’t have called me tomorrow like a normal person?”

  “You know I can be impatient,” Edwige replied, waving away his impertinence. “And that I prefer to speak to my son in person.” You mean you prefer to control the situation and you have nothing else better to do but to meddle in my life. “Such angry, negative thoughts really are unbecoming,” Edwige said, reading her son’s mind. “You should choose your words and thoughts more carefully, especially when in the center of such serenity.”

  Ronan wasn’t sure if his mother was referring to herself or their surroundings, but either way he could find nothing serene about his current situation or, for that matter, the earlier events of the night. “Michael’s father canceled on him.”

  Was that disappointment that washed over Edwige’s face? Why does she even care about Vaughan? “After trying so hard to reestablish a connection with his son?”

  “That was my thought exactly,” Ronan said. “There’s something not right about him. Something’s off.”

  “That’s because the man is a vampire.”

  “What?!”

  Edwige looked at her son as if he had just committed the worst social faux pas of the season. “Will you keep your voice down? Do you want to wake up the entire school?”

  Walking toward his mother, his bare feet stomped on the ground so hard, little volcanoes of snow erupted with each step. “What the hell do you mean he’s a bloody vampire?”

  “Vaughan is one of Them, hand-picked by Brania to be one of her disciples.” Edwige watched a snowy white owl perched high in an oak tree, camouflaged from the human eye, crane its neck to look at something, prey perhaps, that had made a noise behind it. “She’ll lie down with anything, that one.”

  Still in shock, Ronan was trying to comprehend what his mother had just told him, but the more he thought about it, the more questions he had. “Why couldn’t I see it? How did he hide himself from me?”

  Walking closer to the tree, Edwige seemed more concerned with getting a better look at the majestic creature than answering her son’s questions. “There are ways of concealing oneself,” she replied slowly. “Brania may look like a schoolgirl, but she’s an ancient hag with more than one trick up her old-woman sleeves.”

  Even though her back was to him, she could hear Ronan talking to her, saying that it now all made sense. He understood why Vaughan had backed out at the last minute: He was afraid to be in his son’s presence since he thought Michael was still human. Then again, maybe he knew that Michael was a water vamp, that could be it too. Edwige watched the owl noiselessly creep along the branch, his eyes sharp with determination and focus, obviously on his way to feed. She knew from experience watching wild animals that nothing was going to get in its way until its craving was satisfied, its need relinquished. She strived for that same focus in her own life, but unfortunately, she could sometimes become so easily distracted. “What did you say?”

  “Vaughan is working with David!” Ronan exclaimed. “Howard Industries makes those contacts they wear. That’s where Michael’s father had to go, to his factory in Tokyo.”

  The owl spotted a field mouse, alone, unable to burrow through an ice patch, and it swooped down, disappearing out of view. Before the mouse could prepare itself, it felt talons pierce its skin and just before it lost consciousness, it felt like it was floating, completely free. Sometimes being the victim had its benefits; it brought with it freedom.

  Edwige had spent quite some time questioning herself, wondering why she had let herself become interested in Vaughan and how she could have allowed Brania to take away any opportunity she might have had to find peace within his arms. Now she realized she had been tricked, the playing field had been tilted and she had entered the competition at an unfair disadvantage. Brania and Vaughan weren’t playing alone or even together, they were part of a much larger team led by David, and no matter what she felt about her former lover, no matter how much she despised him, she had to acknowledge that he was extremely powerful and a formidable opponent. As powerful as she herself was. Against the three of them Edwige really never stood a chance.

  So she shouldn’t blame herself for losing, for not emerging victorious as she typically did. The only way she should cast blame on herself was if she didn’t a
ttempt to seek revenge. And, oh yes, warn her son. “Tell Michael to stay away from his father.”

  The finality in Edwige’s voice made Ronan nervous, “You think he’d hurt him?”

  Would a parent ever willingly hurt his own child? Edwige sighed, knowing full well the answer to that question, but she thought it best to keep that to herself. “Vaughan, like most men, cannot be trusted.”

  Once again Ronan was struck with how similar he and his mother were; their thoughts about men were almost identical.

  When he slipped into bed next to Michael a few minutes later, Ronan wondered if he should trust him with the truth. But when he felt Michael stir underneath his touch, he was overcome with the desire to protect him. He just wanted everything to stay the same, endless nights of sleeping next to the most beautiful boy in the world. He knew in his heart, however, that Michael was no longer a boy. He was changing and it had nothing to do with becoming a vampire. He was taking the first steps to becoming a man, and Ronan was delighted to bear witness to the transformation and proud that he had played a role in starting Michael on his journey. Ronan felt just like his father, which filled him equally with pride and with sadness, and he chose to smile in the darkness the same way his father had chosen to smile through the flames. Ronan wrapped his arm around Michael, holding his hand close to his chest, and was comforted, even as his mind searched for peace, by the steady, unwavering beat of his boyfriend’s heart.

  He spent most of the night praying that the changes occurring around him, the information that he was acquiring, would not damage his relationship with Michael or end the journey they were just beginning. While Ronan spent the night struggling to grasp abstract issues, come morning, Michael had more practical matters to deal with.

  Walking out of the locker room at St. Sebastian’s, Michael and Ciaran were stopped by the loud blow of Blakeley’s whistle. “You two have to miss a couple swim practices next week,” he bellowed, almost as loudly.