Unwelcome

by Michael Griffo

  “You should leave us now,” David said.

  His eyes still focused on Ciaran. It took Brania a moment to understand that her father was speaking to her. Still, unaccustomed to being told what to do, she didn’t move. When David spoke again, his eyes, if not his face, turned to address his daughter. “Are your ears not working properly?”

  “Yes, but I . . .” The words caught in Brania’s throat, which was an entirely new sensation for her, far too unpleasant, far too human for her liking. “I thought it would serve us all best if I stayed to help answer any questions Ciaran may have in response to your request.”

  “Well, my dear,” David said, his lips forming a tight smile, “you thought wrong.”

  After a few moments of silence, it was clear that her father wasn’t going to speak again, and from the tone he had used, the tone that Brania had heard him employ often over the past few centuries while speaking to subjects, victims, those who inhabited the inferior classes, she knew that nothing she could say would appease him, and most likely her rudeness would infuriate him. Or worse, disappoint him. He was giving her an order and regardless how slighted, how upset it made her feel, she had been taught to comply. “As you prefer, Father.”

  No one spoke as Brania walked toward the front door, allowing the room to be filled, unencumbered, by the sound of her clicking heels, a sound that she now hated, a sound that now accented her defeat. Outside, alone, Brania acknowledged that she did not enjoy feeling like a pawn. It was some comfort, however, knowing that Ciaran would soon feel the same way.

  “Women are always trying to belong,” David said. “They simply cannot accept that they are not man’s equal. Don’t you agree?”

  Ciaran didn’t agree actually. He always thought women were just as smart and as capable as men. And he knew firsthand from watching Edwige in action that women could also be physically stronger than men. But even though he believed in equality of the sexes, he was shocked to hear himself voice a contrasting opinion. “Yes,” Ciaran said firmly. “Women must accept their own subservience.”

  “Well phrased,” David said. Leaning in closer to Ciaran, his blue eyes reflecting the silvery speckles within the granite: “Do you mind if I repeat that idiom in my own private conversation? It’s such a clever expression; it just begs for a larger audience.”

  The new headmaster, Brania’s father, thinks I’m clever? “Well, sure, by all means.”

  “Thank you, Ciaran, I appreciate that.”

  Even if Ciaran had wanted to stop David’s next movement, he wouldn’t have been able to, so quickly did he grab the microscope, wheel it around, and peer into it to look at the sample of Ronan’s blood. The odd thing was, Ciaran didn’t want to stop him; he appreciated his interest. No one ever cared about his experiments, no one ever wanted to know more about what interested him, and here was this man, this really great man, taking notice of his work. The simple truth was it made him feel good.

  “I must confess, Ciaran, I am not a man of science like you are,” David stated. “But I am fascinated by its principles. Whoever deciphers them holds the keys to the universe.”

  He gets it! He understands why I’m so passionate about my work! “That’s my goal, sir,” Ciaran explained. “To unlock as many principles as I can, to learn as much about how the world works and about how we function in this world as I possibly can. It’s all I think about most days and, well, I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but it’s what I’m quite good at. I only hope I’ll get the opportunity to continue my research.”

  Such obedience, such willingness. Some children make it so easy. “Objective assessment of one’s own strength is hardly arrogance. On the contrary, it’s humility.”

  And all this time I was afraid to say what I honestly felt because I thought everyone would consider me conceited. “Really? That’s being humble?”

  “Acceptance of the talent and skill God has awarded you is a most humbling act,” David replied. “Take me for example. I accept the fact that God has given me the talent to lead. Is that arrogance?” Without waiting for a response, David answered for his student. “I think not, I am merely acknowledging God’s work.” David felt the spark of inspiration ignite inside his mind. “Come to think of it, isn’t that all that science really is, God’s work?”

  Never have I thought of it that way, but he’s right, he’s absolutely right. My research, my studying, the hours I’ve spent in this lab, have all been for the sake of God. “I’ve never been so proud to be a scientist.”

  “And I’ve never been so proud to give a student the chance to fulfill his dreams,” David said. “But first I need you to promise me something.”

  “Of course, anything.”

  “For the time being, I would like the fact that I am also Brania’s father to remain a secret to be shared by only a select few,” David explained. “I trust you will agree to be part of that special group?”

  They both knew what the answer would be before Ciaran even spoke. “I would be honored.”

  And if I were subject to God’s will, I would be humbled. “Now let me attempt to speak in the language you most readily understand,” David said. “Science.”

  Captivated, Ciaran listened as David began to describe the help he needed, the help that only he could provide. “I am very interested in what separates species, the genetic differences that make one life-form unique from another.”

  Ciaran understood and what’s more, he shared the same fascination. “You’re talking about the deviations in the genetic makeup between vampires and humans, right?”

  Close. “Absolutely!” David replied. “Not only are you intelligent but intuitive as well.”

  He even gets more excited than my science professors, Ciaran thought. They just nod and mumble questions. David, I mean Headmaster Zachary, wants to get involved, wants to get involved with me. “Thank you, sir,” Ciaran said. He then unlocked the drawer to his left and pulled out a notebook, page after page filled with scribbled notes in his handwritten code, diagrams, calculations, and complex algorithms, none of which were decipherable by anyone but him. “I’ve actually started doing a few experiments on my own.”

  David was very pleased. He had known Ciaran would be willing to help; not many could resist his power of persuasion. But he never expected him to be armed with such vast material from the onset. This boy has been quite industrious. “Well, well, well, I see someone has been doing much more than schoolwork.” For the first time since David walked through the door, Ciaran was nervous. “Don’t worry,” David said reassuringly. “I wholeheartedly approve of your extracurricular activities.”

  Relieved, Ciaran went on to explain that the sample of blood in his microscope was actually Ronan’s. “Does your half brother know that you’re examining his DNA?”

  “Well, not exactly,” Ciaran confessed. “I was really hoping to get some of Michael’s blood, but once I saw it, I knew it was Ronan’s. I have some older samples of his blood, and this one is the same as those.”

  David was very surprised. Usually he lost interest in someone much sooner than this, but the more Ciaran spoke, the more intrigued he was becoming. “Is there any reason why Michael’s blood would prove to be more . . . interesting?”

  “Since Michael’s been a vampire for a much shorter period of time, I thought he might still have some human genetic composition in his blood. Ideally I’d like to track his blood over the course of several months to see if it changes in any way.”

  “I see,” David replied. “Ciaran, I am more convinced than ever that you are the right man for this job. And furthermore, we will make a magnificent team.”

  Despite the elation Ciaran was feeling, he was starting to get a headache. If he didn’t know any better, he would think it was the beginning of a migraine. But he had never had one of those in his life. “That sounds wonderful, Mr. Zachary, I mean Headmaster.”

  Laughing, David clutched Ciaran’s shoulder, causing him to flinch. He wasn’t afraid of this man; it was
just that his touch was so cold, like the ice that covered the windows. “You have my permission, in private only of course, to call me simply by my first name.”

  “Thank you, David,” Ciaran said proudly.

  Without another word, David turned and started to walk toward the door, stopping only when he knew Ciaran was doing nothing more than staring at his back, waiting for him to speak. “Continue with your experiments and report to no one but me,” David ordered.

  “I’m not sure if I can do that . . . Da . . . sir.”

  David’s eyes turned black, only for a second, not long enough for Ciaran to notice, but long enough to remind David how much he detested insolence. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “In order to conduct more experiments, I need Michael’s blood, and I don’t know if I can get that without his knowledge.”

  He wasn’t being insolent, just practical, just being a good little scientist, a good little scientist who had nothing to worry about. “You leave the acquisition of Michael’s blood to me,” David said. “I’ll make sure you have more than you need.”

  The moment David was gone, so too was Ciaran’s headache. What lingered, however, for quite some time afterward, was the feeling that he had just had one of the most significant conversations of his young life.

  Although his life could hardly be considered young, David felt the same way. This student, this young scientist, would prove immensely helpful in finding out what made those infernal water vamps walk in the sun outside of the hallowed grounds of Eden and why they only needed to feed once a month. It would bring David one step closer to uncovering the origins of The Well, their pagan god, so he could destroy it once and for all. The beauty of his plan, what made him admire it so much even if he alone created it, is that Ciaran would be doing all the work for him and would never know that he was betraying his own family. Pausing for a moment, David had an incredible thought: Maybe this child was fully aware of what he was doing. Born unto that disgraceful Edwige and saddled with that pompous Ronan for a brother, Ciaran would not surprise him at all if he had begun his research in the hopes of destroying his own family.

  “If that turns out to be the case, I promise I will reward him properly.”

  He wasn’t speaking to himself but to his namesake, the archangel Zachariel. David looked up to the unsmiling face carved from ancient oak, silhouetted by the sun, and forever etched into the side of the doorway of Archangel Cathedral, and he was filled with a conflicting combination of love and hatred. Every time he passed by the cathedral, he was disgusted to find Zachariel’s image not gracing the apex of the archway, where it should be, but relegated to the side, under the lesser angels. One day he would rectify that imperfection, when his full power was restored, when the academy was cleansed of all its impurities. Until then he would close his eyes and imagine things the way they should be. And, of course, talk to Zachariel, who was always willing to listen to his most loyal servant.

  “I have put another phase of our plan into motion,” David whispered, believing that his voice was lifted by the breeze and taken to the waiting ears of his king. He also believed that when the wind erupted all around him, uplifting the snow from the ground and off of the branches, and his face and his heart were surrounded with an intense, numbing cold that Zachariel was offering his reply.

  “Why has it taken you so long?”

  David’s knees buckled when he heard the harsh voice, and he almost knelt before the face of the angel, the angel that had suddenly grown angry, so confrontational. But David knew better. He knew that above all, Zachariel longed to admire his servants for their strength, not their weakness. “I have chosen a steady path and not a hasty one,” David said, willing his voice to stay calm and resolute. “I have learned by your guidance that quick-footed vengeance does not always guarantee victory.”

  Slowly, the collection of clouds overhead separated, allowing the sun’s rays to shine through. David lifted his head and welcomed the warmth of the sun, feeling its mercy grace his face, and he knew that the path he had chosen was the right one. “With the help of the children, I will make this land holy again.”

  And with the help of his own child, he was about to return to an even happier time, to a time when he was just beginning to make important choices.

  Across campus, Brania was walking aimlessly, as she had been ever since she left St. Albert’s, ever since she was told to leave by her father. Wandering, wandering, wandering, amid the snow and the trees and the few curious students who passed by her, wondering who she was. I’m no one, she wanted to call out to them, I am no one, and yet I am more than you can possibly imagine. And I am this way because of Him.

  The only reason she stopped was because she heard the music. It was soft, glorious in its tone, and enchanting in its melody, she knew she had heard the sound before, but she couldn’t place it. Instead of wasting time trying to determine how she remembered the tune, she sat on the trunk of a fallen tree and allowed the music to consume her, take her on its journey, and as is sometimes the case among those who share the same biological and vampiric bloodlines as she and her father did, she did not journey alone.

  Watching herself as a young girl of six, perhaps seven, Brania was astounded she had spent so many years looking as she did just now, like a teenager, voluptuous, forever on the brink of womanhood, that she had forgotten she had once been a little girl. The vision was momentous, but heartbreaking.

  It was quite the opposite for David. It was gratifying to be able to see in detail a memory from so long ago, a memory of him and his daughter, just as she was starting to comprehend his immense power. He remembered exactly when this memory took place: 1684, in a field in County Clark in Ireland, where he’d met Brania’s mother, a weak woman not resilient enough to survive the birth of her only child. Brania’s black hair framed her angelic face in a multitude of tendrils, and her lips and cheeks were a healthy pinkish-red color, like baby’s blood. As she ran, her tiny feet were hidden by the overgrowing brush, and she seemed to float; the green silk hem of her otherwise cream-colored dress appeared to be an extension of the grass. She looked like an angel, a dark-haired, bloodstained angel gracing the earth with her presence.

  To Brania, her younger self just looked frightened. She knew what was coming, she knew what was expected of her, and even though it was not the first time, she knew it would be difficult. Killing had not come as easy as Father had promised.

  “See the boy, Brania,” David said, kneeling down next to her, making sure he knelt on his black velvet robe so his white breeches wouldn’t be stained with grass. “He’s the one I would like. Call him over and ask him to play.”

  Hesitating, but only for a second, Brania shouted over to the boy and watched him run toward her. She recognized him as a boy from one of the poorer families in the village, but she didn’t know his name. Better that way, better not to know too much about the children her father wanted her to kill.

  As the boy in the memory got closer, the music got louder, as if whoever was singing, whoever was making that beautiful music, knew what was going to happen and was singing louder as a warning. Useless. Nothing could save the boy, not now, not then, not as long as her father wished him to be dead.

  The boy saw David nod in Brania’s direction, but he never saw the rock strike the side of his head, the rock that the little girl had concealed within the folds of her dress. He never felt his body fall onto the grass, he never felt the stream of blood trickle down the side of his face, and he never felt David’s fangs pierce into his neck. Brania was thankful it was dark, grateful there was no sun to illuminate the scene. She didn’t want to see her father drink from this boy, she didn’t want to see Him take his life away. All she really wanted to do was run, as far away as she could, but she knew then, as she knew now, that there was no escaping Him.

  As her father drank hungrily from the boy’s limp body, Brania remembered that he had promised her riches in exchange for her help, toys and jewelry when she got older
, the most expensive, beautiful clothes, anything that she could ever want or desire. That helped, knowing that her actions were worthy of reward. And recognition. “My child,” David told her, “you will always sit on my right side, on the right side of the Father.” It’s the only place Brania ever wanted to be.

  So lost in her memory, so lost in the confused mind of the girl she was all those centuries ago, that when she saw Edwige she didn’t follow her. She had done enough traveling for one day and all she wanted to do was sit and listen to the music.

  Edwige was surprised that more people hadn’t seen her walking across campus. She was afraid these past few weeks that she might be spotted by David or Brania. Such a meeting would have been unfortunate, but luckily that never happened. She also thought she would have been seen by Ronan’s friends or some teachers who weren’t fond of adults roaming around school grounds without an obvious purpose. She didn’t feel threatened by anyone, but she hated having to explain herself. Perhaps she had gone unnoticed because from behind she looked like just another student. That was entirely possible; being petite really did have its advantages.

  Exactly three hundred and forty feet into The Forest of No Return, Edwige turned right and walked until she reached the old oak tree that at some point in its history had been split in half by lightning. And then she turned left and walked until she reached the cave. The area was desolate and wild, which was why she chose it; she knew no one would stumble upon it accidentally. She could remain unworried in the knowledge that here her treasure would be safe.

  The opening to the cave was so low to the ground that even Edwige needed to bend as low as she could to enter. Once inside, she noticed the smell, but was no longer repulsed by it, by the dank earth, untouched by snow and still reeking of a fertile and powerful odor. The singing, however, still annoyed her. She did not appreciate music; she much preferred visual art. She could, and often did, gaze at a painting for hours and imagine living within its canvas, but when she heard music, all she heard was someone else’s voice and she didn’t much care about what anyone else had to say.