Unwelcome

by Michael Griffo

  She’s trying; I can’t fault her for that. But she’s not trying hard enough. “Yes, I know all of that, dear,” David sighed, giving the large wooden globe next to his desk a spin. “I’ve already instructed Amir to bring me some samples that Vaughan brought back from his factory.”

  Shifting nervously in her chair, Brania uncrossed her legs and felt her throat tighten. She knew all too well what was happening, her position was being challenged. It was not the first time, but it was easier to handle when her father was thousands of miles away. Now that he was here, ensconced in the heart of her world, the world she had come to love, it was much more difficult to ignore his presence and his insinuations. “I didn’t realize that,” she said meekly.

  A condescending smile formed on his lips. “I know. And you should know that you will need to work harder if you wish to remain my favorite child.”

  Another vision penetrated Brania’s mind, obscuring everything else. It was evening. She was slightly older now, around ten or eleven, dressed in a sumptuous black and green silk dress, much more appropriate for a woman twice her age, but one that shone luxuriantly in the moonlight. Her hair was swept back from her face with a diamond and emerald tiara and cascaded down the middle of her back in a spectacle of ringlets and curls. Even then, holding her father’s hand, walking in a piazza in the Vatican, she looked much older than her years.

  She remembered her father telling her that he loved to walk among the shadows of piety, loved to feel the edges of moral justice fall at his feet, nipping at him but never infecting him with their self-righteous ethics. Strolling amid such ridiculous religious idolatry, he felt like a god among fools, and Brania, though she didn’t understand everything her father said, felt like a goddess. However, it was only when she heard the music that she felt truly divine.

  Somewhere from behind one of the gilded doors, just on the other side of an ornate window, floated a voice, a voice that made Brania’s heart flutter while it made her body become motionless. She couldn’t move, not while the voice was calling to her, calling to her in a beautiful, haunting soprano that she swore belonged to an angel. A mortal being could never touch her soul like that. The only being who ever came close to touching her so deeply, so unforgivingly, was her father, and his mortality had been long removed.

  Her mind returned to the present and she had to stop herself from shouting out loud, “I’m also your only child.”

  Reading her mind, David closed his eyes and was transported back to the Vatican with Brania. He heard their heels click on the gold-laden pavement, he heard the gorgeous notes of the angel-soprano, he felt Brania’s tiny hand in his, but what he remembered most was the darkness. How he longed to feel the warmth of the sun on his face on land that wasn’t consecrated; on land far from Double A, beyond Eden. How he longed to lead his people back into the light.

  He was so consumed with his ambitious reverie that he let his guard down and Brania was able to get a glimpse into his thoughts. “Do you really think that day will come?” she asked. “When we can walk in the sun as freely as They can?” She didn’t need to call water vamps by their name. David knew who she meant. She also didn’t need to elaborate, but she did. “Shouldn’t we consider ourselves lucky that we can walk in the sun here, on Archangel Academy ground?”

  Lucky? Luck had nothing to do with it and luck will play no part when we are able to walk every inch of the earth in the sun. “Thanks to me.”

  Or so you say. Maybe it was the close and constant proximity to her father, maybe it was the fact that she has been a child for so many centuries, but Brania was feeling oddly rebellious. It wasn’t a feeling she was completely comfortable with, but one that she was starting to embrace. “You’ve never fully explained how that’s possible,” she mentioned. “After all I’ve done for you, I would welcome knowing the truth of our origin.”

  David was sure that Brania would like to know about their origin, the offering he made to Zachariel, the woman he loved, the same woman whose life he sacrificed in order to give his people a glimpse of the sun. But David didn’t want to share any of his secrets, even though he feared he would not always be able to conceal them. Someday their truth, his truth, would be revealed. So he remained silent.

  David rubbed his bearded chin with his thumb and forefinger, allowing them to linger over the roughness of the stubble, his eyelids fell slowly closed, and his fingers stopped moving. It looked as if he had fallen asleep. But Brania knew better. When he opened his eyes abruptly, David’s voice was as harsh as his words. “There is nothing you have ever done for me that wasn’t done for your own gain.”

  Hardly stunned, it was the response Brania expected. Laughing, she replied, “To quote one of the queens who was smitten with you at one time, I am my father’s daughter.”

  David’s face froze. It showed no emotion to betray his feelings. Brania was right: She was like him and it was all his fault because he had raised her in his image.

  Vaughan, however, could place the blame elsewhere. This is not my son, he thought. He may look like me, but he wasn’t raised by me, he doesn’t share my principles, and now he’s one of Them. Even if I wanted to bridge the gap, what would it matter? “So what really brings you here, Michael, in the middle of a school day,” Vaughan said, anxious to get back to business that he could handle.

  Well, Michael, you came here to get some answers, so you might as well start by asking some questions. “I, um, remembered some things that Mom said, and, well . . .” Focus, focus on why you’re here and what you need to say and just say it. “Why would Mom say that she was ashamed of you? What did you do to her?” There, that wasn’t so difficult. If that was true, why was his heart beating so quickly? For that matter, why was Vaughan’s?

  A few short strides and Vaughan was back behind his desk, in his comfort zone, confronting business issues, not personal ones. “There are things between a man and a woman, personal things, that you wouldn’t understand, Michael.”

  What?! How can he say something like that? Just because I’m gay, he doesn’t think I can understand what goes on between a man and a woman? “I understand about relationships, you know!” Michael shouted. “You may not want to accept it, but I’m in one!”

  Breaking the pencil in half that he was twirling between his fingers, Vaughan tossed the pieces across the room, “I don’t want to hear about that.”

  “You know what I am, don’t you?!”

  Oh, Michael, I know more than you think I know, but I don’t want to talk about it. “Don’t say it!”

  The venom in Vaughan’s voice was palpable. Michael could feel it reach out and wrap itself around his throat, tighten and pull, until he could hardly breathe. His father didn’t even want to hear the truth about him, didn’t even want him to say the words, but Michael refused to remain silent even though it was his father’s wish. “I knew one of my parents was ashamed of me because I’m different, because I’m gay!” he said, proud that there were no tears welling up in his eyes. “I just thought it was the wrong one.”

  Vaughan couldn’t look up from his desk, he couldn’t look at his son, but he couldn’t continue the conversation either. “I think you should go.”

  “If you have nothing else to say,” David declared, “I think it’s time for you to go.”

  Rising from her chair, Brania walked toward the door, looking as obedient and willing as the child she had been so many centuries ago, but she wasn’t leaving the room. She was merely locking the door to give her and her father more privacy. “Oh, I do have a few more things on my mind that I’d like to express,” Brania said, sauntering along the perimeter of the room until she got to the window behind her father. Once there, she stopped moving, which forced David to turn around in his chair to face her, an act of submission that he was willing to perform if it meant his solitude was once again within reach. “Why do we need Vaughan? And why do you want his relationship with Michael to mend?”

  Unused to being questioned so directly, David f
elt a mixture of pride and hatred as he looked at his daughter, her auburn hair softened by the sunlight. “You know how I loathe manual labor. For that reason alone, Vaughan’s factory is vital to our future.”

  “And how does Michael fit into all of this?”

  Ah, Michael, the young man who holds the other key to their future. “I need the boy to feel at ease. I know he and Ronan are a loving couple, but it would be helpful if he had a more harmonious relationship with his father. A child needs a parent, Brania,” David said. “You of all people should know that.”

  Brania knew that, but Michael didn’t.

  “Remember one thing, Dad,” Michael spat, “I survived for years without you. It won’t be hard for me to learn to live without you again!”

  A few seconds after the front door slammed shut, the closet door opened. Smug, Amir shook his head. “I could’ve taken him, you know!”

  Whirling around, it was all Vaughan could do not to grab the punk and hurl him across the room. “Shut your mouth!” From under his desk he pulled out a box and tossed it to Amir. “All you need to do is take this package to David!”

  “I know what’s expected of me.” Yell at me all you want, old man, Amir thought, his skinny arms wrapped around the box protectively. Headmaster isn’t going to be happy to know you still can’t get along with your kid.

  “Vaughan will not let me down,” David declared. “Once Michael is persuaded that all aspects of his life are moving toward a common, more sanguine goal, he and Ronan will become complacent, stop looking over their shoulders, and unwittingly lead us to The Well.”

  “And we’re certain that thing even exists?” Brania questioned.

  Such discouragement from my own offspring, truly disappointing. “Yes, I am certain, and when I find it I will have it destroyed, ending their life force, ridding the planet of their race, and, most important, restoring Archangel Academy to its former glory,” David explained calmly. “In fact, I’m planning a celebration to commemorate the event.”

  Inches from her father, Brania was struck by just how pompous he truly was. “Don’t you think that’s a bit premature?”

  Before this moment, David had never realized how insignificant his daughter truly was. “Broaden your vision. Several months from now, we will celebrate the arrival of the Black Sun, pay homage to the solar eclipse, when darkness conquers light.”

  Intrigued, Brania wanted to hear more, but when her father swung his chair around and picked up the phone, she knew it was time for her to leave. David, however, had one more thing to say. “When that time comes, I expect you to sit on my left side.”

  While David dialed, she was compelled to ask, “And who will sit on your right?” More interested in placing his phone call than responding to Brania’s question, David ignored her.

  Outside, Michael and Brania were each wandering aimlessly across campus, lost in their own thoughts, their own private conversations with the fathers they had just left. Fists clenched, his heels hitting the ground harder with each step, Michael was too angry and furious to notice Brania. All he wanted to do was get home, see Ronan, and forget about the miserable day he had had.

  Brania wished she could forget, forget about her conversation, forget about her past, forget about the fear that was growing inside her heart. Something was not right, something was not the way it was supposed to be. But when she heard Imogene singing in the distance, heard that glorious, angelic voice, it was as if all her pain was washed away. Instinctively, hopefully, she reached up to hold her father’s hand, but it wasn’t there. Standing alone at the edge of The Forest, Brania allowed the voice to comfort her, and for the first time in over a century, she allowed herself to cry.

  chapter 13

  Michael didn’t even feel Ronan’s mouth on his neck. The softness of his lips, the tentative sweep of his tongue, all unnoticed. There were just too many thoughts racing through his mind pulling him away from the present, away from Ronan.

  “Someone lied to me,” Michael announced.

  Ronan sighed. He didn’t want to talk, he wanted to use his mouth and lips to communicate in a completely different way, silently, but it was clear that Michael had a different objective. He was preoccupied, worried about something, and whatever it was, Ronan knew from experience that it needed to be dealt with or else Michael would never kiss him back. “So who do I have to beat up for lying to my baby?” Ronan asked, moving back to his side of the bed.

  “That’s the problem,” Michael answered. “I’m not sure.”

  Lying on his side, Ronan cradled his head in the palm of his hand, aware that it made his bicep bulge even larger. “Can you narrow down the field of suspects to perhaps a handful?”

  Tossing the heavy flannel covers off of him, Michael sat crossed-legged on the bed, his right foot dangerously close to Ronan’s mouth. It was all Ronan could do not to bend over and playfully bite one of his toes. “It’s either Jean-Paul or my father.”

  “Hmm, that bites,” Ronan said with a smirk, but Michael didn’t catch the joke.

  “Why do you say that?”

  Rolling onto his back, Ronan traced the cleft of his chest and then the thick outline of his pecs with his index fingers. Just because Michael wasn’t going to touch him didn’t mean he couldn’t. “I really don’t fancy beating up your dad.”

  Still oblivious to Ronan’s flirting, Michael continued questioning him. “How can you be so sure my father’s the liar?”

  Moving his fingers down to his taut stomach muscles, Ronan wondered how long he’d have to multitask before Michael joined in. “What reason would his driver have to lie to you? He hardly knows you,” he explained. “And what’s this big lie about anyway?”

  Shifting his weight, Michael flipped around and lay on his back. Well, Ronan thought, that’s a little progress. But Michael still wasn’t done talking. “Jeremiah,” he replied. “I don’t know why it really bothers me, but Jean-Paul said Jeremiah got a new job, and then my father told me he left because of a family emergency.” Swinging his legs up and raising his hands at the same time, Michael grabbed on to the soles of his feet. Ronan wasn’t sure if he was stretching his muscles or teasing him. “You know why I think I care so much?” Michael asked, but spoke again before Ronan could respond. “It ticks me off that they just can’t admit Alistair and Jeremiah ran off together.”

  Not that again. “Maybe they don’t know about the two of them?”

  Letting his arms and legs flop onto the bed, Michael stared up at the ceiling. “Or maybe, since my father’s homophobic, he can’t admit that two men might fall in love and run away together. Which is something he better get used to,” Michael said. “Because newsflash, his kid’s a homo too.”

  Moving suddenly, Ronan rolled over onto his stomach, resting his body on his elbows, his eyes widening like a child’s. “You are?”

  Laughing, Michael slapped Ronan’s shoulder. “Shut up!” The touch and the laughter broke the spell and Michael finally noticed how big Ronan’s arms looked.

  That’s better, Ronan thought. At last he’s looking at me the way he’s supposed to. “And you’re a pretty hot homo too.”

  Feeling bashful and passionate at the same time was such a wonderful feeling. “You think so?” Michael asked, knowing full well how Ronan would reply. This time when he was kissed, Michael felt it, felt the softness, the wanting, and he kissed back, pleasing Ronan immeasurably. How he ached for this connection, how he strived every day to keep it alive. It was the reason his race existed. After a few minutes, he could feel the warmth between them grow, the exchange of kisses become more intense, but Ronan didn’t want Michael to think that every kiss needed to lead to sex.

  Sitting up, Ronan turned Michael so his back was against his chest. He extended his legs, his toes sliding down Michael’s thighs, his calves, until their bare feet were rubbing against each other. Snuggling into Ronan, Michael let his body melt, let his head rest against Ronan’s chest and listen to the beat, beat, beat of his heart.
Both boys were at peace, amazed at how good it felt to be held. Stroking Ronan’s arm, Michael closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensory overload. Ronan’s muscles always felt stronger after a feeding, and The Well’s scent still clung to their bodies, fresh, fragrant, like early morning rain. Dreamily he spoke. “I think he’s the reason my mother took me to Weeping Water.”

  Caressing the veins of Michael’s hand and in between each finger where only this morning there was webbing, Ronan whispered, “Who?”

  “My father,” Michael replied, “She wanted to keep us safe. I’m not sure why, but I think she wanted to protect me from him.”

  Upon hearing that word, Ronan froze, just for a second and not long enough for Michael to notice. “What do you mean protect you?”

  Michael interlocked his fingers with Ronan’s, reveling in the strength of his boyfriend’s grip. “I think he was really mean to her, maybe to us even, and she was afraid,” Michael quietly admitted, wishing the words weren’t true. “She used to say he was evil.”

  This time Michael did notice that Ronan’s hand flinched within his. “Evil?” he asked.

  Nodding, Michael was aware that the conversation was getting a bit too solemn, so he tried to lighten the tone. “I thought she was just crazy, which, you know, she was, but still . . .”

  Evil, protect, these were Lochlan’s words, the same words he used when he was talking about Alistair. Do something, change the subject. Ronan kissed Michael’s temple, holding his lips there longer than expected. “She was a good mother,” he said, his voice hushed. “You should know that.” Michael nodded, breathing in slowly, deeply. “Mothers protect children,” Ronan added knowingly. “And in turn children protect their mothers.”

  Facing Ronan to look into his kind, blue eyes, Michael saw that they were also sad. “And where does that leave their fathers?”

  Suddenly the room was consumed with flames and the crackling of fire. Ronan could hear voices shouting, chanting, invading his ears. No, this isn’t real, this isn’t happening again. Something like that will never happen again. “That depends on the father, I guess.”