Extending his tongue, he flicked it to the side and lapped up the gash on his face, delighted to discover that his blood tasted even sweeter than the doctor’s. A few more licks and he felt the wound bubble, felt a tickling where the skin was being reborn. Less than a minute later, his cheek was fully repaired, as bronze-colored and smooth as before Michael attacked him. If the transformation hadn’t been so disgusting, Saoirse would’ve been impressed.
“That is goppin’ foul, Amir!”
His fangs may have been fully extended, but they didn’t prevent Amir from laughing hysterically. “When I’m done with you, I’ll show you what foul really looks like!”
“I seriously doubt that’s something you can do on your own,” Michael declared.
A freak and a fool. Amir smirked. “What if I have backup?”
Whipping around, his arm still protecting Saoirse, Michael was stunned to see Jean-Paul staring at them, his fangs as long and straight as the hair that fell in front of his jet-black eyes. He looked different, he looked menacing, wicked, like Amir. How in the world did Michael ever think he looked sexy?
Gripping Michael’s arm tighter, Saoirse whispered, “Where’s Ronan?”
“I don’t think he’s coming,” Michael whispered in response, praying that no one else could hear him. They couldn’t. They were too busy listening to David.
“Be careful, my son,” David warned. “You only need to lure the child and the water vamp away from the ocean.” Jean-Paul didn’t respond but followed his father’s orders, walking in a circle, clockwise, until he was in front of Amir, at which point he started walking toward Michael, making him and Saoirse react by inching backward and away from him.
Staring into Jean-Paul’s eyes, Michael tried to keep his face a blank mask. He was trying to determine, without giving away his growing sense of apprehension, if he would attack. He had been so nice, no, he had been more than nice. He had acted as if he wanted to be much more than Michael’s friend. Why was he coming at them like this, looking hostile, menacing, like he wanted to harm them, like he wanted to help Amir find out if he could kill Saoirse?
Because he is one of Them, you idiot! It’s like Ronan always said, their kind cannot be trusted, no matter how goodlooking, no matter how friendly and understanding they might be. Michael didn’t have time to berate himself. He had to be prepared, be ready for anything. Dammit, where was Ronan?! It would be so much easier if he was by his side where he was supposed to be. And Phaedra, where was she? She had promised to follow him, help him. There was no way he could protect Saoirse and fight off both Jean-Paul and Amir if it came to that. Luckily, David had other plans.
“Remember your instructions, Amir,” David seethed. “Forget about the girl and find The Well.”
Reluctantly, Amir obeyed, but just as he was about to turn and run into the ocean, he saw two blurred images approach the island, one swoosh of darkness coming from the inland, and a swirl of gray smoke flying in from the sea. When Nakano landed on the beach, Amir wasn’t terribly surprised. Wherever Jean-Paul was, his daft, lovesick boyfriend was never far behind, but when the cloud of smoke hovered over Michael and Saoirse, he was amazed. This wasn’t a natural phenomenon like the eclipse, this was something else, something preternatural, unreal. Amir just had no idea if it was something good or something like him.
As the fog began to twist and descend, Saoirse grabbed Michael even tighter, but Jean-Paul could tell by their expressions that this wasn’t something harmful. They weren’t afraid of what was happening; it was something they expected. “Go!” Jean-Paul shouted. Stunned, Nakano didn’t realize that Jean-Paul was ordering Amir to get on with his mission and find The Well. He thought his boyfriend was screaming at him to leave.
“No!” Kano shouted back. “I’m not going anywhere without you!” What happened next would make that proclamation a difficult one for Nakano to carry out.
When Michael and Saoirse were almost completely enclosed within the fog, Jean-Paul leapt forward and into the mist. On reflex, Nakano imitated his boyfriend’s actions and sprang toward the gray mass, reaching out his hand to try and latch on to Jean-Paul’s arm. His target, however, proved to be as elusive as the tendrils of smoke that wisped about his face. Using his free hand, Jean-Paul effortlessly pushed Nakano away and saw him fall onto the hard sand a moment before he disappeared completely into the fog. Astonished, Nakano watched the gray cage start to rise off the ground, his eyes averting from the apparition only when he noticed Ronan looking down at him, his fangs bared, his expression filled with contempt. But Nakano didn’t care. Nothing his one-time boyfriend could say or do mattered to him. He had to deal with someone else. And so did Ronan.
Jumping up, Nakano grabbed hold of the fog that was now as hard as stone. Using every ounce of strength he had, he punched, punched, punched at the gray rock, chipping away at its surface, determined to burrow a hole inside. Phaedra had other ideas. Spinning around, slowly at first, the hardened fog soon became a twister and Nakano spun with it, his body horizontal, his grunts, his cries, cutting through the cyclone’s wind. One by one Kano’s fingers slipped and separated from the rock. He tried to dig his fingernails into stone to maintain his hold, but it was no use. Soon he was flying wildly into the almost complete darkness to crash-land about a mile from the shoreline. Ronan would have tried to catch him to break his fall if he hadn’t seen Amir run into the ocean. He didn’t want Nakano to get hurt, but he had to protect The Well. That was, after all, why it had called him here.
“Listen to me carefully, my child,” The Well had said. “Enemies are drawing near and I need your help.”
My help? Ronan felt he had been lifted from a nightmare and placed within the center of a miracle. He had just buried Dr. MacCleery in a clearing in The Forest, buried a man who died simply because he was trying to be a guardian to the students at Double A, and now The Well was seeking his assistance. It was unprecedented and even though he had never heard The Well’s beautiful voice speak to him directly before, he immediately knew that it belonged to his life force. “Anything,” Ronan replied, his voice hushed and filled with humility. “I will do anything to protect you and our people.”
When The Well replied, Ronan could hear the pride in its voice. “I knew I could count on you, Ronan. All of Atlantis can count on your devotion.”
Ronan didn’t need to speak. The Well knew what he was thinking. “Don’t worry, child. Your sister and Michael will be protected.”
Greatly relieved that his commitment to preserve The Well would not result in any harm coming to Michael or Saoirse, Ronan was ready to do whatever was asked of him. After hearing his instructions, he had been confident he would succeed. Now watching Amir swim toward the horizon, he wasn’t so sure.
Sprinting barefooted down the beach, the sand spewing out at his sides, Ronan entered the sea, not even noticing the ice-cold temperature of the water. Without breaking his stride, he dove into the air, his body one long, muscular line, and he remained suspended for a few moments before plunging into the ocean after Amir.
It was then that the moon overtook the sun and the world was plunged into an unnatural darkness.
chapter 23
Michael thought he heard Ronan’s voice. He listened harder. Nothing, no update as to his whereabouts, no reassurance that he was all right, no apology. All he heard was Saoirse’s nervous, rapid breathing behind him and Jean-Paul slowly inhaling, then exhaling, in front. Every few seconds he could feel a hot stream of air float over his face. Several days ago the sensation would have been enticing, tempting, like the desire to reach out and pluck a piece of forbidden fruit from the vine. Now it merely filled him with disgust and disappointment. It was exactly how he felt about Ronan.
Why did he lie to me again? Why does he constantly make me feel like an idiot? Michael wanted answers; he wanted to know why he wasn’t here with him in the blackness of the fog so he could scream at him. Pound his fists into him. Throw his arms around him so Ronan would know how th
ankful he was that he was safe.
Stop it! Stop thinking about Ronan and concentrate on shielding Saoirse from Jean-Paul in case he attacks in this confined space. He hasn’t made a move, but he simply can’t be trusted. That’s what Michael told himself because as long as he and Saoirse were locked in the fog with Jean-Paul, they couldn’t waste time hoping that Ronan would rescue them. They would have to rely on themselves.
As he swam deeper into the ocean, Ronan forced himself to push thoughts of Michael and Saoirse out of his mind. The Well had sworn that they would be safe and he had no choice but to believe that. He knew The Well could do many things; lie was not one of them. It was just so hard being separated from those he loved, he wanted to be with them, especially Michael, just for a moment, just so he would know that Ronan was doing something wonderful, something important, and that he had not abandoned him, he would never, ever abandon him. But in the darkness, it was hard not to have doubts. Surrounded by the black, impenetrable water, it was hard not to feel scared.
Imogene stopped singing when everything turned black. She was afraid that her world was changing again, that she was dying and maybe this time she would be dragged into hell. She reached out and was grateful to feel Brania hold her shaking hand, put her arm around her shoulder, and promise that everything would be all right. She wasn’t sure she believed it, but it was comforting to hear nonetheless. “There’s nothing to worry about now,” Brania said softly to her newfound ward. “It’s only the moon playing a trick on the sun.”
Using her vampiric vision, Brania could see that her words were calming Imogene. She was still nervous, wary, but she was accepting the fact that she had a new guardian, a new mentor who would treat her with kindness and compassion, like a parent should. She could sense that Imogene knew she wouldn’t use her as a pawn, collateral, a way to make sure her unpleasant tasks were completed without Brania having to get her hands dirty. Unlike her father and Edwige, and, for the most part, Vaughan, Brania was used to getting her hands filthy, which is why she wasn’t afraid when Nurse Radcliff burst into the crypt, begging for blood.
“Give me the child!” the nurse screamed through the darkness. “I need to feed while the sun is black!”
Rubbing Imogene’s shoulder reassuringly, Brania slowly stood up in the coffin and watched the slovenly nurse practically hyperventilate as she followed the curious scent of Imogene’s blood, a unique mixture, half life and half death. She bent down, took Imogene’s still-shaking hand and kissed it. “Mother will be right back.”
Nurse Radcliff was so delirious from the intoxicating and unusual smell of Imogene’s blood that she actually thought Brania was stepping out of the way to give her a wide berth to feed. When she saw Brania’s face more clearly, she understood her mistake. The girl was unrecognizable, her fangs as sharp as stilettos and her outrage as black as the sun.
The first slap against her face took the nurse by surprise; the second made her realize Brania was not going to make it easy for her to feed; after the third, she decided she needed to fight back. Scurrying on the floor, Nurse Radcliff grabbed Brania’s ankle and swung her body into the cold, notched wall. For a fledgling vampire, she was surprisingly powerful and had learned how to corral her new strength faster than most. However, she lacked experience and that’s why Brania was able to quickly get the upper hand.
Wiping away some rock dust that clung to her chin, Brania grabbed the nurse by her throat, cringing when she felt her sharp nails penetrate the clammy skin near her shoulder. She hurled the nurse forward and heard a sucking noise as her nails withdrew from her plump flesh. When the ground shook, she knew the nurse’s back had rammed into the other side of the crypt. With one eye watching Imogene cowering inside the coffin, Brania swiftly ran to Nurse Radcliff’s side before she could get up. Unfortunately, it was what the nurse was expecting her to do.
When Brania hunched over to grab the nurse’s shoulders and hoist her up so she could finish her off, she was only partially successful. On her knees, Nurse Radcliff took the rock that was concealed in her hand and swung her arm overhead, bashing it into Brania’s temple with such force that Brania spun around, arms wide, free, useless, and slammed onto the stone floor. Breathing hard, Nurse Radcliff watched Brania’s motionless body for several moments, remembering what David had said about the importance of reveling in each victory. Eager for another celebration, the nurse cocked her head to the side so her eyes could fall on the young girl too afraid to leave her coffin.
Even though she was protected by the darkness, Nurse Radcliff crouched low to the ground and moved toward Imogene stealthily. Imogene couldn’t see, but she sensed a presence coming toward her and she knew it wasn’t Brania, it smelled sickly, sour. When she felt a hand grab her knee, she kicked her leg out and scrambled into a corner of the coffin. She knew she was no longer safe, but she didn’t have the courage to leave. She would simply have to pray that Brania would protect her, that she would be true to her word. She was.
“Don’t touch my child!!”
The force of the words was nothing compared to the force of Brania’s fist striking the side of Nurse Radcliff’s face, so strong that her cheekbone splintered underneath the skin, fragments of bone pierced her flesh, causing her to howl in agony. Brania ignored the nurse’s pleas for mercy. Any feelings of empathy, compassion, were lost in the confusing rage that swirled around her brain and her heart, the rage against her father, his injustice, his duplicity. Killing the nurse wouldn’t be as satisfying as killing her father, but it would be a start.
Lifting the nurse like an overstuffed rag doll, Brania held her up high so she could get a good look at her victim. She wanted to see her fear, she wanted her to be fully aware that there was no escaping the horror that was about to befall her. Nurse Radcliff understood. She also understood the ramifications of Brania’s impending actions. “You’ll burn in hell for killing your own kind!”
“Where do you think I’ve lived for the past two centuries?!”
Those were the last words Nurse Radcliff heard before her body was hurled into the air, stopping only when a long, jagged rock pierced her back, splicing through her heart, and she erupted in flames.
Stepping into the coffin, Brania sat behind Imogene and wrapped her arms around her as the crackling fire warmed their skin. Thankful that her fierce protector brought comforting light back to the crypt, Imogene began to sing. Brania was so content, so joyful, that she hummed along.
Fritz wasn’t joyful, but the two glasses of spiked punch he gulped down were making him feel much less despondent. He and Phaedra had planned on spending the denouement of the carnival together. When the sun was completely black, Fritz had planned on caressing the soft skin on the back of her neck, twirling his fingers through her falling curls, and kissing her more deeply than usual, but all those plans were shattered now that Phaedra had decided not to show up, now that she had chosen not to be with him.
Stuck in between Ciaran and Alexei, a part of the crowd of students and faculty watching the eclipse from within St. Sebastian’s, Fritz felt like a complete loser. The only way he knew how to shake that feeling was to have another drink. And to make sure he didn’t drink alone.
Fritz poured some whiskey from his flask into Ciaran’s plastic cup. “Now taste that.”
“What is it?” Ciaran asked.
“Don’t worry, mate,” Fritz advised. “It’s Irish, you’ll like it.”
Ciaran could smell the alcohol before he lifted the glass to his mouth and hesitated. He had no idea what was happening to his sister or to Michael or where Ronan was, he attempted to contact Edwige, but she was nowhere to be found either. He tried not to think about what could be taking place because he had no power to stop it. He was the human, the limited one; they were the ones with unnatural gifts. The pungent smell of the whiskey made him wince, but that first whiff grew more tempting. Besides, there was nothing he could do to help them; there was nothing he could do to make their lives better or safer, and it
was time he understood that. Maybe he would continue with his experiments, then again maybe not. He decided right then and there that he would only resume his research if it’s what he wanted to do, not at the behest of some lying headmaster or some troublesome sister. From now on, he wanted to put himself first, think about his own happiness, and what better way to commemorate that resolution than with a drink.
Coughing, Ciaran felt the rough liquid erupt in his stomach and gurgle up into his throat like a volcano. Even so, he took another drink until his cup was empty. Fritz smiled approvingly and he smiled back. His head felt like it was on fire, his lips weirdly numb and burning at the same time, and his mind slowly pushing thoughts of his family aside so he could join in with the rest of his mates and sing. Fritz, as always, led the group in a rousing version of the alternative lyrics to Double A’s alma mater, written long ago by some student who believed that not all aspects of education needed to be revered.
O weathered kings that rot below this prison
we call home
Immoral creatures, wankers’ foes, protect us
as we roam
O’er four long years ’n more for some, with
soddin’ saints from A to Z
Guide us so we don’t return, ’til each bloomin’
one is free
From this shafted ground, this bloody place,
Archangel Academy.
Laughing uncontrollably, Ciaran and Fritz were happy to forget their problems if only for a little while. They knew they shouldn’t be drinking, they knew it didn’t solve anything, they knew it wasn’t right, but it was only a little after twelve noon and the sky looked blacker than midnight. Really, who knew what was right and wrong any longer?
Ronan did. He knew that if Amir went any farther into the blue-black water, it would be the wrong move and he would never return. When Amir paused, Ronan made one last attempt to go after him and bring him back to the water’s surface and away from places he had no right to be.
Unwelcome Page 34