“You do too have a boyfriend!” Fritz griped. “That blond bloke I saw you with.”
Once again Saoirse's response was inscrutable.
“Him?”
she replied. “I was helping him with his French.”
“Oh is that what they're calling it these days?” Fritz asked. He laughed so loudly at his own joke that he hardly realized he was the only one laughing.
“You have to watch out for that one, Ruby,” Saoirse said confidentially. “Your brother wasn't the only one who liked to make up stories.”
For a split second the smile left Ruby's face, and her expression hardened. “Don't worry,” she responded, her voice deeper, her British accent thicker, less reserved. “I may be blind, but I'm far from dumb.”
When Saoirse laughed everyone joined in except Michael. He knew her comment wasn't meant to be a joke. Like the white light, it was meant to be a warning. And how appropriate that one warning should follow another.
“I'm so glad you're all getting to know one another and reconnecting after the summer break, but if you dawdle any longer you'll be late for class,” David announced. “And that's hardly the way to begin the new year.”
“Right you are, Headmaster,” Fritz replied, his voice dripping with respect in an attempt to impress Ruby and not the person he was addressing. When David smiled approvingly, Fritz decided it was a path worth continuing. “Headmaster, would it be all right if I walked Ruby to her class?”
David smirked. “Mr. Ulrich, you're proving to be a gentleman, if not a scholar.”
“Thank you, sir.” Fritz beamed, completely missing David's barb. “I'll take over from here, Seersh.”
Saoirse tried to catch Ciaran's eyes to let him know that she was sorry; she had no choice but to hand Ruby over to the enemy. But Ciaran was staring off to the side, looking across the gym at nothing in particular, just anything other than watching Fritz take Ruby's slender arm and enfold it within his. He had witnessed defeat often enough; no need to watch it again.
Fritz led Ruby outside and on her way to her first class of the semester, an advanced elective in horticulture that Fritz had absolutely no interest in, but claimed to be fascinated by. Grabbing Ciaran's hand, Saoirse gave him a tug as if to yank him back to reality. His melancholy only lasted a moment after seeing his sister's smiling face. “C'mon, Ciar. Let's follow them and eavesdrop,” she ordered. “Betcha five pounds Fritz blabbers on about the Venus flytrap who devoured half the school in issue seven.”
Ronan watched his siblings depart the gym and was happy that they had each other. It was important to have someone who always made you feel good even when you were unsure of yourself. It's what Michael did for him. Sometimes, however, it worked the other way around.
“She's dangerous,” Michael said.
Crinkling his forehead, Ronan was surprised by Michael's comment and even more surprised by the serious look on his face. “She's just a kid,” Ronan countered. “Saoirse's a handful, but she's harmless, you know that.”
“I'm not talking about Saoirse,” Michael replied. “I'm talking about Ruby.”
“Ruby?” Ronan asked incredulously. “We were just introduced to a vampire doctor who looks more like a demon and you're worried about a blind girl?”
Michael looked at Ronan and was surprised that he didn't share his concern. “Trust me, Dr. Sutton we can handle,” he said. “But that girl is dangerous.”
Crossing his arms, Ronan tilted his head and examined Michael. He was completely befuddled by his behavior. “Why in the world would you think Penry's sister is dangerous?”
“Because she's not Penry's sister,” Michael declared. “And whatever she is, she isn't human.”
chapter 7
“What do you mean Ruby isn't human?!”
“How many times are you going to ask me that, Ro?”
“Well, you can't just drop a bomb like that and toddle off to class!”
“I was going to be late.”
“Michael!!”
“I'm signing off, class's already started.”
Michael closed part of his mind so Ronan could no longer communicate with him. He was surprised how easy it was to do, since only a few weeks ago he had still been struggling with telepathic conversation. It was almost as if when he stopped trying to make something work he was successful. He'd have to remember that when practicing the rest of his vampire skillsâstop thinking about doing them and just let his new natural instincts take over. He wished he could adopt the same strategy with his classes. But as a student he had, for the most part, to respond like a human, which meant he had to read his assignments, take notes, study, and listen to lectures. Even when he knew they were wrong.
“The only true immortal creature is God,” Professor Joubert proclaimed. “The rest of us have an end date.”
Standing in front of the class, Joubert didn't have to make such outrageous proclamations to look impressive. He was so tall, almost 6'5”, that the top of his head was only a few inches below the stone ceiling. The theology building was one of the oldest on campus, but also one of the smallest. Joubert looked like a giant, intimidating, powerful, but even still, he wasn't beyond reproach.
“According to the Bible, didn't Abraham live for like seven hundred years or something loco like that?”
Michael didn't see who asked the question, but he knew the voice belonged to Diego Fuente, the chubby Spanish kid, whose shirt was always wrinkled, who always sat in the back corner no matter what class he was in, and who always interrupted a lecture. The professors had learned to take his interruptions in stride, and Joubert was no different. “Seven hundred years or something
loco
like that is indeed long,” Joubert responded, twirling a piece of chalk in between his long, slender fingers. “But I think Father Fazio would be disheartened to hear that you haven't grasped the concept that immortality transcends numerical calculation.”
“What do you mean?” Diego replied, evidently unable to follow Joubert's reasoning. “Father Faz teaches math.”
“He means because he's a priest, you dumb clot!” Nakano barked. He didn't mean to be so snarky, but when he saw Michael smile at his comment he was glad he hadn't censored himself.
When the classroom chuckling subsided, Joubert continued. “As most priests believe, whether they're teaching something non-secular or something as mundane as math, the only viable alternative we can hope for is resurrection.”
Gazing at the thin, gold crucifix that hung on the wall in the front of class, Michael thought about everything he had learned at church in Weeping Water and how most everything he had learned was proven false when he came to Archangel Academy. The only thing he knew for certain was that no matter what any priest believed or preached, God didn't have a monopoly on immortality.
“What about vampires?!” Diego cried out, seemingly oblivious to Joubert's cutting remark.
Involuntarily, Michael locked eyes with Nakano and then whipped his head around to face the kid who had made this bold statement. Did Diego know that there were vampires sitting a few seats in front of him? Was Diego a vampire himself? No, that was impossible. Well, not impossible, but not probable. Wouldn't Michael know if Diego was a vampire? Wouldn't he get some indication that he wasn't mortal? Unable to divert his stare, Michael kept his gaze on the loud-mouthed boy, desperately searching for a clue that would offer proof as to what kind of creature he was. Nothing. Maybe Michael's skills weren't as finely tuned as he had thought.
“Vampires,” Joubert said as he began to walk around his desk, tapping his piece of chalk on the tabletop with each stride, “are products of fiction.” Diego opened his mouth to ask another question, but Joubert ignored him and continued speaking. “And while they are beguiling literary inventions, they are limited.”
“No, they're not!” This time it wasn't Diego who blurted out a bold statement; it was Michael. He knew that everyone in the class was looking at him, none more intently than Nakano, but he kept his focus on Joubert. He didn't want to play such a dangerous game, he didn't want to act recklessly, but his pride got the better of him and he had to stand up for his people and contradict such an ignorant comment. All that was left was to see how his professor would respond to his unexpected outburst.
“And why, Mr. Howard, would you make such a statement?” Joubert asked. “And, may I add, make it so passionately.”
It had been quite a while since Michael had felt the prickly tingles of fear ride up and down his spine while sitting in a classroom. It was a common feeling no student was immune to, but he was no ordinary student. He felt his heart rate quicken and he tried to control it, slow it down, but the more he tried, the more the opposite occurred. He felt his heart beat even faster, and the chill on his spine spread out to envelope his whole body.
Stop thinking,
he commanded himself.
Just let instinct take over.
When Michael finally spoke, his voice was steady, even if his body wasn't entirely calm. “Because immortality, which, you know, is the primary characteristic of vampires, doesn't have any limits.”
“What about a vampire's inability to walk in the sun?” Joubert asked. “Or the necessity to drink human blood for sustenance? Aren't they testimony to a vampire's limitations?”
Only a certain inferior type of vampire,
Michael wanted to reply. Wisely, he kept that thought to himself. He had already made one stupid comment; no need to compound it with another. He knew that he couldn't get into a discussion about the different varieties of vampire species, not in mixed company, not among people who would think he was insane or worse, among people who might be members of that certain inferior race themselves. Michael was no longer confident that he knew the truth about those around him. It was unsettling, but at least it reminded him that he had to be cautious.
“Well, I guess that's, you know, kind of true,” Michael replied, trying to infuse a dose of humility into his tone.
When Joubert spoke his voice was free of humility; it was the sound of a professor who once again was able to demonstrate to his students that he was smarter than they were. “So let us not forget that immortality is not a synonym for invulnerability and that vampires can die, just like a mere mortal,” he claimed. “Which brings me back to my original statement, God is the only true immortal creature. And though it may be difficult for some of us to admit, none of us even comes close.”
Once more Michael tried to decipher Joubert's expression, but failed. Was he mocking him? Was he speaking to him in some code? He was definitely looking in his direction, but so what? Naturally Joubert would direct his summation at the student who had contradicted him; there was nothing unusual about that. And yet Michael couldn't shake the feeling that his lecture wasn't random, but held a deeper meaning.
The confrontation over, Michael ran his fingers through his hair and stopped to massage his scalp. Much better. Exhaling deeply, he felt the sense of dread begin to dissolve. It was still present, but no longer as profound. Obviously, he was more flustered by Ronan's telling him about Morgandy as well as Ruby's arrival and apparent inhumanity than he had originally acknowledged. But he had to get control of his emotions. Just because Ruby was hiding a secret and no one knew what had happened to Morgandy didn't mean everything had to be a mystery. Then again maybe it did.
Following Professor Joubert's instruction to turn to page twenty-five of their textbook, the chapter that explored the idea of resurrection and its significance in the Bible, so that they could continue their discussion on immortality, Michael found the birthday card from his father. It was no longer ripped in two and Michael had no idea how it got in his book.
Curious, Michael looked at the cover again, a colorful fireworks display that spelled out the number 17. Inside, Vaughan had written “Happy Birthday, son! Ad infinitum! Love, Dad.” The message no longer made Michael feel angry, but rather conflicted. He now thought the sentiment was lame, accurate, even sweet and all at the same time.
As Joubert rattled on about how resurrection was symbolic for a religious cleansing, a new beginning, a kind of a spiritual do-over, Michael wondered if finding his father's card right at this moment might also be symbolic. Maybe it was a sign that he should forgive him, forge a new beginning with the only relative he had who still wanted anything to do with him. But despite the signs, despite Dr. Sutton's earlier attempt to manipulate his emotions, despite Joubert's timely lecture, could he really forgive his father? Could he really forget what his father did and reestablish some sort of relationship with him? Before Michael could ponder that thought any further it appeared that another old relationship might be looking to reestablish itself as well.
Looking out the window, Michael saw that Jean-Paul looked the same as he always did. Tall and lanky, long, dark brown hair tucked behind his ears, eyes half-open, his lips slightly parted, the only physical difference was that his skin looked darker, as if he had gotten a tan over the summer. He was clad in his typical uniform: a tight-fitting white shirt, unbuttoned at the top, his skinny, black tie loose at his neck, and black jacket, pants, and shoes. Standing in the middle of the field outside St. Joseph's, holding his chauffeur's cap in front of him, he looked as if he was dozing off standing up.
What did I ever see in him?
Michael asked himself.
There was no argument, Jean-Paul was extremely handsome, but not nearly as handsome as Ronan. Michael saw that clearly now, but there had been a time when it wasn't so obvious to him. There had been a time when Michael was hypnotized by Jean-Paul's good looks, overwhelmed by all the changes that had taken place so quickly in his life, and he barely escaped making a terrible mistake by betraying the love that he and Ronan shared. He was lucky; he had learned his lesson and was confident he would never make that mistake again. And anyway, Jean-Paul didn't look that hot. Not with blood dripping down the front of his shirt.
A stream of blood oozed down the left side of Jean-Paul's otherwise clean shirt, about the same width as his tie. He didn't move and looked unaffected by the disturbance, but the blood continued to flow from some unseen origin, growing slightly and beginning to cover more of the shirt's surface than before. The blood seemed to disappear at Jean-Paul's waist, but then one drop, two drops, three drops, four, fell onto the lush, green grass at his feet. As the blood drops splattered around his shoes and accumulated on the ground, their size grew, and Jean-Paul was standing in a puddle of his own rich, red blood.
Suddenly, Michael felt very hungry. The blood looked sweet and inviting and so incredibly necessary even though he didn't need to feed for several more weeks. He closed his eyes hoping the desire would pass. When he opened them, his craving was gone and so too was the source. Jean-Paul's shirt was as crisp and clean and bloodless as it always was.
Thank God,
Michael thought. His hunger now completely subsided, Michael could once again think logically. Jean-Paul looked normal, not wounded, not near death, so maybe Michael's vision didn't mean anything. When he saw Nakano staring at him, Michael knew his expression meant that Kano was pissed off.
“It's not what you think,”
Michael said silently, hoping that he could reach Nakano nonverbally the same way he could reach Ronan. He couldn't. Nakano's expression changed, but only for the worse, and Michael thought Kano was going to transform right there and pounce on him for staring at his boyfriend. But he was wrong.
As he turned his gaze toward Jean-Paul, Nakano's face straddled the fine line between human and vampire. The whites of his eyes remained, but his irises practically emanated a black light. His teeth vibrated and fought the urge to allow his fangs to descend, while his fingers gripped his desk so tightly that the flesh on his hands turned into a swirl of red and white. Although Michael was impressed by Nakano's self-control, he wished he could think of something to say to let him know it wasn't necessary. He was forced to speak, however, but only in response to a question posed to him by Professor Joubert.
“Do you believe in resurrection, Mr. Howard?” his professor asked. “Or do you think it's merely biblical hyperbole?”
Michael didn't want to sound flippant, but he had to speak the truth. “Sir, I've come to believe that anything is possible.” Stealing a quick glance outside, Michael saw that Jean-Paul was gone; the field was empty. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw through the small circular window on the classroom door that Jean-Paul had merely changed position. He was waiting in the hallway. “No matter how impossible it might sound.”
A bit surprised by Michael's reply, Joubert smiled and slowly sat on the edge of his desk. “Spoken like a true student of the arcane.”