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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
Hunched over, she walked through the tunnel that connected the entrance of the cave to her final destination, a crypt that was barren except for two items that Edwige herself had brought here: a torch and a coffin.
She added a few twigs and pieces of bark to the torch to keep it lit and shuddered as the fire warmed her face. Turning away from the flames and the unwanted memory of her husband's murder, she faced the coffin. Even shut tight, the music escaped. Well, Edwige thought, there wasn't much she could do about that. There really was only so much she could control.
Slowly, tenderly, Edwige opened the coffin. The girl was still there as she had been the last time Edwige visited, her eyes closed, her hands crossed on her chest like the corpse that she was. The only discrepancy was that her mouth was moving, singing softly. Edwige supposed that, to some, the sound could be considered soothing, but it needed to stop, the singing needed to come to an end. “Wake up, lazybones,” Edwige commanded. “It's time for you to get to work.”
Only when she recognized the voice did Imogene open her eyes and become silent.
chapter 9
Up until her untimely and brutal death, Imogene Minx had been a lucky girl. She was healthy, an independent thinker, and a member of a well-to-do family. Everyone who knew her thought she would live a long and interesting life, not only because of her intelligence and self-assured character, but because the surname, Minx, had become synonymous with success.
It was Imogene's great-great-great grandfather, Nikolaj, who jump-started her family's legacy. Early in his career as a furrier he was struggling to survive, living in poverty, until he decided to change his name from Minksoff to the more glamorous, and professionally appropriate, Minx. It proved to be a shrewd decision and soon Nikolaj Minx was the preeminent furrier in all of Imperial Russia, the man every fashionable empress and dowager could not live without. One of those dowagers became so enamored with the charismatic man that she became his wife three months after she became a widow.
While Nikolaj built his business into an empire, his wife, Svetlana, combined her dowry with his profits to create one of the largest arts centers in Russia, the Minx Center for the Performing Arts, which still stands in the heart of St. Petersburg today long after many of its competitors had collapsed. It was there that Imogene made her operatic debut in a production of
La Bohème
at the age of six. Her mother, Katya, sang the role of Mimi, the ill-fated seamstress who dies of consumption, a role that she played to great acclaim and one that would become her signature, while Imogene appeared as one of the children in the second-act street scenes. Even then, her voice was pitch-perfect, a lilting soprano whose clarity could penetrate a chorus of more powerful and better-trained singers. Katya knew that her daughter had the raw talent needed to become an extraordinary singer, that she possessed a voice that could, if used properly, bring her international renown. But Imogene had other ideas.
One night while they were having their usual postperformance meal of cold chicken and blini with red caviar, Imogene, quite prophetically, told her mother that she wanted to be like Mimi when she grew up.
“Maliysh,” Katya said, “my baby, why would you say such a thing?”
“Because Mimi gets to die young,” Imogene replied. “Before she gets old and ugly.”
Unfortunately, Imogene would be granted her wish. She had escaped death twice, once when Nakano tossed her aside, preferring to take Penry's life instead, and once when she accidentally killed Jeremiah before he could kill her. However, when she got caught in a tug-of-war between two powerful women, Brania and Edwige, a third reprieve was not granted, and it was Edwige who unwittingly made a six-year-old girl's wish come true.
When Imogene regained consciousness and noticed no real difference, no drastic physical change, she thought her luck had held out, that she had somehow managed to escape death yet again. Wasn't her soul supposed to be released from her body; wasn't she supposed to embark on a journey to heaven, a journey that would transcend mortal limitations? And shouldn't she be reunited with Penry, her boyfriend, her one and only true love? That's what the nuns had taught her was supposed to happen; that's what she had come to expect of death. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She wasn't supposed to wake up, unable to move but fully aware that she was in a coffin, hear the world around her, hear the rain fall, the birds chirp, and not be able to respond in any way. This just wasn't right.
After some time, she had come to realize that while she was indeed dead, she was also under Edwige's control and being held a prisoner, suspended between the realms of her past life and true death. She was trapped within her own body, she felt like one of those people she had read about who were about to undergo surgery and appeared to be anesthesized, but who were completely awake. Mentally she was alive; physically it was as if she were in a coma.
The only ability she did still have, however, was the ability to sing, which is how she spent much of her time. It didn't show on her face as she sang, but each note made her smile. Maybe it's because Mama always said that when she sang, it was like hearing an angel rejoice. Maybe if she sang loud enough, Mama would hear her and know that her angel was nearby, know that her angel still looked like her daughter, that she was still alive despite looking like this toy corpse. And so she continued to sing until, of course, Edwige told her to stop.
Now, as she stood outside of St. Florian's, she could smell the roses. The scent was sweet, but powerful, and wafted down from the window on the second floor. It was a scent that consumed her with fear, the same aroma that had filled Jeremiah's apartment and she knew that somewhere in Michael and Ronan's dorm room, there was a vase filled with white roses. Had she complete control of her body, Imogene would have turned and run as far away as possible, far from the smell and the violent memory, but Edwige had given her a command, a task, and she was unable to resist.
She told her body to rise and it did, not stopping until she was able to look through the window and see the boys asleep in their bed. Looking down, she saw her feet standing on air, the snow-covered ground two stories below, and she couldn't help but be amazed by her power.
I don't know how I'm doing this,
she thought,
but it's really impressive.
When she raised her arm, the window opened as if the two were one. Once again she was impressed with her new gifts, but quickly admiration turned to fear. The sweet scent of roses swept passed her, through her, making her relive that terrible night, making her feel Jeremiah's grip, his desire to destroy her. No! She would not give in. She had survived his attempt to kill her and she would survive this. Closing her eyes to defend herself against the fragrance that rushed toward her, Imogene thought of happier times, the night of the Archangel Festival, Penry, kissing Penry, shopping with Phaedra. It was working; she was breathing easier; her thoughts were replacing the harsh memories.
And then she heard the rain.
Opening her eyes, she saw the rain fall all around her. She couldn't feel the drops, but she could smell them. The rain's fresh scent was combating the smell of the roses and she knew that it was no coincidence. The rain had been sent to help her, to help her regain her strength, her sanity, so she could fulfill her duty. When she was inside the room and saw the vase filled with a bouquet of white roses on the end table next to the boys' bed, her body didn't falter, her voice didn't waver, she kept singing, softly but firmly, calling out to Michael, urging him to rise.
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There's that song again,
Michael thought, still dreaming.
How wonderful, the meadowlark has finally returned.
But when he awoke, when he opened his eyes to greet one old friend, he was amazed to see another. He blinked his eyes several times, thinking that he was still caught in a dream, but she wouldn't go away, the apparition didn't fade. What was Imogene doing at the foot of his bed singing, floating in the air like a marionette connected by invisible strings to some higher power?
“Hello, Michael.”
In the midst of this fantastic occurrence the only thought that popped into Michael's head was a practical one: How can she sing and talk at the same time?
“You need to come with me.”
What was going on? He wasn't scared by his friend's presence, just really curious. What was Imogene doing here? He turned to look at Ronan, hoping he would have some answers, but saw that he was still asleep, totally unaware that they had a visitor. How could he sleep? How could he not hear that music? The sound was filling up the room.
“Because I've only come for you.”
And now she can read my mind?
Michael sat up in bed and fought the urge to shake Ronan, to wake him up so he could share in this incredible experience, to let him know that after all this time, Imogene had returned. But even though he didn't understand what was happening, he intuitively understood that this vision was meant only for his eyes.
The singing stopped, but when Imogene spoke again, her lips still did not move. “I have something to show you.”
Quietly, Michael got out of bed and followed Imogene as she floated toward the window. She looked the same and yet something wasn't right, something about her made his heart ache. Her hair was still so black that the light from the moon made it shine blue in some places. It still fell just below her chin, her bangs cut straight across her forehead. Her skin looked as unblemished and pale as Michael remembered, her eyesâyes, that was it! Her eyes were still black, but instead of being inquisitive and alert, they were dull, devoid of any life whatsoever. Imogene extended her hand to Michael and when he grabbed it and felt the chill travel from her fingers up his arm, his fears were confirmed. Imogene was dead.
Before he could contemplate how she had died or why she had come back for him, he was thrust through some sort of tunnel, the wind billowing on both sides of him, echoing noisily in his ears, the landscape changing rapidly from rain and snow and trees to sun and sand and ocean. When they stopped moving, it took him only a few seconds to get his bearings and to realize that he was on the beach, the beach he had dreamed about while in Weeping Water.
Feeling slightly more unnerved now that they had landed than while they were traveling, Michael wanted to ask Imogene why they were here, why she had brought him to this place, but it was so calm, so tranquil, he didn't want to interrupt the serenity with words and remained silent. He followed Imogene, but as she walked on top of the calm ocean, he walked into it. He looked down and saw the wave water envelop his feet languidly, without hurry, felt its coolness wash over his feet, his ankles. He was a part of this landscape; Imogene, his guide, was not. He stopped when the water reached his waist, but Imogene kept walking as if to step out of Michael's memory, give him some privacy for what was yet to come. When she finally stopped, quite some distance away, she looked at Michael, her face a mask empty of any expression. Whatever emotions she was feeling would not be conveyed, and without another word of instruction or explanation, she turned her head preferring to watch some seagulls on their endless quest for food than the images about to befall her friend.
Before Michael felt Ronan's touch, he knew he would be there. This was where they had first met, in his dream, before they saw each other in front of Archangel Cathedral, before the real world caught up with their destiny.
“Ronan, what's going on?” Michael asked.
“I don't know,” he replied, smiling. “This isn't my journey.”
Tracing Michael's lips with his wet finger, Ronan stared tenderly at his boyfriend. “No matter what happens, no matter what you see, remember that nothing can change the present.”
For the first time, Michael felt cold, the ocean water that glided from his lips, past his chin, down his neck was like ice. “I don't understand.”
“You will,” Ronan said, kissing Michael softly. “When you're ready.”
They embraced, Ronan pressing his strong body into Michael as if to give him his strength. Holding on to Ronan's muscular back, Michael felt an odd mixture of passion and panic when he saw, over his shoulder, his mother standing on the beach, her hands outstretched and drenched in blood. Without turning around, Ronan told Michael, “This isn't for me to witness.” And before Michael could beg him to stay, Ronan plunged into the ocean and disappeared.
“Ronan! Come back!”
His plea was not acknowledged. The only response was the far-off sound of a seagull's cry. And then Grace's breathing.
Even though his mother was over a hundred yards away on the beach, and the waves were beginning to gain speed and power, their sound escalating louder and louder as they crashed onto the shore, Michael could hear his mother's frantic breathing as if she were standing right next to him. It was so forceful, so commanding, it was as if there were no other sound in the world.
Until she screamed.
Frightened, Michael's eyes searched the ocean to find Imogene, hoping that once he did, she could put an end to this nightmare, end the intense emotional pain he was already experiencing seeing his mother so fragile, so wounded.
This is in the past,
Michael thought
. I don't want to see this again!
Finally, he found his dead friend hovering over the horizon. “Imogene! Please, make this stop!”
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Imogene heard him, but she, just like Ronan, had no other choice but to ignore him. What else could they do? They weren't the ones in control. All Imogene had been instructed to do was to bring Michael here so he could see the events unfold as they had originally taken place, as he was previously unable to see them. She couldn't stop them, she couldn't alter them in any way, and thankfully she didn't have to watch them with him. She could fix her gaze upon something in the distance, anything, a whale, yes, that would do, a whale spouting a spray of water into the air as it traveled just beneath the ocean's surface. Anything was better than watching Michael's mother fall to the sand on her knees and shriek.
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As Grace's cries pierced Michael's ears, he was transported back to another time, back to the dream in which he had his first kiss with the boy who would turn out to be Ronan, back to the dream in which he saw his mother covered with blood, and he couldn't believe he was being forced to relive the experience. He remembered seeing his mother, the blood pouring from her wrists, staining the beach, the accusing stare in her eyes beneath the look of frenzy, the stare that still haunted him. But as he stared at his mother more closely, he realized that something was different. It was just as with Imogene, there was something different about her eyes. They were consumed by the same look that he remembered from his dream, the same look of accusation, but they were not looking at him. Turning around, he found the reason. His mother was looking at someone else. His father.