Unnatural (20 page)

She really is so compassionate, Nakano thought, so maternal. Hell of a lot more than my own mother ever was. “I know that, Brania,” Nakano said. “And that means the world to me.”

Hiding her arrogance with yet another smile, this time less full and more wistful, Brania embraced Nakano and told him to go home and rest. “You may be a child of immortality, but you’re still a student at Archangel Academy.” And then she threw her head back and roared, “And I am quite the poet!” She was still laughing sitting alone in the backseat of the car as Jeremiah drove away, but if she wasn’t so preoccupied she would have been able to read Nakano’s mind, and then her laughter surely would have stopped. The instant she was out of sight, he forgot about her empathy, her motherly thoughtfulness, and saw her simply as yet another person to whom he had to answer, yet another person who wanted to control him. “Someday, Brania, I’ll be the one giving the orders,” Nakano told himself. “And you, and Jeremiah, and even your father, will do as I say.” And then because he didn’t have decades upon decades of practice like Brania did, he was unable to hide his own arrogance, so he yelled after the car as it sped out of the forest, “I swear to it on my blackened soul!”

At that moment, another gust of wind ripped through Ronan. This one was sudden and much stronger; maybe a storm was brewing, maybe just a warning. Either way, Ronan didn’t hear a word Michael was saying as they walked toward his dorm, not because he wasn’t interested;
he just couldn’t concentrate. In the back of his mind he knew that Brania and Nakano were up to something and it was as if the wind were trying to tell him he was right, even trying to offer him a clue. He was grateful, but he didn’t really need the wind’s help; he knew the moment they met Nakano that somehow he and Brania were working together. Brania was sly, but Ronan was savvy, and he noticed her expression change ever so slightly and felt her temperature rise by a degree or two when they bumped into Nakano and Penry. He knew Penry meant nothing to her, but Nakano—they were linked and for some reason that thought frightened him. So even though he didn’t want to leave them together to roam the campus freely at night, his first priority was to get Michael away from them and back here, to the safety of St. Peter’s.

The building itself didn’t offer foolproof protection—although the golden frieze over the front door depicting a series of crucifixes and chalices would definitely deter a vampire who was out to kill from entering—there was an inhabitant of the building who would never give Nakano or Brania permission to enter their dorm after dark. Ciaran knew better. Ronan didn’t have to ask him to refuse them entry; Ciaran just knew it was not a wise thing to do.

“I’m sorry,” Ronan said, “I didn’t hear what you said.” Ronan hoped that Michael would think he didn’t hear him because Ciaran was listening to the radio while taking a shower and the mixture of music and the
loud hum of water pumping through the pipes drowned out his words.

“You see, I’m right,” Michael said.

“About what?” Ronan asked.

“Ever since Brania showed up, you’ve been preoccupied.” Michael sat on his bed and unlaced his sneakers.
He doesn’t just kick them off and toss them into a corner like I do,
Ronan thought. “It’s almost like you’re afraid of her.”

He’s too perceptive,
Ronan thought as he tried to come up with a diversion to steer the topic of conversation away from Brania and toward another, less complicated subject. “Are you seriously putting your sneakers back into their shoe box?”

Michael looked perplexed. “Don’t you go avoiding my question by pointing out my quirks.”

“That’s no quirk, Michael, that’s downright queer.” The word hadn’t even made contact with the air before Ronan’s cheeks turned red; by the time it hit the ground, Michael’s jaw dropped in delightful surprise.

“Well,” Michael said, “if the sneaker fits.” He shrugged his shoulders and tossed the shoe box into his closet. Correction, he placed the box on top of a stack of other boxes and then closed the closet door. Both boys couldn’t help but laugh, and Ronan was glad he was able to change the subject. But Michael wasn’t finished talking about Ronan’s sort-of half sibling. “So is there a specific reason you don’t like her or just her general nature?”

He’s not going to let this go, so think of something,
Ronan, give him an answer.
“We’ve just never gotten along.”

By Michael’s expression, Ronan knew that wasn’t a good enough answer. “Really? She seems to genuinely like you,” Michael said. “Though it is hard to know when she’s being genuine. She was acting like a completely different person tonight than when I first met her. I’m not sure which one is the real Brania.”

I hope to God you never meet the real Brania.
“It’s complicated,” Ronan started. “We were like family for a while and then our parents separated.”

“Because your mother didn’t want to get married?”

Ronan didn’t like talking about his mother, but he had to put an end to this topic, so he felt he had little choice. “My mother … she never loved Brania’s father and, trust me, he wasn’t heartbroken when she left him. He never loved her, either.” Ronan stopped himself to make sure he wasn’t revealing too much.

Sounds like Ronan’s mother might be as complicated as mine. “So why did you guys live with them in the first place?”

Ronan noticed another photo he hadn’t seen earlier. It was of a handsome man holding a young boy, no more than a year old, in his arms. The photo captured the boy in mid-swing. They were in the country somewhere, in the middle of a wheat field maybe, or just a field of sunburnt grass. It could have been Nebraska, it could have been the English countryside. Ronan couldn’t tell. He could tell, however, that the man looked very
much like Michael and had straight, very blond hair and the same high cheekbones. Ronan assumed it was his father.
This is what Michael will look like if he grows older, if he ages. If I let him. Did he just say something?
“What?”

Michael repeated his question and this time Ronan fixed his gaze onto Michael himself and not onto the image of what he could look like if he had a normal future. “Contrary to what Mr. Wilde wrote, women
are
geniuses and much more than just the decorative sex,” Ronan said, and then explained further. “My mother was skint broke, she had no money, we had no place to live, so she convinced Brania’s father that she loved him and that we should live together as one big happy family. Worked fine for a while until my mother received an inheritance and we no longer needed assistance to survive. So we moved on.”

Just like we did,
Michael thought. Grace got tired of the man she was living with just like Edwige got tired of hers. “Sounds like our mothers really do have a lot in common.”

By this time, they were both sitting on Michael’s bed facing each other, the way they were before being interrupted. “Don’t get me wrong, Michael. What my mother did wasn’t right, but she’s my mother, she’s all I have. I can’t really condemn her, can I?”

Michael thought about all the things his mother did, especially her last successful act, and although he was angry with her often and he didn’t approve of her actions,
he realized he didn’t condemn her; he couldn’t find it within himself to judge her that harshly. “No, you can’t.”

“So I know that when Brania starts in on my mother, what she’s really doing is protecting her … father, but it still doesn’t make it any easier to hear. And you know something?” Ronan said, exhaling a long breath. “I just think she’s a right balmy lass.”

“Does that mean you think she’s crazy?”

“Certifiable.”

They shared another laugh and instinctively they each reached out to grab the other’s hand. Michael stopped laughing, but the smile never left his face as he examined Ronan’s hands with his own. His fingers were blunt, some of the nails chewed off, just like his, and underneath he had some rough patches, calluses that felt deliciously manly. He couldn’t wait to know what it would feel like to have those hands touch his face, his arms, the small of his back. But for now the back of his hands would have to do. They were so lost in each other’s smiles and each other’s touch that they didn’t notice Ciaran standing in the bathroom doorway, watching them.

“I don’t mean to spoil the moment, but I have to get to bed?”

“So early, mate?” Ronan asked. “It’s not even ten.”

“Early lab in the morning,” Ciaran replied.

“You and those labs, Ciaran,” Ronan grumbled. “You shouldn’t spend so much time looking through
that microscope of yours. There’s a whole wide world out there.”

Thank you, Ronan, I had no idea I was missing out on anything, but it’s good to know I am.
When Ciaran spoke out loud, he tried to add a bit less sarcasm to his words. “I’ll try to remember that.”

“I don’t know how you do it, Ciaran,” Michael said. “I have one biology lab and I barely know what I’m doing. I just don’t have the brain for it.”

Ciaran softened. He really did like Michael and wished they could be better friends. It’s just that with Ronan in the picture, he wasn’t sure that was possible. “Well, you know, everyone has their strong suit. You boys seem to be able to lose yourself in literature; for me, I’d prefer a test tube and a specimen of blood.” Michael didn’t see both Ronan’s and Ciaran’s face turn white. “Or, you know, bacteria,” Ciaran added quickly.

“I should go,” Ronan declared abruptly, jumping off the bed. Michael followed, a bit more slowly.

“I’ll walk you downstairs.”

Before Ciaran rolled over in bed, Ronan saw his face. He wasn’t mad exactly. Put out was more like it. This was his home, and his space was being invaded.
Oh, that’s not it, Ronan; you know it’s because he’s alone. He looks at you and sees you with Michael while he’s spending another night by himself and he’s envious, plain and simple. Don’t flaunt it in his face. Maybe what you could do is try to be a better brother
. “No, that’s okay,” Ronan said. “I know my way out.”

The right words didn’t come to Michael’s brain quickly enough, so he heard himself utter something totally trite. “Okay, sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And yet another night has passed without me knowing what it feels like to kiss him. But at least it wasn’t a night without hope.

Standing on the other side of the doorway, the door partially closed, Ronan couldn’t see Ciaran and so he could speak more freely. Even still he whispered, “I’m glad we cleared the air, Michael.” Michael smiled. “Me too.” And then Michael told every muscle in his body to relax because no matter how badly he wanted to, he was not going to pounce on Ronan in the hallway with Ciaran as witness. Later on, he would dream about doing that minus Ciaran’s presence, but for now he simply said, “Good night.”

“Good night.” Ronan then pushed the door open. “Good night, Ciaran. Um, maybe we can meet at St. Joshua’s during break tomorrow and hang out.”

Don’t be cynical, Ciaran. He’s not just asking to look good in front of Michael; he wants to spend time with you. “Okay, I’ll see you there.”

One final smile and then he was gone. Ciaran almost laughed out loud at the irony. This time he was the one satisfied with the evening’s outcome and Michael was left feeling disappointed.

   But there was another boy who was feeling even more satisfied than Ciaran because his evening didn’t end
with just one kiss, but with several. Penry had just ended his first make-out session.

“For someone who claims not to have any experience in boy-meets-girl relationships, you’re a pretty good kisser,” Imogene declared.

A bit more self-conscious now that the kissing had stopped and he had to do something else with his mouth, such as talk, Penry paused a moment before speaking. “Well, I think it’s because I have such a great partner.”

“Are you trying to say that I must be the one with experience?”

Does she really mean that? Penry was confused. She always says these things with such a straight face, I never know if she’s joking or not, and I have a feeling that I should be able to figure this kind of stuff out. She’s just a girl after all. Ah, maybe Pop is right; girls just aren’t supposed to be figured out. He’s always saying that Mum’s a mystery to him. “No, Ims, I like kissing you.”

Imogene’s smile told Penry that she was just teasing. It also told him that she liked to tease him and that for as long as they would date, she would continue to tease him. All of which made him smile right back at her. And shake his head because he just never thought he, Penry Poltke, self-described nerd, bookworm, and all-around geek, would actually have a girlfriend as sassy as Imogene Minx. Life held so many surprises.

“And I like kissing you too, my little PP,” she said.

Oh, not again! “You really have to stop calling me that,” Penry insisted.

Imogene was shocked. “Why?! You’re my little PP.”

His father was right; girls were an absolute mystery. Maybe Ronan and the others were the smart ones; boys were so much easier to figure out. “Do you have any idea what that sounds like? ’My little PP’?”

What was he getting so upset about? Imogene thought.
Don’t boys like it when their girlfriends make up cute little nicknames?
“It means you’re my boyfriend and I’m your girlfriend and I get to call you something special, but more unique than honey or baby.”

How was he going to make her understand without being vulgar? “A nickname is sensational, Ims, but not one that reminds people of, you know …” And then even though they were alone and outside, he added in a whisper, “Doing number one.”

Now Imogene was thoroughly confused. “Number one?” Then suddenly the gender gap was mended and she understood. “You mean like going to the bathroom? Tinkling!”

“Yes!”

Her mother was right; boys were an absolute mystery and practically a different species. “That is thoroughly disgusting and you should get your head out of the gutter,” Imogene demanded. “Or at least out of the toilet.” But she couldn’t stay mad for more than a second because once she thought about it, she realized Penry was right. “My little PP” was not a really great nickname. So much for trying to be original. “What if I called you Pens?” she suggested. “Kind of like how you call me Ims.”