Unnatural (36 page)

For once, Nakano waited patiently for her to speak. He didn’t try to interrupt her thoughts or barrage her with questions; he remained quiet and waited for the praise that was sure to come.

“I’m impressed,” Brania declared. “Yesterday I thought
you were a complete idiot, but today you show promise.”

Just what I thought,
but then Nakano heard the full meaning of her words. “Hey, wait a minute.”

Interrupting him, Brania continued, “This really is an excellent plan. Allow them to live together, allow them to think that you support their cohabitation, their coming together, and give them a false sense of security.”

“Why did you think I was an idiot?!”

It was as if Nakano never spoke. Brania just kept pacing and thinking out loud. “This fog you mentioned has only appeared outside. Now that you’ve given up your home so Michael and Ronan can have their own little love nest, they have no reason to meet outdoors. The fog should no longer be a factor.” Abruptly stopping, Brania pointed her finger at Nakano. “You need to remember this day.”

Nakano couldn’t resist. “For what? Not being an idiot?”

For the first time in quite a while, Brania laughed. The booming sound bounced off the stone walls and echoed throughout the room. She reminded herself that she should try and stop being so harsh with the underlings; yesterday she loathed his words, today they amused her. What a godsend that her immortality was still capable of being filled with new lessons. “It’s the day you made Father forever grateful.”

Unable to feel humility, Nakano thought it was about time that someone, even someone as powerful as Brania’s
father, recognized his superiority. “Sounds like we should celebrate,” Nakano suggested.

By the time she crossed the room, Brania had let her emerald green cashmere sweater fall to the floor, revealing her soft white arms, the veins underneath her skin so pronounced and blue they looked like a tattoo of intertwining strings of barbed wire. When she reached Nakano, she could see the hungry look in his eyes. They were black and glistening. His fangs, driven by instinct, were already hanging over his lips; at the end of one, a small bubble of saliva had formed, which burst when it grew too big.

“A gift from me to you,” Brania said, as Nakano knelt before her. “Once you make Michael one of my Father’s disciples, my blood will always be yours.”

Savagely, Nakano bit into Brania’s flesh. Torrents of pain coursed up her arm, past her shoulder, and ripped through her brain. “Slowly!!” Pitching forward, Brania grabbed on to Nakano’s shoulder to prevent herself from toppling over, which only resulted in the boy gnawing deeper into her skin. Commanding all her strength, Brania stood erect, her eyes focused only on the stone wall in front of her.
It’s almost over,
she told herself. She would allow the boy to feed; the pain was worth it if he could carry out her father’s wishes. But if he failed, then she would never allow his disgusting mouth to ever touch her again.

   As Nakano drank more and more of Brania’s blood, Alistair felt pangs of jealousy, sharp and poisonous,
pierce his heart. Or where his heart used to be. He had no idea if he still had one. He knew that he was no longer human, he couldn’t be, not after the things that he’d done, so the chances of his still having a heart were slim. Then again he just wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure about anything since the night they came into his office and dragged him away, stripped him of his clothes, his dignity, and tossed him in the trunk of that car. What happened to him that night and in the following days, he couldn’t say, but instinctively, he knew those days were best forgotten. What he did know was that he was no longer the same man. He was no longer a man even, but a thing, a monster who craved blood and death. He was constantly afraid of them, of himself, of what else could possibly happen to him, and he didn’t know how much longer he could live with this fear.

He knelt before Penry’s makeshift memorial, before the mound of flowers and notes the students had left their friend, and he bowed his head to pray. “Our Father” was all Alistair could get out before his throat burned, a surge of acid swirling up from his stomach. “Our Father … Who art in heaven!” He felt another burst of heat scorch the roof of his mouth and his tongue. It felt like the inside of his mouth was charred. Falling to the ground he dug at the earth, ripping out handfuls of dirt, dry and yellow-brown, and said the words silently, fearfully, as the acid continued to burn away at his mouth.
What in heaven’s name is happening to me?!

He thought he was going to pass out from the pain right there among Penry’s farewell flowers until he smelled
salvation. Like the skilled predator he was becoming, he froze and slowly turned his head toward the scent. He saw the rabbit before it saw him, its white fur standing out like a beacon among the greens and browns of The Forest. Sprinting toward it with the speed of a gazelle, Alistair pounced on it before it could even choose a direction in which to flee. In the next moment, his fangs had pierced the flesh that was hidden by the snow-white fur and finally a warm stream of blood cooled his burning throat. Sitting on his haunches, he leaned back, holding the animal in his hands, and sucked down the blood until there was none left to drink. When he was finished he placed the rabbit gently on a dried patch of dead grass, its fur now pink in places, and he wept. One animal for another.

   This was what it feels like to be swept away by passion, to give in to basic animal instinct. Michael could not believe how crazy, how incredibly wild, Ronan was making him feel. There wasn’t a part of his body that Ronan hadn’t touched or tasted, not an inch of his imagination that he hadn’t ignited with his words—some rough, most tender—and not a piece of his heart that he hadn’t embraced with the love that he so easily offered him.

“This is amazing,” Michael said, breathing heavily. Ronan lifted his head from the cleft in Michael’s chest. “And this is just the beginning.”

   Outside their window, Nakano watched. Brania had suggested he give Michael and Ronan a night to get settled,
to become complacent, but Nakano never liked taking orders from a girl. Girls think, guys act. So for the past hour, he had been watching, and finally the time had come. He knew what was happening. He knew how Ronan smelled when he was excited; he had smelled it many times before. Well, once or twice, and never as pungent, never as strong as it was now. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Michael obviously stirred a fire that lay deep within Ronan, a place Nakano never touched, never even knew existed. For a moment, he weakened, remembering how much he enjoyed being held by Ronan, being where Michael was right now. But no.
That was the past and this is my future. My future is not with Ronan; he has made that perfectly clear. My future is with Them, my kind. And as soon as I destroy your future, Ronan, mine will begin.

Before he lifted one foot, however, Nakano saw it coming. The fog, soft and gray, materialized out of nowhere. “No! Not again!”

The small cloud of gray mist swirled in front of the door of St. Florian’s, moving almost in slow motion, teasing Nakano with its laconic approach. But as expected, it quickly expanded, fanning out toward the sides of the building and up toward the sky, gaining momentum with every second until the lower half of the building was engulfed by the thick gray fog. Nakano thought his head was going to explode.
This is not happening to me again! Not when I am so close to showing everyone what I’m capable of!

Using all his preternatural speed, Nakano raced toward the fog, determined to break through it this time, crash through this aberrant barrier, this abnormal obstruction, and enter the fog so he could pull Michael away from Ronan before he could start the transformation. But when he hit the cloud, it was as if he hit a brick wall. He heard the bone snap a few seconds before he fell to the ground.

His left arm went limp as he tried to push himself off the ground, and once again he was facedown in the grass. For a moment he thought he could circumvent the fog by crawling under it, but it appeared to tunnel down into the earth. The fist that he could still use, he slammed into the ground, burrowing a hole a few inches deep. “What the hell is going on?!” He looked up just in time to see Ronan’s window vanish as the fog continued its rise, not stopping until the whole of St. Florian’s disappeared into the night.

   Eyes half closed, Michael didn’t notice that moonlight was replaced by shadow. All he noticed was that it had been several minutes since he had kissed Ronan’s mouth. He grabbed a handful of hair and brought Ronan’s head to his so he could set things right; he needed to taste him. He also needed him to make a vow. “Promise me this will never end,” Michael panted. “Promise me it’ll be like this forever.”

Ronan felt the familiar tingle in his mouth. “Is that what you want, Michael?”

His eyes are so bright, it’s like they’re shining, Michael
thought. “Yes! Yes!” Closing his own eyes he continued to explore Ronan’s body in the darkness, knowing that release was so close, so near.

   “I will not let you win!” Nakano bellowed at the fog that stood between himself and his destiny. He grabbed his left wrist and twisted his arm, bones creaking loudly, then he twisted it in the opposite direction. He clenched his fist and bent his elbow, good as new.

Running a few yards back until he reached the sprawling oak tree, he made another sprint toward the mist. This time, however, instead of trying to break through, he jumped up, hoping that the top of the fog would be easier to penetrate. He was wrong.

When he was a foot above the fog’s highest point, he leapt forward, but instead of falling through the cloud, he found that the top was just as dense as the section below. Standing on top of the fog, he knew Ronan and Michael were less than ten feet below. Incensed by the unexplained phenomenon, Nakano howled into the night with the force of a banshee because he knew that he was too late.

   Filled with the pureness of love, Ronan held the back of Michael’s head tightly and followed The Well’s command, followed the command of their own hearts, and plunged his fangs into Michael’s neck. Michael’s eyes opened wide as he gasped in ecstasy, clawing at Ronan’s back, his shoulders, as a violent burst of passion ripped through his body and odd visions flooded his brain.

Image after image passed over his mind’s eye. He was standing naked before an ocean; he was diving deeper, deeper, deeper until the blue water was almost black; he was drinking from a well, kissing Ronan, pressing his hand against his. What was wrong with his hand? It didn’t look normal.

In Ronan’s mind, however, everything looked perfectly natural, even though the images were new, never before seen. Michael walking down a hallway in Two W by himself, Michael sitting next to an old man in a pickup truck, Michael alone in his bedroom in Weeping Water, Michael looking out the window at the flooded path that separated him from his destiny. Then the sun shining intensely, the path dry and clear, Michael walking, walking, walking toward something, his eyes bright, his mouth smiling, parting to reveal chiseled fangs, stopping only to embrace Ronan, to pierce the smooth white flesh of his neck.

Another shock wave flooded Michael’s body. He couldn’t believe the power of the sensation. And neither could Ronan. The blood tasted sweeter and more intoxicating than any he had ever tasted. Warm, free-flowing, and exquisite. Because he wasn’t just tasting Michael’s blood, he wasn’t just feeding, he was acquiring his essence, all the emotions, all the history, every intangible quality that made Michael special, so he could offer it to The Well. He was tasting Michael’s soul.

When it was over, the boys shivered in each other’s arms. Neither one knew how to express what he was feeling, so they just held on to each other, both wondering
how in the world they ever got so lucky to wind up in each other’s embrace. Their sleep came quickly and was deep and uninterrupted.

But when Michael opened his eyes to the morning light, he felt them burn, and then his body started to convulse, and he knew something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“Ronan.”

The name escaped Michael’s lips like a plea. He tried again to open his eyes, but the second they met a piece of light, they burned like they were on fire. “Ronan!”

Hearing the fear before the words, Ronan woke up and instantly knew what to do. He shut the blinds, blocking out the sun’s rays, cursing himself for not doing it last night in preparation for this morning, but he had forgotten. It was just that last night was so thrilling, so unexpected even for him, the connection between him and Michael so strong, that it truly was more powerful than anything he had ever felt before, and he
forgot to make the proper preparations. But their night of passion was behind them and today there was work to be done.

Frightened, Michael tried to sit up in bed but felt weak. It was as if the room, with him in it, was spinning downward, spiraling down a well, to some place where it was dark and cool. “Ronan, I think I’m sick,” Michael said, barely able to get out the words, his throat so dry. “Take me … take me to the infirmary.”

Rushing to his side, Ronan clutched Michael’s hands, his beautiful, immortal hands, and told him he wasn’t sick; this was all part of the transformation.
What did he say?
Michael couldn’t quite hear him. “No … no, I’m not right.” He paused so he could gain the strength to speak further. “My eyes … and my throat.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Ronan said, wiping a bit of sweat from Michael’s brow. “It’s completely natural.” Rummaging through a drawer of his dresser, Ronan found his sunglasses, the same pair he wore when he was first converted, and placed them on Michael’s face. “There, that’ll help your eyes.” He kissed Michael’s cold cheek but could feel the fire just beneath his skin. “It’ll be over soon, trust me.”

The sunglasses did help. He felt the burn leave his eyes, but sunglasses? Why did he need to wear sunglasses in November? Wait … this wasn’t the first time. Where else had he seen people wearing sunglasses? Nakano! Yes, Nakano wore them for a few days, said he had an eye infection from his contacts, but there was
someone else. Michael felt something being pulled down over his head, something soft. Ronan was dressing him. His hands felt so good. “You need to stay warm,” Ronan told him.