Unwelcome (16 page)
Authors: Michael Griffo
Vaughan was only a few feet away, standing on top of the waves, displaying the same impossible skills as Imogene, his feet bare, his white pants and shirt dry even though he was less than an inch above the ocean, the ocean that was growing rougher by the second.
“Dad?!” Michael cried out, unaware that the word had never escaped his lips with such ease before. “What's going on?!”
It didn't matter that it was Michael's memory, his trip through time, it was as if he weren't there. All that existed, all that meant anything, was the space between Grace and Vaughan, Michael was simply a spectator. But even though he was their child, he felt oddly disconnected in their presence. This was the first time he had seen his parents together since he was a very young boy, and looking at them nowâhis mother wild, frenetic, and blood-soaked, his father calm, aloof, immaculateâhe couldn't imagine them ever being a couple. And yet something had united them, something that had been just as powerful as what tore them apart.
He thought of how he had felt when he first laid eyes on Ronan and wondered if his parents had ever felt a similar passion, the same kind of need. No, that was impossible. If they did, they would still be together, they would never have separated, nothing and no one in the world could extinguish that kind of love. Michael knew so much more than they did, he understood so much more about life, and yet if that were true, why did he feel like a child, lost, alone, and scared that he was about to witness something he never wanted to see?
“You!” Grace heaved the word into the air with such force that the ocean roared and this time when the waves crashed beneath Vaughan's feet, he was no longer immune to their aftershock; a fan of salt water rose and arched, showering his body. But when the water touched him, it turned to blood.
Startled, Michael stumbled backward and fell underwater. When he came back up, he shook his head, hoping that would correct the image, but it only made things worse. He watched in horror as rivulets of blood raced down Vaughan's cheeks, his shirt, the side of his pants, staining his outfit, turning the white cloth dark pink. For a moment, time stood still while Michael watched transfixed as one bright red drop of blood hung from Vaughan's foot, seemingly determined to cling to the flesh it had sought out, until gravity interfered and it fell into the ocean. Michael wished he could follow and hide, descend lower, lower, lower, underneath the water's surface, far away from his parents, who were now both dripping in blood. But he couldn't. He was compelled to watch, for no matter how painful it was to see these two people in such a raw, private moment, these two people were still his parents.
In spite of that, he began to suffocate. All the anxiety he felt as a little boy in Weeping Water started to push against his chest, his lungs; all the desperation he thought was gone, buried along with the rest of his past, began to resurface. He wanted to shout, scream as loud as he possibly could to block out what was happening, but his mother beat him to it.
“I'm ashamed of you!!”
Once Grace spoke, Michael was rendered speechless. The words were familiar; he had heard them before, but unlike the last time, unlike the last time she spoke those words in his dream, Grace wasn't talking to Michael, she was talking to Vaughan. Confused, Michael looked at his mother, her bloodied hand pointing directly past him, and he realized that she wasn't ashamed of him, she had never been ashamed of him, she was ashamed of his father. But why? What could he have possibly done to make her react so ferociously? Michael didn't know, but he could tell from Vaughan's expression that his mother's accusation was warranted. Vaughan was staring back at Grace with the expression of a man who could not fight the condemnation being hurled at him.
Waving her arms in the air, blood flinging all around her, Grace continue to yell at Vaughan, “This is all because of you! I'm so ashamed of what you've become!”
Michael was aware that his mother was speaking, that she was forming words, but he couldn't hear what she was saying, nothing registered in his mind because he was consumed with his own guilt. He had spent so much time blaming his mother, being angry with her since he thought she was ashamed of him because he was gay, that he now felt incredibly guilty. She had done nothing wrong; she had loved him like a mother should love her son, unconditionally and with a full heart. Her wordsâher shameâhad been directed at his father.
“I'm sorry!” Michael shouted, but Grace couldn't hear him. She was screaming new words at his father, new accusations.
“Why did you do this to me?!”
Grace held out her hands to Vaughan, fresh blood pouring from her slashed wrists, and it was clear to Michael that his mother blamed her suicide on Vaughan. Something that he did forced her to take her own life. But that didn't make any sense. She hardly ever mentioned him, Michael didn't think they were even in contact with each other. Except for a few phone calls during the holidays, they lived separate lives. They both wanted it that way. Or so Michael thought. Was something going on between his parents that he didn't know about? Something horrendous and recent that would have caused Grace to finally succeed where she had failed several times before?
“What did you do to her!?” Even if Vaughan could hear his son, he would have ignored him. All his attention was focused on his ex-wife. He stared at Grace, no longer as a man who was willing to accept a verbal lashing, but defiant. He looked like a guilty man who knew his innocence would never be disproved. His arrogance only seemed to madden Grace even more.
“I told you to leave him alone! I told you that you couldn't have him!”
Even though Grace wasn't looking at Michael, he knew she was talking about him. Was Vaughan planning on taking him away from his mother and Weeping Water even before her death? Was that what got her so upset the last time? Maybe . . . but if that was the truth, wouldn't her suicide just be the fulfillment of Vaughan's wishes? With his mother gone, no one would be able to stop him from taking Michael away from the only home he had ever known.
Suddenly the waves stopped crashing, the ocean rested, and Grace sped from the beach to where Vaughan stood in less than a second. She stood a foot from the man whom she all but announced was her murderer and there was silence until she spoke. “And now he will never be yours.”
Slowly disgust took over Vaughan's face as the truth of Grace's words penetrated his mind. After everything he had done, Michael still wasn't really his son and he never would be. Vaughan grabbed Grace's wrist and pulled her close to him, his lips slithering into a smile. Michael lunged forward, but before he could get next to his father, Imogene was standing before him, blocking him from making contact. “No.”
“Imogene, please!” Michael screamed. “He's hurting her!”
There was pity in her eyes, but Michael couldn't see it, her eyes remained as blank as a dead girl's. “There's nothing he or anyone can do to hurt her ever again.”
But Vaughan didn't want to hurt Grace, far from it, he only wanted to drink her blood. Kneeling on the now stagnant water, Vaughan held Grace's arm over his head and squeezed her wrist. A fountain of blood squirted out and Vaughan drank. The blood started to flow from Grace's arm with more speed and Michael could see his father's throat, grotesquely enlarged, rise and fall, trying to swallow every drop of fluid. After a few moments he gave up and started to laugh, though no one else joined in. He laughed so hard that the blood spilled out from the sides of his mouth and slid down his chin. Finally Michael tore his eyes away from his father and looked up to see his mother staring at him, tears falling from her eyes.
She sees me.
Michael gasped.
She's making a connection.
“Mother!”
Michael gasped.
She's making a connection.
“Mother!”
He felt the cold grasp of Imogene's hand and instantly Michael was back in the present, standing in the middle of The Forest, his parents, their blood, the ocean, all once again a mere memory. He had so many questions, but Imogene had no answers. “That's all I'm allowed to show you for now.”
And then she was gone.
Michael turned around. He looked all over, but he couldn't find her, she had disappeared. But was she ever there in the first place? Was this some sort of dream? Did he imagine it all? A rush of wind erupted from the sky and Michael felt a chill. He shivered; his clothes were soaking wet. No, he hadn't been dreaming, he had somehow entered his dream and saw the truth of the past. It had happened; it was as real as the noise he just heard.
“Mom, is that you?” Michael called out, hopefully.
The second time he heard the sound, he realized it was not the kind of sound that a mother would make. He felt his fangs pressing down on his lips. He looked at his hands and saw that small, translucent pieces of flesh had grown in between his fingers, his hands now webbed were ready for the attack that he knew was inevitable. He felt his eyes narrow and he could see deep into the woods, deep into the darkness, and he saw a body press against a huge oak tree in a futile attempt to conceal itself from him. Adrenaline raced through his body. He didn't know who was out there, he didn't know who was trying to attack him, but he was ready.
What he didn't expect, however, was the fog.
Curls of gray mist appeared to form out of the snowy ground until Michael's feet were encircled, and then the mist lengthened, rising like a solid gray panel, circular, impenetrable, and Michael could see someone in the distance moving toward him. Whoever was out there also saw the fog and knew that it was not a natural creation but a defense mechanism. Phaedra hadn't let him down this time, Michael thought, watching the fog rise even higher and then arch, when it was several feet over his head, to completely conceal him from the outside world.
Relieved, Michael felt his fangs retract, his fingers and eyes return to their humanlike state, and he felt his breathing decelerate. He might not be able to count on the past to remain unchanged, he might not be able to count on dead schoolmates to remain buried, but he could count on his friend. Phaedra had told him she was still here to protect him and that's just what she was doing. Sadly, she was not doing her job as well as she had promised.
A cloud of gray fog enveloped Michael from both sides, thrusting him forward. At first he thought Phaedra was repositioning herself, moving him to even safer ground, but when he felt a fist connect with his back, he knew that someone was trying to punch his way through the barrier from the outside.
Reeling around, his fangs once again cutting into his lips, his preternatural vision restored, he could see bits of The Forest through the fog and it was as if he were looking through an opaque curtainâhe couldn't see who was out there, who was valiantly trying to assault himâbut it was apparent that Phaedra's protection was no longer secure.
The fog shifted from dark gray to silver, dense to practically transparent, like someone was outside turning a light switch on and off. Every time Michael tried to escape from within the faltering vapor, it would solidify before he could break free. He knew that he was much better protected within the fog, but only, only if it could be stabilized. If not, he would be a lot safer outside in the expanse of The Forest than confined to such a small, dark space.
“Come on, Phaedra, I need you!” Michael cried.
As if she were answering his call, the fog enclosed itself all around him, slamming into the ground and over his head with a crash that sounded like a metal fence locking tight, and plunged him into darkness. But when he felt the sharp fangs scrape against his neck, he knew his worst fears had come true. He was securely trapped within the fog, but this time he wasn't alone.
chapter 10
Michael couldn't believe he was in this position yet again: facedown on the ground, a body on top of him, someone whose only purpose was to keep him from getting up. He felt the hand braced against the back of his head push him down even harder. He couldn't see the snow, but he could feel its icy grip spread out across his face and latch on to him, almost as if it were pulling him down deeper, deeper, deeper into the earth to help his attacker. Feeling pieces of snow and ice invade his nostrils, his mouth, he tried to breathe, but felt no air, only fear.
Involuntarily, Michael screamed. No sound was heard, but his mouth opened wide enough to allow more ice to clog his throat. Knowing its victim was panicking, Michael's unseen attacker pushed down even harder until his lips tasted dirt, and then moved his head forward turning him into a human bulldozer so his mouth would collect the stones and twigs that lay just beneath the snow's surface. Finally, Michael closed his mouth, but it was too late, he was beginning to suffocate.
Pressing his forehead and his hands into the ground, he arched his back and slowly started to rise, but the weight on top of him was immense. Finally, his mouth was a few inches above the snow and he coughed, spitting out the pieces of earth that were trying to lodge themselves in his throat. Saliva and ice dripped from his mouth and he was able to catch a few quick breaths before being pushed back down.
In the blackness, he smelled a cloud of sweet breath envelop him and he blinked his eyes when he felt long strands of hair fall on his cheeks, mingle with his eyelashes. He kept his mouth closed and his chin up as the palms of his hands dug into the hard ground, his body pushing back against his assailant. No, he was not going to give in, he was not going to be turned into a coward, a victim. No matter what anyone thought about him, no matter what Nakano thought, what his grandfather thought, or his father, or yes, even Ronan, he was strong and he could defend himself and he was going to prove it. He wanted this person off of him and he wanted this person off of him now!
“GET . . . OFF . . . OF . . . ME!”
Using every ounce of strength in his body, mortal and immortal, Michael threw his arms back and at the same time jumped to his feet, his knees bending awkwardly. Still, he was standing and that was a good start. Blinded by the darkness, Michael swung his arm with all the speed he could muster until it connected with hard flesh, he heard his opponent crash into the ground, followed by the sounds of a bone cracking, maybe two. He had done it, he had fought back, and by the sound of it, he had fought back well. His freedom, though well earned was short-lived. The body, regardless of how badly hurt, was on him once again. But this time was different. This time Michael was ready.
Less than a second after he felt the arm wrap around his throat, his fangs were burrowed within its flesh. Instead of clamping down and sucking out the blood as he usually did with his monthly victims, he dragged his mouth down the length of the arm toward its wrist, his fangs creating two deep gashes in the skin. The resulting cry was both high-pitched and guttural. Michael couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, but he knew that whoever or whatever it was, it was in agony.
The screams vibrated within the small space, and the sound of their echoes buoyed Michael, made him stronger. Maintaining his grip despite the taste of foul blood that was filling his mouth, he tossed his head from side to side like a wild animal unwilling to allow its prey to escape, flinging his attacker into one side of the fog and then the other. Thud after thud penetrated the darkness as Michael's assailant-turned-victim crashed into the fog that was now as dense as cement, its ear-piercing wails blending with Michael's feral grunts and roars to create a horrific sound, a sound that to Michael was a pronouncement of victory. His celebration was premature, however, as the fog yet again resumed its unpredictable nature.
A blast of moonlight flooded the makeshift fortress as part of the fog's wall disintegrated. Startled by the intrusion, Michael turned toward the light, releasing his fangs from the ravaged flesh. He heard his opponent scamper into the darkness that still covered the far side of their prison, but before he could see its face, the fog flooded back, solidified once again, concealing them from the light of the night sky. Something was definitely wrong with Phaedra. But it didn't matter now, Michael thought; he didn't need her. He could rely on himself.
Lunging forward, Michael's webbed hands grabbed on to something, something odd, smooth yet bumpy. It wasn't clothing, maybe jewelry, yes, that was it. He yanked at the chain or the necklace or whatever it was, but as he did, the person pulled back, making Michael lose his balance, and when he fell, he heard something crack underneath him, something like glass. Then he felt something sharp against his neck. The fangs pricked his skin quickly; they didn't penetrate deeply enough to suck out much blood, but Michael did feel droplets of blood ooze out onto his skin. Immediately, he felt cloth, like a scarf or a napkin, brush against his neck as if wiping away the blood, cleansing the wound. When he opened his eyes, he was momentarily blinded by the light of the moon that was shining in his face.
“Michael, are you all right?”
For a second Michael forgot that he had just been fighting for his life. Ronan looked positively ethereal, what with the moon glowing behind him and the soft wisps of fog uncurling all around his face. But if Ronan was here, he could also be in danger. “Watch out!” Jumping up, Michael positioned himself in front of Ronan in an effort to protect him, but protect him from whom? From what? There was no one else around. “Did you see anybody?!”
“No, when the fog lifted you were alone,” Ronan said extending his hand to quell Michael's shaking body.
Michael slapped his hand away. “That can't be! Someone was trapped in the fog with me.”
Two pairs of vampire eyes scoured The Forest for a hint of a preternatural presence, an animal, even a human, but couldn't find a trace of anyone or anything. Ronan saw that Michael's clothes were stained and covered in dirt, his beautiful face marred by a few small bruises that ran from his cheek to his jaw. His neck had a slight puncture wound that was already starting to heal, and while he was relieved that he was relatively unharmed, he was furious that he had acted so foolishly and put himself in danger yet again. “Why the hell are you out here in the middle of the night?!” Ronan shouted, his fear and anger making him unable to remain calm. When was he going to learn?
“I had a dream.”
And when was he going to stop blaming everything on a dream? “Oh, come on, Michael! Not another bloody dream.”
“No, no, it was more than a dream.”
“Well, was it a dream or wasn't it a dream?!”
Why is he yelling at me? Doesn't he know what I've just been through? Why doesn't he understand?
“It was more like a journey.”
“It was more like a journey.”
Swiping the air with his clenched fists, Ronan started to pace back and forth, pounding the snow with his bare feet. “First a dream, then a journey! Next you're going to tell me that you were visited by the dead and were shown some extraordinary vision!”
He does understand, he does know what I'm going through.
“Yes! That's exactly right!”
“Yes! That's exactly right!”
Stopping in his tracks, Ronan's chest heaved several times, his breath shooting from his lips to form funnels of white smoke. “Michael, I love you.” Ronan then took a step closer toward Michael. His mouth formed a word, but he didn't speak. He tried again, but clearly he couldn't find the right word. Leaning into his boyfriend, his index finger poking the air in front of his face repeatedly, violently, he finally managed to find the correct words to convey what was on his mind. “But you're really starting to piss me off!”
This is insane! After everything I've seen, after everything I've been through, now I have to deal with this?
“I'm telling you the truth, Ronan! Imogene came into our room tonight.”
“I'm telling you the truth, Ronan! Imogene came into our room tonight.”
That name changed everything. “Imogene?”
“She really is dead,” Michael said, his voice cracking slightly at the announcement. “I don't know how, but I could feel it.”
Ronan truly felt sorry for the girl. He liked Imogene, and he knew that however she died, it was not pleasant or deserved, but he couldn't focus on her death or her resurrection at the moment, he needed to find out what she showed Michael, what was so important that she had to lure him out into The Forest before the break of dawn. Luckily, Michael needed to explain what had happened to him as badly as Ronan needed to hear it. “She showed me a vision of my parents. I saw my mother and father in the same ocean that I first dreamed about you.”
At the mention of Michael's parents, Ronan felt his skin tingle. It was an odd sensation, curious, but Ronan knew that the body often sensed things before the mind could comprehend them. His body was telling him that Michael's dream, vision, journey, whatever, was not a kind, otherworldly gift, but an occurrence that could only have a devastating consequence. “Your parents? Are you sure?”
“Of course I am!” Michael replied. “I'm sorry if you don't want to believe me, but that's what happened!”
Get control of your own fear, Ronan; don't let him sense it.
“No, that's not what I meant. Of course I believe you,” Ronan said. “I'm just confused.”
And incredibly afraid because if a dead girl was compelled to show you a vision of your crazy mother and your father, a man so duplicitous
my
own mother doesn't even trust him, then there could be no good reason for her motives.
“It doesn't make sense to me, Michael. Why would Imogene show you a vision of your parents?” Ronan asked. “I mean, she didn't even know them.”
“No, that's not what I meant. Of course I believe you,” Ronan said. “I'm just confused.”
And incredibly afraid because if a dead girl was compelled to show you a vision of your crazy mother and your father, a man so duplicitous
my
own mother doesn't even trust him, then there could be no good reason for her motives.
“It doesn't make sense to me, Michael. Why would Imogene show you a vision of your parents?” Ronan asked. “I mean, she didn't even know them.”
“I don't know,” Michael said quietly. “But I'm glad she did.” Slowly, Michael recounted what he'd seen and how it made him feel. “She was never ashamed of me, Ronan.” The words carried with them such emotional weight, such a tight hold on his past, Michael could hardly lift his head. He stared at the ground, felt the tears well up in his eyes. “I hated her for so long.” Ronan felt all the anger rush out of his body when Michael looked at him, his expression so pleading, so unconcealed, his voice so remorseful. “Why was I so quick to believe she could hate me because I'm gay?”
The need to hear Michael's story was replaced with the need to comfort him. Ronan wrapped his arms around Michael and the embrace was eagerly accepted. Proud that he would allow his tears to fall so easily, so shamelessly onto his shoulder, Ronan whispered softly into Michael's ear, “Because you spent so much time hating yourself.”
Michael cried even harder, held on to Ronan tighter. He wished he was wrong, he wished he could push him away and yell at him for saying such a stupid thing, but he couldn't. Michael had found it so easy to hate himself for who he was that it seemed only natural that everyone else, including his mother, could hate him just as easily. Through his tears, he told Ronan the rest of the dream. “But she wasn't talking to me, she was talking to my father.”
Ronan felt his skin shiver for the second time.
Your mother was ashamed of your father,
he repeated to himself.
That can't possibly be good.
“Don't worry about that for now,” Ronan said, glad that Michael couldn't see his face or his concern clearly. “You don't need them anymore.”
Your mother was ashamed of your father,
he repeated to himself.
That can't possibly be good.
“Don't worry about that for now,” Ronan said, glad that Michael couldn't see his face or his concern clearly. “You don't need them anymore.”
“I know, I know that,” Michael said, escaping from Ronan's embrace just a little to look him in the face. “I have you and that's all I need.” He meant the words, knew they were fact, but there was more, more to confess. “I wish I had them too, though. I wish I had parents who were together and who loved each other and who lived in a dumb little house somewhere so we could visit and I could bring you to meet them.” Michael laughed at the image in his mind, he and Ronan standing on a doorstep, nervous, awkward, then his parents, a united, loving couple greeting them with open arms, ushering them into their home, into their lives. Ronan was smiling at him; he understood. “My mother really could be lots of fun when she wasn't, you know, completely out of her mind.”
She had to be incredibly special if she was capable of raising someone as wonderful as you,
Ronan thought. He held Michael's slender neck between his hands, the neck that he had bitten into, the neck that had given itself to him so willingly so they could be joined forever, and all Ronan wanted to do was lean in and kiss him, but just as he parted his lips, he saw Phaedra.
Ronan thought. He held Michael's slender neck between his hands, the neck that he had bitten into, the neck that had given itself to him so willingly so they could be joined forever, and all Ronan wanted to do was lean in and kiss him, but just as he parted his lips, he saw Phaedra.
“Oh God.”
Lying on the ground, her limbs twisted in a peculiar way, Phaedra didn't appear to be alive. The only part of her, in fact, that seemed to be moving was her hair. Lifted by the wind, the long curls rose and fell as if they were breathing while the rest of her body remained motionless. Michael and Ronan, shocked to see their friend in such a state, were frozen, in awe of what they were seeing, until Ronan realized action was needed.
“She needs help.”
Michael heard Ronan's comment but couldn't respond. His friend was in this position, this lifeless state, because of him. Phaedra had come to his aid and clearly she wasn't up to the challenge; she wasn't as powerful as she had been, and defending Michael had left her vulnerable. He didn't want to admit it, but it looked like it left her on the brink of death. “Ronan,” Michael said. “Is she . . . is she breathing?”
Other books
Sword and Sorceress XXVII by Unknown
Weaver by Stephen Baxter
The Mourning Sexton by Michael Baron
The Morning Gift by Eva Ibbotson
Dare She Kiss & Tell? by Aimee Carson
Betrayals by Brian Freemantle
Gutter by K'wan
The Box Garden by Carol Shields
The Return of Captain John Emmett by Elizabeth Speller
