Unwelcome (29 page)

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Authors: Michael Griffo

BOOK: Unwelcome
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When Grace entered the room, the first thing Michael noticed was how calm she looked. She wasn't screaming or trying to run away from the orderlies as she was when they took her from the house in Weeping Water. She looked normal. Maybe this vision would be a good thing after all, maybe it would allow him to see that his mother really hadn't lost her mind.
“Should we put her in the jacket?” the younger orderly asked.
“Nope,” the gray-haired one replied, grabbing the straightjacket roughly from the bed. “Doc said she's so drugged up, she can't hurt a fly even if she tries.”
Michael jumped when the door slammed shut. It was such a small room, nothing in it but a mattress on a cot and a pillow, the padded walls and thickly carpeted flooring making it look even smaller. The only window was an inch from the ceiling, thick glass, horizontal in shape, and covered in bars. A small patch of sky was all that could be seen and Michael imagined it permitted only a thin ray of sunlight to enter the room during the day. It was heartbreaking to think that this is where his mother spent her last moments in life, in such a barren, confined space. But as much as the room seemed to make Michael upset, it seemed to bring Grace comfort.
Kneeling beside the bed, Michael watched his mother sleep. Her face was soft again, as if she had fallen asleep on the couch with the TV on back home, she looked unworried and Michael was relieved to see that the drugs they had given her were working. She wasn't restless, she wasn't anxious, and when Michael saw the envelope that had been stuck underneath the mattress fall to the floor, he understood why. Bending down, his instinct was confirmed. His name was written on the envelope in his mother's handwriting; inside was her suicide note. She was sleeping peacefully because she had already decided to end her life. He couldn't believe that in a few short hours, she would awaken and kill herself. How could that be possible? If only she could remain asleep until the morning, maybe history could be altered and she wouldn't die. But then Vaughan woke her up.
“Grace,” Vaughan said, shaking his ex-wife's shoulder gently. “I've come for you just like I promised.”
Stunned, Michael crawled backward until his back hit the padded wall and then he scurried into the corner underneath the window. What the hell was his father doing here? Michael glanced over to the door and saw that it was still locked. How in the world did he get in? As bizarre as the scene was to Michael, when Grace opened her eyes, she reacted as if this was exactly what she was expecting.
“Hello, Vaughan,” she said quietly. “I was wondering how long it would take you to come.”
She must be dreaming, that has to be it. There's no way she could think this was normal. Yes, she had been dreaming of Vaughan, and his appearance was simply a vision within a vision.
He saw Imogene shake her head and heard the words in his mind, “No, Michael, everything you see here actually happened. It's all real, it's all the truth.”
How?! This just isn't possible. “I want to go home!” Michael shouted. “Get me out of here!”
Imogene was the only one who heard him and her response was to turn her back on him and look up toward the window to count the stars. She didn't care about astronomy, all types of science were her least favorite subjects, but watching the stars was better than watching the past unfold.
“It's time for you to go away,” Vaughan whispered. “Permanently.”
Michael couldn't see his father's face, but he could see his mother's reaction, and whatever Vaughan did made Grace recoil in horror. She tried to scream, but no sound escaped her throat. She jumped up and stood on the bed, her back pressing into the cushioned wall, her arms spread out wide, her fists banging into the wall as if she were trying to break through the padding.
“Grace, you can no longer fight this,” Vaughan said. “I've decided that now is the time.”
As terrified as she looked, Grace apparently disagreed. “Not like this!” With her eyes focused on Vaughan's face, she kicked his chest so unexpectedly and with such force that he flew across the room, his back facing Michael, his body inches from his feet. Cowering in the corner, Michael saw his mother run toward the door, but just as her fingertips scraped against the metal handle, Vaughan grabbed her hair and threw her onto the floor.
“NO!” Michael screamed, scurrying on his knees to where his mother had fallen. He tried to grab her hand, help her up, but her body wasn't solid, his hand went right through her. Grace remained on the floor, frozen more by fear than any physical injury she may have incurred. When Michael turned to see Vaughan standing over her, he understood why she was afraid. His father looked grotesque, his handsome face replaced by features Michael knew all too well. “This can't be real,” Michael heard himself say out loud.
But it was.
His father was a vampire.
Saliva dripped off of one of the fangs that hung past Vaughan's lower lip, and landed on his chin. His face was sallow, like sun-bleached sand, his cheeks so sunken that the bone looked like it might pierce the flesh. Worst of all were his eyes, completely black, lifeless and hollow as if they could transport you to the depths of hell, which is exactly where Grace believed she was about to be taken.
“Vaughan, no, please, don't do this,” Grace pleaded, slowly inching her body across the floor away from him. “I promised you I'd never say a word and I haven't.”
She knew? His mother knew his father was a vampire? Michael's head was spinning, he felt dizzy, he had to fight the urge to succumb to the sensation and faint, allow his body to rescue his mind so he didn't have to bear witness to this horror. But he couldn't, he couldn't abandon his mother, not now, not when there was so little time left to save her. He knelt next to her, hoping she would somehow feel his presence, hoping he could find a way to help her fight back.
“Yes,” Vaughan responded as he walked toward them. “You've been a very good girl and I thank you.”
“Then let me leave by my own hand. I'm ready to do it now, I promise,” Grace pleaded.
Vaughan thought for a moment and then said finally, “No, I've been looking forward to this.”
Michael looked up and saw Vaughan standing above them, his neck so elongated and curved that his head looked like it was separated from his body, his face almost horizontal as it peered down at them. Vaughan smiled and his mouth grew wider. The drop of saliva became so large that it could no longer hold on to his fang and fell, slowly. Michael winced when it passed through his body, he had never felt such coldness before. “And we both know that unless you're gone, you'll never let me have my son,” Vaughan said. “You'll never let Michael be mine.”
The sound of her son's name sucked the fear out of Grace, leaving only strength behind. “And you'll never have him!”
The laughter distorted Vaughan's face even more and Michael had to look away, he was hideous. His features, his eyes especially, were just like Nakano's when Michael unwittingly saw his true self. “Gracie, haven't you learned by now that there's nothing you can do to stop me? It's the only way I can raise Michael the way I've wanted to all these years, in my image, without your interference.” So that was it, that was the only reason Vaughan wanted to bring Michael to Eden, to enroll him in Archangel Academy, so he could be one of Them. That's why he so ridiculously suggested he should marry Brania. Well, too late, Dad. None of that's ever going to happen!
Grace felt the same way. Standing up, she looked directly at her ex-husband, his misshapen face not frightening her any longer, and the fury that she had kept locked away inside her for years was unleashed. “No matter what you do, our son will never be yours! He will never become something as disgusting and vile as you!” she seethed. She took another step closer to him and looked directly into his blackened eyes. “Haven't you learned that yet, Vaughan?”
For a moment, his father found it hard to breathe, his chest rising, expanding, his nostrils flaring wide. Michael watched his father's face, and beyond the monstrous features, he recognized the emotion behind his expression. It was doubt. But Vaughan hadn't come here to talk or discuss or negotiate Michael's future, he had come here to end Grace's.
Baring his fangs, he reached out for Grace, who made one last attempt to reach the door. This time she wasn't even close. Vaughan grabbed both her arms at the same time and lifted her off the ground. Squirming, Grace tried to break free, her legs flailing, kicking, hitting Vaughan, but he didn't feel her. The only sensation he felt was the sweet taste of her blood as his fangs bit through the bandages and tore open the flesh at her wrists.
A low, guttural moan seeped out of Grace, bled out of her every pore. Her body was weeping not because her blood was being taken from her, but because her child was. Looking out the window, up into the heavens, she began to whisper, “Dear God, please protect Michael from this man, please protect his soul and keep it safe.” She kept on praying, pleading as Vaughan kept on feeding, feeding, feeding, one wrist, then the next. All the while he was gulping, devouring her, Grace prayed, even when her legs no longer moved, when her eyesight was almost completely gone, she kept begging God to take action. “Do with me what you will, but please,
please
, send someone to protect my son.”
Raising Grace's near-dead body high over his head, Vaughan screamed, “My son doesn't need protection from his father!”
By the time Grace's body hit the floor, Vaughan was gone, his deed done. He made it look like the unstable woman had finally succeeded at the task she'd attempted so many times before. He cleverly made it look like she slit her wrists and committed suicide, when she simply became another one of his victims.
Paralyzed, Michael realized his mother hadn't abandoned him. Even facing death, she had tried to protect him, as Phaedra had said. That's all she had ever done. And now all Michael could do was watch her gasp for breath. He knew that if he shouted, no one would hear him. He couldn't alter the past, he could only become its witness. No! No, there had to be something he could do; he couldn't just watch. Crawling to his mother, he tried to press on her wounds, but again his hand moved through hers. He was flesh while she was spirit. But she was also his mother; he couldn't just leave her to die. “Imogene!” The girl still remained more interested in the stars. “Imogene! Please let me hold her,” Michael pleaded. “Let me hold my mother!”
Turning away from the night sky, Imogene looked at Michael and Grace, and she remembered how she felt when she died by herself and how Penry must have felt when he experienced the same fate. She understood the need for physical connection and the absolute horror of its absence. She understood what Michael was asking; she couldn't deny the request and it seemed that neither could Edwige. After all, she got what she wanted, Michael saw the truth. What did she care what happened next?
This time when Michael reached out for his mother, he felt her flesh, cold and scared, and he let out a cry. This was not the way it was supposed to be. A son was not supposed to cradle his mother in his arms; it was supposed to be the other way around. And yet it felt right. Grace looked up at him, and Michael saw the love and pride in her eyes and he knew that she recognized him, she knew she was being held by her son, and they were both grateful. Because when Grace died a second time, she wasn't alone.
chapter 17
The End of the Beginning
 
Outside, the earth was different. Inside, so was Michael.
“Michael.” No answer. “Mr. Howard,” Professor Willows clarified in a much louder voice. “Would you mind answering the question?”
Looking up from the blank page of his notebook, Michael saw his professor staring at him and was startled. He had actually forgotten he was in class. Glancing to the left, he saw some students looking in his direction as well. One of them was Fritz, his head leaning forward, eyebrows raised. Clearly, they were all waiting for him to speak.
“Shall I rephrase the question?” Willows asked. “Translate it into German? Perhaps Swahili?”
Michael's surly growl of a response cut right through the students' laughter. “I don't know.”
Willows's right hand moved with a mind of its own. His middle finger tapped against his thumb, quickly, repeatedly, his ring finger bouncing along with it, his pinky, not moving, but thrust outward. His nervous twitch didn't reveal itself only when he was nervous, it also manifested when he was faced with an uncooperative pupil. He expected certain students to act like boors; Michael wasn't one of them. Nevertheless, he had been a professor long enough to know that even the most scholarly teenager could sometimes act like his more loutish counterparts.
His lips clamped tightly, Willows exhaled slowly through his nose and clutched the edge of his desk to stop his hand from shaking. If the professor thought Michael was merely cranky because he didn't study and couldn't answer the simple question about the United States confederacy, he would have pressed the issue with him, but he recognized the look in his eyes. He was angry, and when a teenager was angry, Willows believed it was often best to ignore them until the feeling abated. “Amir,” Willows called out. “Name the three Southern states that stayed neutral and didn't join the confederacy in an attempt to secede from the Union.”
“Kentucky, Missouri, and Maryland,” Amir said, failing to restrain himself from tossing a smug smile Michael's way, which everyone except Michael noticed. With his mind overcrowded with images of his parents, there really was little space for anything else to penetrate.
When the bell rang, Michael got to the door so quickly Fritz had to push another kid out of the way to catch up with him so he wouldn't lose him in the crowd. “Hey, isn't Nebraska, like, right next to Missouri?”
“Just 'cause I'm from the States doesn't mean I know everything about them.” Michael hoped his comment would shut Fritz up, but quite the opposite.
“I know what'll sweeten your pissy mood,” Fritz said. “Help me write the latest issue.”
Again with that stupid comic book, Michael thought. Why doesn't he just let it die like Penry did.
“I got this great idea that all the profs get food poisoning at some special banquet honoring a former headmaster who's now a zombie,” Fritz said, his voice brimming over with excitement. “But it's not really food poisoning, the food's been cooked in zombie blood, so now all the profs are zombies just like the headmaster.” When Michael didn't respond, Fritz continued. “Picture it, mate. There are zombies everywhere and all the students lock themselves into St. Sebastian's to hide out and then the profs break through the windows and then there's this right gory war on the gym floor. Brilliant, I know. I just don't know how to kill them all off, which is why I need your help.” Suddenly, Fritz looked very serious. “Have we established if Double P can kill a horde of zombies?”
If Michael had been listening, he still wouldn't have been able to help his friend. He was completely focused on figuring out how to deal with the new information he'd acquired thanks to Imogene. “Sorry, Fritz, I can't help you.”
When Fritz finally stopped talking and looked at Michael's face, he noticed what Willows had recognized earlier. “Hey, what's up with you?”
I just found out my father's a vampire and he killed my mother to make it look like a suicide.
“Nothing.”
Again Fritz's eyebrows raised. “Mate, a blind codger could see something's bothering you.”
A very tiny part of Michael's brain understood that Fritz was trying to be kind, trying to get him to talk, open up, but the rest of Michael's mind resisted. He didn't want to talk, he just wanted to be left alone. “Really it's nothing, I'm fine.” When Michael felt Fritz's hand on his shoulder, he reacted harshly, raising his arm, his elbow coming dangerously close to Fritz's face. “Sod off, will ya!”
Fritz didn't stop stumbling backward until he hit the wall. “What the bloody hell's gotten into you?”
Without breaking his stride, Michael turned around to shout, “Just leave me alone!”
For the rest of the school day, Michael felt like one of the zombies Fritz wanted to write about, as if he were sleepwalking through every class, every lecture. The second the school bell rang signaling the end of class, Michael ran. He wandered through The Forest aimlessly, pausing a few times when he thought he heard the meadowlark's song, but kept walking when he realized it was some other bird's tune, some melody that was far less soothing. He walked into areas he had never explored before, pieces of The Forest he never knew existed, and was stunned to see just how expansive it was. He always thought The Forest of No Return was a name that contained more mystery than meaning, but after ambling for almost two hours in foreign territory, he began to think you really could find yourself forever lost within this uncultivated terrain.
Sitting on the ground, leaning against the enormously thick stump of a fallen oak tree, Michael stared at his cell phone, his father's number staring back at him. For the third time that day, his thumb hovered over the SEND button, and for the third time he snapped his cell phone shut without making the call. He wanted to call his father, scream at him, tell him exactly how foul and disgusting he thought he was, ask him how he could live with himself after what he'd done, but while the words, the questions, churned inside his head, pressed against the back of his eyes, filled his throat until he choked, they never escaped his lips. He couldn't give them freedom because freedom meant truth and as long as he could remain silent, maybe he could convince himself that what his father did never really happened.
Unfortunately, it proved to be an impossible task. Even when he stood at the edge of The Forest and looked into St. Sebastian's to watch Ronan during swim practice, he didn't notice how marvelous he looked in his Speedo, how his body was just one muscle that flowed into another, how he dove off the platform and entered the water with such grace and fluidity, his body, his movement more at home in the water than on land. He could only think of his father devouring his mother's flesh. Just as Ronan emerged from the pool, Michael turned and ran back into The Forest, preferring to lose himself within the unfamiliar than stay close to the world and the people he had come to know so well.
 
“Did you see that?” Ciaran shook his head, unsure of what Ronan was talking about. “I thought I saw Michael run into the woods.”
That didn't surprise Ciaran. Michael had been acting strangely the past few days and when Fritz filled him in about his outburst earlier today, Ciaran assumed he and Ronan had a fight. Michael was good-natured most of the time, unless he had a real strong reason not to be, a reason that typically had something to do with Ronan. “Is he, um, mad at you for something?”
Drying his arms and chest with a towel, but looking out into The Forest, Ronan couldn't think of anything that happened between them recently that would get Michael angry, not that Ronan was always aware that he had done something that ticked Michael off. He had noticed that he was quieter than usual yesterday, but he was studying for a few big tests coming up, so Ronan didn't think much of it. Maybe he misinterpreted the silent treatment. “I don't think so,” Ronan replied, now quite confused. “Did he mention anything to you?”
Grabbing one end of Ronan's towel, Ciaran bent over and used it to dry his hair. “No, but he threw a wobbler and bit Fritz's head off this morning.”
After hearing about the incident, Ronan grew more concerned. “That's not like him.”
“No, mate, it isn't,” Ciaran agreed. “Nakano's got the monopoly on angry, and quiet and depressed, well, that's more my thing. Your Michael's the fun-loving, happy-go-lucky type bloke.”
Ronan smiled. Lately, Ciaran was sounding more and more like a real brother. “Well, then I have to find out what's troubling my Michael.”
 
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Michael knew exactly what was troubling him. His problem was he didn't know how to deal with it. When he saw Ronan standing behind him, his eyes soft but worried, the answer was simple. “I saw Imogene again,” Michael, said looking at their reflections. “She showed me some things, some really horrible things.”
“Come here.” Michael wrapped his arms around Ronan and felt the coolness of his skin lower the temperature of his own. He felt the heat, the anger, lift off of him, and when he breathed in, he could no longer smell his mother's blood, but only the pool water that clung to Ronan's body.
Resting his cheek against Ronan's chest, Michael described what he had seen, how he had witnessed his mother's death at his father's hands, and only when he was finishing his story, explaining how Imogene let him hold Grace and give her some comfort as she died, did he realize Ronan wasn't surprised to hear that Vaughan was a vampire. He didn't say anything, his body didn't flinch, his heart rate didn't increase. It was as if Michael had told him something unimportant, or worse, something that he already knew. Stepping back, he asked, “How long, Ronan?”
Ronan wasn't sure what he was more afraid to look at: his reflection or Michael's challenging stare. As a result he didn't look at either, instead focusing on the bathroom floor, and as he expected, Michael didn't allow him to get away with not answering for very long. “How long have you known that my father is a vampire?”
Look him in the eye, Ronan. He deserves that, as well as the truth.
“For a while. My mother told me.”
Suddenly the bathroom felt claustrophobic, as if the walls had moved in a few feet on all sides, leaving precious little room for oxygen. Entering the bedroom, Michael kept walking until he reached the far side of the room, but still he couldn't stop moving and started walking in a small circle around and around and around, continuing his path even when he spoke. “And you never thought this was something I might want to know?”
Ronan was getting dizzy watching Michael, but he wouldn't allow himself to take his eyes off of him. “We . . . I was trying to protect you.” And finally Michael stopped.
“I don't need your protection!” Michael shouted. “I'm not your little brother or . . . or your dog, I'm your boyfriend!”
“That's why I wanted to spare you this,” Ronan said, his voice starting to shake. “So you never had to find out that someone you love is one of Them.”
“I don't love my father!”
“Yes, you do!” Inching closer to Michael, Ronan felt the tears slide down his face, but he didn't know if he was crying for Michael's loss or for his own. “He may not be perfect, he may be a bloody ass, but he's your father, Michael.”
Standing his ground, not stepping closer toward Ronan or moving out of the way, Michael heard himself scream, “He's a murderer!”
The thunder of Michael's voice stunned Ronan. He was right, what
was
he saying? Maybe he had spent too many years around vampires; maybe he was starting to take life and death for granted. Vaughan did a heinous thing, he committed a vile act against Grace, against Michael, and Ronan's silence made him an accessory. It didn't matter that he didn't know what kind of secrets Vaughan was keeping, he knew he was one of Them, he knew what types of evil those kind are capable of, he shouldn't have listened to Edwige when she told him not to tell Michael, he should have said something. “I'm sorry,” Ronan said quietly. “I should've warned you about your father instead of trying to shield you from the truth. I . . . I was just trying to prevent you from being hurt.”
“Because you love me so much,” Michael replied in a voice drenched in sarcasm.
“Yes, Michael, I do love you,” Ronan said, his hands automatically reaching out to hold his hands, but Michael leapt over the bed and away from him.
“Then why do you keep lying to me?!”
Because I'm scared. Because I'm scared that you're going to leave me like everyone else in my life.
“I don't know.”
Furious, Michael kicked the bathroom door, ripping it from its hinges. “Not good enough, Ronan!”
“Calm down, Michael, please!” Ronan cried, rushing toward him, grabbing his arm.
When Michael turned around, Ronan saw that he was beyond consoling. His fangs were fully descended, his face elongated, his eyes narrow, and his voice seething with so much rage, it was almost unrecognizable. “
LET GO OF ME
!!
”

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