Edwige crossed her ankles and smiled. She was about to use her index finger to push some strands of hair behind her ear, a sultry gesture she liked to use on any man, but realized at the last moment that just this morning she had her long, straight black hair cut into a short pixie. “And since when are you a blonde?” Ronan asked.
“Doesn’t it look so natural?” she asked. Instead of pushing her hair back, Edwige brushed it forward with her nails. “I woke up this morning and realized I had never been a blonde, so I made an appointment with Marcel. He’s a genius when it comes to these things. He said if I wanted to dye my hair, I had to go for a whole new look, and you know how I love to experiment. Do you like it?”
Regardless of what Ronan truly felt, he knew from experience there was only one answer to give. “It looks great.”
Edwige smiled approvingly. “It truly does, doesn’t it?” And it did. It actually suited her much better than long hair since her body was less about curves and more about confidence. She knew she was a woman; she didn’t need traditional feminine characteristics to enhance her beauty. Her allure came from within. Such a boyish haircut on another woman would look harsh, androgynous; on Edwige it made her look sexier than ever. And against her skin, which was as pale and unlined as Ronan’s, her blond hair made her look tantalizingly fragile. It was a look that would cause most men to want to protect and ravish her, but Ronan saw past the new color and style and into his mother’s eyes. They were as manipulative as ever.
“I said, how do you know Michael’s name?” Ronan asked, trying not to sound as unsettled as he was.
Edwige stared at her son. He looks like such a man, she thought, but still he’s a little boy. “I’m your mother, Ronan; it’s my job to know these things.” In one quick movement she sat up in the chair, swung her legs off the bed, and crossed them, her burgundy leather skirt traveling away from her knees and toward her thighs. If she was going to interrogate, she might as well look like an interrogator. “He’s quite beautiful,” she commented. “He and I have a very similar bone structure. Have you noticed?”
Ronan smoothed out the bedspread, not caring the slightest if it was rumpled or not; he simply needed a moment to reclaim his strength since his mother had the skill, and quite possibly the desire, to steal it from him. When he sat at the foot of the bed, he was a bit more in control. “No, Mother, the comparison escapes me.”
“Really?” She made a small circular motion with her foot as if the pointed toe of her shoe were tracing something round in the air. “Because we have the same high cheekbones. Mine are bit more delicate, of course, but his, his are quite remarkable. And of course we’re both blondes.”
“But he doesn’t need to rely on Marcel’s genius for a touch-up when his roots start to show.” That made Ronan feel good. It wasn’t every day he was able to make his mother wince simply by choosing the right words.
Folding her hands in her lap, Edwige changed the subject. “This flaxen mortal is not your usual type. Why the drastic change?”
Now she sounded snippy, almost childish. Ronan was finally starting to feel more comfortable in his mother’s presence, which was quite an accomplishment. Sometimes he could be with her for an entire weekend and never once feel at ease, relaxed. He assumed it must be the aftereffects of having such a wonderful day. Whatever the reason, he decided to go with it. He propped up his pillows against the headboard and leaned into them, then he folded his hands, mimicking his mother’s pose, before finally speaking. “Haven’t you read the school rule book? Parents are allowed on campus only during previously scheduled academy-approved events.”
Edwige glowered at her son; she detested obstinacy. “You know I don’t share your obsession for literature.” It was worse than that, actually; Edwige hated to read. The only exception being her financial statements, which had grown monthly ever since she inherited a fortune from a spinster aunt years ago after convincing her with a lie that she loved her more than her own mother. Her aunt, unmarried and childless, was grateful that one other person on the planet held her in the highest regard and, when she died, left Edwige her entire estate. Financially savvy, Edwige took the money, invested wisely, and attained a state of independent wealth most single mothers could only dream of. Then again, Edwige was hardly like most single mothers.
“This Michael looks nothing like your other boyfriends,” Edwige said curtly. “I’m not saying I disapprove. I think the two of you make an attractive couple, but I would like to know how he’s drawn you out of your comfort zone.”
“I guess I’m just like you,” Ronan said with a smirk. “I woke up one morning and realized I never had a blond.”
Sometimes a mother has to allow her son some freedom; sometimes she has to allow him to feel that he is winning an argument. Or wandering this earth independently without familial obligation. Edwige did not feel that this was one of those times. “The Well needs fresh blood, Ronan,” Edwige reminded her son. “You must take him.”
His mother’s words slammed into his ears and echoed loudly. This is all she wants, Ronan thought. She doesn’t care about my feelings; she doesn’t want to know how wonderful Michael makes me feel. Sure, I can have his flesh as long as The Well has his blood. “I can’t,” Ronan replied.
“You mean you won’t,” his mother corrected.
Abruptly Ronan jumped off the bed and flung open the door of his closet, his sudden and random action hardly surprising Edwige, who always found her son to be predictable. He’s a vampire, she thought lovingly, but he is a teenager. “No, I mean I can’t,” Ronan shouted. Then he added quietly, “Not yet anyway.”
Good, he understands; he isn’t a complete imbecile. “I didn’t mean take him tonight,” Edwige said in a soft, motherly tone she had heard other women use, “but soon.” She watched her son pace the room, his strides choppy, like a caged animal, like his father, and her mind was filled with unwanted memories. “He does love you, you know.”
Ronan stopped moving. “What?”
“I saw it in your face the moment you opened the door. I’ve only seen you look like that once before, and you know how he made you feel.”
A spark of pain started to grow within Ronan, moving quickly until it erupted. “I told you never to talk about him!”
Edwige wasn’t sure how much more of this tedious conversation she could take. “You told me never to speak his name aloud,” she corrected. “I had to swear on a Bible, of all the most ludicrous things, and I haven’t mentioned his name, not once. But the fact remains that he loved you and so does this Michael.” Edwige paused just long enough for her words to form meaning in Ronan’s brain. “I daresay that Michael loves you even more.”
Ronan may have been angry, but his mother was clever. He had no idea that she was saying exactly what she knew he wanted to hear. “Do you really think so?”
Although she was tired and her feet hurt from wearing heels all day, Edwige knew she had to get up to play her role most effectively. She walked over to her son and looked up into his eyes. She forgot to prepare herself and for a moment she became speechless as she was reminded of how beautiful his father was. She hated recalling such details; they were useless to her now. He’s even wearing his hair like him, Edwige realized. Must be to impress his new beau. She reached up to touch his cheek and felt the stubble of his beard. My boy really is a man, she thought. “Darling, I say this with absolute certainty. Michael will be the greatest love of your life.” She took a step back and held his hands in hers. “And that’s why you must offer his blood to The Well.”
Ronan looked at Edwige and it was one of those rare moments that he didn’t see a manipulative creature or a spiteful woman, but only his mother. “I don’t know if I can do that to him,” Ronan pleaded. “I don’t know if it’s what he wants.”
“It’s what the universe wants,” Edwige replied. “It’s what The Well wants, so everything else is secondary.” Unable to hold her son’s gaze any longer, Edwige walked to the other side of the room to gather her jacket and purse. “I don’t think I have to remind you that without The Well, we are nothing, and The Well is nothing if we don’t continue to replenish it with fresh blood.” She looked at herself in the mirror and loved how the bolero jacket, a burgundy, white, and black tweed trimmed in leather the same color as her skirt, gave the illusion that her shoulders were wider than they were. A smart purchase, she told herself, very smart. Then she turned to her son and made one more comment. “Blood bound by love.”
His mother may have changed her appearance, but she hadn’t changed her tactics. She spoke directly and she spoke the truth and that was one of the reasons that, despite all of her many faults, Ronan continued to love her. “It’s what makes us special, isn’t it?” he asked.
And although her son looked like a man, he was still her child, a child who desperately clung to sentiment
