yours.” She explained that she was writing a paper on the Bronte sisters, and the library on St. Anne’s campus didn’t have a copy of Agnes Grey.
“Which one wrote that?” Michael asked.
“Anne,” Ronan answered, staring at Phaedra.
“Impressive,” she said, tossing the towel back to Michael and wiping away some remaining drops of water from beneath her eyes. “Not everyone knows there’s a third sister.”
“There were actually five sisters; two died of tuberculosis at boarding school,” Ronan said. “And there was a brother too. Branwell.”
“Branwell Bronte?” Michael said. “Sounds like a character from one of their novels.”
“His first name was Patrick,” Ronan explained. “But he was a bit of a dandy in his day and ’Patrick’ lacks luster.”
Michael was so happy that his boyfriend and this girl, whom he already considered a friend, had so much in common. He imagined that the three of them could spend hours chatting about the Bronte siblings, Oscar Wilde, and a ton of more unliterary topics. He never imagined that both Ronan and Phaedra were trying to hide their growing suspicions of each other behind innocuous conversation. “Maybe I should get you to help me with my paper. My lit professor wasn’t too thrilled with my antifeminist take on Virginia Woolf.”
Ronan leaned back, folding his arms against his chest. “I’m sure you’re being modest.”
Phaedra smiled as the fire roared behind her. “Yeah, just a little. You know us urban snobs; we’re perfectionists.”
“Well, I’m just a laid-back country boy,” Michael joked. “I don’t believe in trying too hard.”
“Miss Antonides, I have your book,” the librarian called out, interrupting them. “And an umbrella that you may borrow.”
Phaedra bent forward, her damp hair hanging loose in the space between her and Michael. “Which is code for the girl intruder must now leave the premises.” They all laughed, Michael much more than Ronan and Phaedra. Before she disappeared, she said, “See you Saturday night at the festival.”
The Archangel Festival! In all the excitement the other day, Michael had forgotten about asking Ronan to be his date. Coinciding with Archangel Day, the annual festival was held in early November and was the only official event that brought together Double A with Saint Anne’s on the same turf, the gymnasium at St. Sebastian’s. Penry had told Michael that it wasn’t as posh as the high school proms Americans were known for, but it was fun, and Fritz could always be relied upon to sneak some alcohol onto the grounds. Penry, of course, was taking Imogene, and rumor had it that Fritz had asked Phaedra. Now it was Michael’s turn. “Would you like to be my date?”
“What?” Ronan replied, startled since he was paying more attention to the girl leaving the room than to the boy sitting next to him.
“Oh, I, um, just thought, that we could, maybe go together,” Michael stuttered. “But that’s okay. We don’t have to.”
“No, of course we’re going together,” Ronan declared. “I’d be honored to be your date.”
“Excellent!” Don’t get too excited, Michael reminded himself. It’s just a dumb dance. “You just sounded, you know, surprised, like it was the last thing you wanted to do.”
Best to be honest, Ronan, or as honest as you can possibly be. “I’m not sure if I like her.”
“Phaedra?”
“There’s something, I don’t know what exactly, but I don’t trust her.”
“Maybe it’s because Ciaran’s right. You’re not gay and you think she’s kinda hot.”
Despite the fact that they were sitting in a crowded room with a bunch of other students all trying to dry off from getting caught in the sudden downpour, Ronan grabbed Michael’s hand and leaned into him so they were a breath away. “You are the only person, Michael, male or female, that I’m attracted to. And that’s not going to change. Not ever.”
“I have to get to geometry,” Michael replied. It wasn’t an appropriate response, but it’s all Michael could think of. Well, it was the only thing he could think of saying or doing that he had the guts to say or do in public. He would have to wait until later when he and Ronan were again alone to respond the way he wanted to.
But as Michael turned to leave, he noticed that no one was really looking at them. They were all engrossed in their own conversation or drying themselves off, so he grabbed on to impulse and bent forward to give Ronan a quick kiss on the lips. Chaste, but courageous. He left without saying another word, not that one was necessary.
Alone, Ronan was conflicted. He loved the fact that Michael was brave enough to kiss him in public. It meant that his feelings for him were growing, that their relationship was indeed moving forward, perhaps, maybe, toward where Ronan wanted it to end up. But he hated the fact that he had come face-to-face with a liar. Phaedra hadn’t come to St. Joshua’s searching for a book; she had come searching for them. She obviously didn’t know that he, against his mother’s wishes, bought an entire collection of first-edition Bronte’s and, after reading them, donated them to St. Anne’s library. Agnes Grey was right there on the shelf, aisle four, third row from the top, if Ronan remembered correctly. It was a clever lie but, like most, not foolproof.
Could Phaedra possibly know the truth about him? Ronan wondered. The simple answer was that he just didn’t know. He hated questioning himself. As a vampire, Ronan was physically superior to almost every creature around him, which made it more difficult to admit when he was intellectually stumped. He had no idea what Phaedra was up to and he didn’t yet know how to go about uncovering the truth. Ciaran, however, was a different story. He knew exactly how to deal with his brother.
The rain had finally abated and only a few lingering drops still fell to the earth; the sky itself had returned to the beautiful shade of blue it had been that morning before the darkness swooped in unexpectedly to take over. Ronan strode toward St. Albert’s, the science library, where he knew he would find Ciaran during his free period, sequestered in one of the back rooms, conducting yet another pointless experiment. He would demand the truth from him and only heaven could protect him if he chose to lie.
St. Albert’s was on the other side of campus, tucked away in a secluded enclave with two other buildings that comprised what the students referred to as the Einstein Wing. It normally took ten minutes to walk there from St. Joshua’s, but Ronan was in a hurry to confront his brother, so he used his preternatural speed and got there in about five seconds. When he reached the front door, he paused to take several deep breaths; he wanted to maintain the upper hand and couldn’t do so if he couldn’t control his anger. Out of the corner of his left eye he saw the statue of St. Albert bent and placing a hand on the side of a lamb. The white marble was cold and formidable, but the statue still exuded compassion and illustrated the power of healing. It reminded students that scientific research meant nothing if mankind couldn’t benefit from the result. The hell with that, Ronan thought; sometimes research was just the beginning of revenge.
“I’m not going to ask you again, Ciaran. Why did you tell Michael that I’m not like the two of you?” This time when Ronan spoke, his deep voice vibrated throughout the Spartan room. He had found Ciaran where he expected him to be, in his favorite lab, in the farthest corner of the basement of the library. It was a small room with only two lab tables, one on which sat a few microscopes in different sizes and a second where Ciaran spread out his notebooks and stainless steel test tube racks. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a bookshelf that housed both reference books and less important lab paraphernalia. Ciaran loved it for its simplicity; Ronan appreciated it for its seclusion. He pounded the granite tabletop with his fist so hard that Ciaran had to grab the largest microscope to keep it from falling over. “Answer me!”
“Because it’s the truth,” Ciaran responded quietly. “Doesn’t Michael deserve that?”
“I told you that I will tell him everything.”
Ciaran squeezed the eyedropper, and a small amount of greenish liquid fell onto the slide. “Of course you will.” He covered it precisely with another piece of glass and placed it under the microscope. “In your own time.”
Ciaran had not planned on this, he had not planned that his accidental comment to Michael would find its way to Ronan’s ears. His words were not deliberate, but they were proving to be fortuitous. The moment Ronan spoke, Ciaran knew that he was being presented with an opportunity to fulfill a dream and he decided to take it. He followed his instinct and could tell it was working, his calm composure, his arrogance, was having its desired effect. Ronan was growing angrier by the second. And when Ronan got angry, he got violent. Ciaran was able to ignore his racing heartbeat, but he knew Ronan would not be able to ignore the familiar tingle in his mouth. “Who gives you the right to decide when Michael should know the truth?!”
