chapter 17
“I can’t be your date for the festival,” Ronan declared.
“I think it’s best if we don’t go together,” Ronan stated.
“I’m not feeling well,” Ronan said. “I, um, don’t think I’m up to going.”
No! Ronan swiped the air with his fists and paced his room. He ripped off his suit jacket, flung it onto his bed, and yelled at his reflection in the mirror, “You can’t do this to him! You can’t cancel at the last minute!” He knew that at this very moment Michael was looking in his mirror, wondering if he looked good enough, wondering if he would make Ronan’s heart skip a beat. Oh, of course he would, he always did. And Ronan couldn’t wait to hold him in his arms, kiss his beautiful mouth, and roughly rip every piece of clothing off of him. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t continue this charade any longer. “No!” he screamed. “Call it what it is, this lie!” He covered his face with his hands for a few seconds, then calmer, forced himself to face his reflection. “I can’t be your boyfriend, Michael. It’s over.”
The pain that ripped through Ronan’s body had nothing to do with his own emotional anguish. It was coming from somewhere else, it was coming from deep within the waters of The Well. Ronan lurched forward, his head crashing into the mirror, fracturing it. Lines like a spiderweb spread across the glass, causing some shards to fall to the floor, followed by Ronan, who could no longer stand.
He pressed his hand down on the hard wood to brace himself and felt a piece of glass pierce his flesh. Crying out in agony, he watched blood seep from the palm of his hand and slowly trickle toward the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. He was changing even though he wasn’t near The Well, even though he wouldn’t feed for nearly a month. He could feel his feet inside his shoes growing, straining against the leather. He looked up and he saw his true self, multiplied tenfold by the cracks in the glass, and then he saw The Well’s message.
Behind him stood Michael. One clear image spread out among all the cracked pieces of the mirror, radiantly handsome, his features never softer, his eyes never brighter, his fangs never sharper. Ronan shuddered, but Michael placed a webbed hand on his shoulder and steadied him. “Don’t be afraid, Ronan,” Michael said. “This is all meant to be.”
He turned around to look at Michael, but there was no one there. When he turned back, the mirror was unbroken, the image gone, and so too was the pain. For the first time in his life, The Well had communicated to him, and Ronan knew instinctively that it was reassuring him that he and Michael were each other’s destiny. He watched the cut heal itself, his features retract, and he was filled with a sensation of pure joy because he knew The Well was never wrong. The feeling only grew stronger when he opened his door and saw Michael standing before him.
His blond hair was neatly parted on the side and combed over, the gel he’d used creating a glossy curve. His green eyes were wide, nervous, but very happy. In his narrow-tailored dark blue suit, white shirt, and olive green tie, Michael looked like the perfect gentleman. He acted like one too. “I brought this for you.”
Ronan accepted the small, white rose from Michael’s slightly shaking hand. “It’s beautiful.” He tucked it into his lapel to match the one in Michael’s. “From outside St. Joshua’s?”
“Yes,” Michael admitted. “Ciaran told me that most guys pluck a rose from the bushes for their date to bring them luck.”
“Michael, you don’t need luck,” Ronan said, sliding his hand to the back of Michael’s neck and bringing him closer so they could share their first kiss of the night. “This is all meant to be.”
Michael was amazed that once more Ronan looked handsomer than he did the last time he saw him. His hair was slicked back again to show off his masculine features, his blue tie was almost as bright as his eyes, and his black suit somehow made his muscles seem even more pronounced. Michael caressed the skin of Ronan’s earlobe just because he had never touched that part of him before and said, “You must be right because I have never, ever been happier in all my life.”
Ronan smiled, his red lips parting to reveal strong white teeth. “And the night hasn’t even begun.”
Outside the door to St. Sebastian’s they could hear the music blasting on the other side, the voices of the kids laughing, in full celebration. It was enough to stop Michael in his tracks. “Everything okay?” Ronan asked.
Michael looked at the doorknob and realized that once he entered with Ronan by his side, he would no longer be able to hide. Up until now, he and Ronan had blended into the crowd. Yes, their close friends knew what was going on between them, but once they entered the gym together, everyone, for better and for worse, would consider them a couple. “This is just a big step for me,” Michael replied.
Ronan looked at Michael and thought how wonderful that, decades from now, centuries even, he would look just as beautiful underneath the moonlight. “Take your time,” Ronan said. “I’ll follow you whenever you’re ready.”
Michael’s laughter shattered his tension. “Do you always say the right thing?”
Rubbing the small of his back, Ronan grinned. “You know me, I probably read it in some book.”
What in the world are you waiting for? Michael asked himself. This is the feeling you’ve been craving, the feeling that was always out of your grasp, of being connected, being accepted, feeling utterly natural. “Let’s go in.”
The noise and color of the crowd washed over them as they entered the gym, not separately but together, shoulder to shoulder. Everywhere they looked, their friends were clustered in groups talking and laughing or dancing on the hardwood floor that now covered the swimming pool. Penry was right; the room wasn’t overly decorated like most American high school dances, but like most things at Double A, the decor was tasteful and with a nod to the celestial beings for which the school was named.
From the ceiling hung several rows of clouds that were simply large pieces of Styrofoam with cotton balls glued to them. But in between were more elaborate creations—wings—some small and pure white, some feathery and expansive, others sprinkled with silver glitter so they created sparkles of light as they rotated overhead. Michael looked up and thought it was magical.
On the walls were hung tapestries depicting the various archangels in flight or in action, all powerful and majestic, all woven mainly in deep, masculine colors of burgundy and plum, but with softer, more feminine-colored accents like lilac and chartreuse, which gave the fabrics a brightness they would otherwise lack.
The centerpiece was an immense ice sculpture that was placed in the middle of the wall of windows, a sculpture of St. Michael in his iconic pose, standing about seven feet tall, with his wings spread almost as wide. Michael felt a surge of pride knowing that he was somehow linked to this fearless warrior. For now they were linked in name only, but Michael was certain—how, he couldn’t say—that if necessary he would be able to find the same strength and courage within himself to defeat any foe who dared try to harm him or the ones he loved.
Feeding off some of that courage, Michael let his fingers wander closer to Ronan’s, but just as they were about to clasp, Ronan shoved his hands into his pant pockets. He saw the headmaster standing at the entrance and was reminded of their last encounter. Alistair, however, didn’t seem to remember a thing. “Ronan, Michael, welcome to the Archangel Festival,” the headmaster said, extending his hand to greet both boys. Bending his head toward Michael, he whispered as if sharing a secret, “It’s our hundred and twenty-second, you know.”
“Wow, maybe it’ll catch on,” Michael teased.
“I hope so, Michael.” Alistair laughed. “It is a highlight of our year, isn’t that right, Ronan?”
“Yes, sir” was all Ronan could say. The headmaster was looking at him as if he were just another student, not the foul being he cursed at a few days ago. The disgusting creature whom he wanted to watch die, his entire race be annihilated. Ronan thought it might be a game, but when he looked into Hawksbry’s eyes, he saw only the usual kindness, not the hatred he saw the other day, not even fear.
“And it might just be coincidence, but this year the festival committee has chosen St. Michael to be our featured archangel.”
Now that Michael assumed Hawksbry was having an affair with his father’s driver, he felt oddly relaxed in his presence. He was still a figure of authority, somewhat intimidating, but now more of an equal, so Michael was able to joke. “It may not be the humble thing to do, but I’m going to take some credit for that.”
Again Hawksbry laughed, confusing Ronan even more. “Well, go enjoy yourselves, boys,” he ordered. “The night will be over before you know it.”
