When they were a few feet away, Ronan turned back to see if the headmaster’s expression changed, but he was still smiling, still looking out over the crowd of students as if they were all his children, which to some degree they were. But when Ronan turned back around, Hawksbry’s expression did change, not because of Ronan, but because of the man who questioned him.
“So, Alistair, where’ve you been hiding?” Dr. MacCleery asked, looking less doctorly now that he’d swapped his white lab coat for a brown corduroy jacket, and his shirt was, for once, tucked into his pants.
When Hawksbry turned to face the doctor, benevolence was replaced with contempt. “I don’t recall having to answer to you.”
Lochlan looked at Alistair as if he were his patient instead of his colleague and he did not like what he saw. He had learned after years of treating uncommunicative teenagers to listen for symptoms concealed behind words, and he heard very loudly that Alistair was in trouble. He didn’t know what kind of trouble, but he knew that something, whether it be physical or otherwise, was trying to destroy him. “I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful,” MacCleery said. “I’m merely concerned.”
Alistair saw the look in the doctor’s eyes; it was the same look he saw lately when he found the strength to gaze into a mirror. But no matter how often he saw it, he still abhorred pity. “Don’t waste your concern on me, Lochlan,” Alistair said. “It could be put to better use.” On the contrary, his remark only made the doctor’s concern deepen.
Not as deep as Ronan’s, however, when a while later he saw his mother standing in front of the ice sculpture. He couldn’t tell by her expression if she was admiring or objecting to St. Michael’s flamboyance. All he knew was that twice in the same week, he had to ask his mother the same question, “What are you doing here?”
“Darling,” Edwige demurred, “is that any way to greet your mother? Especially in front of your … companion.”
Don’t flip out, Ronan, she won’t do anything here, not in public, not with everyone watching. “Michael, this is my mother, Edwige.”
“Mrs. Glynn-Rowley,” Michael said, extending his hand, “what a pleasure.”
Edwige gripped Michael’s hand firmly, not letting go until she was finished talking. “Lesson number one, call me Edwige. Mrs. Glynn-Rowley only comes alive once a month when I need to sign the back of a check, which thankfully is quite a large one.”
Behind his back, Ronan’s hands were clasped so tightly his fingers were gnarled. “Mother, why are you here?”
Waving her hand in front of her face so the diamond and ruby bracelet twirled halfway down the sleeve of her black lace dress, Edwige explained that she was here to be a chaperone. “You know how I love a party even if I have to be responsible and make sure things don’t get out of control.”
“You could have told me you were coming.”
“And spoil the surprise? Where would the fun be in that?” she asked. “Isn’t that right, Michael?”
This woman was not at all what Michael was expecting. He surmised from what he had heard that Ronan’s mother was quite different from his own and not at all matronly, but he never expected her to look quite so … sexy. Yes, she was petite and her hair was cut like a boy’s, but there was a confidence about her, something Michael guessed some women learned as they got older, a knowledge his mother never acquired. All he knew was that in her long-sleeved backless black lace minidress, Edwige looked like no mother he had ever seen. “Absolutely, Mrs. Glynn … I mean, Edwige.”
“You’re a quick learner,” Edwige said, smiling approvingly. “I like that.” She then turned to Ronan and added, “You’ve chosen well.”
Ronan was going to chastise his mother for making such an inappropriate comment but realized Michael hadn’t even heard her. He was too busy staring at the man talking to Hawksbry. “That’s my father.” If Ronan didn’t catch the sound of fear in his voice, he saw Michael’s face turn white and knew that he was even unhappier to see his father than Ronan was to see his mother.
“That’s Vaughan Howard?” Edwige asked.
Michael was so thrown by the unexpected presence of his father that he didn’t even question how Edwige knew his name. He just nodded, and then excused himself, telling Ronan that he needed to get some of Fritz’s punch. “Don’t worry, dear,” Edwige said. “I’ll handle this.” Before Ronan could plead with his mother not to make a scene or say anything that would make Michael even more uncomfortable, she turned to him and remarked, “Oh, and do you realize that the man Michael’s father is speaking with is a vampire?”
Alistair Hawksbry. Headmaster. A vampire? “What?! Are you sure?”
The body of a man, but the mind of a child. “I may not be maternal, dear, but my other instincts are finely tuned and I can recognize a vampire half a world away.”
Stunned, Ronan watched his mother saunter across the dance floor, ignoring the stares of every heterosexual teenage boy in the room, and wondered just how she knew Hawksbry was a vampire. When Nakano walked over to him, Ronan thought he at least figured out how he had become one. “What the bloody hell did you do to Hawksbry?”
“I didn’t do anything to him!” Nakano protested. “And bugger off if that’s the way you’re going to talk to me.”
“Well, if you didn’t do it, who did?”
His answer came when the front door opened and Brania walked in arm in arm with her date—Ciaran. Not only were they a surprising couple, they were a poorly matched one as well. Dressed in a royal blue halter dress that highlighted and enhanced every one of her many curves, her hair teased up dramatically and held in place, in part, by an antique sapphire and silver comb, Brania effortlessly eclipsed Ciaran who, in a light gray suit, yellow tie, and dour expression, looked frail and sallow in comparison.
Stunned for the second time in less than a minute, Ronan watched his mother casually turn Michael’s father around, his back now facing the gymnasium, so they could greet the latecomers. From where he stood, Ronan saw Brania never lose her smile, but saw her eyes narrow when Alistair nervously looked away from her. She did it. She may not have been the one to pierce his flesh, but she most certainly gave the command. Ronan couldn’t believe she was the cause of such change, and for a different reason entirely, neither could Fritz.
“So Ciaran’s not a poof after all,” Fritz announced.
“Language!” Phaedra scolded, slapping Fritz on the arm.
“Oh, come on, like you didn’t think the same thing,” he protested. “That Brania lassie must have some special powers.”
Phaedra sighed while swooping a loose tendril of hair back behind her ear. “You go to an all-boys school, Fritz. Half the student body is lusting after the other half. It’s only normal.”
“Which is why Imogene settled for Penry,” Nakano quipped snidely. “Slim pickings.”
It was Nakano’s turn to be slapped in the arm, this time by Imogene. “That is not true, Kano,” Imogene declared. “There are a lot of boys who wanted to be in the position Pens finds himself in.”
Nakano grinned wickedly. “And what position would that be, Pens?”
Although he was still a virgin, Penry loved having his friends think he may have crossed over into more experienced sexual territory, so he just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Imogene, however, wanted to keep her reputation unblemished. “Get your minds out of the gutter, boys. No one has been assuming any position. And no one will be!” Imogene paused for effect, smoothing out a crease in her little black dress and then pulling up her white gloves so they would rest securely past her elbows, just like she had seen Audrey Hepburn do in an old movie once. “Even if I do partake in another glass of Fritz’s really delicious punch. Phaedra, join me?”
Phaedra downed her glass, which was half full of the spiked drink, the same shade of red as her chiffon cocktail dress, then linked arms with her girlfriend and said in her best faux British accent, “Cheers, mates.”
Fritz shook his head as he watched Phaedra walk away. “Maybe tonight I’ll get as lucky as Ciaran.”
Michael had just recently reconciled to the fact that Ciaran wasn’t gay; now he was forced to try and consider the idea that he might get lucky with Brania, of all people. It just wasn’t something he could imagine. “You really think Ciaran might … you know, with Brania?”
“Look at her,” Fritz said. “I know she doesn’t do anything for ya, but trust me, she’s giving most of the blokes in here a bloody howler.”
Ronan had heard just about all he could handle. “Hey, Fritz, does it look to you like Alexei is trying to hit on
