better idea of their prognosis.” She hated lying, but she hated disobeying the doctor’s orders even more. She only hoped that her voice was calm and that it didn’t reveal how distraught she actually was.
When nearly all the students had left the building, MacCleery emerged from his examining room. “Ronan,” he bellowed. “I want to talk to you.”
The silence that followed the doctor’s statement was thick with blame and suspicion. Everyone could feel it. Typically, Ronan was wary in the doctor’s presence, but this time he had his nerves under control. He had nothing to do with the attack, and for once he had an alibi. “Yes, sir.”
“Come with me.”
Ronan hesitated, alibi or not. He wasn’t fond of confined spaces. “Anything you want to ask me, you can do in front of them.”
MacCleery looked at the students who refused to leave—Ciaran, Fritz, Phaedra, and the American student, whatever his name was. Then he looked at Ronan. The boy wanted to make a scene, that was fine with him. “Imogene remembers being attacked from behind just as the festival ended. Where were you at that time?”
What a brazen accusation, Ronan thought, but at least my instincts are on target. He really does believe I’m dangerous. Which Ronan did have to admit was true, but only when he was provoked. “I left the festival shortly before it ended. At the time of the attack, I would have been in my room. Sir.”
“Can your dorm mate confirm that?”
Ronan felt like he was on trial. Everyone in the room was looking at him, wondering how he was going to respond, and the most curious juror appeared to be Phaedra. “No, sir, he can’t.”
For some reason, MacCleery felt sweat spread across his palms; he was nervous, his throat dry, but he didn’t understand why. Once again he was afraid to be in this boy’s presence, but it didn’t make sense. He was just a kid, nothing more. “So you, um, just want us to accept that what you’re telling us is the truth?”
“It is, sir,” Michael said, his voice clear and firm. “I left the festival with Ronan and I was with him all night.”
Well, well, well, boys will be boys, won’t they? “There’s no need to lie for your friend,” MacCleery advised.
Anxious, but still amused by the situation, Fritz chuckled. “Ronan’s more than just his friend, sir.”
That’s right, Michael thought, it’s time we all spoke the truth. “I’ve been with him since we left last night. If you want proof, ask Ciaran. He saw me there this morning when he told us what happened.”
Dammit! Why do they always work in a pack? One always ready to take a bullet for the other. “Is that true, Ciaran?!”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“What about Nakano?” Phaedra asked the question so quietly, it almost went unheard. But as its implications set in, MacCleery thought it made sense. He never noticed anything out of the ordinary with Nakano, not like with Ronan, but they were very close, dorm mates, so maybe, maybe there was some sort of connection.
“Mrs. Radcliff,” MacCleery shouted. “Get Nakano in here. Now!”
Before the nurse could make a move, Ciaran spoke. “That won’t be necessary, sir. Nakano was with me all night.”
Ronan’s cry concealed the doctor’s “What?!”
Calmly, Ciaran told another lie. “Since Michael was spending the night with Ronan, Nakano had no place to sleep. Michael’s empty bed seemed like the perfect solution.”
The doctor ripped his glasses off his face and wiped them vigorously with his shirttail. He didn’t know who to believe anymore, but he knew that no matter how many more questions he asked, he wouldn’t be told the truth. Maybe he should just retire, live out the rest of his days away from youth and illness. Unfortunately, before he could make any life-changing decisions, there was a dead boy lying on a table in the other room, who had to be dealt with. “Tell Hawksbry to call Penry’s parents,” the doctor ordered. “Then call the morgue.” “No!” This time, Phaedra’s word shook the room.
Worn out, the doctor retreated back to his office. “Imogene will be fine, but Penry was dead before he got here.”
At the same time, Michael and Fritz rushed to Phaedra’s side, separating to sit on opposite sides of her to offer comfort. “I couldn’t protect them,” she cried, her words muffled by her sobs. “I should have, but I couldn’t.”
“No one could have prevented this,” Michael said, moving his hand away so Fritz’s arm alone could ease her shaking body. When Fritz saw Michael’s own tears fall down his cheeks, the boy gave his shoulder a squeeze. A simple yet effective gesture from one friend to another.
While Mrs. Radcliff was busy making her phone calls, Ronan grabbed Ciaran by the arm as he was about to leave. “I know what you’re trying to do, and you have to stop it.”
Ciaran shook his arm free from his brother’s hold. He swallowed his anger so when he spoke, he merely sounded patronizing. “Please don’t worry about me, Ronan, not when you have a boyfriend to console.” After Ciaran left, that’s just what Ronan did. He sat next to Michael and put his arm around his shoulder. Michael and Ronan, Phaedra and Fritz, just two couples overcome with grief over the death of their friend. Ronan was thankful, however, no one was looking at him, because he was no longer able to hide his fear. He was just as scared as every mortal in the room.
Within the hour, the whole campus was buzzing with the news that Penry was killed and Imogene, though she survived, had been left for dead. As a result, a mandatory curfew was placed on both Double A and St. Anne’s. No student was allowed outside without an adult after sundown. But since Hawksbry refused to make a formal statement—an act that made many students question his leadership skills—all that was left was rumor, and according to gossip, the couple had been attacked by an animal, maybe a bear, although no one could ever recall seeing a bear wandering through The Forest. Whatever it was, whatever committed this heinous act, it was bloodthirsty, because Penry had lost more than half his blood. And though Imogene for some reason hadn’t been severely injured, she had been taken to the trauma center in Carlisle to be examined more thoroughly and, of course, questioned by the police. Thanks to Ciaran’s alibi, Nakano wasn’t worried in the slightest.
But Ronan was. He didn’t want to believe that Ciaran would willingly protect Nakano, but he had been right there, had heard his brother lie to protect him. Ciaran was hardly friendly with Kano, plus he knew that he was capable of committing such a vicious act. As frightening as it was to Ronan, it all made perfect sense. First begging Ronan to turn him into a vampire, then cozying up to Brania, and now protecting Nakano, Ciaran was not making intelligent choices unless … God, could that really be it? If he wouldn’t turn him into a vampire, Ciaran would find someone who would. But he couldn’t possibly be desperate enough to become one of Them, could he? As much as Ciaran infuriated Ronan at times, he was still his brother. And it was time he reminded his mother of that fact.
A few minutes later, he was standing in the living room of her London flat, surrounded by a collection of shabby chic furnishings and accessories in every shade of white imaginable. Since she didn’t initiate the conversation, Edwige was trying her best to ignore Ronan, but he wouldn’t stand for it. The topic was far too important. “You didn’t even say two words to him at the festival!” Ronan shouted.
“I nodded when he looked my way,” Edwige said, focusing all her concentration on applying her aubergine nail polish with a smooth, even brushstroke.
“He will do anything to become a vampire! He practically forced me to transform him. Doesn’t that concern you?”
Blowing a steady stream of air onto her nails, Edwige didn’t seem concerned at all. “No, dear, because if you remember, I told you that I would destroy you if you ever gave your brother the gift of immortality.” Ronan flinched at the memory, knowing that his mother meant what she had said. “He does not deserve to be given our life, not after what his father did.”
“I know,” Ronan said quietly. “And that’s why I refused him.”
Finally, Edwige smiled at her favorite child. “No, you refused him because you’re a loyal son. Loyal to your mother and loyal to The Well.” Edwige got up, not to walk toward her son but to stand in front of a large painting that covered most of her living room wall. “Do you like it?”
Ronan’s eyes glossed over the artwork. “It’s fine.”
“Fine!? I paid sixty thousand pounds for this painting,” Edwige declared. “It’s by a fledgling artist, someone who I predict will be the darling of the art scene one day. And this is, by far, his greatest achievement to
