were previously known only to Ronan. All he saw was the icy water of The Well begin to swirl.
Firmly, Ronan held Michael’s body close to him and gently pulled his arm away from his mouth. Michael watched as Ronan held his arm out over the center of The Well so his blood would pour into it, the blood that was a mixture of his and Michael’s. As Ronan spoke the ancient prayer, Michael found himself mouthing the words. How he knew them he didn’t know, but they were a part of him as surely as Ronan was. Unto The Well I give our life our bodies’ blood that makes us whole. We vow to honor and protect and ask The Well to house our souls.
When the last drop of blood fell from Ronan’s arm, he placed his hands on top of Michael’s, which were still holding on to the side of The Well, and noticed that they were starting to develop webbing between each finger. Michael bent his knees and arched his back as he felt the same painful sensation in his feet, and when he scooped up the cold liquid from The Well, he needed Ronan’s help to steady his shaking hands. Ronan let go when his hands grew still so Michael could place his webbed hands to his mouth and drink. At first Michael’s throat encountered cold, then a taste that he couldn’t describe, but one that he knew he could no longer live without.
Together they watched the swirling water of The Well begin to steam, become a mist that rose almost to the roof of the cave. It didn’t touch them, but Michael could feel a presence, a welcoming presence that enveloped him. It was warm and comforting and loving, and Michael felt as if his mother was once again wrapping her arms around him. It felt like home.
And so it was completed. Michael was now a part of Ronan’s race, a vampire with ties to Atlantis, a descendant of The First and The Other. Ronan kissed Michael softly on the temple, a kiss filled with love, pride, and even surprise; he had seen and felt this transformation once before, but this time was different, this time the connection was stronger. He pressed his cheek into Michael’s and he didn’t know if the words came from him or from The Well, but he heard them clearly all the same. “This union will last forever.”
When the mist disappeared, there was another change. The smooth silver surface didn’t return as Ronan expected; in its place was a sight that filled Ronan and Michael with awe, a sight that made them understand how undeniable their destiny was. They saw their individual souls meld together to create a bond that could never be broken. They saw their souls and themselves become one.
Miles away as he walked across St. Anne’s campus, Fritz hoped Phaedra would want to create a similar bond. He didn’t understand his feelings, but he knew he was changing, and it was all because of this girl. Until he met her, he was content with being a smart-ass, the guy who cared more about sports and making fun of others than someone who wanted to have a girlfriend, someone who wanted to have a relationship. Part of him still wanted to take that familiar, safe route, but lately, since Penry’s death maybe, Fritz wanted more. He longed to be with Phaedra and not just to kiss her or see if he could score, but to be in her presence, talk to her, get to know her better, and as a result get to learn more about himself. When he saw her packing her clothes in her room, he thought he would never get the chance.
“These aren’t my things,” Phaedra said. “They’re Imogene’s.”
Greatly relieved, Fritz was speechless for a few seconds. “So, um, I guess the rumors are true. She’s not coming back.”
Phaedra tenderly folded one of Imogene’s favorite T-shirts, black with a white stick figure whose head was in the shape of a heart. It made her smile as she lied. “No, it seems that she ran away from the trauma center in Carlisle. The police still haven’t found her.”
What? That was news to Fritz. “Her parents must be out of their bloody minds.”
Don’t cry, Phaedra; you can’t protect everyone. “Yes, they must be.”
“Do they have any idea where she went?”
Phaedra shook her head. “No, but I … I get the sense that she’s going to be all right.” Suddenly, Phaedra was more interested in what Fritz was holding. “Is that for me?”
“Um, oh yeah,” Fritz stuttered. “I, um, thought … I just … I just wanted to get you something.” Exhaling, Fritz sat down on the bed next to Phaedra. Normally he’d make fun of a girl with such hair, always kind of unruly and disheveled, but he liked that she wasn’t perfect; it made it easier to look at her.
“I see that you wrapped it yourself,” Phaedra said, smiling at the thin, rectangular box that was covered in three different types of paper held together by thick strips of masking tape.
Blushing, Fritz explained, “I kind of ran out of supplies.”
Phaedra looked at this boy, his smooth dark skin and lovely light brown eyes, and had no idea what she was doing or feeling, but decided to take advantage of his kindness. “Thank you, this is very sweet.”
Score one for Fritz! Well, not score, he chastised himself, more like congratulations. “I know you have a sweet tooth.”
No one had ever given Phaedra a box of chocolates before; in fact, no boy had ever given her a gift. She liked how it made her feel. “Thank you, Fritz, this is really … really thoughtful.”
And Fritz liked how Phaedra’s comment made him feel. He hoped the answer to his next question would make him feel even better. “There’s another rumor going around campus too.”
Mmmm, chocolate-covered cherries truly are delicious. “What’s that?”
“That, um, that you’re leaving school too,” Fritz said. “Is that true?”
Maybe it was the hope in Fritz’s eyes or the feeling that her work here was not yet done, but Phaedra was certain. “No, I’m not going anywhere.”
Beaming, Fritz couldn’t contain himself and kissed Phaedra quickly, but sweetly. “I’m glad to hear that.” Phaedra didn’t trust herself to say anything more, so she simply held the boy’s hand. Once again, Fritz was relieved. Her hand felt a little heavier than before, like it really was going to stay and not disappear. Not like some others.
“Hawksbry!”
Out of respect, Dr. MacCleery waited for a response, but none came. He knocked on the headmaster’s door once more and called out, “Hawksbry, are you in there?!” How he loathed this room. It always made him feel inferior, like he was waiting to be summoned by some higher authority. Ideal to remind the students who was in charge, but annoying to those who already know their power is limited. What he hated most was the faces of those damn archangels staring down at him, condemning him for being a mere human. As a scientist he didn’t believe in their existence, but still, did they have to look so angry? “Hawksbry, I’m coming in.”
When he entered the room, he didn’t see the headmaster sprawled out on the floor as he had feared nor did he see him sitting quietly at his desk reading as he had hoped. He saw no one. He looked around for signs of an intrusion, but again found nothing. He opened the doors to his private bathroom, his closet, both empty. “Where the hell did you get to this time?” But just as he was about to leave, he saw something that caught his eye. On the otherwise uncluttered desk was a folded piece of paper, propped up and looking like a tent. When Lochlan read the handwritten scrawl, he felt the eyes of the archangels peering at him, reading over his shoulder. He knew the handwriting was Alistair’s, though the words seemed to be written fast and without his usual flair. The message, however, was succinct. Evil walks among the angels. The children must be protected.
What?! MacCleery looked around the room, convinced someone was playing a trick on him. But then he read the note again and then he remembered how Alistair looked the last time he saw him and that he had disappeared for a few days once before, and the doctor quickly became convinced that something was wrong. He had no idea what was going on. He wasn’t sure if he really believed the words on the paper, but he felt certain that Alistair believed them. And when it came to the children, Alistair was rarely wrong.
The doctor was so deep in thought when he walked past the mirror and the haunted faces of the archangels, he didn’t even notice that he stepped in a small pile of ash.
The mahogany box was hardly ever noticed by anyone even though Edwige kept it out in full view, placed on top of a small table carved from the same wood. There was nothing fancy about the box or the table; the lines were smooth and neither was embellished with carving or adornment. They were both simply sturdy and strong. Just like Saxon was.
Edwige opened the box, the smell of the burnt ash now faint like a rarely spoken memory. But even unspoken memories never completely die. “Forgive me, Saxon,” Edwige said. “I faltered. I grew weak and thought I needed the love of another man.” Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice was steady when she vowed, “I will never make that mistake again.”
That was the thought that filled Ciaran’s brain when he entered St. Albert’s. When he entered the lab, he
