with a wallop to the side of his head, and soon the two were using Phaedra’s bed as their own personal arena, laughing, shouting, hurling pillows at each other, while Fritz and Phaedra stood on the sidelines watching them, not brave enough to join in, each secretly hoping that when their time for physical entertainment came, it would also involve pillows, but of a more stationary kind.
Saoirse was laughing so hard that when Michael’s pillow hit her in the face, she lost her balance. When she hit the ground, however, she was the only one who continued to laugh. “Saoirse!” Kneeling beside her, Michael brushed her hair from her face, he was sure she hit the side of her head against the bedside dresser, but there wasn’t a mark on the girl.
Looking up at Michael, Saoirse couldn’t decide if his eyes were green like the meadows near her old school or green like her favorite angora scarf. Didn’t matter, they were still gorgeous. “You win!” she wailed. “I dub thee Michael, King of the Pillow Fight!” Close call, but obviously a false alarm. Saoirse was already standing up. “What’s next on the agenda? Sword fighting? Russian roulette? I know! Let’s have a duel!” When three sets of eyebrows raised at the same time, Saoirse was compelled to amend her statement. “With water pistols if you’re all chicken.”
“Are you sure you’re related to Glynn-Rowley?” Fritz asked.
“Hatched from the same old bird,” she confirmed.
Shaking his head, Fritz looked at Michael. “Like night and day, those two.”
Running to the other side of the room, Saoirse practically dove underneath the bed to retrieve her sneakers. Sitting on the floor, she shoved one on and then the other. “Speaking of my brother, where is he? I thought the two of you were, you know, joined at the hip.”
Michael blushed a little. Even though everyone knew he and Ronan were a couple, when spoken out loud in front of people, it made him feel, not embarrassed exactly, but self-conscious. For all his bravado he wasn’t yet completely comfortable declaring his homosexuality, but he was getting there. “Hardly,” he replied. “He’s at the library.”
“Doing some posh reading,” Fritz added, garnering a huge laugh and a high-five from Michael as well as dumbfounded looks from the girls.
“Boys!” Saoirse shouted, rolling her eyes at Phaedra. Looking at Fritz, Phaedra repeated the sentiment to herself. Yes, boys, what a wonderful concept.
Noticing the onset of what could grow into a long, awkward silence, Michael thought it time to explain to the girls why they barged into their room in the first place. “Did you get Zachary’s text?”
“You mean his decree?” Phaedra asked, scouring her closet for her coat.
“Yeah,” Michael said. “We weren’t sure if St. Anne’s students got it too.”
Zipping up her coat, Phaedra assured them the entire student body got his message. “He sure knows how to amass an army.”
“Should be fun, though,” Fritz said. “You know, all of us . . . amassed army recruits decorating for this carnival thing.”
Crawling back under her bed to find her jacket, Saoirse whispered dramatically, “The Carnival for the Black Sun. It sounds so mysterious.”
“Nothing mysterious about it,” Phaedra replied. “It’s the solar eclipse in a few months.”
“C’mon, missie,” Michael said. “It’s time to go.” Grabbing Saoirse by the back of the neck, Michael led the way out of their room, giving Fritz enough privacy to grab hold of Phaedra’s hand. Her grip was soft, but firm, the way Fritz liked it. He liked it almost as much as Saoirse liked having the last word.
“Sure, complete and total darkness in the middle of the day,” Saoirse replied sarcastically. “Nothing at all mysterious about that.”
When they got to St. Sebastian’s, the only mystery concerned David. Somehow he had convinced almost the entire student body of Double A and St. Anne’s to volunteer their time on a Saturday morning to start decorating for the upcoming social event of the school season, and yet he was nowhere to be found.
What they didn’t realize was that David had no intention of being a participant; he was hoping to become a voyeur.
In one swift movement, David bit the eagle’s neck and started sucking out the creature’s flavorful blood. Screeching and flapping its wings wildly, the eagle tried desperately to escape the clutches of this thing that was taking its life, but David was too strong, his thirst too great, and soon the eagle’s bloodless body grew limp, its head slumping to the side.
David pulled out his fangs slowly and cradled the beast to his chest like a newborn before placing it on the floor, stretching out its wings to their full width. Leaning over the animal, David brushed its eyes closed with his fingers and allowed a few drops of blood to fall onto the eagle’s chest, staining the white feathers as a way to claim his victim. And then it was time to, hopefully, claim his reward.
Facing the mirror, David bent over until his bloodstained lips were a breath away from Zachariel’s portrait and kissed his namesake, smearing the eagle’s blood all over the archangel’s likeness until its face glistened red. Then he knelt beside the eagle—reluctant to disturb its eternal slumber, but aware that he must in order to make a proper offering—and ripped the wings from its body. Standing before the mirror, his lips and beard wet with blood, he held the eagle’s fully expanded wings in his hands and extended his arms, his elongated reach almost filling up the entire room.
O Zachariel, archangel of the sun
Share your power with a child of the night
As my grasp extends like an eagle on the wind
Grant your son the gift of omniscient sight.
The room was suddenly plunged into darkness, and David fought the unfamiliar tingle of fear that invaded his body. No! Zachariel is loving, he cherishes my loyalty, my devotion; he wouldn’t cast me into blackness, he wouldn’t be so cruel. And David was right. A white light erupted from the sculpted image of Zachariel, illuminating the room, and then David’s request was granted.
He could no longer see his reflection in the mirror, he could no longer see his own image staring back at him. What he did see was something much more exceptional: his subjects. The mirror had transformed into a window, a window that allowed David to see his followers, track their every move, and right now, he saw them working in St. Sebastian’s Gym, painting signs, building sets out of wood. He delighted in the images, Amir showing a group of students how to use black velvet to create art, Saoirse having returned to her family in obvious defiance of her mother’s wishes.
But not everything he saw made him happy.
With the music playing and the smorgasbord of food, it felt more like a party than an early morning work session, except that Michael didn’t have a date. “Ronan still upset that you forgot his birthday?” Phaedra asked as they spread out a roll of white material on the gym floor.
“No, he doesn’t seem to be,” Michael replied. “But I did screw up, big-time.”
Stealing a glance at Fritz, Phaedra said, “I think this relationship thing is pretty hard to master, so you should give yourself a free pass on this one.”
Opening a can of black paint, Michael looked at the liquid, so thick, so creamy, he could get lost in the darkness. When he looked out of the windows that overlooked The Forest, he saw a more enticing invitation. “And just how many passes does one bad boyfriend get?”
“One forgotten birthday doesn’t make you a bad boyfriend.”
Michael wasn’t referring to Ronan’s birthday, he was alluding to Jean-Paul. Outside, at the edge of The Forest of No Return, Jean-Paul was leaning against his car, arms folded, cap dipped forward, as if he were taking a nap standing up, exactly the way R.J. used to do at the gas station on a warm day. Long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, bored, waiting for someone to rouse him, waiting for a reason to move. Michael could give him a
