this morning, the same as he did every morning, and yet there was a difference. The meadowlark noticed it too and, disappointed, it flew away in the opposite direction of the car.
As Jean-Paul drove away, Michael confessed, “I can’t believe you don’t want to learn how to drive. It’s really exciting! And that car feels a lot better than the Civic Blakeley’s making me use.” Michael rambled on a bit more about how Jean-Paul’s car handled better, how it had better traction and a smoother flow over the ground, until it was clear that he was the only one doing any talking. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”
Mad? Yeah, a little, but Ronan knew they had an audience and he wasn’t about to give them a show. “I’m just hungry.”
“Really? Our next feeding isn’t for a few more days.”
But I want a connection now. I want to feel that we’re connected so tightly that no one, no matter how fascinating or sexy or older can break that hold. “The Well allows us some leeway if we need to feed a day or two early,” Ronan explained. “It acknowledges that even immortals have weaknesses we can’t control.”
Michael was young, but he wasn’t stupid, he knew Ronan wasn’t talking about The Well, he was talking about him. “Nothing happened, Ronan. Nothing is ever going to happen,” Michael stated firmly. “You know that, don’t you?”
I don’t know, Michael. All I know is that I hate feeling jealous, I hate feeling that all this could end, that history could repeat itself. But I trust you and you said nothing happened, so I’m going to choose to believe you. “I do,” he said. “But I’m still hungry.”
The feelings Ronan stirred within Michael were indeed more powerful than the ones he felt while sitting next to Jean-Peal. Sure it was exciting, gratifying to feel his stare, but this, the magnetic pull between him and Ronan, was unique, and Michael recognized that. He couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t take Jean-Paul for another spin if he offered, but he could promise that he would never do anything with him except drive. Kissing, feeding, and all that other good stuff was reserved for only one person. “Well, love,” Michael said, imitating Ronan’s accent, “let’s go eat.”
As usual, Ronan led the way and while their friends continued to paint banners and glue material onto wood, Michael stood next to Ronan on a ledge six stories high, outside the hospital room of a woman who was closer to death than the ocean is to the horizon. Ronan slid open the window, and a whiff of death floated past them. It was an artificial smell, though, this woman was being kept alive by machines that were interfering with nature. The scent of death should be intoxicating, not manufactured. Maybe this was Ronan’s revenge, run off with a handsome man and your reward is an unsatisfactory feed. No, not this time. Before they could enter, Michael heard a noise in the distance and then an intoxicating smell engulfed him, the unmistakable smell of someone who was about to die naturally. “Follow me,” Michael ordered.
Ronan watched in shock as Michael jumped off the ledge. He wasn’t worried that he would hurt himself, but Michael had never taken charge during a feeding before. Things were definitely changing. Instead of feeling apprehensive or concerned, Ronan found himself feeling proud. And when they stood on the top of the overturned truck, the wind carrying with it the delightful scent of a life about to end, Ronan grabbed Michael’s hand and kissed it. It was a small gesture, but hopefully one that communicated a great many emotions. Standing high above the ground, his hair windswept, his chest puffed, Michael truly looked like a young king and Ronan his loyal servant. Michael understood what Ronan was trying to convey and he was grateful, but now he too was ravenously hungry.
The handsome man, sprawled on the grass a few feet from the truck, was barely conscious. He didn’t feel the shards of glass sticking in his chest and arms, but he did feel something pierce his neck, something sharp, oddly pleasurable, and then he felt his blood swirl underneath his skin. Crouched over the man, Michael was gripping a handful of his curly brown hair tightly as he sucked the blood from his thick, muscular neck. He was so enraptured by the experience, so absolutely becoming an extension of this man, that he didn’t stop feeding until he felt Ronan’s hand grip his shoulder. Extending his tongue to flick the stream of blood that dripped from the side of Michael’s mouth, Ronan whispered, “He needs to feed both of us.”
Not only was their feeding unusual, so too was the ceremony at The Well. They knelt, they drank, they prayed, and then they were plunged into darkness just as Michael’s vision prophesied. “Ronan!” The only response was a flash of light. The break in the darkness frightened the boys even more because, when they looked into The Well, a distorted image, a grotesque face, stared back at them before the darkness returned.
At the same time, David’s mirror turned to black. “No!” he shouted, the wings he was still holding fluttering in the air. “Zachariel, don’t abandon me!” Slowly his reflection returned. Gone were the images from St. Sebastian’s, gone was his miraculous vision. Only he remained in the mirror. A rumbling started to grow within the room. The walls vibrated, the floor shook, and David fell to his knees when Zachariel spoke. “As you ask your children to be patient,” the angel growled, “I ask the same from mine.”
Suddenly, The Well was flooded with light. Ronan was standing next to Michael, where he belonged, and from the cave’s ceiling fell the most beautiful white roses, like the ones that grew outside of St. Joshua’s. The shower of roses was such a lovely antidote to the grotesque face they had seen that they beamed. The roses clustered together and hovered a few feet above their heads, one giant bouquet, suspended, until the petals separated and fell, their softness gently brushing against their skin like wisps of satin.
The feathers from the eagle’s wings began to separate and lift, encircling David, until every last one was sucked into Zachariel’s carved image. The archangel had accepted his sacrifice. David heard a crackling and saw that the torso of the eagle had burst into flames, all that remained of the animal was fire, then ash, then nothing. Overjoyed, David realized this was a turning point in his immortal life, his first undeniable communication with Zachariel, the archangel of the sun.
Two separate rituals, two different resolutions. The three of them, however, had no idea how closely they were all connected.
chapter 15
Ronan woke up with a plan. Ever since Saoirse took a risk by going out in public to decorate for the school’s upcoming carnival, he knew he would have to take action. He didn’t want to, but it was inevitable. So instead of going to first period, he was going to see Edwige.
His mother would not be happy to hear that Saoirse ran away from Ecole des Roches to avoid expulsion; that Phaedra impersonated her to assure the French headmistress that Saoirse was safe, sound, and living with family; and, most disturbingly, that Saoirse had been cutting herself out of peer pressure. But his mother needed to be told, his sister needed guidance, and Ronan no longer wanted to act like her parent. It was time for Edwige to resume that role.
Racing out of his dorm room, he kissed Michael good-bye and wished him luck on his British lit quiz. “Don’t forget. Charles Dickens got paid by the word,” Ronan reminded him. “That’s why he was so long-winded.”
“What was Proust’s excuse?” Michael asked, feeling ohso-literary.
“Self-indulgent,” Ronan replied. “But don’t give that as your answer. McLaren’s got a stiffy for the old bugger.”
Now Michael felt confused. He thought Ronan was off to confront his mother and yet he was cheerier than he had been in days. Standing in the doorway, he called out, “You’re in an awfully good mood this morning.”
Climbing back up the stairs two at a time, Ronan almost collided into Michael. “Trying to be more like you, love,” he said, throwing his arms around him. “And put a positive spin on something I really don’t want to do.”
When Ronan looked down, a clump of hair flopped out of place. Michael brushed the loose strands back with his fingers. “You don’t have to. You could force Saoirse to call her mother and take responsibility for her own actions.”
Ronan’s laughter filled the stairwell. “That’s one of the reasons I love you,” he said. “You’ve got a cracking sense of humor.” One quick kiss on the lips, one more for good luck, and Ronan was once again racing down the steps. Running out of St. Florian’s, he shouted, “See ya at practice!” but he didn’t pause for Michael’s response. He was determined to get to his mother’s flat before he lost his courage.
