zombies?”
If Michael had been listening, he still wouldn’t have been able to help his friend. He was completely focused on figuring out how to deal with the new information he’d acquired thanks to Imogene. “Sorry, Fritz, I can’t help you.”
When Fritz finally stopped talking and looked at Michael’s face, he noticed what Willows had recognized earlier. “Hey, what’s up with you?”
I just found out my father’s a vampire and he killed my mother to make it look like a suicide. “Nothing.”
Again Fritz’s eyebrows raised. “Mate, a blind codger could see something’s bothering you.”
A very tiny part of Michael’s brain understood that Fritz was trying to be kind, trying to get him to talk, open up, but the rest of Michael’s mind resisted. He didn’t want to talk, he just wanted to be left alone. “Really it’s nothing, I’m fine.” When Michael felt Fritz’s hand on his shoulder, he reacted harshly, raising his arm, his elbow coming dangerously close to Fritz’s face. “Sod off, will ya!”
Fritz didn’t stop stumbling backward until he hit the wall. “What the bloody hell’s gotten into you?”
Without breaking his stride, Michael turned around to shout, “Just leave me alone!”
For the rest of the school day, Michael felt like one of the zombies Fritz wanted to write about, as if he were sleepwalking through every class, every lecture. The second the school bell rang signaling the end of class, Michael ran. He wandered through The Forest aimlessly, pausing a few times when he thought he heard the meadowlark’s song, but kept walking when he realized it was some other bird’s tune, some melody that was far less soothing. He walked into areas he had never explored before, pieces of The Forest he never knew existed, and was stunned to see just how expansive it was. He always thought The Forest of No Return was a name that contained more mystery than meaning, but after ambling for almost two hours in foreign territory, he began to think you really could find yourself forever lost within this uncultivated terrain.
Sitting on the ground, leaning against the enormously thick stump of a fallen oak tree, Michael stared at his cell phone, his father’s number staring back at him. For the third time that day, his thumb hovered over the SEND button, and for the third time he snapped his cell phone shut without making the call. He wanted to call his father, scream at him, tell him exactly how foul and disgusting he thought he was, ask him how he could live with himself after what he’d done, but while the words, the questions, churned inside his head, pressed against the back of his eyes, filled his throat until he choked, they never escaped his lips. He couldn’t give them freedom because freedom meant truth and as long as he could remain silent, maybe he could convince himself that what his father did never really happened.
Unfortunately, it proved to be an impossible task. Even when he stood at the edge of The Forest and looked into St. Sebastian’s to watch Ronan during swim practice, he didn’t notice how marvelous he looked in his Speedo, how his body was just one muscle that flowed into another, how he dove off the platform and entered the water with such grace and fluidity, his body, his movement more at home in the water than on land. He could only think of his father devouring his mother’s flesh. Just as Ronan emerged from the pool, Michael turned and ran back into The Forest, preferring to lose himself within the unfamiliar than stay close to the world and the people he had come to know so well.
“Did you see that?” Ciaran shook his head, unsure of what Ronan was talking about. “I thought I saw Michael run into the woods.”
That didn’t surprise Ciaran. Michael had been acting strangely the past few days and when Fritz filled him in about his outburst earlier today, Ciaran assumed he and Ronan had a fight. Michael was good-natured most of the time, unless he had a real strong reason not to be, a reason that typically had something to do with Ronan. “Is he, um, mad at you for something?”
Drying his arms and chest with a towel, but looking out into The Forest, Ronan couldn’t think of anything that happened between them recently that would get Michael angry, not that Ronan was always aware that he had done something that ticked Michael off. He had noticed that he was quieter than usual yesterday, but he was studying for a few big tests coming up, so Ronan didn’t think much of it. Maybe he misinterpreted the silent treatment. “I don’t think so,” Ronan replied, now quite confused. “Did he mention anything to you?”
Grabbing one end of Ronan’s towel, Ciaran bent over and used it to dry his hair. “No, but he threw a wobbler and bit Fritz’s head off this morning.”
After hearing about the incident, Ronan grew more concerned. “That’s not like him.”
“No, mate, it isn’t,” Ciaran agreed. “Nakano’s got the monopoly on angry, and quiet and depressed, well, that’s more my thing. Your Michael’s the fun-loving, happy-go-lucky type bloke.”
Ronan smiled. Lately, Ciaran was sounding more and more like a real brother. “Well, then I have to find out what’s troubling my Michael.”
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Michael knew exactly what was troubling him. His problem was he didn’t know how to deal with it. When he saw Ronan standing behind him, his eyes soft but worried, the answer was simple. “I saw Imogene again,” Michael, said looking at their reflections. “She showed me some things, some really horrible things.”
“Come here.” Michael wrapped his arms around Ronan and felt the coolness of his skin lower the temperature of his own. He felt the heat, the anger, lift off of him, and when he breathed in, he could no longer smell his mother’s blood, but only the pool water that clung to Ronan’s body.
Resting his cheek against Ronan’s chest, Michael described what he had seen, how he had witnessed his mother’s death at his father’s hands, and only when he was finishing his story, explaining how Imogene let him hold Grace and give her some comfort as she died, did he realize Ronan wasn’t surprised to hear that Vaughan was a vampire. He didn’t say anything, his body didn’t flinch, his heart rate didn’t increase. It was as if Michael had told him something unimportant, or worse, something that he already knew. Stepping back, he asked, “How long, Ronan?”
Ronan wasn’t sure what he was more afraid to look at: his reflection or Michael’s challenging stare. As a result he didn’t look at either, instead focusing on the bathroom floor, and as he expected, Michael didn’t allow him to get away with not answering for very long. “How long have you known that my father is a vampire?”
Look him in the eye, Ronan. He deserves that, as well as the truth. “For a while. My mother told me.”
Suddenly the bathroom felt claustrophobic, as if the walls had moved in a few feet on all sides, leaving precious little room for oxygen. Entering the bedroom, Michael kept walking until he reached the far side of the room, but still he couldn’t stop moving and started walking in a small circle around and around and around, continuing his path even when he spoke. “And you never thought this was something I might want to know?”
Ronan was getting dizzy watching Michael, but he wouldn’t allow himself to take his eyes off of him. “We . . . I was trying to protect you.” And finally Michael stopped.
“I don’t need your protection!” Michael shouted. “I’m not your little brother or . . . or your dog, I’m your boyfriend!”
“That’s why I wanted to spare you this,” Ronan said, his voice starting to shake. “So you never had to find out that someone you love is one of Them.”
“I don’t love my father!”
“Yes, you do!” Inching closer to Michael, Ronan felt the tears slide down his face, but he didn’t know if he was crying for Michael’s loss or for his own. “He may not be perfect, he may be a bloody ass, but he’s your father, Michael.”
Standing his ground, not stepping closer toward Ronan or moving out of the way, Michael heard himself scream, “He’s a murderer!”
The thunder of Michael’s voice stunned Ronan. He was right, what was he saying? Maybe he had spent too many years around vampires; maybe he was starting to take life and death for granted. Vaughan did a heinous thing, he committed a vile act against Grace, against Michael, and Ronan’s silence made him an accessory. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know what kind of secrets Vaughan was keeping, he knew he was one of Them, he knew what types of evil those kind are capable of, he shouldn’t have listened to Edwige when she told him not to tell Michael, he should have said something. “I’m sorry,” Ronan said quietly. “I should’ve warned you about your father instead of trying to shield you from the truth. I . . . I was just trying to prevent you from being hurt.”
“Because you love me so much,” Michael replied in a voice drenched in sarcasm.
“Yes, Michael, I do love you,” Ronan said, his hands automatically reaching out to hold his hands, but
