resurrection.”
Gazing at the thin, gold crucifix that hung on the wall in the front of class, Michael thought about everything he had learned at church in Weeping Water and how most everything he had learned was proven false when he came to Archangel Academy. The only thing he knew for certain was that no matter what any priest believed or preached, God didn’t have a monopoly on immortality.
“What about vampires?!” Diego cried out, seemingly oblivious to Joubert’s cutting remark.
Involuntarily, Michael locked eyes with Nakano and then whipped his head around to face the kid who had made this bold statement. Did Diego know that there were vampires sitting a few seats in front of him? Was Diego a vampire himself? No, that was impossible. Well, not impossible, but not probable. Wouldn’t Michael know if Diego was a vampire? Wouldn’t he get some indication that he wasn’t mortal? Unable to divert his stare, Michael kept his gaze on the loud-mouthed boy, desperately searching for a clue that would offer proof as to what kind of creature he was. Nothing. Maybe Michael’s skills weren’t as finely tuned as he had thought.
“Vampires,” Joubert said as he began to walk around his desk, tapping his piece of chalk on the tabletop with each stride, “are products of fiction.” Diego opened his mouth to ask another question, but Joubert ignored him and continued speaking. “And while they are beguiling literary inventions, they are limited.”
“No, they’re not!” This time it wasn’t Diego who blurted out a bold statement; it was Michael. He knew that everyone in the class was looking at him, none more intently than Nakano, but he kept his focus on Joubert. He didn’t want to play such a dangerous game, he didn’t want to act recklessly, but his pride got the better of him and he had to stand up for his people and contradict such an ignorant comment. All that was left was to see how his professor would respond to his unexpected outburst.
“And why, Mr. Howard, would you make such a statement?” Joubert asked. “And, may I add, make it so passionately.”
It had been quite a while since Michael had felt the prickly tingles of fear ride up and down his spine while sitting in a classroom. It was a common feeling no student was immune to, but he was no ordinary student. He felt his heart rate quicken and he tried to control it, slow it down, but the more he tried, the more the opposite occurred. He felt his heart beat even faster, and the chill on his spine spread out to envelope his whole body.
When Michael finally spoke, his voice was steady, even if his body wasn’t entirely calm. “Because immortality, which, you know, is the primary characteristic of vampires, doesn’t have any limits.”
“What about a vampire’s inability to walk in the sun?” Joubert asked. “Or the necessity to drink human blood for sustenance? Aren’t they testimony to a vampire’s limitations?”
“Well, I guess that’s, you know, kind of true,” Michael replied, trying to infuse a dose of humility into his tone.
When Joubert spoke his voice was free of humility; it was the sound of a professor who once again was able to demonstrate to his students that he was smarter than they were. “So let us not forget that immortality is not a synonym for invulnerability and that vampires can die, just like a mere mortal,” he claimed. “Which brings me back to my original statement, God is the only true immortal creature.
And though it may be difficult for some of us to admit, none of us even comes close.”
Once more Michael tried to decipher Joubert’s expression, but failed. Was he mocking him? Was he speaking to him in some code? He was definitely looking in his direction, but so what? Naturally Joubert would direct his summation at the student who had contradicted him; there was nothing unusual about that. And yet Michael couldn’t shake the feeling that his lecture wasn’t random, but held a deeper meaning.
The confrontation over, Michael ran his fingers through his hair and stopped to massage his scalp.
Much better. Exhaling deeply, he felt the sense of dread begin to dissolve. It was still present, but no longer as profound. Obviously, he was more flustered by Ronan’s telling him about Morgandy as well as Ruby’s arrival and apparent inhumanity than he had originally acknowledged. But he had to get control of his emotions. Just because Ruby was hiding a secret and no one knew what had happened to Morgandy didn’t mean everything had to be a mystery. Then again maybe it did.
Following Professor Joubert’s instruction to turn to page twenty-five of their textbook, the chapter that explored the idea of resurrection and its significance in the Bible, so that they could continue their discussion on immortality, Michael found the birthday card from his father. It was no longer ripped in two and Michael had no idea how it got in his book.
Curious, Michael looked at the cover again, a colorful fireworks display that spelled out the number 17. Inside, Vaughan had written “Happy Birthday, son! Ad infinitum! Love, Dad.” The message no longer made Michael feel angry, but rather conflicted. He now thought the sentiment was lame, accurate, even sweet and all at the same time.
As Joubert rattled on about how resurrection was symbolic for a religious cleansing, a new beginning, a kind of a spiritual do-over, Michael wondered if finding his father’s card right at this moment might also be symbolic. Maybe it was a sign that he should forgive him, forge a new beginning with the only relative he had who still wanted anything to do with him. But despite the signs, despite Dr. Sutton’s earlier attempt to manipulate his emotions, despite Joubert’s timely lecture, could he really forgive his father? Could he really forget what his father did and reestablish some sort of relationship with him? Before Michael could ponder that thought any further it appeared that another old relationship might be looking to reestablish itself as well.
Looking out the window, Michael saw that Jean-Paul looked the same as he always did. Tall and lanky, long, dark brown hair tucked behind his ears, eyes half-open, his lips slightly parted, the only physical difference was that his skin looked darker, as if he had gotten a tan over the summer. He was clad in his typical uniform: a tight- fitting white shirt, unbuttoned at the top, his skinny, black tie loose at his neck, and black jacket, pants, and shoes. Standing in the middle of the field outside St. Joseph’s, holding his chauffeur’s cap in front of him, he looked as if he was dozing off standing up.
There was no argument, Jean-Paul was extremely handsome, but not nearly as handsome as Ronan.
Michael saw that clearly now, but there had been a time when it wasn’t so obvious to him. There had been a time when Michael was hypnotized by Jean-Paul’s good looks, overwhelmed by all the changes that had taken place so quickly in his life, and he barely escaped making a terrible mistake by betraying the love that he and Ronan shared. He was lucky; he had learned his lesson and was confident he would never make that mistake again. And anyway, Jean-Paul didn’t look that hot. Not with blood dripping down the front of his shirt.
A stream of blood oozed down the left side of Jean-Paul’s otherwise clean shirt, about the same width as his tie. He didn’t move and looked unaffected by the disturbance, but the blood continued to flow from some unseen origin, growing slightly and beginning to cover more of the shirt’s surface than before. The blood seemed to disappear at Jean-Paul’s waist, but then one drop, two drops, three drops, four, fell onto the lush, green grass at his feet. As the blood drops splattered around his shoes and accumulated on the ground, their size grew, and Jean-Paul was standing in a puddle of his own rich, red blood.
Suddenly, Michael felt very hungry. The blood looked sweet and inviting and so incredibly necessary even though he didn’t need to feed for several more weeks. He closed his eyes hoping the desire would pass. When he opened them, his craving was gone and so too was the source. Jean-Paul’s shirt was as crisp and clean and bloodless as it always was.
