Michael Griffo - Unwelcome

“That human was not one of ours!” Edwige hated to lose her temper with her son, but she also hated to hear her son talk like an idiot, she had raised him to be so much better than that. He has such potential, she thought. His destiny could be limitless, if only, if only he would end this asinine fascination with the lower classes. Rising from her chair, looking as statuesque as her petite frame would allow, she softened her voice and approached her son. “I know you are fond of these people; you consort with them and you find them to be useful, entertaining, which I will admit they can be, at times, but you must remember that we are not like them.”

“But we used to be,” Ronan said, sounding more like a child than he cared to admit.

“Past tense,” Edwige stressed, then added with unequivocal authority, “We are unto ourselves.”

The space between Ronan and his mother was suddenly drenched in shadows and silence. Could their differences ever be bridged? Ronan thought. Yes, of course, we’re different, better in so many ways, but the reason we’re better is because we’re connected to our past, to our humanity. Has she really lost sight of that? Does she really think we exist, that we could exist, without that link, without being bound to humans? Staring out the window of Edwige’s flat to the world below, Ronan saw some people walking in the darkness, scrambling to get somewhere, to someone, and he thought of Michael sleeping alone in his bed, and he suddenly ached to be alongside him, breathing in his smell, drifting off to sleep, secure, loved. He thought of his friends and his teachers, the people he spent his days with and learned from, and it was so clear to him that a contract was broken when two of those people were murdered. Why couldn’t she see that?

“They killed both Penry and Alistair without cause and there was no retribution from either side,” Ronan said quietly. “They hate water vamps, and now their leader is in control of Double A. This cannot be good for us.”

One minute stupid, the next perceptive. Edwige didn’t know if her son was contradictory because he was a child or a man. “David’s kind has always hated us; that is nothing new,” she allowed. “But the murders of your friend and your former headmaster, while unfortunate and unnecessary, were not declarations of war.”

“Just the first steps toward the acceptance of one.”

She was not going to win this argument. She was not going to convince her son that there was nothing to worry about, that David was just playing an innocuous game because he woke up one morning and decided that he wanted to do something different. So she chose a new tactic. “You have a point.”

“I do?”

“A muted, not entirely substantiated point, but a point nonetheless.”

Oddly, Ronan felt ambivalent at hearing Edwige agree with him. That is what he wanted, confirmation that his instincts were correct, but if they were, if he did understand what was going on, what David was trying to orchestrate, it only meant that they were all in serious trouble. “Really? Are you sure?”

He was definitely more of a man. Give a man exactly what he asks for and still he’s not satisfied. Honestly, would she ever understand that gender? Would she ever be given the chance again? Edwige caught sight of herself in the oval, frameless mirror that hung over the bar, and inspected her reflection with a bit more intensity than usual. Her hair, still very short and very blond, was flattering, and her unlined face looked youthful without appearing innocent. She knew she was enticing to men, she wondered, however, if she would ever find one man who could entice her and satisfy her needs.

She heard the din of Ronan’s voice and knew he was talking, knew he was asking questions, formulating theories, but she couldn’t tear herself away from her image or her thoughts. Recently, she imagined that she could have found satisfaction with Michael’s father, Vaughan, but she was too late, Brania got to him first and transformed him into one of Them. So even though he was quite handsome, extremely handsome actually, he was, what was the polite word? Contaminated? Yes, and in any case, no longer available. She glanced over to the mahogany box on the table next to the window and realized that whenever she thought about men, she inevitably thought about him. Yes, there had been men in her life other than Saxon, but none of them ever satisfied her the way he did, even if she led them to believe otherwise.

“Oh, David, I have never felt this way with another man before.” She remembered speaking the words to Brania’s father years ago, before she became financially independent, before it became unnecessary for her to rely on anyone other than herself, and she recalled how surprised she was that he believed her. Men really are daft. They really only hear words, not subtext, intent, falsehoods. But Edwige had been speaking a kind of truth—she had never felt as repulsed or demoralized than when she lay embraced in David’s arms—so she shouldn’t be too harsh on the man. He accepted what she said; he just never suspected her words had a less flattering meaning.

In the mirror, she saw Ronan behind her, staring at her imploringly, and she suddenly realized that she needed to be challenged as a woman and not just as a mother. She loved her son, but it was time she made him leave. “I don’t believe there is cause for alarm,” Edwige said, turning to face Ronan. “But I do believe there is reason to be careful.”

“So what should I do?”

“You should go home and get into bed next to Michael before he wakes up and notices that you’re gone,” Edwige instructed, then she answered his next question before it was asked, “And no, do not tell Michael who David is. Sharing that knowledge at this point will serve no purpose.”

Ronan understood what his mother was saying. He agreed with her, but in spite of that, he felt uneasy. That’s because you’re going to lie to your boyfriend, Ronan reminded himself. Not lie, just protect. Oh, stop it! He didn’t want to contemplate his decision any further, he didn’t want to argue with himself, he just wanted to know what his next action should be.

“But what about David, what should I do about him?”

“Nothing,” Edwige instructed. “You treat him as if he is simply what he says he is, Archangel Academy’s newest ruler, and I will keep an eye on him.”

For the first time since the assembly, he felt more calm than anxious. No matter how frustrating, how infuriating his mother could be, she really never let him down. He might not understand or agree with how she treated others, but he could always trust that she would help him.

“And by the way, his name’s not David O’Keefe anymore,” Ronan said. “Now he’s going by David Zachary.”

Edwige laughed. “Of course he is.”

David examined his reflection in the mirror and was pleased. The centuries had been kind. He had seen firsthand that immortality did not always guarantee physical resplendence, so he was grateful that he looked as he did when he first converted, even better if he dared say, and why shouldn’t he? There were very few around to contradict him. And even if one of the old-timers, if one of those who knew him from that period disagreed with his current assessment, they wouldn’t risk contradicting him. They knew what the consequences would be.

He was equally delighted with his office’s décor. The furniture was of the old-world, thick, substantial, built by craftsmen who knew their trade, quietly ornate but supremely functional. Things should be beautiful, but they should also have purpose. He especially loved the anteroom to the office. The forest green walls were the perfect counterpoint to his red hair, and standing now in the center of the room, he was reminded of the holiday season that had just passed. “I am like Father Christmas,” he said, laughing along with his reflection. “Revered, immortal, and the giver of so many gifts.” He laughed harder, making his reflection distort even more than usual. In the mirror, his blue eyes were a ghastly shade of charcoal, his formidable frame hunched and lopsided, his creamy complexion stained and, in some areas, burnt. “What is reality and what is perception?” he asked himself. The only response that came was another laugh, this time sinister and without any suggestion of a light heart. “And how have you angels survived without me for all these years?”