Michael Griffo - Unwelcome

Wiping away some rock dust that clung to her chin, Brania grabbed the nurse by her throat, cringing when she felt her sharp nails penetrate the clammy skin near her shoulder. She hurled the nurse forward and heard a sucking noise as her nails withdrew from her plump flesh. When the ground shook, she knew the nurse’s back had rammed into the other side of the crypt. With one eye watching Imogene cowering inside the coffin, Brania swiftly ran to Nurse Radcliff’s side before she could get up. Unfortunately, it was what the nurse was expecting her to do.

When Brania hunched over to grab the nurse’s shoulders and hoist her up so she could finish her off, she was only partially successful. On her knees, Nurse Radcliff took the rock that was concealed in her hand and swung her arm overhead, bashing it into Brania’s temple with such force that Brania spun around, arms wide, free, useless, and slammed onto the stone floor. Breathing hard, Nurse Radcliff watched Brania’s motionless body for several moments, remembering what David had said about the importance of reveling in each victory. Eager for another celebration, the nurse cocked her head to the side so her eyes could fall on the young girl too afraid to leave her coffin.

Even though she was protected by the darkness, Nurse Radcliff crouched low to the ground and moved toward Imogene stealthily. Imogene couldn’t see, but she sensed a presence coming toward her and she knew it wasn’t Brania, it smelled sickly, sour. When she felt a hand grab her knee, she kicked her leg out and scrambled into a corner of the coffin. She knew she was no longer safe, but she didn’t have the courage to leave. She would simply have to pray that Brania would protect her, that she would be true to her word. She was.

“Don’t touch my child!!”

The force of the words was nothing compared to the force of Brania’s fist striking the side of Nurse Radcliff’s face, so strong that her cheekbone splintered underneath the skin, fragments of bone pierced her flesh, causing her to howl in agony. Brania ignored the nurse’s pleas for mercy. Any feelings of empathy, compassion, were lost in the confusing rage that swirled around her brain and her heart, the rage against her father, his injustice, his duplicity. Killing the nurse wouldn’t be as satisfying as killing her father, but it would be a start.

Lifting the nurse like an overstuffed rag doll, Brania held her up high so she could get a good look at her victim. She wanted to see her fear, she wanted her to be fully aware that there was no escaping the horror that was about to befall her. Nurse Radcliff understood. She also understood the ramifications of Brania’s impending actions. “You’ll burn in hell for killing your own kind!”

“Where do you think I’ve lived for the past two centuries?!”

Those were the last words Nurse Radcliff heard before her body was hurled into the air, stopping only when a long, jagged rock pierced her back, splicing through her heart, and she erupted in flames.

Stepping into the coffin, Brania sat behind Imogene and wrapped her arms around her as the crackling fire warmed their skin. Thankful that her fierce protector brought comforting light back to the crypt, Imogene began to sing. Brania was so content, so joyful, that she hummed along.

Fritz wasn’t joyful, but the two glasses of spiked punch he gulped down were making him feel much less despondent. He and Phaedra had planned on spending the denouement of the carnival together. When the sun was completely black, Fritz had planned on caressing the soft skin on the back of her neck, twirling his fingers through her falling curls, and kissing her more deeply than usual, but all those plans were shattered now that Phaedra had decided not to show up, now that she had chosen not to be with him.

Stuck in between Ciaran and Alexei, a part of the crowd of students and faculty watching the eclipse from within St. Sebastian’s, Fritz felt like a complete loser. The only way he knew how to shake that feeling was to have another drink. And to make sure he didn’t drink alone.

Fritz poured some whiskey from his flask into Ciaran’s plastic cup. “Now taste that.”

“What is it?” Ciaran asked.

“Don’t worry, mate,” Fritz advised. “It’s Irish, you’ll like it.”

Ciaran could smell the alcohol before he lifted the glass to his mouth and hesitated. He had no idea what was happening to his sister or to Michael or where Ronan was, he attempted to contact Edwige, but she was nowhere to be found either. He tried not to think about what could be taking place because he had no power to stop it. He was the human, the limited one; they were the ones with unnatural gifts. The pungent smell of the whiskey made him wince, but that first whiff grew more tempting. Besides, there was nothing he could do to help them; there was nothing he could do to make their lives better or safer, and it was time he understood that. Maybe he would continue with his experiments, then again maybe not. He decided right then and there that he would only resume his research if it’s what he wanted to do, not at the behest of some lying headmaster or some troublesome sister. From now on, he wanted to put himself first, think about his own happiness, and what better way to commemorate that resolution than with a drink.

Coughing, Ciaran felt the rough liquid erupt in his stomach and gurgle up into his throat like a volcano. Even so, he took another drink until his cup was empty. Fritz smiled approvingly and he smiled back. His head felt like it was on fire, his lips weirdly numb and burning at the same time, and his mind slowly pushing thoughts of his family aside so he could join in with the rest of his mates and sing. Fritz, as always, led the group in a rousing version of the alternative lyrics to Double A’s alma mater, written long ago by some student who believed that not all aspects of education needed to be revered.

O weathered kings that rot below this prison

we call home

Immoral creatures, wankers’ foes, protect us

as we roam

O’er four long years ’n more for some, with

soddin’ saints from A to Z

Guide us so we don’t return, ’til each bloomin’

one is free

From this shafted ground, this bloody place,

Archangel Academy.

Laughing uncontrollably, Ciaran and Fritz were happy to forget their problems if only for a little while. They knew they shouldn’t be drinking, they knew it didn’t solve anything, they knew it wasn’t right, but it was only a little after twelve noon and the sky looked blacker than midnight. Really, who knew what was right and wrong any longer?

Ronan did. He knew that if Amir went any farther into the blue-black water, it would be the wrong move and he would never return. When Amir paused, Ronan made one last attempt to go after him and bring him back to the water’s surface and away from places he had no right to be.

Like a missile with only one purpose, Ronan lowered his head, bent his legs, and pushed back to propel himself deeper into the ocean. His webbed feet flipped rapidly, helping him to gain even more speed, so in no time, he was able to see Amir clearly only a few feet in front of him. Amir may have felt the rush of water swoop past him, but he was too fascinated by The Well that shimmered at him in the distance to see or hear Ronan approach him from behind. All he heard was David.

“You found it!” David shrieked, watching the action alone in his anteroom. “You’ve found their damned Well!”

David’s triumphant cries rang in his ears. He was so close, he just had to get a little bit closer, he had to prove to Headmaster that he was worthy, he had to solidify his place in his people’s history, so that for all eternity the name Amir Bhattacharjee would be synonymous with victory, heroism, and the dawning of the destruction of the water vamps. Unfortunately, Ronan was not about to let that happen.