RoseBlood(38)

Thorn understood his father’s need to shut out the past, as others never would. He’d lived in a cage himself, three harrowing months before Erik found and rescued him.

Father Erik’s eccentricities were by-products of his past, as were Thorn’s. As were anyone’s. Even the mundane staff that populated the academy had their own peculiarities and secrets. Thorn knew them all. He’d been observing from the shadows and taking notes. Such knowledge could prove useful, should he ever need to capitalize on it.

A chilled gust blew across him, tugging at his cape. He let the hood fall away as he positioned the last piece of clothing from the pink bag. His ceramic mask covered one side of his face, the shimmery white of bleached bones, and there was no chance of being seen by anyone anyway. Other than Madame Bouchard and Rune, the occupants of the academy were out all day.

Bouchard would be oblivious, preoccupied with her gruesome hobby—making amends to animals even in their death, via stitches, stuffing, and glassy eyes. An eccentricity the old woman shared on some level with Father Erik, to Thorn’s grim dismay.

He tensed, following the path across the footbridge and to the graves. Dirt clods crunched under his boots and his shoulders drooped, heavy beneath the vile obligation he’d been waiting a lifetime to fulfill.



Standing by a window, I position my third attempt at a letter to Trig and Janine where the dreary gray light filters in, so I can read the closing one last time:

Well, I should go. I had to stay behind while everyone else went to Paris for a day trip. Not happy about being stuck here, but I’m going to make good use of the time. I want to get out to the garden before it rains.

Oh . . . and one more thing, could you tell me if there’s any news on Ben? Is he better? Is he talking? The last I heard, he’d been showing signs of waking. Do the doctors still think it was a seizure from a head injury? Four weeks is a long time to be in a coma, right? I should’ve never come on to him after his poor cranium stopped my fall off that ledge. I should’ve insisted he get checked by a doctor right then.

Please, write back. You’re my only link to all things Americana. Even the food here makes me miss home.

Viva la hot dogs and hamburgers!

Rune

P.S. I miss your faces.

P.P.S. I took some pics of the academy with my phone. I’ll text them once I get to Paris where there’s service. No kidding, it’s like living in a primeval forest here.

Satisfied that this note won’t have to join the others in the trash, I fold the paper, slide it into the matching stamped envelope already addressed to Trig, and drop it into the outgoing mail slot in the box next to the main entry door.

I’m so tired of acting oblivious about Ben, but as much as I trust Janine and Trig—who’ve always accepted my operatic outbursts without judging me—I can’t tell them what really happened at that frat party.

When I met my two pals in theater during my sophomore year at school, they were both seniors. In spite of our age differences, I was drawn to them because they were outcasts like me. We live in an ultraconservative town. You can’t be a boy who likes boys and designs ladies’ fashions, or a bulimic ballerina whose mom raised money for her college tuition by being an exotic dancer, without the majority of people looking at you through lenses tinged with discomfort and judgment.

Still, the truth of that night is something even my two best friends wouldn’t understand. Yes, they know why I was drinking at the party . . . that while some of the guests wandered about the deck or splashed in the pool (I’d dressed the part—bikini and swimsuit cover—but hadn’t been brave enough to venture into anything deeper than a wading pool since the age of seven), the college junior who was hosting led others of us to his basement to show off his vintage record player.

I was fine, listening to big bands from the forties and rock ’n’ roll from the fifties. It was when he dragged out a vinyl of Rigoletto that my world came crashing down. I sprinted for the stairs just as the heroine’s aria erupted, and my fate was sealed.

Janine was my ride, but I couldn’t find her anywhere. So I drank. A lot. I figured if I drowned the notes in alcohol, I’d be able to prevent them from breathing . . . from surfacing. Unfortunately, I had even less control with three beers in my system. Seated precariously on the second-story balcony’s railing, I slapped my hands to my mouth to keep the song subdued and lost my balance. A hot college guy on the pool deck below broke my fall when I landed on his head.

He helped me stand. He’d been swimming, and his upper torso sparkled in the twinkling white lights strung around the deck. His auburn hair was wet and mussed, and his blue eyes—slightly glazed as if having trouble focusing—trailed along my bared legs where they stuck out from my cover-up. I recognized the expression. Like I was a piece of meat and he was starving. He staggered a little, but it wasn’t from my crash landing. He was even more wasted than me.

I’d noticed him once or twice while visiting Janine on campus during her summer session. I knew his name was Ben, and that he didn’t have a girlfriend. I also knew he was a player. But the aria pressed against my sternum and crept into my throat, climbing like bile toward my mouth. So instead of listening to the voice of caution, I threw myself at him to silence my itching vocal cords, to suppress the music burning behind my eyelids in myriad colors.

I poured all of the emotions boiling in me—all the fear, mortification, passion, and longing—into a hard, demanding kiss that tasted of bitter hops, sweet malt, and musky pheromones.