-Goodnight, Ghost-

Chapter One

It was a truth unofficially recognized in schools the world over that when you are in a classroom last period on a Friday, time moves in ways Einstein would never have imagined. Matthew had been watching the clock like a hawk for the past fifteen minutes, and he could have sworn the larger hand never budged from its resolute position over the one.

He would most likely have continued staring had Ivan not tapped him on the shoulder. "Give it up, Matvey, that clock doesn't work, remember?" The broad-shouldered teenager's breath tickled his ear, Russian accent rendering every syllable clipped and Bond-villainesque. Unfortunately the broad-shouldered teenager had never been particularly adept at whispering, so his voice carried across the entire classroom.

"Matthew! Overlooking how you're clearly not paying attention, run for your life! It's the Soviet Union!" Professeur Carriedo called from the front of the classroom.

The World History class of Pulchra Mundi Collège exploded into laughter. Even Ivan, who normally slumped back into his seat with an irritated huff at Professeur Carriedo's sometimes tactless jokes, chuckled. Professeur Carriedo was a self-proclaimed 'education artist', and insisted in referring to them all as children despite the fact that the majority of the students in Pulchra Mundi Collége history class were all nearing eighteen years of age. A tiny Spaniard with more presence than a bad-tempered lion in a small room, he had a perchance for clarifying his explanations with elaborate hand gestures that would put an Italian to shame. That was precisely why they all liked him so much.

"Since you were obviously enraptured by all this, you can probably give me a speech worthy of an orator on who the Teutonic Knights were," Professeur Carriedo smiled winningly at the blonde.

The question momentarily stumped Matthew until Ekaterina piped up from his left-hand side. "That's not fair, he was watching the clock!"

It was a testament to Professeur Carriedo's reputation as one of the friendliest teachers in Pulchra Mundi High that he didn't snap back at the exuberant girl. "And so am I, I want to get home to marking mountains of essays, because I love teaching so much." At this, more laughter ran across the class. Professeur Carriedo quelled it all with a single cock of his eyebrow before continuing, pacing the length of the room to survey the class with hawk-like eyes. "Seriously guys, it's a new term, we've only just started learning about the Teutonic Knights and I come in here to find you're all sittingupthebackplayingyourDSthankyouverymuchI'llt akethatKiku." The teacher's words disintegrated into a rush of breath as he whipped the reprobate game console out of the student's hands. The offender was a Japanese teenager renowned throughout the school as being able to hack almost anything from computers to traffic lights, and went by the name of Kiku Honda, because of his love for his father's Honda Civic. Matthew had always thought Kiku looked almost disturbingly like some sort of rodent; the scrawny Japanese boy was always dressed in an oversized black jumper hiked to knobs at his bony elbows, with a clearly visible sprinkling of dandruff across his thin shoulders. Kiku now glared up at Mr Carriedo through greasy black strands of hair before whipping his head back down to glower at the desk.

"He loves me," Professeur Carriedo said genially, rousing a scream of laughter from the Hungarian girl Erzsébet and a barely discernible squirm from Kiku, which set the whole class off again.

"Anyway, enough of the theatrics, children." Professeur Carriedo clapped his hands, apparently under the impression that it would restore order to the class. "So," he said once the rowdiness had abated, "can anybody tell me who the Teutonic Knights were?"

Ekaterina's fist hit the air so fast Matthew was surprised there wasn't an audible noise. "They were a German order." She faltered under the teacher's gaze, mind clearly working. "Weren't they?"

"No, because you're always wrong," Professeur Carriedo affected a long-suffering expression, then grinned at Ekaterina to show he was joking. His polished black shoes glistened in the light as he swung past their desk, continuing in his patrol up and down the classroom. "Correct, Ekaterina, the Teutonic Knights were a German Order. Interestingly enough, the Teutoni was also the name of a Germanic tribe around about the time of Ancient Rome…" Professeur Carriedo paused for a moment, thinking, then continued, a grin breaking through onto his olive face as he addressed the class. "Can anybody tell me what their full name was? That's the Teutonic Knights, not the Germanic tribe."

Silence.

"Maybe some wise soul who takes German can tell me what the German name is?" Professeur Carriedo asked sweetly.

A fist rose tentatively into the air at the back of the class. Matthew quickly identified the large hand as belonging to the Swiss youth, Vasche Zwingli. A stickler for rules and responsibilities, Matthew had always felt foolish and overawed in the presence of the uptight boy, his predicament only made worst by Vasche's harsh accent. "Orden auf die Brüdern von Deutschen Haus auf St. Mariens im Jerusalem."

"Well done!" Professeur Carriedo said enthusiastically, clapping hard. The class burst into applause. Vasche reddened slightly and sank back into his seat.

"Yes, another name for the Teutonic Knights was the…" Professeur Carriedo paused briefly, then gestured at Vasche, "whatever he said." Several people laughed. "They were a medieval German military order, and primarily Catholic. It was formed to aid pilgrims on their quest to reach the Holy Land. The Crusades, remember? We covered them last term."

"First Crusade, achieved absolutely nothing!" Laura spoke up eagerly from the back of the class. Matthew swivelled in his seat to regard her, as did several others in his vicinity. The Belgian girl's eyes were shining as she leant forward across the table to better address the class. "Second Crusade, achieved absolutely nothing, Third…"

"Third Crusade, achieved absolutely nothing. Undoubtedly learnt from Horrible Histories," said Professeur Carriedo.

They all laughed, and Ekaterina piped up eagerly. "I love that show!"

"High-five!" Matthew traded high-fives with her.

"The bell's going to go." Ivan's voice was so quiet for a second Matthew thought he had imagined it.

"Right," beamed Professeur Carriedo as they began packing up their textbooks (unopened, as they had been for the entire lesson). "Homework: learn how to pronounce the full name of the Teutonic Order as well as Vasche." Yet another smattering of laughter ran around the class. "Kiku, you'll have to stay behind with me after class."

The expression on Kiku's face was positively delighted; a very odd expression for somebody who had been caught playing games literally right under the teacher's nose. Matthew raised an eyebrow at him, but the Japanese student ducked out of sight to retrieve a folder that had fallen on the floor, avoiding the blonde's gaze.

Ivan rapped his knuckles playfully on the side on Matthew's head as the last peals from the school bell faded into silence. "Come on, Matvey, we're going to miss the train."

Matthew dodged under the Russian youth's arm, snatching up his notes where they had been discarded on the desk. "I'm coming, I'm coming. Hey, Kat, did you get the notes we had to put down in Chemistry?"

Ekaterina nodded, slinging her brightly-patterned schoolbag over her shoulder. "I'll email them to you."

"Thank you," Matthew breathed, shouldering his backpack. Pulchra Mundi Collége had a vast music and sport curriculum, so much so that it was possible to arrange for school-run music lessons during classes; Matthew had been embroiled in a difficult Bach piano concerto halfway through third period Chemistry.

Bags slung over respective shoulders, the three friends rounded the corner and stepped into the hallway. On their left, glass windows stretched from the ceiling to the polished wooden floor. Afternoon sunlight spilled in from outdoors, drenching the hallway in a golden glow.

Ekaterina was chattering away about the respective merits of various elective subjects, to which Matthew was only paying slight attention. Eventually it became clear Ivan was too; it was only when Ekaterina waved a hand in front of her brother's face that they both snapped to attention.

"Gaah!" Ivan spluttered as a pink-nailed hand was brandished in front of his nose.

"Hey, Kat!" Matthew yelped, ducking Ekaterina's attempted lunge at him.

"You're not listening!" Ekaterina put her hands on her hips.

"But Ekat, I'm tired." Matthew whined. Although he stayed silent, Ivan echoed his sentiment with a series of vigorous nods.

Ekaterina swiped at him again, face rapidly transforming into a glare. "Don't call me Ekat! It's Kat or Ekaterina!"

Matthew flung up his hands, feeling as he often did when confronted with the finer points of being best friends with several Slavics. "But I can't pronounce Ekate… Ekat…" his face screwed up in a grimace as he attempted to pronounce the unwieldy name, running through all possible variations.

"Just call her Kat, Matvey." Ivan sounded tired.

Ekaterina looked worried, and instantly slung an arm around her brother's waist. "What's wrong, bratishka?"

The muscular Russian yawned and rumpled his pale blonde hair. "I'm just tired. I have a lot of homework."

"Me too." Matthew groaned. A thought occurred to him, and he asked, stopping halfway down the corridor. "Hey, aren't you guys supposed to pick up Natalya?"

"She has piano lessons on Fridays." Ekaterina informed him, while Ivan openly quailed at the thought of his clingy younger sister. Ivan had made it clear ever since Matthew had first met him that Natalya's open idolisation of her older brother was completely one-sided, but that didn't stop Matthew from wondering whether it would count as one-sided incest. Natalya certainly seemed to have no qualms about it.

Ivan glanced at him. "What about you? Don't you work after school on Fridays?"

The shop was called the Occult Medallion, self-run by the Bonnefoye-Kirkland family, and in Ivan's eyes they almost deserved it too. Not only did Matthew's family run an occult shop, the taste of said family would be enough to scare even the most sceptical cynic. There was Arthur Kirkland with all his 80's-punk/Siouxsie-Sioux-esque clothing, and his son Alfred with his beloved black bomber jacket and numerous skull ear piercings.

Matthew shook his head. "No."

Ekaterina shivered. "I should hope not, your shop's scary."

"I think it's cool," Ivan grinned at him. Their footsteps clattered against the polished floorboards as they quickened their pace through the hallway, towards the door at the far end. "Your dad, did he choose the design himself?"

"Yes. He drew it himself. The skulls on the banisters were his design, and so were the gargoyles on the roof and the skeleton wallpaper…" Matthew grinned.

"Okay, enough!" Ekaterina squealed, covering her head with her hands. "If this is to get me back because I was talking about Commerce and Design earlier, I take it back; Professeur Hardinge isn't mean after all…"

"Hey, Matvey, isn't that your brother?" Ivan pointed.

They had emerged into the oval. Tall, shady trees had lined the expanse of neatly trimmed green grass for as long as Matthew could remember, blocking the sky with their broad leaves. Now that autumn had exploded onto the scene in a rush, even the drabbest trees sported foliage shot through with lustrous orange and vivid ruby, boasting crowns of pale gold or deep brown.

Matthew squinted across the oval. "Oh, yeah, there he is."

To look at, Alfred and Matthew couldn't have been more different. Not only was Alfred's style vastly different from his own, there had also been language differences when Matthew had first arrived at the Kirkland's house. Being the adopted American son of an eccentric homosexual English occultist, English, obviously, was their spoken language, which, to a boy who had been speaking either French or Italian his whole life and had only learnt English in school, was nothing short of terrifying. The reverse was true for Alfred - while completely fluent in English, François had threatened Arthur with impalement if he did not attempt to converse with his son in 'a more cultured language', aka French.

Thus Alfred's difficulties. Pulchra Mundi Collége was a French nondenominational, international, English-speaking private school on the border of Burgundy and Lorraine that placed great store in being fluent in at least two languages by the time you were eighteen years old. So far, Alfred was seventeen, and currently doing as badly at French as he was at Japanese. Which was quite strange, considering they lived in France, but if it was one thing Matthew knew Alfred would do badly at no matter how many months preparation it was anything to do with geography or languages.

Fortunately Matthew had been spared any embarrassment by taking a class he knew he'd fail (speaking it at home, Matthew had discovered, was actually quite an effective way of learning English), so he was currently taking accelerated Italian and working on German, which he quite enjoyed.

Yet life at Pulchra Mundi Collége was not all 'hamburgers and heroes', as Alfred liked to say. There was their markedly different fashion sense to the rest of their peers - while the majority of students were fairly open-minded and inclusive of the myriad of different fashion tastes, Arthur had threatened them both with a month of scouring the attic for demons if either of them came home sporting the latest designer clothes. So Alfred stuck to his piercings and jacket, and Matthew to his black skinny jeans, and the odd looks they had to endure each day increased markedly as each year went on.

Ekaterina followed the blonde youth's gaze, a frown furrowing her face. "Isn't that Kiku?"

So it was. Alfred didn't share History with Kiku, and the scrawny Japanese student gave no outward indication he was meant to be in detention. Watching as Alfred's head bent to better catch Kiku's words, Matthew felt a pang of worry twist at his heart. Normally, students only came to Kiku when they wanted something to be hacked or stolen – the boy had been in more detentions than Matthew could properly keep count. Before this day, Alfred hadn't given any sign he even knew the Japanese boy, so what could he possibly want from him?

Ivan looked bemused. "I didn't know they knew each other."

Matthew felt unsettled. "Yeah, neither did I." Quickening his pace, Matthew strode towards his step-brother with more haste than perhaps necessary, waving his arms to attract Alfred's attention. "Hey, Al!"

"Kore wa Tanaka san no noto desu." Alfred was explaining to Kiku. Then his head swivelled in his step-brother's direction, blue eyes widening behind his glasses. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, switching rapidly to English as he shoved a small black notebook at Kiku.

Matthew stopped, feeling slightly insulted. Ivan and Ekaterina hovered behind him a little distance away, talking in low voices between themselves in Russian. "I just… are you ready to go?"

"Go?" Alfred sounded incredulous. "With you? Are you nuts?" Leaning over, he picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. "I'm going with Kiku."

"Going? Going where?" Matthew demanded, beginning to feel slightly panicked at the thought of what Arthur would say to him if he returned home without his step-brother.

Alfred made an impatient gesture. "Where does it look like? Out." To Kiku, he added, quickly switching to Japanese with a fluidity Matthew hadn't known he possessed. "Ikimashou."

"Wait!" Matthew yelped as Alfred and Kiku began moving away. Kiku uttered a short, impatient grunt and Alfred crossed his arms, staring pointedly at his step-brother. The black bomber jacket and skull earrings seemed all the more menacing as they caught the light and glittered.

"What?"

Matthew said weakly. "It's just… if you're going somewhere, what time will you come home?" Matthew's voice rose in volume. "Arthur'll flip out if he doesn't know where you are, and Papa…"

"Okay, okay." Alfred sighed and considered, tilting his head to one side as he always did when thinking. "I'll probably get back around six."

"It's a waste of time asking you whereyou're going, isn't it?" ventured Matthew as Kiku picked up his bag and Alfred moved to his side.

"Yep." Alfred fiddled with the shoulder strap of his bag, avoiding his step-brother's gaze. "Just say I'm at a basketball game or something. I'll see you at six, Matt."

"Yeah, see you." Matthew muttered, watching as they walked away, Kiku's greasy hair bouncing around his face, Alfred striding towards the school gates with long, confident steps. He mentally made a note that this was the sixth time he'd had to cover up for Alfred's absence this week, and sighed. Lately Alfred had taken to sneaking off after school hours with all manner of different people. Matthew found himself quietly thanking how Arthur seemed to pay little or no interest in his son's school activities, claiming it was all 'part of a conformist system', which made it easy to say Alfred was spending his time away at various sport matches. François, on the other hand, was slightly more difficult to fool, possessing an abundance of almost motherly concern towards his step-son, and it was only Matthew's quick imagination that had gotten Alfred this far undetected.

It worried Matthew, not knowing what Alfred was up to. For all he knew, judging by the types of people he seemed to sneak off with – Kiku, for one, and once even Natalya – Alfred might very well be dealing drugs, and it was only Herculaneun force of will that prevented Matthew from combing Alfred's room for the fourth time. The first, second and third attempt had revealed no sign of any illegal substances whatsoever, but that didn't limit the possibilities. Alfred showed no sign that what he was doing was of any real importance, so Matthew had come to accept that these outings were simply a normal case of a teenager wanting to hang out with his friends after school.

"No offense," Ivan said as he walked up to him, Ekaterina following in his wake. "But your brother's weird."

Matthew rolled his eyes and grinned easily up at the towering Russian, his worries quickly smoothing back into placidity at his friend's violet-blue gaze. "Aren't we all?"

This seemed to amuse Ekaterina immensely; she wouldn't stop chuckling even when they had walked out of the school gates and boarded the bus that stopped at the end of the road.

Matthew's head snapped up, eyes widening at the sight of the approaching bus. "Whoops, that my bus. See you, guys." The Bonnefoye-Kirkland had a house above the Occult Medallion, yet the small occult shop was situated in the fringes of the inner city, far out of reach of any of the normal bus lines his schoolmates normally frequented.

"Bye, Matt." His friends chorused.

"I'll text you," Ivan promised.

The bus, three minutes late, creaked to a stop in front of him. Its automatic door scraped unpleasantly against the stairs as it opened. Pointedly ignoring the bus driver eyeing his distressed black jeans and studded shirt, Matthew fed his coins into the meter and shuffled toward the back of the bus.

An old woman absorbed in a battered paperback sat in a seat roughly to the middle of the bus and didn't look up when Matthew passed. The only other passenger on the bus was a middle-aged man in a neatly pressed suit, who thumbed at his iPhone and nodded politely to him. The blond clumped up the aisle to the empty back seats and threw himself down onto the plastic seat.

Matthew slid over to the window. The bus's halogen lights flung the scratches and fingerprints on the glass's surface into high relief. Idly, he tucked a hand into his pocket and traced the cracks running over the back of his cell phone. He'd received a text from François; the neon letters still gleamed brightly on the abused screen.

Salut chère, comment était ta journée? Nous allons à la maison de Felicia demain. Fais tes bagages pour le weekend :P

It took his brain several moments to remember the French, but once he did, Matthew sat back, feeling slightly taken aback at the suddenness of the news. The weekly visit to Felicia's house was nothing but expected, yet it still startled him. He hadn't expected it to be coming up so soon.

A suave Parisian model, François Bonnefoye had found himself divorced after his wife and Matthew's mother, an Italian woman named Felicia, had decided she was uncomfortable living with a bisexual man. François held no grudges against her for the incident, and had impressed upon Matthew not to do the same. After several months, François had eventually met and fallen in love with the English occultist Arthur Kirkland. After living with the Kirklands and all their bohemian eccentricities for so long, the time Matthew had spent with Felicia seemed pale in comparison. His time with Felicia had seemed bland and numb, and the strangeness he had encountered with the Kirklands was exactly the type of exciting shock his system had needed.

Don't panic, it's only for a weekend. Matthew comforted himself. His breath misted against the cold glass. Plus, you've done this before. It's not like this visit will be any different.

He shoved his phone back into his pocket and stared out, watching himself where the halogen glare turned the window into a mirror.