Disclaimer: The Twilight universe belongs to Stephenie Meyer; no profit is made here, and no offense intended.

I sat alone on a park bench, staring into the icy depths of the Hudson. I had enjoyed my six months in New York City; its night life provided me with an endless menu of criminals, from the worthless thugs to the crime lords. Of course, I had been careful not to take anyone whose death would merit too much attention from the newspapers; it would have required a quick departure on my part, and I liked it here.

I had spent the last four years moving from city to city, spending a few months in each. After Columbus, I had gone on to St. Louis, Portland, Knoxville, Montreal, and a dozen others. But not Chicago- never Chicago. It was superstitious nonsense to think that my dead human parents would somehow feel my presence, but I avoided it nonetheless. Somehow it seemed wrong to hunt there, like I should spare that city from the stain of my… activities. I also avoided the southern states; I wasn't sure how far north the shadow of the Wars extended.

Each city had its own identity, its own rhythm. The farther north I went, the more freedom I had as the weather grew harsher and less sunny. My last stop had been Denver, and although I always stayed in the city, I had found the surrounding nature breathtaking. I had left only because the newspapers were just beginning to print light-hearted stories about the "army of angels" who had supposedly been dealing death to criminals in the heart of the city. I knew from experience that I needed to leave before the reporters started taking my actions seriously. I had thought it best to move far away from the stories; that was how I had chosen New York City as my next hunting ground.

I frowned at the name I had been given by the reporters in Denver. Army of angels, indeed. This was a far cry from the truth of what I was. Demon. Monster. Villain. Nightmare. These were just a few of the identities assigned me by my prey, in those brief moments in which they realized they were about to die. Many of my targets never saw me coming, and I was spared their terrorized thoughts. The usual scenario was one human attacking another, his mind betraying his plans for murder, rape, robbery, kidnapping, or whatever else was on the agenda that night. Whenever possible, I would try to catch the assailant before they reached their victim, and I was able to feast in private, my prey never knowing what hit him. But too often, I wasn't able to do this.

This was partly because of my vow to only hunt those who were committing the most atrocious crimes; sometimes I would follow a man for hours as he deliberated his plans to kill, and he would eventually decide not to go through with the murder after all. If he had never killed before, and seemed to truly renounce his plot, then I would leave him in peace. After all, if I killed all those guilty of murderous thoughts, the whole city would be awash with blood. I made it my habit to wait until I was sure that my prey deserved my judgment.

Another reason I wasn't always able to hunt in private was because I often didn't know of the crime until it was being committed. Sometimes, I was too late, and I could only avenge the wrong already committed. Fortunately, because of my ability, I was often able to intervene. Three nights ago, a common scenario had played out: I was walking the streets of the Bronx at night, keeping the net of my ability thrown wide. Around two o'clock I picked up the excited thoughts of some villain as he closed in behind his unsuspecting victim. Lonnie won't know what hit him, and I'm gonna be rich. I saw how much he won tonight! But a dead man won't miss his winnings, will he? This was my cue to hurry toward them; in the villain's thoughts, I could see his target a mere two hundred feet ahead of him, and, to my luck, a sign reading "Elm/Thirteenth" was also visible from his point of view.

It had been the easiest thing in the world to find them; my prey already had Lonnie backed up against a dumpster, knife in hand. I would have preferred to complete my hunt without involving Lonnie, but it was too late for that. I stepped out from the shadows and, gliding up behind my prey, whispered in his ear, "You're right, you won't miss them at all." Before he could react, I grabbed his shoulders and threw him into the wall behind us, stunning him. Nothing fancy, and nothing a well-trained human couldn't do. Lonnie backed away from me, shaking his head dumbly and wondering if I had just rescued him or sealed his doom. I waited impatiently as he stumbled out of the alley; he was safe and I hadn't revealed anything untoward about myself. When he was out of sight, I turned back to my prey, who was coming back to his senses. As I stalked toward him, I saw myself through his eyes as the light of the streetlamp fell on me: a tall, red-eyed menace, teeth gleaming with venom as my lips drew back in anticipation.

Like every other time, I kept my vow to kill quickly and painlessly. He died without a sound. But as so often happened, I was left with the memory of his thoughts as he watched his doom approach, wondering what sort of creature had come to claim him. They were seared into my flawless memory forever, along with hundreds of others. I shuddered as memories of countless other men's final thoughts flooded through my mind, unbidden. I hated watching myself kill, and I cursed the ability of my species to remember every detail, of every hunt, for eternity. I would always carry the memories of their faces with me, along with their thoughts... though the worst face of all was my own, as it had appeared to Lonnie's attacker, and hundreds of others. I could stomach the horror-filled eyes of my prey; they deserved to die looking that way. But seeing myself, as they saw me... that was the face I truly wished I could forget.

I wasn't always hunting, of course. While I made no effort to form relationships with humans, I didn't shy away from their company like many nomads would. I sometimes rode the Subway, and I felt comfortable walking the streets after dusk. I went shopping when my clothes needed to be replaced; I had even attended a few baseball games. I could only attend night games; not only was the sunshine a threat to my anonymity, but my red eyes were difficult to hide in daylight. And of course, part of the reason for spending so much time around the humans was that I was searching for the type of prey that deserved my attention. I generally hunted three or four times a week, more if a particularly rotten mind crossed my path. I took care to never hunt too often in one part of the city; New York was spread out enough to make this an easy task. On the nights I wasn't thirsty, I would perch on top of a high rise and watch the city as it slept. I had even spent a few nights atop the Statue of Liberty, gazing back at the city lights and telling myself how lucky its citizens were to have me.

Times were changing in New York, and in cities and towns across America. The stock market had finally crashed two years ago, and the resulting chaos was echoing in the thoughts and fears of everyone I encountered. Even in this city of opportunity and dreams, so many men had lost their livelihood and families of every race were sharing the sinking fear that America might not be able to answer their dreams, after all. Earlier this year, President Hoover himself had finally acquiesced to the fact that America's economy was still in the grips of a great depression. It mattered little to me; as a human, I had never had any sort of financial concerns, and when I had lived with Carlisle, money was never an object, or even much of a necessity. Now that I was my own man, I had even less need for it; the little I spent on Subway tickets and clothing was easily pilfered out of the pockets of those I had hunted. I carried nothing with me but a few dollars and a book of matches, and I hadn't a care in the world.

I stood up from the bench, digging the toe of my shoe into the frozen mud as I admitted to myself that this wasn't precisely true. I often thought of Carlisle and Esme, especially when I was standing here by the Hudson. They had surely moved on by now, once they realized I wasn't going to return. Carlisle had mentioned a few times that our next destination would probably be the house in upstate New York. I gazed across the river toward the northwest, squinting as if I could see them right now, and I swallowed as I realized that this was the closest I might ever be to them again. It was almost eleven o'clock at night; Carlisle would already be busy in his night shift at some local hospital, saving lives as only he could. Esme was probably at home, putting the finishing touches on some piece of furniture she had restored. When Carlisle got home in the early morning hours, perhaps they would go hunting together in the Adirondacks.

Did they ever think of me? Did Esme worry about whether I was happy? Was Carlisle relieved that I had left, or was he gazing back at me now, wishing I would contact them? I had thought about doing so, and had found myself standing in the telegraph office more than once. But what could I say that wouldn't add to their worry? And I could never call them; I was too afraid of what they might say, or ask. No, I thought it better to leave my fate to their imaginations. I hoped that they were happy. Their "human" lives were quite full, after all. At least Carlisle's was. I felt a familiar pang of guilt as I thought of Esme and the bond I had shared with her. She had gotten so much joy from fussing over me, and taking an interest in my school studies and piano playing. Was her mother's heart ever to love another, after me? Was it possible that Carlisle had changed someone new in my absence? Or would he refuse, considering what he surely considered his failure with me?

I frowned, staring past my foot to the murky water in front of me. These were the sorts of questions I preferred to avoid, and they inevitably led to others. Did I feel guilty about what I was doing? Was my refusal to take innocent life enough? Was the life I had left behind better than this one? My feet had a disturbing habit of bringing me here to the River, and these questions had a disturbing habit of asking themselves.

I turned abruptly, leaving my past behind me, across the river. I stared ahead at Manhattan. This was my life now. I took in the ever-present hum of thoughts and dreams arising from the city before me. It was eleven at night, and the snow on the rooftops was glittering in the moonlight. It made the city look almost beautiful. And as a mind-reader in a large city, this was my favorite time of day. It was rather like the twilight that could be visually perceived a few hours earlier, but this was an audible twilight. The tangled buzz of thoughts was settling into a lower key as thousands of citizens drifted off to sleep, and began their dreams.

I drew in a deep breath of frosty air and let out a sigh of relief. Night offered me some small respite as the minds of thousands of New Yorkers settled into a dreamlike cadence, but also decreased in volume. Now that I was feeding on human blood, my ability allowed me to hear the thoughts in nearly a four-mile radius- nearly a mile wider than when I had been on the animal diet. While this had its advantages, it also added that many more voices, and I was never quite able to relax. I chose, however, to stay near the city. While I disliked the constant buzzing in my mind, at least it provided sufficient distraction from the types of thoughts I had just been entertaining as I stood by the river. I looked up at the city again, and in imitation of the humans around me, I pulled the collar of my trench coat closer around my throat, and headed toward Manhattan.

I hadn't fed since the thug three nights ago. My thirst was a growing fire in my throat, and I glanced at the few passersby near me, idly sampling their minds. I found no evidence of the sort of thoughts that deserved my attention; but no matter, I was saving my appetite for tonight. Two hours from now, I was going to do something I had never done before. Due to the nature of my hunting style, my meals usually consisted of a single person; this was the reason I had to hunt so often. My thirst was hardly ever truly sated, but at least it was easier to cover my tracks this way. Occasionally I would stumble upon two or three gang members as they made their way to a job, but that was rare. Tonight, however, I had a dinner reservation, and the meal was sure be satisfying. At one o'clock, I was going to be on Coney Island, and I was going to take on the Mafia.