Restitution

—New Orleans, Louisiana. 1952—

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Dawn is rising fast behind the ornate balconied buildings of Bourbon Street, and red streaks across the sky like blood.

A sea of foamy scarlet shines in the glow, puddles of liquid fire that smell like rain and iron. Human bodies are piled up three-high on either side, a mass of drained, broken limbs. The battle has lasted from dusk until dawn, and at some point the fight shifted from a wooded area in the bayou to a full-out assault in a city full of human witnesses. It is quiet now, not because the fighting has stopped, but because my soldiers are dead. Amidst sea of scarlet are the torn remains of newborns, glimmering like strips of diamond in the morning light. These are my soldiers, the men I raised and coaxed and favored, the men I promised a better life. They would have the riches of the world. They would have all the prey they desired. They would win a war for me, and after I had whispered sweet nothings in their ears and dressed them up in finery, I would send them all to die with a sparkling smile. Whether they die now or die at the year-mark is of very little consequence to me. One less item on a very long list of strategies. One less smoke-filled day in Monterrey.

I stand above it all like a white-washed queen, perched on an overlooking rooftop, my skin slick with humidity and blood.

The skirt of my gown is torn and hangs in wet, unflattering shreds against me. My upper thigh is almost completely severed, and the constant sting of venom feels like a needles beneath the gore. This will form a scar, I think moodily, glaring out over the horizon. My only scar. After centuries and centuries of escaping even the most brutal battles unscathed, I am now officially scarred. Once I was perfect. Now I am not. And this seemingly insignificant fact upsets me more than anything else about this wretched, god-awful day.

In a new battle strategy, I had trained a quarter of my army in Repair and Compensation, and ordered them to seek fresh human blood for injured soldiers. The plan had backfired miserably. Their newborn thirst overpowered my orders, and the results were gruesome. Far too many human deaths, far too much sloppiness, and far too many soldiers lost. I didn't win the battle, I didn't win the war, and the sea of bodies below me suddenly seems a worthless, reeking waste. The army will have to be built from scratch again. I will have to take the time to train new soldiers, develop new battle strategies, and somehow defend Monterrey with nothing more than a wild pack of unruly civilian converts.

My second in command comes running up the stairs behind me, and I turn to him with a bad-tempered glare. He has a thick mane of jet-black hair and a tall, fit physique that keeps my bed warm at night and my soldiers alive during the day. I've forgotten his actual name, if I ever knew it at all, and refer to him simply as Second. After Jasper... after the dozens of others I had grown bored with and politely disposed of, I was very tired of attempting to keep track of their names and idiosyncrasies. They were all the same to me — replaceable. Like wearing out a tired old horse until it collapses, and simply selecting a fresh new one from the stable. Second is the second Second, and there will probably be a third before the year is out.

He draws back at the sight of my blood-streaked appearance, his mouth dropping open at my torn gown and the jagged laceration on my left thigh. "Maria—"

I don't want to talk about how I was injured or what I am doing alone here on the roof. I cut him off with an feline hiss. "Where is everyone?"

Second pauses for a moment, looking at me like I'm crazy. "They're gone. Didn't you see the last assault? They were caught without a retreat and—"

"Shut up," I snap, stalking around to grip him by the throat. My hands, still slick with blood, slide over his cool skin until I pierce my nails in and catch hold. He winces slightly, but his glinting red eyes look at me with a mix of disgust and arrogance. This particular Second has been a hard one to break — he has more fight in him than any of the others combined. "We had over forty newborns when we crossed the border. Are you trying to tell me that a Louisiana coven of four measly vampires wiped out my entire army?"

Second firmly removes my hand from his throat. "No. A Louisiana coven of four measly vampires and three members of the Volturi guard wiped out your entire army."

"What?" I whisper. Fear coils tight in my stomach.

If the Volturi were here, if they had seen the bloody street below, they would burn me in an instant. The battle had gotten out of hand, especially in the early hours of the morning, and our fighting had definitely exposed us to human eyes. Now the sun was up and the mess still remained — a street full of glimmering white evidence and murder. This was not the first time that the Volturi had arrived to clean up after me, but it was definitely the first time they arrived this fast. I usually had at least a week to run back to Monterrey and play innocent: "As you can see, dear sirs, I have no army. As you can see, dear sirs, I remain in Monterrey. As you can see, dear sirs, I have no intention of causing trouble."

Second nods down to the street, where several humans are now wandering through the corpses with shell-shocked vacant expressions. A couple of them let out little cries of anguish. They would have to be killed too. Half the French Quarter would have to be killed in order to keep this quiet. Second crosses his arms over his chest. "The Volturi are here. They were informed, probably weeks ago. That invasion detection talent the Frenchies have within the coven must have—"

I hiss at him again. "I'm well aware of their talents, you simpleton."

"Well, they're here," he snaps. "What are you going to do about it?"

I press my lips together tight, and look out over the horizon. Here is a very unspecific term. Were they here, as in America? Louisiana? New Orleans? If they were even a day away, I could abandon Second and the soldiers and run nonstop to the safety of Monterrey. That would at least buy me the time of a trial — my word against the Louisiana coven. I could even say that Second went rogue and planned the invasion himself. It might be hard to convince them, with a history like mine, but I am nothing if not persuasive. "Do we have time to run?"

"I should think not," Second says flatly. He raises an eyebrow at my use of the word "we," and I feel like slapping him for his impertinence. "They were following me up the stairs."

Dread sinks into my stomach. "Why didn't you say that in the first place? Don't just stand there like a corpse — go fight them off."

"While you run and leave me here to take the fall?" Second laughs humorlessly. "I don't think so, dear. If I burn, you burn."

A clapping noise from the stairwell makes me twist around in horror. A huge, muscular vampire dressed in the hooded black cloak of the Volturi is standing there, applauding as if this were the last act of a repugnant cabaret. Two others are behind him — young, far too young to be changed. They are not clapping, and do not look even remotely pleased to be here. Their youth is very ominous. The Volturi would never have brought two such young children into the guard unless their abilities were beyond extraordinary. The vampire in the lead, however, is not extraordinary. I know this because I have had the misfortune of conversing with him several times in the past. Felix, much like certain venereal diseases, was irritatingly hard to get rid of.

"Maria," he says, flashing me perfect, dimpled smile. "We meet again."

I can barely bring myself to respond. "Felix." He says nothing in reply to my greeting, but merely tilts his ear toward Bourbon Street, where screams are now echoing back and forth like raspy gunshots. He makes a sad little tsk-tsk noise with his tongue, and turns back to me, shaking his head as if I am a naughty child about to be punished. The Volturi guard will now have to expose our kind even further, with the risk of cleaning up the grisly street in the filtering morning sunlight.

I draw my shoulders back. "I can explain, of course."

"Of course," he says, smiling indulgently. "What will it be this time, I wonder? 'As you can see, dear sirs, I am only an innocent bystander'? As you can see, dear sirs, I have no intention of starting a war in the middle of New Orleans?"

I scowl at his annoyingly accurate impersonation. "Matters of war are hardly uncomplicated."

The smile on his face widens. "Indeed. But you see, our issue is this: the Louisiana coven has always been respectable and cooperative. More than cooperative, actually. Guillaume is an old acquaintance of Aro's, you know. And Rémy's invasion detection talent has been useful to us on more than one occasion. He watches Volterra for us too, you know—" he smirks "—not that anyone would dare. The Louisiana coven remains extremely valued by the Volturi and by our kind in general. You, however, we have no particular fondness for."

He punctuates this last sentence by wiping a smear of blood from my cheek with his thumb. I step closer to him, keenly aware of Second's furious expression, and smooth my hands down the front of the Volturi cloak. This, I can handle. Seduction, I know and know well. How many hardened soldiers have I melted over the years? How many married men have gleefully followed me to my bed and their death? I brush my lips against the line of Felix's muscular jaw, and flick out my tongue to wet the curve of his ear. "That's because I've never given you a reason."

Felix remains unmoved, but assesses me calmly, like a buyer at an auction. "Tempting," he says, in a tone that indicates anything but. "If you wish, I may allow you the option of making a... down payment of that nature until you can afford to make full restitution."

This last word sours my mood, and I step back from him instantly, the purring seduction replaced with cold, red-eyed fury. "Restitution?"

"It is morning, as you can clearly see," Felix says, waving toward the city of screaming humans and wailing sirens. "The few humans you left standing are awake now, and as you can gather by their reaction, a river of blood and the shredded remains of over sixty newborn vampires is not a common sight on Bourbon Street. It is on the radio, it will be in the papers. Half the South will know of it before it's even eight o'clock."

"So clean it up," Second snaps arrogantly, obviously upset by the sexual overture he was just forced to witness. "Isn't that your job?"

Felix eyes him evenly, with a faint hint of amusement, as if nothing this belligerent youth said could possibly ruffle him. To the untouchable Volturi guard, a soldier barely over three years old is hardly a serious threat. Felix could kill him now, in less than a second, and send the pieces sailing over the ledge of the balcony like confetti for the macabre parade below. Instead, he merely gestures to one of the twins behind him, the girl.

She steps forward with a beatific smile on her face, the kind of smile reserved for angels and statues of the Virgin Mary. She doesn't even have to lift a finger — Second is on the ground in an instant, howling, writhing back and forth with his head in his hands, looking very much as if his insides are being ripped out through his nostrils. It only lasts for a moment, but the pain he feels is actually palpable, a heavy layer of agony that drops over the rooftop like a shroud. Fear sloshes in my stomach, and as Second blindly scrabbles at the ground, his eyes still horribly blank in the aftermath, I instinctively pull my hands closer to my chest, desperately trying not to look as though this display has unnerved me. The boy twin catches my motion and smiles at me knowingly.

"Furthermore," Felix continues in a regretful tone, "there is also the grave matter of a death within the Louisiana coven. This indiscretion is unfortunately far more serious, as it opens a door for further bloodshed and further exposure. The death of one of our own is not something our kind is willing to overlook, as you well know."

Spitefully, I hope that Rémy was the one who died. He was the reason my thigh was torn open and nearly dismembered. He was also the reason I was covered in blood, the reason I had abandoned my army for the safety of the rooftop, and the reason the Volturi had shown up here like a flock of carrion birds. As far as I was concerned, that thin-lipped, velvet-wearing liar had it coming. I only wish I had been the one to claw the smug expression off his face.

"Rémy is devastated at the loss of his mate," Felix continues, and I scowl. So much for wishes.

"And?" I ask, bored.

"And he is demanding some form of compensation for your actions."

"Feel free to kill my own mate, if it will assuage his grief," I say offhandedly, gesturing loosely at Second.

Second is just now managing to stand to his feet again, and he glances up with a hateful glare at my betrayal. His long black hair has loosened from its tie, and ugly scratch marks mar his cheeks where he had clawed at his own perfect face. His hands are still shaking from the pain, and a muscle in his jaw twitches when he peels his lips back into a snarl. "You double-dealing bitch," he hisses, teeth bared. "I hope they burn you and dance all over your ashes."

Felix only laughs, amused by both my heartlessness and Second's reaction. "Clearly, you know nothing of love, Maria. Or you never would have suggested such a thing. This knock-kneed baby is no more your mate than I am, and I doubt his death would cause you even a momentary flicker of grief. No, the Louisiana coven would not be satisfied with the death of your... plaything. They would be insulted by the mere suggestion. Instead, the Volturi has offered to take something else from you. Something that is far more valuable and dear. Your territory."

An odd, clanging sound begins in my ears. "What?"

"You will relinquish all of Texas and Northern Mexico to the Louisiana coven. Permanently. You will have thirty days to pack your belongings and get your affairs in order. The full Volturi guard will reconvene in Monterrey at that point to escort you outside of the territory, to an area of our choosing. Antarctica, I think, would be a safe place for someone with your history. I hear the penguins are surprisingly nourishing," he says, smiling sweetly. "And if you refuse to comply with these stipulations, you will be executed."

I feel as though I've been slapped. "I must keep Monterrey."

"No," Felix says flatly. "You have taken the life of Rémy's mate, and he will now take from you the only thing you hold dear."

This sentence feels as abrupt and deadly as the chopping of a guillotine, and I hold my mouth tight against my temper, knowing Felix could grow bored with me at any moment and simply murder me here on the roof. All of Texas. All of Northern Mexico. My home, my army, my territory. All lost. And Antarctica. Antarctica! I feel like running Felix through with a jagged piece of scrap metal for that needless bit of abuse. I would starve to death there; doubtless that's what he has in mind. It seems wildly unfair that I should lose everything simply because some French coven bitch was dim-witted enough to wander into a war.

"What about me?" Second demands rudely. "Where's my goddamn blindfold and cigarette?

Felix smiles faintly. "Oh, I think an eternity spent with Maria is punishment enough. Likely she'll kill you anyway and spare us the trouble."

Second and I glare at each other balefully, each warmed by the heat of mutual hatred. He knows I can't murder him now, not when I need an ally at my side to connive my way out of this mess. And I know he won't kill me either — he has nothing else to live for. Even in state of disgrace, I still offer him more of a life than he'd ever have wandering on his own. However we may feel about each other, neither one of us will dare to harm the other now. He and I are both banking on the same thing: there may be a time when I can use him.

Felix chuckles at the exchange, and turns back for the stairs with a swishing of his cloak. "Now, if you will follow me back downstairs, we can discuss the details. Unless of course, you prefer to be executed immediately?"

"There is nothing to discuss," I say coldly. "I have thirty days."

"The thirty days was in given to you in the expectation of your down payment," Felix corrects with a wicked smile. "Consider it a gift."

Several sundry whore's-tricks and forty-seven minutes later, I find myself tromping through the fetid bayou of the Louisiana wilderness with Second at my side.

Above the rotted cypresses and a thick curtain of fog, the sky is lit with the cloudy residue of an explosion. Bourbon Street mysteriously went up in flames some twenty minutes ago, an explosion that rocketed out of Galatoire's and turned every piece of evidence to ash. A faulty electrical line — how mysteriously convenient. The newspaper editors would doubtlessly be bought, and anyone else daring enough to announce the morning's events would find themselves dead by lunchtime. And, without even a miniscule amount of fanfare or consideration, Second and I were physically thrown out of New Orleans like a pair of vagrants. While I was still in the act of buttoning my torn dress.

Second glances at me sideways. "I'm in awe of your skills in negotiation."

"No, you're jealous," I correct scathingly. "And pathetic. Next time you seduce Felix, if it bothers you so much, honey," I sneer, tacking on a needless term of endearment.

"It doesn't bother me so much as disgust me, sweet pea. And little good it did us anyway," he says, kicking at the muddy water in our path. "We're still painfully territory-less and on the fringe of being sent to Siberia."

"Antarctica."

"Whatever," he snarls. "You'd better have a plan."

I sniff disdainfully. Life, to me, is like a complicated, never-ending game of multi-level chess. There is always a plan, always a backup, always a retreat. I think twelve steps ahead, moving my pieces with boldness and precision, knowing the cost of each mistake. There is never a moment when my mind is at rest, never a moment when I go through life with blind eyes or closed ears. Life is a scheme. Life is ambition. And I'm not the kind of woman who stands aside and allows fate to have its way. "Of course I have a plan, you ignorant peon. I'll simply convince them to drop the charges."

Second raises an eyebrow. "In case you didn't notice, sugar-lamb, the Volturi seem to hate you."

This is unquestionably true. Especially Felix, now that he is sporting some rather unsightly scratches up and down his flawless back, and a bite mark beneath his chin. But there were ways around negative emotions. Ways I hadn't seen in decades, but remembered so well I could taste them. "So I'll make them feel a different emotion."

A memory is seeping back to me as I wander through the swamp — a memory of a tall man with golden curls and solemn eyes. A soldier who had always met me match-for-match in everything... strategy, intelligence, coldness, violence. He had been what no man since has ever managed to be: my partner. However many lovers and Seconds I may have had and used, Jasper Whitlock had been the only soldier who ever meant anything more to me than a pawn. The image of him wavers like a ghost in the fog of the bayou, like a dream that I had and lost.

Second laughs spitefully. "Make them feel differently, hmm? And how, exactly, are you going to do that?"

I smile, a catlike flashing of teeth. "I'm not."

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A/N: I love writing villains. They're so much more interesting than people who actually have morals. What do you think so far? Next chapter: Jasper, Alice, and life with the Cullens before Maria shows up ruin things.

For those of you new to the scene, this is a sequel of some sorts to my other story, Law of Gravity.