Summary: He disrupts everything I know about his kind, which is why I have to destroy him. Before I fall in too deep.
Pairing: Edward/Bella
Rating: M (language, UST)
Disclaimer: The Twilight series and its characters belong to Stephanie Meyer. I in no way benefit monetarily from this work of fiction.
For nearly a decade of my relatively short life, my home has been a war zone.
Not the kind of war seen in short segments on TV or read about in newspapers, the kind men and women fight in countries all over the world for arbitrary reasons that boil down to human greed and pride.
This war is different, completely unseen but categorically more dangerous. The stakes are higher than any human war that preceded it. It's a fight that has to be won, for to lose it would mean the end of life as we know it, and possibly the end of the entire human race.
Pretty heavy, right?
From what the books in my godfather's study say, it wasn't always like this. There used to be a time when the adults of our tribe led normal lives; when the transformation was rare and the packs were small. When the only Cold Ones that entered our woods traveled in groups of two or three and were easily dealt with.
Now though, they come in droves.
Armies of dozens of Cold Ones, all incredibly strong and manic with bloodlust, swarm our lands. Sometimes they fight us, a lot of times they fight each other, but every time the destruction is immense. Luckily, we haven't lost yet.
The proud warriors of the Quileute have fought long and hard, to the point of serious injury and sometimes even the loss of our brothers. It's trying and heartbreaking and incredibly burdensome, but we have to fight, to win. We can't afford otherwise, not when losing means the elimination of our homes, our communities, our way of life. When it means the deaths of more people we love.
People like my father.
I've not always been privy to this war. When I was young, I lived an innocent, if ignorant, life with my dad Charlie in a small town not far from La Push called Forks. My mother Renee left us when I was just a baby, not feeling cut out to be a parent. Heartbroken and incredibly intimidated at the thought of raising a baby girl alone, Dad turned to his best friend of many years, Billy Black, for support. He and his wife Sarah became my godparents and by the three of them, I had a relatively normal childhood. I fought with my pseudo-sisters, the twins Rachel and Rebecca, but got along well with my new brother, Jacob. I went to school in Forks, and made some friends. I went fishing with my dad every weekend, though I wasn't very good at being still for so long.
Like most of the world, I was completely unaware of the dangers that lurked right outside my door. The scariest things my eight-year-old mind could conjure only existed in movies or books.
That night started out like any other. I was eating take out with Dad, since he couldn't cook, and, though I did it often, I had not felt up to cooking that day.
We were just about to watch some game on TV, basketball I think, when the phone started ringing. I remember feeling a bit put out because I wasn't tall enough to answer it without stretching on my tiptoes, seeing as it was mounted high on the wall in our kitchen, above the counter I was only about a head taller than. I remember how Dad teased me about it then smiled when he greeted Billy. He eventually accepted an invitation to come watch the game in La Push after a bit of banter back and forth, but Billy was very insistent.
I especially remember how, right after he hung up the phone, Dad looped his arm around my shoulders, and told me we were going to La Push for the night to spend time with the Blacks. His eyes twinkled in an exasperated but cheerful manner, like he couldn't understand why Billy was so adamant that we visit, but would be happy to, nonetheless.
That had been the last time my dad held me.
It was dark that night, a new moon. We headed out in Dad's police cruiser. On a long stretch of road about half way to La Push, he whooped the lights and siren for me a couple times, just to make me laugh. It wouldn't do any harm. After all, at that time of night outside a town as small as Forks, no others were out and about.
At least, that's what we thought.
Then the hand came through the windshield.
It was utter chaos. I screamed as shards of glass showered around me, and the hand clawed desperately to find purchase on Dad's clothes. From the headlights, I could see the shape of the man attached to the hand, but not much of his features except that his skin was white, really white, like paper or fresh snow. He was crouched on the hood of the car, pressed against the glass, gnashing his teeth like a rabid dog. Dad yelled and swerved the car sharply, dislodging the white man whose arm ripped through the rest of the windshield's glass as he fell. Dad looked like he'd had a heart attack for a second before pulling the car to a screeching halt off the road and reaching for his gun belt.
"Stay in the car, Bella!" he shouted at me just before the pair of stark white hands reemerged, this time through the driver's side window, and grabbed him, pulling him out kicking and screaming.
I reached for him, sobbing hysterically by that point, calling for him to come back, fearing for his life as well as my own. I quickly unbuckled my seatbelt and hopped onto his side of the car to see where he'd gone, only to be met with a nightmare. The white man was crouched down, latched onto my dad's neck as he struggled and screamed louder than I'd ever heard him before. Not that it did any good.
I watched, unable to look away for what seemed like hours as my father screamed and fought and struggled, growing weaker and weaker, until finally he buckled, lifeless.
The white monster, not man, dropped his limp body right there in the street and snapped its head back to me as I let out a desperate sob.
My sight was blurry from the hysterical tears that wouldn't stop falling, but I could see its eyes were red, blood red, and crazed with a mania I'd never seen before. It straightened almost leisurely and stalked slowly toward me, licking its bloody chops with a gleeful grin. I backed away desperately, sobbing and clutching at the cruiser's upholstery in a frantic attempt to escape. It just kept getting closer until finally, it was at the driver's side door. In an insane show of strength, the monster ripped the door right off the car, throwing it across the street and into the woods behind him, all the while staring at me with its deranged, triumphant, blood red eyes.
My back hit the passenger's side door with a small thump and dread consumed me. I whimpered like a suckling pup, completely helpless and terrified. That thing was going to kill me, just like it killed my dad, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Then as fast as it had arrived, it was gone, tackled out of view by a huge black mass. I had screamed and cowered into the headrest, just waiting for it to be over. My eyes clamped shut and my hands fisted in anticipation. I remember hearing deep, vicious barking and growling, then the sound of shrieking metal. My head whipped around against my will to see what was happening. I had thought for a second that the monster was ripping the car apart again, but instead a boy, looking about 18 years old and naked as the day he was born, appeared at the driver's side, leaning in and reaching his hand out to me, telling me it was okay, that the monster was gone. I had flinched back, still too terrified to move but also in no way willing to be touched. I was shaking uncontrollably, trying to contain my heart from beating out of my chest. Tears continued streaming down my face unchecked, as I kept seeing the image of my dad's eyes dying over and over again. I shook my head in an attempt to stay present and instead studied the naked boy trying to comfort me.
He was tall, gangly, like he'd just hit a growth spurt, but with serious definition in his muscles. His hair was short, cropped just a couple inches from his head, and dark. His skin was dark too, like the warm teak color of Jacob's skin. I realized he must be from the reservation, like the Black family. That, paired with the fact that his eyes were dark brown and not red, comforted me enough to reach out for his hand.
His grip was surprisingly gentle for having such big hands. I also noticed that it was warm, really warm, like I would sometimes feel on my forehead when I was sick. But he didn't look sick at all, just…tired. He was breathing heavily, like he'd just run a long way.
"W-who are you?" I asked, my voice trembling at barely a whisper. Luckily he heard it anyway.
"I'm Sam," he said, "Sam Uley." He tried to smile, but it came out like more of a grimace. He really did look tired. Finally, I turned my body toward him and scooted a bit closer to him. Even though his arms were really long, it couldn't have been comfortable for him to reach all the way across the driver's seat and the center console to hold my hand.
"S-sam, d-do you always run around at night naked?" I asked, completely confounded by his state of dress and trying not to focus on what had happened just ten minutes prior.
Sam's eyes bugged out before he looked down at himself, as if only now realizing he had no clothes on. If the situation were any less horrifying, he probably would have been blushing. He dropped my hand and covered himself quickly, ducking around the back of the car for a moment. He came back after just a few seconds, wearing a pair of cut off jeans.
"Um, sorry about that -," he cut off, looking a bit awkward. "Can you tell me your name?"
"Bella," I said, finally gaining some control over my voice, "Bella Swan."
A flash of recognition zipped through his eyes before they flooded with remorse. "Bella, do you have a lighter or some matches or something?" he asked almost urgently, confusing the hell out of me. What a random question!
"Why? Are you going to smoke or something?" I asked, wrinkling my nose in disgust. Being a cop's daughter, I had sat through all the "Smoking is bad" lectures, and I remembered at school once they showed us a picture of blackened smoker's lungs. It was really gross.
Sam's eyes were grave as he shook his head.
"No," he said quietly, "I need to take care of that." He gestured over his shoulder to where my dad was lying in the road, next to a pile of white scraps. I gasped loudly, my hands covering my mouth as tears pricked at my eyes.
"You're going to burn my dad?" I asked incredulously, with just a hint of fury. I did not want him to be treated so disrespectfully, even in death. Sam was quick to back up.
"No! No, no, no!" he flailed his hands out in front of him, "The other one!"
"You mean the monster?" I looked over his shoulder at the pile of scraps. "What was that thing, Sam? How did you kill it?"
Sam hesitated, looking extremely uncomfortable, like I'd just asked him to bear his soul to me, so I backed off this time, changing the subject. "No, I don't have a lighter, but here," I said, pushing in the car's cigarette lighter. "Will this work?"
"Guess we'll find out," he replied slumping his shoulders forward, seeming incredibly relieved that I didn't push for details. The following minutes were awkwardly silent while we waited for the lighter to heat up. I fidgeted in my seat looking anywhere but at Sam and what lied behind him. Sam hovered anxiously outside the car, staring at the lighter as if willing it to heat faster. When it popped out, Sam grabbed it quickly and pressed it to the pile of white. The red-hot tip touched a clear liquid clinging to one of the scraps and the whole thing was up in flames in minutes.
"Huh," Sam said, sounding a bit impressed. "Smart." He looked at me and jogged back, handing me the lighter. "Thanks."
"N-no problem," I said, still staring at the burning pile. It looked nothing like any fire I had ever seen before. A thick purple smoke was rising from the hot blue flames. It didn't smell like a usual campfire either. It had a sweet scent; strong and cloying to the point I could taste it on my tongue. My gaze, against my better judgment, drifted back to my dad, lying not ten feet from the unusual fire. My eyes tightened, trying to fight off another round of tears that wanted to spill forth. Sam noticed my struggle and followed my eye to where Dad lay. Gently, he set his hand on my shoulder.
"We need to get out of here, Bella." I panicked immediately, staring at Dad' body. I knew he wasn't really there anymore, just a corpse, but I couldn't bear the thought of letting him go just yet.
"Not without him!" I nearly shrieked, almost lurching out of the doorless car until Sam caught me.
"Don't worry. I got him," he said in a soothing low timber, setting me back in the driver's seat before quickly collecting my dad and laying him in the backseat. He gazed at Dad's body with what looked like guilt before leaning forward and pressing gently on Dad's eyelids, closing the unseeing eyes for the final time. I watched through the plate glass divider, losing the struggle with my tear ducts once again.
"Thank – thank you," I whispered painfully, not even looking away from my father's face. Some people say that their loved ones look peaceful in death, but I saw none of that. Dad wasn't at peace; he was just dead. Gone. And I was alone.
Sam was silent, but I knew he understood how grateful I was, and not just for him taking care of my dad. I didn't know how yet, but I knew Sam had saved my life. I don't know how much time I spent staring at Dad's face, but I jumped when Sam shuffled into the driver's side doorway.
"This is illegal on a whole lot of levels, but I'm going to have to drive us to La Push," he said. I sniffed, finally meeting his gaze again, confusion dominating my features.
Sam cracked the tiniest of wry grins, nodding his head to the missing door and windshield. "I'm pretty sure there's a law about this, plus technically, I shouldn't be driving without an adult. I am only 14."
My eyes boggled, "14? You're only 14? I thought for sure you were, like, 18 at least!"
The wry smile grew. "Nope, just tall for my age. Just don't tell on me, okay Bella?" he asked as he settled into the driver's seat. I shifted to the passenger's side to make room.
I returned his smile with a twitch of my own lips. His humor was strained, but he was trying to make me feel better. It wasn't working, but I still appreciated the effort.
"Okay, Sam. But don't – don't use the lights…or the siren," I said shuddering. Noticing my distress, Sam didn't ask but instead nodded solemnly once before tentatively directing the car back on the road and down to La Push.
That night my eyes were opened to the war I couldn't have even dreamed existed. Billy fought long and hard with the tribal council to allow me in on the secret. They wanted to keep me in the dark, but Billy refused to lie to me about my father's death. He was just as devastated from losing his best friend as I was losing my dad. Harry Clearwater, another member of the council and one of Dad's closest friends, agreed with Billy. He pointed out to the council that Dad and I had practically been members of the tribe already. I grew up more in La Push than I did Forks. I was here when Harry's own son had been born and when Old Quil celebrated his 82nd birthday. Dad and I were the ones that came and took care of Billy, Jacob and the twins when Sarah died in a car accident. Damn, drunk drivers.
With my dad gone, the Blacks were the closest things I had to family. Lord only knew where Renee was.
Finally, the council conceded to Billy and Harry, acknowledging that while I was young, I was not stupid, and I had seen enough that night to know something out of the ordinary was afoot. Old Quil, the longest hold out, was the one who ended up telling me the legends.
The Quileute had a proud tradition of protecting their land from blood drinking monsters they called the Cold Ones by transforming into spirit wolves. The Cold Ones were physically flawless: beautiful, powerful, and astonishingly fast. Their skin was impenetrable as steel and cold as ice. And their eyes were always red as blood. The only way to destroy them was to rip them to pieces and burn the remains.
In their wolf forms, the spirit warriors were just as fast and strong as Cold Ones, with teeth and claws sharp enough to tear through their marble skin. It was the only defense we had against them.
The night my dad died, the pack had alerted the elders that more Cold Ones than they had ever fought were descending on the Forks area. Billy had apparently called Dad and I in hopes of protecting us. We would have been safer in La Push.
Sam and his pack, only three in number at that time, were charged with fending off the incredible threat. He and two other then 14-year-olds, Paul Lahote and Jared Cameron, had been protecting the greater La Push area from rogue Cold Ones for almost six months before the night an unprecedented eight bloodsucking monsters had arrived; all crazy and much stronger than any the pack had faced before. Due to the onslaught, four more boys had phased suddenly, though unfortunately, only two – Embry Call and Quil Ateara – had survived the chaotic crash course in leech hunting. The remaining five wolves had destroyed the Cold Ones, taking heavy injuries that thankfully healed supernaturally fast. The monster that killed my father, the one Sam destroyed, had escaped the pack in that moment of confusion, when four new minds joined the meld, one after the other.
Thus began a terrifying era in the history of the Quileute, and in my own personal history.
Years passed with endless waves of Cold One attacks. The pack grew quickly to staggering numbers, never heard of in Quileute history. Boys as young as 12 – and in one special case, even a girl – started transforming, including my brother Jacob Black.
He and I had been best friends and partners in crime growing up, but grew even closer when Billy presented the idea of officially adopting me. Apparently, even with Charlie gone, Renee did not feel up to the task of raising a daughter and easily signed away her parental rights at Billy's suggestion. It was a confusing mix of emotions to feel both so completely unwanted by the woman who gave birth to me and universally accepted by a family and tribe that was not my own. I might have dwelled longer on my prepubescent angst were it not for the pack.
Though it was dangerous and probably a little reckless, as I was a fragile human, I remained close to them, considering them my own brothers (and sister, though I was never really close with Leah), and they accepted me as well. Since the night he saved me, Sam came to see me as the little sister he never had and protected me fiercely, almost to the point of being suffocating. There were a great many days he tried to keep me away, out of fear that a newer, less controlled wolf would phase and end up hurting me, but as Billy had told me numerous times, I did not just inherit my coloring and quiet nature from my father; I got his stubborn streak, too.
I immersed myself in the pack in whatever capacity I could, starting with cooking meals for them, which was a challenge all on its own. Even when there were just a handful of them, the guys could out eat an army platoon or two. It took a lot of creative thinking and some smart financial planning to keep them fed without bankrupting Billy. Luckily, Dad's life insurance plan and the money from selling our house helped in that respect also. The boys were always appreciative since heaven knows they could burn water if they tried hard enough. For the most part they kept me happy, active and safe.
There were, however, a few downsides to being surrounded by the supernatural, besides the obvious, of course. The feeling of helplessness I had felt the night Dad died had festered under my skin for a long time, and spending everyday with a group of guys that could literally lift cars and heal broken bones in a matter of hours could give a girl a complex. I started acting irrationally, taking unnecessary risks and lashing out at everyone. I was angry all the time, almost like a newly phased wolf, and didn't know what to do with it.
Billy found the solution after a particularly nasty incident involving a cliff and an impending hurricane. When the concussion from cracking my head against the ocean rocks had healed, my adoptive father enrolled me in martial arts classes. He told me I needed to find an outlet for my anger, while simultaneously empowering me with the ability to defend myself. I spent years in those classes, learning every fighting style I could absorb – karate, judo, aikido, taekwondo. I learned ways to make an opponent's strength work against him. I made myself faster, stronger, more graceful, more flexible. I wanted to forget the scared little girl I was in that car all those years ago. I pushed my limits until I felt like I could keep up with my boys.
It took forever to convince Sam to let me train with them. He was always incredibly anxious about me being around the pack, especially new members. He wouldn't even let the boys hug me too hard. I don't think he ever really forgot the scared little girl.
Eventually, I pitched it as a control exercise for the newbies. If the boys could fight with me – in human form, of course, since they could kill me just by sitting on me as wolves – without using excessive force or phasing from anger when they lost (because they usually lost), they could advance from Sam's appointed "rookie status" and could be around people again. Mr. Control Freak finally caved after that idea. It also helped that Sam got to decide when the boys were ready. A fight with me became a graduation ceremony of sorts for the pack. Billy really liked the idea. He thought it was an excellent coming of age test, like a spirit journey. "Some tribes believe that a boy is a man when he can show his strength, but ours knows it is when he can control it."
Even after "graduation", the boys and I were known to get into a tussle a time or two. Paul and I have a rematch at least once a week. He's a sore loser.
I sparred with them until I could take out a man twice my size and four times my strength. During raids, I played back up in the res, making sure the old and injured got to safety. The pack affectionately dubbed me Homeland Security. When the battles were over, I helped Sue Clearwater with first aid before I headed out for clean up. Sometimes, with the amount of bloodsuckers that came with each wave, it was easier for them all to stay phased even after the battle, just in case. That left those of us who still had opposable thumbs to operate the lighters, always with an escort, of course. I savored every last pile of stone that I turned to ash. I continued to learn all I could about the Cold Ones, listening to Billy's stories and even reading some of the older legends from his library. One story in particular, the one about the Third Wife, really resonated with me.
It was because of that story that a few years ago when I turned 16, I decided to join the fight.
I knew it was crazy, stupid even, but the armies of Cold Ones were getting larger and the wolves couldn't phase fast enough to keep up. Battlefields would be littered with burning piles of white, but also fallen brothers. My friends were dying, and I needed to help.
I would never be able to match the strength and speed of a Cold One, I knew that, but from what I'd seen, all I needed was an open wound and a lighter. If I could defend myself long enough in close combat, I would survive. Hell, I might have even been able to do some damage. The only problem was finding a weapon capable of fending off the leeches. Projectile weapons like guns or crossbows were useless against a vampire's speed, and nothing forged by humans was strong enough to puncture a Cold One's skin. Still, I had to try.
After one particularly brutal battle, I went to the woods after the Cold Ones were all burning, scouting to find any injured friends. If they somehow phased back to human form, it was harder for the guys to pinpoint where fallen pack members were. What I found instead were teeth, wolf fangs nearly the size of my forearm that must have been punched out during the fight. I wondered wryly who had taken a shot to the face for a second before I was struck with a brilliant idea.
I brought the teeth back, forging a handle and guard to protect my hands, before showing my new blades to the elders and pack. My boys, Sam and Jake especially, balked, pleaded, and fought me on my idea, but I would not be deterred. I showcased my talent, flipping, kicking, and slashing with my impromptu knives, destroying anything in my path. They all teased, throwing a few Buffy comments here and there, but it could not be denied that I could be an asset.
I was proven right in the next battle when my presence drew all the Cold Ones to one battlefield instead of all over our woods with just a knick of my finger. According to the pack, the monsters seemed even crazier and less focused during the fight, being too distracted by the scent of fresh human blood. It was almost easy for the wolves to pick them off, one by one, and I even destroyed a few in my own twisted version of a slash-and-burn technique. Turns out, even fully intact, vampires can burn from the outside in if you get a good gash in their bodies.
I've been fighting with them ever since.
Today though, on the eve of the 10th anniversary of my father's death, I'm taking a break from the war, as much as one ever can. The pack hasn't smelled a bloodsucker for weeks, which was encouraging, but we're still on guard. I hike through the woods with my knives at my side and a wooden whistle dangling from my neck. Jake whittled it for me when I started doing clean up duty so I could signal the wolves if I was in danger, seeing as I couldn't howl like them or share a brain. That's still weird to think about.
The hike is a familiar one, toward a field about five miles north of La Push, and the weather's good for it – overcast, but when the hell isn't it in Washington? My path is secluded, surrounded by forest on either side that stretches for miles. I usually like to come here when I want to think. The field at the end is also where I pick the flowers I put on Dad's grave. Sure, I could go to a florist or grow my own flowers like any other person, but I like the symbolism behind the ones that grow in this particular field. They don't have any specific meaning in flower language that I'm aware of, but there is an old legend I read about them in one of Billy's old books that I really liked.
According to the story, the field was where the final battle between the first Quileute tribe and a neighboring enemy tribe took place. It was hard fought, with many casualties on both sides, before finally, the Quileute triumphed. It's said that after the battle, the women of the tribe traveled to the field and buried the dead, planting white tulip bulbs on the graves to symbolize cleansing and rebirth, since white was the color of purity and tulips were known to grow back every year. Only when the bulbs bloomed that following spring, the white petals were splotched with red. The tribe believed that the flowers had been nourished with the blood of the fallen warriors, symbolizing their spirits' harmonization with the earth. Despite the savage way in which they died, they had all found peace.
Though I don't put much stock in this particular Quileute legend, the sentiment is nice.
Reaching a familiar dip in the path, I push back an overgrown shrub and enter the field. It's nearly a perfect oval, surrounded by dense green and full of bleeding tulips, as I call them, and other various flowers and grasses. Wandering to center of the field and sitting down, I pluck a tulip gently from the ground, stroke its feathery petals and hope Dad's spirit has found peace, too.
I don't know how long I sit there, caressing the flower and thinking about Dad, before a snap of a twig draws my attention to the north side of the field.
At which point, I am staring at the single most beautiful specimen I have ever had the pleasure of seeing in my life.
He stands tall, in a mild sense – towering over my 5'4" frame, but dwarfed by Jacob's near 7 feet. His posture has an aloof confidence to it, vigilant but relaxed at the same time. His body is muscled in a wiry way, not too buff but not scrawny either, showcased by his well fitting jeans and tight grey Henley, layered with an open leather jacket. His hair catches the breeze, and I am immediately entranced by the various colors that shift through it – browns, blonds, and reds of all shades combining to create an almost bronze hue.
My eyes travel down to his face and I tense, seeing his pallor. He's as white as a Cold One! I scramble up from the ground, dropping my tulips and reaching for my whistle to signal my brothers when he reaches a hand out and calls to me.
"Excuse me? Can you help me? I believe I'm lost," his voice travels across the field in a warm, velvety tone, wrapping me up and stilling my movements.
In all my years fighting Cold Ones, I've never heard one speak like that. They mostly just hiss, growl, and shriek like wild animals. Whatever actual words they've used were stilted and rushed, like they didn't have the patience to verbalize their thoughts.
This man's speech, though, is even and casual. His pitch chimes like bells pleasantly in my ears. Unconsciously, my body relaxes and my eyes return to his face. It doesn't sneer rabidly like those of the monsters I fight. His brow is smooth and unmarred. His nose is slightly crooked and his lips are turned ever so slightly into a timid smile above his chiseled jaw. The biggest revelation, though, is his eye color. Golden, like fresh honeycomb or hardened sap, instead of the bloody red I'm so used to seeing.
Looking at his unusual eyes, I feel completely disarmed. I'm captured by them, dazzled even, and I can't look away to save my life. Sam told me once about what imprinting felt like after he found Emily, like the whole world tilted on its axis and suddenly she was the only one holding him to the ground. This doesn't feel quite like that, but I can't shake this feeling of connection I'm sharing with a complete stranger.
I'm sure I look like a complete idiot just standing there slack jawed at him, so I attempt to pull myself out of whatever weird reverie I'm in.
"Lost?" I call back dumbly, trying to get my brain firing on all cylinders again. The stranger's smile spreads into a hopeful grin.
"Yes," he replies, this time taking steps in my direction, dipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he walks. "My family was out hiking, but I lost sight of them in the woods. The foliage is quite dense out there." He stops about a yard away from me, adopting a casual stance. He stands there almost uncertainly for a moment, before lifting his right hand out of his pocket to shake mine. "My name is Edward, by the way."
Automatically, my hand reaches to do the same and I feel a jolt as my skin touches his. I note his hands are firm, but warm, and my shoulders release all their tension. Not a Cold One, then. And really, how could he be? His demeanor is so calm and casual, not at all feral like the demons I've come to know and loathe. He speaks and walks like a normal human and his eyes, though unusual, are gentle and more importantly not red. His skin is pale and tough, but warm. Maybe he's just got a little albino in him. Not like I'm one to judge. My skin's nearly translucent, as my boys like to frequently point out.
"Bella," I reply, releasing his hand but missing the tingle of his touch almost immediately. I stare at my hand contemplating this for a moment, before shaking my head and returning my gaze to Edward. "It's really not safe for you and your family to be wandering around these parts," I say scolding. There's no telling when a new crop of bloodsuckers will turn up, not that I can tell him that. "There are wild animals in these woods. Somebody could get seriously hurt."
Edward quirks a brow at me. "And you are out here all alone because?" he draws out the last word, digging for an explanation. His eyes travel up and down my person stopping curiously at the wolf-teeth knives hanging from my belt loops. Shit.
"Noisemakers," I say quickly gesturing to my knives, "to scare off predators. I've lived here all my life and as you can see, I'm a bit better equipped to handle any danger I might face." I bite my lip and struggle to maintain eye contact with him. I'm the shittiest liar ever, another thing my boys love to tease me about. I force my insufferable blush, one I've had since I was a little girl and a dead giveaway to my untruths, to rescind from my cheeks and keep talking while I appraise his attire as well. "You don't even have a proper hiking pack! Seriously, you're just asking for trouble!" It's less difficult to sound confident, since I am genuinely upset about the risks he's taking. This is how civvies end up as leech food, wandering around, unarmed and vulnerable, without any idea what danger lurks around every corner.
The mirth in Edward's eyes tells me he is getting a little too much amusement out of my scolding, though he's nodding his head seriously. My eyes narrow and my nostrils flare at the contradiction, which he also notices. I'm about to unleash all my righteous fury on his ass before he holds his hands out in surrender.
"My apologies," he says sheepishly, but his eyes are still glimmering with mischief. "I know I don't look like much, but my family has been hiking for years." His smirk becomes a little more pronounced. "I don't usually travel off the beaten path, but I must say, I am not regretting that decision right now," he says as his gaze shifts completely into flirty territory.
My cheeks flood with the thrice-damned blush at his obvious approval. Growing up on the res, surrounded by supernaturally strong and beautiful boys who all see you like a little sister can be a bit stifling to one's love life. I don't think anyone's dared to blatantly flirt with me since Mike Newton got his nose broken in seventh grade when he "accidentally" grazed my boob in gym class. Since then, the opposite sex in Forks has pretty much kept their distance.
This one though, knows nothing about my life or my wolfy pseudo family. He's obviously not from around here because I would have remembered that face in town. He smiles charmingly and my heart skips a beat or two. Double shit.
"Um – well – yeah," I start off oh-so-coherently, "I mean, it is a beautiful clearing," I finish, turning my back to him so he can't see my already blossoming blush travel down the apples of my cheeks to the base of my clavicle. The damn thing will stretch over my whole body if I keep looking at him looking at me like that.
I can hear the smirk in his voice. "Yes, that too, I suppose."
Taking a deep breath, I muster the resolve to face him again, putting on an air of nonchalance. "Sooo," I draw out, peeking at him over my shoulder. His eyes are locked right where our gazes would meet, still full of amusement but softening a little into real enjoyment too. "What brings you and your family to these parts? Must be personal since the tourism industry isn't exactly booming out here." Not to mention the locals, while not truly aware of what's happening right in their backyards, can feel the tension that's descended around the surrounding area. They tend to avoid stepping anywhere near these woods. War has a funny way of impacting even the completely ignorant that way.
He chuckles for a moment at my sardonic comment before answering. "Hunting trip. We have some friends in the area, so we come up occasionally." I raise my brow at this, once again noticing his lack of equipment. Where is his gun or camouflage or fluorescent vest?
He can tell I'm skeptical because he quickly goes on to explain. "Today we were just scouting the terrain – getting a feel for the land and finding tracks and all that." He chuckles, "My brother's a bit of a nut about tracking and finding the best game. The rest of us are more laid back about it." His teasing smile sets me at ease again. The whiplash of emotions this guy sends through me is starting to make me dizzy. I think it's time to get out while the getting's good. I need to reevaluate.
"Oh, well," I rattle my already woozy brain for an excuse to leave, but it's surprisingly difficult to work up the motivation. It feels almost wrong to walk away from him, like half my body wants to stay glued to his side forever and the other half is screaming for retreat. Is this one of those heart vs. head scenarios I've read about in romance novels? Can my heart really have a say when I've known this guy all of 20 seconds? I cast my eyes down, trying to avoid his hypnotic gaze so I can concentrate, and notice the tulips I picked still lying at my feet. "I need to get these back to the cemetery," I finish not really thinking while my mouth just keeps spouting stupidly intimate details about me to a complete, albeit attractive, stranger. "It's been almost ten years since my dad died so I came here to get flowers for his grave. I kind of do that every year 'cause I like the legend behind them, and I don't live far from here so it's an easy walk." Oh my god, Bella! Stop with the verbal diarrhea! What do you want to blurt out next? That Dad got killed by a vampire or perhaps your home address? You know, the place that is teeming with territorial, on edge, adolescent spirit wolves? Maybe invite him for dinner? Yeah, that sounds like a great plan! Idiot!
Edward, bless him, just seems concerned about the first part of my little soliloquy. "I'm sorry about your father, Bella," he says, his voice saturated with sympathy. Looking up at his face again, I can see the same sincerity swimming in his eyes. I give him a small smile and shake my head, dismissing the need for it.
"It was a long time ago," I assure him, "It's not as hard to think about him anymore." God damn it, Bella! Stop talking before you end up spilling your guts! I don't know what it is about this guy, but for some reason I feel completely comfortable being vulnerable in front of him, which is weird because I still have trouble doing that with of the pack most days. Pretty sure Sam is still the only one of them to ever see me cry.
Speaking of the pack, I need to get back to them. Back to normal life where ridiculously attractive strangers do not compel me to spew private details about my life. I've been gone for a while now, and I'm sure Sam and Jake, at least, are getting antsy.
I bend down and retrieve my tulips before meeting Edward's gaze again. God, his eyes are pretty. "Anyway, I really should be going back now. It was nice to meet you, Edward." I turn my back and start walking before I hear him call out again.
"Wait!" he sounds almost panicked. "Will I see you again?"
I glance at him over my shoulder again and see how taunt his posture has become. His fists are clenching at his sides and his eyes are wide in dismay. He looks legitimately upset about the possibility of never meeting again. Strangely, I feel an ache in my chest at the thought as well.
I turn to face him fully. "I don't know, maybe," I answer honestly. As much as it chills me to think about, I could be dead tomorrow. There is a war going on, after all, and I'm its most fragile conscript. Sure, we haven't seen a bloodsucker in weeks, but this could very well be just an interlude, the eye of the storm if you will.
"Can I?" Edward asks anxiously, obviously not liking the uncertainty in my voice. "Will you meet me here again? Tomorrow?" Every word he's saying is getting progressively faster, his desperation showing through the cracks in his voice. Why is he so frantic to see me again? And why is it making me feel the same way? The vice grip on my chest is tightening every second I don't reply. It's becoming difficult to breathe. Eventually, it becomes too much.
"Yes," I practically force out of my throat as the pressure dissipates now that I've agreed. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs to capacity again before releasing it. "Same time?" I look at my phone, seeing it's just after one in the afternoon. From my peripherals, I can see Edward nod. His body is relaxed again and the smile has returned to his face.
"Alright," he agrees. "I'll see you then, Bella." The way his voice caresses my name gives me goosebumps up and down my spine. My tongue is tied as my face flushes once again, so I just nod in return before spinning around and slipping into the tree line at the edge of the clearing. One more glance over my shoulder tells me Edward's eyes never leave my person as I go.
Seeing as the cemetery Dad is buried in is all the way in Forks, I decide to just bring my tulips home for now. I don't feel like I'm in any condition to be driving. Is this what attraction does to you? God, I've never felt like this in my entire life. My whole body is tingling and my brain is fuzzy in a warm, pleasant way, like the time the pack (mostly Paul and Jared) convinced me to drink with them while testing their newly found tolerances. I was drunk off my ass after only a few shots, while of course they didn't feel a damn thing all night. I swear I still get hangover recall from the day after. Bastards, the lot of 'em.
The intoxication I've got going on right now feels similar, but without the bad decision making aspect. It's almost dreamlike. My body's on a roller coaster that only goes up.
I can't get the dopey grin off my face, even as I enter the Black house, my home for nearly the last decade. Looking around, I can see no one is around, which is just as well. Billy's probably at the Clearwaters' and the boys are most likely patrolling or sleeping off their last shift. Such is life for the pack right now. They have to be ready at a moment's notice to pick up the fight again. Personally, I hope this reprieve stretches a lot longer. My boys need their rest.
With that in mind, I head to the kitchen to start whipping something up. Sooner or later, hungry wolves in one form or another will be swarming my door complaining of their imminent starvation. A pack of drama queens, those boys are.
I'm midway through assembling the world's largest deli platter when I hear Jake's sleepy voice from behind me. Just got off a patrol, then.
"Bells? Damn girl, what took you so long?" he yawns out, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. "I thought Sam was gonna have a conniption."
I guffaw, because Sam totally would, before answering him. "I got held up at the clearing – dressing down a civ for being out in the woods without equipment." I decide to leave out the part of my being wildly attracted to this civ. Makes it easier in the long run if the pack can go on pretending I have no interest in the opposite sex.
"Shit," he draws out exasperatedly. "We haven't had to deal with civvies in the woods for a long time." I snort in agreement.
"He was apparently not from around here," I reply, turning back to my deli platter, "Didn't even have hiking boots or anything. He's just asking to get eaten." Jake grunts amusedly at my morbid humor. He and I have always shared this kind of easygoing rapport. It helps that he's family in all but blood at this point. I don't know what I'd do without him, honestly. His eyes land on the array of meats and cheeses in front of me and he starts making for the counter before his stomach lets out an almighty rumble. He grins sheepishly as I laugh. I totally called that one.
"Well, as long as he-" Jake stops right behind me. I feel his body going ramrod straight and a rumbling growl that is definitely not his stomach escapes from him.
"Jake?" I turn to him and raise an eyebrow. I've seen this happen once or twice when a pack member lets out a howl in the distance, but I can't hear any sound that could be causing this.
"Bells," he grits out. His nose is scrunched up and his fists are clenching. If he were a less experienced shifter, I'd bet he would be trembling at this point. "Why do you smell like leech?" The question nearly bowls me over. I whip around, eyes bugging at Jake incredulously.
Triple shit.
TBC
That's chapter one! Thanks for sticking with me all the way through. If you have any questions or simply enjoyed the story, please shoot me a review and I'll answer what I can without giving the rest away.
~littlehughesy