Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer. I do not claim any ownership over them or the world of Twilight.

Chapter 1: Welcome to Volterra

The cabin rattled as the plane took off from the runway. Jennifer was gripping the blue leather armrests so tightly her fingertips had turned white.

Just breathe, she kept telling herself as she squeezed her eyes shut. Just breathe, and then she started to slowly count backwards from one hundred; and whenever the plane rocked too hard or a passenger cried in jest, "We're gonna crash!" she would start back at one hundred.

Ten times she had to start over, and as her heart raced, she counted faster and faster to match the rapid speed of her pounding heart, so much that they were no longer numbers, just a jumbled string of syllables that held no value, and they brought her no comfort either.

Suddenly, the young woman beside her asked, "What's eighty-nine times sixty-four?"

Jennifer stopped counting, and her mind went blank. "What?"

"Eighty-nine times sixty-four, what's the answer?"

"What? I don't know ..." If she'd had a pen and paper, she could have solved it easily, but mental math was not a skill she'd developed. Still, she tried to solve the problem in her head, over and over, never coming up with the correct answer. Quickly, her head was overflowing with numbers, and Jennifer became overwhelmed by them all.

... but the cabin was finally still.

Jennifer let out a deep sigh. Thank goodness.

"So, what's the answer?"

Jennifer turned her head and found a pair of friendly blue eyes staring back at her, waiting for a response. "I ... I don't know," she answered.

The blonde smiled. "Neither do I."

The two women shared a laugh. As Jennifer's round cheeks jiggled up and down, she felt sweat dripping down her face and tasted salt on her dry lips. When she realized what was happening, her face flushed with embarrassment.

"Here." The blonde kindly offered her a tissue, and Jennifer graciously accepted, using the soft cloth to dab her glistening face. With a few pats, the tissue was drenched with sweat, prompting the blonde to offer a second tissue. "First time flying?" she asked.

"Yeah. It's silly, I know."

"Hey, I was there once too, and you handled it much better than I did. I had a panic attack upon take-off, and they had to ground the plane." She giggled at the memory. "Really, it's no big deal."

The plane hit a small bump, and Jennifer's hands instinctively went to her seat belt, tying it tighter and tighter around her waist.

"If you tie that any tighter, you're going to cut yourself in half," the blonde teased.

Jennifer blushed. "Sorry. Just a little nervous."

"It's okay. And I'm Katelyn, by the way."

"Jennifer. Nice to meet you."

"So what brings you to Paris: business or pleasure?" Katelyn went on, and Jennifer wondered if the woman was still trying to distract her from the bumpy flight. Women like Katelyn, who were so naturally beautiful, with their long legs and tiny waists, rarely acknowledged her let alone spoke to her.

"Pleasure, I guess," Jennifer answered. "I won a radio contest."

"Oh, really?" Katelyn's eyes lit up with excitement. "What kind of contest? Clearly, it had nothing to do with math, or you wouldn't be sitting here, right?" She laughed at her own joke, but her new friend didn't seem to find it as amusing.

"I just had to answer some stupid pop culture questions. Really, it wasn't that hard."

Katelyn nodded her head and then said without thinking, "Hopefully it isn't some scam. Boy, have I seen my fair share of those ..."

"A scam?" Jennifer's tone rose with panic. "Do you really think it's a scam?"

Hundreds of scenarios were running through her mind, all ending in death. In the weeks before her trip, she had spent her nights researching all the brutal murders of young, naïve tourists that had occurred over the years, many of which were overly embellished urban legends, but they still frightened her.

"I'm sure it isn't," Katelyn said, trying to ease her worries. "The odds of that happening are slim to none."

"That's true." I hope it's true ... "So why are you going to Paris?"

"Work. My agent finally pulled through and got me booked for an upcoming ad campaign for some French designer." For the life of her, she could not remember his name. "He's new, I guess. Nobody really knows about him yet, but he does amazing work. I think he'll be really big one day."

"So you're a model?" Jennifer assumed, for Katelyn seemed to fit the mold in her eyes: a tall, slender frame, long, healthy hair, and a flawless, peachy complexion that didn't need makeup.

"Yeah. I've done a lot of commercial work, ... mostly with dish cleaning liquid." Katelyn flashed her perfectly manicured fingernails and cracked a modest smile. "I wash a lot of dishes, you see."

"Wow, sounds exciting!"

Oh, it's not as glamorous as it seems, Katelyn thought, hiding her discontent with a smile, not by a long shot.

Truthfully, she hadn't done a real commercial in over two years, and her previous agency had just dropped her because she wasn't "fresh enough," whatever that meant. Now, she only appeared in local commercials, urging the townspeople to "Come on down to Jefferson's Grocery!" Where our trash is your treasure ... Old Man Jefferson paid her in coupons, and his son liked to grab her ass.

But that was all behind her now, she had to remind herself. She was finally getting a new start, and she wasn't about to waste this opportunity.

Like Katelyn, many of the passengers on this particular plane were in fear of wasted opportunities. Jonathan, for instance, a man sitting three rows behind the two young women, saw this trip as a chance to piece his broken life back together.

He'd made a lot of mistakes in the past, done terrible things that surely broke his mother's heart, but he was a changed man now. He had done his time, and now he could finally move on. His therapist had arranged for a transfer to a rehabilitation center in France, one that he assured was very effective in dealing with people like Jonathan. There, he could become a better man, the kind of man his mother would be proud of.

But if that kid didn't stop kicking his seat, he was going to become the man he despised. Over and over, the kid kicked and kicked with both legs, making Jonathan's seat jerk.

"Stop—kicking—my—seat."

Jonathan tried to use the self-calming methods his therapist had taught him, but with every jerk, his temper was boiling hotter and hotter.

"Stop—kicking—my—seat!—Stop—kicking—my—seat!—STOP—KICKING—MY—SEAT!"

Fuming, he ripped off his seat belt and turned around to face the eight-year-old boy, who now sat cowering in fear of the large, tattooed ex-con towering over him.

"Kid, if you don't quit kickin' my seat, I'm gonna rip off your fuckin' legs!"

The child's mother quickly came to his rescue. Covering his innocent ears with the palms of her hands, she pulled him close to shield him from this monstrous man and his obscenities.

"Don't you ever threaten my son!" she cried.

"Teach that little shit some manners, then!"

By now, her husband had risen from his seat. Compared to Jonathan, he could hardly be considered a man, the ex-con thought, with that button-down shirt and those thick-framed glasses. Why, he looked like the kind of man Jonathan used to beat up in high school. But now the little geek was standing up to him, full of confidence.

"You will not use that kind of language in front of my family," he said.

Jonathan wanted nothing more than to punch this guy in the face and bash his head against the window until it cracked open like a watermelon.

"I'll use whatever language I want!"

He clenched his fist tightly, so tightly that he might've drawn blood, but then he heard the flight attendant's soothing voice in his misshapen ear.

"Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to sit back in your seat, please."

He took a deep, calming breath. "The kid keeps kickin' my seat."

"Okay, I'm sorry. Sweetie, stop kicking the seats, okay?" The flight attendant smiled gently at Jonathan and slowly eased him back into his seat. "There. Now, if you need anything, just ask."

Jonathan gulped deeply, swallowing his anger. "Thank you, ma'am."

The rest his flight went smoothly, and Jonathan didn't hear a peep from the little brat sitting behind him, but the event had not been forgotten by the kid's family. The boy's mother spent the rest of the flight cursing her husband for insisting on this unplanned vacation.

"This was your idea, Steven! 'Jake needs more culture in his life.' Well, how's that for culture?"

"How was I supposed to know this would happen?" Steven shot back. "This is the real world now, Joyce." Not your fucking book club. "Sometimes you have to deal with difficult people. But it's behind us now, so can we please just try to enjoy ourselves?"

"Oh, you can enjoy yourself all you want, but I'll be staying in the hotel."

Steven crossed his arms over his chest. "Go right ahead." I'm going to enjoy myself no matter what you do.

A vacation this grand was something he would never have been able to afford on his salary, so winning this all-expense-paid trip was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And all it took was a little history knowledge.

Really, it almost seemed too good to be true. But after a miscarriage nearly tore his marriage apart, this trip was just what his family needed, so Steven didn't have the heart to question it.

At first, he told himself this was for Joyce. He just wanted to see her smile again. But maybe he just wanted to escape it all, to leave behind all the horrible memories and hope they didn't follow him.

But they were following him, he realized.

The passengers boarded the private airport shuttle that would transport them to their next destination: a luxury hotel, where Jennifer would finally find peace, where Katelyn would meet her agent, where Jonathan would meet his sponsor, and where Steven hoped to put his family back together.

It won't work, Steven thought as watched his wife stare aimlessly out the bus window. Our problems will be right there waiting for us when we get back.

She had barely spoken to him since they'd left their house. Honestly, he hated the silence more than the anger. Before, she would lash out at him in a mad rage without provocation, throwing whatever she could get her fingers on: pillows, lamps, dishes—anything. But now she didn't even look at him. She spent her days alone, and when she wasn't alone, she was with her friends or with their son, acting as his protector from anyone that might do him harm. She was overly protective of him, many thought, but he couldn't blame her. He wanted to protect her, too ... to be able to touch her and ...

"Gah!" Steven jerked his foot away from the aisle as a river of yellow, chunky bile came rushing down.

Behind him, Jennifer sat slouched over her seat, covering her mouth with her trembling hands.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm sorry."

Katelyn gently took the girl's shoulders and pulled her up. "It's okay," she said. "It's okay." She pulled out some tissues and wiped her mouth, but no amount of tissues could sop up the mess that was now trickling across the floor.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Jonathan cursed his luck and quickly pulled his feet up. "It smells ... God, it smells!"

He used his shirt to cover his nose, but if the trip lasted too much longer, he was going to end up getting sick, too. He could already feel his stomach churning.

"I've never flown before," Jennifer murmured, and then she started babbling incoherently as she cried in her seat.

Not knowing what else to do, Katelyn tried to console her by stroking the top of her head. "We're almost there," she whispered. "We're almost there. You'll be okay soon."

Why isn't the driver stopping? she thought as she glared at the back of the driver's head. Can't he see someone's sick?

Jennifer threw up three more times before the bus finally stopped, and when she glanced out the window and saw an unfamiliar sight, she felt sick again.

She had seen a picture of the hotel, many pictures in fact, but this medieval city square looked nothing like any of them. The unfamiliar stone walls were closing in like an invading army, and they carried an Italian flag.

"It's Italian," she murmured, but no one heard her. "Why is it Italian?"

The bus driver stood and faced them. "Please, follow me."

"Where the hell are we?" Jonathan asked. "You're supposed to take us to the hotel!"

"First, a tour. Please."

"A tour?" Joyce repeated. "Nobody said anything about a tour. Steven, what is he talking about? You said this shuttle would take us straight to the hotel."

Steven didn't want to make a scene. "It's just a quick stop. We can spare a few minutes to take in some French culture."

But it's Italian, Jennifer thought. Does no one else notice?

Apparently, no one else had noticed, for they all rose from their seats and followed the driver. Jennifer wanted to stay behind. She was clinging to her seat with both hands, but Katelyn pried her off and guided her off the bus with her.

And all the while, Jennifer was still shrieking, "It's Italian! It's Italian!"

It was indeed Italian. Unbeknownst to them, they were entering the rustic city hall of Volterra, Italy, a secluded city seated upon a high rocky hill and enclosed by thick, sturdy walls that dated all the way back to the Neolithic period. A charming city, no doubt, but it was not Paris. Few of the tourists noticed, though, and those who did quickly forgot once they saw the stunning woman who would become their tour guide.

A living statue, many called her, with deep mahogany hair and striking violet eyes.

"Welcome," she said in a smooth, melodic voice. "Please, follow me."

At her call, they all followed, and the heavy wooden door closed behind them.

. . .

After lighting a cigarette, the bus driver strolled off toward one of the nearby cafés, abandoning his bus and leaving it prey to a duo of local pickpockets who frequently targeted unsuspecting tourists. Often described as the safest city in Tuscany, Volterra was the ideal hunting ground for petty criminals because only the locals kept their guard, but it was the tourists who had all the money anyway. It was easy to lift a few bucks, steal a watch or two, but the best stuff, many knew, was waiting on the tour buses.

"Ugh, what did I just step in?" The lanky man of twenty-two lifted his black boot and saw it dripping with a chunky, smelly liquid.

"Man, these are new, too," he complained, wiping his dirty boot on one of the seats. "Dahlia, somebody blew chunks in here. You should smell it!"

His accomplice, a young woman of the same age, was keeping watch outside. "I can smell it, and it's disgusting. Hurry up, so we can get out of here!"

"I'm hurryin', I'm hurryin' ... American dollars? What the hell am I supposed to do with that? - Oh well, beggars can't be choosers, right?"

"Vince, quit fooling around and get your ass moving! We don't have that much time before they come back."

"But they never come back ... Don't you find that odd?"

"Everything about that building is odd," Dahlia replied, eying the city hall with great curiosity.

A few times a month, not often enough to create suspicion, a strange bus would pull up, drop off some tourists, and then leave soon after, without its passengers. Nobody really thought anything of it. They had no reason to because Volterra was such a safe, pleasant city, and the city hall was a warm, inviting place that offered many perfectly normal tours to locals and tourists alike.

But then there were other tours, the stranger tours that nobody really understood but didn't dare question.

"There's no security, you know," Vince said. "Not once have I seen a guard. It's like they think nobody can steal from them." He smirked. "Perhaps it's a challenge."

"Perhaps," she agreed. But there's definitely something weird about that place.

. . .

Inside, the enchanting tour guide was leading the group of tourists around the building, but they didn't care about the paintings on the walls or the sculptures that lined the halls. To them, the greatest work of art was this woman who mystified them all. With their cameras and camera phones, they took pictures of her, dozens of pictures. Men and women alike tried to engage in conversation with her, but the woman always brushed them off and led them further on, descending the stairs lower and lower, bringing them to a vast labyrinth of tunnels that was so complicated a man could have spent his entire life trying to escape and never find his way out.

But this woman knew the path, and she knew where it ended.

With her eager flock behind her, the woman entered a great hall carved from rich alabaster stone, as ornate as a grand cathedral, with hand-painted murals and intricate stone carvings. But what struck the tourists most were the three golden thrones standing upon the dais, where three very peculiar men sat, dressed all in black and carrying a thick aura of aristocracy.

They were angels, the tourists thought, angels sent from above, more beautiful than any man, with skin as white as the stone that formed the walls. But their eyes were far from angelic—red as blood and burning with a deep hunger.

The man in the middle—Aro was his name—rose from his chair and stepped down from the dais.

"Welcome to Volterra," he greeted them with a cheerful smile that reached all the way up to his brilliant red eyes. Dozens of camera flashes went off, trying to capture this gallant man who seemed utterly ageless.

"I do hope you enjoyed your stay," he went on, and then his eyes flashed a shade brighter. "We greatly appreciate your sacrifice."

Suddenly, the great doors closed behind them, and the tourists became aware of the imminent danger. Like a herd of panicked deer, the screaming crowd dispersed as many tried to escape, pushing and shoving each other to get ahead. And as they fled, dark shapes appeared to be flying around the hall, running and pouncing with great speed and biting their prey like wild animals.

Clutching his bleeding neck, Jonathan slammed right into Jennifer. He fell on top of her, pinning her to the floor with his dead weight. Jennifer tried to pull herself out from under him. As her nails scraped against the stone floor, her fingers dipped into a warm puddle of blood, where Katelyn's perfect hand lay, fingers twitching for a few seconds and then falling still.

Jennifer screamed, but her voice was indistinguishable from the rest of the chorus.

The screaming stopped as quickly as it had started, and then there was a loud, unanticipated knock at the door.

An unexpected visitor.

The three men returned to their seats, moving so quickly their feet didn't even seem to touch the ground. After composing himself, Aro wiped the blood from his lower lip. "Open the door, Antony."

At his command, the guard opened the doors, allowing a most surprising guest to enter the great hall: the mayor of Volterra himself, Michele Distefano, a highly ambitious man with excellent taste—or so he often declared. He avoided the dead bodies out of repulsion rather than fear, for he did not want any blood stains on his brand new suit, one of the many benefits of this new alliance.

Aro stood out of respect. "My friend, what a pleasant surprise. So seldom do we receive visits from upstairs."

"And for good reason," said Caius, who had been skeptical of this arrangement from the start. To align with the humans was a mistake, he thought, and Aro had given them too much power. Such power was dangerous. Such power could go to a man's head.

"There is no need for hostility," the mayor replied calmly. "I only came to extend my sincerest thanks."

"Yes," Aro said, "we must congratulate you on your reelection. What a victory! ... Such a pity, what happened to your opponents, though, but Death is indiscriminate in his choices. No man is immune." He stepped down from the dais and held out his hand to shake. "May this term be as prosperous as the last."

"I believe it will." The mayor's gaze remained on the white hand that lingered before him. It seemed like a friendly gesture at first glance, but it was a trap in disguise. The mayor was no fool, and he would not shake this man's hand. "I fear I have wasted much of your time. I'll see myself out now."

"Do come again," Aro said, but as soon as the doors closed, his smile faded. The mayor knows much, he thought. Perhaps too much.

"He had no right to barge in like that," Caius declared. "Such meetings are to be prearranged. He cannot just come and go as he pleases."

"Yes, it was quite rude," agreed the third man, Marcus, with a very slow and laborious delivery, as if he lacked the will to even form words.

"A forgivable offense, nonetheless," Aro concluded upon returning to his seat. "But I do wonder why Adrianna failed to announce his visit. Such behavior is inexcusable." He looked to the mahogany-haired woman who was slowly making her way toward the door. "Heidi, find her please, and bring her to my private chambers. She has a lot of explaining to do."

"Yes, Master." Heidi bowed her head and exited the hall.

That stupid bitch, she thought as she stormed down hallway, heels pounding against the stone, a less than graceful motion, but she saw no point in maintaining the sweet, elegant façade that received so much praise. When I find her ...

She approached the front desk, where Adrianna usually sat painting her nails and reading magazines, and found it empty.

She ran away, she realized. That idiot actually tried to run away. Does she really think she can escape the Volturi—escape Demetri? He will find her, and when he does, she will wish she never applied for this position.

"Looking for something?" Demetri, a tall, slender man, dressed in a high-collared black jacket, emerged from the elevator, walking casually with his hands behind his back, displaying the perfect gentleman's posture.

"Adrianna is gone."

"Gone?" His red eyes shimmered with hidden secrets. "How unfortunate. She was a pretty one."

"A very pretty one." And Demetri has a weakness for beautiful women. "I will need to find a replacement for her, and soon."

"You could ask the mayor to send someone from upstairs," Demetri suggested. "He has many beautiful women working for him, or so I've been told."

Heidi heard footsteps upstairs, quiet to the average ear but thunderous to hers. They might as well have been stomping. The day was late, too late for any of the staff to be walking around, as they often left by five o'clock.

It appears we have some thieves in our midst, she thought.

"Olivia would be quite fitting, I think," Demetri went on. The mayor's press secretary was as beautiful as she was smart, a vast improvement from their previous employees.

"I don't think that will be necessary," Heidi said, a smirk tugging at her lips. "I may have already found someone. Excuse me."

She walked past Demetri and entered the elevator herself, and just before the doors closed, she saw Demetri wearing that sly smile he always wore after one of their young, beautiful secretaries disappeared.

Demetri ran his fingers along the desk. "Poor Adrianna. She will be missed."

So that's the first chapter. As I said, I'm not sure if I'm going to keep this, so reviews are really important at this point. If you think this is a story you might be interested in, let me know. If nobody's interested, I'll probably drop it and just focus on my other story.