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SO THRILLED by the response to the first chapter! I'm honestly ecstatic.

But I should warn you: Ed may be snarky, but this story is marked "horror/tragedy" for a reason. You'll see that reason mentioned toward the end of this chapter, along with a suggestion in my closing A/N if you need it.

Meanwhile let's return to Ed. I believe he has answers to most of your questions.


The Last Word

A vampire needs but one thing to live.

One delectable, precious thing.

Finding an endless supply of it, then, is his chief aim. Some of my kind war to secure it, their corpses lying in bitter shards across remote territories where our legend persists among the locals. I have no stomach for combat or desire to risk my life for the sake of sustaining it.

I sought a simpler way.

To achieve selfish success in this blessed country, one needs only a loophole and a greedy sadist to hold it open. In Caius, I found the latter. A public fall from political grace cost him favor with the right, so he did what any self-respecting, disgraced American would do.

He preyed upon a lower sect.

Blustering about personal and societal reform, he attracted the attention of leftist extremists with money to burn and no scruples to lose. During my first and final lunch with a clandestine contributor—whose predilection for elderly women landed him on my radar—I learned of the prison-building project and set my sights its coordinator. Killing Caius posed no challenge, but one does not drain the body that feeds it.

Or so the expression goes.

So I put my telepathic talents to use, learned where the not-so-proverbial bodies were buried, and promised eternal silence in exchange for his Death Row residents, adding a superfluous display of speed and power to prove the point.

The chair in his office still smells faintly of urine.

Naturally he agreed, and that very evening, I engorged on blood until my sclerae were red. These vermin are guilty, immoral, and exceedingly fun to tease.

Most bluster upon entering, their wide eyes determined to ignore my obvious inhumanity and the drain in the chamber's center. Their thoughts race with defiance, full of confidence they will evade the inevitable with a show of force.

They cannot know how insolence infuses the blood with a delightful spice that only increases my thirst. They come to know—but can never share—how I enjoy their useless braggadocio.

Eventually I interrupt their fuming to blithely inquire, "Any last words?" They expect some form of the question, so the effect takes a moment to hit. But with the sweep of my hand toward the blood-stained wall, they see reminders of my flawless record.

They panic, and it is glorious.

It may seem sentimental to record my victims' last words, but my reasons are decidedly different. I must keep a tally somehow, and taking scalps would be gauche and messy. I once experimented with severed limbs but found the odor of decaying flesh unpleasant.

Not to mention the clutter. Oh, how I abhor clutter.

Despite the variance of my victims, I usually hear the same things: "no," "please, God!" or that colorful two-word phrase inviting me to pleasure myself or have them do it for me (I am never sure which).

But every now and then, someone surprises me.

"Tell Ida her meatloaf sucks!"

"There was no carjacking black man. I hocked mama's new car to pay a bookie."

"Macho Man Randy Savage! That's who won WrestleMania IV!"

"It was worth it."

Though I killed the serial sniper nonetheless, his reply I respected and honored with a prominent spot beneath the lone window.

No sense regretting what is done.

I immediately demand their bodies be removed—because: clutter—then carve their maledictions into permanence on the wall. The attending guards pretend not to notice, but they burn with curiosity about my quotation collection. Occasionally I invite one to walk in and read a few.

He seldom makes the return trip.

I try not to kill more guards than necessary, leery of endangering my food source with negative attention. But when insolence or duty or boredom demands otherwise, I choose the unmarried and unpopular, cloaking my baseness in benevolence.

"I am doing you a favor, Caius," I purred during our first and only conversation on the subject. "The occasional murder of a guard keeps the rest on guard. Tell me: when is the last time you've had to discipline one for laziness, lateness, or the like?"

He was too terrified to answer.

"Precisely! Besides, better them than you, eh?" I patted him on the back, relishing his repugnance, and returned to my chamber.

Where I dined on the next two guards he sent.

And so pass my days in the Death Row. I have books and music if diversion is needed, and I spend whole weeks away from my castle among the populace. But their selfish nattering grates on my delicate nerves, and I soon crave the peace of my private death chamber.

Today, however, there is little peace to be found.

As was the case last night, an odd restlessness permeates the place. I usually tune out the guards' mental musings, but the unifying unease caught my attention. And as I deployed my talents, I was stunned by their discovery.

Today my meal is female.

Images of a woman with stringy brown hair and rail-like arms pepper their thoughts, punctuated by libelous labels.

Alcoholic.

Lunatic.

Baby killer.

This last one disturbs me, as even the cruelest of my kind avoid that crime unless strictly necessary. I know not why a mother would need to murder her child but forget the question entirely as a mouthwatering scent wafts into my chamber. Its allure is more potent than most blood I encounter but bearable.

It helps that I drained a portly pyromaniac yesterday.

The fragrance accompanies gentle footsteps, their muted cadence surprising me. Usually the condemned raise such a ruckus the walls shake with violence. Now there is but the rattle of chains, the huffing of weary workers, and something else, something that does not belong.

Humming.

Low, contented humming.

The escorting guards are also surprised but make no comment. Our anorexic assassin studies the ground as she walks—walks, not shuffles or is forcibly dragged, I note—but the soulful sound is definitely coming from her.

Perhaps the lunatic label fits.

Through the lead guard's eyes, I see the door to my chamber, and I face the rear window, anticipating the terror-laced shock my scarred and bloody back inspires. Then I recall this extraordinary prisoner is female, an anomaly unlikely to reoccur for some time. And I wish to see her from the moment she sees me.

What is vanity compared to infanticide?

Running an arrogant hand over my mated locks, I turn to the door, venom filling my mouth as her ambrosia becomes close enough to touch.

Exquisite.

As she nears, I zero in on her mind. Instead of an unpolluted stream of callous consciousness, I catch the tenor of her thoughts and nothing else.

This unprecedented blockage pulls a growl from my bowels, and the quartet outside comes to a brief halt. The prisoner gasps, her heart rate tripling as she forces herself forward, and I close my eyes to augment my focus. I have not worked this hard in the last decade, and the required effort vexes me.

She shall pay for this.

After a moment, I am rewarded with wisps of words, their substance a poor recompense for my telepathic toil.

"Yea….shadow….thou….comfort…."

Though partly mollified by this peek into her mind, the cadence of this oft'quoted Psalm perplexes me. There should be panic and desperation bordering on delusion. Marking the easy intimacy she instead employs, I therefore conclude she is indeed certifiable. Killing her, now, seems ungentlemanly, beneath me, even—she needs evaluation not exsanguination—but I am afraid it cannot be helped.

She is here.


So we know why Edward is here and more importantly why Bella is here.

Okay. I don't want to spoil anything for everyone, but if you're concerned about Bella's story or where this is going, send me a PM and I'll tell you whatever you want to know. This story won't be all rainbows and unicorns, obviously, but there is a clear ending in mind.

Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate, and I'll see you in December! XO