Disclaimer: Twilight and all of its character's are the sole property of Stephanie Meyer. No infringement is intended. She merely allows us to play in her world for a bit, for which I am grateful.

Chapter 2: Rome

I fell asleep at some point, with my back up against the front tire of my stolen Porsche 911 Turbo. I dreamed.

I was back in the circular throne room of Volterra, gazing imperiously towards a group of terrified humans bunched together in the center of the room. I watched callously as Aro threw a young man into a wall before bleeding him dry. I watched as his wife Claire was dispatched just as efficiently as she ran to aid her husband. Rather than feeling disgust, or even fear, at these murders I instead felt a thrill surge through my body as I was compelled to join the slaughter. I was thirsty for blood.

My eyes scanned the room. My brethren were rapidly taking care of business, and I would have to hurry if I wished to feed today. A flash of gold raced past my eyes and I watched a young girl running for the door. I jumped. I was on her in an instant, with both of us landing hard on the floor. I barely felt the impact, but I heard a double crack as both of my victim's legs snapped.

I turned my head down, locating her carotid artery, the best place to strike. She looked up at me, blond hair splayed across the floor, wide-eyed with her mouth frozen in a small "0." I vaguely recognized her as Johanna, my best friend who I had known for more than half of my life. The burning in my throat demanded blood. Recognition warred with thirst as I bent my head down to deliver the final blow. I couldn't help but look into her eyes, which were brighter than I had ever seen them before. Her eyes had always been a pale shade of brown, a color she had complained looked like poop, but I, as her friend, had convinced her was more like hot chocolate. But they now blazed golden, burning with accusation, rage, and betrayal. I felt my gaze wavering, unable to handle the intensity of the light emanating from her pupils. It was bright. Too bright. I blinked.

****

I was jolted awake. My eyes snapped open, and promptly snapped shut again as I was blinded by headlights. I had no time to react. A fast approaching vehicle whooshed by me, not two feet from where I sat, taking the curves of the road at a reckless speed. It was a black car. Perhaps a Mercedes.

Idiots. How did the driver not see me lying there, beside a bright yellow Porsche?

I didn't have energy to feel angry, as the roar of the overworked engine vanished beyond the hill. I was too shaken by my nightmare to be concerned with yet another brush with death. If anything, I was thankful the speeding car had woken me when it did. I didn't want to go where that dream was heading. I had been one of them. I had been prepared to rip my best friend's throat out. I felt sick. I had to get ahold of myself.

I climbed gingerly to my feet, feeling my back crack in three places from the awkward position I had been laying in for the past—I glanced at my watch—three hours. It was nearly 9 pm.

Sitting back down in the driver's seat and slamming the door, I pondered my position. I had never been a logical, rational person. By nature, I was ruled by emotion—when I wanted to do something, I did it, consequences be damned. To this point, my life had been decided by whims and desires and feelings.

Ironically, I now looked the most overwhelmingly irrational episode of my short life using hard logic. Those 10 men--and women. I shuddered, remembering Heidi—killed 50 people inside of five minutes. Fact. Despite their numerical disadvantage, they used no weapons or any technology of any kind, but their unnatural, inhuman strength. Fact. I didn't know how much blood a human body contained, but those corpses were bled completely dry. Fact. Despite the blood letting and utter disregard for human life, those murders were not wanton acts of gratuitous violence. The victims were consumed entirely as the hunters were careful to lap up every drop of blood leaving behind pale, spent corpses.

I was clearly dealing with something supernatural here. I quickly ran through my limited compendium of man-eating humanoids. Zombies? No. I was pretty sure that zombies were only interested in brains. All of the victims still their skull caps intact, as far as I had noticed. Werewolves? I glanced out the window at the pale silver crescent hanging in the sky. No. No full moon. Vampires? Thirst for blood. Check. Pale appearance. Check. Super-human strength. Check. Drop-dead sexiness. In Heidi's case, check. Indoors during the day. Not check. Heidi had first led us into Volterra at high noon, yet had not been burned to a crisp. I remembered her extensive, tight-fitting wardrobe and wondered if there was more reason behind it than simply as eye-candy for the males in our tour. She had also been wearing a large-brimmed hat when we were outside. Perhaps if the sun did not strike the skin, vampires did not burn up.

This was ridiculous. Was it really possible that vampires were real, or was my overwhelmed consciousness searching for rationalizations that did not exist? On the other hand, there was nothing rational that could explain what I witnessed a few hours ago. Today was St. Marcus' Day, after all, a holiday celebrating the man who had, according to legend, driven the vampires from Italy more than a thousand years ago. Volterra and vampires were clearly linked, even if it was only in legends and mythology that gave drunken revelers the excuse to bare plastic fangs. Regardless, it seemed that Marcus' achievements had been greatly exaggerated or the vampires had returned to Volterra.

If Volterra was truly infested by a coven of vampires, I realized with a start, then they could now be out and about since the sun had set. Had they realized that they had come up one victim short? True, Heidi had never taken any sort of attendance in Milan, in such a hurry she was to get on the road. But what if one of them had taken a mental count as we were herded into the center of the room? Were they searching for me right now? I had to get out of this god-forsaken country. But here I was, stuck with a car that I was unable to drive. I was eighteen years old. Why had I not learned to drive a car like all of my friends? Had I really wanted to be chauffeured for the rest of my life?

I looked down at my feet. There were three petals there. I recognized the large, square one on my right as the break. The one just left of that must be the gas, and the smaller, leftmost petal had to be the clutch. My second boyfriend junior year drove a Mazda convertible given to him by his father that had a manual transmission. He had tried to teach me how to drive it one time. I had humored him for a few weeks, pretending to express interest, before breaking up with him out of boredom. While I usually ignored his ramblings about piston alignments, fuel-to-air ratios, and gear boxes and just oohed, aahed, and nodded in the right places, I did remember him telling me that the goal of driving a manual vehicle was to get from gear one to gear five, and that the clutch had to be pressed down during the actual shifting. Looking at the stick shift, I could see diagrammed on the handle five different gear positions, plus reverse.

I turned on the car, holding down both the break and the clutch pedal. I dragged the gear shift all the way to the left and up, to the position marked "1". So far so good. I let go of the clutch and then hit the gas. The engine revved angrily and the car lurched forward, before promptly stalling out. I tried again. And again. I just couldn't get the damn thing to stay in first gear. I banged angrily on the steering wheel. This was a half-million dollar car, god damnit! The more expensive the car, the easier it should be to drive! Hadn't I already suffered enough today? I escaped the blood-thirsty vampires (I had settled on that assumption, until I learned otherwise) only to be defeated by a car?

Back home, should a problem arise, I would have given up and called in the cavalry, which consisted of my parents, our housekeeper, or any of my "smart" friends. Stuck in the Italian countryside, possibly being hunted down by vampires, without a cellphone, the cavalry was out of the question. My escape lay in my own hands.

I tried again. Perhaps the car just wanted a more gentle touch. This time, as I slowly eased up on the clutch, I pressed lightly down on the gas. To my surprise, the car didn't stall out immediately. I cruised around a bend in the road, accelerating to perhaps 20 mph before the engine started to protest. I assumed I had to shift to a higher gear. I repeated the same procedure: holding down the clutch, shifting the gear right to "2" position, letting up on the clutch while pressing the gas. The car immediately shot forward. Reflexively, I slammed the break and I came to a quick stop. Wow.

I felt a surge of pride, until my mood was dampened back down as I remembered my circumstances. Nevertheless, I had done it. It was finally time to leave this wretched place. This introduced a second quandary.

I had been so focused on the ways and means of my escape, I had not considered the where. Returning to Milan was out of the question. Apparently, that city was a vampire feeding ground, seeing as Heidi had found us there. The absolute last thing I wanted to do was to run into her on the streets. And there was no way I could return to the hotel room that I, Johanna, and Kelly had shared. I wasn't ready for that.

I could immediately fly home. I had no idea what I would say to my parents, or the cops, who would certainly become involved when Kelly and Johanna were not with me. Obviously, telling the truth was out of the question. I would undoubtedly be deemed mentally insane. But I couldn't lie either. They were my best friends, and my last actions on their behalf would not be lies about how they had been kidnapped or swept out to sea. Still, the thought of home brought a sense of safety, a sense of conclusion in this whole affair.

But at the same time, I wanted answers, although I had no idea where they might be found. My usual sources of information—the internet and television—were not going to be of any assistance. Obviously, I couldn't go to the Italian police either.

As if in answer to my prayers, an idea formed in my mind. I had just talked to him a few months ago. Yes, he wouldn't judge me, nor think I had gone 'round the bend. He may even believe me and provide some valuable, if off-the-wall explanations.

I needed to get myself to a major city, with an international airport, so I could immediately board a plane for the US once I found out what was going on. I could try nearby Florence, but I feared the airport was too regional.

Rome it was then.

As I pulled out onto the country road leading away from Volterra, I carefully shifted up to gear three, which was a comfortable speed for me. I had been driving for less than five minutes when I saw a mile-marker, stating that "Roma" was 270 km away. It seemed that I would be driving through the night.

After 30 minutes, driving a stick shift had become nearly effortless. Following the road signs directing me to Rome, I had turned east and had merged onto a wider, straighter road, the E78 towards Siena. As I was now traveling at a consistent speed, there was little shifting to do, and driving became more tedious than challenging. At the same time, however, I appreciated the sense of freedom it gave me. I was in control; it was up to me where I drove, and if I made it there in one piece. I could understand why my friends back home had been so eager to get their licenses.

I passed through the outskirts of Siena. Its ancient, terracotta architecture was too close to that of Volterra for my tastes, and I was glad once I was back in the Tuscan countryside.

By 1 am, I reached the Autostrada Del Sole, or highway of the sun—Italy's Interstate 95 that traveled down the entire peninsula—and turned south towards Rome. It was a wide highway with five lanes, but at the very early hour, I had the road practically to myself. This was probably a good thing. After two hours behind the wheel, I didn't consider myself totally proficient at driving and was probably traveling at about half of the speed limit.

Last week, when we had first arrived in Rome after a nine hour flight from Dulles International Airport, our chauffeur service had taken the Autostrada up to Milan. At the time, we had a grand time, gazing at the snow-capped peaks of the Apennine Mountains and pointing excitedly at vineyards up on the mountain-side. It had seemed so exotic at the time. I noticed nothing now, keeping my eyes fixed on the dashed stripes of the pavement. Italy held no interest to me anymore.

My eyelids were feeling heavy, but I maintained my focus on the road as the hours ticked by. By 4 am, I had reached the outskirts of Rome. Exiting the Highway of the Sun, I merged onto the Circonvallazione Meriodonale—Rome's version of DC's Beltway—that would take me around the city rather than through it. Rome's International Airport, Leonardo de Vinci Airport, is not located within Rome itself, but rather to the west on the shores of the Mediterranean. The highway was already crowded by those heading into work early and I could see the sun peaking over the hills in my rearview mirror.

Minutes later, I was pulling up in front of Terminal C, which I knew to be the main international terminal.

I planned to simply abandon my Porsche parked curbside, illegally. I figured this way it would be quickly discovered and sooner returned to its owner. I felt a pang of sadness leaving the vehicle behind. It had served me well on my escape and midnight flight from Volterra. It was ironic that I first learned to drive in one of the highest performance sports cars out there, rather than in my mother's Volvo station wagon. I may have to acquire one legally, when I returned home.

I entered the busy airport and headed straight for the HSBC banking center located just inside the terminal. I needed some cash, and asked the teller to withdraw 1,000 Euros and 1,000 dollars from my personal account, something that my parents had set up in case of emergencies. This qualified. I gave my pin and password and the attendant quickly handed over the bills. When the name "Sabbat" was listed as the primary overseer of the account, no questions were asked.

I considered my options. I decided to make my phone call before I tried to purchase a ticket home. I went over to a vendor and bought a pre-paid cell phone that could make international calls. I pulled out my purse, the only item I had brought to Volterra yesterday morning, and rifled through my address book until I found the name I was looking for.

Sir Edwin Worthington. He was a British Egyptologist working in Thebes that had some rather interesting view on myth and legend, views that I hoped could provide an explanation of yesterday's horrific events. He had been knighted by the queen back in the 80s for a sarcophagus he had discovered and had given to the British Museum. While he occasionally lectured at Oxford University in London, he was in the field nearly year-round. I had spent the first semester of my sophomore year doing a research apprenticeship with Sir Edwin and his group, not out of interest in Egyptology, but as an opportunity spend some time in my dad's home country. Apparently, Sir Edwin's brother and my dad were good friends at the embassy.

Working in the middle of the desert among ancient ruins hundreds of miles from the vibrant cultural center of Cairo was not what I had expected, but I enjoyed Edwin's quirky personality. What made me think of him with regards to my current situation was a conversation we had one day discussing an Egyptian goddess…

****

We were using coarse-haired toothbrushes and small metal picks to carefully remove millennia of stone, dust and mud from a stone slab. Having been at our task for the past four hours, I could now see that it was a bas relief of a figure with the face of an animal and a sphere floating above its head, from which a cobra was emerging. The figure was also holding a slender staff.

It was about 110 degrees outside and I just wanted to finish so I could get back into the air-conditioning. Fortunately, Edwin seemed pleased with the current state of the ancient stone.

"Ah, Sekhmet!" he exclaimed in his erudite British brogue. "See, you can tell by the lioness head and the solar disk above. The king cobra you see there is a Uraeus, signifying royalty and divinity. This is a great find, Tianna. I don't think I've seen such a complete sculpture of her before. You should be proud."

I smiled at him, even though I knew I had played little to no part at all in this "find."

"So who was Sekhmet?"

"The warrior goddess, the greatest huntress of Ancient Egypt! It is said her love of battle was so great that she drank the blood of her slain enemies. The first vampire!"

"Come on, Professor, you don't believe in vampires, do you?"

He looked at me, and I remember the far away look in his eyes.

"History is not so black and white as to be divided cleanly into Life and Death. Egyptian myth is filled with rich accounts of the time spent between the two. I have explained to you the importance that the ancient Egyptians placed on burial rites. As you know, mummified bodies were placed in elaborate tombs complete with physical sustenance such as bread and fish and wine. This was done so as to discourage the spirit of the buried dead, the ka, from rejoining with the body and setting out in search of sustenance. It was believed that should this occur, the un-dead would prey upon the living like a spirit and drink their blood.

"Sekhmet, on the other hand, was closer to our modern conception of a vampire. Taking physical form, she was unnaturally fast and strong, thrilled by the hunt as much as the reward it provided. It is believed that she was so strengthened by a diet of blood and became so dependent on it that she could no longer consume any other food."

I fought the urge to laugh out loud. "Okay, professor. If you say so."

"I can tell that you don't belief me, Tianna. At your age, I wouldn't expect you to. I am not saying that I believe in vampires, but when you have seen as much of the world, both ancient and modern, as I have, you may come to question your preconceived notions about mortality and immortality."

I scoffed. Professor Worthington had been living near Thebes for the past thirty years, traveling to London only once or twice a year to lecture at Oxford. The only parts of the world he had seen, besides England and Egypt, were the outlines of the countries on the large World Atlas that he kept on the desk in his study.

Still, his tone had been slightly unnerving, as if he firmly believed every word he was saying, like he was explaining why the sky was blue to a five year-old. I thought nothing of it back then. I was busy mentally planning a day trip up the Nile to the boutiques and bazaars of Cairo that I hoped to make the following weekend.

****

Despite my general uselessness at the field camp, Edwin and I had gotten along well and he had encouraged me to stay in touch. I had done so only once, about four months ago. I had called him to brag about my acceptance into Harvard and asked if any of his buddies were professors in the archaeology department there. He, of course, was thrilled, and gave me a long list of old pals I should look up at the Peabody Museum on the Harvard Campus.

I dialed 20 for the Egyptian country code and then the number I had found in my purse.

"Worthington here." A strong British accent rang out across the line.

"Hi Prof—" My response came out as a grating cough. I realized I hadn't used my voice in about 18 hours, not since I had made some comment to Kelly about all of the red in the Plaza de Priori in Volterra. I tried again.

"Hi, professor. It's Tianna. Tianna Sabbat."

"Tianna! What a surprise! My phone tells me you're calling from Italy. Are you on holiday with your parents?"

"No, I'm on spring break with my friends, Kell—" I stopped, choking back a sob at my mistake.

I collected myself and spoke very rapidly before I broke down.

"I need to ask you something. We were in Milan, but took a day trip down to Volterra for St. Marcus' Day on a tour to see some ruins. I didn't want to go, but it was a way for Johanna to be with this guy we met named Aaron. So we went to see this buried castle and they took us into this room and locked us in there and…and…they're all dead! All of them! There were like 10 men and they were so strong and they—"

"Stop." Edwin's voice sounded cold and hard across the line.

"Don't say another word. They may be listening. I think I know what happened. How soon can you get to Cairo?"

I was confused.

"To Cairo? I'm not going to Cairo. I'm going home! I'm at the airport in Rome right now and am going to get on the next plane to DC and get out of this god forsaken country! I had just hoped you might have some answers about—"

"No. I really need you to come to Egypt. Please, Tianna. Trust me. Cairo is only a two hour flight from Rome. I'll clear everything with your parents. When do they expect you home?"

"Not for another six days, but—"

"Ok. I just checked. An Alitalia flight leaves Leonardo de Vinci Airpot at 6:35 am and lands at Cairo International at 9:01. That only gives you forty-five minutes. I will have somebody at the airport to pick you up and drive you to Thebes. There's not much time. Do you know how to travel standby?"

"Yes, but--"

"Tianna, if after you meet with me you think I wasted your time, I will have you on a plane first thing tomorrow morning bound for the States. I will even have the Department pay for it, as an apology."

"Fine. I'll do it."

"Okay, you better run and get checked-in then. You don't have very much time. I look forward to seeing you in a few hours. And I am very sorry about your friends."

"Goodbye, professor."

I had no idea what I was doing, but I decided to take his word for it. After all, I missed Egypt and would be happy to see the desert again. And to be honest, the last place I wanted to be right now was back home, when I really thought about it. If I was going to face the firing squad, I might as well have some answers first. Mind made up, I flew through security, having only a small purse. I was fortunate and the flight was under-booked. I was easily able to pay cash and get a standby ticket.

Twenty-minutes later, our Boeing 737 was airborne, pulling swiftly away from the Italian Peninsula over the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean. Despite having barely slept for 24 hours, I had never been able to sleep on airplanes and this was no exception. Instead, I passed the time by looking out the window. I could see the island of Sardinia off to the west, a large, craggy rock jutting out from the sea. As the plane turned to the south, it was open ocean again until we passed over the eastern tip of Sicily. Pilots tended to maintain a rather low altitude for these short flights and I was easily able to make out Mount Edna, still snowcapped after the long winter season.

After a half hour of the blue Mediterranean, we made landfall a second, and final time. Based on my knowledge of North African geography, I knew this to be the north shore of eastern Libya, which jutted out into the Mediterranean. Although this trip was far from a pleasure cruise, my spirits lifted upon seeing the wide expanse of the northern Sahara. I loved the diversity of the American landscape with its four seasons and bright colors, but there was something about the continuity and permanence of the desert that appealed to me. Washington, DC was my home, but I would always feel a connection with my father's homeland, despite this being just my second visit.

I was unsure when we crossed from Libya into Egypt, but I could feel the angle of the plane change as we began our descent into Cairo International Airport, which is located on the eastern side of the city. We passed low over the outer slums of Cairo and zoomed over the Nile at scarcely 1000 feet. I could see that the river was very low, as this was the beginning of the dry season. I could see the spires of the many minarets reflecting the early-morning sun, which gave the city its nickname, "the city of a thousand minarets." Looking further south, I caught a glimpse of Cairo's modern-day mosques: the skyscrapers that made Egypt one of Africa's biggest economies. Their shimmering glass facades stood in decided contrast to the traditional mud or brick mosques and the sandy expanse of desert.

Finally, we touched down gently and made a short taxi to Terminal 2, the international arrivals terminal. I quickly made my way through customs—the benefit of having dual citizenship. Contrary to popular belief, Egypt, or at least Cairo, is not a land of poor farmers carrying squawking chickens through the airport to the curb where they saddle up their donkeys or pack mules. Rather, Cairo is the most-populous city on the African continent and has surged ahead into the 21st century with the rest of the developed world.

The airport reflected this growth. Most of those walking through the terminal were crisply dressed businessmen, carrying laptops or briefcases, rushing off to a mid-morning meeting. Those sitting at the gates were either reading the Financial Times, paging through dossiers, or speaking rapidly in Arabic or English into Blue-Tooth headsets.

The long corridors were equipped with walking escalators, for which I was very thankful since I had been on my feet for over 24 hours now. Since I had no baggage to claim, I made my way out of Terminal 2 into the already balmy African morning. Unlike the hazy, sultry summers I was accustomed to endure in Washington, the Egyptian heat is a dry heat—you feel like you are in a blast furnace, but you don't get sweaty and disgusting.

Outside, parked prominently on the curb, were limousines, Mercedes-Benzes, and other chauffeuring vehicles. Tucked carefully at the back of the terminal were a line of shabby-looking taxis that did remind me of the romanticized conceptions of a more backwards Cairo.

I really wanted to avoid the taxis if possible. Edwin had promised me that somebody would be at the terminal to pick me up, although I was unsure who to look for. It certainly wouldn't be the Professor himself; he never left Thebes. I knew he had a few other students and researchers in his group, but I couldn't remember their faces. I looked around to see if anybody was holding up a placard with my name on it.

I felt a light touch on my shoulder.

"Ms. Sabbat?"

I spun around, and was immediately blinded. I had made a habit of only dating the most attractive guys from my high school and other social circles, and had never been caught speechless around a member of the male species before. Until now.

He was probably about my age, either eighteen or nineteen. He had a pale olive complexion, similar to my own, that indicated he either didn't get enough sun or one of his parents or relations was European or American. He had black hair cropped short an inch or so from his scalp, that complimented his tanned face marvelously. His skin was perfectly smooth and soft, and I briefly wondered if he was wearing makeup. It seemed to catch the sun in an odd way, almost as if the skin was glowing beneath the surface. The angles of his face were perfectly chiseled to give him a bone structure that many male models would kill for. However, compared to the haughty, superior demeanor that those characters often bore, this man had bright green eyes that seemed to dance as he looked down at me with a dazzling smile. He wore an old pair of jeans and a long-sleeved tan T-shirt that gave him a very relaxed appearance. In fact, everything about his character screamed "cool." He looked confident, without being arrogant, sexy, without being haughty, and casual, without being scruffy. He couldn't work for Edwin. I would have certainly remembered his face. Heck, I probably wouldn't have left Egypt in the first place if he had been around.

I had never been so flustered around a boy before. I tried to remember what he had said before my mind turned to mush, and vaguely recalled that he had merely inquired if I was "Ms. Sabbat."

"Ummm…call me Tianna."

He grinned, helping displace my uneasiness.

"Hi Tianna. Edwin Worthington sent me to take you down to Thebes. My name is Benjamin."

To be continued…