Talent, of a Lack Thereof

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"Tell me again why we're hiring a tracker."

After wasting nearly three days of my remaining thirty to return to Monterrey for cash and a necessary item, Second and I are wandering the outskirts of Memphis, on the lookout for the dilapidated shack that contains my only hope. The shock of my current situation has now worn off, and the numbness has subsided to reveal a prickling bedlam of hatred. I hate the Louisiana coven. I hate the Volturi. I hate Jasper. I hate the dress I'm wearing. I hate myself. And most of all right now, I hate Second, who is an unpleasant witness to every facet of this: my lowest, most unfortunate moment. "Because I need to find someone."

Second gives me a look. "Yes, I could have figured that much out, thank you. But why can you not track this phantom vampire by yourself?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. At my stony silence, he smirks and gives a little laugh. "Ah. I see."

I have no discernable talent, as Second well knows. In fact, for a vampire of my status, I am remarkably ungifted. My senses are only slightly above the average human capabilities, and I have never displayed the potential for any other special ability. I built and cultivated my army by exploiting the gifts of others. Aware of my own weaknesses, I recruited and kept only the newborns who exhibited exceptional and sometimes highly unusual talents, talents that I could use. As was the case with Jasper, Kade Lykes — and even Second himself. The smug look on his handsome face right now is due to the fact that we are both keenly aware of his formidable gift.

I hold my head high. "I don't have to be talented in every possible area."

"Or, indeed, any areas at all," he agrees casually. I glare at him, and he simpers back, secure in his own necessity.

After searching for about an hour through the backwoods of Memphis, stopping only once to feed on a group of drunken teenage boys lounging on the riverbank, we finally locate the door of broken-down, vine-covered shack with busted windows. It is even shabbier than I remembered; the wood is rotted, and the yard is littered with hundreds of uncollected, soggy old newspapers. The windows are dark, but I can both hear and smell the distinct signs of our kind. Traces of human blood linger on the walkway like raindrops, and the peaches growing on the massive tree in the yard have fallen off and decayed on the ground, uneaten. Second sneers in disdain, and kicks open the rusted gate as if afraid to touch it with his hands. "What a sty."

I knock twice on the paint-peeled door, and it opens instantly, much quicker than I expected — but just a crack. Just enough to see two beady scarlet eyes glowering back out at me.

"What?" a raspy, croak of a voice asks; the voice of a man much too old to have been changed. An anomaly among the beautiful creatures of our kind, the only possible reason for Actaeon's presence in our world must have been an accidental changing. No vampire would have willingly wanted this monstrosity for a lifelong companion. He has the perpetually stooped posture and disagreeable temperament of a senile goat, and a thatch of grizzled white hair that sticks straight up as if he's been struck by lightning. I bite my tongue at his rudeness, and arrange my features into my warmest, most appealing smile. The truth is I hate this wretched old man and the fact that I am now forced to snivel at his feet for help — but I can't do this without him, and I know it.

"Actaeon, my dear old friend! How have you been? I—"

"$500,000 in cash. Half now, half when I find your mark," he says flatly.

I feel like clawing him across the face, but Second stays my hand. "Agreed."

From out of his knapsack, Second withdraws a small article of clothing: a mint-green dress made of liquid silk. Almost three years ago on a rainy night in Beaumont, Texas —when Second was nothing more than a fresh-out-of-the-box newborn— he had stolen this dress out of a hotel room that some ugly little tramp was sharing with Jasper. His new mate, I was told, for they were traveling together like a nomadic coven. While Kade Lykes and three other soldiers were unceremoniously slaughtered that night in a "mysterious warehouse fire," Second disappeared with the storm and returned to me in Monterrey, toting this mundane scrap of clothing in hand.

"This is hers," I say, taking the dress and holding it between two fingers like a piece of dirty trash, clearly unimpressed with Jasper's choice in women. "Female, aged in her teens, black hair, extremely small." I pause. "She has yellow eyes."

That certainly perks the old man's interest. He opens the door a bit more, and peers at the dress with unconcealed curiosity. "An abstainer?" he muses, touching the fabric. "How very, very interesting. But no, if that is the case, then it is impossible. The deal is off," he abruptly adds, and slams the door the shut in our faces. From inside, his muffled voice continues on as he re-hooks the security chain. "I do not hunt those who hunt animals."

"Why ever not?" I demand, outraged.

"They leave no blood trail. No murder records. No bodies. No cities."

"$750,000," Second offers coldly.

The door opens once again, and the old man steps out onto the porch, already in the process of buttoning a dirty wool coat. "A pleasure doing business with you."

For days, precious days in which my dwindling time is being wasted, Actaeon leads us on a winding, pointless trek through cities, forests, and mountain passes. The trail is completely baffling – there appears to be no rhyme or reason to the old man's decision process – neither Second nor I can smell, see, or hear what he's tracking. At times, we circle through the same area three times or more, and there are several instances when the old man stops, turns, and starts running again in the opposite direction. He spends an hour in Wichita circling reverently around some grain silo as if it holds the key to everything he seeks. I am willing to overlook the oddness of Actaeon's hunting-style if it means finding Jasper and his little strumpet, but Second does not share my generosity. He thinks the old man is batshit crazy, and he doesn't bother hiding it.

"Does he even know where we're going?" Second mutters under his breath after the first week. It is mid-day, and we are running through the empty plains of Nebraska; a flat, ugly landscape of tall brown grass and the occasional field of corn. The weather is fitting miserable, alternating from freezing rain to pelting hail the size of golf balls. Second's perfect hair is matted and tangled around his face, and both his cheeks are slicked with rain. He raises his voice confrontationally when a crack of thunder shakes the earth. "Do you even know where you're going?!"

The old man doesn't answer and continues on as if he didn't hear, plodding through the tall grass like a cow. Seconds swipes the wet hair out of his eyes, and sneers at Actaeon's back with undisguised loathing. "We are wasting our time with this batty old circus freak. We're wasting our time with this entire half-cocked idea. We should just run. We should just get out of the country and go someplace new. Europe. South America. Russia. I don't care. Anything is better than following this hobgoblin on a wild goose chase."

"The Volturi will find us wherever we go," I say sullenly, picking up the soaking wet hem of my dress and dropping it again in disgust. Four hundred dollars worth of satin and Spanish lace, ruined. I look like a drowned hooker, and glare at Second as if every bit of this is his fault. "Demetri, one of the Volturi guard, is the most gifted tracker in the world. He can find anyone anywhere."

"Then why the hell didn't we hire him?"

"This is my plan, mi amor, and if you remember correctly it was my money that we paid him with. So why don't you just shut your mouth, mind your own business, and try to look pretty, hmm?" I tuck a strand of dark hair behind his ear, and Second swats my hand away peevishly. I draw back with a hiss, and grab him by the collar of his jacket, yanking his face down to mine. Things may have changed between us in the past ten days, but not enough for him to manhandle me. "Have your temper tantrum somewhere else," I snarl, close enough to see a flash of lightning reflected in his ruby-red eyes. "Actaeon is not your concern."

"Oh, I think I have a right to be concerned, kitten." He wrenches away from me, and thunder shakes the earth again, this time accompanied by a volley of hail. "We only have twenty days left, and 'Methuselah' up there doesn't even know which way is north."

"Stop it," I hiss through my teeth. "You're not helping. Actaeon might be old, but—"

"And he smells. Don't forget that," Second adds sourly. "He smells like a diseased hobo, and we are walking downwind."

The old man stops abruptly, splashing to a halt and whirling around to face us. I wince, imagining that Second's childish hissy fit has mortally offended him, but Actaeon's gnarled face is blank, searching. He spins around in a circle as if he hadn't even heard a single word we said, inhaling deeply, sweeping at the air with his hands. His nose crinkles, then twitches, nostrils flaring as he tastes the air. When he finally opens his eyes again and takes off in a completely different direction, Second huffs. "Oh God. What now? What? Where are you going?"

"There are others of our kind in the area," Actaeon informs us softly, squinting into the distance. The storm has finally relented, and the clouds above have faded to reveal a blindingly sunny day. Beads of rain cling resolutely to the grass, and the puddles on the ground glint like pools of light.

I sigh, and press my fingers against the hollows of my eyes. "And?" This is nothing new. We've already come across several other vampires and managed to politely avoid them without bloodshed or comment. The back roads between the bigger cities are well-traveled by our kind, like some grotesque blood-drinking mockery of the Oregon Trail. And as much as I detest the snotty nomadic vampires who stare at Second's scars and my hardened eyes as if we're demons ascended from the underworld, I simply do not have time for murder right now.

"They have been with your target. Recently."

My head snaps up, and the image of Jasper leaps to mind: the stoic, impassive face, the tousle of golden hair across his forehead... Could it be him, out here in the middle of nowhere? Had he abandoned the doxy? The emotionless Jasper I knew never would have fallen in love in the first place, so the idea of him leaving his 'mate' behind was not that abstract to me. Fine with me — that would make my task enormously easier, although I would no longer be able to use her as bait if he refused. I look at the flat edge of the horizon, as if I expect Jasper to coming striding into view any moment. "Are you sure?"

Actaeon peels back his upper lip into a grimace. "I am old, not stupid. This is what you're paying me for, is it not? These others were with her a month ago or less. It is her scent on them that I have unknowingly been tracking."

Second rolls his eyes.

"Which way?" I ask, undeterred.

The old man turns and points toward the nearest city, a scattering of tall buildings next to a blue river that glimmers in the sunlight. "That way. Omaha, downtown. There are two of them, and they have taken the lives of at least three humans within the past twenty-four hours. But—" he looks at me apprehensively, his eyes trailing over my sparkling skin, then seems to realize what Second and I have known all along: I have nothing to lose. I have sunk so low that I no longer even care about exposing myself to humans. His eyes dart away with a regretful look on his face, as if he's wondering what sort of a mess he's gotten himself into. "Nevermind."

"Watch him," I warn Second. "If he bolts with my money, I'll hold you responsible."

Second sniffs. "I'm shivering. Really."

I take off for the city of Omaha at a face pace, running parallel to the train tracks that line the cornfields. My skirt is far too long and voluminous for quick travel, so I sweep it up into with one hand and clench the fabric between my fingers. It feels odd to be in the sunlight like this, to feel heat on my skin where before I had felt nothing but moonlight and rain. Odd, and freeing somehow. The worse has already happened. Everything has already been taken away from me. I'm already wanted and hated by the Volturi, and probably going to die anyway. If this is it, if this is my last chance, then why bother abiding by the rules?

I enter the city near the river, and slip into an alleyway on my immediate left, closing my eyes to focus. My sense of smell has always been the weakest; that was how I was able to better control my thirst my thirst, even as a newborn — I couldn't smell blood the way the others in my coven could. I concentrate as hard as I can now, trying to separate the plethora of scents around me: garbage, human blood, river-water, ice cream, and something tantalizingly spicy-sweet and familiar. My eyes snap open, and I lift my head toward the busy street. They are close, very close, close enough to see. I saunter through the alley, blinking as my skin hits patches of sun and shines like a tilted mirror.

The crowd of humans on the sidewalk are bustling to and fro and talking at high volumes, all dressed in the thin, pastel materials of high summer. No one notices me in the shadows, and I idly imagine how easy it would be to snag someone by the neck and draw them back into me, emptying them of their blood before they even realize they'd left the sidewalk. The alley is near an intersection, and loud automobiles are waiting on a red light, engines grinding and chugging incessantly.

Then, from across the road and the now-moving line of cars, I see them.

There are two, a male and a female, strolling on the sidewalk opposite of me, arm-in-arm like any normal human couple. It is not Jasper, I can see that immediately, but there is something vaguely familiar about them, something that triggers some deep, sleeping emotion within me. The two of them pass on and continue down the shaded side of the street, clearly in a hurry to avoid the sun; the female keeps looking up at the sky is if she can't believe her misfortune. They are both pale-haired and slight, and look so similar that if it weren't for the distinct bond of romantic togetherness between them, I could have mistaken them for siblings.

I step out of the alleyway when a cloud passes over the sun, and follow them surreptitiously from the other side of the street. I am twenty feet away from them when the male suddenly halts, his whole body becoming rigid with unease.

The woman stops too. "Peter?"

Peter swivels around slowly, and the instant his eyes lock on mine, recognition hits me like a punch in the stomach.

"YOU!" I scream out loud, half out of shock and half out of rage.

The humans surrounding me startle and turn to gawk — the cloud has passed and the sun is fully shining now, glinting off my skin like diamonds. The humans seem frozen in terror, and stand in my way like lumps of fleshy ice. Furiously shove them back with one sweeping hand, and they bowl each other in their hurry to get away from me, scrambling over each other like cockroaches. Somebody falls and cracks their head against the sidewalk, spreading the rusty, delicious scent of blood through the air. Without thought of exposure, decorum, or consequence, I stalk forward with my hands clenched and my teeth bared, hissing like a cat.

"Where is he, Peter?" I demand, my eyes so hot they feel like slivers of coal.

This was the man who stole Jasper. It was him, his whispers, his lies, his ideas, that sent Jasper running away from me. Away from me and into the arms of some animal-eating mongrel. If it weren't for Peter, if it weren't for his filthy newborn bitch, Jasper would still be with me. He'd still be my second. He'd still be mine. Peter and I both know this — something passes between us as we stare unblinking, both of us knowing that this will end in death; his or mine, it doesn't matter. He ruined everything, I think, forgetting all else, seething with an anger so hot that I'm blinded by it, burned by it from the inside out. He ruined everything.

Peter jerks back and takes off at a run with his mate, careless now of the sun beaming on their skin and the gasps emitting from the crowd. But I am right behind them, shoving aside the humans and trampling over the ones who get in the way, picking up my skirt and jumping over the honking cars that skid to a stop in the intersection.

The two of them scamper across the street wildly, dodging and ducking as I leap from the top of a pedestrian bus and land in front of them with a pavement-cracking boom. I barely graze the collar of Peter's shirt with outstretched claws, ripping the fabric and causing him to give a loud guttural growl. He shoves me with back with a surprisingly strong hook, and I land on all fours and wait with a glittering-eyed smile, thinking he would finally turn to fight — that we would have it out right here in the street. But he doesn't. He tucks his mate into his arm like a football, turns, and barrels through the double-doors of the Union Station.

White with rage, I smash through the glass window without breaking stride, busting through in an explosion of shards, screams, and fresh human blood.

The humans scamper, falling, running, dodging in different directions as I slowly walk through the chaos, my eyes locked on the two vampires in front of me. "Where is he, Peter?" I ask, deadly quiet, crunching broken bits of glass beneath my feet.

Peter grabs his little female by the hand and drags her behind a marble column for cover — as if that's going to stop me. I charge forward, bash my fist sideways, and the entire column explodes, knocking back the crowd of frightened humans and nailing them to the floor with chunks of marble shrapnel.

"Where's Jasper, Peter?" I ask again, a little louder. "Where is he?"

I whip a hand out and manage to snag my nails into the gauzy summer fabric of the female's skirt. She tears it back with a deceptively weak little cry before twisting around and backhanding me hard enough to send me stumbling back. "You can't have him back!" she yells out nonsensically, fighting against Peter when he tries to pull her back. "He's not yours! You can't have him!"

Peter wrangles her away and the two of them turn and run for the outside train yard, practically tripping over their own feet in their desperation to get away from me. A train is departing in the near distance, an endless cargo train with an indiscernible logo painted on the side. Peter and the female jump off the platform as one and dash after it, with me hot on their heels. Peter reaches the train first, swings his mate onto the roof and follows her, sliding open the side-door with a rusty screech. I speed up until I'm running alongside the car, a foot away from the open door, my breath coming out in a series of uncontrolled hisses and snarls. Just as both Peter and the female get inside and attempt to close the door, I snake out a hand and grab the ledge. With a grunt, Peter slams the door shut in an attempt to cut off my hand, but the metal only warps and traps me, dragging me alongside the train.

My dress snags, rips, and tangles up around my legs — I bounce twice before I push off the ground, clamp my hand onto the side of the door, and wrench it back so hard that it loosens and hits the tracks with an explosion of sparks. I leap into the train car, panting, and turn to find Peter and his mate cornered against a stack of chicken crates, looking very much as if they think I am the devil.

"WHERE IS HE?"

Peter launches himself at me. "Jump, Charlotte! Go!"

Without even stopping for a moment to question his command, the pale-haired female leaps off the train. Out of the corner of my eye I can see her hit the ground and roll, disappearing beneath the tall blades of prairie grass.

Peter watches her go with such a look of complete misery and fear that I am certain this woman means everything to him — that nothing would hurt him more than to watch her die. This is his weakness. This is his downfall. And, eye for an eye, life for a life, I will take from him what he took from me. Spinning around on my heels, I dart toward the open door after Charlotte. I am mid-jump when Peter grabs me by the hair. He yanks me backwards with a growl and rips what feels like every strand of hair out of my head. He slams me into the far wall of the train with a crack, and then charges at me again, his hands at my throat before I can get to my feet.

"You will never touch her," he spits out, his face inches away from mine, eyes wild. "Never."

Fine. As if I actually care about his delicate, inconsequential little playmate. I am after one thing and one thing only, and I'll be damned if I don't get it. I rear back, kick my feet up, and throw him backwards and away from me. He hits the floor spinning and flings across the slick metal surface, almost falling out through the open door. I am on top of him in seconds, my nails piercing into his throat, grinding his neck into the ledge. Behind his head is nothing but empty air — the sound of the train grating on the tracks below sounds like a roaring demon. I press harder down, and can feel the flesh beneath my fingers weakening — in half a second his head will snap off and be crushed.

"WHERE?!"

Then, somehow, I am bucked up into the air, and pitched out the open door. I cling to Peter with a snarl, and the two of us somersault off together, hitting the ground with an almighty crash that causes an impact crater and an explosion of rocks. Sky, ground, train, sky, ground, train, sky ground, train — everything spins in an endless, bewildering tumble of nails, punches, and guttural growls, until we crash into a fence of barbed wire and separate.

I hit first and tangle up in wire, my dress caught on thousands of hard-edged nubs. It wraps around me a dozen times before I finally stop rolling, and when I clamber to my feet I immediately stumble over and fall again. Both my arms are pinned to my sides, and fighting to free myself only succeeds in ripping my dress and gouging my own skin. Next to me, Peter is struggling as well, his own arm somehow trapped around his neck, his pant leg ripped to shreds.

"Peter!" someone screams out in a desperate, horrified voice.

Peter's mate is running toward us, and at the sight of her he draws in a sharp breath and lashes out of the twisted wire. While I fight to untangle myself, he dashes toward her on unsteady feet, tripping twice before he finally makes it to her side. She gasps out something like a sob, and Peter places both hands on either side of her face and stares at her for a short, intense moment, as if to verify that she's still alive and unbroken. Something passes between the two of them that I have never felt — not with Jasper, not with Second, not with anyone. It is love at its purest, without conditions, reparations, or agenda. And even in my fury, it pains me.

The two of them turn as one and sprint after the departing train, leaving me behind in the dust.

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A/N: Intense, eh? I'll never be able to ride Amtrak again.

Any guesses yet on what Second's talent might be? (Besides making me laugh out loud while I'm writing his dialogue). Clever readers may have an idea, but all will be revealed in good time. Next chapter: I think Jasper can probably expect a very pissed-off phone call from Peter. :D