Disclaimer: I only own my original characters and my own plot, everything else belongs to Stephanie Meyer.

Screwed

I arrive at the house a little under two hours later, thankful that the one thing John ever taught me worth a damn was reckless driving. Not the truth, but it's better than saying that ruthless bastard taught me everything; that's more credit than he deserves.

The closer I get to Forks, the more I can feel a smile tugging at my lips at the thought of the thrill of a hunt. This is all I've ever known, and the feeling is always the same; everything seems to vibrate with excited, nervous energy the closer I get to my prey. The trail brings me to a semi-long driveway, and at the end of it standing in the middle of a grove of pine trees is a sprawling white house, bright even in the darkness of early early morning. At the bottom of the porch stairs stand The Three Stooges, pale skin highlighted in the beams of my headlights. I turn my car off, starting to fire up my marks one by one – I'd usually be able to use most of them simultaneously, but now I have to be a bit more conservative. My grin from earlier widens, fueled by adrenaline and the compounds coursing through my veins. I leave my radio on, blaring Iron Maiden.

I step out of my car, not feeling the chilly January air on my burning skin. I pace in front of the porch, eyeing the three in front of me, trying to place how this will play out – it buys me time, though I've been told being in a staring match with an androgynous-except-her-outfits-and-ridiculous-hair-hunter is less than intimidating. Intimidation isn't really my thing though - catching people off guard is.

"Who do you think –"

"You are? The Three Stooges, duh." I continue my pacing, "You know, you lucked out with this song." I stop my pacing and stand center in front of the porch, boots planted firmly in the grass, "Two Minutes to Midnight is fucking rad. Not everyone gets so lucky with their send-off shuffle – I had some poor necromancer go listening to Jewel a few months ago. Jewel. It was embarrassing for everyone."

"You just wait, bitch! There's no way you can kill us, this coven won't be gone long."

I assess the trio in front of me clearly for the first time; the woman is voluptuous, barefoot with a tattered dress and fur wrap slung casually around her shoulders. Wild curly hair as red as her eyes flies in the wind, and she smiles down at me with deceptive, terrible beauty, trying to make me flinch; I pretend to look unnerved. I'm not; she doesn't know that, though, and I can see premature victory shine in her eyes. It's always good to let your enemy underestimate you, something they've clearly won at up to this point. I've been underestimating them since I got into this.

The two men flanking her are very different; one has dreadlocks cascading gracefully down his back, and his red eyes flash with curiosity in his dark, angled face. I can tell that while he's pretending to lead this little rag tag group by standing slightly in front, I know instantly that that isn't the case. Standing beside the woman is man, tall and unassuming, with normal features and a deceptively lanky build. He's dangerous, all my instincts and training tell me so – he's standing to try to offset his dominance, looking to the man in the lead for guidance he doesn't need; cunning as a fox, this one.

"We're –"

"Let me guess, let me guess!" I say, bouncing up and down in mock excitement. I point at the head of the trio, the one who's been speaking in a faint accent, "Frenchie here is Larry." I look at the woman, deciding something common will piss her off, "Red – you're obviously Curly." Finally my gaze rests on the one left, the pretending-to-be-not-a-leader leader, "Stretch will be Mo. They say all vampires are gorgeous, but you really disprove that, dontcha?"

"We've done nothing!" he snarls in response; so typical.

Keep them talking long enough and you can choreograph a fight from beginning to end before it even starts. I let a leisurely smile grace my face as he talks, savoring the adrenaline coursing through me, "Oh, I don't know about nothing." My grin turns to a snarl, lips pulled back over my teeth, my grin now humorless, "Nothing; the audacity. I saw what you did near Olympia, I saw what you did before that in four other cities. It's obvious you guys aren't all that bright, so let me spell it out. My name is Rory, and you fucked up big time."

The two men come at me at once, obviously wanting to catch me off guard. Stretch gets to me first, giving me a perfect opportunity to use his own momentum to send him flying into Frenchie. The woman is on me in an instant, fighting me tooth and nail. My tattoos burn as they protect me and the blaze only serves to fuel my frenzy. I manage to get her to the ground, getting her in a hold that nearly allows me to snap her head off, except that at the last moment a pair of arms locks around my neck. I'm able to struggle to my feet, Red currently forgotten, and with all the force I can muster I throw my attacker off. It's that French fuck in the ridiculous coat; I kick him savagely and squarely in the chest and he flies back a few feet, landing hard on his back, leaving a giant dent in the earth around him. I try to turn my attention back to Red, but I'm slammed into by the leader of the Three Stooges into the grass. He lands on top of me, driving my back into the grass as he lands a few swift punches to my face and chest. Throwing my body around wildly, I finally manage to flip onto my stomach and find my knees, and I fling him from my back away from the house and his friends. I stagger to my feet, realizing that for the first time in years, I've got such little energy compared to how much I need to power my marks that my nose starts bleeding from the stress. I can feel the slickness of it coating my face and the front of my shirt.

Red comes at me, rage written clearly in her face; that same fury betrays all her movements. We scuffle for a brief moment, and she gets in a lucky punch – it catches me, hard, on the left side of the face. The blow sends me reeling in pain, and I'm sure I'm going to have a lovely bruise there, but I hold fast. Grinning at her – a gesture I'm sure looks gruesome as hell with my lips and teeth coated in venom laced blood – I launch myself from my spot straight at her. As she swings to get in another vicious punch, I grab her arm and wrench it behind her. She tries in vain to shake me, and in response I apply even more pressure. Frenchie pulls at me from behind, and eventually I have to relent tearing her arm off to deal with the annoyance.

As soon as Red is out of my arms the three flee, lost in a blur of pale and red. I stare at their figures retreating into the dark woods, and let rage replace exhaustion, "You pansy assholes, I'm done with this wild fucking goose chase! I'm going to stay right here; come back to Forks, I dare you! I fucking dare you!"

As my voice turns into a faint echo, I touch the already tender left side of my face and as soon as my fingertips make contact pain starts throbbing in my eye socket. The newest mark on my chest is burning faintly, but seems to be doing little for my current pain. Or, a scary thought, it's doing a lot for my pain and it's just that bad. I stagger back to my car and turn the key to kill the battery, killing the song during the last chorus. I slump in the tattered seat; that small action was all I had left in me. I really don't want to be caught this vulnerable by a coven of unknown vamps, but I'm all out of juice – screwed.

As I heave in a few breaths scented strongly of blood, pine trees, and damp earth, my eyes flicker to the clearly empty house. In my delirium, I can't help but be reminded of a fairytale; with the multiple stories and bright white paint, it looks a lot like a magical refuge in the woods. Only these won't be any seven dwarves finding me, and even if it was I'd go with it; I'd rather be found by anything at this point than just wasting away in my car. It's a good thing those three decided to quit the field, or I'd be dead dead instead of dying dead.

The weird things you think about before you lose consciousness, right? As I see a figure break the tree-line, I try to keep myself cognizant, but it's useless.

My already aching head lurches forward and hits the steering wheel, and that's all she wrote.