We continue to flit. I manage to lose myself in the hours, in the movement of his rapid run, in the blur of emotional ebb and flow, and the places that streak by us in the distance.

Through backyards, with grills and patios and disgruntled dogs.

Past depressed Laundromats, drug stores, and houses with bars on the doors.

Around the blazes of large cities, set like diamond eggs in a nest between interstate twigs and low mountains.

Through endless forest that reaches ancient auras towards my bruised and battered mind and soul, seeking to comfort me by swallowing my hurts, and me along with them. The forest bids me to lay down on its deceptively innocuous floor, to let the roots of trees tap me and to let my soul flow into the ground, into their trunks, their leaves... and finally up to the sky.

I tip back my head and exhale my sadness into the velvet night.

My handful of years in the Girl Scouts makes me examine the stars for direction, and the glittering specks inform me we are heading almost strictly north, unbound by traditional paths. The night is cool, but somehow, it seems to bother me less than normal, probably thanks to the vampire blood.

It's crazy, attributing these physiological changes to something that happened less than three days ago. Even stranger, something that now runs in my veins.

I have no idea when we cross county or state lines, except for when we pass a rare sign on an even rarer road. The trees give some indication as to region when they turn from imperial pine to mostly maple.

The first time Crepsley stops, he drops one of my knees, digs a vial out of his coat pocket, knocks it back like a Jello shot, and carries on in less than ten seconds. When he halts again a couple hours later, I am ready. I fish in the pocket under my thigh like a thief, withdraw the crimson vial, yank the cork out with my teeth and hold it before his face. Wordlessly, he takes the thing in his lips, downs the contents, and presses it back to my palm. His hands stay behind my knees.

The third time, we manage to coordinate the drink without even stopping, seamlessly putting the blood to his lips and returning the vessel empty to his pocket. I don't know if I should be, but somehow, it makes me proud. In perfecting the 'refueling' of the man who carries me, I hasten the growing of the gap between myself and my old life.

My old life didn't have maples, or this fly-by-night method of travel that thrills me, or, God, the stars. Wonderingly, my fingers reach out to capture and twirl a single leaf by its short petiole. I wish we didn't have to ever stop travelling. If we stop moving, I have to face reality.

Before I am ready, I see the pinking of dawn on the horizon. I imagine that will pose a problem.

"We must find a place to hole up before the sun rises," Crepsley says over his shoulder, confirming my thoughts. I'm surprised he can talk to me and keep from hitting the trees we run by.

"You don't sound too worried," I note.

"This is a shady area," he elaborates. "So the effects of the sun on me will be diluted. Uncomfortable, but diluted."

He slows to a sprint, then a jog, then a long-legged walk. Sniffing strongly, he seems to be searching for something. "We're in a Pennsylvania state park," he informs. "I've been here before. It's hardly travelled." He pauses and turns his head into an oncoming breeze. "Do you smell that, assistant?"

I inhale deeply, as much in imitation as it is to keep my composure at his manner of addressing me. "Smoke. From a campfire?"

"Correct. And though it smells old, we'll avoid it." Catching my eye over his shoulder, he asks with a grin, "Ready to dismount?"

I blush, narrowing my eyes with ire. "You're the one holding on to me."

His lips quirk (asshole just wanted a rise out of me) and he drops my knees. I slide to the ground, my feet landing in soft, crinkly tree detritus. I can make out the shapes of leaves and the pattern of trunks in the periwinkle light. This part of dawn feel wild, abuzz with energy, like the last hundred feet of a race's warmup lap. I take another deep breath, reveling.

"Hurry up, Adrienne!" calls Crepsley, who is disappearing into the brush. I hustle after him, chasing his broad, red back.

We come across a pleasantly rounded stand of trees with an understory of rhododendron that hides a hollow, moss-floored glade about ten feet wide.

"This will do," Crepsley says. As he kicks some leaves into a form long enough for his body, he instructs, "I will awaken naturally when the sun sets. From there, we can make it to the Cirque in under two hours." Eyeing me in that deductive way of his, he comments, "You look ready to drop. You should rest, too."

As soon as he mentions it, the tiredness in my body surges to the forefront of my mind. My eyes itch to close, and I have to stifle a yawn. I nod in agreement. The events of the past few days have taken a helluva toll.

He whips his coat off and lays down, pulling the garment over his face and body for the most coverage. He's too tall, though. "Cover my feet. They'll burn otherwise."

I rustle the tan and yellow slips into place, taking a moment of voyeurism. His feet are really messed up: unbelievably calloused, scarred, and with a pedicurist's nightmare for nails. I conclude he must go barefoot most of the time.

My own pale, soft feet, which are visible in the early light, have only got a few pertinent callouses from my hiking boots, and the contrast is marked. But he doesn't rely on shoes, does he? The idea appeals to me, in a way. I decide that I will try to forgo shoes, as well. Not out of emulation, like I'm a six year old: because it's smart. When my nails harden and start to look like that, they'll tear up any shoes I attempt, anyway.

Plus, they're weapons. Toenails, that is. And climbing tools. I'm liking this idea more by the minute.

I crawl to the other side of the glen before I can be accused of staring. "Could I wake you up in an emergency?" I ask, breaking the quiet.

"If the forest is burning down, then yes. And if you wander, don't go too far." His tone implies I am an accident-prone pet that he has to keep watch on. I'm mildly insulted.

I'm too tired to care what I sleep on, so long as I can close my eyes. Exhaustion casts the fallen leaves in a comfortable, welcoming light. As I bed down under a rhododendron in a thick pile of leaves, I can't help but mutter, "God forbid you have to save me twice in a day."

When his covered form heaves in a longsuffering sigh, I realize he heard me. "You'll do well to note," he mumbles, sounding like he's drifting off. "That I checked the security cameras after coming to your aid."

I prop up on my elbow suddenly, my eyes raking his red-cloaked body for clues. Does he mean that my safety is more important than his race's secret?

No. He means he rushed to help me without even thinking.

The implications of that thought make my teeth momentarily clench, and I brush the thought aside roughly, hatefully. I don't want to like him. I may never like him beyond civility. The redheaded vampire has no right to solicit debt from me. "Thank you," I say, very softly, and without the grudgingness I feel. He did risk a lot by saving me.

He doesn't answer. I can tell he's out cold, leaving me to my devices.

I bury myself deeper in the leaves, which are blessedly free of bothersome bugs. If I'd had my head on straight, I think. I would've fought off the guy myself. Or at the very least, led him to the parking lot and let Crepsley take care of him there. Instead, I froze with fear.

Along with my vow of 'Not one inch given to the monster', I promise myself not to let fear keep me from acting ever again. This world that Crepsley is dragging me into will chew me up and spit me out, if I let it. It will not slow down or tolerate my hesitation. "No fear," I swear in a whisper heard only by the trees. It is nearly light, and my last thought is that the leaves are quite comfortable. Like nature's Tempurpedic mattress.


I wake up before Crepsley.

After a moment of sleepy confusion as to where I am, I figure it out when the scent of the forest floor fills my nose. I lay my head back down on my arm, desperately grasping for the tail of sleep and the comfort it brought. It dashes out of reach.

With a creaking stretch, I sit up and glance across the clearing. Crepsley hasn't budged an inch, but the wind has bared his toes. As I cover them again, I note thankfully they haven't had time to pink in the sun, which is throwing bars and beams of light through the openings in the canopy above.

I realize it's the first time I've seen the sun since I died. Stalking through the brush surrounding our glen, I find a puddle of light and stand in it, drunk on the warmth, the buzz of the rays over my skin.

Then my stomach growls, and puts an end to my meditation.

An idea occurs to me. Turning into the breeze, I inhale deeply, trying to retrace our steps from the night. There! A trace of smoke in the air. Maybe the campers left something at their site.

Picking my way barefoot takes too long, but I manage. Stepping on the occasional pinecone is a bitch, but I try to toughen up. Maybe a thousand pinecones from now, I won't be bothered.

I glimpse the campsite through the trees, and note that it is abandoned. There is a bare whisp of smoke rising from the ashes of the fire pit, but no people. I approach cautiously all the same.

"How disappointing," I mutter after poking around. Of all the campers to obey the 'leave it cleaner than you found it' rule, it had to be these. My stomach growls again plaintively.

Making my way back, I come across a grassy clearing with an eastern hedge draped with wild berries. Once more, Girl Scouts pays off. I know by the serrated leaves, thorns, type of flower, and the shape of the berry that it's wild blackberry. Plucking a fruit from the bush garners a few scratches. They're sour as hell, but it is still early for berries, so I can't blame the bush. I eat as many as I can find, staining my fingers purple, but it doesn't even dent my hunger.

Near the bottom of the bush, I find a stand of poison ivy the hard way. Hissing, I draw back my hand and wait for the redness to start. I'm terribly sensitive to poison ivy, to the point of instant welts.

A minute passes, then two. No welts, not even an itch. "I guess vampirism cured me," I mutter. "How 'bout them apples."

I know where I am, so I wander back to check on Crepsley. He's still out, but the sun is setting. I've got enough time to find some water, which my parched mouth cries for.

I walk until I find a hill, follow it down, and locate a puddle of standing water at the base, about six inches deep. It's left over from a storm maybe two nights ago, and by scent and sight I judge it safe. It probably wouldn't matter anyway: if being a half-vampire makes poison ivy useless against me, then I doubt some sour water would faze me. Cupping a handful to my mouth, I find it grassy and lukewarm, but drinkable.

I cup more handfuls up my arms and wash my legs. I'm debating taking my dress off completely when it occurs to me: living like a wild animal isn't so bad.

Sitting back on my bare heels, I marvel. Could it be I'm suited for this sort of living? If that's the case, I could run away from Crepsley now, live like this for the rest of my years!

Problem one: my years would be considerably more, now that I'm half-vampire. That would suck.

Problem two: damn Crepsley, but I would need to feed eventually. That would suck, again. Literally.

Problem three: my mentor would probably hunt me down. Bastard.

I sigh, and decide not to remove my dress. "Guess I can't be the crazy mountain lady, after all."

As I follow the sun back to our secluded glen, I take mental stock. "For the moment, I'm stable," I murmur, skirting a pine tree widely. "My body's in flux, and those stupid lights keep popping up, but for this very second, I'm okay."

How long until I get depressed again? I think, lapsing into thoughtfulness. No, the REAL question is what those lights are. What the hell? And suddenly I can tell them to beat it?

I have no earthly clue what they are, other than supernatural and freaky. It's frustrating. "Should I tell Crepsley about it?" I ask the horizon. "No. He wouldn't believe me. Can he even see them?" I stop in midstride, taking advantage of the seclusion to pow-wow with myself aloud. I might not be in college anymore, but I can still apply the thought processes I learned there. "I know they're linked to my fear response, like fight-or-flight. I can make them disappear. They don't really affect me when they touch me, and I might be the only one able to see them." I snort. "Sounds like the definition of crazy, to me. Could it be some kind of psychotic break, due to this...?"

Oh my God. I might be going crazy!

"Phew. Oh, boy. Not good, not good," I mutter, walking in a circle, hugging myself. "If this is a temporary trip to Crazytown, I don't want to tell Crepsley about the lights. He'll probably bitch about me not drinking blood. And if it is fleeting, then I've got nothing to worry about, right?"

Back in the hospital bathroom a few days ago, when I'd first seen them, the scarves of light had come from the next room, where my parents and brother were. "Not a coincidence," I determine. "So humans can't see the lights, they're related to vampirism, and maybe tied in with my hunger?"

I'm working on theory and supposition. I need evidence.

I make it back to the glen, and Crepsley's still unmoved like a fucking corpse. The sun's maybe a half-hour from letting him rise, so I quietly seat myself where I slept and look at his covered form intently.

Maybe if I can make them go away, I can make them appear, too, I think, frowning. Whatever they are, they only seemed to weaken Crepsley on the wall of the hospital.

My stomach whines again. I scowl down at it. ...tied in with my hunger?

It takes a huge leap of imagination and experimentation to lift my hand towards the sleeping vampire across the glen. I focus, grasping at the thread of emotion in my mind: anger first, which does nothing. Reliving the encounter with the guy at the rest stop makes my heart speed up, but the sensation of fear has faded with time.

I gasp. A beam of light twitched from under the red jacket! It faded before detaching, but it was there!

I withdraw my hand, cradling my mouth with astonishment. The lights are real, and I can control them!

Stretching out my hand again, with purpose, I focus on the most powerful thing in my mind at the moment: my hunger. I throw in some fantasies about delicious blood, and Channelo's pizza, and chocolate, and -

"Whoa!" I startle. The light from under the jacket answered the call of my hunger like lightning, and it streaked towards me before I could react, sinking into my hand.

Shaking with surprise, I examine my hand. No trace of the light's touch, but somehow, my hunger has faded by a fraction.

I won't take much, I think, extending my hand again. This time, the lights flow at my will, undulating in the air. It's getting dusky out, but the lights cast no illumination. I suppose that 'light' is just an expression of their nontangible quality, their evanescence. I'm excited at their obedience, but I don't try to speed them up. The average one every five seconds, and it takes a full minute for them to sate me.

When I finally drop my hand to my stomach, I find it no longer complaining of emptiness. "What are you?" I murmur.

Crepsley's groan makes me jump, and I watch him stir in the partial darkness.

"By the gods," he grunts, sitting up, cradling his skull. "I've never slept so terribly."

I swallow before answering, "I'm sorry." Except I'm not sorry. I really don't care if he's tired or not (recap: his blackmail, murder, kidnapping, and extortion of me). And it's hard to feel sympathetic when your 'meal' was at the expense of someone like that. I knew that taking the lights from him made him weak, but a vicious part of me believed he deserved it.

The vampire looks cranky, even after downing the remaining two vials of blood. As he stands, I do the same, brushing leaves off my dress.

"I hope you're ready to go," he grumbles, shrugging into his long red coat.

"Yep," I reply, trying to be as innocent as possible.

He doesn't suspect me. Instead, he turns his back, I bounce into place, and with a grunt he takes off into the night, bursting through the rhododendrons that had sheltered us. I hang on for dear life as he follows Polaris, and we wend our way towards the Cirque du Freak.