Chapter 9

They tell me to get down. "Get on the ground! On the ground!" they shout, over and over again, but none of us move save for the ends of their rifles which shake ever so slightly. I wonder if they realize their nerves are showing.

I am reminded that even though they are protected by weapons, their bodies shielded by armor, they are still just human. They really have no idea what I can do. They've never seen me close up. Are they freaked out? Pissed off? They're certainly not awestruck. No, they're just humans fulfilling their duty, and what an odd sensation it is that suddenly courses through me, this one of camaraderie.

"Get on the goddamned ground!" one of them shouts again, positioning his rifle tighter against his shoulder. But any solidarity vanishes since they'd sooner fire than ask questions, and I stand here with my palms raised. I am not yielding to them, not in the least. It's simply much easier to bring the ceiling down this way.

"The room next door is loaded with C-4," I caution, and close my fingers over my palm. The ceiling shudders, they glance up and then like a waterfall it gushes down forming a wall of dust and debris and desks between us. I jump.

When they see me, they clap, but the mood of the crowd clashes with that of the police. Ends of guns are all pointed at me yet again. They won't shoot, not with the kids there. Not with everyday people appreciating my actions as unorthodox as they've been claimed to be. Wind caused by the police helicopter circling above presses at me, lifts dirt from the roof, and carries Swan's voice so that it booms, giving it a heightened air of authority.

I could have escaped through one of the fourth, fifth, or even sixth floor windows, but then I'd risk pursuit. By ground would be out of the question—too many bystanders to get past. By rooftop, because there's a news chopper in the distance, it'd be something that'd turn into highlights shown on television for weeks, and I do not want to go down in history with the likes of famous car chases. Besides, the metal that swirls inside the asshole's mouth needs to come out before I have actually killed someone.

I flick my fingers and it shoots out like a fountain, but his arm, throat, and chin remain hampered. One of the paramedics turns and throws a thumbs up my way.

Swan brings the megaphone to his mouth. "Come down from the roof!" he says. "We just want to talk."

I smile. "Don't think so," I shout back.

In under two hours it will be dusk.

"There are a few things we need to get straightened out." Swan looks to his right, to where parents hug their children and says, "Thank you for your help, but it's better for everyone if you come down!"

I already know how to get off this roof but now I know where I will go.

The wings of the helicopter begin to slow, sputter. I keep my arms by my side, my hands and fingers controlling this massive machine—any aggressive movements from me will surely bring a spray of bullets in my direction, but Swan still knows it's me and I'm confident enough that he won't order them to shoot.

The pilot is able to land on the next building. The other helicopter, however, the one with the big, boldly painted News 6 sign on its side, comes down a little harder on the opposite roof. This is new—I've yet to control something from this distance.

The police look back and forth at one another, they look to Swan for instruction, and before I take off I spot that one little boy who was brave enough to silently communicate with me up in that classroom. "I didn't kill Petrescu," I tell Swan, and then I'm gone.

If you were to plug your ears, this place would give the illusion you're not in Delphian. There is lattice with silk vines and potted trees with silk leaves and lights that when turned on at night would probably resemble stars. There's a chair with a blanket, and a table and books. On the floor is a carpet of fake grass and above is a pergola that would do little to provide shelter from the rain. This place is a synthetic oasis for one and was not here the last time I was. She's been busy.

It's pushed off to the side, around and behind the door that leads to the inside of her apartment building. Folded away. Hidden from the adjacent building. I wonder if others use it, if she'd be bothered if someone else borrowed her space. I know it belongs to her because she's quite comfortable sitting in the chair with her legs tucked up beneath her. That and it has Isabella written all over it. It's strange to recognize this, but then the plastic yellow chair that sits on her balcony must have a twin, because it, too, is part of the furnishings, so maybe it's only that my perception is keen and not that I have a certain sense about Isabella.

She has a phone pressed to her ear. She's discussing today's events with whomever it is on the other end. Listening to her voice, it hits me what brought me here in the first place. It wasn't intentional. I didn't seek her out, but I was here on her roof that night and then I heard her yelling from her apartment below. She was crying and the yelling was at no one but her own frustration.

I can't believe she hasn't seen me yet. Can she not feel my presence? "Isabella," I say in a low voice I hope is unrecognizable. She jumps, startled, drops her phone.

"Shit!" she says. The corner of my mouth quirks. "You scared the crap out of me," she whispers. After she recovers her phone she tells the person on the other end she has to go and it was just a nasty bug that landed on her knee, and yes, of course she'll be careful.

"Be careful of what?"

"Not what," she says, straightening. "Who."

"Me." She nods and pulls the blanket around her shoulders. "You really should be careful. I've been standing here for a while and you didn't even notice."

Isabella chews at the inside of her pinked cheek to keep from smiling. She laughs to herself. "I feel relatively safe around you, Vanq…that sounds weird, but I don't know what else to call you."

I move inside her make-shift hideaway. "Hey you will suffice."

Isabella smiles and shakes her head. "They're looking for you. Aren't you worried you'll be seen up here?"

Looking around, it'd be impossible for anyone to see anything, unless it's from above. Her pergola needs a cover. "Not really. People are usually too caught up in their own lives to watch out for anything that doesn't affect them directly, but I don't intend to make it easy either. And your father has, now, one functioning helicopter. It went one way, I went the other."

"You must be really fast," she says, teasing and relaxes again. She leans against the arm of the chair, propping her elbow there, her chin in her hand. This time I smile and shake my head. "Why'd you come here? Don't you have some place to go? Like your home or something?"

"Sorry, I didn't realize I was bothering you. I'll leave then."

"No," she says quickly, reaching up and grabbing my hand. For a moment we're both in shock, which for me isn't necessarily bad. I can't feel her skin, whether it is cool or warm, though I imagine it's very warm. And soft. My being shocked isn't bad, but where my thoughts are has the potential of being disastrous. She glances down at our hands and then releases. "No, that's not what I meant. I don't want you to go. I just wondered is all."

I put my hands behind my back. "It might be difficult to get back to there." And I'm not in the mood to deal with Jasper if he's there waiting for me.

"Oh," she says, simply. "Is it…never mind. I don't want you to think I'm trying to get information out of you." I don't say anything. After a moment, she gestures toward the yellow chair. "You can sit, you know. You don't have to just stand there."

"Does it make you uncomfortable if I stand?"

"A little. It's like you're going to run away any second."

I sit in the chair. "I won't be able to stay long," I say.

"Until dark because you have to go to wherever it is you live to do whatever it is you do," she says.

"Something like that." Her expression goes almost sad and I find I want to take back those words. Swallow them down.

She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. In the time it's taken for the skies to begin to darken we haven't said much. Perhaps this is a mistake, and I should stay far, far away from Isabella Swan.

Yet I am rooted to my seat.

"You're staring at me, Isabella," I blurt out, having a hard time coming up with anything else.

"Sorry," she says, unapologetically, and doesn't avert her eyes. "You saved a bunch of kids today."

"Yes."

"Personally, I would have done more than throw that guy out the window."

"Is that so?"

"Probably not," she says and laughs. "Maybe. I don't know…Incidentally, you were staring at me too."

"Forgive my rudeness," I say.

"Forgive mine."

When I am out of my suit I don't think about her. I don't speculate about the temperature of her skin. I don't notice if her cheeks pink and my eyes don't roam toward her lips. But as I am now, it's different. I watch her movements, her lips when she speaks, and I'm still thinking about the possible, no, probable softness of her skin. I could have gone anywhere but I chose to come here. I chose to be with her.

I rise from the chair. "I have to go." Before I do something stupid, I have to leave.

"But you'll be back."

Like Pavlov's dog my response is instant. "Yes…Try to get some sleep tonight," I say, remembering her insomnia.

"Doubtful," she says, smiling.

"Goodbye, Isabella."

"Goodbye..." She stops herself from saying anything more. Undoubtedly, my alias really is as horrible to her as it is to me. "Bye."

Before everything else, before contacting Jasper or stripping off my suit or figuring out what I will do next, I open a drawer in my kitchen. I pull out a pad of paper and a pen then write myself a note.

Be nice to Isabella.