Well, I suppose majority rules, non?
edward-n-bella-fr-eternity1207, cedward2417, and Dans l'ombre have this one. lisamichelle17's and Carandash86's weren't far off.
As of 5-30-2012, fanfiction[DOT]net deleted certain types of section breaks, some quotations, as well as some dashes with spaces around them, which I use frequently in my fics to offset phrases. As a result, you will likely stumble across some segments that will now read strangely and/or look like they are missing either a pair of commas or a pair of offsetting dashes. Please ignore these. I just don't have the time or energy to go back into every chapter I've ever written to fix.
Prompt #21: Confrontation
At the edge of our side of the old treaty line -a boundary I doubted the pups were even aware of- some small amount of reason reclaimed me and slowed my feet. Not stopped them, mind you, because I was clearly too far gone for that by this point. Nonetheless, it slowed me down just enough such that my other senses had time to catch up.
And enough for me to actually think with my head rather than my as of late irrational instincts. And okay, fine, enough for me to begin plotting just how I'd manage to pass through enemy territory unscathed so that I could retrieve the object of said irrational instincts. Never mind that the only likely way that she'd come with me was kicking and screaming.
A fine mess I was in.
Damnable girl.
As luck would have it, if there were such a thing, this particular evening was a good one for stalking and creeping through the woods. The wind just so happened to be out of the west, blowing my enemies' scents toward me and not vice versa, and already, despite the relatively early hour, the sun hung low enough in the sky that everything beneath the heavy canopy was a lush, dark green bordering on black.
As such, with cat-like precision, I shot upward into the trees and began silently making my way into the very territory I'd personally vowed to never cross, hopefully keeping both myself and my scent out of the dogs' line of detection.
Maybe a mile and a half outside the reservation, I heard them before I smelled the corresponding stench. And of course, like always, I smelled them well before I saw the lump of brown, mangy fur galloping through the trees.
Even after all this time, the mind of the Quileute pack was, objectively speaking, fascinating, as even observing through a single member, it exhibited both individual and collective thinking. At any other time or in any other situation, frankly, studying it would have presented an intriguing and novel diversion for me. As it were, however, considering my precarious and rather unsafe position, the loudness and distraction of it was an annoyance. At least in their chattiness, they gave me some much needed information.
Like just how many dogs would be ripping me apart were I caught: there were ten, by the way.
And more importantly, the location of my perhaps unwilling target of rescue: currently on the beach, sitting by a flickering driftwood fire. Laughing.
I went utterly still, motionless in a way that only my kind could achieve, when one of the patrol dogs a pup named Colin, apparently padded beneath my tree and paused to sniff the air. Standing at what would have been head level, were I on the ground, they were bigger beasts than I remembered. And smellier, too, I added, crinkling my nose in disgust when the pungency of wet dog painted the inside of my mouth.
Do you smell anything, Brady?
From somewhere to the north, came the sudden image of a filleted and rotting deer carcass along with a pinched, Nah, man, this nasty thing is all I can smell right now.
I wish, I thought, forcing myself not to spit out the offending taint.
The dog beneath my tree chuffed and swung his massive head from left to right. Something stinks around here. Smells like freaking anti-freeze or something. Sick and sweet, I can taste it even. He pawed at his mouth, which I found incredibly ironic as I'd have killed to have done the same.
You're imagining things, the other one answered, as he began racing between the trees, hurdling over fallen logs and low-lying brush. Let's go back. I'm starving.
Colin snorted and rubbed against the trunk of my tree. You gonna explain to Sam or Jake why we cut the route short? What with Bella here and all?
Automatically, my fingers dug into soft bark as I watched the girl's -Isabella's- face flash through their minds again. This time it was a memory, however, not the present.
Through their eyes, the girl's heart-shaped face was as flawless and fine as porcelain, smooth and young a mere sixteen or seventeen. Blowing in the wind, her hair was longer, too, and beneath the cloudy sky above, it was almost as dark as the all-black dress she wore. The color of it, or lack thereof, set against the paleness of her skin struck me and made me furrow my brow.
But it was expression she wore that arrested every cell of my being. For absent was any sign of the guarded anger I'd seen. Instead, her eyes were bloodshot and red, and the hollows of them were dark and swollen.
That expression made me very, very angry, so much so that I barely caught the tail end of the dogs' conversation.
The wolf in the distance called out. What's she here for anyway? I thought Jake said she had class on Fridays?
The one called Colin looked toward his approaching friend. Who knows. Maybe she was homesick or something. Said she was staying at her dad's old place this weekend. His muzzle scrunched. I swear something around here stinks. Can't you smell it?
Come on man, it's safe. We haven't seen that red-headed bitch for more than a year now anyway.
Hearing something I immediately recognized as very significant, my spine abruptly straightened, and before I could stop myself, my mouth moved without my permission.
"What red-headed bitch?"
PROMPT #22?
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