Author's note: I know this is short, but I thought I'd give it to you while I battle with Bella over what is coming up next. She just wants oodles of lemons with Edward—who doesn't?—and I fully support that, but I also have a story to advance, and she is not being remotely helpful.

Here's what I've been listening to while writing this chapter: The Lost Fingers: Touch Me; Marianne Faithful: The Pleasure Song; This Mortal Coil: Song To The Siren; Alela Diane: My Brambles; The Swell Season: Falling Slowly; Gemma Hayes: Easy On The Eye.

Chapter 25

We developed little rituals, like most lovers do, I suppose. She became pushy about tasting all sorts of things: she would see something or smell something and demand I taste it, then she would kiss me, swirling her tongue in my mouth and smacking her lips over something she liked or making scrunchy faces over things she hated. Bubblegum was "ambrosia" and she took to buying me packs to chew for her; lettuce and spinach were dismissed as "food for the food." It was hard to explain to her that I didn't want raspberry or lemon syrup in my coffee, but we both really liked vanilla.

She thought the questions I invented about her nature were at turns annoying, adorable, and odd:

"If I got old and really fat, could you still carry me?"

"You will get old and you will not get fat."

"If I was drunk, and you drank from me, would you get drunk too?"

"If I drank from you, you'd be too dead to notice how drunk I was."

"Could you change me to be like you?"

"No."

I wanted to know everything about Bella, and it irritated me that the world kept making demands on my time, when I just wanted to spend it all with her. She tried repeatedly to explain the concept of my being her singer—which of course, being a music reference, intrigued me—but it was obviously something more easily felt than defined.

"What's it like, finding your singer?" This topic was a sure way to have her touch me, and she reached for me now, taking my hand as we walked across the campus.

"It's amazing—you're amazing. I never thought it would happen to me."

"What does it feel like?"

"You know I love words. But I'm not sure there are any for this."

"Cop out," I was half teasing.

Bella got that crease between her brows that I liked so much; it made her look both innocent and fierce. How's that for confusing?

"Do you know anything about sirens?" she asked.

"You mean like Homer and shit?"

"Edward!" she made as if to smack me—I had discovered she disliked references to human elimination processes. It was weird, because she'd scream Fuck me Edward! when we were in bed together—and loved it when I did similar—but piss and shit and even crap bothered her. I mean, she had done all that at some point in her life, and she was completely considerate of my needs in that area. And it didn't seem to bother her when I was eating. That made me think about watching her drink, and how absurdly hot it was, even though it scared the… urine out of me. I really wanted to see her do that again.

I came back to myself with Bella saying, "They were prophets, with the bodies of birds and the heads of beautiful women. They were the daughters of the River Achelous and Terpsichore, the muse of dancing. They had names like Bright Voice and Glorious Face. They lured mariners, but were not actually sea deities.

"Do you know Jane Ellen Harrison?" I shook my head; Bella continued, "Well, she was one of my teachers briefly in England at the end of the 1800s—a remarkable woman, very much a proponent of the early feminist movement—and she was one of the founders of the modern study of Greek mythology.

"Anyway, she talked about the sirens in their meadows, starred with flowers, and found it strange and beautiful that Homer made the sirens appeal to the spirit, rather than the flesh. For Homer, if a mariner could listen to a siren's song to his heart's content without succumbing to her, he would sail on, a wiser man. Homer said of sailors, 'If he knows the pains the Trojans once endured on the spreading plain of Troy when the gods willed it so, all that comes to pass on the fertile earth, we know it all.'"

I marveled at all that she knew and all that she had seen, and felt a twinge of jealousy. I shook my head again and said, "That's pretty cool, but are you saying I'm your siren? I don't quite see the connection."

Bella stopped, tugging my hand to pull me around and into her. She smiled up at me, "It's exactly the same, Edward. If I can follow the call of your blood and body singing to me, and not be lured to crash on the rocks—so to speak—then I may endure pain, but I will also be wiser and know all."

"I still don't get it," I made a sheepish face. "Rocks?"

"Well, not real rocks. But befriending and forming a relationship with a human is dangerous for my kind. And it's certainly been painful for me."

"Oh Bella," I looked deep into her eyes, wanting her to know I was sorry for her pain; we hadn't really talked about her feeling like she had to run away from me, but I hated to be the cause of any of her unhappiness.

She rose up and brushed her lips across mine. "It's okay. Knowing you does make me wiser." She sighed, "I guess what I'm trying to say is that our relationship has obstacles, but if we can navigate around them, we'll be fine. And because you're my singer, I don't really have a choice."

"So the sailor, if he survives the surf on the rocks, gains the key to knowledge?" She nodded. "Freedom?" She smiled. "Happiness? She grinned. "Music?" I crowed and she shouted, "Yes!" at the same time and I scooped her up and spun her around until I was dizzy and she was giddy, and we plopped on the grass out of breath.

When I could speak, I declared, "I like it!"

Bella simply grinned.

I was feeling pretty cool that she and I shared our complicated ties through music. I wasn't certain I understood all the implications of being Bella's singer, but it was fuck-all exciting that my blood quite literally sang to her. Now that would make a phenomenal composition.

Within days of reuniting with Bella, "Waiting" was finished enough to submit to my composition professor; he thought, with a bit of polishing, it would be a top contender for the Carpenter Prize in composing. I now had just weeks to get it fully demoed and sent to the review committee. It was eerie and wonderful that Bella had given me the tiny snatch of waltz that I built the ending around—she claims she heard me play it one night as she sat in the tree keeping watch, but I don't recall it—certainly not like she hummed it for me. I love all forms of music, but I don't naturally gravitate to waltzes, even by favorite masters like Debussy and Chopin; Brahms didn't even consider them in his "serious" works. But it was the ending I had sought, the one that eluded me. And she found it for me. If I was her singer, she must be my muse.

While I spent time in the sound studio on campus, adding instruments to "Waiting" to give it an orchestral feel, Bella brought her journal and worked on her book ideas; she hadn't shared it with me any further, but frankly, we were spending all our free time together in bed. Or on the couch. Or on the kitchen table. Or on the floor. Or in the shower.

Oh my fucking god, in the shower. It was rapidly becoming my favorite place to have sex.

Bella had explained to me that, with no blood or heartbeat, her body was the ambient temperature, or even a little cooler. "Cold-blooded?" I guessed. "Like snakes?" She furrowed her brow—which always made me want to kiss her—and said in a low, thoughtful voice, "No, actually more like trees."

I was totally surprised by that idea. But then again, everything about my angel was surprising, and I'd felt that from the first time I saw her.

"Believe me, Edward, I don't understand it myself, and I've spent decades living it. But think about it: trees are alive, very strong, live a very long time, have sap instead of blood, no heartbeat, make fuel for themselves by leeching moisture, tough skin, reproduce on a cellular level rather than through courtship behaviors, live among humans virtually unnoticed…"

"Yeah," I mused, "and they can run so fucking fast…"

Bella stared at me for half a second before busting out in a glorious full-throated laugh. God, that was a sound only angels make.

"Bella," I started, wanted to share an idea I'd been nursing, "what if you are an angel?"

She gave me an indulgent smile, "An angel? Really, Edward, that is very sweet, but you don't believe in angels, now do you?"

"Well, it's at least as easy to accept as whatever it is you are," I retorted, pouting out my lower lip.

She kissed my pout and said, "Monster."

I kissed her back, "Angel."

She kissed me again, "Monster."

"Angel!"

"MONSTER!"

"Okay, uncle," I laughed. "You win—you're a motherfucking tree!"

She pulled me to her hard, grappling with my lips and tongue, panting into my mouth with laughter and arousal. All this kissing just reminded me of being naked with Bella. And the shower. The last time we'd showered, I'd found out more about her scars. And her venom.

The hot water—almost hotter than my skin could tolerate—made her own flesh warm; since I had only ever known her cool, it was enchanting to feel her fingertips glide warm and soft over my skin. I loved how she could be so different. There seemed to be no end to the discoveries I could make about her, and yet again, I was struck by how insignificant I was. Plain. Nothing out of the ordinary, but it seemed, as she said, I was born to be with her.

"And you, Bella? How were you born?" I was washing her back with handfuls of thick lather, working my fingers into her muscles, enjoying her little gasps when I would reach lower to massage her gently curving hips and perfect ass. She shrugged her broad shoulders, "The usual way. A mother. A father."

I grasped her supple waist and gently spun her to face me. I swept her hair behind her and soaped my hands again. "But you said Charles made you what you are." I put my soapy hands on top of her shoulders, slipping them up the slope of her neck and back. She took one of my hands, holding it over the scar on her neck, looking into my eyes. "Our venom is useful when we hunt, but hardly necessary. It is primarily used for reproduction."

I'm sure my eyebrows disappeared into my hairline, even as my jawed dropped open. I brushed away the lather and traced the white crescent with a fingertip. I heard the amazement in my voice when I said, "So this is a bite mark."

Bella looked taken aback and her eyes darkened noticeably, "What?"

"Something Jasper said."

"Jasper?" Her look was so intent, her eyes were making holes in me.

"When you ran away"—I hated the discomfort in her expression—"I was pretty confused. Especially when I discovered you'd bitten a hole in my sheet." She looked a little shamefaced, then surprised, as I said, "When I showed it to Jasper, he said no one could do that with their teeth. But I told him I'd seen you do it.

I also told him about your scars."

Bella looked bothered by my admission. I stammered, "Bella, I didn't know what I'd seen—I didn't understand. I thought I was going insane. I had to talk to someone. Jasper is my best friend."

Her face softened and she stroked my cheek soothingly. "So Jasper thought my scars were from bites."

"Yes. Which I thought was crazy…"

She almost looked impish. Her chin was up in that gesture of defiance or pride, so I leaned down to kiss her, lingering over the toffee taste of her lips. "And now?"

"Now, I think we're going to lose all our hot water and I haven't gotten but half of you clean."