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Sleep is hard to find, my heart races as I lay in Edward's bed. He's downstairs somewhere, researching and pacing angrily about who could be targeting me.

And how to make them stop.

I try to make myself think of anything else, but it's useless.

"Do your calming exercises," my mom would tell me if she was here. "Try those breathing techniques."

I wonder if this is a side effect of coming off the anxiety meds, but then again, did I really need them anyway?

I give up and start to make my way to the living room, but I notice the door at the other end of the hall is cracked open, moonlight illuminating the dark, hardwood floor.

It's a library. Or storage space. It's really hard to tell, because while there are books filling the room, they are kept in piles scattered haphazardly and stacked perilously high. I wind through the room, glancing at titles as I pass by, curious as to what Edward Cullen likes to read. War and Peace is propped up by a collection of poems by Emily Dickinson. A tattered copy of The Hobbit leans against a stack of old encyclopedias. Gold leafing catches my eye as I turn toward the window, practically glowing in the moonlight.

Myths and Stories of the Real Ones.

I nearly knock the whole pile over in my attempt to grab the leatherbound book, heart racing in anticipation. I've never come across this in all my scouring of the public libraries and secondhand bookstores.

It's a beautiful book, with color illustrations, and I'm starting to realize that it may be a one of a kind. It looks hand printed. The art feels as if it was made directly on the page. I drag my finger gently across an image of a woman with brightly glowing eyes, spear in her hand and a determined set to her jaw.

The Warrior Queen, Amal.

I'm careful as I flip through the pages, not wanting to ruin anything. It's fascinating, the creation myths especially because there are so many of them. It's as if no one could ever agree if Real Ones came from space or were blessed by different gods or if they themselves are gods. I read about armies and cunning creatures and brave fighters. Philosophers, magic makers, apocalyptic predictions. Children's fables and poetic tales of light.

There is one myth, however, that chokes the breath from my lungs and forces me out of the room entirely, the book shut tightly and hidden away from where I'd originally found it.

The Coming of the True Dark.

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I find Edward downstairs, my hands shaking and brain exhausted. He's got a duffle bag open in front of him and he's loading it with clothes and knives and bottles of water.

"What are you doing?" I ask, and he doesn't appear startled by my sudden appearance. I'll bet he was listening to my toss and turn and sigh above him.

"We're leaving," he says. "As soon as possible. I'm getting us out of the city."

"Where are we going?" My voice is barely there. Edward's moving so quickly, so frantically, it distracts my racing mind and trembling limbs.

"That's what I've been trying to figure out. I've been going through some files my dad's lawyer had finally gotten digitized and I think there's a safehouse about three hours from here."

"A safehouse? Jesus, this feels like some FBI shit." He huffs a short laugh.

"It's really just an abandoned farm, but I'm sure there's some sort of underground bunker. My parents were survivalists, in a way."

"Ready for the end of the world?"

"Their world, maybe."

So, we pack. As quickly as possible.

"This is insane," I croak as Edward makes sure I'm buckled into a black sedan that I've never seen before. Everything is happening so fast, I can't catch my breath, I can't-

His mouth is on mine so suddenly that I gasp, with the warmth of his lips pressed against my own, some of that fear starts to melt. When he pulls away, he cups my cheek in his hand, eyes blazing, and says, "I know this is a lot, but we'll be okay. I won't let anything happen to you. Okay?"

"Okay," I murmur, still kind of dazed from the kiss. I wonder if it will always feel like that or if the feeling will fade with time.

I wonder if we'll have enough time for that to even happen.

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I watch the lights of the city as we leave. I'd spent so much time looking at it from above, I forgot what it looks like from a distance. The way the lights fade as the night begins to give way to the sunrise, how the buildings start to shrink and I can see the world surrounding it, a little concrete island in a flat countryside.

Once the city is gone completely from view, I allow myself to look forward, to see the fields and trees and road stretching unendingly before us, the sky so large and uninterrupted. I feel Edward's hand on my knee, his grip loosening with every mile we put between us and danger.

I'm close to finally, finally drifting to sleep when I'm jerked forward, tires squealing beneath us, as we take in the sight before us.

Three SUVs blocking the road.

Too many guns to count, pointed right at us.

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