It wouldn't be a good idea to visit the funeral home before dark. We stopped for the newspaper at a gas station and visited a drive through for some food.

Back at the house, Dean was up and waiting. At the sight of the paper bags and tray of sodas, we all migrated to the dining room table.

I was halfway through my burger when Dean announced, "Dad called."

Sam and I exchanged a glance while I let the hamburger drift back to the plate. "He okay?"

"'Course." Dean paused to sip his Pepsi before adding, "I didn't tell him about your little adventure last night."

"'Cause there's nothing to tell."

Sam popped a fry in his mouth and mercifully kept quiet.

Dean shrugged his shoulders and took another bite. Speaking through a mouthful of food, he said, "You lied to me."

"I told you, I went with Jess and Angela—"

"Whatever," he cut off, pinning me with one of his hard stares.

I pressed my lips firmly together. Getting in a fight with Dean wouldn't go my way. He'd only dig his heels in further.

"He's teamed up with another hunter and they're trekking the Bogachiel River," Dean went on after a moment.

"Are they close to catching them?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged before taking another bite. "Dunno," he said. His eyes then narrowed on Sam. "Them?"

It was Sam's turn to shrug. "There were two different sets of teeth markings on the body," he said.

"You're assuming the same bastards are responsible," Dean pointed out.

Sam nodded and looked back to his food. "True."

After eating, I sat with Dean in the living room watching television to kill time while Sam went upstairs to do his homework. After a few hours, I retreated to my room to look at the paper. The obituaries listed the funeral home Weylon Forge's body had been taken to for sending cards and flowers. The service was in a few days, so if we were going to get a look at the body, we had to do it soon. Unfortunately for us, it was all the way in Port Angeles.

I had no idea how we were going to sneak past Dean. Maybe claim we were going to a movie? Breaking into a funeral home and looking at a body couldn't take much longer than an hour and a half.

I tried looking for Sam in the office, but it was empty. I went to his room and knocked on the door. "Come in."

Sam's room was bigger than my own. Across the way, I could see a door that probably led to a master bath. The rest of was decorated with oak furniture—a standing dresser, king sized bed, and end tables. There were two windows to either side of a carved headboard.

Sam was laying on the bed, wires snaking from his ears down his chest, a paperback book in hand. He pulled an earbud out. "What?"

I lifted the paper. He sat up and reached for it. "Funeral home's in Port Angeles."

"Figured it'd be something like that, town this small," Sam replied as he unfolded the paper and skimmed the obituary.

"Think Dean would buy us going to a movie?"

Sam raised a skeptical brow. "Maybe." Sam paused, staring off at nothing as the tinny sound of music played on. "How about if we said it was for school?"

I thought of the movie we'd watched in Biology, and the intense feelings I'd had sitting in the dark next to Edward. Shaking the memory off, I focused back on our current problem. "Dean's not going to believe that we have to see a blockbuster movie for class."

Sam swung out of the bed, an excited light in his eye. "Not a blockbuster," he agreed, reaching for the gun resting on the side table. He checked the chamber before tucking it into his holster. He crossed to a folding door, revealing a closet as he pulled it open. His duffle sat beneath several hanging shirts and pants. Unzipping his bag, he shuffled around inside until he emerged with a familiar, thin leather case. His lockpicking kit. "C'mon."

"Sam?"

"Trust me," Sam replied.

I followed Sam out of his room and down the stairs. Dean was laying on the sofa, holding his soda cup on his chest as he channel surfed. His eyes shifted to us as we approached before returning to the tv.

Sam went for the coat closet. "We're going to Port Angeles."

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean replied, gaze leaving the television as his brows dropped into a sharp v.

Sam pulled his jacket out before turning to regard Dean. Meanwhile, Dean had sat up and set his soda on the coffee table.

With my own jacket in hand, I met Dean's suspicious gaze. "C'mon, Dean. We're just going to see a movie."

"It's extra credit for class," Sam added, shrugging into his jacket.

"What class?"

"French," Sam answered. "There's a special showing of De battre mon cœur s'est arrêté at the Green Theater." Zipping up his jacket, Sam added, "Or you can take me and—"

Dean tossed up his hands, palms out, "No way, man." He looked horrified at the suggestion. "Having to read during a movie is just wrong."

Bless Sammy's quick and devious mind.

We didn't stick around to give Dean a chance to change his. The chill was back as the sun started to fall outside. "That's another week of chores you owe me," Sam said once we'd shut the doors to the truck.

The truck woke up with a growl that rattled the steering wheel. I threw it in reverse and eased out of the driveway. "Like you don't want to find out as much as I do."

Sam shrugged before he turned to look out the window.

The drive to Port Angeles took longer than it had with either Jess or Edward. We still had our weapons in the cab, but even if we didn't, I doubt the truck could've managed anything over sixty-five without shuddering apart.

Seagan's Funeral Home was on the Northern side of town, inland from the bay. It looked like an especially long ranch house. A large billboard out front displayed images of the recently deceased on a video screen. Waylon Forge's picture flashed, a shot of the man holding a huge fish on a dock, smiling. Beside the picture was the date of the viewing and burial.

We turned onto the next block, finding ourselves in a residential area. We went down a few houses before parking on the street next to the curb.

"Here," Sam said, handing me a ski mask he must have grabbed from the closet and his lockpicking kit.

I pulled it on, heart picking up as the synthetic fabric settled over my face. "Can you get me fifteen minutes?"

A gleam of excitement lit up Sam's hazel eyes. "Yeah."

We exited the truck. The walk back to Seagan's was brisk. I kept my hood up and my head down. When the building came into view, we exchanged a short nod and went our separate ways. Sam to the front door to handle anyone that may still be inside with a bogus story. I headed to the back of the building.

There was another parking lot, complete with hearse. I crossed the lot at a quick jog, coming up to a back entrance covered by a long dark blue awning and lit by a buzzing porchlight. I had to trust that Sam was doing his part as I unzipped the lockpicking set. The hooks inside could be mistaken for dental instruments.

The trick to picking a lock is patience. A lot easier said than done when you're breaking and entering. The heart picks up, adrenalin floods the bloodstream, fight or flight instincts are running high. I wasn't the fastest at manipulating tumblers, but the lock wasn't complicated, and I had it disengaged in under three minutes.

That left me twelve.

I slipped inside, into a long hallway. To my right was a small kitchenette, ahead of me were a series of doors. Checking behind the nearest, I found a viewing room, replete with platform at the end and rows of chairs going all the way to the wall. Backing out, I took a wild guess that the rest of the doors would lead to similar rooms. They wouldn't keep the bodies and embalming equipment out where anyone could accidentally walk in on them.

I hurried down the hall until I found a set of stairs halfway along that led down. Taking a chance, I rushed the steps, emerging into another, shorter hall that led to a single door.

Opening it, I discovered the basement had been transformed into a makeshift morgue. The walls and floor were tiled, and a freezer built to hold bodies made up the far wall. The cabinets held plastic bottles of chemicals and tubing—which I guessed must be the embalming equipment. The steel table was equipped with the same draining system the tables in the morgue at the hospital had.

I expected to have to search for the victim, but he was already laid out—his chest parted, ribs pulled out and splayed open like antlers. I had to grip the doorframe at the view, a shudder running through my whole body that threatened to bring up the dinner from my stomach. I managed to hold it in, and with several swallows, approached the naked body.

Despite the room's low temperature, a strange odor emanated from the open cavity. I tried holding my breath as I leaned over the still, waxlike corpse. Glancing in the chest, I blinked.

It was empty.

I could see all the way to the spine, the back of the rib cage, and the muscles holding them together. Looking further down, I saw the abdomen was a dark, empty cavern. From a nearby tray, I grabbed a glove and snapped it on. Grimacing, I slid my fingers between the incision that trailed down the belly and lifted the thick flap of skin and muscle. Nothing.

I wondered if it had to do with Doctor Cullen's autopsy, but couldn't figure out why he'd pull out the organs.

Tearing my sights away from the empty cavity, I noticed the neck had a wound similar to the security guard's. Shifting my examination to the arms, I found the same human teeth marks, mostly around the wrist and forearm. Vampires.

Stepping back, I bumped into a rolling tray. Something squelched as it rocked. Whirling, I looked down and found one of the missing organs. The liver. A chunk had been torn out of it, almost like a someone had taken a bite.

I stared, confused. Vampires didn't eat their victim's organs.

I started looking a bit closer at my surroundings. On a nearby counter was a sink and several Tupperware containers. Once I was close enough, I saw several more in the sink, surrounded by ice. Their lids were labeled with permanent marker. Heart. Lung. Small intestine. Kidney.

I grabbed one and yanked the lid off.

It took me a moment to recognize what I was looking at. The gray, wrinkled tissue was squished against the sides of the container, making the brain look somewhat square instead of round. Gorge rising, I set the Tupperware back into the sink.

"What are you doing down here?"

Startled, I backed up as I swung towards the doorway. A man in a black rubber apron stood within, blocking the only way out.

My heart jacked into overdrive. I glanced quickly around, seeking some excuse. "Um," I tried, realizing I had nothing to say.

The man, eyes narrowing, stepped past the doorway. He was tall and lean, wearing a button up shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of gray slacks. He had to be in his early forties. "Thought it would be fun to break into a funeral home?" he questioned, voice stern as he stepped nearer to the body and me.

I couldn't exactly admit I was looking for evidence of a vampire attack.

"What's your name?"

Aside from the heartbeat pounding in my ears, I kept quiet.

He stopped near the tray I had knocked aside. His eyes took in the sight of the liver. They lingered. "Well," he said pleasantly, "that's unfortunate." His gaze lifted to meet mine. "Suppose it's what I get for having a little snack before suppertime."

… oh.

My spine stiffened, muscles tightening in my arms and legs. The ghoul started to move, but I drew my gun. I aimed at its head. "Don't," I warned, voice hard.

It lifted its hands, but its eyes were bright and fixed on me. "Alright. Calm down."

I kept my gun trained. It'd take a lot of brain damage to put it down. More than my twenty-two would cause. I wished I'd thought to bring the shotgun from the truck.

It moved so fast, I reacted too late. It had already ducked to the side as I fired. I moved to re-aim. It closed the distance between us. It grabbed my gun hand. I squeezed the trigger. This close, the sound of the gun had my ears ringing. The ghoul jerked and grunted, but didn't fall back. I fired again, smelt the gunpowder. The ghoul bared its teeth.

With more strength than an ordinary man would have, it forced my arm back to the counter, and smashed my wrist against the edge. The shock on my bones caused my hand to spasm. The gun fell.

Its hand wrapped around my throat and squeezed until my windpipe touched my spine. My lungs tried to suck in air, but there was nothing to draw. They spasmed. Dark spots danced in front of the ghoul's borrowed face.

It smiled down at me. "Fresh meat." Its grip tightened on my throat, and I feared I was another squeeze away from my windpipe being crushed. I grabbed hold of its wrist and pulled, but it was as if I were trying to yank a tree from the ground. Its hand didn't budge. "What a treat."

Its mouth opened, teeth white and shining as it leaned forward. Hot breath hit my cheek.

"HEY!"

The furious call had the ghoul pausing long enough to twist around.

Dean stood behind it, arms wound back as if prepared to go to bat. His eyes burned with hate as they locked on the ghoul's.

He swung.

The ghoul's head was knocked off it's newly severed neck. It hit the floor with a meaty thump.

The hand holding my throat relaxed. I wrenched it off, pushing the arm away. Not a moment too soon as the neck began to spurt blood as the body crumpled to the floor.

Dean's arms dropped to his sides, a machete in one of his hands. "You okay?" His sights swept over me, checking for injuries.

"Yeah." I pulled off the ski mask and swallowed. Aside from a bad ache in my throat that was probably going to get worse and a smarting wrist, I'd come out pretty good, considering. I took a shaky breath before pressing off the counter.

I stared down at the body. Blood gushed from the neck, spreading across the floor in a shiny red puddle. The head had come to a stop next to the wall. It stared up at us with glassy eyes, mouth still open.

"Good." As soon as Dean said it, his gaze hardened. "This is the reason you don't go off hunting on your own."

"I didn't," I defended weakly. "Sam—"

"Yeah. Not a good time to bring up the fact you brought our little brother into this, Sarah," Dean groused, glaring. "What if this son of a bitch had gotten you, huh? Who do you think he'd have gone after next?"

I winced. Risking my life was one thing. Risking Sam's… "Okay," I insisted. "I get it. I screwed up."

"Yeah, you did." He turned to look at the body on the table before twisting back to me. "You get what you came for?"

I'd confirmed my suspicions. "Vampires killed him," I said quietly.

Dean ran a hand through his short hair before letting out a long breath.

At the sound of footsteps clambering down the stairs, Dean lifted the machete. I picked my gun off the floor.

Eyes wide, Sam sprinted through the doorway. He came to an abrupt and startled halt seeing the two of us brandishing weapons. As Dean and I lowered them, Sam's sights swept the room and came to rest on the body oozing blood on the floor. "What the hell happened?"

"Ghoul," Dean said shortly. He lifted his machete and twisted it over, frowning at the blade. With a shake of his head, he sheathed it at his hip.

Sam stared at the head. "No way." He swallowed. "He seemed normal."

"Yeah, they always do. Right before they start carving you up for dinner." Dean nudged the body, grimacing at the spreading pool of blood. "Now we've got to get rid of it." He looked to Sam. "Here," he said, tossing his keys. Sam caught them. "There's a couple of tarps in the trunk. Grab 'em." As Sam backed up, Dean turned to me. "Clean up the blood. Use bleach. Then wipe down anything you touched."

It took some searching, but eventually I found a mop and bleach in a closet. While Dean and Sam loaded the body and the head onto a tarp, I soaked up the blood. The stench of copper and chemicals was really testing my stomach. I had to use the second half of the sink, since the other was still filled with ice and the bag.

"What do we do with the organs?"

"Throw 'em in a trash bag," Dean grunted as he and Sam lifted the tarp-wrapped corpse. "We'll take 'em with us."

"What are we doing with them and the body?" Sam asked.

"Got an idea for that," Dean replied as he nodded towards the door. "Let's move."

By the time Dean came back down, I had the floor scrubbed and the Tupperware from hell tossed into a black trash bag. It wasn't a thorough job, and the mop and sink would probably have evidence, but at least everything looked clean. Dean gave the floor a once-over, took the bag, and nodded. "Awesome. Let's get the hell out of here."

I stopped on our way out to put the mop and bleach back in the closet and followed Dean back up the stairs. "You touch anything up here?" He asked as we made for the backdoor.

"No," I told him. Then I remembered the first door I'd tried. "Wait," I said, rushing over. I slid my sleeve down my hand and wiped at the handle. When I was done, I nodded, and we left.

Outside, I found the truck and Impala idling. Sam was waiting for us in the truck.

"Where are we going?" I asked, trying not to think about the fact there was a body in the back.

"Forks," Dean said, flinging the bag into the truck bed. "To the graveyard outside of town."

The drive to Forks was tense as I followed the Impala's break lights. Dean kept to the speed limit, allowing the truck to keep up. I imagined I could hear the body in the truck bed thumping at every bump in the road. I had to keep easing my grip on the wheel. My neck was starting to smart.

We were almost to Forks when Sam suddenly said, "I tried to keep him talking."

I cleared my throat. "I know you did." I glanced at Sam. "It probably heard me. They have heightened senses."

"I guess." The defeat in Sam's voice made me feel awful.

"This wasn't your fault." I grimaced. "It was mine."

Sam frowned. "What did you find?"

"Same marks." I took a breath before telling Sam, "It's vampires."

"For real?" For a moment, Sam's despondency lifted as curiosity took over. "Vampire vampires? Dracula? Nosferatu?"

I nodded. "Dean confirmed it."

Sam's gaze drifted back out the windshield, eyes narrowing in thought. "Can't be like the movies. Are they?"

"No." I turned down the heater before adding, "I got a book this weekend. You can read it when we get back."

"You already knew?"

"Suspected," I lied.

"Good guess," Sam replied.

The guilt was as bad as the ache in my throat.

The graveyard was a few miles outside the town in a patch of cleared land off the highway. The impala passed the gate, driving further up until we were just out of sight of the graves, then pulled over. I coasted up behind and shut off the engine.

Not even the crickets were chirping as we got out, making the creaking doors sound all the louder. It was just the whisper of wind as it moved through the tall firs and the sound of our footsteps crushing the grass as we moved to the truck bed. Another creak rang out. Up ahead the Impala's trunk had been opened.

"Now what?" I asked once Dean joined us. He had two shovels in his hands.

"Now we find where they were going to plant the vic," Dean replied, handing me the shovels, a flashlight, and a pair of work gloves.

Holding the shovels' handles under the crook of my arm, I pulled on the gloves as Sam dropped the truck bed open and climbed up. Dean leaned forward and took hold of the nearest end of the ghoul's wrapped body, using his strength to drag it closer to the edge. Once he had a good hold, Sam hoisted up the other end. They lifted the body out of the truck, giving Sam a moment to drop down from the back. That left the garbage bag of organs to me.

Sam and Dean walked fast despite the load. No one wanted to linger. It was pitch black, the cloudy sky lacking a single star. I had to use the flashlight since there weren't any streetlights this far out from the town. Luckily, there didn't look to be any buildings built for a groundskeeper or security guard, and the highway was quiet.

It wasn't hard finding the intended grave sight of Waylon Forge. A backhoe was parked off in a side section. Once we were close enough, we could see the dark outline of the rectangular hole beside it.

Dean and Sam carried the body to the edge. Sam and I looked to Dean. Dean nodded towards the dark pit. "Toss him in and cover him up. They'll lay the coffin on top and no one'll be the wiser."

That… might actually work. Sam and Dean swung the body back and forth before letting it fly into the grave. It hit with a hard thump. I tossed the garbage bag in after it. The Tupperware inside clattered as it met the ground. Dean reached for a shovel and headed for the big mound of dirt at the head of the grave. I moved to help.

It was much easier than digging up a body. We only needed to put down enough dirt to cover the tarp and bag from sight and level out the sides. Sam took over flashlight duty.

We were ten minutes in when I worked up the courage to ask, "How'd you know to follow us?"

Dean looked up as he stabbed the head of his shovel into the dirt. "You didn't think that crap excuse would really work on me, did you?" He looked offended at the thought.

Sam and I exchanged a glance. Dean snorted.

About half an hour in, we had to turn the flashlight off and duck down when we heard a car approaching from the highway. Fortunately, it cruised past. As soon as it was gone, we were back at it.

All in all, it didn't take long. About an hour later, just shy of ten, we were back at the cars. Dean loaded the shovels and flashlight back into the trunk. Sam and I climbed into the truck while he got in the Impala and took off.

Back at the house, after slipping out of my jacket and hanging it back in the closet, I hurried up the steps for the bathroom. Flicking on the light, my eyes sought out the mirror over the sink. Catching sight of my neck, I winced. Several thick red marks stood out starkly from the rest of my skin. I knew that by morning they'd be black and blue. They wouldn't be easy to explain away.

I'd just have to wear a scarf until the marks faded.

Shutting off the light, I left the bathroom. The hall was empty. Sam's door was shut. In the quiet, a memory of the ghoul's breath sweeping across my cheek surfaced. I reached up and rubbed at my face, grimacing as I tried to ignore the phantom sensation. A shiver still worked down my spine as I entered my bedroom.

The pale figure standing in the corner startled me into reaching for my gun the second time that evening.

Luckily, I recognized Edward before I drew. My hand went from my holster to my chest to catch my heart in case it shot out. "Holy crap," I breathed. "Don't do that."

Edward's expression was fraught with tension, his stare worryingly intense. "Alice had a vision," he said, so soft it was almost too quiet to hear.

I carefully closed the door and stepped closer. "A vision?"

"Of you." His sights flickered lower and pain drew his features taut. "Being choked."

He closed the rest of the distance between us, staring at my neck. His hand reached out, halting just shy of touching my skin. It curled into a fist. "I couldn't find you."

Guilt tore through me once again. I had trouble meeting Edward's tortured eyes. "I ran into a ghoul."

"A ghoul," Edward repeated. He was close enough to pick up the scent of sandalwood and ginger again. The tension began to drain out of me as I breathed it in past the ache in my throat.

"Yeah. They're a type of shifter. They eat the dead." I wanted to lean forward, feel his arms wrap around me. Instead, I folded my arms across my chest, grabbing my biceps. "Usually they stick to graveyards, but sometimes they'll kill for a meal."

"Alice didn't see you in a graveyard."

I started to nod when I remembered my neck. "I was in a funeral home." Edward's brows raised, questioning. I rubbed my arms, gaze falling to the side. "Just—checking the usual haunts out. Ghouls go where the bodies are."

"You went looking for it?" Anger lowered his voice, roughened it. "You could have died."

Another stab of guilt had my chest tightening. I angled away, stared out the dark window. "But I didn't," I defended, willing myself to meet his glower. "And we got a ghoul."

"A ghoul's life isn't worth the risk," he insisted through clenched teeth.

I lifted my chin, ignoring the protests from my windpipe. "If it went after me, it might've gone after someone else."

"Then let it!" he hissed.

It would've stunned me less if he'd punched me. Eyes wide, I stared. He glared back. "I can't let a monster roam around."

His lips twisted. His voice back to its usual silky smoothness as he pointed out, "And yet, here I am."

No. Now it was as if he'd punched me. My shoulders curled forward as I tightened my hands where they were already squeezing my biceps. "That's different," I murmured.

"Is it?" His glare burned.

"You don't kill," I insisted. "That's what you said."

Edward turned his head to the side, glaring at the closet. "Not anymore."

My stomach clenched so hard, I was closer to vomiting than I'd been standing over the emptied corpse. I shook my head. "No," I muttered, squeezing the words through my tightening throat. The ache was beginning to burn.

"I did, once. Men who did horrible things." He tapped his temple. "I could hear their thoughts, knew their crimes. So I made myself their judge, jury, and executioner."

I closed my eyes. I saw the ghoul, mouth wide, teeth bared, leaning towards me.

Is that what Edward's victims had seen?

I forced my eyes open, made myself look at that beautiful face. His eyes still burned with an angry light, the amber color duller than before. Darker.

I thought of the machete under the bed. "I'm tired," I said, voice leached of all emotion, leaving it dull and flat.

Edward's expression smoothed, becoming more like a Renaissance statue than a living, breathing man. Of course, he wasn't a man. I had to remember that. He studied me for a moment before saying, "Then I'll see you tomorrow."

I endured the throbbing pain in my throat to nod and walked with him to the window. He paused, looking down on me. I thought I saw a shadow of regret in his dark eyes. Then he was gone, too fast to follow with human sight.

I stepped back until my legs hit the mattress and let myself collapse on top. I stared at the closet, seeing so much more than the wooden doors.

That night was the first time I dreamt of Edward.