CHAPTER FIVE: CLANDESTINE

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Name: Rosalie Lilian Hale Cullen

Age: Classified.

Relevance: Involuntary Eye Witness.

Location: Rochester, New York.

Occupation: Pharmacist.

Last Official Statement: …

Yes, I knew the mutt was running. I'm not an idiot. Leah was in over her head and that mass murderer she was dragging along with was plastered all over the television. Not that the idea of committing a felony ever stopped Carlisle. The Salvator was dying; you know how Doc gets about the Hippocratic. Plus, it was Leah asking. A Clearwater. There's so very little my family wouldn't do for her.

So, here we are. Threaten all you like Nicklaus, but help me Hades, you nick one hair off her ruffled grey pelt and I'll skin you alive myself. I know what you are. I know who you are. So this is what's going to happen. You're going drop this imbecilic farce of a 'clandestine' operation. You're going to withdraw whatever sleazy hitmen you have hunting down my wolf. And then you're going to leave her be so she and her imprint can live out their dull, boring dreams of a bloodless retirement and a litter of puppies. You've ruined enough lives to make a lot of enemies Nicklaus, so back off or I'll make damn sure the Volturi knows its you triggering another war with the wolves.

We're clear then? Good. Oh, one more thing.

Tell your bitch of a client that if she ever messes with my best friend again, I'll throw her to the dogs myself.

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(Damon)

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You clear your throat slowly, ignoring the raw burn in your throat that follows every uttered word. "Stephen."

Clearwater, until now fixated on the Penguin Encyclopedia of Horror and the Supernatural, drops the massive volume to her lap and considers you with ebony eyes too perceptive for her own good. You throat is still on fire. Your stomach's sore too; and feels like a never-ending void. Yet a lukewarm glass of water remains untouched on the nearest side table. It's vain, you know it is, but you refuse to take a sip. She's already seen your vulnerabilities, you will not let her think you weak too. You swing your feet to the floor and pretend away the throb in your temple. "Is he dead?"

Her eyes slice through the air, landing almost painfully on yours before you notice the deep, feral sound that rumbles from somewhere in her chest. With eyes that flash with sudden hatred, she glares at you, her gaze intense and unswerving. "Unfortunately, Not yet."

The relief is overwhelming. Stephen, the bastard, is alive. Your brother might be out there wreaking malicious havoc on the human race, but you prefer that to the alternative of his death. He is all you have, after all. "In case this wasn't clear before, he's off limits."

"Bite me."

Oh you would... but you're exhausted. Your eyes trail over the woman you've come to associate with danger, desire and uncertainty. She seems wholly focused on that book, but there's an alertness to her even as she twirls a lock of hair round her finger and bites distractedly into her full lower lip. Bite her, she said. You would, if everything didn't pulse so damn sore. With a groan you rub a hand across your pale face and ruff stubble, wincing at the idea that you've become some kind of caveman. You're too beat for this. Another time you'd be inciting a battle of wills with her, but your body feels rammed and you'd do anything for a double shot of whiskey.

"Off. Limits." You repeat sternly, wondering just when she went from handing you your ass on a platter to trying to protect you from Stephen.

Clearwater frowns; seemingly confused by the the trajectory of your thoughts and your request to save the Ripper's life. Without another word she grants her book dog ears, marking her page, before she heads into the tiny kitchenette. She returns only minutes later with two room-temperature hamburgers on a plate and places them by the glass of water abandoned on the small table next to your makeshift bed. "Eat." she says. Still watching her cautiously, you bite into the meal and instantly betray your earlier decision to seem stronger than the needs of your body.

Twenty minutes later, not long after a curly-haired brute grudgingly grumbles 'good morning' and storms off into the grey showers, Clearwater shakes her head and fixes you with a piercing stare. "Tell me why. Tell me why I shouldn't grind that sick bastard into rose-fertilizer, and don't give me that 'he's my brother bullshit' - he sure as hell doesn't know what that means."

Now that you think about it, how does a professional murderer go about explaining the complex dynamics of his 'strained' relationship with his sociopath of a brother?

"Whatever he's done, I've probably done worse. If we're soulmates-" you scoff at the word, "like you say we are, then you're gonna have to start being honest with yourself about what I am. Things aren't black and white in my world."

She drops the book, her hands fisting against her thigs as every one of her muscles go taut. There's a hardness in her eyes as she turns away from you and glares out the window. "Leah." You continue slowly, testing the the feel of her name on your tongue. "He's my Seth."

"Lets get one thing clear Raven. Whatever you think you know about me, or the people in my life, you're mistaken. You know nothing about me." She bares her teeth in a weirdly lupine gesture, shakes her head in disgust and turns back to the misted window. "Seth is pure."

Her words bother you. They shouldn't - you know what the Ripper is far more intimately than she ever will - but the knowledge of just how deeply you failed to protect your brother from Niklaus' grip taunts you. She doesn't see it, does she? That you and her, you're not so different. You both hate deeply, but you love deeply too - with a fierce kind of loyalty. When you look at your baby brother you see a man whose heart was once pure too.

You follow her gaze to the darkness threatening ominously outside the window. Winter has approached swiftly and the fog that swallows the yellow trees around the cabin feels sinister. Insidious. Unnatural. There are no stray sounds here, in or outside this quiet, lonely safehouse. The rain floods, but no frogs' croak. No crickets chirp. No birds' melody their songs. You haven't heard so much as the distant roar of an engine. It's s though all other living creatures are uneager to come closer.

"We're in Charleston?"

She hums an affirmative and you frown. Washington DC is crawling with all kinds of people you need to avoid, and you're only hours away. Not to mention New York, where many of Niklaus' best agents are active. And yet she's managed to stow you away without being noticed. It's nothing short of a miracle. Statistically impossible. Unless…

"They think we're dead." She lifts her brow at your surprised tone, but neither confirms nor denies your assertion." They're they think we're dead - or you, they think he's killed you. That's the only reason why no one would be working their ass off for the bounty that's now probably on both our heads. Someone's claimed murder." You stretch out your feet, feeling out every knot in the muscles. "It's been what? A week?"

"Two." She says nonchalantly. Almost. The hellfire in her coal eyes give her away. "You've been unconscious for most of it."

The monstrous thirst and hunger you felt earlier suddenly make a fuckload more sense. How are you still alive...?

"Point is no one's looking because no one's thinking to look." You say, "Nicklaus and the client probably think we're dead, which means he's lying about what happened. How'd you cover our tracks?"

"I didn't have to." She watches you carefully now, searching for something in your eyes. Perhaps she finds what she's looking; she smirks dryly. "I see, that's why you're shielding him, isn't it? You think your brother's protecting you. You don't remember."

"Remember what?"

"The arson."

"Arson?"

"The fucking pyromaniac incinerated everything! He almost -" She stands suddenly, fists clenched at her sides. The shaking's worse. She looks at you furiously, but you that it's not you she's angry with. Your head is still throbbing, but you push past the fogginess, try to remember... Recollection happens slowly; the memories hazy. A red light. The crack of a window. Pain. And then the gasoline.

Your breath catches.

He used gasoline.

Just like Niklaus did when he served Elena Gilbert a Molotov cocktail.

"Just like Elena, brother." Stephen smirked. He stood there, watching you writhe in pain as you stared at Clearwater. As you tried to make sense of the red splattered across the white surfaces of your kitchen. As you forced yourself to admit that her white blouse hadn't always been scarlet. She was dead. It had felt like your worst nightmare come true, hurt you in places you'd never even known existed. "An Indian whore? Poor Elena, so easily replaced by the exotic."

The Ripper stalked towards you and rested a heavy foot on your chest, pushing aggressively against the wounds there. "Klaus wanted this done old-school. No. Too easy. I want you to suffer Damon. I want you to feel what she did, in the end." You turned your head away from the foul liquid he spilled over your face and clothing, over the entire room and then the house, and that's when you caught her movement. Tiny, just a twitch in Clearwater's neck as it impossibly snapped itself back into place.

You threw up when her dull eyes found consciousness, and Stephen, not understanding, had laughed. "And just think, with every searing lick of flame you'll finally feel for Elena what she always, always, always felt for you. A love that burned for no other…. Not even me. How poetic."

"Bastard." It really shouldn't hurt by now. Stephen's never trusted you. He's always done this, always betrayed you. And yet, it does. Hurts worse than anything or anyone else ever did because he's all that's left. He might be a broken shell of a person, but he's your humanity. The last two Salvator brothers, that was always the endgame. You were gonna get him out, somehow. Away from Niklaus' control. So much for that plan.

Leah inhales deeply, and you can tell she's forcing herself to unclench her jaw. She pushes a stray hair away from her face, it is redder than you've ever seen it, and she shakes violently. "I didn't kill him because I know how you feel about him, Raven. But so help me if he ever tries to hurt you again, I wont be merciful again."

And then she's gone. It all happened so fast you wonder if she was even standing there at all. You wonder about the other things you remember too. All that blood. It's a miracle you're still alive, yes, but you were wearing a vest... What about her?

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"Consider my life debt paid."

"It was never yours to pay."

"Renesmeé's then. Or Bella's. Jacob's. Whatever Leah, I mean it. No more of this star-crossed, love-at-first-sight bullshit. It's always you young ones with your war-inducing relationships. The rest of us are exhausted, we left that shit back in Forks with Edward's family, so how's about the next time you need a favor you call someone else."

"Bitch, I called Carlisle. You're the one who decided to crash the party."

"Haha! Well, can you blame me? Leah Clearwater, bitterest bad bitch of the La Push reservation Finally Imprints I'm supposed to just stay in the dark and wonder about who he is? Please. I would never miss the chance to see this once in a lifetime phenomenon with my own yellow eyes."

"The only reason you're here is to gloat at Paul and Quil since you weren't stupid enough to assume I was lesbian. Yes, I heard about that. All three of you better sleep with one eye open; the day of reckoning is coming."

"Hey, it was easy money!" The angelic voice laughs. The sound is high-pitched and harmonic as it drags you from your sleep; so beautiful it can't be real. But there's a smell too, a stomach-turning saccharine fragrance that follows the blond woman and the doctor she assists too. Its been scorching your throat for days, leaving your voice raw in the mornings.

"I hope he's good for you, your Imprint. If he's not Leah, you run. Don't hesitate like -" she sighs. "You find me if you have to. Emmett and I will help. Just don't play the hero like you wolves always do."

A pause.

"Are you going to the wedding?"

"No."

"Jake wants you there. Renesmeé too; at least that what Bella says. Apparently the halfling understands."

"Bella's dumb as a brick."

"Leah!"

Laughter, and then another pause.

"Leah, what do you want, really?"

"Honestly Rose… I just want it all to stop. I want normal."

.

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What's an Imprint?

You want to ask, but the buff Brady's mood is always sour as spoilt milk, and every time you look at Leah, you get a jittery feeling in your stomach. It makes you feel like a punk. You don't understand this... this pull to be near her. This desire to hear her voice, this need to see her smile and hear her voice. Imprint. Imprint. Imprint... What's an Imprint? You should ask, but the words won't leave your mouth in her presence.

You consider questioning the tall guy with the calm, wise air about him. She calls him Embry, mentioned that he's something like a brother to her. There's something about his oval face that betrays kindness even though he seems stern and rigid at times. And there's that lostness about him... like he's forgotten how to smile. The man's got a hollow look, like Stephen did the day you both watched Elena 'die.' A shadow haunts him and his lover Brady, even Clearwater. You see it lurking in her eyes sometimes. You wonder who it was they lost. Just what exactly it was they saw. Pure, she called Seth. Innocent. You wonder who -or what - stole her innocence from her.

God, you're bored. You want a drink. You want to find the nearest pub, jump onto the tallest table you can find and dance with the prettiest woman in the room. Knowing your luck, she'd probably be Clearwater. The bitch who punched you in the face, snuck into your bed and made you want her. The bitch who now refuses to punch you in the face, sneak into your bed, and make you want her again. She's dressed in a snug, oversized sweater that hangs off her sleeve, and for the first time in your life you're jealous of a piece of clothing. Distractedly, she ties her ebony hair into a long sleek ponytail. "Well?" she says, tossing the lengthy locks over her shoulder. "Spit it out!" She snaps. Her eyes never leave that damn encyclopedia, but she's obviously been aware of your curious gaze.

Whose Jacob?

"Who's Barbie?"

She shoots you a half smile. "Rosalie Hale. Cullen now, actually. She's a friend."

"Cullen." You drawl slowly, pacing slowly around the living room. It rings a bell. "And the doctor?"

"She's married to his son, Emmett. Kind of, I never do know whether they're engaged or married at any point in time. Our families are… allies."

Allies? Odd choice of words… "He... seems affluent?"

She snorts. "Swimming in it." she says.

And yet he's consorting with outlaws?

Clearwater seems to read your mind and she smiles. It's the first genuine smile you've ever seen on her, and it's so radiant you feel a subtle heat in the middle of your chest. There are those... tingles again. You frown, forcing the strange sensation away. "I wouldn't worry myself too much about the motivations of the Cullens," the smile is still on her face so you force yourself to look away, gaze out the window instead. "But believe me when I say that you're probably the least problematic sort they've had to deal with in the last century."

She exhales suddenly, shaking her head away as if to clear it, and then drops her gaze hesitantly back to that damned encyclopedia. That's when you finally understand. She's not reading that book, she's using it as a ruse.

She's reading you.

You cross the room in two quick strides, fling the book to the floor and drag her by the wrist to her feet. "I've been wanting to do this for days." You murmur, before your lips claim hers.

She gasps; the sound quickly melts to a moan when your tongue slips into her mouth and you deepen the kiss. Your hand emancipates her hair from that ponytail, your other sliding across the hot silk skin underneath her borrowed sweater to stroke tenderly against her stomach. "Damon," she whimpers, the sound desperate and wanting. Your mouth skims down her neck, eliciting another squeak as you lavish her neck with a long lingering kiss, and you can't help but smirk as she shivers.

When her fingers curl into your biceps and her body melts against yours your arms wrap tightly around her, correcting the error of space between your bodies as you draw her as close as possible to you. Her heat is everywhere - everywhere. This woman… if you're not careful she'll consume you. Her skin is soft. Her mouth is hot. And wet, so fucking wet. It's been days, weeks, you still can't get the silky feel of her out of your skin.

"Fuck I want you..." You growl near her ear, smirk again when she shivers once more. But when your hardness presses against her, shooting a hot jot through both your bodies, she spoils the moment.

"Stop." Leah pushes you away shakily, taking a step away from you as she presses hesitant fingers to her lips. She looks utterly fabulous when she's flushed. "We can't jump into it like this." she says wisely, raining on your parade. "We can't be Sam and Emily."

You frown and fight the urge to sigh at the sudden distance that's sprung up between your two aching bodies. "What the hell does your ex have to do with this?"

"I just mean… You need to know exactly what this is. What it'll mean for you, being mated to me."

You feel something tug at your lips and can't stop your cheeky grin. "Mated?"

"Stop it Damon." She blushes, "I'm serious."

"Dear Lord, I hope so." You smirk. When she rolls her eyes you press a playful kiss to that bared shoulder, finally scratching your maddening itch. "Why don't we get out of here, somewhere quiet, so you can explain it to me." You don't give her a chance to change her mind. Grabbing her hand, you head for the door.

"Damon, let me warn Embr-"

"Oh go already! The man's been looking miserable for days." The tall man appears from the kitchen. A pale yellow apron is wrapped around his waist - it looks far too small for his six foot seven body - and he smiles softly at the two of you. And yet... you can still sense his reservation about you. "You!" Embry points a wooden spoon at you. "You keep her safe, or I'll castrate you."

Leah snarls. It's a short, clipped rumble that's barely audible, and yet Embry, a man almost three times her size, steps away from her and drops his gaze. "Sorry," he mutters humbly; suddenly looking submissive. He shoots her a friendly grin but bares his neck when as he looks back at her. "Just kidding." It's the oddest thing you've ever seen and it raises the creepy level of everything you've witnessed so far to ten hundred and fifteen percent.

Leah places her hand on your arm and sighs, shooting you and then Embry an apologetic look. "Once you know Damon," she says slowly, "there's no way to un-know."

The apology in her eyes, and that haunted look Embry has again, strikes you with profound unease, settling in the pit of your stomach. Your intuition's always been your greatest strength. It's never failed you before. It tells you to run; tells you than no good can come from whatever 'this' is, whatever she has to say. And yet… you want to know. Something about this – about her – it is important.

You nod towards the door and head in it's direction. It's a few seconds before you realize that Clearwater and Embry have not moved. "You coming or what, Clearwater?"

Embry grins, tilting his head as he regards you. "I think I like him." He says.

Leah simply smiles at him, and the love and respect she so rarely reveals shines off her face. "If there's any trouble while we're gone, run North Call. Don't fight, I mean it. I'll follow your trail. If you need to find us, we'll be in the trees." And then Leah Clearwater walks out of the door. You follow her into the unknown.