Beau told Charlie he had a lot of homework to do and that he wasn't hungry. There was a basketball game coming on that the chief was excited about, so he didn't notice anything amiss, even the rare event of Beau skipping a meal.

Once in his room, Beau locked the door, then went hunting for his CD player. Phil had given him a copy of Absolution for Christmas. It was probably the first thing since their wedding in September that made him smile. Renée glowed with happiness that morning, clearly relieved her broken son was on the mend, at least physically.

Beau concentrated very carefully on the music. The shattering beats made it impossible to think. By the third time he listened to the CD, he knew all the words to the choruses, and sang along until he fell asleep.

He opened his eyes to a familiar place. Aware in some corner of his consciousness that he was dreaming, Beau studied the green light of the forest above, hoping to see the sun. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks was close by. He tried to follow the noise, but then Jacob Black was there, pulling him toward the blackest part of the forest.

"Jacob? What's wrong?"

"Run, Beau, you have to run!" Jacob whispered, terrified.

"This way, Beau!" Jessica's voice called out from the gloomy heart of the trees, but she did not appear.

"Jacob!"

The other boy had landed hard on the forest floor. A large red-brown wolf with black eyes was in his place. The wolf faced the shore, his fur bristling, low growls ripping from his muzzle.

"Beau, run!" Jessica cried out again. But Beau didn't turn. He was watching a light coming toward him from the beach.

Edward stepped out from the trees, his skin glowing, eyes black and dangerous. He lifted one hand to beckon Beau; the wolf snarled in response.

Beau took a step toward Edward. He smiled then, his teeth sharp, white, and pointed.

"Trust me," he purred.

Beau took another step, but before he could go on, the wolf launched himself at the vampire, aiming for the jugular.

"No!" Beau wrenched himself upright out of bed. The sudden movement sent the CD player clattering to the floor. His light was still on; it was five thirty in the morning.

Beau groaned, fell back, and kicked off his boots. It was no use. His subconscious dredged up the exact images he wanted to avoid. Now he had to face them.

The shower didn't last as long as he wanted. Beau stood in front of the mirror to shave, and, still preoccupied with the strange dream, nicked himself with the razor.

"Damn it," Beau hissed, pressing hard on his jaw with his fingers. His stomach churned at the sight of the blood.

He dressed slowly and made the bed—something he never did. The missing cruiser informed him Charlie had gone fishing, leaving Beau with zero distractions. He went to his desk and switched on the old computer.

He hated using the Internet here. It took an infuriatingly long time to load up. After closing the pop-up ads, he took a deep breath, then typed in one word.

Vampire.

There was a lot to sift through—everything from movies to TV shows to role-playing games, underground metal, niche porn, and gothic makeup supply sites. Finally a promising site appeared—Vampires A-Z. Two quotes greeted him on the homepage:

Throughout the vast shadowy world of ghosts and demons there is no figure so terrible, no figure so dreaded and abhorred, yet dight with such fearful fascination, as the vampire, who is himself neither ghost nor demon, but yet who partakes the dark natures and possesses the mysterious and terrible qualities of both. — Rev. Montague Summers

If there is in this world a well-attested account, it is that of the vampires. Nothing is lacking: official reports, affidavits of well-known people, of surgeons, of priests, of magistrates; the judicial proof is most complete. And with all that, who is there who believes in vampires? — Rousseau

The rest of the site contained an alphabetized listing of vampire myths held throughout the world. Beau searched for anything that sounded plausible. Most of the myths were centered around beautiful, demonic women and children as their chosen victims. Others seemed to explain the everyday horrors of child mortality, infidelity, famine, improper burials, and—his mood souring as he read on—homosexuality. Very few, like the Hebrew Estrie and the Polish Upier, were even preoccupied with drinking blood.

Only three entries caught his attention: the Romanian Varacolaci, a powerful undead being who appeared as a beautiful pale-skinned human; the Slovak Nelapsi, a creature so strong and fast it could massacre an entire village in the single hour after midnight, and the Stregoni benefici.

Stregoni benefici: An Italian vampire, said to be on the side of goodness, and a mortal enemy of all evil vampires.

A lone entry among hundreds claimed the existence of good vampires. At least that was something.

Overall, he found little that coincided with Jacob's stories or his own observations. Speed, strength, beauty, pale skin, and eyes that shift in color. Blood drinkers, enemies of the werewolf, cold-skinned, and immortal. None of the myths lined up exactly right. And then there was another problem, backed up by movies and today's reading—vampires were nocturnal creatures. The sun would burn them to a cinder.

Aggravated and embarrassed, Beau snapped off the power switch, not waiting to shut things down properly. It was all so stupid. He was sitting alone, researching vampires, in the twenty-first century. What was wrong with him? He decided most of the blame belonged on the doorstep of the town of Forks—and the entire sodden Olympic Peninsula, for that matter.

He had to get out of the house, but there was nowhere he wanted to go that didn't involve a three-day drive. Beau thought about driving to school and using the weight room again, but decided against it. He was starting to think the place was creepy on the weekends, anyway.

Beau cut across the yard under an overcast sky. It didn't take long until he was far enough into the forest for everything else to fade away. The only noticeable sound was the plod of the earth under his boots and shrill cries of the jays.

Beau continued down the thin ribbon of the trail as it snaked around the Sitka spruces, hemlocks, and maples. He remembered Charlie pointing out each one from the window of the cruiser. The chief made it a game when Beau correctly identified three trees in a row.

The anger that pushed him forward had ebbed away. Beau slowed to a stop near a newly fallen tree. Restless, he spun on his heel and began to pace.

This was the wrong place to have come. The forest was too similar to his dream for peace of mind. Without the sound of his soggy footsteps, the silence was piercing. Even the birds had quieted.

Here, cloaked from the outside world, it was much easier to believe what embarrassed him indoors. The forest around Beau had stayed the same for thousands of years. All the myths and legends seemed more likely in this green haze than they had from a computer screen.

Beau forced himself to focus on the two most vital questions. First, he had to consider the possibility that what Jacob told him about the Cullens could be true.

His mind responded negatively almost at once. How could he entertain something so ridiculous? But what, then? There was no rational explanation for how he was alive at this moment. He went through all his observations: the impossible speed and strength, the eye color shifting from black to gold and back again, the inhuman beauty, the pale, frigid skin. And more—small things that registered slowly—how they never seemed to eat, their disturbing grace, even the way he spoke. Unfamiliar cadences and phrases that better fit a turn-of-the-century novel than that of a classroom in 2005.

He skipped class the day they did blood typing. He hadn't declined the invite to the beach until he heard where they were going, a place that he would not be welcome. He seemed to know what everyone around him was thinking . . . except Beau. He said he was the villain, dangerous . . . all the pieces, jagged and incongruous, suddenly seemed to fit together.

Could the Cullens be vampires?

They were something. Whether it be Jacob's cold ones or his own superhero theory, Edward Cullen was not . . . human. He was definitely something more.

So then—maybe. That would have to be his answer for now.

And then the most important question of all: what was he going to do if it was true?

If Edward was a vampire—he could hardly make himself think the words—then what should he do? Involving someone else was definitely out.

Only two options seemed practical. The first was to take Edward's advice: be smart and avoid him as much as possible. Cancel their plans and go back to ignoring him. Pretend there was an impenetrably thick glass wall between them in Biology. Tell Edward to leave him alone—and mean it this time.

Beau was gripped with a painful ache at this idea. His mind rejected it and skipped to the next alternative.

He could do nothing. After all, if Edward was something . . . sinister, he'd done nothing to hurt him so far. There would be Beau-sized dent in the van if Edward hadn't acted so quickly.

There was one thing he was sure of: the dark Edward from the dream was a reflection of his fear of the word, not Edward himself. And even then, when he'd screamed out in terror at the werewolf's lunge, it wasn't fear for the wolf that brought the cry to his lips. It was fear that he would be harmed. Even when Edward called to him with sharp-edged fangs, Beau feared for him.

In his mind, the . . . vampirism . . . was a kind of otherness. It was something that set Edward apart from other people. It made him withdrawn, secretive, angry. And Beau was familiar with all of those things.

By now he had his answer. There was never any choice; he was already in too deep to turn back. When he thought of Edward, his voice, those hypnotic eyes, and the magnetic force of his personality, he wanted nothing more than to be with him at this moment. Even if . . . he couldn't finish.

Beau hurried down the path back to Charlie's house. Minutes later he was free of the green maze, the house promising warmth, sanctuary, and dry socks.

It was just past noon. Beau went upstairs and changed. He was determined to concentrate on his Macbeth assignment. He settled himself at the kitchen table to outline his rough draft. It was the most content he'd felt since Thursday afternoon.

This had always been his way. Making decisions was hard, but once he made them, he always followed through, relieved that the choosing part was over. He chose to stay quiet about the boys who beat him up, he chose to allow his mother to homeschool him for the fall semester, then he chose to move to Forks. Sometimes this relief was tainted by despair, like allowing his teammates to escape punishment. But it was still better than wrestling with the alternatives.

This decision was easy to live with. Dangerously easy.

And so the day was quiet, productive—he finished the paper before eight o'clock. Charlie came home with a large catch; Beau made a mental note to pick up a recipe book in Seattle next week. The chills that ran up his spine when he considered the trip were no different than those he felt before taking the walk with Jacob Black. They should be different, but he couldn't capture the right type of fear.

He slept dreamlessly and awoke to another sunny day. His succulents were arched happily toward the sunlight. Beau gave them a little water, then opened the window, surprised when it slid open silently. The air was almost warm and hardly windy at all. He pulled the Band-Aid off his face and dashed out of the room.

The chief was finishing his breakfast when Beau thundered down the stairs.

"Nice day out," Charlie commented, picking up on his mood immediately.

"Yes," Beau agreed with a grin.

His father smiled back, brown eyes crinkling around the edges. When Charlie smiled, it was easy to see why his parents jumped so quickly into an early marriage. Most of that young romantic faded long before Beau had known him, as had the curly brown hair they both shared. Beau hoped the receding hair was due to the stress of the job. But when the chief smiled, he could see a little of the man who ran away with Renée at nineteen.

He rolled down both windows of the truck for the drive. Early to school, he found a sunny seat on the picnic benches, then bent over his Trig homework. It wasn't long before he was sketching in the margins instead. Five pairs of dark eyes were gazing up at him from the paper. Beau removed the Mariners cap and ran a hand through his hair, lost in thought.

"Beau!"

"Hey, Jess," he called, waving back, unable to be halfhearted on a morning like this one.

"I never noticed before—your hair has red in it," Jessica said, smoothing a curl at the top of his head. She joined him on his side of the bench.

"Only in the sun," he said, uncomfortable now. Her physical contact with him grew more brazen by the day. It was nothing like his teasing embrace of Angela in the cafeteria; Jessica was testing the waters.

"Great day isn't it?"

"My kind of day."

"What did you do yesterday?" Jessica inched closer. Beau shifted away in response.

"I worked on my essay."

Jessica hit her forehead with the heel of her hand. Mr. Mason wasn't terribly creative and assigned the same paper to the entire junior class. "Oh yeah—that's due Thursday, right?"

"Wednesday."

"Wednesday?" she repeated. "That's not good . . . what are you writing yours on?"

"Whether Shakespeare's treatment of the female characters is misogynistic."

Jessica stared as though he spoke in pig Latin. "I guess I'll have to work on that tonight. I was going to ask if you wanted to go out."

"Oh." Beau was taken off guard. Why couldn't they have a pleasant conversation without it getting awkward?

"We could go to dinner or something . . . and I could work on it later."

"I don't think that would be the best idea."

Her face fell. "Why?"

"I'm sure I'm breaking guy code by saying this, but Mike would be upset."

She was bewildered. "Mike?"

"Jess, seriously. You know he's interested in you."

"Oh . . . right."

Beau stood up to make his escape. "It's time for class, and I can't be late again."

When he saw Lauren later that morning, she was bubbling with enthusiasm. She, Jessica, and Angela were going to Port Angeles to go dress shopping for the dance. She invited him to come and provide a "guy's opinion." And once her parents learned the chief's son was available to come along, they extended her curfew by two hours.

Beau was indecisive. It would be nice to get out of town for the night, but Jessica was going. Her discontent with him was certain to bubble over at some point.

He nodded at all the dance talk on the way to lunch. As he walked into the cafeteria, the first true tingle of fear slithered down his spine, then settled into his stomach. Would they know what he was thinking? Then a different feeling jolted through him—would Edward be waiting to sit with him again?

The Cullens' usual table was empty. Beau scoured the cafeteria anyway, hoping to see him tucked away in a dark corner, but there was no sign of Edward or his siblings. Beau slid into his chair at the table, not bothering to listen anymore.

Angela asked a few quiet questions about the Macbeth paper. He answered as naturally as he could, thanking her when she, too, invited him to Port Angeles. He agreed and decided to spend most of the trip in the bookstore.

A new wave of disappointment hit him in Biology. Their shared lab table was empty.

The rest of the day passed slowly. He was eager to let his arm hang out of the window and let the sun get to his hair. But the moment he walked in the door, Angela called to tell him the trip had been moved to tomorrow night. Jessica and Mike were going to dinner, which explained the rescheduling. He was relieved to hear something he said got through to Jessica, but it did nothing to lift his own mood.

There was little to do around the house. Dinner was prepped and his homework wrapped up quickly. Beau went through his inbox and fired off a few replies to his mother.

Mom,

Sorry. I've been out. I went to the beach with some friends. It's sunny outside today—I know, I'm shocked, too—so I'm going to go outside and soak up as much vitamin D as I can.

I love you,

Beau

Beau decided to kill an hour with non-school-related reading. He had a shabby compilation of Jane Austen's works, an old quilt, and a fervent, familiar desire to avoid thinking his own thoughts. He sat down and flipped through the pages, comforted by the activity.

That is until he remembered literally every male character in the compilation was Edward or Edmund. He snapped the book shut, annoyed, and rolled over onto his back. In that position Beau did crunches until he couldn't move. He pulled the lid of the Mariners cap low over his eyes and focused on the heat of the sunlight on his skin.

The next thing he was conscious of was the sound of the cruiser in the driveway. He sat up and realized the light was gone. He looked around, muddled, with the sudden feeling he wasn't alone.

"Dad?"

Beau jumped up, wincing at the exertion so soon after the crunches, and followed his father into the house. Charlie was hanging up his gun belt and when he came in.

"Sorry, Dad, dinner's not ready yet—I fell asleep outside."

"Don't worry about it, I wanted to catch the score on the game, anyway."

He sat through a mindless sitcom with Charlie after dinner. His father seemed happy they were spending time together. It felt good, despite his depression, that Beau could make him happy.

"Dad," Beau said during a commercial, "Lauren and Angela are going to Port Angeles to look at dresses for the dance tomorrow night. They asked me to come along. Do you mind if I go?"

Charlie was mystified. "To help them find dresses?"

Beau lifted his hands to make air quotes. "They want a 'guy's opinion.'"

"But you're not going to the dance, right?"

"No, I'm tagging along. I used to go with Mom all the time." That usually meant reading outside the dressing room and guarding her other purchases.

"Well, okay. That's nice of you to look out for them in the city."

Beau almost laughed. Knowing what he might have discovered about his classmate, he was no match for what lay in the shadows, even in the non threatening ones in Port Angeles.

It was sunny again the morning. He circled the parking lot with a sinking heart, looking for a space, while also searching for the absent silver Volvo. He parked in the last row and hurried to English before the final bell.

It was the same as yesterday—he just couldn't keep the little sprouts of hope from budding in his mind, only to have them stomped on painfully at the sight of the empty tables.

The Port Angeles scheme was a go but with a small snag. Lauren now had other obligations, which left him with Angela, and unfortunately, Jessica. But Mike and Jessica went on a date last night, and he hoped that event, plus his bookstore scheme, would be enough to avoid her attention for most of the trip. He had his doubts that Seattle was still on, but he was sure Edward wouldn't cancel without at least telling him.

Jessica followed him home in her old white Mercury so he could park Big Red and drop his books. He was excited to get away from Forks for a few hours.

They made another stop to pick up Angela, turned onto the 101, and drove out of the town limits.

Jessica drove faster than the Chief, so they made it to Port Angeles by four. She provided as many details as possible about her date with Mike, especially the hope they would progress to the first-kiss stage soon. Beau thought most of it was a bald effort to make him jealous.

Angela was very excited to be going to the dance with Ben. Jessica tried to get her to confess if they had progressed to the first-kiss stage yet, but Beau interrupted with a question about the restaurant they had reservations for tonight, to spare her an interrogation. Angela threw a relieved glance his way.

Port Angeles was a beautiful little tourist trap, more polished and quaint than Forks. Jessica and Angela knew it well and avoided the busy boardwalk in favor of the department store. He trailed after them glumly.

The dance was billed as semiformal, and the girls weren't exactly sure what that meant. Both Jessica and Angela seemed surprised and almost disbelieving when Beau said he'd never been to a dance in Phoenix.

"Didn't you ever go with a girlfriend or something?"

"I didn't go out much . . . except for practices and games," he shrugged. Beau held the door open for them and wished he hadn't brought it up at all.

"Why not?"

"No one ever asked me."

Jessica's voice dropped to a resentful mutter. "People ask you out here and you tell them no."

He was rearing up to defend himself when Angela came to his rescue. "Well, except for Lauren."

"What?"

"Lauren told everyone you're taking her to prom," Jessica said suspiciously.

"She said what?"

"I told you it wasn't true," Angela murmured.

Beau found a bench near the racks and tore off his hat in frustration. The girls had a short, silent, discussion in front of the hangers before turning back to him.

"That's why Tyler's hanging around so much. Trying to edge you out, war-of-attrition-style," Jessica continued, her arms quickly filling with dresses. Beau took the pile from her, an old habit, and sat down again. He was still fuming.

It was unbelievable. Lauren was clueless. She practically forced him to motorboat her in Biology and he still said no. Wasn't that a clear enough answer? Did he have to wave a rainbow flag in the middle of the cafeteria to make her understand?

"Maybe that's why Tyler almost ran me over with his van. It was a long con to get me out of the way."

"Maybe," Jessica snickered. "Though he could hardly plan for the ice that day."

The girls peeked out of the dressing rooms for his opinion, twirling, occasionally tossing him their rejects over the top of the door. Beau followed them to the shoe section as the earlier gloom crept back into his mind.

"Angela?" He began, hesitant, while she tried on a pair of strappy pink heels. Jessica had drifted away to the jewelry counter.

"Yes?"

He chickened out. "Those are nice."

"I think I'll get them, though they'll never match anything but the one dress . . . and they make me even taller than him."

"Oh, go ahead, Ben knows how tall you are."

She smiled at that, putting the lid back on a box of a more practical-looking pair. Beau forced out the next words before he lost his nerve.

"Um, Angela . . . is it normal for the . . . Cullens . . . to be out of school a lot?"

"Yes, when the weather is good they go backpacking all the time—even the doctor. They're all real outdoorsy."

"Oh."

Beau waited for the inevitable questions, but none came; Angela had moved on to compliment the ugly jewelry Jessica found. He watched her listen patiently to the other girl and counted himself lucky for her friendship.

The trio had made reservations at La Bella Italia on the boardwalk, but the dress shopping hadn't taken as long as Beau expected. Jessica and Angela decided to take their purchases back to the car. He told them he'd meet up at the restaurant in an hour—he wanted to look for a bookstore. They were both willing to come along, but he encouraged them to go on without him, knowing how preoccupied he could get when surrounded by books.

He had no trouble finding the bookstore, but it was a type he hoped to avoid, full of crystals, dream-catchers, and spiritual healing manuals. There was even a Keep Port Angeles Weird sign in the window. It was staffed by a graying hippie behind the counter; that was one conversation he hoped to avoid. There had to be a normal bookstore in town.

Beau meandered through the streets, weaving between the working professionals, other tourists, and busy locals. He wasn't paying much attention to his route; he was struggling with his thoughts. He tried very hard not to think about Edward, and what Angela had said . . . and more than anything trying to beat down his hopes for Saturday.

His eyes landed on a silver Volvo parked along the street. Then it all came crashing down on him. Stupid, unreliable vampire. There was still a lot of time to kill before dinner, but he definitely had to get his bad mood sorted out before he met up with the girls again.

He realized he was going the wrong way. The little foot traffic he saw was going north. The buildings on either side of this street were mostly warehouses. He decided to turn east at the next corner, loop around after a few blocks, and try his luck on a different street en route back to the boardwalk.

A group of four men turned around the corner he was heading for, dressed too casually to be working professionals, but too grimy for tourists. The men joked loudly amongst themselves, laughing raucously, punching each other's arms. He leaned to the right to give them room.

"Hey, there!" one of them called as they swaggered past. Beau glanced up automatically. Two of them had paused, the other two slowing down. The closest, a heavyset, dark-haired man in his early twenties, seemed to be the one who had spoken.

"Hello," Beau mumbled, a knee-jerk reaction, as color climbed up the back of his neck. His shoulders were up around his ears as he rounded the corner. The men were still chortling behind him.

He found himself surrounded by more warehouses, each with large bay doors for unloading trucks. All were padlocked for the night. He had wandered past the visitor-friendly part of Port Angeles.

The returning clouds created an early sunset and lowered the temperature. A single van passed him, and then the road was empty. The sky darkened further, and, as he looked over his shoulder at the offending cloud, he realized with a shock that two men were walking twenty feet behind him.

They were from the same group he passed earlier. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather made him shiver. A memory of the locker room surfaced and his stomach twisted in knots. Beau had bulked up in the months that followed, lifting weights until he was on the brink of collapse, fearful he'd be jumped again. He started carrying pepper spray in his backpack, but it was in the kitchen at Charlie's house, not here when he really needed it.

Beau didn't have much money on him, just a twenty and some ones, and he considered giving them the entire wallet. But a familiar, frightened voice in the back of his mind warned him they might be something worse than thieves.

A blue car turned onto the street from the south and drove past. He thought about jumping out in front of it, unsure if he was truly being pursued, but by then it was too late.

A series of wrong turns led him to a street lined by blank, doorless, windowless walls. He saw the intersection in the distance, breathing a sigh of relief, only to inhale sharply when he noticed the other two men from the group stood waiting.

He wasn't being followed—he was being herded.

"There you are!"

The booming voice of the stocky, dark-haired man shattered the quiet and made Beau jump.

"Yeah," a voice called from behind him. "We just took a little detour."

The distance between himself and the lounging pair was closing. His shoulders stiffened as their faces became clearer. Both had strange, excited expressions, as if anticipating his reaction.

"Back off," he warned. His throat was dry—no volume.

"Don't be like that, sugar," one called, inciting laughter from the others.

Beau braced himself, feet apart, his hands curling into fists. It was time. This was what he had been preparing for. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of being scared. Not again. Hot anger boiled in chest, giving him the strength he didn't know he had.

He might not get out of this alive, but Beau was going to go down swinging.

Headlights suddenly flew around the corner, the car almost hitting the stocky one, forcing him back onto the sidewalk. The silver car fishtailed around and skidded to a stop with the passenger door open just a few feet away.

"Get in," a furious voice commanded.

An intense feeling of security washed over Beau—even before he was off the street—as soon as he recognized the voice. He jumped into the seat and slammed the door. The tires squealed as they spun to face north, accelerating fast, swerving toward the stunned men on the street. The group dove for the sidewalk as the car sped away.

His face was only visible from the glow of the dashboard. "Put on your seatbelt."

Beau obeyed, watching stop signs blow by without a pause. The belt connected with a loud snap in the darkness. His hands were shaking. But he felt utterly safe, and, for the moment, totally unconcerned where they were going. He studied the ghostly face to his left and realized the expression there was murderously angry.

"Are you okay?"

"No," Edward said curtly.

Beau sat in silence until the car came to a sharp stop. They weren't in town anymore.

"Beau?"

His voice was hoarse. "Yes?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"Distract me, please," Edward told him.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Just prattle about something unimportant until I calm down." He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"Um . . . I'm going to run over Lauren Mallory tomorrow before school?"

"Why?" His eyes were still closed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"She's telling everyone that I'm taking her to prom—either she's insane or blithely unaware of how much I hate her. So I figure if I endanger her life, Tyler can come to her rescue, then take her to the prom so I don't have to . . . " Beau babbled on.

"I heard about that."

"You did? Well, maybe I'll run them both over. They can share a hospital room and live happily ever after."

Edward sighed and finally opened his eyes.

"Better?"

"Not really." Edward leaned his head back against the seat. His face was rigid.

"What's wrong?" Beau's voice came out in a whisper.

"Sometimes I have a problem with my temper, Beau," he whispered back. "But it wouldn't be helpful for me to turn around and hunt down those . . . at least, that's what I'm trying to convince myself."

"Oh." The word seemed inadequate, but he couldn't think of anything better. Silence fell again in the Volvo. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard; it was past six-thirty.

"Jessica and Angela will be worried. I was supposed to meet them."

Edward started the engine and sped back toward town. They were under the streetlights in no time at all, still too fast, weaving through the other cars with ease. He pulled up in front of La Bella Italia, where Jessica and Angela were just leaving, hurrying anxiously away from the entrance.

"How did you know where . . . " Beau began, but then shook his head. The door opened and Edward was on the other side in no time at all.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm taking you to dinner." Edward smiled, but his eyes were hard. "Go stop Jessica and Angela before I have to track them down, too. I don't think I could restrain myself if I ran into your other friends again."

Beau shivered at the threat in his voice.

"Jess! Angela!"

The girls rushed toward him, relief turning into surprise when they realized who was standing there.

"Where have you been?"

"I got lost," Beau said sheepishly. "And then I ran into Edward."

"Would it be all right if I joined you?" Edward asked in his silken, irresistible voice. Beau could tell from their staggered expressions that he had never unleashed his full power on them before.

"Er . . . sure," Jessica breathed.

"Um, actually, Beau, we already ate while we were waiting—sorry," Angela confessed.

"That's fine—I'm not hungry."

"I think you should eat something," Edward said in an annoying authoritative tone. "Do you mind if I drive Beau home tonight? That way you won't have to wait while he eats."

"Uh, no problem, I guess . . . "

"Okay." Angela recovered quicker than Jessica. "See you tomorrow, Beau . . . Edward."

She grabbed Jessica's hand and pulled her toward the Mercury, which was parked across the street. Beau stood waving until the car vanished and turned back to Edward.

"Honestly, I'm not hungry."

His expression was unreadable. "Humor me."

"Yes, Mr. Hyde," Beau muttered, resigned.

It was the off-season in Port Angeles, so they nearly had the restaurant to themselves. The woman at the hostess podium scrutinized them both with assessing eyes.

"Table for two," Edward smiled, alluring even when he wasn't trying. He shook his head at the center table and requested something more private. Beau could have sworn he saw a crisp bill exchange hands, smoothly, just like in an old gangster movie.

"How's this?"

"Perfect."

The hostess blinked. "Your server will be right out."

"You really shouldn't do that to people," Beau said as he flipped open the menu. "It's hardly fair."

"Do what?"

"Dazzle them like that—she's probably hyperventilating in the kitchen right now."

He seemed confused.

"Oh, come on," Beau said dubiously. "You have to know the effect you have on people."

Edward tilted his head. "I dazzle people?"

"You haven't noticed? Do you think everybody gets their way so easily?"

"Do I dazzle you?"

"Frequently," Beau admitted.

The server arrived, his face expectant, no doubt from the dishing the hostess provided behind the scenes. He smiled warmly at Edward.

"Hello, I'm Alex. I'll be your server tonight. What can I get you to drink?"

He spoke only to Edward. Edward looked at Beau, who shrugged. "I'll have a Coke."

"Two Cokes."

"I'll be right back with that," Alex assured Edward, smiling, but Edward was still watching Beau.

"What?" he asked when they were alone.

Edward continued to study him. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," he replied, surprised by the intensity.

"You don't feel dizzy, sick, cold . . . ?"

"Should I?"

"I'm waiting for you to go into shock." Edward was smiling again in that perfect crooked way.

"Oh, that," Beau mumbled, remembering the way his hands shook in the Volvo. But the tremors were gone now, dispersing in the safety of the restaurant and with this company. "I guess I've learned how to repress unpleasant things."

"Just the same, I'll feel better when you have some sugar and food in you."

Right on cue, the waiter appeared with their drinks, a basket of breadsticks, and dipping oil. "Are you ready to order?"

"Beau?" Edward asked. Alex pulled a small pad of paper from the pocket of his apron, looking disappointed.

Beau chose the first thing he saw on the specials. "I'll have the mushroom ravioli."

"And you?" Alex turned back with a smile. Edward answered without sparing him a glance.

"Nothing for me."

"Let me know if you change your mind." His coy smile was still in place, but Edward didn't meet his eyes, and he left dissatisfied.

"Drink," Edward ordered.

Beau sipped his soda obediently, then drank more deeply, surprised by his thirst. Edward swapped their glasses when his was empty.

"Thanks." The cold from the soda seemed to be radiating through his chest; he shivered.

"Are you cold?"

"It's just the Coke."

Edward looked disapproving. "Don't you have a jacket?"

"Yes." Beau looked at the empty bench next to him, but found only his Mariners cap, which he didn't remember taking off. "Oh—I left it in Jessica's car."

Edward shrugged out of his own jacket. It was light beige, leather, and worth more than a month's rent in Phoenix. Underneath he wore a snug turtleneck that emphasized his muscular chest.

He handed Beau the jacket, interrupting his ogling.

"Thanks," Beau said, sliding his arms into the sleeves. It smelled wonderful. He raised one wrist on the pretense of smoothing down the collar and sniffed the cuff. Nope. No idea what the delicious scent could be.

"That color blue looks lovely with your skin."

Beau flushed. No one had ever associated the word lovely with him before.

Edward pushed the bread basket toward him expectantly.

"Really, I'm not going into shock."

"You should be—a normal person would be. You don't even look shaken."

"I was, before," Beau confessed. He was mesmerized into telling the truth again. Edward's eyes were lighter than he'd ever seen them, a bright, golden butterscotch. "Maybe I still am. But I feel very safe with you."

That displeased him. "This is more complicated than I'd planned."

Beau picked up a breadstick and took a bite. He wondered when he could start his line of questioning.

"Usually you're in a better mood when your eyes are so light."

Edward was stunned. "What?"

"You're always crabby when your eyes are black—I expect it then. I have a theory about that."

"More theories? Are you making any progress with them?"

"Yup," Beau said as he swirled his bread through the dipping oil. He had come a long way from radioactive spiders and kryptonite. Edward was watching him closely.

"I hope you were more creative this time . . . or are you still stealing from comic books?"

"Well, no. I didn't get it from a comic book, but I didn't come up with it on my own, either."

"And?"

But then the waiter came back with the food. Beau didn't realize they were leaning toward each other until both boys straightened up at his approach. Alex placed the dish on the table and turned to Edward.

"Did you change your mind? Isn't there anything I can get for you?"

"We're fine," Beau said, more rudely than he intended. Edward raised his eyebrows in amusement.

"More soda would be nice."

"Sure." Alex removed the empty glasses and walked away.

"You were saying?"

"I'll tell you about it in the car. If . . . " Beau glanced around cautiously, but the other patrons were well out of earshot.

"There are conditions?"

"I do have a few questions, of course."

"Of course."

Alex returned with two more Cokes. He set them down without a word and disappeared. Beau took a sip, knowing he was frustrating Edward with the delay.

"Well, go ahead."

"What brings you to Port Angeles tonight?"

Edward looked down as a hint of a smirk appeared on his face. "Next."

"But that's the easiest one!"

"Next," he repeated.

It was Beau's turn to be frustrated. He unrolled the silverware, speared a ravioli, and mulled over his next question.

"Okay then. Let's say, hypothetically, that . . . someone . . . could know what people are thinking, read minds, you know—with a few exceptions."

"Just one exception," Edward corrected. "Hypothetically."

"All right, with one exception. How does that work? What are the limitations? How would . . . that someone . . . find someone else at exactly the right time? How would he know someone else was in trouble?"

"Hypothetically?"

"Sure," Beau said impatiently. He munched on another ravioli, pleased with his last minute choice.

"Well, if . . . that someone . . ."

"Let's call him 'Joe.'"

"Joe, then. If Joe had been paying attention, the timing wouldn't have needed to be quite so exact." Edward rolled his eyes. "Only you could get into trouble in a town this small. You would have devastated their crime rate statistics for a decade, you know."

"Only if it was reported," Beau said in a cold voice. Statistics were no good if people were afraid to come forward, as he had been in Phoenix. "And we were speaking of a hypothetical case."

"Yes, we were. Shall we call you 'John'?"

"How did you know?"

Edward seemed to be wavering, torn by some internal dilemma. Their eyes locked, and Beau guessed he was making the decision right then to tell the truth.

"You can trust me, you know," he murmured, and without thinking, reached over to touch his folded hands. Edward slid them away minutely, and Beau pulled his hand back, blushing at the misstep.

"I don't know if I have a choice anymore. I was wrong—you're much more observant than I gave you credit for."

"I thought you were always right."

"I used to be." Edward shook his head again. "I was wrong about you on one other thing, as well. You're not a magnet for accidents—that's not a broad enough classification. You are a magnet for trouble. If there is anything dangerous within a ten-mile radius, it will invariably find you."

Beau almost laughed at his accuracy. "And you put yourself in that category?"

"Unequivocally."

Beau stretched his hand across the table again—ignoring Edward when he pulled back slightly—to touch the back of his hand shyly with his fingertips. His skin was cold and hard like a stone.

"Thank you." His voice was fervent with gratitude. "That's twice now."

Edward's face softened. "Let's not try for three, agreed?"

Beau made a face but nodded. Edward moved his hands underneath the table, leaned toward him, and took a deep breath.

"I followed you to Port Angeles. I've never tried to keep a specific person alive before, and it's much more troublesome than I imagined. But that's probably just because it's you. Ordinary people seem to make it through the day without so many catastrophes."

One ravioli slipped out of the clutches of his fork. "Wait, you followed me?"

"Well . . . "

"It's a yes or no question," Beau said in disbelief. "You either followed me or you didn't."

"Okay, then I did."

His mind tried to keep up with this new information. He struggled to think back to this afternoon; was that his Volvo Beau saw parked on the street? It felt like too big of a coincidence. His whole life seemed like a combination of them, a series of mishaps and mayhem that, in the past year, had turned deadly on more than one occasion. He made it out of two of these scrapes by Edward's intervention alone.

"Did you ever think that you're interfering with fate? That my number was up?"

His face was grave. "Your number was up the first time I met you."

"You're not wrong on that," Beau muttered as he pushed his plate away. "Yet here I sit . . . because of you. Because somehow you knew how to find me today."

Edward nudged his plate back to its original place. "You eat, I'll talk."

"It's harder than it should be—keeping track of you. Usually I can find someone very easily, once I've heard their mind before." He trailed off, silently prompting Beau to take another bite. "I was keeping tabs on Jessica, not carefully—like I said, only you could find trouble in Port Angeles—and I didn't notice when you took off on your own. I had no reason to be worried, but I was strangely anxious . . . I started to drive in circles, still . . . listening. The sun was setting, and I was about to get out and follow you on foot. And then—"

Edward stopped, clenching his teeth together in sudden fury. He made an effort to calm himself.

"Then what?"

"I heard what they were thinking," he growled. "I saw your face in his mind. It was very . . . hard . . . for me to simply take you away, and leave them . . . alive."

His voice had dropped to just above a whisper. "I could have let you go with Jessica and Angela, but I was afraid if you left me alone, I would go looking for them."

Beau leaned against the booth until his eyes were fixed on the ceiling. He had not expected this at all. Rather than fear or loathing, he only felt sympathy for Edward, sympathy mixed with shame. They both quelled a violent impulse tonight. It was almost funny to picture the fight that would have broken out had Edward not driven away. Between his own rage and Edward's obvious strength, it would have taken them minutes—seconds, even—to complete the act, even when outnumbered.

He shuddered. This was the part in crime shows where the lawyers prove it was not a heat-of-passion moment. That some thought had gone into it.

"Are you ready to go home?"

Beau let his head nod down in one smooth motion. Edward, seemingly with great effort, looked up from somewhere below Beau's chin.

"I'm ready to leave."

Beau was grateful they had an hour long ride back to Forks. He wasn't ready to say goodbye yet.

Alex appeared as if summoned. Or watching. "How are we doing?"

"We're ready for the check, thank you." Edward's voice was quieter than before, rougher, reflecting from the strain of the conversation. Alex, flustered, handed him the small leather folder, which Edward returned almost immediately. A large wad of bills stuck out of the top.

"No change," Edward said dismissively. He gestured for Beau to lead the way out of the restaurant.

"I could have paid," Beau murmured, embarrassed, as they approached the car. "I was the only one eating."

"Call it payment for the pleasure of your company."

"Does that make me a prostitute?"

Edward rolled his eyes. "Just get in the car, Beau."

The Volvo pulled through traffic toward the freeway. The radio turned on with the engine, playing classical music at a low, pleasing volume. Edward turned the heater up high, and Beau was grateful, pressing his palms on the vent every minute or two to warm them. He still wore Edward's jacket, though, breathing in the scent whenever he could get away with it.

After a few minutes of silence, Edward lowered the volume, then threw him a significant glance.

"Now it's your turn."

A/N: Hope everyone is staying safe with the COVID-19 situation! Thanks for reading as always.