I walked into the cafe, greeting the owner by name in Italian. He was confused, but unsurprised. He was well known by the locals and was used to people knowing him before he knew them. It was less common for a foreigner to know him, but it happened.

"Something to drink before the show?" he asked.

I raised a hand, smiling.

"I appreciate it," I said, "but I must decline. I am obstinating."

He laughed, "I have decaf, if you change your mind."

I grinned in earnest before taking my leave and heading to an empty table far to one side, waiting for the band to set up.

Garrett and I had been talking, and it was true; unlearning the lies that I had spent my life believing were true was only part of moving forward. The other part was finding what made me happy. And chief on the list was music.

The band came in, the configuration pretty standard; Nora the vocalist whose rough voice was nonetheless full of feeling, Anton on the upright bass who was steady yet unimaginative, Jacque on trumpet (passionate if not enthusiastic about playing mostly slow numbers), and, of course, Philippe on a charming upright baby grand piano. It was an upright Steinway by way of Germany, fifty years old, at least, and if the keys were discolored, the body was in excellent condition and it had been tuned in the last month by the sound of it. The music was slow and loungey, jazz that had been watered down by entrenched European sensibilities, but still with English vocals, modern and light accented by Nora's first language, French. Jacque really was the talent, playing with flourishes and clean vibrato. Nora's voice was exceptional in its depth of emotion, but her range was limited and she overworked herself to hit notes when less control would have served her better. And Philippe… Let us simply say that he was adequate enough to not have me shove him aside to do it for him.

And there I was sitting when she walked it. I wasn't sure what tipped me to her presence first. It might have been her mind, her thoughts muzzy and vague, something I couldn't really understand nor had I ever experienced. It might have been my instincts, running up and down my spine, informing me to be aware and ready. It might have been her scent, a woodsy smell that reminded me of farmland, yet floral and savory without piquing my thirst, at all. I was trying to make sense of it when I turned, and saw her for the first time.

She was just about halfway between 5'6" and 6' tall. She wore a woolen beanie on her head, which completely covered her hair. She was undeniably and unconventionally beautiful, the sort that appears in artistic photography rather than on the cover of magazines. She had smile lines at the corners of her eyes and yet hints of indents on her brows, as though she spent as much time laughing as she did glaring. With skin so fair, she should have had more freckles yet only had the lightest dusting of them gracing cross her nose and cheeks. Her nose was a bit broad across the bridge, but in a way that suited her, giving her a wild, almost primal look. Her cupid's bow lips softened the look without softening her expression. But her eyes… her eyes were extraordinary, a brown so light as to appear nearly golden, flecked with pale green. They were so fierce that even my otherworldly nature told me to be wary.

She walked with purpose, her motions graceful in a way that spoke of long won hardships, but with a confidence that showed she overcame her trials. Her gait was full of sway and bounce that I attributed from experience with women who enjoyed their bodies and their sexuality. Her clothing was in keeping with her bearing, all roguish disregard for norms. Her aesthetic was punk by way of Britain, Crust Punk. Her boots were worn and patched with duct tape, her Jean's black but frayed to white in places, her leather jacket studded and looked pieced together from at least four other jackets, over an olive drab hoodie unzipped over a T-shirt that looked practically homemade with Guerilla Poubelle painted across the bust. Here and there her clothes were hung with little homemade bangles, things that looked oddly like junk or trash that adorned her like stringed jewelry or miniature art pieces. Her nails were painted black some time in the last week and were now chipped and battered.

She came to the counter and greeted the owner directly if not by name and ordered a beer. When he asked her what kind and she said she didn't care, he gave her a look and said she should perhaps take herself elsewhere, I stepped in.

"Hey, Jean," I said in English. "Give me your best Pilsner."

He gave me a look, as did she.

He gave me the beer, and I turned to her.

"I don't need rescuing," she hissed in French, followed by a fairly rude insult to my personage.

I smiled, "That didn't sound very hospitable."

She glared at me.

"Would you like the beer or not?" I asked. Jean knew her type. What he didn't want was someone harsh and inflexible in his place, one who was brash and aggressive even before she had had her first sip. He watched as I proffered the drink, giving her the option of maintaining her ill manner or relent. She grumbled and roughly took the offered drink. Jean too relented and went back to tending bar.

I waited for her to walk away, but she did not. I didn't feel it was necessary to tip my hand just yet.

"Do you speak English?" I asked.

She gave me a sour look.

"Of course," she said, her accent vaguely German.

"Edward," I said, offering a hand I warmed before hers met mine. The moment our skin met, something thrilled through me. I felt an instinctive need to back away very slowly, to get a wall to my back, to be ready to fight or flee.

"Lissette," she said, giving me a hard look.

"Do you like music?" I asked, indicating the band.

She gave me a look then turned her attention to the small stage.

"They are alright," she said. "I prefer punk."

I nodded, "You're a rebel?"

She hiked her chin, "Perhaps."

I grinned, "British punk, I take it."

She raised an eyebrow, "Oh?"

I felt something shiver in me. I quashed it.

"Your clothes," I said. "I'd guess Sid Vicious, maybe The Adverts."

She raised the other eyebrow.

"Not bad," she said, "certainly better than I would have expected from some American pretty boy."

I tilted my head modestly, "I have studied a lot of music."

She popped the top with her bare hand and sipped her beer.

"Favorite instrument?" she asked.

"Piano," I said. "Yours?"

"Fender P-Bass," she said. "You do know what that is, yes?"

"Precision Bass," I said. "Solid body electric guitar produced in 1951 to present, made with maple and a variety of other woods in the body and fretboard."

She just stared at me.

"I said," I said, "I've studied a lot."

She regained her bearings.

"Why a piano?" she asked, as though casting off my attention so that she would have time to collect herself further.

I grinned, "They are impossible to tune."

She looked at me, slightly confused. I explained without her asking.

"There are two ways to tune a piano," I explained. "As with most instruments, you can tune a string by the other strings. But using the harmonics of the other strings on a piano doesn't work. If you attempt to tune more than a few strings, the math doesn't work. Comparing notes an octave apart will always be too sharp or too flat."

She nodded, "Is there another method?"

"Equal Tempered Tuning," I said. "It works mathematically, but requires the use of irrational numbers, which creates strings that are perfectly tuned one octave apart, but all the other strings in a cord are now too sharp or flat."

"Ah," she said. "It is a trade."

"Exactly," I agreed. "It is a system so complex that there is inescapable dissonance. It embraces imperfection, flawed beauty in which one must either look past the rough, unevenness to get at the artistry beneath."

"Or," she said, "one might simply appreciate the imperfection for its own sake. Things in this world do not require unity or symmetry or aesthetics to be worth admiring."

"Exactly," I said passionately. "It is so very telling how someone reacts to this knowledge."

"How so?" she asked suspiciously.

"It bares another's expectations," I explained. "Should an artist demand perfection of all things, should they be dismayed or angry or resentful, should they be saddened or break hearted, should they see only the worst with what is presented to them, piano is not for them."

She smiled, an almost knowing smile.

"I am the flaw," she said. "I am the aspect that cannot fit into the complex system. I am the inescapable imperfection. It is where I live, where I thrive."

She looked deep into my eyes, and I felt myself quiver in unexpected fear.

"It is where true beauty lies," she whispered, her lips trembling in time with the shivers up and down my spine.

Then, without a care, she pulled off the woolen beanie.

It was her. I don't know how I knew, but I knew then, that this was her. This was the woman that he had been looking for, the man who had shot Celine. I knew it down to my very bones, he had been looking for her.

No, I realized as I raised my head, stretching outward with my sense; no him. Them.

I sensed his mind again. Whatever had happened two weeks ago, he had gotten out of it. He was not alone tonight. There were four of them. Moving smoothly down the street. They had a sketch, something that held a passing resemblance of her. Two people had already said that they thought they had seen her, especially since they had added a description that involved her punk attire. They were coming.

I turned, calculating quickly. We still had a few minutes. How could I even begin to tell her what was happening?

Suddenly her head whipped towards me, her nose crinkling.

"What?" she said, her tone demanding. "What is it?"

I frowned, "What do you mean?"

She set her jaw, "Do not play cute with me, beau garçon."

Her head came up, and she looked around.

"Where are they?" she asked.

"Who?" I asked, not sure how to respond.

"Enfant bête," she growled. "I have no time for your games. Tell me."

I clenched my jaw.

"They are minutes away," I said. "In the street. Four. They have a picture. They know you are in the area, but not your exact location."

Faster and quieter than I would have thought possible, she grabbed my shirt. I could feel the strength in that grip; if she wanted, she could haul me bodily around without too much trouble. I stilled myself.

She looked at me, then back towards the front.

"Allons," she said. "You are coming with me."

I didn't argue, but I did ask, "Why?"

We went, but she had a hold of my shirt as we headed towards the back.

"If you are lying," she said simply, "and are driving me towards them, I am going to kill you."

I nearly laughed. She wasn't joking.

"Why do they want you?" I asked as we pushed past the bathrooms towards the back exit.

"C'est un mystère," she said. I didn't think she meant that it was a mystery to her, just that it would be to me.

We bashed our way through the door, and only after the fact did I notice that it had been locked and the bolt had broken out the door frame.

"D'accord," she said. "I don't kill you today. Tell anyone about this, then I will kill you."

"You're so sure?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

She looked me up and down, sniffing, "You cannot stop me from leaving."

I raised my hands, "Nor do I wish to. But I do not think you can get away from me, either."

She snorted, looking me in the eye.

"No," I said, compelling her to stay, our eyes locked.

And, if I hadn't believed she was anything more than human, I would have after that moment.

Something clicked. In the moment I would have gotten into her head, had she been merely your average human, I met... something. It wasn't the hard and fast wall that had been Bella's mind or the haze that had been Charlie Swan's; it felt like I had just stuck my hand into a bear trap, just pulling back in time. While I wouldn't be trying to get into her head any time soon, I had seen the shape of her mind, the defenses around it. She was not human. I had never come up against even a vampire who had such dangerous mental fortifications. But I had seen the shape of them, and I knew her mind now. I could not hear her thoughts any more clearly, but I could understand what I heard better. And, what was more, I had tuned in on her and if she was within my range, I could sense her and find her.

But, what I had done had not only tipped her hand, but mine as well. She looked at me, and something seemed to move behind her eyes. They went fiery with a rage I don't think I had ever seen on a human face.

"Sangsue!" she snarled, and came at me. Had I moved in any other direction, I might have lost. She seemed prepared for me to run, in just about any direction. I didn't run; I leaped, far and fast enough that I might as well have flown away. I landed blocks away, slowly, light upon a rooftop. I could just barely sense her from there. She was moving away, I knew not where. I got the barest hint of irritation, but begrudging irritation.

I came back to the apartment to find Garrett sitting on the balcony, rereading La Nausée as he waited for me to return.

"You seem out of sorts," he said, bookmarking his place with a finger as he mostly closed the book.

"I think I made a friend tonight," I said.

"How extraordinary," he said with a grin. "Tell me about it."

He considered, taking a seat across from him.

"Do you know," I asked cautiously, "of any other supernatural creatures?"

He looked at me sharply.

"No," he said. "Do you?"

"Yes," I said. "But they are gone. A group of shapeshifters that we encountered in the 1930's. They were centered around a tribe of Native Americans. This was not that."

He nodded, "What was it?"

"She was-" I began, but he interrupted, "She?"

I gave him a look.

"Sorry," he conceded. "Please, go on."

"Do you remember the shooting a couple of weeks ago?" I asked.

He nods, "You spotted the gunman and sent the bouncer over to him just before I confronted you."

"I left out a detail that I really didn't think was important at the time," I explained. "He was looking for a girl."

"The girl you found tonight?" he asked, as though he couldn't make that small leap on his own, and I nod.

"She was at the venue I was attending," I continued. "The gunman from before had never seen her before, only had a description, but it was her."

"How are you so certain?" he asked.

"Aside from the fact that he showed up in the area with three other men, looking for her with additional information that match her pretty definitively," I say with thin sarcasm, "the fact that she is something otherworldly sealed the deal for me."

He nodded, "What makes you think she is supernatural?"

"Two things, really," I said. "One, while I don't know what she is, she triggered my self preservation instincts. I know she is strong if nothing else, and she doesn't smell any different from a human, but there is a wild fierceness to her. And, two, she knows of vampires."

Garrett sat straight.

"That is dangerous," he said. "If she has encountered our kind before and lived, she is more than a physical threat to us."

"What makes you say so?" I asked.

He sets his book down after checking the page number, "You know The Law. If she discovered our kind, she needs to be destroyed. Either she escaped or she killed whomever exposed us to her. Either way, she is a loose cannon."

I nodded in concession.

"She is being hunted," I pointed out.

"Vampires?" he asked.

I shrug, "The men aren't, for certain. But they do seem to be professionals, militaristic and knowledgeable in the ways of finding human prey. It could be that they are in the employ of a vampire or vampires."

He nodded again.

"Could you find her again?" he asked, picking up his book.

That, after all, was the question.

"Perhaps," I said. Something twisted in me, a desire to know, the same desire that brought me back to Forks after that short week in Denali. The fact that the desire was once again attached to a girl was displeasing to me. I really hoped that this was not going to go the same as before. But how could it? She was not Bella.