A/N: Thanks so much for your wonderful thoughts!

Here are two more chapters combined into one. ;)

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 9 – Hobomock

Working briskly, Edward locates mine stockings and rolls them over mine legs. Any thrill from such an act is set aside, for he moves on without pause to mine boots, then drapes my cloak over my sleep clothes before lifting and cradling me in his arms. When I slip mine arms round his shoulders, our eyes meet and hold.

We are a dichotomy of the moment. I cannot deny that a heady heat of excitement thrums in my veins; I imagine its flush must reflect in mine cheeks and in mine eyes by way of a bright glow.

Contrastingly, Edward's cheeks never hold a flush to begin and now appear exceedingly pallid. His gaze be equally subdued, stoically enigmatic as if, despite our agreement for the truth, he dreads what is to come and vacillates as he stands there, with me in his rigidly tense arms. When I rest a palm on his cheek and lean in closer, he lifts his brow.

"Kiss me, Soaring Eagle," breathe I, offering him my mouth, which moments earlier I had denied him.

His lips capture mine in a soft, feather-light kiss, like the brush of a dove's tail. He exhales into my mouth, and the stiffness in his frame slackens. Soon, he pulls back, resting his forehead against mine, both our chests rising and falling against one another's. Yet, as the air we both breathe – or, perhaps, only I breathe – mingles in the minimal space betwixt us, the moment seems to serve its purpose. His breath, regardless of how unnecessary it may be, has provided me with a measure of composure. I can only hope my breath provides him with a portion of my anticipation.

His ensuing footfalls be so bewilderingly quick 'tis almost as if he does not move, does not make purchase with the ground. One moment, we are in my room; the next, we stand by the front door, with my hitch of breath being the loudest sound of the whole business. He pauses, tilts his head, and listens. Then, with a nod meant more for his self, he opens and shuts the front door behind us, all with equal nimbleness and inaudibility.

'Tis a nebulous and exceedingly cold eve. Shivers rack my frame, for night clothes offer scant protection and are meant not for an out-of-doors excursion in mid-October Massachusetts Bay. Edward ensures that my cloak be well-situated round me, wrapping it snuggly and bundling me so that only my nose and the barest portion of mine cheeks peek out from beneath my hood. I begin to chuckle at his actions of a mother hen, when, of a sudden, I am struck by a vertiginous sensation that makes my head swoon and leaves me lightheaded,.

"Are ye well?" Edward whispers, noting the occurrence.

"Aye," I answer with a smile.

He frowns. "Perhaps this excursion should not occur."

"Edward, cease this dithering, for ye promised," I remind him. "Ye provided me no warning of how swiftly you meant to move. That is all. Let us go now, before we are seen."

He purses his lips, then sets aside reluctance with a sigh. "I apologize, my love," breathes he contritely. "I shall warn ye now. Shut your eyes, Isabella."

I shutter mine eyes but begrudgingly, for I want to see. But I truly did not enjoy the unfocused sensation. 'Twas a…peculiar sort of faintness, and I am not one to feel faint.

Now, 'tis as if we be atop my father's horse cart, and someone has whipped the sedate horses into an immediate gallop – yet even more intense. Objects that feel like a series of sharp needle-like implements abruptly nip at my cheeks. My eyes reopen so that I may discover the source of such prickling, and again, my equilibrium be heartily disturbed. For the celerity with which we traverse- nay, with which we soar through the woods be staggering. The stars above shine upon blurry, indistinguishable shapes and dark colors that meld into one another.

"Edward," expel I, tightening my hold around his neck, my eyes tearing from the sharp gusts of wind invading them. Anything else I may have meant to say is lost as that wind, still biting at my cheeks, now sends wave-like squalls of air into my mouth.

Edward laughs loudly.

"Be ye afraid already, Isabella? For if this terrifies you, we are off to a wretched beginning," he calls out.

His voice teases but does not mock, and though boisterous, 'tis also surprisingly as light as his footfalls. The why of it strikes me as he speaks with more animation than I have ever heard from him: Edward's speed invigorates him. These weeks, as he hides nightly in my room, speaks in hushed tones, and moves with languid caution, have been a suppression of his true nature.

Now, he be free.

"'Twill only grow worse, my love," continues he in a playful tone.

I laugh along with him, his stimulation buoying my own. "I am not afraid!" shout I, then cough as the vicious wind chokes me.

"Shh," Edward murmurs close to my ear. "Do not open your eyes or your mouth, my love."

With a brisk kiss to my crown, he nudges my head against his chest. This time, I stifle my curiosity.

Without my sight, I must rely on mine other senses. At first, our surroundings sound and smell familiar. I hear the woosh of leaves and the crackle of branches. I smell the damp scent of lush greenery mixed in with the vicious wind. After not too long a period, even those recognizable scents and sounds become similar…yet somehow different.

"Are ye well?" Edward murmurs close to my ear every few minutes.

"Aye," I reply, though speaking be not a simple task currently.

He holds me securely, and although I cannot claim his grip keeps me warm, it does keep me safe. I gauge above an hour transpires before his footfalls slow, then halt. And although I know he attempted to regulate the speed with which he stopped, my teeth rattle.

"My love, I apologize," says he. "Open thine eyes now, Isabella."

Mine eyes open directly onto him. Along with his windblown hair, I observe how euphoria has brightened his eyes. He sets me down, and another bout of that peculiar vertigo strikes, making me sway unsteadily.

Edward's arms tighten around me. "Isabella!" says he with alarm.

"I am well," I smile, forcing away the dizziness, for I have no time or patience for it. Nonetheless, I feel it pushing at the corners of my mind, like a strange wall.

"'Tis simply a consequence of our mode of travel. I am well, I promise," I repeat.

"I shall make our return with more caution," says he determinedly and with concern lingering in his tone.

I chuckle. "How much more cautious could you have…?" When I look out on our surroundings, a loud gasp escapes me.

We be in a clearing – in a meadow, surrounded by evergreen trees and overflowing with swaying lush blades that hum soothingly in the evening breeze. And aye, 'tis merely a breeze and not biting wind, I note now. Wildflowers grow sparsely yet heartily in shades of lavender. An inky sky melds with the stars above, they as thick as clouds and together, tinting all below in a bluish hue I have never before observed. Far ahead stands a canvas-covered structure like the ones in the Wampanoag settlement where I first laid mine eyes on my love, my Soaring Eagle. But 'tis a lone structure – the only structure beside trees as far as the eye can see. Smoke billows from an opening at the top, rising in loops and blanketing the milky stars.

We are, in all ways, far from Andover village…in the midst of night-cloaked heaven.

I vaguely muse that had I been riding in the horse cart with Father, and he driving the team at full speed for an equal amount of time as we have just gone, we would have traveled far. Yet, I cannot even fathom how far Edward's legs have traversed us into this wild land. I know I am further than I have ever been from Massachusetts Bay. I suspect I be further inland than anyone in Massachusetts Bay has ever been.

Ambling toward the structure, my breaths swirl before me, yet I feel not cold – certainly not as cold as it be in Massachusetts Bay. I do not hear Edward walk behind me, yet I know he follows, for I feel his proximity. He speaks close to my ear.

"Do you like it?"

"'Tis how Mother would describe Eden when I was a little girl, before Reverend Newton became Andover's minister. Edward…I have never observed anything its equal."

He is silent for a moment. "There be a lush and vast world, Isabella, far beyond what thy fellow Englishmen can fathom. This land stretches for days and days…and days. Yet, we have arrived at this spot in a much shorter time, for mine other people…we need not so many days."

He be opening up to me, and so I barely dare breathe, much less interrupt by speaking as he lays a cool palm on my arm.

"There be lands where thy sublime skin would feel the endless warmth it deserves," says he, skimming his hand downward and threading his fingers through mine, "and lands where thy skin would become ice. There be mountains layered with snow and others that spit liquid fire high into the sky. There be trees that grow to the heavens and stouter ones with wide, flat leaves that undulate languidly in ever-warm breezes. There be green valleys and frozen rivers and lakes teeming with sufficient fish to feed the whole of the world. There be game that blanket and shake the land, dispersing all in their path when they run, and their size be the like of which your fellow Englishmen have never dreamed."

Now 'tis my wonder which leaves me momentarily speechless. "Have ye seen these lands of which you speak?" ask I when I find my voice.

"Aye."

"Will ye take me?"

He does not reply immediately. "I have laid out in open fields, stood atop high peaks, and swam in deep oceans…and imagined ye beside me. If you still wish it, once we be done, I shall take ye wherever thy heart desires."

We have arrived at the canvased structure. With my heart hammering an eager song, I push aside the nubuck-skinned opening. Then, I sweep my gaze around the space. Tears sting mine eyes for its beauty.

Although, perhaps, beauty be a relative thing, for 'tis merely a space, alit with a fire burning in a hearth, framed by varied shaped rocks. Thick animal furs line the ground from end to end. Other than Edward standing beside me, there is nothing and no one else.

And so, aye, 'tis perfection.

I take in my love, who stands so, so close. With the hearty fire burning in the hearth, he be framed by more light than by which I have ever seen him. His tall frame exudes power and virility, his features strong and angular, his crimson eyes glowing. If not the God, Edward be a god, and he be more precious to me than any god in this world and beyond.

"Ye be a glorious being to behold," breathe I right before he crushes his mouth to mine.

His kiss be urgent yet hasty, and he pulls back only moments later as if determined not to be distracted.

"Now and here," says he with fervor, "we need not hide in darkness nor speak in hushed whispers. For this be our world, my Isabella."

While I catch mine breath, he leads me further in and assists me with situating mineself, then sits cross-legged across from me, his forearms resting upon his knees. The fire's flames bathe our space in a soft glow, its crackle soothing.

"I have never seen ye with this much light," I muse, mesmerized by the flames reflected in Edward's scarlet gaze. They dance like woodland fairies, ones who have been in hiding but are now finally allowed to break free.

He drops his gaze and keeps it averted for a handful of minutes, appearing wistful and woefully lost in thought. Thick waves of his long hair fall across his face, and I ache to reach out and brush them back, but the fire separates us. We are alone, far from all who would keep us apart, with no need to regulate ourselves, yet he has once again placed distance between us. I begin to suspect 'tis purposeful. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he meets my eyes from between thick, dark lashes.

"Are ye ready to scream?" He emits a morose chuckle, and aye, the moment of lightness and humor is over. Instead, he continues much more sedately. "The day ye came into the settlement with thy father, I had just returned from a hunt – not a hunt for me, but to feed my people. 'Twas thy beauty I first noted, a beauty not even thy obtrusive bonnet could keep concealed. You name me glorious, Isabella?" asks he, shaking his head in disbelief. "But 'twas the curiosity visible in thy brilliant eyes that kept mine eyes on ye. You did not look at my people with fear or disgust," he nods now, "but with open admiration. I had never observed an English woman do such. Neither did ye look upon the land with the avarice of ownership. Rather, much as ye did when we arrived here, I saw thy veneration and respect for the land. And so…when I observed ye observing me, I wondered…I allowed myself a momentary hope that when thy eyes met mine, your singularity would continue. But then…" he snorts, "thy father called ye attention, and you did not meet my gaze. You did not see me."

"And so ye followed me."

He nods, his furrowed gaze pinned to the fire. "I hid in the shadows and in the woods, and I observed ye and came to know that, aye, you were young and limited by age and sex. Yet, ye did not suffer fools nor folly."

A quiet snort escapes me. "My mother calls it insubordination."

He smiles. "Aye. I…I wavered about ever approaching ye."

"Why?"

"Not because I did not want to."

"Because ye dreaded this conversation. 'Tis why ye still speak in riddles."

He inhales sharply and meets my gaze. "'Twas never meant as deception, nor did I ever mean to laugh at ye. Yet, ye pleaded with me not to extract mine form of punishment from thou one-time admirer, Emmett," he sneers, "nor from thy lustful hypocrite of a reverend. And 'twas not a simple thing to ask of me, Isabella." Nostrils now flaring, he shakes his head. "My very nature compels me to kill all living, breathing beings. I fight against it at every turn." He pauses. "I fight against it now."

A series of broken breaths escape me, and although I attempt to conceal them, for aye, he no longer holds back, Edward is neither stupid nor blind. He sees and hears better than most. With a wry smile, he reminds me that I was cautioned.

"You wanted the entire truth, Isabella, and, despite what ye claim of thy own dark side, thy nature be at odds with that of an individual prepared for a dark existence."

I shake my head. "Ye exaggerate mine benevolence, for I do not so easily forgive transgressions against me more than I merely believe in justice in the afterlife."

"My love," Edward grins, "pray do not believe me to be mocking thee when I say this, but my kind have been around a long…long time." He sighs. "I have been alive long enough to know what judgment come be passed in this life, not in the next."

"Yet that judgment I shall wholly accept if I have fallen for a demon. And I say this clearly, without thy slow, measured way with words."

He reels back. For a few moments, neither of us speaks.

"Were I to say aye," he hedges, "ye have given your heart to a demon, what would thou say next?"

"I would ask thee what form of devilry we shall get up to together," I grin in return.

Edward laughs, though he shakes his head, not believing this reply.

"Ye laugh, but I speak the truth, and I speak it directly, without pretty poetic prose that, at day's end, is merely another riddle." When I rise to my feet, his head tilts upward sharply.

"No. Don't go."

He believes I aim to leave, though where he thinks I would go confounds me. Either way, leaving was never my intent. Confusion fills his eyes until I kneel beside him, bypassing the fire betwixt us, and weave our hands together.

"Edward, any care, any trepidation I may have ever felt about the perils to my immortal soul wrought by loving a creature who only appeared to me in darkness drifted away in the wind, like the leaves that fell and broke around Emmett's prone body on the eve ye showed thyself to me." My mouth brushes against his, and I restate in a slow murmur against his lips, "As I have stated, more than once, I do not fear you, Edward."

He pulls back enough to hold my gaze. "Ah, but I fear you, Isabella."

"What can ye possibly fear from me?" ask I. "I may not know all yet, but I know your strength surpasses that of any man, of any being I can imagine."

He does not reply immediately. "As ye said, I have dreaded this conversation because, despite your assurance that you do not fear me, once I tell you what exactly I be, ye shall banish me from thy presence."

Bringing our joined hands to my lips, I brush a kiss over his cold knuckles. His eyes remain warily on mine, unflinching.

"Ye tell me you are not man, yet ye breathe heavily when upset or aroused. You swallow when nervous or angry. These be the actions of men. But you say you are both more and less than a man. Tell me what you are, so that I may prove your fears unfounded. Tell me-"

When Edward pulls his hands out of my grasp, my speech cuts off.

"Do not touch me until I am done with the narrative."

"What?" Pain lances through my chest. "Why?"

Perhaps the manner in which these last two questions erupt – like the demands of a whining child – be the reason why Edward glares at me. In the fire's light, his features resemble stone, his black eyes gleaming and his pale frame aglow. I recall Father's words from a few weeks earlier, when unbeknownst to he, Father sat across from my love in a tent I imagine much like this one. At that time, Edward gave him a book of poetry for me. Father said the warrior with whom he traded appeared to have glowing eyes…and Father shuddered at the memory. For Edward must have looked terrifyingly wicked. Deadly. He must have resembled a beautiful demon.

Much as he does now.

"Heed me in this, Isabella." His voice is a low growl. "For I must gauge from thine eyes whether the narrative should continue or end."

"Ed-"

"Heed. Me," he hisses.

Swallowing back more fury than fear, I nod. For I want his truth more than I want the final word.

"Aye?"

"Aye," I confirm tightly.

And so, his story pours forth without further delay. What is more, he speaks quickly, and aye, as the narrative progresses, my breath quickens. Mine eyes grow round. At times, my mouth falls agape.

All the while, mine Soaring Eagle, mine Edward, watches my reactions as I resort to fisting the animal skins under me, to biting my lips. And internally, I question my stupidity at vowing not to scream. For such things are revealed that are beyond terrifying, that I once believed impossible.

Yet, they exist in the same world in which I exist. And now, I shall never escape them.

OOOOO

"This is the manner of my birth, as I have been told by mine mother's people.

Before there was Plymouth Colony, there was Patuxet – a coastal village of Wampanoag people populated mostly in the warmer season. The Wampanoag were thousands upon thousands strong then. Our people lived further inland in the winter, and in the spring, when the earth woke up and new life emerged from plants, animals, birds, and trees, many moved to the coast. The Patuxet men would cast their boats into the harbor and fish. The women planted and tended to gardens, and the children played on the beach. Then, when the cold wind blew the dry leaves back to the earth, the people of Patuxet would move inland, where the weather was not as harsh. These people laughed and sang and moved to the beat of the drum wherever they went."

"It sounds like a beautiful life."

Edward nods wistfully. "For thousands upon thousands of years, 'twas a happy life, they say." He expels a ponderous breath. "Almost four score ago now, in the summer of 1614, the Hyannis, or 'Captain' in English, John Smith commanded a fleet of ships to turn into our coasts. By then, the Wampanoag were aware of the existence of the white man. Among that fleet was a ship with a captain by the name of Carlisle Cullen."

The manner in which Edward spits this name causes a shiver to run up my spine. He notes this yet continues, and I dare not interrupt.

"Upon his departure to return to England, Captain Smith instructed Captain Cullen to make one more landing and go to Patuxet to trade with the natives there. Captain Cullen was to get some fish and beaver pelts in exchange for blankets, knives, and such. So a party of twenty young, hale Wampanoag men visited the ship, which was anchored off the harbor. Carrying furs and other trade, the men boarded the ship. Days turned to nights, and no one came out of the ship. The women arrived at the beach to see what was happening, why their men did not return. Instead, these women cried and screamed when they observed the ship raise the anchor and sail off with their men on board."

"Dear Lord," I breathe without thought. "Why?"

"That…I do not know. What I know is that four nights passed, and the men and women of Patuxet mourned their young men. On the fifth morning, a young woman of seventeen years by the name of Sokanon, walked alone along the beach. Later, she would tell that she saw Captain Cullen walk out from the water."

"Mean you, he swam out from the water," I correct, believing that he is perhaps confusing his languages.

But Edward knows what he speaks. Slowly, he shakes his head. "Nay. I mean, walk. His head broke through the surface and the rest of him followed as he made his way onto the beach. He was shouting in agony. Sokanon later confessed that although such a sight should have terrified her…" Edward's eyes meet mine, "she felt no fear. For Captain Cullen, said she, was a beautiful creature, and even in his pain, she loved him. And that love…would be her downfall."

He averts his gaze and falls silent while I wait, with bated breath and a racing mind.

"Captain Cullen did not speak sensibly," Edward resumes, "and 'twas clear to Sokanon that his mind and body were in distress. He spoke of a burning torment and claimed it felt as if he were being held over a pyre. And so Sokanon ran back to the village to fetch her elder sister, Aquinnah-"

"I apologize, my love." I shake my head vigorously. "The mind fog that struck me during our run seems to have made a return. My head…'tis still somewhat disoriented from the run."

"Curse me and my stupidity," he spits furiously. "I should have known better than to put you through such a thing. Edward frowns darkly in undeniable concern. Once again, I push away the wall of fog, though it seems to take more effort now…more will. Yet, I manage it.

"I assure you, I am just fine. But, if ye do not mind repeating what you said about the burning torment."

He nods, trepidation apparent in the lines marring his forehead. However, soon, we are back on track, and both consumed in the tale.

"Captain Cullen spoke of a burning torment and claimed it felt as if he were being seared over a pyre. Sokanon raced back to the village and fetched her elder sister, Aquinnah, for she was known to be noble and therefore trusted. They returned to the beach, but the only injury visible on Captain Cullen was what appeared to be a bite on his wrist. Sokanon and Aquinnah agreed, however, that his appearance – black eyes, cold skin, and a complexion even paler than that normal for the English – was worrisome. And so, betwixt the two, they helped him back to Patuxet, where they would consult the elders. There, they made Captain Cullen comfortable and provided him with furs and warmth. Still, he shivered and writhed, spoke almost unintelligibly of disease running rampant on his ship, of men turning into beasts…into something close to cannibals."

"What be cannibals?" ask I.

Edward holds my gaze impassively. "Cannibals feast on the meat and blood of their fellow man."

Bile rises to my throat. "Surely, no such thing exists."

At his inscrutable gaze, I force myself into silence.

"The captain was provided sustenance," Edward resumes, "but he spat it out. Yet he shouted of unbearable hunger…and thirst. And so he remained in painful delirium. Sokanon, whose heart ached for the turmoil in which she had found Captain Cullen, volunteered to watch over him. Five days and four nights she tended to him. She later told Aquinnah that in his disorientation, the captain saw visions. He imagined his wife, whom he called Esme, present, though she was in England. He began to believe that Sokanon was Esme."

"Was it madness?" interrupt I, the words barely spoken beyond the movement of my mouth.

Again, Edward casts his eyes to me. "I imagine that he knew what he craved, yet he denied himself, believing it unthinkable, as ye just did," he grins without mirth, "heinous…monstrous. In his incoherence, Captain Cullen had confessed to Sokanon that his father in England was a minister, and so…" He nods sharply. "Aye, 'twas madness, for I as well know that denial leads to a rampant hunger that only abates through rampage. Isabella, your heart races like a warrior's horse. Should I stop?"

I draw in a series of broken breaths. "Nay. Nay, please do not."

"On the sixth night, Hobomock appeared."

"Who is Hobomock?" ask I.

"Hobomock…Hobomock is what the Wampanoag call the evil being who feasts on the blood and bones of men. He is what the English, what your Reverend Newton," sneers he, glaring at a spot beyond me, no longer holding my gaze, "would call the Devil."

All mine blood runs cold.

"In one night, Hobomock slaughtered almost the entire village of Patuxet – men, women, and children. He drank of their blood, discarded their carcasses without caution or care, then he disappeared into the woods."

"The Devil be real?" ask I in an undeniably quivering voice.

"Aye, my love," Edward nods, meeting my eyes once more. "The devil be real, and he be merely one of the many diseases brought by the English. He lives deep in the woods now, too ashamed to show his face. He feeds still – at times, with caution, aware of his cravings, and only what he needs for survival."

He is silent for a long moment, and although I know now where this tale leads, I ask,

"Edward…what does this tale have to do with thee?"

He tilts his head and waits, for aye, he means to make me face the truth I sought.

"Captain Cullen bedded Sokanon."

He nods. "In his delirium, he thought her his wife, Esme, and…as she tended to him, Sokanon fell in love. Or she believed herself in love. Either way, what resulted was that Sokanon and her sister, Aquinnah, were spared by he. Yet they barely had time to grieve for the loss of the tribe, for Sokanon began increasing with…unnatural speed." He pauses while a tear silently rolls down my cheek. "And so, Isabella, I ask thee again, what would ye do if I were a demon?"

"Nay, my love," say I. "Thou art not a demon."

"Aye, but I am," he grins. "For I be Hobomock's seed. I tore through Sokanon to come into this world. My aunt, Aquinnah, realized too late what was occurring and did not have time to cut through Sokanon's womb in the manner of the midwives. Despite Aquinnah's skill in assisting with difficult births, my birth was unlike anything she had ever known. With her dying breath, Sokanon begged her sister to care for me. Yet, in Aquinnah's grief, she took me to the highest cliffside she could scale, then prepared to throw me-"

I clamp a hand over my mouth as a whimper escapes me, but I refuse to scream, even as more tears stream down my cheeks.

"'Twas only her instant love for me, despite my violent entry, that stayed Aquinnah's hand. She then named me Soaring Eagle, for she imagined that even had she thrown me over the cliff, I would have soared." He snorts. "She named me also after my father's father – Edward – so that we would never forget the evil of men. Then, she raised me as her own."

Much time transpires until I recall that we do not possess the luxury of time. There is much Edward has revealed and much in between his words, I am sure. But I shall have to think on it later. For Mother and Father be early risers, as be most of Puritan Andover, since idleness be the devil's work. The salient fact is that there is a choice to make here, and whatever I choose, I must choose now.

'Perhaps…perhaps, the devil truly be seated across from ye, Isabella,' my mind whispers.

Horrified, I shake the thought out of my head, for nay, I do not believe that! Not for one moment! What form of stupidity, of weakness, allowed that thought to cross my mind, I know not, and I am heartily ashamed.

Remorse for the momentary, wayward thought grows all the more when I meet Edward's gaze. By the pained expression he allows for a mere second before wiping it away from his features, I know he caught my moment of weakness.

I straddle Edward's lap and slide my arms around his shoulders. In turn, he slides his hands around my neck yet remains stoic and rigid.

"Think ye I do not desire ye with every thought and every part of me?" he asks brusquely. "Ask me again why I force myself to put distance between us." As he speaks, I feel an inflexible stiffness under my lap…betwixt his legs.

"Edward-"

"I feed on blood, Isabella!" spits he in reply. "And although unlike my father, I may survive on animal blood without going mad, it does not satisfy," sneers he. "It leaves me feeling empty. And you…" growls he as he buries his face against my throat, "you make the man and the beast in me ravenous. You touch yourself and speak my name…"

The solid rigidness under me grows…hardens.

"Edward…"

He pulls away and grips my shoulders carefully yet firmly. "Can ye now fathom my struggle? For your blood and your body fill my senses! Do ye see why I be so cautious? Even bringing ye here, 'twas the decision of the beast in me, for the man in me knows the peril!"

"Edward…"

"I am almost four score, yet I do not age, Isabella. I know not how long my life shall be, but it appears it shall be long. This is me forevermore, and do not deny ye be horrified. And so, how am I to doom ye to this-"

I cage his face between my hands. "I shall not deny the horror in portions of your story as long as ye attempt not to decide our fate!"

"I am Hobomock – a demon!" he roars.

"Ye are no demon!" I shout back, "and if ye be a demon, then I shall be a demon's wife!"

A thousand and one emotions cross his face as he searches mine eyes, where most prominent be fury, disbelief, and then…a budding hope. For I know now what he be, and he sees that I more than accept…I crave him in every way.

"Edward, hear me: before ye came into my life, all ahead of me was cold," hiss I, "empty and bleak. In Andover, all I could look forward to was marriage to one of the simpering, sniveling, and lifelessly pliant fools in the village. I would birth his children, grow weary, wrinkled, and equally lifeless. Then, I would die. Those were my prospects. You, my Soaring Eagle," say I, fisting his hair hard and forcing him to hold my gaze, "you are the promise of an existence where I may finally be free, where I may explore, where I may run and scream and feel love and pleasure to my heart's content, with no guilt, with no one to tell me 'tis a sin for I care not what sustenance that entails, Edward…" I breathe, "you are life itself, and I beg ye to take me away from this existence of nothing."

This time, when he crushes his mouth to mine, he does so with abandon. His mouth molds around my lips, and his hands mold around my body.

He pulls away, smiles, opens his mouth to speak, yet seems unsure what to say, where to begin.

"I want to believe it shall be that simple, that ye can accept me…"

"Then believe it," I smile in return, "for I shall spend our entire existence proving mine love and devotion."

"Isabella…" he shuts his eyes, and reopens them. "There are facets that I must still reveal. I do not sleep."

"Then I shall not sleep either," I chuckle.

"Thy eyes will change…thy skin grow pale…"

"All inconsequential as long as you remain by my side. Edward, I know enough. The rest I shall learn as we go."

He searches mine eyes. "Will you truly come away with me?"

"Aye. Truly."

"Forevermore?"

"Forevermore, Edward…my Soaring Eagle. Forevermore."

He swallows. "I must needs feed well before I change ye."

"Know ye how to do so?"

"'Tis instinctive. I changed my Aunt Aquinnah – whom the English call Alice, for her wisdom, when I was seven. She desired to remain young and to be strong. In turn, she changed the man who became her husband. They live far now, but I see them often."

"I am happy to know ye have not been entirely alone."

He brushes his mouth to mine. "I shall have to leave you and go deep into the lands. I should like to retrieve my aunt, for I trust her and would wish for her assistance, most particularly should..."

"Should?" I prompt.

"Should I get thee with child. I know not if 'tis possible, or if only full Hobomock may procreate."

I stroke his face. "Call us not Hobomock, my love."

He sighs. "I have spent mine entire existence believing I be Hobomock's seed."

"And we shall spend the rest of our existence ridding you of that belief."

He gazes at me tenderly but neither agrees nor disagrees. "Either way, I shall not take a chance with thy life. I should pray my seed does not take hold, yet my aunt has assured me that, if it should occur, this time, she shall know what to do."

"Does thy aunt have children?"

He shakes his head.

"If ye trust thy aunt, I shall do so as well. My only request now is that ye not be away too long, and..."

He lifts a dark eyebrow. "And?"

"And…if ye take precautions should ye get me with child, then ye must take my body, Soaring Eagle. Make me yours."

Edward palms my cheek. With his eyes locked on mine, he gently eases me over the fur skins. We kiss languidly, and when I place a palm on his chest and nudge, he pulls back. Then, drawing in a long breath more of excitement than fear, I reach for the hem of my sleeping gown and pull it over my head.

Edward's gaze roams my bared form. Equal parts lust and adoration darken his eyes, for there is no mistaking what he now hungers for. With no pause, he discards his own garments, and emboldened by the unbashful manner in which he observed me, I allow mine eyes to take in his very male form. 'Tis different from mine, much harder, yet lean, and every part lined with sinewy veins and musculature. Vaguely do I know how this shall work.

This time, when he again eases me over the furs, they be soft and supple on my bare back while he be firm and demanding against my breasts, my stomach…

With his forearms resting on either side of me, he hovers above me, rakes his fingers through my hair.

"I shall ask this only once more. Do ye want me…do ye want this existence forever?"

"Aye."

He strokes my cheek with the back of his fingers and smiles. "Why are ye so shy now?"

He kisses me, while my pulse races. When his mouth skims to my neck, then my throat, he suckles gently, groaning and raising every fine hair on my body. His mouth trails lower, opens wide around my breast, and my breath hitches. His cold tongue swirls and then moves to the other breast, and I marvel at how his cold tongue can cause such heat.

All the while, the hardness betwixt his legs brushes against my skin. So, when his mouth abandons my breasts, I expect it to return to mine lips, and for he to push into me. I am both startled and confused when his mouth instead slips lower, his lips pressing against my stomach…his breath on my navel.

"Edward…?"

"Shh," he murmurs. The sound reverberates in those places where I have touched myself in his name. Yet this, I have not imagined. "Pain cannot be avoided," says he, "but…perhaps minimized…"

"I don't under-"

My back arches, and I cry out.

My eyes round then squeeze shut.

His tongue dances. Touches me in places a tongue cannot possibly be meant to venture. 'Tis torturous, the sensation. I cannot hold a thought. Perhaps, I have died.

And, if I have died, I must be in heaven.

Although, as Edward suckles, and my heart prepares to explode, vaguely do I think to mineself that Reverend Newton was, at least, partly right. This is sin of the most wicked sort.

And as I call out for the Lord, plead and beg, writhe…burn…grip Edward's hair...guide his mouth…my prayers are for this sensation to never end, even if it means my soul's eternal damnation.

So, when Edward suddenly stops, despair floods me.

"No…no please do not stop…please…please…"

He hovers above me. "Aye, my love," replies he hoarsely. "Aye." His mouth covers mine, and with a nudge of his leg betwixt mine legs, he enters me.

Afterward, we lay entwined in one another's arms and cocooned by soft animal skins. I be sore, aye, for I stretched around he, and 'twas painful. Nevertheless, watching Edward take his pleasure, his face contorted in expressions of lust, whispering my name against my mouth, grunting in time with his thrusts until he growled to the heavens and went slack…that was my pleasure.

For a long while, he kisses me softly. When I tell him 'tis my turn to feel what made he growl, he wordlessly curves his hands around mine hips and lifts me over him, easing me around he. At first, he guides me with his hands on my hips. But soon…aye…soon, I learn…

Thrice, we join. By the third time, I feel the racing heat that makes a liar out of me, for I scream, but from a pleasure too intense to contain.

Regardless, 'tis the in-between time, when our bodies and our souls be bared to one another under the stars and above the furs…'tis our whispers of love, our plans…

It is this that be the true Eden. I pity the women of Andover. Their heaven pales to mine.

And so, had I not been already decided, I am now. For, whatever Edward's father may have been…may still be, Edward is no Hobomock. How he worships me, how he adores me, how we love one another…'tis purity itself.

He may be a scourge, death, and fear personified to others. To me, he is, and always shall be, my angel.

A/N: Thoughts?

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There are so many history lessons in this chapter:

ORAL SEX – Lol. Did that get your attention? ;)

Today, we use the term sodomy to refer to anal intercourse, generally between two men, but not always. But we only started using that word in that way in the mid to late 19th century. In early America, the term sodomy referred to any sexual act that was considered aberrant or deviant. To Puritans, oral sex was considered a crime against nature, which is why Isabella, while enjoying the heck out of it, couldn't help thinking she was happily riding the train to hell. ;)

HOBOMOCK - In Wampanoag and Narragansett traditions, Hobomock was the manito (spirit) of death- a destructive, often evil being. Hobomock was sometimes also referred to as "Chepi," which means "ghost" in Wampanoag. Hobomock is the subject of many Wampanoag 'bogeyman' stories, warning children away from dangerous or naughty behavior. In other legends, Hobomock plays macabre tricks on adults such as stealing their eyelids so that they can never sleep again or twisting their feet to make them lame. After the introduction of Christianity, Wampanoag and Narragansett people began to identify Hobbomock with the Devil.

THE PATUXET - The Patuxet were a Native American band of the Wampanoag tribal confederation. They lived primarily in and around modern-day Plymouth, Massachusetts, and were among the first Native Americans encountered by European settlers in the region in the early 17th century. Most of the population subsequently died of epidemic infectious diseases. The last of the Patuxet – an individual named Tisquantum (a.k.a. "Squanto"), played an important role in the survival of the Pilgrim colony at Plymouth. Tisquantum was an early liaison between the Native American population in Southern New England and the Mayflower Pilgrims who made their settlement at the site of Tisquantum's former summer village.

Tisquantum was kidnapped by English explorer Thomas Hunt who trafficked him to Spain, where he sold him in the city of Málaga. He was among a number of captives bought by local monks who focused on their education and evangelization. Tisquantum eventually traveled to England, where he may have met Pocahontas, a Native American from Virginia, in 1616–1617. He then returned to America in 1619 to his native village, only to find that his tribe had been wiped out by an epidemic infection; Tisquantum was the last of the Patuxets, and went to live with the Wampanoags.

The Mayflower landed in Cape Cod Bay in 1620, and Tisquantum worked to broker peaceable relations between the Pilgrims and the local Pokanokets. He played a key role in the early meetings in March 1621, partly because he spoke English. He then lived with the Pilgrims for 20 months, acting as an interpreter, guide, and advisor. He introduced the settlers to the fur trade and taught them how to sow and fertilize native crops; this proved vital, because the seeds which the Pilgrims had brought from England mostly failed. As food shortages worsened, Plymouth Colony Governor William Bradford relied on Tisquantum to pilot a ship of settlers on a trading expedition around Cape Cod and through dangerous shoals. During that voyage, Tisquantum contracted what Bradford called an "Indian fever". Bradford stayed with him for several days until he died, which Bradford described as a "great loss".

As far as is known, vampirism was NOT one of the diseases encountered.

"See" you soon, and in case I can't update beforehand (though I'll try) a peaceful Thanksgiving to all who celebrate.