A/N - Huge thanks to my pre-reader Popola whose wonderful feedback on this story always hits the mark and keeps me writing instead of wallowing in self-doubt. Humongous thanks to Saritadreaming who beta'd the hell out of this chapter. Before her magic touch there were rampant missing apostrophes, commas in all the wrong places, misused semi-colons scattered willy nilly... Sigh. You can all thank her for wrangling things into some semblance of order.
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Prey for the Wicked
Chapter 7
Versachung
. . . . . .
Temptation
One foot in the ground...
. . . . . .
Sunlight persists even through a canopy of trees, brilliant gold rays making their way past thick branches and heavy foliage to dapple the roof of the car in contrasting shades of light and dark. Such a bright day should've kept Edward home, but he merely donned sunglasses, trusting the tint of the Vantage's windows to shade and conceal him.
Not that there's any true danger in him being out. He takes a moment to smile with wry amusement at the common belief that the mythical vampire could be brought to a fiery end by the power of the sun. The idea is ridiculous and not born from fact. The sun can no more harm Edward and his kind than holy water, garlic, or wooden stakes to the heart. Neither does it weaken him, nor cause his skin to erupt in a glittery show in the laughable ways modern pop-culture has attempted to capitalize on vampire legends.
That isn't to say sunlight doesn't create aggravation for Edward. His vision is so enhanced extra light can be uncomfortable, hence the sunglasses. It also highlights the lack of imperfections in his physical appearance, which is why he prefers twilight dusk to sun-filled afternoons, and why he's glad the windows are tinted.
Edward's thoughts scatter as he watches Isabella step from her father's patrol car, relishing the sight of her. It was far too easy to sit watch outside of her house and then follow them to this location. He smirks darkly as he witnesses Charles Swan adjust his belt. The man's shoulders are back, his spine straight with the posture and swagger Edward has seen time and time again in law enforcement officials.
Small town cop, he thinks unkindly, his smirk turning to an expression of hostility. This is who has protected Bella over her lifetime? The cop's instincts are sub-par at best. He hasn't even noticed the expensive car idling less than a block away. A car that draws attention from the few pedestrians passing by on the sidewalk, not only for its obvious expense and sleek beauty, but also for the fact it screams outsider.
Edward burrows harder into Charles Swan's mind, disgruntled to find that closer proximity is not helping him read the man. While his brain is not as impervious as his daughter's, there must be some genetic component to Isabella's impenetrable thoughts. Her father's deliberations are not completely hidden, like hers. They are foggy, though, and quicksilver fast – like minnows darting around in murky waters, slippery to grasp and requiring more focus and concentration than Edward is accustomed to.
He isn't deterred. He's encountered this before, usually in the mentally infirm or the drug-addled. Such encounters taught him to delve deeper, and to interpret nuances of thoughts that may otherwise seem inconsequential.
Allowing Charles' thoughts to flow over him, not looking yet for meaning or substance, merely learning their quiet rhythm, Edward closes his eyes to shut out visual distractions.
The minnows dart, slippery and elusive. No matter; he is a patient hunter...
The murkiness begins to clear...
...shouldn't have brought Bella here...
...she'll be upset by this. I knew she would never have been involved with that greasy Newton kid, but all those pictures...
...I need to be sure they weren't taken by consent...
...Jake needs to get here...None of this would have happened if she stayed with him...
...I don't know where that sick little bastard Mike is, but when I get my hands on him, he's going to wish he'd never been found...
...Bella's too pale...
...I should tell her it's all right. I won't ever let anyone hurt her. She knows that, doesn't she? She's my entire life, my world...
Edward opens his eyes. He's found the rhythm, and while the clarity is still lacking, Charles Swan's mind belongs to him now.
He cocks his head, listening to the worried thoughts of a harried father, amused by the fact the man's thoughts do not show on his face or in his body language. He looks only mildly concerned, and Bella's expression of barely repressed impatience seems as much directed at her father as it does at the situation.
He gleaned from their conversation in Isabella's house that her relationship with her father is an uneasy one.
"I agree with you, Chief Swan," Edward says dryly to the vacant interior of his car. "You shouldn't have brought her here." Again, feelings Edward is unaccustomed to invade him. The desire to protect her, to keep her from any harm, is apparently growing. It not only extends to physical threats, but to those of her mental well-being as well. He saw quite vividly what Bella is about to be shown from the disgusting images in Michael Newton's mind, and he dislikes that it will undoubtedly upset her.
The only upside to this little event happening before Edward now, is that the large collection of pictures – well handled and in some cases obscenely desecrated by the cretin's saliva and spunk – are physical evidence to show Michael's unhealthy and psychosis-ridden obsession with Isabella. They are surely enough to damn the wastrel in the eyes of the law, and it only aids Edward if Charles Swan doesn't look too hard for the man who violated his daughter's privacy on such a sickening level.
Not that Edward is worried. He was careful to scatter the remains of Michael Newton in places they won't be found...
The sound of a loud engine, rumbling in an inconsistent way synonymous with older vehicles, heralds the appearance of Jacob Black, ending Edward's pleasant remembrances abruptly. His hands clench hard down on the steering wheel, and he hears the casing crack.
Jacob Black. Born to Rachel and William Black. Current age: 23. Siblings: two, both female, older. Owner of 'Black Automotive' in Forks Washington; a business purchased with the inheritance bestowed to him on his 18th birthday from a trust fund formed with his deceased Mother's life insurance. Money bequeathed to him by his still living, yet wheelchair bound father, William, better known to friends and family as Billy Black.
Jacob Black – direct descendant of Ephraim Black, the last known werewolf in this part of the world. The same werewolf who once created a treaty between Edward's former family and the natives of the Quileute reservation.
Edward has done his research.
Unnecessary as they are to him, Edward appreciates very few modern conveniences with the exception of fast cars and the insidiously evil, yet helpfully expedient, internet. That particular invention allowed Edward to delve into the history and statistics of anyone he has thus far perceived to be a part of Isabella's life, with efficient results.
Dry statistics, however, are no match for the keen eye of a vampire who perceives this Jacob Black – son, auto-mechanic and genetic enemy – as a threat to the girl who is rapidly becoming the center of Edward's existence.
He calms himself now by focusing on her: Isabella. Even from here in the car almost a block away, he can see her fragile, lush form, her alabaster skin. He can smell her decadent fragrance carried sweetly on an otherwise repellent breeze, redolent as it is with the smells of a trash can near the car, and worse, the bitter, nostril burning smell of a should-have-been werewolf. Edward understands now why the smell in Isabella's house seemed so unappealing. Shape-shifters always stink.
Isabella's lush scent can't completely ground him when the puppy puts his arm around her waist, asking her if she is okay, like he has some right to her answer, or to touch her. The steering wheel cracks again, forcing Edward to take his hands away before he renders the vehicle useless for driving. He curls them into impotent fists on his lap and growls low and vicious in the back of this throat. The sound is feral and ripe with possessive fury.
The sound carries despite the quiet volume.
Edward watches the pup's head turn, and Jacob Black's nostrils flare slightly before the bridge of his nose crinkles. The amusement Edward feels at the confusion on the pup's face helps to temper his anger.
He knows that Jacob Black hears him and smells him, but the dog has no experience, no knowledge with which to understand and interpret the clues of Edward's presence. He is less than a pup. He is a mewling, weak runt of a nearly defunct breed, and he attributes the sound of Edward's growl to a nearby dog.
Edward tamps down his amusement at this and watches more intently. Jacob Black may be a stripped bare runt without the power to transform, but that hardly makes him harmless. Edward is not so foolish as to disregard him entirely.
Even untransformed, a mortal that carries the werewolf gene – especially a direct descendant – will be physically stronger, faster, and even more noteworthy, have instincts and prey-drives honed by the creatures who spawned them. Mutants they may be, but at the heart they are the same creature.
Wolf.
And this particular breed of wolf hunts only one thing.
Vampire.
No, Edward has no intention of underestimating the dog, especially since he doesn't yet know how ignorant Jacob Black is to what lurks untapped within his genes.
Michael Newton was no threat to Isabella in comparison to this man. It appears Edward's little pet is a magnet for danger.
Edward watches them enter the building and forces his concentration back on task. He turns his attention away from Jacob Black, whose thoughts sicken him with the longing and concern he has for Isabella, and delves back into the thoughts of her father.
. . . . . .
He waits until they've entered the apartment building, restraining his desire to jump from the car and rip the arms off Jacob Black who unwisely touches Isabella, again.
Sticking to the meagre shade of the sparse trees planted on the thin boulevards, he makes his way to the front entrance.
From the car he caught a scent that needed to be explored. His ire rises with each step, and the confirmation of what he suspected.
The scent is familiar.
Edward scans the area, but the trail is faded, old, and nothing else was left behind. He listens to the actions of Bella, her father, and the dog, and ascertains that while nothing was left, something was taken.
Furious, he returns once more to the car and waits.
. . . . . .
They are inside for less than half an hour. When they exit the building, Edward notices how shaken Isabella appears. She is no longer trying to push the impudent mutt away, but she does side-step when he attempts to take the arm he draped around her waist and use it to draw her into a more intimate embrace.
"I'm fine." Her tone is one step away from hostile, and her delicate chin lifts in defiant aggression despite the tremors Edward can detect under her skin, her delicate musculature quivering with stress. Edward enjoys her display of strength, and delights even more in the frustrated thoughts of the dog when she refuses his noisome attempts to succour her.
She does need comfort, but it will come from Edward, not any other.
"So what now?" Isabella turns to her father, moving further away from Jacob Black, pleasing Edward more.
Good girl...
"Now, I go back to the station and put out an alert for a missing person. The sooner we find Mike Newton, the sooner we can get to the bottom of all those pictures."
"What can I do?"
"You can go home, and get your damn lock fixed," Charles orders. "If you hear from Newton, you call me right away. I'm going to make sure I have a patrol car drive by your house, every hour." He turns, as though ready to walk back to his car, but thinks twice and turns back. "I don't suppose you'd consider coming home until this is all resolved?"
Isabella's brow furrows, and Edward doesn't need to read her mind to know how loathsome she finds that idea. "Serious overkill, Dad. I have my own home, and I'll be fine."
Charles looks like he wants to argue, and his furious thoughts offer rapid-fire confirmations. Instead of arguing however, he snaps his jaw shut and grunts, locking eyes with Jacob. His unspoken demands seem to be as easily read by the runt as they are by Edward because he nods, the motion missed by Bella who is scanning the street with widened eyes.
Looking for me, little one? Edward wonders, amused, though he doubts that. It's more likely she is seeking some sign of Newton. She moves towards Charles' squad car, but is stopped by her father's next words.
"Jake, can you take her home for me? I really need to get to the station."
Edward watches Isabella's shoulders hunch slightly inward as she levels a hostile glare on her father. He wonders what she would do if she knew her father arranged this with Jacob before hand, and that the dog is planning to stick as close to her as possible in the coming days.
It's clear Isabella cannot find reason to argue, but it is also clear that she wants to. For a moment, Edward toys with the idea of driving up and offering her a ride home. The idea amuses him further, but he isn't ready to show his face to the runt.
He is, however, ready to follow Charles Swan and lay some groundwork. For the time being, he'll need to portray a public facade: one that will bring him closer to claiming his prize and, more importantly, to keeping her.
Watching Jacob lead Isabella to his rust-bucket truck, teeth snapping over air into a tight clench that grinds his tingling incisors down over his lower teeth, the urge to throw his plans out the window and follow them instead is strong. He has to restrain himself, and the practice is foreign. It has been a very long time since he denied himself anything; it isn't an action he enjoys.
Soon, very soon, little one. Remember who you belong to, Isabella...
Edward waits with Charles Swan as Isabella is driven away in the direction of her home; waits even longer to allow Charles to drive away, giving the man time to arrive at the police station to avoid detection. Small town cop Charles Swan might be, but closer observation of his mind has shown Edward he's not entirely without instinct. His thoughts as he drove away were for his daughter and her safety, and Edward is reminded that it is unwise to underestimate the protective nature of a human with their offspring.
A ringing phone interrupts Edward's musings. His gaze snaps to the glove box, startled, though he isn't surprised when he opens it to find a sleek, black, very modern cell phone resting in the otherwise empty compartment. A gift from Jasper always comes with a catch; the car is obviously no exception.
He takes the phone and grinds it to dust-like particles between the fingers of his right hand, using the left to depress the automatic window button. He lets the remnants of the phone spill out onto the ground, puts the car in drive and pulls back out on the road.
He'll talk to Alice on his own terms, and not a second before he's ready. Her machinations in his life are becoming more apparent, and, given the scent of the other vampire he detected around Newton's apartment building and the missing pictures, more meddlesome by far.
Alice and her cohort are walking a very fine, very dangerous line if they think they will stand in the way of Edward's current desire. His patience is not finite; in fact, his tenuous grip upon it is so feeble he can instantly envision dozens of ways to make his psychic little sibling's mind explode with the possibilities inherent in each. He smiles, knowing that every decision he has made and discarded in the last ten seconds will keep Alice very busy trying to decipher his true plans from the red herrings he's mind fucked her with. It will only buy him a little time, but then, a little time is all Edward needs.
As for her accomplice, Edward knows she'll show her face soon. Tanya is nothing if not impulsive and impatient. The pictures she stole from Michael Newton's apartment are proof of that. His resolve hardens as does his heart. No one will come between him and Isabella. No one. Not even a former lover.
. . . . . .
In the small police station, Edward notes the cluttered desk of Charles Swan belies an organized mind. In an instant, he takes in his surroundings, analyzing details of the cubicle size office with razor sharp speed, even as he adopts human-type movement to camouflage his true nature. He hunches his shoulders and rolls his spine in a mimic of the current trend of poor posture, and he's careful to time eye blinking in with small shifting movements of his limbs.
It all requires effort Edward isn't accustomed to, but the years he played human to appease Carlisle, come back to him easily enough.
Ushered into the office by a harried and flustered older woman with a rather inventive sexual imagination, reassures him that he hasn't completely lost the ability to don sheep's clothing over his lion form. Apparently his ability to dazzle the fairer sex is not exclusive to Isabella either. He barely manages not to cringe at the visual atrocity playing out in the receptionist's mind as she imagines him fornicating with her in a position that he highly doubts her physically capable of achieving.
"Chief Swan is just speaking with Embry...I mean, Deputy Call. You can wait for him here, he shouldn't be long. Can I get you a cup of coffee while you wait, or tea?" Coffee, tea or me, she thinks giddily, her previous imaginings at least now adopting a more physically possible image of coupling. The fact the make-believe action uses the prop of her employer's desk, complete with clutter she imagines Edward will push to the floor before he crawls over her using his teeth to free her of her clothing, isn't much of an improvement.
Edward searches for the proper words a man his age would use to decline her offers of human beverages then rethinks that refusal. Holding a hot beverage would aid him in appearing human and warm the temperature of his hands.
"Coffee would be wonderful. If it's not too much trouble?"
She smiles, giddily gleeful to have an excuse to return to the room even if it means having to leave it for a moment. "Don't be silly. It's not too much trouble at all."
"As long as you're sure," he adds with a smile meant to cajole as he practices a little flattery. "It's my experience that the beautiful women behind the scenes are usually the ones doing most of the work."
She blushes, but unlike Isabella's pretty pink flush, hers is mottled and blotchy. It extends past her face, descending down her demure décolletage, but her arousal is a pleasingly soft feminine scent in an otherwise masculine smelling room. Edward smiles a little wider, rather enjoying the rush of her blood scent as her heart rate accelerates. He's careful, though, to conceal his teeth. His fangs are small and not absurd, barely noticeable even when he feeds, but his teeth are perfectly straight and disturbing when flashed. Like a yawning lion whose recently fed, those teeth show just what he is capable of; Edward's are no exception.
So polite and handsome, and a flatterer and charmer. Oh, my...
"Oh, well, I think I can spare a moment to make coffee." She laughs, attempting to make the sound throaty and appealing, but failing. She sounds more like a braying donkey with a bad case of nerves. "I'll be right back." She flutters eyelashes over eyes that sparkle prettily with mischief behind her bifocal lens glasses. Instead of being annoyed, Edward feels an unaccustomed urge to laugh. There's a definite sway to her matronly hips as she walks away, her thoughts girlish and lighthearted despite her post-menopausal age.
Left alone in the room, finally, Edward focuses on his surroundings and scans the office thoroughly. A picture of Isabella catches his attention and retains it. It sits atop the Chief's desk in a silver-plated frame. Isabella is lovely in a blue blouse that highlights the cream of her skin and the mahogany of her hair, the rich darkness of her eyes. The photographer captured her perfectly, right down to the slight upturn of her mouth, a Mona Lisa-esque smile replete with secrets only an esoteric few could decipher.
He looks forward to learning those secrets for himself.
Edward senses Charles Swan entering the room. He waits until Charles clears his throat, and only then does he replace the photo and turn.
"Chief Swan?" he greets, holding out his hand. "I'm Edward Masen. I hope I'm not inconveniencing you." The use of his human surname feels odd on his tongue, but he needs to avoid connections should there be any records of his former life here.
Charles Swan accepts Edward's proffered handshake, noting the cooler temperature of his skin, and taking in several other details of Edward's appearance in rapid fire measure. He misses little in detail, but quite a lot in understanding.
"Not at all, Edward. Martha tells me you're new to town?"
Edward resists the urge to smirk at the slightly condescending use of his first name. Chief Swan has his age pegged at early twenties, the shell doing its job perfectly to reflect a youth that doesn't exist, and he's striving to disabuse Edward of any idea that they are on equal footing. Elder and child, Police Chief and citizen, townie and outsider.
"Yes," Edward replies with a small smile he's careful to make appear ingratiating. "Newly arrived only a few days ago."
Talks funny. No accent, but really articulate. Wonder where he comes from? "Where are you coming from, Edward?" he asks, proving Edward's theory that Chief Swan thinks little that he won't speak aloud.
"I travel quite a bit," Edward replies vaguely. "But I have a home base in New England."
Charles makes his way around to his desk and gestures to the worn plastic chair to Edward's right. "Have a seat," he offers as he lowers his own bulk into the more comfortable looking chair behind his desk. He waits for Edward to settle. "So, New England?"
Edward nods, though he knows it isn't necessary. Chief Swan appears slow and deliberating, but he isn't. His murky mind churns information quickly. "I spent some time in Maine most recently," he clarifies. He did indeed spend time there, although not recently. He even has a house there, something concrete for Charles Swan to find should he – and he would if Edward is any judge – go digging. Real estate is a safe investment, and Edward likes the idea of homes scattered in places across the world, even if he rarely has use for them. With his lifestyle, laying down roots wasn't something he thought wise, but even a vampire enjoys creature comforts from time to time.
"Good fishing up in Maine," Charles comments, still in that lazy, slow way.
"I'm not much of an angler myself, sir," Edward replies, shifting his feet to avoid overt stillness.
Charles' opinion of him, while not yet cemented, doesn't grow in points with this statement. Edward smiles internally, watching Isabella's father closer than ever. He isn't seeking to make friends.
"So, what brings you to me, Edward? Is there something I can help you with?"
Edward extends his arms along the metal arms of the chair, hands open and relaxed. "I'm renting the old Cullen mansion. I thought it would be best, given the fact the house has been empty for several decades, to let area law enforcement in on my occupancy. I wouldn't want you to waste time on a trip out there in fear that squatters had taken up residence." He smiles again, just as ingratiatingly as he did at the receptionist.
Charles Swan blinks a little. The vampire lure does not have the same sexual effect on a heterosexual male, but it still has an effect. Murky thoughts get a little murkier, and Chief Swan warms up a bit to Edward, despite himself.
"Well, that's...very considerate of you." He clears his throat, attempting to gain his equilibrium. Like most heterosexual men, Charles isn't inclined to think another man is sexually attractive, but it happens, and like most men, it makes him decidedly uncomfortable. Edward leans forward in his chair, careful to maintain a friendly expression yet playing with Charles by making direct eye contact and letting his lips curve slightly.
"The house needs a lot of work. I've agreed to oversee and manage its restoration, and I'll be hiring out contract help, so there might be...more activity than you're used to out that way. Again, I thought it best to let you know." Edward delves deeper into the Chief's mind, searching, sorting. Charles blinks, blinks, blinks, disconcerted, his surety wavering. Edward quickly wipes any sign of emotion from his face.
"Uh, yeah. Well...again, thanks for the heads up." Strange guy. Too attractive for his own good. Must have money as well to be able to afford renting a house like that, even as rundown as it is. The place is huge. Charles concludes his thoughts with a mental note to check into the titles on the property before clearing his throat and saying, "I didn't know the owners were renting it out .." Better ask him what company...
"It was a private negotiation. I'm acquainted with the solicitor who manages the estate," Edward pre-empts, resisting the urge to smile when Chief Swan starts a little at having his question answered before he can properly formulate how to ask it. "And, as such, I figured it would be unlikely anyone here would be aware the property wasn't totally abandoned. I thought of having my personal lawyer, Jason Jenks, send you notice, but I prefer to personally meet people. It's a dying art these days, personal contact."
Edward again resists the urge to smile when Charles carefully notes Jenks' name, as Edward knew he would. Charles Swan's impending phone call to the lawyer Edward has used for the last two decades to manage his multi-faceted affairs, won't faze the portly attorney. He's well acclimatized to the unusual. Plus, Edward pays him well, though the financial gain isn't what assures Jason Scott Jenks' loyalty. Fear does. Jenks is one of the only humans alive who suspects Edward is...different. His terror more than his avarice keeps him in line and biddable to Edward's every whim. A useful tool, fear.
Sensing Martha's over eager thoughts as she waits impatiently for the coffee to percolate, Edward gets to his feet, careful to govern the physicality of his movements. A sudden impatience is growing within him, one he no longer wishes to deny. He wants to see Isabella, touch her, taste her... He's accomplished what he wanted here – to make his presence known so he can come and go as he pleases.
"I won't take up anymore of your time, Chief Swan. I'm sure you're a busy man." He extends his hand once more. His smile when Charles is slightly reluctant to clasp it could be attributed to politeness, even if it is anything but. Chief Swan is nervous, a normal side effect for any human who spends too much time in a vampire's presence, and one that Edward finds titillating, especially now when a small dose of intimidation is exactly what he wants to deliver.
Tread carefully, Chief Swan. You are expendable.
Despite those nerves, Charles does grasp Edward's hand, firmly, and he doesn't pull away before the masculine, overly tight clench of fingers meant to intimidate ensues. Edward allows it, though he could easily crush the bones in the man's hand to a mashed-up pulp of tiny fragments and gelatinous tendons and veins. Not that his grasp is light. He gives Isabella's father just enough time to feel confident in his too-tight grip, and the alpha-male message he's trying to send, before flexing his own fingers just the tiniest amount.
Charles Swan flinches, though he masks the sign of discomfort quickly.
Damn, this kid is a lot stronger than he looks...
The rest of his thoughts are disjointed, seeking connections and explanations to the way he feels about Edward without finding any.
Charles' hand curls into a fist at his side then releases, trying to rid himself of the lingering pain from Edward's handshake, and Edward turns as if to leave. Purposely he angles his body in a manner that causes his hip to brush against Charles' desk, using accurate direction of force to topple the photograph of Isabella off its surface. Moderating his speed, Edward catches the frame a split second before it hits the unforgiving floor, giving the illusion of fast reflexes without appearing unnatural.
"Oops." The exclamatory word feels silly to say, but amuses Edward as he flips the frame over to view Isabella's lovely face. "My apologies." He hands the photograph to Charles.
"No harm, no foul," Charles replies, replacing it on the desk, then rethinking that placement and moving it to an old bookshelf in the office's left corner.
"Your daughter?" Edward questions, avoiding the sudden scrutiny in Charles' gaze to hide the hunger the man might discern in his. He brushes his hands together, pretending absorption in the action of removing nonexistent dust.
"Yes, my daughter," Charles answers, unable to hide his reluctance in divulging the information to a stranger he finds disconcerting. "My pride and joy," he adds, purposely changing the tone to one filled with warning. His thoughts are more forceful.
She's off limits, son. Don't even think about it.
Edward has already done more than "think" about it.
"She's very beautiful. I'm sure she would be any man's 'pride and joy.'" He smiles once again and leaves, thoroughly enjoying the irritation, confusion, and uneasiness he purposely placed in Police Chief's Swan's mind.
Edward's formal claiming has begun.
. . . . . .
It takes less than ten minutes to arrive back at Isabella's tiny house, the speed with which he drives worth a rather large fine and more than a few demerit points off his fake driver's licence. He finds the dog still there, though he appears to have been banished to his truck. Jacob's disgruntled thoughts, still mulling over his inability to convince Isabella he should stay, reveal the events which led him to be outside instead of in.
"Bella, Newton is obviously a sick freak and no one knows where the hell he is. Staying here by yourself is stupid."
"Stupid? No, what's stupid is you and Charlie thinking you can use this as an excuse to manipulate me into letting you stay here. You are not staying here, Jake. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. Get out, go home, or to Leah, or whatever."
"God damn it, Bella, don't be like that..."
"Don't tell me what to be like, Jake. Just leave, now."
"Forget it. I'm not leaving you alone..."
Something was thrown at the dog's head at that point, the image of the missile unclear. Edward smiles, amused and inordinately pleased by Isabella's temper while slightly disappointed in her aim. The projectile left a hole in her wall, not in the dog's repugnant face.
Jacob slunk away to his truck, but is now settled grudgingly inside the interior, fiercely determined to stay there, all night if necessary. Edward ponders several creative violent ideas on how to get rid of him, when Isabella opens her door, storms out onto the stoop, and arcs back her arm. This time her weapon of choice is quite clear. A large red brick Edward discerns from Jacob's mind comes from a pile stacked in the basement. Leftovers from a repair to the chimney. She holds another at her side, clutched tightly against her thigh.
Jacob curses and quickly backs out of the driveway. On the road, outside of her throwing range, he puts the truck in park and gets out, hands held up in surrender as he makes his way to the steps.
"All right," he tells her quietly. "I'll go, but damn it, promise me you'll call if you need anything or sense anything or hear...anything. Promise me or I'll stay right here on this porch no matter what the hell you throw, Bella."
She drops her arm, outrage softening to disgruntled acceptance. "Okay. I promise."
Cursing some more under his breath, Jacob Black wisely returns to his truck and drives away – wisely, not because of Isabella's ire, but because Edward is out of patience and devoid of restraint.
Edward waits until he's certain the runt is gone and not planning on doubling back. He leaves the car in the growing shadows of dusk half a block away – downwind – and makes his way with undetectable speed to Isabella's front door. The lock is repaired, again, and inside, Edward hears the sound of water rushing through antiquated pipes. Isabella is preparing to shower.
The weakened lock gives easier than ever under Edward's hand. It snaps with a sound that tells him its demise is final. He steps inside and closes the door, twisting the knob and bending the mechanism inside, creating his own lock. One no key will open.
He listens for a moment, ignoring the lingering smell of wolf and relishing the sound of Isabella stepping beneath the water. She has the temperature very hot, and the steam escapes the tiny confinement of the bathroom, humid and aromatic with her delectable aroma. She is all floral-spice and salt-copper, the lush-musk of female mingling with the scent of her soap; something that reminds him of wild strawberries ripening on green vines.
His thirst ignites despite the fact he drained several deer only this morning, filling himself with their gamey blood until he was unable to swallow another drop. The meal was unpleasant – he'd forgotten just how unpleasant in the century since he'd given up on that lifestyle – but pleasure wasn't his goal.
He can't afford to hunt his preferred meal source so close to where he's laying roots, no matter how temporary those roots might be, and besides, small towns made for slim pickings in Edward's usual sustenance. True evil prefers the smorgasbord-like selection of victims they find in larger populations, not to mention the anonymity such cities provide. Edward should know; not only does he walk the paths they walk, he subscribes to the same philosophy. Until now, small towns were places he passed through on his way to where he would find his next meal.
Edward makes his way to Isabella's small kitchen, drawn by a fragrance he cannot deny. Blood. Her blood. Traces of it linger in her kitchen sink, diluted by water and the remnants of acidic orange juice. Isabella must have hurt herself somehow. A minuscule wound judging by the paltry amount of blood scent.
He scrapes a finger along the edge of the stainless steel basin and raises it to his mouth, sucking away the weak residual he finds there. In the garbage container under the sink, he finds a spattered paper towel. He presses it beneath his nose and groans, folds it carefully, sacredly, and places it in his pocket.
He finds bills scattered over her kitchen table and thumbs through them. An open laptop in sleep mode awakens at his touch, displaying a plain blue screensaver. Edward searches her history, amused to find he's not the only one availing himself of the internet's ease to obtain knowledge. Her Google search history is full of interesting glimpses into the speculations of her mind concerning him.
"Clever girl," he muses out loud as he scans.
Cool skin, dark red-rimmed eyes, strong, fast, beautiful... The list she catalogued is quite extensive, and rather flattering. Isabella is attentive to details it would seem, but it was her last search – bite on the neck – that finally allowed Google to interpret her wants and provide an answer she must have already concluded. She downloaded dozens of pages, all of them containing material on the same subject matter, albeit with different names. Immortal, Nosteratu, Dracula, Asanbosom...Vampire.
"Clever, clever girl."
He leaves her search history and hacks easily into her personal and password protected accounts. She lives frugally from what he can discern, and still her bank account contains only a miserly sum, hardly enough to cover the cost of the bills he's seen. Credit cards reveal only minimal debt and few personal purchases beyond books and the occasional incidental. His fingers fly over the keyboard, easily bypassing security firewalls and hacking into her bank's mainframe. He uses money from one of his many accounts and pays off all three cards, then transfers a lump sum of fifty thousand dollars into her account before covering his tracks. When she inquires about the money, bank managers will find only records of perfectly legal transactions. He smiles with wry amusement as he ensures her questions about her benefactor won't reveal his name, but doubts she'll have any trouble figuring out where the gift comes from. He's quickly learning that his Isabella has a fiercely independent nature, but the sooner she learns to accept that he alone will be taking care of her from now on, the better.
Edward closes out the pages he's opened, and covers his tracks as he hears Isabella turn off the water and exit her shower. He makes his way to her bedroom, pleased to find his scent still lingers, coalescing with hers. Tendrils of steam waft out from the edges of her bathroom door making his throat burn with thirst. He swallows it back, refusing to be a slave to his nature. Her blood may be the most delicious flavour he's ever encountered, but he's no longer solely interested in feeding from her. Her luscious nectar will once again meet his palate, but never again in a way that will risk the body and mind it nourishes. If that means he must slaughter every animal in a five hundred mile radius of this town, then so be it. It is a small price to pay to sustain the source.
He settles into an old rocking chair in the shadowy corner of her bedroom, listening to the sound of a soft towel wicking moisture away from even softer skin. When she wraps herself in the damp cotton and opens the door, Edward knows the very second she becomes aware she is not alone by the hummingbird sound of her wet, red heart.
"Hello, Isabella. Have you missed me?"
