CHAPTER IX: A WOLF WEARING A DEAD MAN'S FACE

BEYOND EMBARRASSED, and fruitlessly scrubbing at my damp cheeks, I stormed out of the school. Paul followed quickly after.

"Alissa, please—" the boy said, his long legs keeping easy pace with my much-shorter stride, and—damn him—a hand curled itself around the crook of my elbow, tugging me backwards. "Just wait."

"I'm done listening, Paul," I told him furiously. I wrenched my arm from his grip, knowing he could have easily held on—but he didn't. He was staring at me, like a lost, defeated puppy. "I've heard all that I need to. I know that you, and Jared, are shitheads, and I can't trust a single word that leaves either of your fucking mouths."

Paul opened and closed his mouth wordlessly. He was subtly shaking, too, as though there was a million thoughts whizzing through his mind and not a single one could be articulated into even a half-decent apology—one worth my ear, or my forgiveness. It was like he knew his errors were irredeemable, but a part of him was too fixated on keeping me in his life that he didn't care; he'd do anything to redeem himself.

My lips curled into a cruel, hateful smile. At my wit's end, I let out a scoff. "Just because I cried in your arms doesn't make you Prince Charming again," I spat.

"I know. I know. I'm-I'm so sorry—but, please, Alissa. I can't lose you." His eyes were desperate and pleading, and his fingers twitched. There was no mistaking what intentions hid behind those chocolate brown eyes.

Sorry doesn't cut it, I thought bitterly, curling a tight fist into the rough material of my flannel, not this time. "Go find your lapdog," I said, wanting to hurt him. "Go run to him, like you do every time. Roll over backwards for him, Paul. Like you do, every fucking time."

Something seemed to snap in Paul's eyes, whether from my hurtful words or the way I was turning, intending to leave and never talk to him again. He charged forward, grabbing both my arms into an unrelenting grip. I let out curses, fighting to get away—but he was too strong, and all I made him do was pull me closer. A dark look crossed his face. He tugged and tugged me until our faces were mere centimeters apart. He whispered, "I'm not going anywhere, Alissa. Not until you tell me what I can do, to fix this. Fix us. And even then, I'm not leaving until I do just that: fix us."

Fix us. Bleh. What a pathetic term. As though I were broken, as though he were broken. When it was merely our ties being severed. When it was our relationship that was broken.

Not me. Not him. Not us.

For a moment, I imagined what it would be like if I were to forgive Paul. Images flitted by, ones too personal to verbalize or ponder a second time.

Paul and I sitting at La Push's beach, pushing at one another and laughing. Paul putting Jared and I in a room together, not letting us out until we found a way to work out our differences. Paul punching Jacob Black in the jaw, after he just called me a whore to my face. Paul taking me out to a starlit picnic for our first date. Paul and I sharing our second, then our third, then our fourth kiss, both so absorbed in our own little lovesick bubble that the errors of the world were paid no mind.

I blinked out of my reverie, a sudden aching occurring in my chest. My heart and mind were pitted against one another, as they almost always were; one was desperate to forgive and forget, while the other couldn't believe the nerve Paul had, to think this was something I could learn to let go. If this were Jared, I would not have even thought twice before rejecting his apologies and sending him on his way.

But this was Paul. Paul Lahote, the guy I used to have a big, fat crush on. The very one who made my heart flutter, and my mind second-guess whether I truly wanted to go on a date with what's-his-face or that-one-guy. He had wronged me in so many ways, and had done things he could never change the irreversible damage from, but unlike Jared, he had always felt guilty—and the only reason he let Jared get away with it was because he thought Jared was right. That all Paul was, and all Paul could ever be, was a danger, and if he continued to hang around me, he'd hurt me.

My eyes went wide, my lips curling into an 'o' of realization. I went suddenly limp in Paul's grip, and his own face became bewildered, as though my change-in-character (this loss of energy) was something to be concerned about. But frankly, this was what Paul had been waiting on: for me to come to terms with the things he'd done, and for me to rationalize his wrongdoings in a way that wouldn't have me purposefully trying to lure him away with biting words.

"Alissa, what's wrong?" Paul asked, his large hands tensing against my wrists. "You don't look well."

"Jared—he thinks you're going to hurt me. He thinks you're dangerous, because of your temper. And you believe it, too," I said quietly, watching his face to gauge a reaction. I wasn't surprised when his expression fell flat, a prominent frown wrinkling his brow. "That's why you didn't fight him when he made you drop me. You thought he was right to be afraid."

Paul didn't speak for several seconds, his face darkening the longer we stood in silence. Just as I was beginning to think I shouldn't have said anything at all, he spoke. "You've seen the way I am when I get angry, Alissa. I'm not a good guy. I've done terrible things to people, and I barely feel any guilt for it. But if there's one thing I do know, it's that I would never, ever hurt you. No matter how angry I get. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something happened to you."

I could see in his eyes that he meant every word. It was the most raw and genuine I'd ever seen him be. I couldn't think of any words to say in that moment, so I ducked my head instead, a burning in my face telling me what shade my cheeks were. How embarrassed I was.

Paul let out a breath, one that crystallized in the cold, wintry air. He took a finger and gently tipped up my chin. "You still haven't told me what I can do to fix this," he muttered.

There were so many things he'd never be able to fix. Things he couldn't change, or find solutions to. He couldn't take back the hurt and anger I had felt for the past seven months, or restore my faith and trust in Jared.

But I was tired of being angry. I was tired of this paper-thin thread I had tying me to my current reality, where all I was capable of doing was holding grudges and hurting others the same way they hurt me.

Looking into Paul's eyes had an effect I wasn't quite used to. Anytime we stared into each other's eyes, a peaceful calm came over me, washing away every spade of tension that linked into a leeching slug that sucked out all the good from me.

Almost like he was my own form of gravity.


Hours after we separated, I continued to entertain the thought of forgiving him. It was nearly nine at night, and Dad had given me a list of items he wanted from the grocery store, as well as the keys to his car, and I barely remembered anything. I was so lost in my thoughts that anything he said to me was a blur, and I only had a collection of shard-like memories as a way to piece together what he had said and told me to do. The keys and torn, coffee-stained grocery list that had somehow ended up in my hands helped, too.

It didn't take long before I got to the grocery mart. It was just twenty minutes away from my house, and was the only building in a three-mile radius from where it was located. The grocery mart was a small, homely building, and was old enough that the letters spelling out Pic-Pac were tilting this-way and that, rusted to the point they looked painted orange. The brick siding was molded in some places, and covered in ferns in others. Not as old as some of the other shops on the reserve, but that didn't make it any less ancient-looking in comparison to the shops in Forks.

I had the grocery-list crumbled up in my coat pocket while the keys were twirling from my ring-finger. Unable to stand the stiff silence occupying the car lot, I hummed a lousy rendition of the Ghostbusters theme song.

My thoughts were chaotic, ranging from I hope they have ketchup chips to Who you gonna call? Ghostbusters.

No matter how loud I was to any passersby, it didn't stop the wind as it whistled in my ears. The chill that went up and down my spine. Or the lowly, ancient voice as it whispered, "Alissa."

I stopped walking. "Who's there?"

The wind shrilled and whistled in my ear. As I glanced around, I saw trees shaking and shrubbery rustling. The voice said again, though this time much louder, "Alissa."

"What? Alissa what?" I was beginning to be afraid. The voice was disembodied, and it almost sounded like it was coming from right beside me. Yet when I looked around, there was no one in sight.

Something cold touched my arm. I jerked back, whirling around wildly. The voice was there again, though this time, it sounded much more frantic, much more inhumane. "The Cullens will return," it snarled.

The Cullens. I knew next to nothing about them, but everyone on the reserve collectively thought of them as the Cold Ones, the ones from the legends. "What about the Cullens?" I said uneasily. I felt crazy. Who was I talking to? No one but myself, it seemed. I wondered for a brief moment if I was going insane.

The voice whispered, "The Swan girl, she will draw them back. They will return. And with them comes a great enemy."

I shook my head. "That's ridiculous." Bella was just a normal girl—an idiotic one, but normal, nonetheless. And what was this about an enemy? What enemy?

"Not ridiculous," said the voice, more heatedly. It didn't sound happy with my tone. "You are in danger. You are Gifted. They will try to take that from you, just as they will your father."

"My—what?" My heart began to pound at the sound of my father being in danger. Even though I was confused beyond belief, and I found this entire conversation to be nothing but a figment of my imagination, I also couldn't stop listening. I was concerned that there was truth hidden behind the cryptic messages. "My Dad's not in danger. And I'm not… gifted, or whatever."

"You are of age now," said the voice. When I looked around for a third time, I found myself jumping back—my hand coming up to cover my mouth as I let out a shriek. I was no longer alone. A ghostly-looking man was standing beside me, looking eerily similar to the painting of Taha Aki my Dad had in his study. He had a hard look on his face, but it was almost emotionless. I wondered if this was the way humans looked in the afterlife, holding a certain deadness to features that once sprouted with liveliness. "In communicating with me, you show that you have now gained your Affinity. You are linked to the dead."

You are linked to the dead. I mumbled these words to myself, looking at this man—this, this spirit with a dawning horror. The rational part of me thought this was bullshit, but the part that thought there was some truth to the legends of the Cold Ones and the Spirit Warriors wasn't so sure.

"I don't believe any of this," I said instead, knowing damned well I did. I was watching the spirit with increasing unease, wondering why he was speaking to me. Wondering what the point to this conversation was.

A hint of amusement tweaked at the ends of the spirit's lips. Before I could question him, he backed away from me and turned into a wolf.

The rational part screamed out, "He's a spirit! He can't touch you!" but that didn't stop me from thinking he was real and fumbling to the ground, a loud shriek leaving me. I crab-crawled away from the wolfman, growing more and more antsy as he shook out his fur and began to slowly follow.

"D-Don't…" I stuttered, a gravel-coated hand reaching up and turning sideways, palm-out, as he inched closer. He stopped instantly, his chocolatey eyes following my every move. "What the fuck…" This was all just a hallucination, wasn't it? I was tricking myself into believing I had some sort of power, and could talk to the dead. Yeah, sure! I was Alissa Cameron, your average, everyday medium.

The wolfman barked, and it sounded funny. I wondered if he was laughing at me. His voice sounded in my head, just as gravely and inhumane: In every generation of the Camerons, one child bears the Affinity. In rare cases, two children have it. In your generation's case, only you have it. Your father is the one who had it before you. He is your tribe council's emissary.

I knew my father was on the council, and before that, it was my grandfather. But the council emissary? I didn't understand that. I could only assume he was an advisor of sorts. That wasn't the biggest thing on my mind, however—"So… my brother doesn't have this?" I felt a bit smug, before quickly stamped down that feeling. This wasn't real. I was imagining things, trying to make myself feel bigger than I actually was. And it worked, if only for a moment.

The wolfman shook his large, fuzzy head. Your brother is a Spirit-Warrior.

I bit my lip deeply, until I tasted blood. "What is a Spirit Warrior?" I asked the wolfman. It had been so long since I last went to a bonfire that I barely remembered the blood and grit of our ancestral stories. However, I knew some things, and if this was more than a hallucination, if this was true, then it occurred to me there was more to Jared's behavior and his actions than I originally believed.

A shapeshifter, said the wolfman simply. He is who must protect the tribe. Protect innocents from the Cold Ones.

I sucked in a breath.

Was this real? Or was this just some sort of fantastical bullshit I concocted in my head?

"Hey!" said from the storefront. I turned to look over at the grocery mart, where a man was standing outside of the automatic door with a hand waving in my direction. "Are you alright?"

It must have looked pretty funny to anyone else, me lounging against the pavement and staring at an imaginary person. Talking to the air. I swallowed hard at the thought, at how utterly crazy I looked to this man, and raised a shaky thumbs-up. "I'm fine! Just fell." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.

The man didn't say anything. If he had been there for long enough, then he knew I was lying and that I was either tripping on LSD or had an imaginary friend. He went back inside the walkway. I loosened a long-held breath I'd been keeping.

I felt the spirit come closer, so close I felt sparks fluttering across my skin. People are going to die if you do not save them, the wolfman told me, a solemnness in his voice that told me this wasn't a joke. It's up to you to save the pack.

We met eyes head-on. I gave a nod, swallowing deeply.

The spirit suddenly began to glow, and I let out a whimper when a light shone directly from his body to my hand. He disintegrated right before my very eyes, and each piece went straight into my palm, giving it a strange, yellowy saturation that made me nearly weep from discomfort.

Even after he was gone, I continued to sit there. Thinking about what he said. Wondering if any of this were actually true, or if I was just going fucking insane.

But when I glanced at my hand a second time… it was to see a crescent moon tattooed across my palm. I scrubbed hard at it, rubbed the balms of my hands into my eyes, but each time I looked back, it was still there.

And without a doubt, I knew it was all real.


A/N: Yo guys. Sorry for the long wait on this chapter; again, I had writer's block and didn't have a fucking clue on what direction to go. At some point I need to edit the chapters to make the flow more believable and less sloppy, but we'll do that when the story gets a little less fluid-y.

This is probably not the way you all wanted Alissa to find out about shapeshifters, but don't worry. There's going to be a lot of angst and action in upcoming chapters. Since the vampire big-bads from Eclipse won't be coming for quite a while, I'll be introducing my own antagonists/AU elements to keep this story interesting. What kind of problems do you want to see Alissa face? Vampire or werewolf or maybe even hunters?