| THE HUMAN CONDITION |

CHAPTER XIV: YOU BELONG TO ME

"Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me –

The Carriage held but just Ourselves –

And Immortality."

Because I could not stop for Death, Emily Dickinson


I HAD run out of time.

My options were limited. The only one that felt possible was the one that meant running. In a moment of decision between fight or flight, my brain always picked "fight" without hesitation, in all these situations I've faced—whether that be Jacob's jerk-a-tude, Jared's mixed personality, the way Paul made me feel. I was always in attack mode, never flee. If I was, maybe I wouldn't have gotten myself tied up here. Maybe I could have escaped my current state.

And Jesus, I never wanted to solidify this as truth, but having the option I never even considered being an option my only choice, I was made into a little girl again. I was just who I never thought I'd see again.

I was back in grade-school, hiding behind my brother in the face of adversity, not willing to face my problems alone. Ever since Jared got me into the habit of fighting my own battles, I'd been doing so. Maybe I was a string-along for a group of friends who didn't want me there, but I fought for myself. Jared could watch and cheer me on. I was a lone savior on a white slate. In a game of street fighting, I was my own main; I no longer needed someone to hide behind.

Or so the narrative doesn't go.

You're not fooling anyone, Alissa.

Who was I fooling? An audience outside the looking glass?

I always needed someone to hide myself behind. Someone who'd let me cower. I was a damsel in distress, only this distress was self-inflicted and all internal, and I wanted someone else to pick up my discarded sword and fight my demons. I wasn't used to being alone. Whenever it became that way, I'd use any excuse to bully someone into being my plus-one. Whether that be Paul, Kallie, or Jared, someone was with me.

I hated being alone. I hated only having myself. You never knew what sort of demons you'd face next, the kind that you absolutely couldn't fucking look in the eye alone.

Now was no different. I needed, fucking needed, my father, or I'd never get out of this mess. I'd be in a constant loop of self-inflicted distress. Dakota would stay stuck in my head forever. The only company I'd physically get would be my ten o'clock shrink in a fucking psych ward, and I sure as fuck wouldn't be able to see Paul again without him thinking I was crazy.

The possibilities on what my fate would be were endless—and draining. Thinking about them only made me want to crawl back inside my bed and stay asleep forever. How else can you escape your own thoughts? Especially the ones like—

I don't want to think about being dead.

I never liked contemplating death. It was such a taboo subject. After Paul mentioned that my grandfather, the man I used to think died in his sleep, was killed by Dakota for refusing to submit, I couldn't stop thinking about what would happen to me, too. I'd never turn my back on my family just because I wanted power. Having death as my other option really, really made me want to reconsider, though; and I felt pathetic for even daring to think that way. I was just as selfish as they'd always told me I was.

Dad was still upset for what I did. It made me wonder, was he still counting on me to be his successor or did my choices make him decide the line of emissaries ended here? I couldn't imagine him sacrificing the pack's protection just because of a teeny, tiny mistake from a teenage girl running on anger and bitterness. I really couldn't. Dakota was on my trail, and on his, too; we'd somehow overcome him, once I learned what it meant to be a successor. Or we'd die trying.

No. It'll just be you. Your father knows what he's doing, snarked a hateful voice from within the back of my head.

I never got a chance to see my Dad's powers in action. I hadn't. I was as brainless, as ignorant, as a little girl who still believed in the tooth fairy. Exactly the sort of girl who got in trouble with big bads, expecting a miracle. A miracle in the shape of someone with a blazing sword, sworn in as my personal guard—where I should have fought for my own safety, not at the behest of someone who fucking hated my guts.

Maybe now I would see the exact things he'd warned me against. The war inside my head was manifesting, growing rapidly, and it was now a mutation of whatever affliction had led to me being here, alive and inhuman. It was real, it was tangible, it was fucking terrifying. And again, yet again, I was looking for something solid and warm to hide behind, my intention to save a skin that deserved more a burn than anyone else's in the world.

You should get scorched, you selfish fuck.

My brain was right. But the survivalist in me, it didn't care.

I left my home, brain desperate for a relief that couldn't come in the shape of opioids and morphine, and came here.

The door that lead to the Archives. My father's workplace.

The Archives were beautiful and riveting, like a library's very ancient, very pristine Special Collections space. When I walked in, I was hit with a gust of heat from the home-brought heater in the corner and the smell of old books lingering in the air. I didn't see my father anywhere, but I knew he wasn't gone; this place was like a second home. My head was ringing, with a suffocating brand of fear pressing down on my windpipe; coming in felt like signing my death certificate. Looking around felt like a tape of my ongoing tragic death in slow-motion. Breathing felt like a trap.

I ran to the corridor of offices. I ran even faster down the line of doors. If I was watching this in third-person, I might have wondered if the halls were shrinking; why else would someone run like they're being chased by a maniac? My eyes flashed over metal tags, reading the names as I passed. Eventually one caught my eye.

Richard M. Cameron.

That was it. This was it. The moment I'd anticipated for what felt like eons, in the shape of a fucking hour.

I slammed the door open like a reverse Game Over. I was breathing heavy. My head was killing me. My heart was out of control. And I felt like I was shaking, my God; I knew it was pathetic, I knew I needed to have a fixation over myself, but I succumbed to it anyway. Fear can't be controlled, breathing can't be controlled, I mentally chanted, a sweaty hand grasping for something solid; it painfully made contact with the door's handle. I opened my mouth to shout to all who would listen the truth of today and the tragedy of tomorrow, knowing it'd just be my stupid, undocile father listening—

No, no, no. Wait. That isn't right.

I came to a screeching stop when I saw more than just my Dad occupying the room.

The entire goddamned Council was in there. And every single member, who'd just been having a "serious" debate it seemed like, stopped their chitchat to stare at me. Me, the prodigal daughter, with Jupiter-sized eyebags and frizzy, uncombed hair; the essence of Freaks and Geeks. Definitely not the gallant hero they'd been waiting for. Not the girl from storybooks.

That was false—I could definitely pass as a damsel in distress. Just without the fancy dresses and lilting voice. Maybe an unscrewed-gears version of Juliet.

My Dad was sitting at his desk, having just been speaking to Harry Clearwater and Billy Black. Civilly. But that warmth quickly drowned, replaced by a tension from the moment I burst through the door. His eyes were narrowed and his face was hard when he snapped his head over to me and said, "Alissa, what the hell? School isn't out."

"The nurse told me to leave," I said shakily, at best only sidestepping my nerves. I was riveted from head to toe. "I thought she called you. She said she called home."

You didn't even go to the nurse's office, you lying bitch.

I didn't want to admit what he thought was true. No one would, if they were in my position; the biggest disappointment known to mankind. Dad thought very lowly of me, as most adults did. I doubted that he even had standards for me anymore.

Dad scratched the back of his neck, struggling to hold eye contact with me. "That must have been your brother."

Oh. He's—home?

"Oh." I felt horrible, just by the mention of Jared. But—I couldn't afford distraction. And this was a fucking doozy of one. I swallowed back my guilt, blurting out, "I'm fucking terrified. I can't—deal with all this—not anymore. I can't. I can't…"

I was shaking so bad that my knees buckled. Sue, who'd been standing by her husband, lurched forward to grab me.

Dad stood hurriedly from his desk, looking alarmed. His entire face was lit with worry. "Alissa. What's wrong?"

I refused to cry. Nope, nada, fucking zilch—crying wasn't going to happen. It wasn't a trademark of me. Being a bitch was. Being annoying was. But crying? That was saved for emotionally constipated do-gooders. It only happened to me when I was truly, truly fucked up—and even then, it wouldn't happen in front of other people.

"Dakota," I spat out.

The entire room became tense, with that itsy-bitsy, three-syllable name. Dad visibly paled, and the other adults shuffled closer, sharing nervous looks. I regretted speaking at all. But it was necessary, wasn't it? This wasn't my battle; this was a battle for everyone involved, and that included the Council. That included my Dad. That included Sam Uley and his cult of wolfmen.

Fucking hell. With a quick look about, I realized—Sam was in here, too. And where he was, his cronies were sure to follow.

You're being paranoid.

"Alissa," Dad said slowly, sharply. He was more scared than I'd ever seen him in my entire life—and I was there the day my Mom first got sick. Seeing him now flashed me back to that time, when the only thing that mattered was getting Mom better. What a contrast, compared to now. Back then, things were harsh but reality was just that—reality. Now I was stuck in a supernatural thriller inside of a painstaking set of real life events, and in real life, the heroes never won. "What do you mean… 'Dakota?'"

"Doescan—" I sputtered, still in Sue's arms. Everything felt wrong, so wrong that I was a lurched heart-beat away from tucking tail and fleeing the room. I regretted coming here, for one. I especially regretted thinking I needed help in a time where I was the girl who cried wolf. It was the fucking human condition, the rule that says we all play the same game, rationale told me. We're all identical pawns with the same wits and survival instincts. If I wanted to dive into philosophy, this was the part where I thought about fate's play in my impulsiveness and subsequent consequences. I was meant to come here. I was always going to be selfish, seeking help and never for the better good. This was labelled down to my behavioral patterns, the very ones that never had morality as their defining feature; Jesus fuck, I was an antihero, wasn't I?

You're not even much of that, sweetheart. Dakota's hateful red eyes flashed from behind my eyelids.

Eyes opened. Body stilled. A sudden, daunting feeling of self-awareness, one that left me deadly conscious of the severe eyes around the room.

"I swear he was there last night," I finally managed. "It felt like it. I think he's following me. Maybe he couldn't get you, so now he's after me. An easy target, you know? I—I can't fight back! I don't know how!" I felt frightened, another not-so-Alissa thing. My chest burned with an itch to scream, cry, and flail. Like a raven with clipped wings, if you damned bastards want metaphor. "It's like he's fucking Freddy Kreuger."

My father slowly shook his head at me, seeming confused. "Alissa… He wasn't there with you."

"What?" I breathed. "What do you mean?"

"It's time we have a chat," he said, glancing around the room at his group of friendly neighborhood councilmen. And woman—though Sue was just as much a liability as I was. A nurse in need of a safety belt. "They need to stay as well. You have to tell us everything, or we can't help you."

He was acting different, so much different, than what I'd been expecting. Dad gave the impression from our chat that he was angry with me, and everything I'd ever done to him and Jared was unforgivable. I mean, maybe it was. Maybe he wanted the truth out of me and he'd send me off to stay out of his way for the remainder of this battle, just because I was only useful when out of fire range. I couldn't say it was out of a want for my safety, even if I really, really wanted it to be that case.

It was for everyone else's sake. After all, I was a ticking time bomb.

Sam scrutinized me deeply, his frown deeper than his brow-dip. "Are you sure she needs to know? Paul wouldn't be happy," he said, glancing at Dad—then back at me.

Dad frowned right back. "I am aware of her connection to Paul, Sam. Trust me in that I would only involve my own daughter in something that could get her killed if I didn't have any other choice."

"Richard. Sam," said old Quil, face devoid of personal emotion. When Dad and Sam turned from their own conversation to look at him, he went on in saying, "Dakota is sending a warning to the tribe. Alissa is involved much more than you all see now. She isn't just the messenger, Richard. She's a fledgling emissary."

"Dakota targeted me from the moment I first grew into my Gift, Quil," Dad said angrily, not anything like someone would an old friend. I was reminded of Dad's jealousy, and his dislike for Quil's close relations with everyone on the Council—except him. Why are you thinking of this now? It's fucking irrelevant. But he'd been speaking to Billy, whom he hated, and fucking Harry, whom he hardly spoke to. Nothing made sense. "My experience is no different to Alissa's now."

"How can you say so? You haven't any idea the type of warnings he's sent through her," old Quil retorted. He glanced in my direction. "She has yet to tell us anything. You're attributing your own tales as your daughter's."

The entire council turned to look at me. I was just getting my strength back, and my knees no longer felt like jelly gluing my bottom limbs' bones together. I let go of Sue, pushing back to stand and look less of a distressed damsel and more like a warrior back from battle. I was putting on a charade, as I so often did, trying so fucking hard not to get stuck in my own head again. I forced Dad to lock gazes with me. He was the only one I could stand to look at without feeling pressure; instead, what I got was utter shame.

"Last night, I—I snuck out. I went to see Paul," I said.

Dad's facial muscles went taut, and hard, a wrinkled face even more wrinkly. Quite a feat for something so gaunt. "Alone, Alissa? You could have gotten hurt, or lost, or worse—"

I didn't even have the energy to glare. "You wouldn't let me see anyone. I was tired and afraid and confused. Not to mention you were pissed at me. Jared was gone, you were angry, Paul and Kallie weren't anywhere; I felt lonelier than I've ever been in my damn life."

His face completely fell. "Alissa—"

"I went to see him. After we talked, he walked me back home. But, then I was asleep, and then I woke up or something, it's like he came out of fucking nowhere. And he grabbed my throat. He held it till it bruised. I thought I was going to die. He said, We'll talk later. Then he was just—gone."

Everyone was staring at me intently. Dad looked especially keen.

"Your neck isn't bruised at all. Nothing about you seems to have been part of a scuffle," said old Quil thoughtfully.

I shook my head. "After—after that, I couldn't sleep. I went to school. I thought I was safe there, until I went to sleep in one of my classes and he just, he came for me and I thought I was going to die again, but no, I just woke up screaming my lungs out. Everyone thinks I'm fucking crazy."

"Alissa," Dad started, "Dakota isn't coming for you when you're asleep. He has powers, yes, but they have nothing to do with being in your dreams."

"W-What?" I'd been feeling it, and I'd been stating it as fact, but this was the one time when I could truly, absolutely say my heart stopped for a second.

Dad flinched away from my pleading gaze, looking instead at his office desk, his hand fiddling with a piece of peeling paint. "I have fought to stay sane for two decades, never defeating a monster who preys on my fears and thoughts. He knows just how to manipulate anyone to feel insane from false memories alone."

"What?" I stared at him. "What does that mean? What's his power?"

"He is a thought puppeteer," Dad said softly. "He takes your memories and perceptions of reality and twists them, turning an innocent classroom into empty woods. He implants events you think have happened to scare you and perplex everyone around you. It's how he drives you to do his bidding. After a taste of a free mind, you'll do anything to keep it that way—even going so far as to make your mind stop entirely."

"Is… is that what happened to Grandpa?" I asked, feeling faint all of a sudden. I thought Grandpa died by Dakota's hand, but instead, he'd killed himself to flee Dakota's mind tricks; this was news to me. Very recent news. Yet not so much. Paul had mentioned a semblance of this before. Why did I not fret then? Why is it only now that I'm giving a shit? I felt my heart drop, a fleeting feeling of grief striking me in the chest.

"Your mother as well, she…" Dad clenched his eyes shut. "I have lied to both you and your brother a countless amount of times. And for that, I apologize, Alissa. I never meant to hurt you by keeping you in the dark. We all see what happens when you're told deep truths from outside sources."

He's talking about Jared, I thought. He was citing my instance of petty revenge towards my brother, when I'd taken action in the lies and deceit by hurting us both. One of Jared's biggest fears was hurting those he loves. If he did something he could never take back, it'd put him in a situation where he'd always, always look at me with remorse. I knew it then, and I knew it now.

I'd become just what Jared had been to me. I'd taken away any chance we had to go back to the way things were, leaving him to never stop feeling guilty and always wishing things could change.

"Dad—" I puckered my lips. "Mom was sick. How the fuck did Dakota hurt her? She died from pneumonia."

He shook his head, looking distressed. That's when I knew something was wrong.

How?

My lip quivered. "How?" I repeated.

"She—he—I. Alissa, please," Dad said, looking hungover without the alcoholic inducement. "Please don't make me say it aloud. I beg you."

"Did he—turn her?" I asked, forgetting I was in a room of Dad's contacts. They probably already knew. They were probably looking at me with pity. I didn't care. "Did he rip her throat out? What, Richard? What the flying fuck did that monster do?"

She died when I was young. She died and left Dad a fucking mess and Jared in charge of taking care of me. Maybe he'd been a mess because he knew it was his fault. No maybes. I knew nothing.

My brain raced, heart matching pace, and nothing felt right. Not a single damned thing felt real.

Dad's face went white, the color of Heaven. "He took everything from me."

"I lost her too!" I cried. Knowing it wasn't right. Knowing damned well she died before I even hit fourth grade, and she'd been the love of Dad's life. He lost that light ever since she'd died. He'd become a shell of a person. So much so, he couldn't take care of himself, much less a set of kids—one the near-spitting image of his goddamned wife.

"Alissa—Dakota, he, he… I can't." He shook his head. Not talking about the closed casket and the fact he let me believe I couldn't say goodbye because she didn't want me to see her so sickly. He wasn't apologizing anymore. He was just looking for a way out because he damned well knew he was wrong.

"Dakota, he's gonna kill me now," I said with a laugh. I felt hysterical. I just wanted to laugh! Laugh it up! Laugh until my insides hurt! This was all so fucking funny. We were a two-man act with a wonderful slate of onlookers, all highly satisfied by this unexpected fallout. Who didn't love some drama? Death, blood, gore galore; death, death, death.

Death.

My mother was killed by someone now on the hunt to kill me.

My granddad committed suicide because of my hunter.

My father had been hunted for twenty years, but he was just watching his loved ones die instead of getting the same fate handed to him.

What sheer fucking luck. Or maybe it was a curse, disguised as mercy.

The entire room was spinning, withered faces watching me, their wrinkles etched with concern.

"Dakota is becoming more and more sloppy. His terrorizing edges closer, and his target is someone without any idea how to shield from his attacks," slurred Billy, from his corner. I almost forget he existed, standing next to that son of a bitch I called a Dad; he was like background cement, really. And his words were slurred—if they were visible, they'd blur and shudder—like I had canals full of cotton and a brain that refused to comprehend sense. "He awaits our approach. He thinks we'll attack, as it's one of the young ones he's targeted."

Dad looked up from where he'd been trying not to cry, face fucked up and older beyond his true years all at once. "He's gone long enough without our offense," he said hoarsely. "I refuse to let him take another."

Another that I love.

While he refused to stay silent, I had begun to feel something. And this something, it wasn't a bodily reaction; it made my skin crawl and my breath quicken. It wasn't grief, either, or anger. I'd felt those already, and this shit was making it disintegrate. It was like an itch from within my head that I couldn't locate or scratch. It was miniscule, enough that it could go undetected, but I felt it grow more and more restless the longer the adults in the room conversed. And this feeling, so fucking disturbing and foreign, became a throbbing pulse, an itch replaced by utter, searing pain.

I knew what it was.

Alarmed, and growing fatigued by the second, I began to panic.

"He's here! he's here! he's in my mind, he's—"


Things went black.


Things weren't okay.


And the worst part?

I was no longer in a room of people who at least pretended to care.


I was completely, utterly alone.


I woke in a scary, dark, unknown place that reminded me of what Hell would feel like. Cold, abandoned, dusty, black, and so much like a prison cell that I wanted to vomit. Cry, let go of my stomach acid alongside my dignity, fucking hit the walls until they caved in on me. Frankly, I just wanted a reaction from the place. One minute I was in the Archives, surrounded by people who'd deceived me for years, and suddenly I was in a cell, my wrist handcuffed to a pipe. It was something out of a horror movie, for fuck's sake, and I wasn't the type to just sit there and wait for the killer to come and carve me into a mask.

I was the type to attract danger and repeal it within one segment of action.

I clanged the metal and shook the pipe and screamed obscenities, body a wiggling worm of anger and self-hatred.

"Fuck you, Dakota! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!" I screamed until my vocal cords completely cut out. My throat hurt afterwards. It felt like I'd swallowed sandpaper. "Stupid… vampire fuck… come here so I can spit on you…"

"Spit, huh?" Speak of the devil, and oh look!—here the smug-looking bastard appears. He had something behind his back, a horrifying smile on his face. His beady red eyes screamed danger. But the fangs peeking out from beneath his gums? That's what truly put me on guard. "I'm here now, darling. I'm sure you've anticipated this chat. I did mention a chat, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you geriatric lizard," I spat out again, raging against the handcuff. I was already mustering up saliva, ready to plant one big, fat couplet on the fucker. "Come closer, so I can give you my gift. Before we have this chat."

"A present, hm?" Dakota was as deceitful-looking and handsome as he'd appeared last time, carrying the look of someone who knew he could charm anyone into doing what he wanted. He was a special kind of monster; the kind that made up half of mankind. Defeats the purpose of "special," huh? "If you insist, dear—"

I spat right in his mouth, as he was speaking.

He stopped rather suddenly. And he blinked. He blinked, blinked, blinked—like fucking taillights. His lips curled into a sinister, hateful smile.

Before I could give him my most insincere apologies, he had me by the throat, pressed up against the cell wall, handcuff pressing painfully up against my wrist. My windpipe was pressed so hard I couldn't breathe. My eyes were clamped shut so I didn't have a front-row seat to watching my demise. I was defenseless, brave with a capital "reckless," armed with nothing but an armada of sarcasm and pathetic wits. What a great combination; no wonder he looked like he wanted to kill me.

Wait. He looks like he wants to eat me.

Like he probably did my mother.

"Gi..ve… it… you..r… best… sh…ot…" I choked out, managing a painful grin. I wanted to be reunited with my mother; this was not something that scared me in the slightest. Death would be a God-send.

But he didn't kill me. And he didn't reply.

He dropped me.

I coughed, hard, holding my throat like it was the most treasurable thing in the world. I was looking around frantically until my eyes came back to rest upon the fucker who'd tried murdering me.

"T—"

He jabbed something painfully sharp into my throat. I whimpered, a shaking hand reaching up to grope at the spot that seared with unimaginable pain, and tapped something syringe-like. It took seconds for my brain to process that I'd assumed correct.

A…. needle?

"W—what?" I looked up at Dakota, hoarse voice a goner. And I was concerned. Monsters like this didn't do things without purpose.

He was smiling now, dabbing a mysteriously-there handkerchief at his mouth.

"Death is but an open door to immortality," he said to me.

Then he ripped the needle from out of its insertion point.

And right on time, my vision went dark.


I'm going to die.


Dakota had injected me with poison.

I knew that's what it was. I knew it's why the liquid was black, a shade of liquid no one wanted near their bloodstream, and fuck, it was acting fast. It was traveling fast. I'd fainted, or felt like it, but now I was utterly conscious and feeling the full effects of death as it knocked at my chamber door. One moment I was just limp against the pipe, then I was unchained and free to leave. Except, I couldn't move. I was entirely jelly, no sense of mobility in any body part; enough that all I could do was wiggle my fingers, and hope for a miracle.

A miracle… Tch. I'd snubbed Dakota. He wanted me dead, from an illusion I didn't know how to escape.

I looked down at my limbs. The charred coloring was going up my veins at a terrifyingly fast speed, going as far as my elbow before slowing. Then I was stuck in a time-slot, where I could only move my fingers and talk at slow, deadbeat speeds but the movement of my poison was a touch quicker than a beat of thunder. I wanted to cry out for my father; I wanted to plead my tormenter that was no longer present to stop, please, no more; I wanted to scratch until there were open wounds that the poison could bleed out of. I'd never been so scared in my life, even in all the times I'd truly thought there wasn't anything else so scary; but this, this took the fucking cake.

I was growing more fatigued and woozy the longer this poison suctioned out my willpower. The longer it took to infiltrate my immune system and link its way to my heart. The longer before my blood became black and thick as tar.

"Stop fighting it, Alissa. Just let go." Fuck. No, don't do this.

I was imagining his voice. Paul wasn't here. And he certainly wouldn't tell me to die.

At least… I hoped he wouldn't.

Tears fell silently down my face. This isn't real. It's all a fucking game, I said into the abyss of my headspace, pretending someone was here to listen. Dakota's smug, sadistic face came to mind. Maybe, if he appeared, he'd pity me and decide I wasn't the right person to antagonize. He'd realize I was ridiculously stupid and not cut out for the supernatural race, even if I was blessed with a curse called touch of the wolf-girl. I wanted Paul, I wanted Dad, I wanted Jared; I wanted family, and home, and safety. This was nothing. This was death, and pain, and destruction; three things I never wanted to see again, let alone feel. I was dying. It felt like I was dying.

Dakota… that fucker…

You're trying to trick me. This isn't poison.

If I concentrated hard enough, I could hear a sloshing sound from within my stomach. It was the poison, as it was quickly hitting every inch of my body, even the parts that didn't matter. My gallbladder was just a useless hack of organ, living in my torso's domain, and even it was aching something fine; every last goddamned one of them, throbbing, plagued by poison. Even if it was an illusion, it wasn't harmless. It had thoughts of its own, seeking to eliminate me from the inside out, taking me to town in one of the most ruthless ways.

After what I'd learned today of my mother, I almost wanted Dakota to win. It'd teach my father not to lie and not to let other people die for his causes. It'd teach a lesson I was too much of a wimp to be the instructor of myself.

On the last inch of my life, when the poison was so deeply felt that my own head felt like it was swimming with tar, Dakota appeared once more.

You're back, I thought through a bleary gaze. I was out of commission in all departments except thinking and breathing. Things were going dark. Dakota's tall, lean silhouette was all I could see.

"If you die here, it'll trick your body into thinking it needs to die, too," Dakota told me, his words sounding far, far away. And velvety… so velvety. Like silk. And velvet. Beautiful and toasty. "We had so much to discuss, you and I. Yet here you go, strength failing. Is this the type of rodent I'm meant to trap?"

All I did was stare into his abyss, hoping he wouldn't stare back.

"What a pity. Your father, Richard, is a fine opponent. He'll do rather nice for Aro's purposes. You, on the other hand, have done marvelous as bait. I got quite tired of your antics, though, I do say, Alissa." He was shaking his head, I just knew it. My existence was all folly now, thanks to Dad's existence. It had always been folly. "You're quite abrasive, and that mouth of yours is in the fine-making to charm trouble. You know that, too, don't you? I find it all quite unsurprising."

I was slipping further and further into that same abyss that carried Dakota's soul.

"Stay with me, child," said Dakota, like this was all some big joke. I think he was holding my hand, but I didn't know at all. I couldn't feel anything. I could barely see his shadow. "We still have much to talk about—"

Suddenly, very suddenly, something cracked. A creak emitted. And all feeling disappeared, including that sluggish, fatigued headspace I'd just been occupied with. It was like I hadn't just been at Death's door at all.

With regained vigor, I got to my knees, yanking at an imaginary handcuff—and flickering my frantic gaze around. The area I was in was falling apart, like it hadn't just been perfectly conditioned, caving it underneath all the pressure it had from something unknown. Something I didn't quite understand.

Dakota was holding my hand, and I could see his face turning gradually darker. But—that made absolutely no sense. He wasn't a human. He couldn't regain color.

"What—what the?" he sputtered, as surprised as vampires were capable of. For once, I couldn't blame him. But I knew—I fucking knew—by his face that he realized what this was. And he was utterly terrified of it.

The illusion around us went up in flames. All that was left was black.

And thus, the wolf and the lamb fell into shadows.

Together, just as they were never supposed to be.


A/N: Hey. I'm sorry for being so bad at updating. I just keep looking at this book and thinking it's bad. It kinda is tbh. I'm thinking about deleting it.

I hope Alissa's not a Mary Sue or a MPDG. I hope she isn't annoyingly unrealistic (I want her to be as real as possible) or annoyingly annoying. I hope she's human. I truly based her on my personal flaws, and I decided to make a character who's problematic in all the wrong ways with room for growth. Did I succeed?

This chapter was probably completely "what the fuck?" at large. This entire chapter is a roller coaster. I was gonna go one way with it, then it went a complete other. Next chapter will be a game of cat and mouse with Alissa and Dakota, as the two go back and forth between states of disillusion and unconsciousness.

Confusion explained: Dakota is a "thought puppeteer," as mentioned. He's like a mind reader with an extra layer. He can manipulate thoughts and change your present reality. However, you can't be asleep when he does it. And Alissa's Dad was wrong; Dakota was near her at the times he fucked around with her, he just wasn't completely there. He has to be close and in range to access minds. The reasons for why the illusion suddenly failed will be explained in the next chapter, as will Alissa's Mom's death, her Granddad's death, and Dakota's powers. Next chapter will get a Jared reunion at the end of it. And it'll have the idea of "bardo" included in it. You'll see what that's all about soon… maybe. If I don't delete this book :)

The story's heating up and an action-packed climax for this portion of the story is approaching. Hope you're ready for death, destruction, and angst.

Please give feedback. I'm really considering deleting this as I don't feel proud of it in the slightest, so tell me if you want it to stay. I won't continue it if I feel like no one's enjoying it.