I leaned back against the soft snowbank, letting the dry powder reshape itself around my weight. My skin had cooled to match the air around me, and the tiny pieces of ice felt like velvet under my skin.

The sky above me was clear, brilliant with stars, glowing blue in some places, yellow in others. The stars created majestic, swirling shapes against the black backdrop of the empty universe—an awesome sight. Exquisitely beautiful. Or rather, it should have been exquisite. Would have been, if I'd been able to really see it.

It wasn't getting any better. Six days had passed, six days I'd hidden here in the empty Denali wilderness, but I was no closer to freedom than I had been since the first moment I'd caught his scent.

When I stared up at the jeweled sky, it was as if there were an obstruction between my eyes and its beauty. The obstruction was a face, just an unremarkable human face, but I couldn't quite seem to banish it from my mind.

I heard the approaching thoughts before I heard the footsteps that accompanied them. The sound of movement was only a faint whisper against the powder.

I was not surprised that Taran had followed me here. I knew he'd been mulling over this coming conversation for the last few days, putting it off until he was sure of exactly what he wanted to say.

He sprang into sight about sixty yards away, leaping onto the tip of an outcropping of black rock and balancing there on the balls of his bare feet.

Taran's skin was silver in the starlight, and his long blond curls shone pale. His amber eyes glinted as he spied me, half-buried in the snow, and his full lips stretched slowly into a smile.

Exquisite. If I'd really been able to see him. I sighed.

He hadn't dressed for human eyes; he wore only a pair of shorts. Crouching down on a promontory of stone, he touched the rock with his fingertips, and his body coiled.

Cannonball, he thought.

He launched himself into the air. His shape became a dark, twisting shadow as he spun gracefully between the stars and me. He curled himself into a ball just as he struck the piled snowbank beside me.

A blizzard of snow flew up around me. The stars went black and I was buried deep in the feathery ice crystals.

I sighed again, breathing in the ice, but didn't move to unearth myself. The blackness under the snow neither hurt nor improved the view. I still saw the same face.

"Edythe?"

Then snow was flying again as Taran swiftly disinterred me. He brushed the powder from my skin, not quite meeting my gaze.

"Sorry," he murmured. "It was a joke."

"I know. It was funny."

His mouth twisted down.

"Ivan and Kirill said I should leave you alone. They think I'm annoying you."

"Not at all," I assured him. "On the contrary, I'm the one who's being rude—abominably rude. I'm very sorry."

You're going home, aren't you? he thought.

"I haven't... entirely... decided that yet."

But you're not staying here. His thought was wistful now.

"No. It doesn't seem to be... helping."

His lips pushed out into a pout. "That's my fault, isn't it?"

"Of course not." He hadn't made anything easier, for certain, but the face that haunted me was the only true impediment.

Be honest.

I smiled.

I make you uncomfortable, he accused.

"No."

He raised one eyebrow, his expression so disbelieving that I had to laugh. One short laugh, followed by another sigh.

"All right," I admitted. "A little bit."

He sighed, too, and put his chin in his hands.

"You're an utterly attractive man, Taran. Of course, you're already well aware of that. Don't let my stubbornness undermine your confidence." I chuckled at the unlikeliness of that.

"I'm not used to rejection," he grumbled, his lower lip pushing out into an alluring pout.

"Certainly not," I agreed, trying with little success to block out his thoughts as he fleetingly sifted through memories of his thousands of successful conquests. Mostly, Taran preferred human women—they were much more populous for one thing, with the added advantage of being soft and warm. And always eager, definitely.

"Incubus," I teased, hoping to interrupt the images flickering in his head.

He grinned, flashing his teeth. "The original."

Unlike Carine, Taran and his brothers had discovered their consciences slowly. In the end, it was their fondness for human women that turned them against the slaughter. Now the women they loved... lived.

"When you showed up here," Taran said slowly, "I thought that..."

I'd known what he'd thought. And I should have guessed that he would feel that way. But I'd not been at my best for analytical thinking in that moment.

"You thought that I'd changed my mind."

"Yes." He scowled.

"I feel horrible for toying with your expectations, Taran. I didn't mean to—I wasn't thinking. It's just that I left in... quite a hurry."

"I don't suppose you'd tell me why?"

I sat up and folded my arms across my chest, my shoulders rigid. "I'd prefer not to talk about it. Please forgive my reserve."

He was quiet again, still speculating. I ignored him, trying in vain to appreciate the stars.

He gave up after a silent moment, and his thoughts pursued a new direction.

Where will you go, Edythe, if you leave? Back to Carine?

"I don't think so," I whispered.

Where would I go? I could not think of one place on the entire planet that held any interest for me. There was nothing I wanted to see or do. Because no matter where I went, I would not be going to anywhere—I would only be running from.

I hated that. When had I become such a coward?

Taran threw his arm around my shoulders. I stiffened but did not flinch from his touch. He meant it as nothing more than friendly comfort. Mostly.

"I think that you will go back," he said, his voice taking on just a hint of his long-lost Russian accent. "No matter what it is... or who it is... that haunts you. You'll face it head-on. You're the type."

His thoughts were as certain as his words. I tried to embrace the vision of myself that he saw. The one who faced things head-on. It was pleasant to think of myself that way again. I'd never doubted my courage, my ability to face difficulty, before that horrible hour in a high school Biology class such a short time ago.

I kissed his cheek, pulling back swiftly when he twisted his face toward mine. He smiled ruefully at my quickness.

"Thank you, Taran. I needed to hear that."

His thoughts turned petulant. "You're welcome, I guess. I wish you would be more reasonable about things, Edythe."

"I'm sorry, Taran. You know you're far too good for me. I just... haven't found what I'm looking for yet."

"Well, if you leave before I see you again... goodbye, Edythe."

"Goodbye, Taran." As I said the words, I could see it. I could see myself leaving. Being strong enough to go back to the one place I wanted to be. "Again, thank you."

He was on his feet in one nimble move, and then he was running away, ghosting across the snow so quickly that his feet had no time to sink in. He left no prints behind him. He didn't look back. My rejection bothered him more than he'd let on before, even in his thoughts. He wouldn't want to see me again before I left.

My mouth twisted downward. I didn't like hurting Taran, though his feelings were not deep, hardly pure, and, in any case, not something I could return. It still made me feel less than polite.

I put my chin on my knees and stared up at the stars again, though I was suddenly anxious to be on my way. I knew that Archie would see me coming home, that he would tell the others. This would make them happy—Carine and Earnest especially. But I gazed at the stars for one more moment, trying to see past the face in my head. Between me and the brilliant lights in the sky, a pair of bewildered sky-blue eyes wondered at my motives, seeming to ask what this decision would mean for him. Of course, I couldn't be sure that was really the information his curious eyes sought. Even in my imagination, I couldn't hear his thoughts. Beau Swan's eyes continued to question, and an unobstructed view of the stars continued to elude me. With a heavy sigh, I gave up and got to my feet. If I ran, I would be back to Carine's car in less than an hour.

In a hurry to see my family—and wanting very much to be the Edythe who faced things head-on—I raced across the starlit snowfield, leaving no footprints.

"It's going to be okay," Archie breathed. His eyes were unfocused, and Jessamine had one hand lightly under his elbow, guiding him forward as we walked into the run-down cafeteria in a close-huddled group. Royal and Eleanor led the way, Eleanor looking ridiculously like a bodyguard in the middle of hostile territory. Roy looked wary, too, but much more irritated than protective.

"Of course it is," I grumbled. Their behavior was ludicrous. If I weren't positive that I could handle this moment, I would have stayed home.

The sudden shift from our normal, even playful morning—it had snowed in the night, and Eleanor and Jessamine were not above taking advantage of my distraction to bombard me with slushballs; when they got bored with my lack of response, they'd turned on each other—to this overdone vigilance would have been comical if it weren't so irritating.

"He's not here yet, but the way he's going to come in... He won't be downwind if we sit in our regular spot."

"Of course we'll sit in our regular spot. Stop it, Archie. You're getting on my nerves. I'll be absolutely fine."

He blinked once as Jessamine helped him into his seat, and his eyes finally focused on my face.

"Hmm," he said, sounding surprised. "I think you're right."

"Of course I am," I muttered.

I hated being the focus of their concern. I felt a sudden sympathy for Jessamine, remembering all the times we'd hovered protectively over her. She met my glance briefly, and grinned.

Annoying, isn't it?

I glowered at her.

Was it just last week that this long, drab room had seemed so killingly dull to me? That it had seemed almost like sleep, like a coma, to be here?

Today my nerves were stretched tight—piano wires, tensed to sing at the lightest pressure. My senses were hyperalert; I scanned every sound, every sight, every movement of the air that touched my skin, every thought. Especially the thoughts. There was only one sense that I kept locked down, refused to use. Smell, of course. I didn't breathe.

I was expecting to hear more about the Cullens in the thoughts that I sifted through. All day I'd been waiting, searching for whichever new acquaintance Beau Swan might have confided in, trying to see the direction the new gossip would take. But there was nothing. No one particularly noticed the five vampires in the cafeteria, just as before the boy had come. Several of the humans here were still thinking of him, still thinking the same thoughts from last week. Instead of finding this unutterably boring, I was now fascinated.

Had he said nothing to anyone about me?

There was no way that he had not noticed my black, murderous glare. I had seen him react to it. Surely, I'd traumatized him. I was convinced that he would have mentioned it to someone, maybe even have exaggerated the story a bit to make it better. Given me a few menacing lines.

And then he'd also heard me trying to get out of our shared Biology class. He must have wondered, after seeing my expression, whether he was the cause. A normal boy would have asked around, compared his experience to others', looked for common ground that would explain my behavior so he didn't feel singled out. Humans were constantly desperate to feel normal, to fit in. To blend in with everyone else around them, like a featureless flock of sheep. The need was particularly strong during the insecure adolescent years. This boy would be no exception to that rule.

But no one at all took notice of us sitting here, at our usual table. Beau must be exceptionally shy if he'd hadn't confided in anyone. Perhaps he had spoken to his father; maybe that was the strongest relationship... though that seemed unlikely, given that he had spent so little time with him throughout his life. He would be closer to his mother. Still, I would have to pass by Chief Swan sometime soon and listen to what he was thinking.

"Anything new?" Jessamine asked.

I concentrated, allowing all the swarms of thoughts to invade my mind again. There wasn't anything that stood out; no one was thinking of us. Despite my earlier worries, it didn't seem that there was anything wrong with my abilities, aside from the silent boy. I'd shared my concerns with Carine upon my return, but she'd only ever heard of talents growing stronger with practice. Never did they atrophy.

Jessamine waited impatiently.

"Nothing. He... must not have said anything."

All of them raised eyebrows at this news.

"Maybe you're not as scary as you think you are," Eleanor said, chuckling. "I bet I could have frightened him better than that."

I rolled my eyes at her.

"Wonder why...?" she puzzled again over my revelation about the boy's unique silence.

"We've been over that. I don't know."

"He's coming in," Archie murmured then. My body froze. "Try to look human."

"Human, you say?" Eleanor asked.

She held up her right fist, twisting her fingers to reveal the snowball she'd saved in her palm. It had not melted there; she'd squeezed it into a lumpy block of ice. She had her eyes on Jessamine, but I saw the direction of her thoughts. So did Archie, of course. When she abruptly hurled the ice chunk at him, he flicked it away with a casual flutter of his fingers. The ice ricocheted across the length of the cafeteria, too fast to be visible to human eyes, and shattered with a sharp crack against the brick wall. The brick cracked, too.

The heads in that corner of the room all turned to stare at the pile of broken ice on the floor, and then swiveled to find the culprit. They didn't look farther than a few tables away. No one looked at us.

"Very human, Eleanor," Royal said scathingly. "Why don't you punch through the wall while you're at it?"

"It would look more impressive if you did it, hot stuff."

I tried to pay attention to them, keeping a grin fixed on my face as though I were part of their banter. I did not allow myself to look toward the line where I knew he was standing. But that was all I was listening to.

I could hear Jeremy's impatience with the new boy, who seemed to be distracted, too, standing motionless in the moving line. I saw, in Jeremy's thoughts, that Beau Swan's cheeks were once more colored bright pink with blood.

I pulled in a few short, shallow breaths, ready to quit breathing if any hint of his scent touched the air near me.

McKayla Newton was with the two boys. I heard both her voices, mental and verbal, when she asked Jeremy what was wrong with the Swan boy. It was distasteful the way her thoughts wrapped around him, the flicker of already established fantasies that clouded her mind while she watched him start and look up from his reverie as though he'd forgotten she was there.

"Nothing," I heard Beau say in that quiet, clear voice. It seemed to ring like a struck bell over the babble in the cafeteria, but I knew that was just because I was listening for it so intently.

"I'll just get a soda today," he continued as he moved to catch up with the line.

I couldn't help flickering one glance in his direction. He was staring at the floor, the blood slowly fading from his face. I looked away quickly, to Eleanor, who laughed at the now pained-looking smile on my face.

You look sick, sister mine.

I rearranged my features so the expression would seem casual and effortless.

Jeremy was wondering aloud about the boy's lack of appetite. "Aren't you hungry?"

"Actually, I feel a little sick." His voice was lower, but still very clear.

Why did it bother me, the protective concern that suddenly emanated from McKayla Newton's thoughts? What did it matter that there was a possessive edge to them? It wasn't my business if McKayla Newton felt unnecessarily anxious for him. Perhaps this was the way everyone responded to him. Hadn't I wanted, instinctively, to protect him, too? Before I'd wanted to kill him, that is...

But was the boy ill?

It was hard to judge—he looked so delicate with his translucent skin... Then I realized that I was worrying, just like that dimwitted girl, and I forced myself not to think about his health.

Regardless, I didn't like monitoring him through McKayla's thoughts. I switched to Jeremy's, watching carefully as the three of them chose which table to sit at. Fortunately, they sat with Jeremy's usual companions, at one of the first tables in the room. Not downwind, just as Archie had promised.

Archie elbowed me. He's going to look soon. Act human.

I clenched my teeth behind my grin.

"Ease up, Edythe," Eleanor said. "Honestly. So you kill one human. That's hardly the end of the world."

"You would know," I murmured.

Eleanor laughed. "You've got to learn to get over things. Like I do. Eternity is a long time to wallow in guilt."

Just then, Archie tossed a smaller handful of ice that he'd been hiding into Eleanor's unsuspecting face.

She blinked, surprised, and then grinned in anticipation.

"You asked for it," she said as she leaned across the table and shook her ice-encrusted hair in his direction. The snow, melting in the warm room, flew out from her hair in a thick shower of half liquid, half ice.

"Seriously?" Roy complained as he and Archie recoiled from the deluge.

Archie laughed, and we all joined in. I could see in Archie's head how he'd orchestrated this perfect moment, and I knew that the boy—I should stop thinking of him that way, as if he were the only boy in the world—that Beau would be watching us laugh and play, looking as happy and human and unrealistically ideal as a Norman Rockwell painting.

Archie kept laughing and held his tray up as a shield. The boy—Beau—must still be staring at us.

... staring at the Cullens again, someone thought, catching my attention.

I looked automatically toward the unintentional call, easily recognizing the voice as my eyes found their destination—I'd been listening to it so much today.

But my eyes slid right past Jeremy and focused on the boy's penetrating gaze.

He looked down quickly.

What was he thinking? The frustration seemed to be getting more acute as time went on, rather than dulling. I tried—uncertain, for I'd never done this before—to probe with my mind at the silence around him. My extra hearing had always come to me naturally, without asking; I'd never had to work at it. But I concentrated now, trying to break through whatever armor surrounded him.

Nothing but silence.

What is it about him? Jeremy thought, echoing my own irritation.

"Edythe Cullen is staring at you," he whispered in the Swan boy's ear, adding a giggle. There was no hint of his jealous annoyance in his tone. Jeremy seemed to be skilled at feigning friendship.

I listened, too engrossed, to the boy's response.

"She doesn't look angry, does she?" he whispered back.

So he had noticed my wild reaction last week. Of course he had.

The question confused Jeremy. I saw my own face in his thoughts as he checked my expression, but I did not meet his glance. I was still concentrating on the boy, trying to hear something. Intent focus didn't seem to help at all.

"No," Jeremy told him, and I knew that he wished he could say yes—how it rankled him, my staring—though there was no trace of that in his voice. "What did you do, ask her out?"

"No! I've never even talked to her. I just... don't think she likes me very much," the boy whispered back, laying his head down on his arm as if he were suddenly tired. I tried to understand the motion, but I could only make guesses. Maybe he was tired.

"The Cullens don't like anybody," Jeremy reassured him. "Well, they don't notice anybody enough to like them." They never used to. His thought was a grumble of complaint. "But she's still staring at you."

"Stop looking at her," the boy said anxiously, lifting his head from his arm to make sure Jeremy obeyed the order.

Jeremy giggled, but did as he was asked.

The boy did not look away from his table for the rest of the hour. I thought—though, of course, I could not be sure—that this was deliberate. It seemed as though he wanted to look at me. His body would shift slightly in my direction, his chin would begin to turn, and then he would catch himself, take a deep breath, and stare fixedly at whoever was speaking.

I ignored the other thoughts around the boy for the most part, as they were not, momentarily, about him. McKayla Newton was planning a snowball fight in the parking lot after school, not seeming to realize that the snow had already shifted to rain. The flutter of soft flakes against the roof had become the more common patter of raindrops. Could she really not hear the change? It seemed loud to me.

When the lunch period ended, I stayed in my seat. The humans filed out, and I caught myself trying to distinguish the sound of his footsteps from the rest, as if there were something important or unusual about them. How stupid.

My family made no move to leave, either. They waited to see what I would do.

Would I go to class, sit beside the boy, where I could smell the absurdly potent scent of his blood and feel the warmth of his pulse in the air on my skin? Was I strong enough for that? Or had I had enough for one day?

As a family, we'd already discussed this moment from every possible angle. Carine disapproved of the risk, but she wouldn't impose her will on mine. Jessamine disapproved nearly as much, but from fear of exposure rather than any concern for humankind. Royal only worried about how it would affect his life. Archie saw so many obscure, conflicting futures that his visions were atypically unhelpful. Earnest thought I could do no wrong. And Eleanor just wanted to compare stories about her own experiences with particularly appealing scents. She pulled Jessamine into her reminiscing, though Jessamine's history with self-control was so short and so uneven that she was unable to be sure she'd ever had an analogous struggle. Eleanor, on the other hand, remembered two such incidents. Her memories of them were not encouraging. But she'd been younger then, not as adept at self-control. Surely, I was stronger than that.

"I... think it's okay," Archie said, hesitant. "Your mind is set. I think you'll make it through the hour."

But Archie knew well how quickly a mind could change.

"Why push it, Edythe?" Jessamine asked. Though she didn't want to feel smug that I was the weak one now, I could hear that she did, just a little. "Go home. Take it slow."

"What's the big deal?" Eleanor disagreed. "Either she will or she won't kill him. Might as well get it over with, either way."

"I don't want to move yet," Royal complained. "I don't want to start over. We're almost out of high school, Eleanor. Finally."

I was evenly torn on the decision. I wanted, wanted badly, to face this head-on rather than running away again. But I didn't want to push myself too far, either. It had been a mistake last week for Jessamine to go so long without hunting; was this just as pointless a mistake?

I didn't want to uproot my family. None of them would thank me for that.

But I wanted to go to my Biology class. I realized that I wanted to see his face again.

That's what decided it for me. That curiosity. I was angry with myself for feeling it. Hadn't I promised myself that I wouldn't let the silence of the boy's mind make me unduly interested in him? And yet, here I was, most unduly interested.

I wanted to know what he was thinking. His mind was closed, but his eyes were very open. Perhaps I could read them instead.

"No, Roy, I think it really will be okay," Archie said. "It's... firming up. I'm ninety-three percent sure that nothing bad will happen if she goes to class." He looked at me, inquisitive, wondering what had changed in my thoughts that made his vision of the future more secure.

Would curiosity be enough to keep Beau Swan alive?

Eleanor was right, though—why not get it over with, either way? I would face the temptation head-on.

"Go to class," I ordered, pushing away from the table. I turned and strode away from them without looking back. I could hear Archie's worry, Jessamine's censure, Eleanor's approval, and Royal's irritation trailing after me.

I took one last deep breath at the door of the classroom, and then held it in my lungs as I walked into the small, warm space.

I was not late. Mrs. Banner was still setting up for today's lab. The boy sat at my—at our table, his face down again, staring at the folder he was doodling on. I examined the sketch as I approached, interested in even this trivial creation of his mind, but it was meaningless. Just a random scribbling of loops within loops. Perhaps he was not concentrating on the pattern, but thinking of something else?

I pulled my chair back with unnecessary roughness, letting it scrape across the linoleum—humans always felt more comfortable when noise announced someone's approach.

I knew he heard the sound; he did not look up, but his hand missed a loop in the design he was drawing, making it unbalanced.

Why didn't he look up? Probably he was frightened. I must be sure to leave him with a different impression this time. Make his think he'd been imagining things before.

"Hello," I said in the quiet voice I used when I wanted to make humans more comfortable, forming a polite smile with my lips that would not show any teeth.

He looked up then, his wide brown eyes startled and full of silent questions. It was the same expression that had been obstructing my vision for the past week.

As I stared into those oddly deep blue eyes—the color was like sapphire, but the clarity was more comparable to the ocean, there was a depth and transparency; near his pupils, there were tiny flecks of agate green and golden caramel—I realized that my hate, the hate I'd imagined this boy somehow deserved for simply existing, had evaporated. Not breathing now, not tasting his scent, I found it hard to believe that anyone so vulnerable could ever be deserving of hatred.

His cheeks began to flush, and he said nothing.

I kept my eyes on his, focusing only on their questioning depths, and tried to ignore the appetizing color of his skin. I had enough breath to speak for a while longer without inhaling.

"My name is Edythe Cullen," I said, though he already knew it. It was the polite way to begin. "I didn't have a chance to introduce myself last week. You must be Beau Swan."

He seemed confused—there was that little pucker between his eyes again. It took his half a second longer than it should have to respond.

"H-how do you know my name?" he demanded, and his voice shook just a little.

I must have truly terrified him, and this made me feel guilty. I laughed gently—it was a sound that I knew made humans more at ease.

"Oh, I think everyone knows your name." Surely, he must have realized that he'd become the center of attention in this monotonous place. "The whole town's been waiting for you to arrive."

He frowned as if this information was unpleasant. I supposed, being shy as he appeared to be, attention would seem like a bad thing to him. Most humans felt the opposite. Though they didn't want to stand out from the herd, at the same time they craved a spotlight for their individual uniformity.

"No," he said. "I meant, why did you call me Beau?"

"Do you prefer Beaufort?" I asked, perplexed that I couldn't see where this question was leading. I didn't understand. He'd made his preference clear many times that first day. Were all humans this incomprehensible without the mental context as a guide? How much I must rely on that extra sense. Would I be completely blind without it?

"Absolutely not," he answered, leaning his head slightly to one side. His expression—if I was reading it correctly—was torn between embarrassment and confusion. "But I think Charlie—I mean, my dad—must call me that behind my back—that's what everyone here seemed to know me as." his skin darkened one shade pinker.

"Oh," I said, and quickly looked away from his face.

I'd just realized what his questions meant: I had slipped up—made an error. If I hadn't been eavesdropping on all the others that first day, then I would have addressed him initially by his full name. He'd noticed the difference.

I felt a pang of unease. It was very quick of his to pick up on my slip. Quite astute, especially for someone who was supposed to be terrified by my proximity.

But I had bigger problems than whatever suspicions about me he might be keeping locked inside his head.

I was out of air. If I were going to speak to his again, I would have to inhale.

It would be hard to avoid speaking. Unfortunately for him, sharing this table made him my lab partner, and we would have to work together today. It would seem odd—and incomprehensibly rude—for me to ignore him while we did the lab. It would make him more suspicious, more afraid.

I leaned as far away from his as I could without moving my seat, twisting my head out into the aisle. I braced myself, locking my muscles in place, and then sucked in one quick chestful of air, breathing through my mouth alone.

Ahh!

It was intensely painful, like swallowing burning coals. Even without smelling him, I could taste his on my tongue. The craving was every bit as strong as that first moment I'd caught his scent last week.

I gritted my teeth and tried to compose myself.

"Get started," Mrs. Banner commanded.

It took every single ounce of self-control I'd achieved in seventy-four years of hard work to turn back to the boy, who was staring down at the table, and smile.

"Ladies first, partner?" I asked.

He looked up at my expression and his face went blank. Was there something off? In his eyes, I saw the reflection of my usual human-friendly composition of features. The facade looked perfect. Was he frightened again? He didn't speak.

"Uh, sure, go ahead," he said quietly.

I stared at the equipment on the table—the battered microscope, the box of slides—rather than watch the blood wax and wane under his clear skin. I took another quick breath, through my teeth, and winced as the taste scorched the inside of my throat. I pulled the microscope to my side of the table.

"Prophase," I said after a quick examination. I switched out the slide for the next, then paused and looked up at him. "Or did you want to check?"

"Um, no, I'm good," he said.

I was still too unsettled to look at him. Breathing as quietly as I could through my gritted teeth and trying to ignore the fiery thirst, I concentrated on the simple assignment, writing the word on the appropriate line on the lab sheet and then switching out the first slide for the next.

I glanced at the slide, then wrote the word Anaphase on the second line.

As I dropped the next slide into place, I could see his eyes move to stare at me. Sitting beside him was like sitting next to a heat lamp. I could feel myself warming slightly to the higher temperature.

Mrs. Banner's thoughts turned to the two of us, and I looked up to meet her gaze.

"Miss Cullen?"

I slid the microscope toward the boy as I answered. "Yes, Mrs. Banner?"

"Perhaps you should let Mr. Swan have an opportunity to learn?"

"Of course, Mrs. Banner."

I turned to Beau expectantly, and he bent down awkwardly to look through the eyepiece. He did not look at the slide for long. "Metaphase," he said nonchalantly, perhaps trying a little too hard to sound that way.

"Do you mind if I look?" I asked as he started to remove the slide. Unthinkingly, I reached out to stop his hand. The warmth of his skin was an instant reminder of my slip. He jerked his hand away reflexively.

"I'm sorry," I muttered quickly, pulling the microscope towards myself. I examined the slide, perhaps too quickly, in my haste to recover from the contact. "Metaphase," I agreed, returning the microscope over to him.

When Beau attempted to exchange this slide for the next, both of them slipped from his fingers. One clattered on the table, and I heard the rush of air around the other piece of glass as it fell to the floor. My hand shot out to meet it before it could shatter against the tile.

"Ugh, sorry," he exhaled as I placed the slide back on the table.

"Well, the last is no mystery, regardless," I said, trying my best to keep from laughter.

I wrote the words Metaphase and Telophase on the last two lines of the worksheet. We finished this way, speaking one word at a time and never meeting each other's eyes. We were the only ones done—the others in the class were having a harder time with the lab. McKayla Newton seemed to be having trouble concentrating; she was trying to watch Beau and me.

Wish she'd stayed wherever she went, McKayla thought, eyeing me sulfurously. Interesting. I hadn't realized the girl harbored any specific ill will toward me. This was a new development, about as recent as the boy's arrival, it seemed. Even more interestingly, I found—to my surprise—that the feeling was mutual.

I looked down at the boy again, bemused by the vast range of havoc and upheaval that, despite his ordinary, unthreatening appearance, he was wreaking on my life.

It wasn't that I couldn't see what McKayla was going on about. He was actually sort of appealing for a human, in an unusual way. Better than merely being handsome, his face was... unexpected. Not quite symmetrical—his narrow chin out of balance with his wide cheekbones; extreme in the coloring—the contrast of his light skin and dark hair; and then there were the eyes, too big for his face, brimming over with silent secrets...

Eyes that were suddenly boring into mine.

I stared back at him, trying to guess even one of those secrets.

"Did you get contacts?" he asked abruptly.

What a strange question. "No." I almost smiled at the idea of improving my eyesight.

"Oh," he mumbled. "I thought there was something different about your eyes."

I felt suddenly colder again as I realized that I was not the only one attempting to ferret out secrets today.

I shrugged, my shoulders stiff, and glared straight ahead to where the teacher was making her rounds.

Of course there was something different about my eyes since the last time he'd stared into them. To prepare myself for today's ordeal, today's temptation, I'd spent the entire weekend hunting, satiating my thirst as much as possible, overdoing it, really. I'd glutted myself on the blood of animals, not that it made much difference in the face of the outrageous flavor floating on the air around him. When I'd glared at him last, my eyes had been black with thirst. Now, my body swimming with blood, my eyes were a warm gold—light amber.

Another slip. If I'd seen what he meant with his question, I could have just told him yes.

I'd sat beside humans for two years now at this school, and he was the first to examine me closely enough to note the change in my eye color. The others, while admiring the beauty of my family, tended to look down quickly when we returned their stares. They shied away, blocking the details of our appearances in an instinctive endeavor to keep themselves from understanding. Ignorance was bliss to the human mind.

Why did it have to be this boy who would see too much?

Mrs. Banner approached our table. I gratefully inhaled the gush of clean air she brought with her before it could mix with his scent.

"So, Edythe..." she said, looking over our answers.

"Beau identified half of the slides."

Mrs. Banner's thoughts were skeptical as she turned to look at the boy. "Have you done this lab before?"

I watched, engrossed, as he smiled, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Not with onion root."

"Whitefish blastula?" Mrs. Banner probed.

"Yeah."

This surprised her. Today's lab was something she'd pulled from a senior-class course. She nodded thoughtfully at the boy. "Were you in an advanced placement program in Phoenix?"

"Yes."

He was advanced, then, intelligent for a human. This did not surprise me.

"Well," Mrs. Banner said, pursing her lips, "I guess it's good you two are lab partners." She turned and walked away, mumbling "So the other kids can get a chance to learn something for themselves" under her breath. I doubted the boy could hear that. He began scrawling loops across his folder again.

Two slips so far in one half hour. An extremely poor showing on my part. Though I had no idea at all what the boy thought of me—how much did he fear, how much did he suspect?—I knew I needed to put forth a better effort to leave him with a new impression. Something to quell his memories of our ferocious last encounter.

"It's too bad about the snow, isn't it?" I said, repeating the small talk that I'd heard a dozen students discuss already. A boring, standard topic of conversation. The weather—always safe.

He stared at me with obvious doubt in his eyes—an abnormal reaction to my very normal words. "Not really."

I tried to steer the conversation back to trite paths. He was from a much brighter, warmer place—his skin seemed to reflect that somehow, despite its fairness—and the cold must make his uncomfortable. My icy touch certainly had.

"You don't like the cold," I guessed.

"Or the wet," he agreed.

"Forks must be a difficult place for you to live." Perhaps you should not have come here, I wanted to add. Perhaps you should go back where you belong.

I wasn't sure I wanted that, though. I would always remember the scent of his blood—was there any guarantee that I wouldn't eventually follow him? Besides, if he left, his mind would forever remain a mystery, a constant, nagging puzzle.

"You have no idea," he said in a low voice, glowering past me for a moment.

his answers were never what I expected. They made me want to ask more questions.

"Why did you come here, then?" I demanded, realizing instantly that my tone was too accusatory, not casual enough for the conversation. The question sounded rude, prying.

"It's... complicated."

He blinked, leaving it at that, and I nearly imploded out of curiosity—in that second, it burned almost as hot as the thirst in my throat. Actually, I found that it was getting slightly easier to breathe; the agony was becoming a tiny bit more bearable through familiarity.

"I think I can keep up," I insisted. Perhaps common courtesy would compel his to answer my questions as long as I was impolite enough to ask them.

He stared down silently at his hands. This made me impatient. I wanted to put my hand under his chin and tilt his head up so that I could read his eyes. But of course I could never touch his skin again.

He looked up suddenly. It was a relief to be able to see the emotions in his eyes. He spoke in a rush, hurrying through the words.

"My mother got remarried."

Ah, this was human enough, easy to understand. Sorrow flitted across his face, bringing the small pucker back between his brows.

"That doesn't sound so complex," I said, my voice gentle without my working to make it that way. His dejection left me oddly helpless, wishing there was something I could do to make him feel better. A strange impulse. "When did that happen?"

"Last September." He exhaled heavily—not quite a sigh. I froze for a moment as his warm breath brushed my face.

"And you don't like him," I guessed after that short pause, still fishing for more information.

"No, Phil is fine," he said, correcting my assumption. There was a hint of a smile now around the corners of his full lips. "A little young, maybe, but he's a good guy."

This didn't fit with the scenario I'd been constructing in my head.

"Why didn't you stay with them?" My voice was too eager; it sounded like I was being nosy. Which I was, admittedly.

"Phil travels most of the time. He plays ball for a living." The little smile grew more pronounced; this career choice amused him.

I smiled, too, without choosing the expression. I wasn't trying to make his feel at ease. His smile just made me want to smile in response—to be in on the secret.

"Have I heard of him?" I ran through the rosters of professional ballplayers in my head, wondering which Phil was her.

"Probably not. He doesn't play well." Another smile. "Just minor league. He moves around a lot."

The rosters in my head shifted instantly, and I'd tabulated a list of possibilities in less than a second. At the same time, I was imagining the new scenario.

"And your mother sent you here so that she could travel with him," I said. Making assumptions seemed to get more information out of his than questions did. It worked again. His chin jutted out, and his expression was suddenly stubborn.

"No, she didn't," he said, and his voice had a new, hard edge to it. My assumption had upset him, though I couldn't quite see how. "I sent myself."

I could not guess at his meaning, or the source behind his pique. I was entirely lost.

There was just no making sense of the boy. He wasn't like other humans. Maybe the silence of his thoughts and the perfume of his scent were not the only unusual things about him.

"I don't understand," I admitted, hating to concede.

He sighed and stared into my eyes for longer than most normal humans were able to stand.

"She stayed with me at first, but she missed him," Beau explained slowly, his tone growing more forlorn with each word. "It made her unhappy... so I decided it was time to spend some quality time with Charlie."

The tiny pucker between his eyes deepened.

"But now you're unhappy," I murmured. I kept speaking my hypotheses aloud, hoping to learn from his refutations. This one, however, did not seem as far off the mark.

"And?" he said, as if this was not even an aspect to be considered.

I continued to stare into his eyes, feeling that I'd finally gotten my first real glimpse into his soul. I saw in that one word where he ranked himself among his own priorities. Unlike most humans, his own needs were far down the list.

He was selfless.

As I saw this, the mystery of the person hiding inside this quiet mind began to clear a little.

"That doesn't seem fair," I said. I shrugged, trying to seem casual.

He laughed, but there was no amusement in the sound. "Haven't you heard? Life isn't fair."

I wanted to laugh at his words, though I, too, felt no real amusement. I knew a little something about the unfairness of life. "I believe I have heard that somewhere before."

He stared back at me, seeming confused again. His eyes flickered away, and then came back to mine.

"So that's it," he told me.

I was not ready to let this conversation end. The little v between his eyes, a remnant of his sorrow, bothered me.

"You put on a good show." I spoke slowly, still considering this next hypothesis. "But I'd be willing to bet that you're suffering more than you let anyone see."

He made a face, his eyes narrowing and his mouth twisting into a lopsided frown, and he looked back toward the front of the class. He didn't like it when I guessed right. He wasn't the average martyr—he didn't want an audience for his pain. He shrugged. "I repeat... And?"

"I don't entirely understand you, that's all."

"Why would you want to?" he demanded, still staring away.

"That's a very good question," I admitted, more to myself than to him.

His discernment was better than mine—he saw right to the core of things while I floundered around the edges, sifting blindly through clues. The details of his very human life should not matter to me. It was wrong for me to care what he thought. Beyond protecting my family from suspicion, human thoughts were not significant.

I was not used to being the less intuitive of any pairing. I relied on my extra hearing too much—I clearly was not as perceptive as I gave myself credit for.

The boy sighed and glowered toward the front of the classroom. Something about his frustrated expression was humorous. The whole situation, the whole conversation, was humorous. No one had ever been in more danger from me than this small human boy—at any moment I might, distracted by my ridiculous absorption in the conversation, inhale through my nose and attack him before I could stop myself—and he was irritated because I hadn't answered his question.

He glanced at me, and then his eyes seemed to get trapped by my gaze. "I'm sorry. Did I... Am I annoying you?"

"No," I told him. "If anything, I'm annoyed with myself.

He frowned, disgruntled. "Why"

"Reading people... it usually comes very easily to me. But I can't—I guess I don't know quite what to make of you. Is that funny?"

"More... unexpected. My mom always calls me her open book. According to her, you can all but read my thoughts printing out across my forehead."

I stared at him in amazement. He was upset because he thought I saw through him too easily. How bizarre. I'd never expended so much effort to understand someone in all my life—or rather existence, as life was hardly the right word. I did not truly have a life.

"I suppose I've gotten overconfident," I disagreed, feeling strangely... wary, as if there were some hidden danger here that I was failing to see. Beyond the very obvious danger, something more... I was suddenly on edge, the premonition making me anxious.

"Um, sorry?"

I smiled at him widely then, letting my lips pull back to expose the rows of gleaming, steel-strong teeth behind them, and laughed.

It was a stupid thing to do, but I was abruptly, unexpectedly desperate to get some kind of warning through to the boy. His body was closer to me than before, having shifted unconsciously in the course of our conversation. All the little markers and signs that were sufficient to scare off the rest of humanity did not seem to be working on him. Why did he not cringe away from me in terror? Surely he had seen enough of my darker side to realize the danger.

I didn't get to see if my warning had the intended effect. Mrs. Banner called for the class's attention just then, and he turned away from me at once. He seemed a little relieved for the interruption, so maybe he understood unconsciously.

I hoped he did.

I recognized the fascination growing inside me, even as I tried to root it out. I could not afford to find Beau Swan interesting. Or rather, he could not afford that. Already, I was anxious for another chance to talk to him. I wanted to know more about his mother, his life before he came here, his relationship with his father. All the meaningless details that would flesh out his character further. But every second I spent with him was a mistake, a risk he shouldn't have to take.

Absentmindedly, he flipped a page of his lab notebook just at the moment that I allowed myself another breath. A particularly concentrated wave of his scent hit the back of my throat.

It was like the first day—like the grenade. The pain of the burning dryness made me dizzy. I had to grasp the table again to keep myself in my seat. This time I had slightly more control. I didn't break anything, at least. The monster growled inside me but took no pleasure in my pain. She was too tightly bound. For the moment.

I stopped breathing altogether and leaned as far from the boy as I could.

No, I could not afford to find him fascinating. The more interesting I found him, the more likely it was that I would kill him. I'd already made two minor slips today. Would I make a third, one that was not minor?

As soon as the bell sounded, I fled from the classroom—probably destroying whatever impression of politeness I'd halfway constructed in the course of the hour. Again, I gasped at the clean, wet air outside as though it was a healing attar. I hurried to put as much distance as possible between myself and the boy.

Eleanor waited for me outside the door of our Spanish class. She read my wild expression for a moment.

How did it go? she wondered warily.

"Nobody died," I mumbled.

I guess that's something. When I saw Archie ditching there at the end, I thought...

As we walked into the classroom, I saw her memory from just a few moments earlier, seen through the open door of her last class: Archie walking briskly and blank-faced across the grounds toward the science building. I felt her remembered urge to get up and join him, and then her decision to stay. If Archie needed her help, he would ask.

I closed my eyes in horror and disgust as I slumped into my seat. "I hadn't realized it was that close. I didn't think I was going to... I didn't see that it was that bad," I whispered.

It wasn't, she reassured me. Nobody died, right?

"Right," I said through my teeth. "Not this time."

Maybe it will get easier.

"Sure."

Or maybe you kill him. She shrugged. You wouldn't be the first one to mess up. No one would judge you too harshly. Sometimes a person just smells too good. I'm impressed you've lasted this long.

"Not helping, Eleanor."

I was revolted by her acceptance of the idea that I would kill the boy, that this was somehow inevitable. Was it his fault that he smelled so good?

I know when it happened to me..., she reminisced, taking me back with her half a century, to a country lane at dusk, where a middle-aged man was pulling his dried sheets down from a line strung between apple trees. I'd seen this before, the strongest of her two encounters, but the memory seemed particularly vivid now—perhaps because my throat still ached from the last hour's scorching. Eleanor remembered the smell of apples hanging heavy in the air—the harvest was over and the rejected fruits were scattered on the ground, the bruises in their skin leaking their fragrance out in thick clouds. A freshly mowed field of hay was a background to that scent, a harmony. She walked up the lane, all but oblivious to the man, on an errand for Royal. The sky was purple overhead, orange over the mountains to the west. She would have continued up the meandering cart path and there would have been no reason to remember the evening, except that a sudden night breeze blew the white sheets out like sails and fanned the man's scent across Eleanor's face.

"Ah," I groaned quietly. As if my own remembered thirst was not enough.

I know. I didn't last half a second. I didn't even think about resisting.

Her memory became far too explicit for me to stand.

I jumped to my feet, my teeth locked hard.

"Estás bien, Edythe?" Mr. Goff asked, startled by my sudden movement. I could see my face in his mind, and I knew that I looked far from well.

"Perdóname," I muttered as I darted for the door.

"Eleanor, por favor, puedes ayudar a tu hermano?" he asked, gesturing helplessly toward me as I rushed out of the room.

"Sure," I heard her say. And then she was right behind me.

She followed me to the far side of the building, where she caught up to me and put her hand on my shoulder.

I shoved her hand away with unnecessary force. It would have shattered the bones in a human hand, and the bones in the arm attached to it.

"Sorry, Edythe."

"I know." I drew in deep gasps of air, trying to clear my head and lungs.

"Is it as bad as that?" she asked, trying not to think of the scent and the flavor of her memory as she asked, and not quite succeeding.

"Worse, Eleanor, worse."

She was quiet for a moment.

Maybe...

"No, it would not be better if I got it over with. Go back to class, Eleanor. I want to be alone."

She turned without another word or thought and walked quickly away. She would tell the Spanish teacher that I was sick, or ditching, or a dangerously out of control vampire. Did her excuse really matter? Maybe I wasn't coming back. Maybe I had to leave.

I returned to my car to wait for school to end. To hide. Again.

I should have spent the time making decisions or trying to bolster my resolve, but, like an addict, I found myself searching through the babble of thoughts emanating from the school buildings. The familiar voices stood out, but I wasn't interested in listening to Archie's visions or Royal's complaints right now. I found Jeremy easily, but the boy was not with him, so I continued searching. McKayla Newton's thoughts caught my attention, and I located him at last, in Gym with her. She was unhappy because I'd spoken to him today in Biology. She was running over his response when she'd brought the subject up.

I've never seen her actually say more than a word here or there to anyone. Of course she would decide to talk to Beau. I don't like the way she looks at him. But he didn't seem too excited about her. What did he say to me earlier? "Wonder what was with her last Monday." Something like that. Didn't sound like he cared. It couldn't have been much of a conversation...

She cheered herself with the idea that Beau had not been interested in his exchange with me. This annoyed me quite a bit, so I stopped listening to her.

I put in a CD of violent music, and then turned it up until it drowned out other voices. I had to concentrate on the music very hard to keep myself from drifting back to McKayla Newton's thoughts to spy on the unsuspecting boy.

I cheated a few times as the hour drew to a close. Not spying, I tried to convince myself. I was just preparing. I wanted to know exactly when he would leave the gym, when he would be in the parking lot. I didn't want him to take me by surprise.

As the students started to file out the gym doors, I got out of my car, not sure why I did it. The rain was light—I ignored it as it slowly saturated my hair.

Did I want him to see me here? Did I hope he would come to speak to me? What was I doing?

I didn't move, though I tried to convince myself to get back in the car, knowing my behavior was reprehensible. I kept my arms folded across my chest and breathed very shallowly as I watched him walk slowly toward me, his mouth turning down at the corners. He didn't look at me. A few times he glanced up at the clouds with a scowl, as if they had offended him.

I was disappointed when he reached his car before he had to pass me. Would he have spoken to me? Would I have spoken to him?

He got into a faded red Chevy truck, a rusted behemoth that was older than his father. I watched his start the truck—the old engine roared louder than any other vehicle in the lot—and then hold his hands out toward the heating vents. The cold was uncomfortable to him—he didn't like it. He combed his fingers through his damp hair. I imagined what the cab of that truck would smell like, and then quickly drove out the thought.

He glanced around as he prepared to back out, and finally looked in my direction. He stared back at me for only half a second, and all I could read in his eyes was surprise before he tore them away and jerked the truck into reverse. And then squealed to a stop again, the back end of the truck missing a collision with Nick Casey's compact by mere inches.

He stared into his rearview mirror, his mouth hanging open, horrified at his near miss. When the other car had pulled past him, he checked all his blind spots twice and then inched out of the parking space so cautiously that it made me grin. It was as though he thought he was dangerous in his decrepit truck.

The thought of Beau Swan being dangerous to anyone, no matter what he was driving, had me laughing while the boy drove past me, staring straight ahead.