J.
I run through the night, and part of the morning, fuelling myself with all the rage I've built up these past days. By the time I arrive in Guadalajara ten hours later, the sun is just starting to rise. Now that I see it appearing from behind a curtain of earth, I curse myself for having stopped to hunt. I needed to, of course, but being seen could severely mess with my plan.
I find myself in what seems to be a residential street. The houses to my left and right are all painted in shades of yellow and orange, stacked too closely together. Thin, black wires are hanging through the air, criss-crossing between the balconies. I see a few palm trees farther down the road, and loads of little white cars, dented and dusty. From where I'm standing, beneath the shade of a tree, I can make out a sign on the side of the road that says Calle Joaquín Angulo.
Looking at the sky, I estimate that I have about an hour left before the city wakes up. Right now, the streets are abandoned, the curtains still closed. The people are sleeping, and I need to find a way into the city center before that changes.
Just as I'm about to step out of the shade, a door to my right opens, and a fragile looking man walks out. His hair is thin and grey, his skin crafted by old age, and he's still in his robe. As he rubs the sleep from his eyes, a small dog comes running from out the house and onto the lawn. When it comes near me, it stops dead in its tracks. The hair on its back stands up, his lips pull back to reveal his teeth. When I look at the dog, his ears lay flat on his head and he starts walking backwards, slowly, to the safety of his owner's legs.
'Ah!', the man exclaims, still rubbing his eyes. 'Mis disculpas, él es-'.
He stops as suddenly as his dog did. The man's eyes meet mine, and he gasps, covering his mouth with his hands as if he thinks I might slip into his soul through his throat. I haven't yet stepped from the shade, but I know what he's seeing. A deathly pale foreigner, carrying nothing but the clothes on his back, with scars on his hands and jawline, and very peculiar colored eyes.
'Dios mío', he whispers, stumbling backwards towards the door. His dog barks in agreement. 'El diablo!'.
I unclench my jaws and relax my hands in an attempt to appear less frightening, but it doesn't seem to work. In fact, the fear radiating from the old man only seems to increase.
I don't have the time or interest to convince this man that I'm not here to steal his soul, so I cut to the chase.
'Donde esta el centro?'. I haven't had to use my Spanish in almost two hundred years, but it comes to me as naturally as faking to breathe. Then again, our memories don't falter.
The old man is still trembling, his hand still covering his mouth, his eyes still opened wide in terror, but he slowly raises his hand and points towards the end of the street.
'Gracias'.
As soon as I step from the shade and allow the sun to expose me, the old man lets out a short, surprisingly high-pitched scream, and stumbles back into his house. The door slams shut behind him.
I follow the signs that say 'Zona Centro' and get there about five minutes later. The sky is now a faint shade of pink. The streets are still deserted, but one tourist shop seems to have opened early. I buy a long-sleeved sweater with I heart Mexico on it, a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses from an uninterested, bubble-gum chewing teenager, and make my way further into the city.
From this point on, all I can do is observe. I can't possibly go up to people and ask them if they know a vampire woman named Laeticia, and she hasn't left any other clues. I'm left to depend on myself. Luckily, that's not a strange concept to me.
All that day, I keep moving. I watch for people that are a little too pale, a little too fast, or like me, staying in the shadows. I try to pick up any scents or signs of recent hunting. I make sure to read people's emotions when they pass me by, looking for signs of fear or distress, but quickly find that that's no use. Most people walk towards me feeling neutral or intrigued, and walk past me feeling fearful. There's nothing objective about it.
So, the day passes quickly. I watch hordes of people shopping, talking, eating and rushing, but there's absolutely no sign of vampires. All of their movements are completely, boringly human, and before I know it, I find the streets becoming calmer and calmer. When I look up, I see the sun is starting to set.
I know my hunt won't be over once night falls. In fact, it'll be better. I can move freely, not having to worry about being seen, and I can finally take off this ridiculous sweatshirt. Still, at this point, I'm starting to feel desperate. Every hour that passes while I'm away from Alice feels like torment. Thoughts are creeping into my head that I know wouldn't be there otherwise, and thinking of her, and whatever she's going through right at this very moment, makes me want to shred something to pieces.
When the sun finally sets, and the sky turns into shades of pink and orange, I feel the closest thing that I could feel to exhaustion. My emotions are all over the place, my thoughts as well. I haven't rested since this all began. Everything in me is telling me to sit down, to wait and think of what my next move should be. I know that's what Alice would tell me to do.
I find a bench on the side of a giant square, looking out on the countless shops and galleries, and a majestic fountain impressively placed in the center of it. As soon as I've made sure no rays of sun are peeking through the twilight, I take off my cap and sunglasses, and peel the sweatshirt from my body. Once that's done, I sit back and sigh, pressing the palms of my hands against my eyes.
More than anything, I want to feel Alice's hand on my arm. I want to hear her voice, reassuring me that it'll be okay. I want to see her eyes when I look up, and feel her unwavering trust crash over me like waves. When I look up, though, she's not there. There's nothing beside me but air.
Who am I, when I can't protect the one person I'm supposed to protect? Since the day we met, that's been my role. She's told me hundreds of times that she needed no protection. She's as indestructible as me, and equally as fast. But that was when our worst enemies were humans and werewolves. A vampire isn't indestructible to other vampires. Certainly not a vampire like Alice.
I clench my jaws tightly and squeeze my eyes shut. The last thing I want to think about is something happening to her. I force myself to think of a happy memory instead.
There are so many.
Images flash through my mind. Alice laughing hysterically after witnessing one of mine and Emmett's wrestling matches. Alice running up to me and wrapping her arms around my neck. Alice with a flower in her hair, one that I picked for her on a walk through the forest. Alice's head resting on my chest as we slow-danced to Jimmy Durante, Sinatra and the Righteous Brothers. Alice in a wedding dress.
That's the one that sticks.
Our wedding was quite something. It was on April 25th, 1950, and it was a small celebration. Just us, our new family, Peter and Charlotte, and the Denali's. As I was still struggling to adapt to our… vegetarianism, Carlisle thought it'd be best not to invite any of our mortal friends. And, with that same practicality in mind, Carlisle officiated our ceremony. We married at sunset, one quite similar to the one I'm sitting under now, with a pink colored sky. Alice was beautiful that day. I was never really interested in marriage, and when Carlisle suggested it, it still wasn't something that I felt I needed, but the moment she walked down that aisle, I was glad I'd listened. She wore a long white dress, with sheer, flowing sleeves that reached to her elbows, and a V-shaped neckline to show off her slender collarbones and neck. She'd worn a headband in her short, dark hair, made from white lace and beading. She was never the type for excessive jewelry, so all she wore were a set of white, dangling earrings, and a pearl bracelet I'd given to her a year prior. She'd painted her lips red, deciding to keep the rest of her make-up to a minimum. She looked striking that day. The flowers that she'd picked out for along the aisle had seemed dull in comparison.
I recall the difficulty I had with accepting that this was now my life. Not because I didn't want it, but because I couldn't believe it could be this good. I'd thought that maybe I was dreaming, but when I reached out my hand to her - she took it. All of it was real.
I remember what she told me, too, as we stood in front of all our newly acquired family, the one she had lead us to and that we'd only known for a few months, but that we loved so dearly already. She'd told me that in her darkest years, she'd always wished for a best friend. Someone to join her in the journey of life, and someone to laugh with when things got tough. She said she'd found that in me.
I can see the sparkle in her eyes as she told me, even now – and the way one of the corners of her mouth curled up because she was smiling while talking, like she does so often.
I also remember what I said. 'Alice', I'd started. 'You've saved me. You have shown me things I never believed were possible, and gave me a life I never thought I deserved. For that, I am forever thankful. I will spend the rest of my long, long life being everything you deserve. Your best friend, lover, and protector'.
An awful pain shoots through my chest at the memory. I wasn't her protector when she needed me to.
But now I have a chance to fix that.
I open my eyes, and Alice's white dress fades from my mind.
The sun has disappeared completely, painting the sky a dark blue color. The streets are almost abandoned. A handful of people are still walking around, too caught up in their own business to notice the pale stranger sitting on a bench.
As I stand up, a sudden breeze draws my attention. Or rather, a scent. It's not specific to Laeticia, but it's specific to our kind, and it's fresh. Whoever it is, they passed by recently, and they might know something about the woman I'm looking for.
I start walking east, past the fountain and a mother and child, past a group of pigeons feasting on leftover crumbs, and off the square. I take another breath, allowing my senses to guide me further down the road. When I notice where it's leading me to, I want to hit myself for missing such an obvious joke.
The cathedral.
Guadalajara's holy place, invested by a demon.
I slip into the building. The scent inside is much stronger. My reflex is to tighten my muscles, ready for something to leap from the shadows, but the place is abandoned. A few candles are burning at the end of the aisle, in front of a statue of Mother Mary, but they are about to burn themselves out. Nobody has come to light another candle in a few hours.
The rows of wooden benches are empty, and so is the gallery above my head. I move down the aisle quietly, trying not to betray my presence to anyone that may be here.
I spin around, my eyes prying into the darkness, but there's nothing but pillars and statues. A soft breeze flows through a crack in a window, and as I take a breath, I notice the scent is leading to something behind me. When I turn around, there's only an altar. There's a picture of Jesus that's even bigger than I am, and I consider for a moment how strange that size is.
Still, it draws my attention. I walk towards the painting, the scent growing stronger with every step I take, but once I'm close enough to touch Jesus' face, it fades. I frown. Then, I pick up on something else. A sound. Conversation. It's muffled, but it's there – somewhere below my feet. I realize now what the ridiculously large Jesus is for.
I wrap my fingers around the bronze frame and push the painting away from the wall against which it stands. A heavy, wooden door appears - it's unlocked when I try it. So I open it, quietly, and a spiral staircase descends into the darkness below.
At this point, I'm not afraid or concerned. Whatever's down there, I can handle. I've got enough rage built inside me for an entire army.
When I shut the door behind me, all light disappears. A human would trip and break its neck, no doubt, but that's probably by design. I move my feet through the darkness, not necessarily trying to conceal myself, but not trying to attract anyone's attention, either. Moving down the stairs, the voices grow louder. Two voices, belonging to two men, arguing about something I can't quite make out. But there's another sound, one that's quite unmistakable. Someone's drinking. The scent hits me like a truck, and for a moment I feel dizzy. Despite my objections, my body reacts. My throat is burning, and I feel venom building up in my mouth. It takes me a few minutes, but once I've recovered enough not to launch myself into the feast, I clench my jaws together and keep moving, trying to pinpoint how many of them are down there.
Finally, a warm flood of orange light appears. My feet reach the bottom of the staircase, and I find myself in a cave-like construction, a circular room built from red clay, with torches hanging on the walls. No windows, but one door on the opposite side. In the middle of the circle are four figures. Five, if you count the body they're feasting on. The woman's heart beats like a slow, unsteady drum. Her eyes are open, but focused on nothing. I know she'll be dead in seconds.
The scent of human blood – and the sight, too, I admit - throw me off again, shortly but powerfully, and I know that if I hadn't stopped on my way to Guadalajara to hunt, I might have made a disastrous mistake. But I clench my jaws, hold my breath, and step into the circle.