Midnight Sun Reimagined

by Visser2315

Even in a fairy tale, not everyone gets a happy ending—especially not when you're the villain. [The first half of Life and Death, Edythe's perspective.]

7. Blood Type

A/N: And, here we have a chapter even longer than the last one... Whether that's good or bad, I guess you all will have to decide, lol. Ah, conversations...

Hope you enjoy it anyway, and see you at the end!

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Chapter 6: Blood Type

I went through my first two classes of the day barely aware of my surroundings.

It wasn't that I hadn't watched him through the eyes of others before—I'd eavesdropped on plenty of conversations. But during the last month of self-imposed isolation, I'd refrained from watching him too much. I listened to conversations to make certain he wasn't talking about us, and sometimes, when the need to know what he was doing was particularly overpowering, my mind would wander off to find him.

Now I was at a whole new level. I skipped from one pair of eyes to the next, constantly keeping him in view.

McKayla Newton didn't sit with him in his first class, still mortified and upset about the episode the previous day, and the generic prince fantasies were beginning to grind my last nerve, so I didn't look into her mind this time. I avoided Jeremy's mind too—the constant stream of perversity was not something I needed to subject myself to when there were other options available.

Allen Weber had always proved to be a preferable alternative. He was a legitimately thoughtful, easygoing person, and inhabiting his thoughts was like a breath of fresh air. However, he was the quiet type and generally kept to himself, and though he would have liked to talk to Beau more often, sensing a kindred spirit, he rarely initiated any conversation. Consequently, his attention was rarely on Beau. So I contented myself mainly looking through the eyes of the teachers, and the eyes of nearby random students.

This constant, uninterrupted surveillance allowed me to pick up on details I'd never before consciously considered. I watched, both fascinated and bewildered as he staggered through the early part of the day, managing to catch his sneakers on nearly anything, from minute cracks in the sidewalk to the edges of door frames, and he seemed in constant danger of going sprawling. Uncoordinated didn't seem strong enough of a word. He seemed a positive menace.

Though I had perceived hints of this before, I had not realized its extent. I might have found it a little amusing, except that I remembered Carine's comment about the contusions on his skull, and considering how difficult I anticipated it would be to keep him safe from me, I hadn't the slightest idea how I might protect him from himself. When Mrs. Varner watched him bang his knee on the side of his desk and half collapse into his seat, I breathed a sigh of relief that he wouldn't be moving for another hour at least. He should be safe at least that long.

I continued to watch him all through my English class, only vaguely aware of the lecture that day. All I picked up on, on the rare moments when I came back to my own body, was that the teacher was discussing The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, one of our assigned reading books this quarter. Everyone knew the book was about the two sides of every human psyche, the good and the evil. Fewer probably knew that Dr. Jekyll had actually brought the misfortune on himself, creating the alter ego of Mr. Hyde for the express purpose of giving free reign to his darker passions while avoiding the scrutiny of societal judgment.

As I shamelessly stalked through what felt like just about every mind in the school, keeping him in sight at all times and using my advantage to size up any potential rivals, all the while invisible to anyone, the irony was not entirely lost on me.

I waited impatiently for the end of the period. I was already tired of watching him through the eyes of others. I had spent a month doing nothing but watching and listening. I was ready to talk to him myself—to ask my questions, and at last get my answers.

When the bell finally rang, I rose swiftly from my seat and strode to the cafeteria to secure my position.

I seated myself at a table in the corner that was almost always left vacant, knowing my presence would ensure it remained so.

I felt unaccountably nervous. Would he come over and sit with me today if I beckoned to him? Or would he think it so bizarre he might start rethinking his decision to agree to go with me to Seattle? Would he think me impossibly arrogant, to think all I had to do was call, and he would come right over?

However, I didn't see I had much choice. Obviously, I couldn't invite myself over to sit with his friends—even if I didn't want this conversation to be private, I could imagine their probable reactions, and the stir it would cause. And asking if he wanted to come sit at our table with my family was so absurd it was laughable. This was the best I could do—for the both of us to come halfway and meet in no-man's land.

As I was thinking, my family entered. No one showed the slightest surprise—clearly Archie had given them the head's up ahead of time.

Royal didn't look at me, his face set in a scowl as he stalked on past.

You'll regret this, he thought viciously. Not a threat, but a vindictive hope.

I didn't look at him, but I mentally sighed. Royal and I had never gotten along what anyone would call well. The first thing he'd heard from my mouth had set him off, and from then on it seemed more often than not we were at each other's throats. But he'd been acting even more surly and ill-tempered than usual.

But too bad. He could think whatever nasty thoughts he wanted about me, I couldn't have cared less at the moment.

Jessamine gave a slight half-smile as she passed. Good luck, she thought, though she sounded doubtful.

Eleanor rolled her eyes. It's official. You've lost it. I'm telling Carine she better consider getting a psyche degree next, because we'll need someone to deal with you.

Archie was grinning, perfectly white teeth flashing a little too brightly in the dim room. Can I talk to him now? Say yes.

I scowled in his direction. "Not on your life," I said under my breath. "Stay out of it."

He shrugged, unperturbed. Okay, but it's only a matter of time. You aren't going to keep us apart forever. Beau my man and I are going to be the best friends in the history of friends.

I sighed and grumbled.

Oh, he added casually, and don't forget about today's Biology lab.

I nodded once in acknowledgment. No, I hadn't forgotten.

While I waited for him to arrive, I followed him in the eyes of a freshmen who was walking just behind Jeremy. Jeremy was talking animatedly about the dance, but Beau only occasionally grunted in response.

As they came through the door, his eyes flickered to the table where my siblings and I always sat. He paused, then his eyes dropped to the floor, and his shoulders slumped.

I watched him carefully from my place, trying to interpret the expression on his face. He seemed disappointed.

He shuffled his feet as he walked through the food line. He didn't take a plate, and instead took only a bottle of lemonade.

I frowned. That couldn't possibly be healthy. Surely he needed more nutrition than that. It was no wonder he was so thin...

I suddenly wondered if the look on his face was more physical than emotional. Maybe he was struggling with a sudden bout of indigestion. Or he thought he might be coming down with some illness or other.

It suddenly occurred to me just how incredibly fragile humans were.

"Edythe Cullen is staring at you," Jeremy said unexpectedly, bringing me out of my thoughts. "I wonder why she's sitting alone today."

His bowed head jerked up and he followed Jeremy's gaze. When his eyes met mine, I smiled. He stared at me, confused.

I'd been wondering exactly how I was going to get his attention, so I had to be grudgingly grateful to Jeremy for his help. Slowly, I raised my hand, crooking one finger, gesturing for him to join me.

His mouth opened slightly, apparently too stunned to react. Was he pleased? Or embarrassed?

I realized belatedly that this was going to attract some attention. Maybe not a lot, but then, I had never seen anyone so averse to drawing others' interest.

Hoping to jar him out of the stupor, I winked.

"Does she mean you?" Jeremy demanded.

I half expected him to glare and turn his back on me, and to tell Jeremy to stop looking at me, too. He didn't like to feel like he was being teased, though that was part of what made teasing him was so fun—however, my action had the desired effect and he blinked, coming back to life.

"Um, maybe she needs help with her Biology homework," he muttered. "I guess I should go see what she wants."

Biology homework—I almost laughed. However, the amusement quickly died in my throat. Of course he would say something about Biology. That was our only real connection. Already he seemed eager to make sure that fact was firmly established in Jeremy's mind.

Jeremy's thoughts were acidic as he watched Beau approach my table.

...Biology homework, give me a break. Stop trying to be so cool. Brag! Gloat! Shove it in my face. Live it up while it lasts. She's not going to keep singling you out forever.

I ignored Jeremy, and though my face was composed, my fingers were tingling. Maybe it was just out of politeness, but he had accepted my invitation once again.

He stumbled a bit on one of the grooves in the linoleum before he finally reached my table. He came to a stop behind the chair opposite me, and stood there a minute, looking uncertain.

I inhaled deeply, drawing in his burning scent. For a moment, I simply gazed across the table at him, where I could see every detail of his face through my own eyes.

I couldn't suppress the broad smile that stretched across my face. "Why don't you sit with me today?" I asked.

Without a word, as though he were a soldier following a command, he automatically drew out the chair and sat down in one motion, his eyes never moving from my face. He stared at me a minute, as though trying to decipher my expression, perhaps trying to understand this unusual behavior.

I decided to wait for him to speak first—I wanted to hear his voice again, speaking directly to me. If I let him, he would let me do all the talking and never say a word. I saw it all the time when he was talking to Jeremy—he preferred to fade into the background. But I wasn't going to allow that. As much as he might want to, he would never go unnoticed again where I was concerned.

"This is, uh, different," he said at last.

"Well," I began, then paused. I considered saying something safe and polite, about just wanting a change of pace, and then moving onto something else equally non-threatening. The weather, perhaps. An easy, light conversation that would allow me to simply savor this time together, listening to the sound of his voice.

Instead, I heard myself say, "I decided as long as I was going to hell, I might as well do it thoroughly."

The words poured out of me in a rush—guiltily, like I was confessing a crime. And wasn't that exactly what I was doing? Confessing that I knew what the right thing to do was, and doing precisely the opposite.

He didn't answer. He looked at me expectantly, as though waiting for me to explain myself. When I didn't, he finally said, "You know I don't understand what you mean, right?"

A smile twitched at the corners of my lips. "I'm counting on it."

I was looking for something to change the subject, and I was suddenly aware of half a dozen poisonous thoughts oriented in my direction. My eyes flickered automatically toward the table where he normally sat.

"I think your friends are upset that I've stolen you," I noted.

He paused, then shrugged, nonchalant. "They'll survive."

I felt a thrill go through me—as though he were choosing me over his friends. I quickly reigned it in. There was no use setting myself up for disappointment by getting ahead of myself.

"I might not give you back, though," I said, my voice light and teasing, but there was too much honest truth in it to keep from the words an underlying note of fervor. Or was it a threat?

Perhaps he interpreted it as the latter, because he swallowed audibly.

This shouldn't have made me laugh, but it did. I was giddy again, high on the fact he was sitting here across from me, and I was talking almost freely, as though I didn't care if I was dropping hints left and right that would let him work out all our secrets.

"You look worried," I said. I was saying almost anything that came to my mind, and it felt strangely freeing.

"No," he argued, though he swallowed again. He wasn't a very good liar under normal circumstances, and it didn't help that his voice cracked. He recovered, and said in a steadier voice, "But surprised, yes. What's all this about?"

"I told you," I said. "I'm tired of trying to stay away from you. So I'm giving up."

I kept the smile in place, even as the giddiness faded, and I was solemn again. I knew exactly what I was doing—the wrong thing. And I was deliberately doing it anyway. I was right, if there was a hell for us, if this wouldn't send me straight to it, I didn't know what would.

"Giving up?" he repeated, his brows coming together in confusion.

"Yes," I said softly, "giving up trying to be good. I'm just going to do what I want now, and let the chips fall where they may."

By the end, my voice was low and intense. A conscious decision to live only in pursuit of my own pleasure, regardless of the harm I knew I would inflict—this was the new me. I could already feel myself growing accustomed to it. What did it mean, that I was giving up trying to be good? It meant I was letting myself fall. I deserved him less now than I ever had, yet I was ready to do anything to achieve my selfish designs.

He stared at me, bewildered. "You lost me again."

I laughed softly. He didn't see the irony. "I always say too much when I'm talking to you—that's one of the problems."

"Don't worry," he said. "I don't understand anything you say."

I smiled widely at that. I should want him to understand these hardly subtle warnings—for him to understand that what I was doing was wrong, and take the initiative to circumvent me, stay away from me. But if I was already turning to the bad, maybe I was only capable of wanting what I wanted.

"Like I said—I'm counting on that," I murmured.

Our eyes met, and he held my gaze. Neither of us spoke. It felt like the air was buzzing around us. For some reason, patches of red started to bloom across his face, and his eyes abruptly broke from mine.

"So," he said. "In plain English, are we friends now?"

"Friends..." I repeated, a little distastefully. It seemed such a bland, disappointing word.

"Or not," he said, shrugging.

I decided beggars couldn't be choosers, and I better take what I could get for now.

"Well, we can try, I suppose," I said. I added, "But, I'm warning you again that I'm not a good friend for you to have."

I spoke with feeling—again, as if I could write off my own responsibility by saying this enough times. As though if things went wrong, he would have no one to blame but himself.

I heard his heart thrum in his chest, faster than normal. Fear? Would he take my warning after all?

The thought sent a spasm of terror through me, and I suddenly wanted to take it all back.

"You say that a lot," he noted, clearly trying to keep his voice light.

I wanted to take it back, but I didn't. If I was going to do this, I had to give him the best warning I could give—I owed him that much.

"I do," I answered, "because you're not listening. I'm still waiting for you to hear me. If you're smart, you'll avoid me." I said the words, even as I knew they were wrong—not because they weren't true, but because it was wrong of me to push this responsibility onto him. If I believed it was dangerous, that I wasn't a good friend for him, then I ought to be the one staying away from him. I was the one holding all the cards, who had a complete picture of the situation, and it was obvious my vague warnings were not enough to make him truly understand.

He suddenly smiled. I realized just how rarely I had seen that expression on his face—it was strangely beautiful, like the sun breaking through clouds. My own smile widened automatically in response.

"I thought we'd already come to the conclusion that I'm an idiot," he said. "Or absurd, or whatever."

"I did apologize," I said, my voice warm—still caught in the aftereffects of the smile. "For the second one at least. Will you forgive me for the first? I spoke without thinking."

He was still smiling. "Yeah," he said generously, "of course. You don't have to apologize to me."

I stared back into his face, and my conscience suddenly seared me.

How could I do this? To such a kind, gentle, good person? I was going to destroy his life, take away the future he would have had.

I was suddenly subdued. "Don't I?" I whispered.

We were quiet then, and after a moment his eyes wandered away from mine, down to the lemonade bottle in his hands. I waited for him to say something, but he didn't speak, and his thoughts seemed far away. Finally processing what I'd said? Or contemplating something else entirely?

"What are you thinking?" I asked, and again my voice sounded too intense, too desperate.

He met my gaze. His breathing was coming a little too fast, and patches of color were beginning to bloom on his neck. "I'm wondering what you are," he said.

I didn't allow myself to react. I couldn't stop the muscles in my face from tightening slightly, but my smile didn't flicker.

"Are you having much luck with that?" I asked, my voice carefully light.

The pink patches on his neck deepened into a red, and I could taste it on the air. I inhaled deeply.

I waited for him to continue, but he didn't, only continued to slowly get redder by the minute.

I tilted my head to one side, staring deeply into his eyes. "Won't you tell me?" I coaxed.

He looked away, shaking his head. "Too embarrassing."

I lost my hold on my persuasive look, and I sighed in exasperation. "That's really frustrating," I burst out, settling back in my seat, arms folded.

A flicker of annoyance passed his brow. He looked straight at me. "Really?" he said, raising his eyebrows with just a touch of sarcastic mockery. "Like... someone refusing to tell you what she's thinking, even if all the while she's making cryptic little comments designed to keep you up at night wondering what she could possibly mean... Frustrating like that?"

I frowned, considering that. I had to admit, I did see his point.

The rant wasn't over. "Or," he continued, "is it frustrating like, say, she's done a bunch of other strange things—for example, saving your life under impossible circumstances one day, then treating you like a pariah the next—and she never explained any of that, either, even after she promised? Frustrating like that?"

I almost smiled, but I forced my expression into a deeper frown instead. Even though he didn't look it, apparently he was the type to hold grudges. "You're really not over that yet?"

He folded his arms. "Not quite yet."

I leaned back in my chair, considering. "Would another apology help?" I tried at last.

He was having none of it. "An explanation would be better."

I gazed back at him a moment, trying to figure out how best to reply. I had already been far more honest in this conversation than I had with any human, already said too much. I enjoyed the sense that the two of us shared a secret, and I wanted to be honest—but it already felt like I had gone too far. And the thought of him knowing the full truth about what I was filled me with dread.

Before I could decide what I wanted to say next, a particularly irate mental voice cut forcibly into my thoughts. My eyes automatically flickered to the source, and I couldn't stop the laugh that escaped me.

"What?" he said, frowning.

My eyes returned to him and I saw an opportunity to distract him with a bit of honesty of a different kind.

"Your girlfriend thinks I'm being mean to you," I said with an ironic smile. "She's debating whether or not to break up our fight."

McKayla Newton was indeed glowering in my direction, sending a torrent of poisonous thoughts straight at me.

—The nerve! She gives him the cold shoulder for months and now all of a sudden she thinks he should do whatever she wants. Look at her glare at him—She's playing with him, doesn't he see that? What's her problem anyway? Does she hate his guts, or is she trying to put the moves on him? Get over it, he's already taken you stuck up, prissy—

"I don't have a girlfriend," he said, then added, "and you're trying to change the subject."

Apparently he wasn't easily sidetracked, but I was going to try anyway. "You might not think of her that way, but it's how she thinks of you."

He shook his head. "There's no way that's true."

From the way he said it, it was clear he knew who I was talking about.

"It is," I said, smiling a little. "I told you, most people are very easy to read."

He clearly remembered that first conversation in Biology, because he said, "Except me."

"Yes," I said softly, "except for you."

I turned my eyes back to his, and as our eyes met, I suddenly concentrated hard. "I wonder why that is," I murmured, more to myself than to him, and focused my gaze to a laser point, imagining there to be an invisible barrier around his head, and picturing myself punching through it.

His eyes dropped away from mine, uncomfortable under the intensity of my stare. Instead he unscrewed the cap from his lemonade, and took a quick drink, avoiding my eyes.

I gave up trying to pry my way into his mind. Instead, something else had my concern.

"Aren't you hungry?" I asked. I couldn't help but worry about his fragile human health. He was normally so responsible and meticulous, so why didn't he take better care of himself?

His eyes flickered briefly back up to me before he stared at the table again. "No," he answered. "You?"

I had to smile. I took it as a good sign he didn't seem to have the slightest suspicion in regards to my diet. "No," I said, "I'm not hungry."

He stared down at the table. "Can you do me a favor?" he asked suddenly.

My smile disappeared, and I eyed him warily. "That depends on what you want," I said carefully. I knew what he wanted most from me—the truth, an explanation. But that was something I couldn't, wouldn't give.

"It's not much," he said, then paused, apparently determined to push me to my limit.

I waited silently, on edge.

"Could you warn me beforehand?" he said at last. "The next time you decide to ignore me? For my own good, or whatever. Just so I'm prepared."

He didn't look at me as he spoke, tracing a finger around the lip of the lemonade bottle.

I stared at him for a second, and then I felt a slow smile spread across my face. I felt like laughing—or singing. I found many of the hidden meanings behind the things he said hard to interpret, but the meaning here seemed pretty clear. If he wanted a warning before I ignored him again—then he must consider being ignored by me a bad thing.

"That sounds fair," I allowed.

He looked up, then nodded once. "Thanks."

"Can I have a favor in return?" I asked.

My agreement had apparently made him more amenable, and he shrugged. "Sure."

"Tell me one of your theories."

He abruptly frowned, and he looked askance at me as if I had played a mean trick on him. "No way."

"You promised me a favor," I reminded him.

He raised both his eyebrows. "And you've broken promises before."

It was true, but I was shameless. "Just one theory," I wheedled. "I won't laugh."

Color was creeping up his neck again. "Yes, you will," he muttered.

My eyes dropped back to the table, and I let out a silent sigh, frustrated and disappointed.

I glanced up at him one more time, through my lashes, and found he was watching me. I wondered if he really understood the torture he was putting me through. He compared the way he kept secrets from me to the way I kept secrets from him—but what did he have to fear from my knowing a little of what he was thinking? A little embarrassment? Whereas my secret was dark, hideous—what would he think when he knew the monster behind the face?

I leaned forward, feeling suddenly, oddly desperate. "Please?" I said softly, my voice a perfect blend of plea and persuasion.

His face changed. The muscles slackened, and he seemed to unconsciously lean toward me, until we were both leaning over the table, surprisingly close.

He suddenly shook his head and drew back. "Um... what?" He blinked rapidly, like he'd just had a spell of vertigo. Low blood sugar? He really should have eaten something—I ought to have made him. I vowed I would next time.

However, if it muddled his thoughts, I wasn't going to let the opportunity pass me by.

"One little theory," I coaxed. "Please?"

"Well," he began. "Er, bitten by a radioactive spider?"

I sat back, rolling my eyes to hide my relief. "That's not very creative."

He shrugged again. "Sorry, that's all I've got."

"You're not even close," I said.

He frowned. "No spiders?"

"No spiders."

"No radioactivity?"

"None at all."

"Huh," he muttered, folding his arms.

I laughed—he thought I was a superhero. "Kryptonite doesn't bother me, either," I added.

He frowned at me. "You're not supposed to laugh, remember?"

I forced my mouth into a line, but my twitching shoulders gave away my continued amusement at the irony.

He looked sullen, and he seemed to regret saying anything. "I'll figure it out eventually," he muttered.

That sucked all the amusement from my mood. "I wish you wouldn't try," I said, very quietly.

"How can I not wonder?" he insisted. "I mean... you're impossible."

From his tone, it was clear he wasn't making an accusation, commenting on how difficult I insisted on being when it came to his questions. Rather, he said it the way he might have said, Someone with powers like yours shouldn't exist. There was awe there. Wonder.

I forced my mouth to turn up in a smile. And then, trying to make my voice light, teasing, I said, "But what if I'm not a superhero? What if I'm the villain?"

"Oh." He stared at me, as if seeing me for the first time. His eyes sharpened with understanding. "Oh, okay."

The table was silent. In spite of the babble of voices and thoughts of the other students all around, I couldn't hear them. I couldn't hear anything but the beating of his heart as it accelerated. Fear.

Panic gripped me and my breathing stopped as I waited, second by agonizing second, for him to continue. He said nothing.

Finally, I could stand it no more.

"What exactly does okay mean?" I asked in a low voice. There was an edge of demand about the question, but it was outweighed by desperation.

He blinked. He didn't look as though he were finished working through whatever new thoughts he was having, and when he spoke, the words sounded uncertain, as if he wasn't sure if this was what he wanted to say.

"You're dangerous?" he asked. He studied me, my small frame, my delicate features, as though trying to reconcile the word with my physical appearance. I could see it in his eyes, as the natural doubt based on all his common experience twisted, scattered, and then rearranged itself, solidifying into acceptance of what I had been telling him.

The fear was almost overpowering as I realized that this may be the last time I spoke to him. And, I thought with despair, I never had the chance to tell him that I loved him.

But that was only fair. Better for him, that he should run now, while he still had the chance.

"Dangerous," he said again, testing the word out, accustoming himself to it. "But not the villain," he said with confidence. "No, I don't believe that."

I stared up at him, and for a moment I couldn't respond. Because I wanted to smile—overjoyed at his conclusion. But I was wretched in my relief, because as wonderful as the words were to hear, they weren't true. Even if what I was—a vampire, a monster from a horror film—didn't make me a villain, what I was doing certainly did. I'd made my choice. I was going to hell, as thoroughly as I could—no matter who I ended up dragging down with me.

"You're wrong," I whispered. I couldn't keep looking him in the eye, and my eyes dropped to the table as the shame burned in my mind, making my chest ache.

Still without looking up, I lifted a hand and reached slowly across the table. I saw his hand sitting there, and I suddenly wanted to touch it—to run my fingertips over the middle knuckle, to trace the blue veins that stood out from his pale skin. Or maybe what I wanted was for him to turn his hand over, offering it to me to hold.

I kept my face blank, concealing the sudden wave of self-revulsion that tore through me. Did I want him to hold my hand to comfort me? To reassure me? There was really no end to my depravity—to long for him to comfort me from the fact I was going to destroy his life, deny him everything he had to gain.

My hand halted there for a fraction of a second, the moment too fast for him to notice my hesitation, and then I reached over and snagged the cap of his lemonade as my excuse, where he had left it beside the bottle.

My hand came within inches of his, but he didn't flinch away.

For something to do, to avoid meeting his eyes, I set the cap on its side on the table. Then, with a twist of my fingers, I set it to spinning. It spun as fast as a top, no more than a blur. I felt his eyes watching me, but I didn't look up.

A minute of silence passed, and I kept my eyes on the spinning cap. I concentrated on finding my resolve. I wasn't strong enough to force myself to stay away from him, I knew that. But if he ran away from me... could I love him enough to do the right thing and let him? Could I, even being the villain I was, do that much?

The sudden, loud scrape of chair legs against the linoleum grated in my ears. I glanced halfway up—and saw that he had shoved the chair back from the table, almost violently.

I drew a deep breath, drawing in the burn of his scent. Yes, I could not stay away from him—but if he chose to turn and flee from me, I could let him. I could leave him to the freedom he sought.

I forced myself to finish lifting my eyes to his. This could be the last time I would see his face with my own two eyes—the last time I could gaze on him and take in his every feature with legitimate excuse.

"We're going to be late," he said, looking panicked as he jumped to his feet and snatched up his bag.

I blinked. The resigned agony seeping through me vanished, for the moment, and a smile was once again on my lips. Never the expected. At what point would I learn to expect that? But of course, naturally he would be more terrified of being late for class than being stalked by the villain in a superhero movie.

"I'm not going to class today," I said. I caught the lid between my fingers, then set it to spinning again, faster than before.

"Why not?"

I was sure my tension showed as I smiled up at him again. I tried not to think about how he would react if I told him the truth—that if I went, there was a good chance I would kill him.

"It's healthy to ditch class now and then," I said. Healthy for the vampires to ditch class when human blood was to be spilled. Archie's power of foresight always helped on days like today; he'd already ditched his own morning class.

"Oh," he said. "Well, I guess... I should go?" It came out like a question rather than a statement. As though hoping—or at least wondering—if I were going to invite him to go ditching with me.

I felt a thrill at the thought, and I was tempted—but the last thing I wanted was to start getting him into trouble. It was already bad enough I was interfering in his life, possibly luring him down a path of misery and regret, without trying to undermine his strong sense of responsibility.

I let my eyes fall back to the lemonade cap. "I'll see you later then."

He stood there for a second longer, then turned and hurried for the door, just as the first bell rang. However, he paused again, looking back, as though to see if I had changed my mind.

I was tempted again to call him back, but I forced myself to keep my eyes on the spinning lid.

After a second he turned and left.

I sat where I was a minute longer, watching the cap spin, meandering over the table in a slow dance.

Outside, I could hear the patter of the rain against the roof. I breathed deeply, and his lingering scent in the air burned my lungs.

As I watched, the cap began to wobble, every blemish in the table's surface slowing it further. Before it could fall, I reached out with a single finger and pinned it to the tabletop. Pinching the object between my fingers, I raised it up, gazing down at the ridged metal surface. I breathed again, and despite the cool rain outside, the air was still thick with his scent. I knew when I went outside, the cool, fresh air would cleanse my system, but I inhaled one last time, savoring again the intolerably appealing smell.

What if I'm not a superhero? What if I'm the villain?

I stared down at the lid, slowly turning it over in my fingers.

I had been right—more right than I'd even known in that moment. This wasn't a love story. This was horror, good versus evil, and I was the evil. Heroes didn't burn the way I was burning now—burning to see him again, though he'd only been gone a moment. They wouldn't feel all traces of guilt suddenly overshadowed by undeniable, burning ecstasy.

I pressed the lid to my lips, then slipped it into my pocket. A keepsake, from this momentous conversation—where I had shown more honesty than I ever had before, and whatever he ought to have done, he had not run away.

---

I slipped outside, and just as I had expected, the rain seemed to clear the scent from my system. But, it was more a disappointment than a relief. I would have to re-accustom myself to the scent when I saw him again—however, I didn't dread it as I probably should have. I was almost eager for that first moment when the fire raced up my nose and down my throat, as long as it meant I was able to talk to him again.

I knew I was far too excited and wound up for my own good, so when I headed out through the rain to my car, and got into the cab, I pulled out a CD I always picked when I wanted to calm myself—Debussy, the same CD I'd listened to that first day after Biology.

However, I wasn't really listening, and before long other musical notes were playing through my mind. It was that strange, unfamiliar song from the night in his room—I'd always had an affinity for music, and once upon a time I had dabbled in composing my own pieces, even though now it had been an age since I'd last touched a piano. This felt different than inspiration I had felt in the past—as though it came from outside myself. A divine lightning strike.

I mentally began mapping out the harmony. It was not a distraction from the now-constant focus of my thoughts, but perhaps it would help the time away pass more easily than I had expected.

I was partway through the first movement when a sudden stream of panicked thoughts cut through my concentration like a cold knife.

Oh gosh, he looks so bad. Is he okay? Should I run and get someone? He looks like he's going to be sick—

I saw a glimpse of his face in her mind, so I knew who it was, even before I looked up and saw, not a hundred yards away, McKayla Newton, lowering Beau to the sidewalk. He was limp as a rag doll, and I saw through McKayla's eyes his face was the chalky white of a corpse.

Panic shot through me, and I was out of my car in less than a moment. I didn't even stop to consider as I strode across the lot toward them.

How could this be? He'd seemed perfectly fine when I'd left him.

"Beau?" I called.

I knew it was loud enough to hear, as McKayla instantly started and spun her head in my direction. However, he didn't react, and I felt my panic intensify. I quickened my pace.

"What's wrong?" I demanded, frustrated I couldn't just read her mind—she'd been distracted by my abrupt appearance, and her thoughts weren't at all helpful. My eyes flickered to her accusingly—I wondered if there was any possibility she had been the cause of this. "Is he hurt?" My voice was hard, and I didn't bother to hide the hint of menace.

I was closer now, and I could just make out the sound of his steady heartbeat and his low breathing. As I came up next to him and saw his face, I saw his eyes flicker behind his closed lids.

McKayla got over her automatic irritation at seeing me and focused on the problem at hand. In her mind, I saw flickers of the scene from Biology. Beau with his head down on the table, looking sick, drops of blood against white cards...

I froze where I was as I suddenly remembered the blood typing, and I cut off all air to my lungs. This was dangerous—probably more dangerous than whatever was happening to him now.

"I think he fainted," McKayla said nervously. "I don't know what happened, he didn't even stick his finger."

I breathed again, relieved, tasting on the air the smell of McKayla's fresh blood, but not his. Her open wound wasn't even remotely tempting at the moment.

I went to kneel beside him. McKayla hovered in the background, relieved to have some help, but sullen over the fact it had to be me.

"Beau?" I said gently. "Can you hear me?"

"No," he groaned, in a tone that might as well have added, Go away.

Apparently, he was just fine.

I laughed, more relieved than I could have expressed.

"I was trying to help him to the nurse," McKayla inserted, her frustration at my interference winning out over her concern, now that the moment of emergency seemed over. "But he wouldn't go any further." What is up with her? She ditches class, and then suddenly shows up out of nowhere to come to the rescue? Where was she anyway, sitting in her car? And all the teachers rave about what model students the Cullens are...

"I'll take him," I said. "You can go back to class." Although my tone was polite, even friendly, it came across more like an order than an offer.

McKayla bristled, but she didn't let it show as she tried to argue. "What? No, I'm supposed to..."

I turned my back to her. I stared down at him, my hands trembling slightly as mingled thrill and terror shot through me at what I was about to do.

I took a breath, feeling the fire in my throat. Then, quickly, like I was trying to get it over with, I slipped my arm around his back, under his arms, and in a moment I had him on his feet.

I stood there for a moment, feeling his limp form leaning heavily against me, my head half against his chest. I could feel his heart pounding near the back of my head.

I felt a tingling thrum in the tips of my fingers. It was hard to believe we were this close—I remembered how I had envied Carine her control, touching a human with such natural care she didn't have to worry about hurting them. Although I made certain our skin didn't come into contact anywhere, I had my arm around him and, judging from his beating heart, though it was a little abnormally fast, I hadn't broken anything by accident.

I started forward, pulling him along at my side, going quickly—though I had been doing well so far near as I could tell, it was better to make our contact as brief as possible—and he staggered to keep up.

"I'm good, I swear," he muttered, and I felt his chin move as he turned his head away from me.

McKayla tried to call after us, but I barely heard her as we quickly outstripped her, and left her standing indecisive in the middle of the sidewalk.

I glanced up at his face, still turned away, and I noticed a slightly green hue.

"You look simply awful," I said, my voice a little too cheery given the situation. But I couldn't help it—I was jubilant with my success, and the fact there didn't seem to be anything really wrong with him.

"Just put me back on the sidewalk," he muttered, tone somewhere between annoyed and struggling to keep his non-existent lunch down. "I'll be fine in a few minutes."

I ignored his complaints and kept pushing us along. I knew by now it wasn't anything serious, but I figured it was better to get him to medical help as soon as possible anyway.

We went for a few seconds more in silence before I asked, unable to help myself, "So you faint at the sight of blood?"

He didn't answer. He closed his mouth, still looking sick. He was white as a ghost.

"And not even your own blood!" I continued, laughing aloud.

I knew I was being unforgivably rude, but I was hyped up again, excited as I kept my arm gently, but firmly wrapped around his waist, and continued to listen to his heart thrumming near my ear.

"I have a weak vasovagal system," he muttered sullenly. "It's just a neurally mediated syncope."

This was too much, and I laughed out loud again. He made a little bout of faintness sound like some kind of terminal illness.

His eyes were closed, his lips pressed tightly together, but as I pulled him into the warm office, his eyes opened at the abrupt temperature change.

Mr. Cope, the receptionist, watched us, looking shocked. "Oh my," he began.

"He's having a neurally mediated syncope," I said cheerfully, as I toted him toward the back of the office where the nurse's station was.

Mr. Cope looked alarmed at this. "Should I call nine-one-one?" he asked, eyes wide, already half getting up.

"It's just a fainting spell," Beau muttered, looking as though he very much regretted giving me his line he'd obviously spent a lot of time crafting. He hated people making a big deal about his health.

I vaguely heard Mr. Cope's curiosity follow us, as he recalled how much I'd seemed to hate the new student on that first day, but then shrugged it off—maybe he had been imagining things after all. I was only dimly aware of him as we went on to the nurse's office.

The school medic, Mr. Hammond, was reading a Jason Bourne novel when we came in, and he looked up, shocked as he caught sight of Beau. Before he could even get up, I already had Beau over to the cot. I pushed him lightly to make sure he laid down, then helped him get his feet up on the vinyl mattress. He was too weak to do much, so I took most of the weight, but Mr. Hammond didn't notice.

As soon as we were separated, I quickly crossed to the other side of the room, putting as much distance between us as possible. I could still feel the warmth where his body had been pressed against mine, and I was reacting to it. My muscles were tense, venom filling my mouth.

"They're blood typing in Biology," I said.

Mr. Hammond nodded. "There's always one."

I had to cover my chuckle with a cough. I was still buzzing with excitement, keyed up.

"Just lie down a minute, son," Mr. Hammond said reassuringly. "It'll pass."

"I know," he muttered.

"Does this happen often?" Mr. Hammond asked, wondering briefly if he might have low blood pressure. Rough luck, for a teenage boy, he thought.

Beau sighed. "I have a weak vasovagal system."

Mr. Hammond blinked, bewildered.

"Sometimes," he added.

I felt like he was just digging himself in deeper, and I laughed again.

Mr. Hammond remembered I was there, and turned to give me a disapproving look. "You can go back to class now," he said. There's nothing worse for a man trying to recover than giggling girls, he thought with distaste, and it was accompanied by a medley of a few of his own more humiliating memories.

I was immediately serious, putting on my best reassuring and mature face—considering I was older than he was, I'd learned to do mature very well.

"I'm supposed to stay with him," I said.

Mr. Hammond pressed his mouth into a thin line, but he wasn't one for arguing and, doubting it would do Beau any good to make a big deal of it, said no more.

"I'll get you some ice for your head," he said, then left.

Beau closed his eyes again.

"You were right," he said, out of the blue.

I flashed a smile, my mature look gone as quickly as it had come. "I usually am," I said. "But about what in particular this time?"

"Ditching is healthy," he sighed.

He was quiet then, just breathing in and out. Some of the color began to return to his face.

Wanting to restart the conversation, I said, with a bit of an embarrassed smile, "You scared me for a minute there. I thought that Newton girl had poisoned you."

"Hilarious," he muttered, but his voice sounded a little less strained than it had a minute before.

I continued, keeping my voice light, "Honestly, I've seen corpses with better color." Which was something I was in a position to know. I added, smiling, "I was concerned that I might have to avenge your death."

He sighed and his brow furrowed, looking suddenly a little tired. "I bet McKayla's annoyed."

I paused, unsettled by the real concern in his voice. Until this moment, I'd almost forgotten how much I disliked the girl—but it came roaring back with a vengeance.

However, I smiled. "She absolutely loathes me," I agreed brightly.

"You don't know that," he said, almost defensively. Then he hesitated, mouth turning down in a frown, and I could suddenly see him contemplating the possibility. If he knew I could speed across a parking lot like The Flash and stop vans with my bare hands, maybe other powers weren't such a stretch.

In spite of the unpardonable number of hints I'd dropped concerning the mind-reading, I realized suddenly I'd rather he didn't have a conscious knowledge of it—it wasn't nearly so strange and terrifying as my other secrets, but it was bizarre enough.

"You should have seen her face," I said in an amused, easy tone. "It was obvious."

"How did you even see us?" he asked, as always finding the exact question that penetrated right to the heart of the tangled mystery. "I thought you were ditching."

This one was easy enough to answer. The truth, even if it wasn't the whole truth, was believable enough.

"I was in my car, listening to a CD."

He didn't react, except a slight twitch of the eyebrow. As if he expected me to say I was out stopping out-of-control trains, and catching bank robbers. I wondered if he was still holding onto the superhero notion, in spite of what I had said. He had said outright he didn't believe I was the villain, anyway.

Just then the door opened and Mr. Hammond reappeared with the ice pack.

His eyes opened automatically as the old nurse approached.

"Here you go, son," Mr. Hammond said, laying the ice across his forehead. He added, "You're looking better."

Of course, he sat up almost immediately, taking the cold compress in hand. "I think I'm okay," he said. He looked around as though testing his head.

Mr. Hammond opened his mouth to make a gentle objection and tell him he better rest a while longer, but just then the door opened again and Mr. Cope's balding head appeared.

Even before he spoke, the puff of air that blew into the room brought with it the faintest hint of blood. I sensed McKayla's sullen thoughts as she, standing in the office area, struggled to hold a larger girl upright.

"We've got another one," Mr. Cope announced.

Beau got up quickly, looking eager to have the attention shifted to another victim. "Here," he said, handing the compress back to the nurse. "I don't need this."

McKayla appeared in the door then, half-staggering under the weight of Leann Stephens. The girl's face was a sallow green, and I saw in a flash the stream of crimson blood dripping from the hand she had pressed to her face.

"Oh no," I murmured. Once upon a time I might have been eager to get out simply to avoid the temptation of such fresh blood, but now my first thought was the person with the weak vasovagal system standing beside me. "Go out to the office, Beau."

From his angle where we stood, he hadn't gotten a look at Leann's hand, and my sharp, urgent tone made him look down at me in surprise.

"Trust me," I insisted. "Go."

Without another word he spun and fled the office, half tripping in the doorway as he squeezed through before the door could swing shut. I stayed right on his heels until he reached the office and stopped. He took a deep breath.

"You actually listened to me," I marveled. I wanted to add, And I didn't even have to make any false promises. However, considering it seemed he still wasn't over that yet, I thought it better not to joke around about it too much.

He nodded. "I smelled the blood."

I didn't know how to react. "People can't smell blood."

He shrugged. "I can—that's what makes me sick. It smells like rust... and salt."

I stared up at him, incredulous. So now apparently he was a bloodhound, too. I wondered at what point I should begin contemplating the possibility he wasn't actually fully human.

He caught my stare. "What?" he said.

I looked away. "It's nothing."

Just then McKayla emerged into the office out of the infirmary. She shot a quick look between the two of us, suspicious, but she made a Herculean effort to hide it. Finally she turned to me.

"Thanks so much for your help, Edythe," she said. If I had to put a flavor to her voice, it would probably be a mix of honey and strychnine. "I don't know what Beau here would have done without you." A stream of acidic thoughts played in the background as she spoke.

"Don't mention it," I said, smiling.

"You look better," she said to Beau, in the same falsely happy voice that made it sound as though she were in severe pain. "I'm so glad."

"Just keep your hand in your pocket," he said, grimacing slightly.

"It's not bleeding anymore," she said, and her voice was normal again. Unlike me, she didn't laugh at the notion of his fainting at the sight of blood, and she was already thinking of ways to shut down anyone who so much as chuckled.

I looked away and, though her thoughts weren't directed at me, I felt guilty and chagrined. I should have been thinking that way. Instead I had probably only contributed to his trauma. Getting sick when you smelled blood really wasn't all that funny, and he'd come up with all that nonsense about vasovagal systems—it made me wonder if he'd been bullied as a kid.

Thoughts of potential bullies made my fingers twitch.

"Are you coming to class?" McKayla asked. Don't worry, I won't let anyone make fun of you.

He shook his head. "No thanks. I'd just have to turn around and come back."

"Yeah, I guess..." She trailed off reluctantly. She knew this meant he was probably going to be with me for the hour-long class, and she shot a dark look in my direction. She raised her voice as she added, "So are you going this weekend? To the beach?"

Though she was speaking to Beau, her eyes were fixed on me, hoping she might inflict the sting of exclusion. I didn't give her the satisfaction of a response, instead leaning against the counter and my eyes turned away inattentively. However, she couldn't know her words had exactly the desired effect—even though I had seen in her mind that it was a group trip, the thought of him having plans with the girl made me want to break something.

He smiled. "Sure. I said I was in."

I kept perfectly still, afraid if I moved, I would betray my agitation. He'd agreed to let me drive him to Seattle, but now he'd also agreed to McKayla's plans, and with a lot less persuasion and argument. What did that mean?

McKayla smiled. "We're meeting at my parents' store at ten," she said, then paused as she suddenly saw a flaw in her plan. Oh gosh, I shouldn't have said that. What if she shows up now? She would totally do that, just to spite me. I couldn't tell her to get lost, Beau would think I was being horrible. Stupid, stupid, stupid...

"I'll be there," Beau said.

McKayla's eyes flickered from me back to him, and though his tone was friendly enough, something in it had her mind whirling again.

What's that? He never agrees to anything that fast. It almost sounds like he's trying to get rid of me. Does he want to be alone with her? Is that it? Jeremy thinks he's totally into her... I don't get it. Maybe she has a face like a supermodel, but I bet it's plastic surgery or something. I mean their step mom is a doctor, she's probably experimenting on them. And she's so horrible to him, I heard her laughing at him when she was helping him down here—he was green! And she was laughing! Why does he put up with that? She's just going to play around with him and drop him when she gets bored anyway, she should mind her own business. Ugh, I can't stand girls like her!

"I'll see you in Gym, then," she said slowly, starting reluctantly toward the door.

"Yeah, see you," Beau answered, again his tone slightly warmer, more friendly than usual, but an obvious dismissal.

McKayla seemed to take this as confirmation of her suspicions, and her mouth turned down in a frown. Her shoulders sagged slightly as she turned and walked through the door.

He watched her go, his brow furrowing, looking troubled. Then he sighed and groaned. "Ugh, Gym."

Several thoughts went through me at once. One, McKayla's condemning thoughts of my laughter at the episode had me feeling strangely contrite. Even though she was the one heading back to class and I was the one standing with him, I couldn't push away the feeling I had somehow lost. I also wondered if she was right about Beau's apparent motivations for appearing so unusually eager to agree to go to the beach—maybe she was, or maybe he was finally starting to come out of his shell, and he was more interested in going out and doings things socially. Either way it didn't matter because I couldn't get the worried, almost depressed look on his face as he watched her go out of my mind. I also noticed he still looked a bit peaky, and that he didn't seem all that thrilled at the thought of going to Gym.

I had approached him again now, and I offered, "I can take care of that."

My resolution to let him be responsible was in shreds. The fact he still didn't look entirely recovered was a good excuse, but really after McKayla's unwitting victory over me I wasn't eager to leave them alone together again.

McKayla, now back in the Biology room, was still brooding over my interference. She consoled herself, At least we'll have Gym together. I'll play extra hard and make sure he doesn't have to do anything. Who cares about Edythe Cullen anyway, even if he thinks he likes her, he'll change his mind. Great skin and perfect hair don't mean much when all she does is make other people feel like dirt...

I didn't listen to any more. Her thoughts bothered me more than they should have. Of course, she was completely wrong. I didn't see how I could possibly make other people feel like dirt when I barely spoke to them and was almost always flawlessly polite. As for her apparent assumption I was targeting Beau for sport and would eventually get bored and leave him hanging, that was so ridiculous it was laughable.

However, in spite of myself, I found my thoughts lingering on what she thought, and briefly I wondered. Did I make Beau feel bad about himself? Like dirt? I didn't see how that was possible, considering how utterly and obviously fascinated I was with him, how every word he spoke had me on tender-hooks of anticipation, how, when I looked at his face, I had trouble making myself look away.

I decided to leave these ruminations until later—right now I had a mission, and that was to get Beau out of the Gym and keep him separated from McKayla.

"Go sit down and look pale," I told him in a low voice.

He must have really been eager to get out of Gym, because he immediately did what I asked, going to sit in one of the old folding chairs and leaning his head back against the wall. He closed his eyes, and he really did look ill. He was a better actor than I'd given him credit for, though maybe that was just because his full color hadn't returned yet.

Mr. Cope had returned to his desk and I approached, making my face take on a perfect look of concern.

"Mr. Cope?" I said softly, keeping my voice down as though I thought Beau needed quiet, and because I'd found speaking in a low voice sometimes made it sound more persuasive.

He looked up and something about the anxious look on my face made him give me his full attention.

"Yes?" he answered, a little unsteadily.

I dropped my voice a little more and, injecting just the right note of worry and helplessness, I said, "Beau has Gym next hour, and I don't think he feels well enough to go. Actually, I was thinking I should drive him home. Do you mind excusing him from class?" I leaned over the desk a little closer, looking imploringly into his eyes.

His thought processes were momentarily all in a tangle. He wasn't actually thinking anything particularly inappropriate—his mind was too blank for that.

"Do you need to be excused, too, Edythe?" he managed at last. Eager to do anything to please me.

An odd thought occurred to me then. Mr. Cope was unsettled and nervous talking to me, being around me. It affected him physically, made his heart speed up, injected adrenaline into his bloodstream. However, the response wasn't out of fear or an instinctual sense of what I was, but simply because I was physically attractive. Was it possible, Beau's apparent nervousness when he was talking to me...?

I leaned back, satisfied. "No, I have Mr. Goff," I said. "He won't mind."

Mr. Cope tried to get a grip. ...Never considered myself as having a weakness for young girls. Get a hold of yourself, she's probably half your age.

He had that backward of course—I was easily twice as old as he was.

"Okay," he said, "it's all taken care of." He turned, and was relieved for an excuse to turn his attention from me. "You feel better, Beau."

Beau nodded very slowly, overdoing the weak-act. He really did want to miss Gym. Or maybe he was afraid Mr. Cope would change his mind if he looked too eager.

I turned my back on Mr. Cope as he hurriedly found some paperwork to look over to distract himself.

"Can you walk, or do you want me to help you again?" I asked, smirking, knowing how much he didn't like being pampered.

"I'll walk," he answered, predictably.

He took his time standing up, even though Mr. Cope wasn't watching, apparently still worried he might not be over it. But once he was on his feet he looked around, and he seemed fine.

Still, I went to the door and held it open for him, as though for a weak invalid coming out of a hospital, or a gentleman for a lady. I smiled politely, but my eyes glittered at the joke.

Color crept up his face as he passed on through, and his eyes dropped away from mine.

I felt a flicker of guilt as I thought again about what McKayla had thought. Teasing him was so fun it was hard to resist—I enjoyed the funny expressions he made and the way he sometimes got irritated. But was McKayla right? Was I making him feel stupid or self-conscious? I didn't mean it that way, but then, he'd thought I regretted saving him from the van, so clearly he was capable of complete and total ludicrous misinterpretation.

I recalled how he'd reacted when I'd called him an idiot. Rather than shrug it off or apologize to diffuse hostility, as he normally might have done, it had made him angry.

Was it possible that, though maybe he did find me physically attractive, he had some notion that I acted like I did because I found him ridiculous? That, as McKayla assumed, he thought the only reason I was paying attention to him now was because I was planning to make a fool out of him for my own entertainment? Was that why he always seemed so on edge, so wary, whenever he talked to me? Perhaps that I had called him an idiot, not because he had made the absolutely absurd accusation that I might actually regret having saved his life, but because I took some kind of perverse pleasure in making him feel like a fool?

It was just a theory, and I had no idea if it was true. It seemed ridiculous—after everything I had said, it must be obvious that I was obsessed with him. More obvious than I would have wanted it to be at this point. But maybe I would try not to tease him so much—at least until I was sure he understood why I liked to tease him. Then it would be fun to him, too, rather than something to make him feel like an object of mockery.

I was doubly glad now for how circumstances had played out. I was looking forward to the alone time to talk. I could ask him some personal questions, maybe finally get some answers. And that would surely have the bonus of making him realize I was interested in him as a person. His likes, his dislikes... not like I thought of him as some cheap way to pass an otherwise boring day.

He had paused outside, and he tilted his head back, his eyes closed, as though he enjoyed the feel of the cool rain against his face.

I pursed my lips slightly. I'd thought he didn't like the cold, or the wet. That was one of the first things I'd learned about him. But he always had to do the unexpected.

"Thanks for that," he said abruptly, and when he looked down at me, he was smiling. "It's almost worth getting sick to miss Gym."

Always the unexpected.

I let my eyes wander away from his—I could make myself think clearly even when he was smiling at me, but it was more difficult. "Anytime," I answered.

"So are you going?" he asked. "This Saturday—the beach trip?" He sounded hopeful.

I felt suddenly warm at the notion he wanted me to be there, that he was even willing to brave McKayla's likely displeasure for it.

The thought of McKayla's face if she saw me show up at her store, and the thought of spending time with him on a weekend, outside school, was tempting. However, it was supposed to be sunny Saturday. But depending on which beach they were going to... it might not be sunny everywhere. I could ask Archie to check for me.

I already felt myself tentatively warming to the idea.

"Where are you all going?" I asked casually, still gazing out into the rain.

"Down to La Push, to First Beach."

My mouth tightened slightly with distaste and disappointment. Of course it would be that beach. It didn't matter what the weather was.

I looked up at him and forced a smile.

"I really don't think I was invited."

"I just invited you," he said, though he already looked resigned.

"Let's you and I not antagonize poor McKayla any more this week," I said, enjoying how my teasing tone this time, instead of pitting us against each other as enemies, put us on the same team. "We don't want her to snap."

"Fine, whatever," he muttered, turning away from me. I couldn't tell whether he was annoyed by the way I seemed to turn us both against McKayla with my words, or if it was because I wasn't going.

We had reached the parking lot now. However, instead of heading toward my car, he turned, making a straight line for his truck.

Shocked, almost angry at the thought of being cheated out of this time I had been expecting, without thinking I reached out and seized him by the jacket. The sudden movement halted him in his tracks and jerked him back half a step.

"Where are you going?" I demanded.

He stared back at me a second, surprised. I couldn't tell if it was because of my suddenly desperate tone, or because he felt the unnatural strength in my arm when I yanked him back, without thinking, without effort.

I waited for him to reply, but he only continued to stare down at me, eyes swirling with thoughts I couldn't begin to guess.

"Beau?" I said at last.

He blinked. "Uh, what?"

"I asked where you were going," I insisted again.

His brow knitted. "Home." He considered, then added, "Or am I not?"

I liked the uncertainty in his voice—like he was waiting for my invitation.

I smiled. "Didn't you hear me promise to take you safely home? Do you think I'm going to let you drive in your condition?"

The corners of his mouth turned down slightly, trying to hide his confusion. "What condition?"

My smile widened. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you have a weak vasovagal system." There was no way he could take that as my making fun—not with the affectionate way the words came out of my mouth, like the two of us were in on a private joke.

He snorted. "I think I'll survive." He tried for his truck again, but I gripped his jacket even more tightly than before. I wasn't going to let him get away.

He turned back, frowning. "Okay, why don't you tell me what you want me to do?"

That sounded like acquiesce to me. "Very sensible," I said, smiling. "You're going to get into my car, and I am going to drive you home." I probably sounded like a shady kidnapper.

His frown deepened. "I have two issues with that. One, it's not necessary, and two, what about my truck?"

He was always so difficult. He was more agreeable when McKayla asked him to do something—she must have been wrong, that he agreed so quickly and enthusiastically because he was trying to end the conversation as soon as possible, so he could be alone with me. If that were the case, he would jump at the chance now, instead of fighting me tooth and nail. I would have to remember in future that McKayla's interpretations of his motivations weren't all that reliable. She was about as good at reading him as I was.

Then again, maybe the reason he seemed more agreeable with McKayla was that, when he did say no to something, she did the polite thing and let it be. The only really pushy person that I had seen Beau interact with, who kept on going even after a fairly firm denial, was me. Even Taylor didn't push him as far as I did.

Unfortunately for him, though I might have been afraid of a lot of things, being too pushy wasn't one of them.

"One," I said, "necessary is a subjective word—" from my point of view, at this particular moment I was unwilling to suffer disappointment—"and two, I'll have Archie drop it off after school."

He frowned, staring back at me, and he seemed to be considering something.

Finally I said, my eyebrow raised and a challenge in my voice, "Are you going to put up a fuss?"

He sighed. "Is there any point in resisting?"

I smiled widely, trying to feel gratified rather than guilty at my triumph. It really was better for him to be driven home, just in case. Or so I told myself.

"It warms my cold heart to see you learning so quickly," I said softly, still smiling. I found myself thinking of our conversation in the cafeteria again—I really did sound like a villain.

Confident that he would follow me now, I finally let go of his jacket and turned in the direction of my car. "This way," I said.

I didn't feel totally assured he was going to go along until he was in the passenger seat, the door shut. I locked the doors as I turned on the engine, then turned up the heat so he would be more comfortable—his hair was soaked from the rain, so dark it looked almost black. I turned down the music to a background level.

He blinked. "Is that 'Clair de Lune'?"

I glanced at him. I wouldn't have expected someone his age to be familiar with this particular music. "You're a fan of Debussy?"

He shrugged. "My mom plays a lot of classical stuff around the house. I only know my favorites."

"It's one of my favorites, too," I said, pleasantly surprised to discover such an unexpected connection.

He smiled. "Well, imagine that. We have something in common."

He said it in a light, joking way, and I was supposed to laugh, but I couldn't. One thing we had in common—out of the thousands of things we didn't have in common. We weren't even the same type of being. We didn't eat the same things, we weren't even born in the same decade. I was born almost a century before he was even thought of.

I pulled smoothly out of the parking lot and started off down the road. I stared straight ahead of me, out into the rain lightly pattering against the windshield.

I was holding my breath since I had gotten into the car. I knew exactly how potent his scent would be in here, in such an enclosed space. But this was a good opportunity to test myself, prepare for the long drive to Seattle, so I couldn't let it pass me by. Besides, I hated wasting this short, precious time with silence, and I would need air to speak.

Slowly, carefully, I inhaled through my nose.

My grip on the steering wheel tightened. I'd been right, it was stronger in here, in such a small, warm space. However, I hadn't guessed how the rain would affect it. The cool musk of the rain on his skin and in his hair enhanced the smell in a way I never could have anticipated. I felt the venom fill my mouth, and even though I had eaten so well just the night before, for a second I was intoxicated by the thought of how his blood would taste...

I thought I might rip the steering wheel from the control column. No, I couldn't let myself think that way. Even a split second lapse was unforgivable. If McKayla Newton got in a car with him, she wouldn't be thinking about consuming him.

I had to be better than her in every way, or I should stop what I was doing now. I had to be better—more thoughtful, more careful. I had to know him better, understand him better, be able to give him what he wanted and needed—I had to be able to make him happier than she could make him, or I didn't deserve him. No, of course I didn't deserve him—but if I couldn't do better for him than McKayla would do in my place, then I didn't deserve to even try.

I breathed again, letting the burn sear up my nose and down my throat. The agony was almost intolerable, but after a moment, I felt my control return.

Still, it seemed better to think about something else. And I was wasting time anyway.

"What's your mother like?" I asked. This was a question I had been wanting to ask for some time, ever since that first conversation, when he had told me why he had come to Forks. I turned my head so I could watch his face as he responded.

He stared straight ahead. "She kind of looks like me," he said. "Same eyes, same color hair—but she's short. She's an extravert, and pretty brave. She's also slightly eccentric, a little irresponsible, and a very unpredictable cook."

As he rattled off all his mother's qualities, his whole aspect seemed to change. He spoke warmly, more affection than exasperation in his voice as he described her faults. There was a doting protectiveness in his tone, and he sounded more like an older brother talking about a younger sister than a son talking about his mother.

His face fell slightly, and he added, "She was my best friend."

I stared at him for a long moment. "How old are you, Beau?" I asked at last.

He paused. We were at the house now, and I pulled the car into the drive. Outside, the rain pounded against the roof of the car in a deluge. I knew he didn't like the rain, but I was glad for it. The sound of the heavy deluge made me feel as if we were really alone, isolated from the rest of the world. Just the two of us.

"I'm seventeen," he said, glancing back at me. He seemed bewildered by the intensity in my face.

"You don't seem seventeen," I murmured.

He suddenly laughed.

"What?" I said, so startled I was almost angry.

He grinned. "My mom always said I was born thirty-five years old and that I get more middle-aged every year." He chortled again, then sighed. "Well, someone has to be the adult."

He glanced at me again. "You don't seem much like a junior in high school, either," he noted.

I remembered Mr. Cope's chagrin at even looking at a girl he thought was half his age, and winced as I considered the fact Beau didn't even come up to a quarter of mine.

I was eager to keep on the subject of his mother. I loved the way his eyes seemed to brighten when he spoke about her, how he became more animated. Clearly he liked talking about his mother more than talking about himself.

"Why did your mother marry Phil?" I asked.

He blinked. He seemed taken aback by the question. He thought about it for a moment.

"My mom..." he said slowly, considering. "She's very young for her age. I think Phil makes her feel even younger." He grinned a little sheepishly and shrugged. "Anyway, she's crazy about him."

I watched his facial expressions carefully, and listened to the inflections in his tone. Something about that last throwaway line gave me pause. It didn't sound insincere or false by any means, but it felt like there was another layer of thought or emotion behind the sentiment I was missing.

I didn't know how to put my question into words, so I simply asked, "Do you approve?"

He shrugged again. "I want her to be happy, and he's who she wants."

I nodded hesitantly, my mind racing as understanding slowly came upon me. I didn't think he disliked this Phil in any way, or bear him any ill will. But he didn't have a close relationship with him either—Phil was a 'good guy,' but he wasn't a father figure, or really close enough Beau could consider him family. He simply accepted his mother's choice, wanted her to, as he had said, just be happy.

There was a greater kindness, a greater selflessness behind his words than would have been immediately apparent to anyone else. It was obvious from everything he had said that, a short time ago, his mother had been the closest person to him in the world, the person who he had spent all his time caring for, without asking for anything in return. His best friend. Now his mother had someone else to take care of her—her husband was her new partner.

Beau could have been jealous, as someone else in his situation might have been. He could have hated his mother's new husband for coming between them, taking his place as the most important person in her life. Instead, he had left, banished himself to this little rainy town so his mother wouldn't have to choose. Maybe there was a reason he so rarely smiled, besides the chill of the cold rain that never seemed to cease. Maybe he didn't smile because, where before he had had a best friend, now he was alone.

I felt a sudden ache in my chest.

"That's very generous," I said softly. "I wonder..." I hesitated.

He glanced back at me, curious. "What?"

I stared into his eyes, and I couldn't stop the question from rushing from my mouth.

"Would she extend the same courtesy to you, do you think?" I asked. "No matter who your choice was?"

I knew from the moment the question was out that it was wrong of me to ask it. A roaming, minor-league baseball player couldn't be compared to a vampire in terms of eligibility. If his mother loved her son half as much as I knew he did her, if she had a clue what I was, she would rightfully want him as far from me as possible.

Yet I couldn't suppress the sudden, intense longing. Now that I suddenly understood the void that existed in his life, I couldn't stop myself yearning to be the one to fill it. To be the most important person, to whisk away the homesickness he must feel away from the person he loved most.

"I—I think so," he stuttered as his eyes met mine, then looked away, nervous. Afraid of me? Uncomfortable somehow by the strange way I spoke and acted? Or was the reason behind this reaction closer to Mr. Cope's?

I relaxed, slightly cheered by that last thought.

"But she's the adult," he went on. "On paper at least. It's a little different."

"No one too scary, then," I said, smiling.

He grinned. It seemed talking about his mother had loosened him up. "What do you mean by scary? Tattoos and facial piercings?"

"That's one definition, I suppose," I said reluctantly. A rather non-threatening one, by my standards.

He noticed my tone, and asked, "What's your definition?"

I preferred not to go into detail on that—my mind was full of more than a few gory examples I didn't want to think about.

"Do you think I could be scary?" I asked instead. I tried to make my voice light and joking, though it had to be obvious by now what I was driving at. I remembered my earlier resolution to be subtle, lest I make him uncomfortable and nervous the way attention from McKayla and the other girls seemed to, and could have sighed at myself. So much for subtle.

However, he didn't look away, or look uncomfortable—after talking about his mother he seemed more open than I remembered seeing him, less guarded. He stared at me for a long moment, studying me, as though contemplating the question. But he seemed to look much longer than necessary.

I felt strange, under his suddenly intense gaze. The look in his eyes as he stared reminded me vaguely of the way Jeremy used to stare at me, back when he was at the peak of his outrageous fantasies—with total absorption, like he could look at my face forever, for no other reason than because he simply enjoyed looking at it. Unlike Jeremy, however, his eyes remained on my face, and didn't wander anywhere else. And unlike Jeremy, or other stares others had directed at me before, it didn't irritate or annoy me. Instead, my fingers tingled, and my cold body felt strangely warm—hot, even. I felt a strange mix of embarrassed self-consciousness and buzzing excitement.

Finally, the intense focus faded and he shrugged, going back to normal. "It's kind of hard to imagine that," he said.

I frowned and looked away, trying to hide the dizzying confusion spinning in my head.

He took my frown as dismay at his answer, and reassured me quickly, "But, I mean, I'm sure you could be, if you wanted to."

I glanced back at him. I tilted my head and I smiled incredulously. After everything I had said, after seeing me stop a van, the only reason he would admit I might be dangerous was to keep from hurting my ego.

"So," he said after a pause, "are you going to tell me about your family? It's got to be a much more interesting story than mine."

Interesting—I wasn't so sure. Horrifying, certainly.

"What do you want to know?" I said slowly, carefully. We were entering dangerous territory now.

"The Cullens adopted you?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yes."

He paused. He looked at me hesitantly for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, halting. "What happened to your parents?"

I relaxed a little in relief. That wasn't a hard question. "They died many years ago."

He looked down. "I'm sorry."

I glanced back at him. He was a sensitive, kind person. He never asked personal questions out of a morbid desire to sate his own curiosity or gather cheap gossip he could dole out later to make himself seem more interesting.

In this case, I was glad to be able to reassure him. "I don't really remember them clearly," I said. "Carine and Earnest have been my parents for a long time now."

"And you love them," he said.

"Yes," I said softly, and a slow smile touched my lips. "I can't imagine two better people."

He smiled a little, too. "Then you're very lucky."

"I know it," I whispered. He was right—without Carine, I would have died in 1918. And more importantly, had I been changed by any vampire other than Carine, there was not a single doubt in my mind the monster I would be now. She had given me a place to follow my conscience, shown me through her example how to listen to it, rather than suppress and ignore it—I knew no other vampire would have given me that. I was lucky—so often I took what I had for granted.

My conscience now pricked at me. How disappointed would Carine be in me now—now that I was deliberately becoming the villain?

"And your brother and sister?" he asked.

I glanced at his face, open, as fascinated by my answers as I was with his.

I looked away, and my eyes went to the clock on the dash. I sighed quietly to myself.

"My brother and sister... and Jessamine and Royal for that matter, are going to be quite upset if they have to stand in the rain waiting for me."

"Oh," he said, looking startled. "Sorry, I guess you have to go."

In spite of the words, he didn't move, his eyes still on me. He seemed almost as reluctant for our time to be up as I was. Hot pleasure swept through me at the thought—tainted by guilt. I didn't want to leave, but it was better if I left now. I needed time to think over the events of today, before I did something rash.

"And," I said, smiling, "you probably want your truck back before Chief Swan gets home and you have to explain about the syncopal episode."

He frowned. "I'm sure he's already heard," he muttered with distaste. "There are no secrets in Forks."

I laughed, too suddenly, too loudly, and I wondered if he picked up on the slight note of hysteria. If only he knew.

"Have fun at the beach," I said at last, smiling. "Good weather for sunbathing."

The rain continued to pour down on the roof of the car in sheets.

"Won't I see you tomorrow?" he asked.

"No. Eleanor and I are starting the weekend early." I was somewhat regretting having made the plans now—but, considering what I was doing, there was no such thing as too much hunting at this point, and Eleanor was already convinced I'd lost my mind enough lately as it was.

He looked disappointed, but he tried to hide it. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

"We'll be hiking the Goat Rocks Wilderness, just south of Rainier," I answered. It was one of Eleanor's favorite spots—she was eager for bear season.

"Oh," he said, "sounds fun." He slumped slightly in his seat, staring out the windshield.

I watched him for a moment, conflicted. I couldn't stop the thrill that shot through me as I saw again the look of disappointment, more obvious now. He was disappointed he wouldn't see me tomorrow. Yet the disappointment I saw in the curve of his shoulders also seared my conscience. I was getting exactly what I wanted—exactly what I had fervently hoped for. And he had absolutely no idea the future I was walking him into. Like a spider luring in a fly, a hawk swooping down on a field mouse—I was leading him toward destruction for my own gratification.

I knew I should stop what I was doing, take it all back before it was too late. But I wouldn't. Because I could feel myself already dreading the long weekend apart. Once upon a time these trips up the mountains to hunt big game had been the sole redeeming part of my existence, how I got from one week to the next. Now the thought of leaving town for a few days was torture. Bad enough I wouldn't be able to talk to him again, but what if something happened to him while I was away? Humans were so fragile... so breakable...

"Will you do something for me this weekend?" I asked. I turned my head, looking him straight in the eyes, and my face was more intense, more serious than I meant it to be.

He blinked, confused. He nodded vaguely, though he seemed distracted as he gazed back into my eyes.

I tried to make my voice light.

"Don't be offended, but you seem to be one of those people who just attract accidents like a magnet. Try not to fall into the ocean or get run over by anything, all right?"

Of course, the greatest irony was that he could probably never do anything more dangerous than what he was doing right now, sitting alone in a small, closed car with me, with no witnesses close by. What would he do if he ever found out the truth? He knew there was something different about me—but there was quite a bit of difference between Peter Parker and Dracula. He would probably run. And that was exactly what he should do.

I smiled to hide my tension, and so he wouldn't take my honest request as a jibe at his expense.

"I'll see what I can do," he said seriously.

Then he got out of the car and dashed for the porch, desperate to be out of the pelting rain.

I curled my fingers around the truck key I'd just picked from his jacket pocket. As I pulled quickly away from the house, my eyes lingered for a moment on his running back.

Run, I thought at him. Run while you still can.

But as I turned the car and started quickly back down the street, I knew, conscience or not, I didn't really mean it.

---

A/N: Hey! Another one down. (And 15,000 words this time, yikes.)

Definitely one of the most difficult chapters up to this point. It was basically one nonstop conversation, and Edythe's constant mood swings didn't help. (My impression when I was working from the original Midnight Sun rough draft was that sometimes SM just scribbled something in there thinking she'd come back to add something else later, which is a fair rough drafting strategy, though maybe she's just more concise than I am.)

Thanks for reading! If you have a moment, let me know what you thought, and I'll see you next time!

Posted 8/20/18