A/N: As promised, the second half of the original Midnight Sun chapter. (Conversations are murder. Seriously.)

Hope you enjoy, and see you at the end!

Chapter 10: Questions

"Did you really want dinner?"

Beau was looking over at me, and there seemed to be something else in his question he wasn't saying.

I glanced at him. He really did seem entirely too calm. If he fainted at the sight of blood, it was hard to believe he wouldn't soon be showing symptoms far more severe given all that had happened. I would feel better if he had some sugar and food in him. I imagined humans reacted better to things when they were strong and well-fed.

"I thought you might," I said at last.

"I'm good," he answered.

I was confused, and more than a little disappointed. I had thought when he said he didn't want to go to the movie, it meant he wanted to be with me. To ask all the questions I had refused to answer before if nothing else. But maybe he just wasn't in the mood, and eager to be alone.

"If you'd rather go home..." I began reluctantly.

"No, no," he said hurriedly. "I can do dinner." He added, "I just meant it doesn't have to be that. Whatever you'd like."

We were already at the restaurant and I stopped the car. I felt a smile spread across my lips. Perhaps he was just anxious not to miss his chance to finally get some answers—but he still didn't want me to leave.

I had barely turned off the engine when he suddenly scrambled out of the car, almost catching the edge of his shirt in the door in his rush. I looked around, slightly startled, wondering if the panic over what had happened had finally hit. I hadn't expected it to be so sudden.

However, as I got warily out of the car, I saw him waiting for me by the restaurant door. He held the door open for me as I approached.

I couldn't help but smile at him, but then wondered if I should have, as he colored and looked down, suddenly strangely nervous. I could hear his heart, beating faster than normal. Fear? Was everything that had happened finally beginning to set in?

The loud mental voice of the host suddenly intruded on my consciousness, cutting into my thoughts.

Whoa, baby. This must be my night.

The host's eyes had widened slightly as he saw me, and then he was all smiles, bowing low.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"A table for two, please," I said, ignoring the sudden array of fantasies already blossoming in his mind. I was more than used to this initial response—we were made to be attractive to our prey. Normally an instinctual fear was fairly quick to kick in after the initial attraction, some sense of something indefinable that was not right.

His eyes flickered once to Beau, before quickly dismissing him as a relative of some kind, or at most a childhood friend—completely platonic—then returned to me.

I was slightly incredulous. I hardly expected him to pick up on Beau's particular appeal, but to not even acknowledge him as a potential rival—it was irritating in a way that was hard to define.

However, nothing was going to ruin the fact I was getting this unexpected bonus time with him—outside school, no less—and my irritation was soon forgotten.

"Of course, er, mademoiselle," he said, forgetting that the restaurant was an Italian theme, not French, and picking up two leather folders and signaling for us to follow.

He was continuing to think feverishly. I wonder if she would take my number. Or would that upset the brother?—He was already assuming a sibling relationship, possibly half siblings, considering our lack of resemblance—Oh, who cares if it does. If he wants to fight, I can take him out back. He doesn't look like much, I'd take him apart... but would that upset her?

He led us toward a table in the center of the most crowded part of the dining room. Beau started to sit down, but I shook my head. As I slipped the host a bill, I said in a soft voice, "Perhaps something more private?"

The host glanced at the bill and his eyes widened slightly before he slipped it into his suit coat.

"Of course," he said, then led us around a partition to a small ring of booths. The section was empty, separated from the main restaurant. No one would be able to see his reactions to whatever I said here.

"Perfect," I said, smiling to show my appreciation—I supposed compared to Jeremy, his fantasies weren't really that outrageous. However, this time I showed my teeth—better to trigger the instinctual fear early before he could really start getting ideas. And it was irritating he could really think Beau was my brother.

The host froze, and his mind went temporarily blank. Then he turned and wandered away in a daze, having forgotten to leave our menus.

I frowned slightly as I sat down. From the tone of his thoughts, I felt as though my smile had not had the desired effect. I sensed no fear, instinctual or otherwise. However, I supposed it didn't really matter. I heard a thud as the host nearly tripped, still in a fog that didn't have the slightest hint of fear.

"That wasn't very nice."

I glanced up, startled. Beau was sitting with his arms folded, frowning at me in a look of something like disapproval.

I wondered if I was actually being reprimanded—not that I didn't deserve it a dozen times over tonight, but I had no idea what he could be talking about. "What do you mean?" I asked at last.

He gestured vaguely. "Whatever that thing you do is—with the dimples and the hypnotizing or whatever. That guy could hurt himself trying to get back to the door."

I didn't know how to respond. I smiled slightly, bemused. "I do a thing?"

He snorted. "Like you don't know the effect you have on people."

I glanced down. "I suppose I can think of a few effects."

For a moment the woman's face returned to my mind—her thoughts briefly colored by a fear she couldn't understand. She had no idea of the gruesome fate she had narrowly escaped. I would have broken her—but more than her body, I would have broken her mind. There was surely no one capable of greater psychological torture than I was...

I snapped myself from my thoughts. I was suddenly glad I was here, that Beau had decided to stay with me. I had known from the beginning—if Beau went to the theater and left me alone again, I couldn't be sure my resolve wouldn't weaken. I couldn't be sure I wouldn't go back and kill them after all. And without a time limit, without him somewhere waiting for me, if I could draw out her death, I knew without a doubt I would have.

Better that I was here. Better that Beau had stopped me from falling to that kind of monster, in mind as well as in body.

I pulled myself forcibly from my thoughts and, smiling, trying to distract myself, I said, "But no one's ever accused me of hypnotism by dimples before."

He raised his eyebrows. "Do you think other people get their way so easily?"

I stared back at him, and the question I was dying to ask burned in my mouth. It was out before I could stop it.

"Does it work on you?" I asked. "This thing you think I do?" I smiled playfully to cover my sudden anxiety, and I regretted the words almost as soon as they were out.

He sighed, and it had an odd tone of defeat about it. He smiled ruefully. "Every time."

I was distracted as the server arrived. However, I couldn't look away from the face of the boy in front of me, and he stared back at me. I felt strange—two opposing emotions raged inside me, threatening to tear me apart. Jubilation, triumph—colored by a wild stirring of panic.

His friends' theory regarding his preference for me, which I had been so leery of, seemed to have been right. What did they call it? A crush? Infatuation? He liked me, not McKayla or any of the others. Me.

But still, the terrifying anxiety lurked beneath the surface. I had decided I would tell the truth tonight—parts of it anyway. But now my resolve wavered. He liked me. But was that really so incredible? Lots of humans found me physically attractive. It was part of our lure as predators for drawing in prey. Just tonight, simply seeing me had rekindled a few of Jeremy's old fantasies, and the host had obviously been stunned, too. Now even the waiter was openly gaping at me, his mouth hanging slightly open.

But what did it mean anyway? Royal might have been able to find some measure of gratification in such attention, but ultimately it was all meaningless. How many had looked at me like this? Countless scores of them. But it meant nothing, because if they learned the truth, if they knew the monster I was—how, when I looked at them, I had to fight my natural instincts to kill them and gorge on their blood—they would run. Every last one of them.

Apparently Beau responded to me initially like the others did. But was his infatuation about to turn to fear and loathing? How could it not? How could he do anything but run when he knew the truth? I wasn't a superhero. I was the villain. A killing machine, whose first instincts were always to kill. A monster from a horror story, around which it could never be safe to be.

I was filled suddenly with the temptation to evade all his questions tonight—to promise to answer him later, while taking this time to simply enjoy. To bask in the pleasure of his infatuation, the way he gazed at me, the way his heart beat faster when I smiled, the way he didn't want this time together to be over any more than I did. The way he wanted to know more about me as I did about him. I couldn't lie to him, keep him in the dark forever. But surely just a few days wouldn't hurt anything. A memory to hold onto, when this fairy tale at last came to its inevitable end...

"Hello," said the waiter, still staring at me in open astonishment—it was almost ridiculous. I had never attracted this much attention before, had I? I'd always prided myself on being one of the more low-key members of my family.

The waiter continued, reciting his lines like a robot, "My name is Sal, and I'll be taking care of you tonight. What can I get you to drink?"

I didn't move my eyes from across the table. "Beau?"

He glanced uncertainly between the server and me. "Um, a Coke?" I couldn't tell what he was thinking, and I wondered if he was as concerned for the waiter as he had apparently been for the host.

The corner of my mouth twitched in a conspiratorial smile, before I turned to the waiter.

"Two Cokes," I said. Thirst was a sign of shock, and getting some sugar in his system couldn't hurt. Then I let my mouth deliberately spread into a wide smile.

Beau showed no sign of surprise when the waiter staggered slightly, dizzy and off-balance. I had to fight not to laugh—ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. I was almost certain now that I'd never gotten reactions this extreme. I tried to guess at the difference, and after a moment it occurred to me.

The waiter was still standing there staring, mind blank, and to revive him I added, a little wryly, "And a menu?"

The waiter came back to life. "Yes, of course, I'll be right back with that."

He left quickly, trying to shake off the spell, but already looking forward to falling under it again. However, I wouldn't be giving him that. Making him incompetent with my apparent hypnotism would only be counterproductive.

"You've seriously never noticed that before?" Beau asked, incredulous.

"It's been awhile since I cared what anyone thought about me," I said, a little carelessly. I added, "And I don't usually smile so much."

The more I thought about it, the more certain I became that that was the difference. I'd been doing a lot of smiling today—now that the infernally long weekend and too-sunny days barring me from him was finally over.

He nodded. "Probably safer that way—for everyone."

It was my turn to be incredulous. He had to have seen I was on the verge of murdering three people today. Besides politely asking me not to, he hadn't said anything. How he could now condemn me for apparently smiling at people too much, I didn't know. He had officially reached new levels of inconsistency.

I shook my head. "Everyone but you," I muttered. My eyes fastened to him then, seriousness replacing the smile. I had allowed this pleasant conversation to meander for a while, but after everything that had happened, before we got to the core subject of blood and vampires there was something else I knew I better attend to.

"Shall we talk about what happened tonight?" I asked. I was abruptly in medical-mode, which I had picked up from assisting Carine in years past.

He looked confused. "Huh?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Your near-death experience? Or did you already forget?"

He blinked. "Oh."

"How do you feel?" I continued, making my tone more even, professional.

He gazed back at me uncertainly, suddenly unaccountably wary. "What do you mean?"

"Are you cold, dizzy, sick...?"

He frowned. "Should I?"

There was something about his expression that was strangely entertaining. I laughed, though it wasn't really an appropriate time.

"I'm wondering if you're going into shock," I admitted at last. "I've seen it happen with less provocation."

"Oh," he said again. He paused a moment, considering. "No, I think I'm fine, thanks."

He never liked attention, but he seemed to have a special abhorrence for the medical variety. He always insisted he was fine, that he didn't need anything. I was starting to wonder if there might have been some trauma in his childhood that had instilled in him some kind of medically-related phobia.

"Just the same, I'll feel better when you have some food in you," I murmured, speaking almost more to myself than to him.

The waiter returned then, with the two Cokes and a basket of breadsticks. He gave me the menu.

The waiter had pulled himself together since the last time and his thoughts were more coherent. Unfortunately, they were also now more vulgar, too. That might have annoyed me at another time, but at the moment I couldn't have cared less. His thoughts were easy to tune out, and instead, my eyes stayed on Beau.

I realized that, amidst all the tension and excitement, I hadn't given myself a chance to really look at him. I did so now, drinking in his every feature. It was such a luxury, to be able to gaze upon his face for myself and not through the filter of anyone's thoughts. To be able to look at him and have him look back at me.

My eyes still fixed entirely on him, I wordlessly pushed the menu across the table for him to study.

The waiter cleared his throat uncertainly, trying to get my attention. "There are a few specials. Um, we have a mushroom ravioli and—"

Both the waiter and I were surprised when Beau cut him off. "Sounds great. I'll have that."

I wondered if he was finally getting slightly fed up with being ignored. Or was he jealous in a different way—that the waiter was paying me such particular attention out of obvious attraction?

I looked into his eyes and I couldn't look away, mesmerized by his stare. But as he gazed back at me intently, I didn't see any jealousy there—and I had a feeling the reason he wanted to get rid of the waiter was that he was ready to start in on his questions.

"And for you...?" the waiter asked me.

"That's all we need," I answered without looking at him. "Thank you."

The waiter waited for a moment, then turned away, disappointed and sullen. Vic must have been wrong, that must be her boyfriend. He doesn't look it, but maybe he's a rich kid... would explain how she's able to throw money around like that. He looks like he doesn't have a clue, she's probably milking him for all he's worth.

I felt another flicker of annoyance, but I forgot him almost as soon as he was gone.

Beau wasn't doing anything, just staring back at me.

"Drink," I said.

He picked up the glass and did as I said. He took a sip—then, as though he hadn't realized until that moment how thirsty he was, he drained the entire glass.

I watched him closely. Thirst was a sign of shock, or at least an aftereffect of extreme stress. Perhaps he had felt the duress of the situation more than he was letting on.

I pushed my own Coke in his direction.

"No, I'm fine," he said, surprised.

"I'm not going to drink it," I replied pointedly.

"Right," he said, as if I'd reminded him of something he already knew. And without any more protest, he took that one, and it was gone in a moment, too.

He set the glass back on table. "Thanks," he said in a low voice, then shivered.

Maybe it was beginning to set in now. "You're cold?" I asked, leaning forward slightly.

"It's just the Coke," he said, but his shoulders twitched, as though staving off another shiver.

"Don't you have a jacket?"

"Yeah," he answered, reaching to the side, then stopped. "Oh—I left it in Jeremy's car."

He shrugged indifferently, then shivered again, the movement rattling his frame.

Clearly, he wasn't adequately dressed for the night, especially now that the warmth of the sun was completely blocked by cloud cover, and nearly set. I wasn't sure what to do about that—my jacket wouldn't fit his taller frame and even if it did, he'd probably choose to suffer the cold rather than be seen in a women's-style jacket. Men tended to be highly impractical in that regard.

I was wearing a scarf, and I quickly pulled it off. "Here," I said, tossing it lightly across the table.

"Really, I'm fine," he said, pushing it back. I could see his neck starting to turn red—embarrassment.

I wasn't going to let him get away with that. "The hairs on the back of your neck are standing up, Beau," I said. It was true—I could see them from where I sat. I added insistently, "It's not a lady's scarf, if that's what's bothering you. I stole it from Archie."

"I don't need it," he said, frowning.

I couldn't figure out why he was being so stubborn. He didn't believe me, about it not being a lady's scarf? He thought it would look stupid? Or had he just decided to pick now to develop a macho side?

"Fine," I said, slightly exasperated. "Royal has a jacket in the trunk, I'll be right—"

Before I could finish, he reached out for me again, like he had in the car, moving so unexpectedly I was startled. Apparently, he had figured out how to get me to do what he wanted—or stop me from doing what he didn't want me to do—and he was going to keep doing it.

This time I dodged him. He was already cold enough without me draining away any more of his warmth. I slid my hands under the table.

"Don't go," he said quietly. He looked at me, his eyes full of unusual emotion—desperation, worry. "I'll wear the scarf. See?" With the hand he had tried to grab mine, he picked it up and put it around his neck. It was obvious he'd never worn one before—he didn't seem to know quite what to do with it. He just kept wrapping it around until the ends were all used up.

He looked to me. "Did I do it right?"

It was all bunched up around his neck, wound unevenly. It was so thick it looked a little like bunched up sheep wool.

"It suits you," I lied. Then I couldn't stop from laughing, giving myself away.

"Do you steal a lot of things from, um, Archie?" he asked, curious.

I shrugged, dismissive. "He has the best taste."

"You never told me about your family," he said slowly, remembering. "We ran out of time the other day."

I hesitated. This was a topic I wasn't ready to broach. How honest was I going to be tonight? I wanted to tell him—and yet, I didn't.

Instead, I pushed the basket of breadsticks in his direction, distracting him.

"I'm not going into shock," he insisted.

"Humor me?" I asked. Then, remembering what he had said about the hypnotism and the dimples, I smiled, wider than I had at the waiter.

"Ugh," he muttered, annoyed as he reached for the breaksticks. Clearly he was regretting having made me consciously aware of my supposed powers.

"Good boy," I said, laughing—knowing I shouldn't be trying to stir him up, but finding teasing him too tempting to resist.

He glowered at me as he chewed, resenting my control. But not really resentful, I thought—beneath it all, it was a joke. A joke we were both in on.

My smile suddenly faded and I was serious again. "I don't know how you can be so blasé about this. You don't even look shaken. A normal person—" I broke off. There seemed little point reciting what a normal person would be doing in this situation—that much was obvious. "But you're not normal, are you?" I said quietly, almost accusingly.

He swallowed the piece of breadstick he was chewing on and shook his head. "I'm the most normal person I know."

"Everyone thinks that about themselves," I noted.

He raised his eyebrows. "Do you think that about yourself?"

I hesitated, pressing my lips into a line.

"Right," he said, and this time the annoyance in his voice was real. "Do you ever consider answering any of my questions, or is that not even on the table?"

My eyes dropped. He was right, my evasion and indecision wasn't fair. "It depends on the question," I said finally, my eyes still not quite meeting his.

"So tell me one I'm allowed to ask."

I was leaning forward slightly on the table, he leaning toward me. I raised my eyes to look him in the face.

I was in turmoil. He was attracted to me, liked me—but it was meaningless. It meant no more than Jeremy or the waiter and host's reactions to the way I looked. It meant nothing, so long as he didn't know what I really was.

Or so I kept trying to tell myself, as I thrilled at the way he looked at me, with a kind of frustration born of fascination, curiosity. I owed him answers, and I wanted him to know me. Yet, what would I do if he did run? Maybe he only liked me in a shallow way, but in this moment it seemed like so much better than nothing. Than losing everything.

Which of his questions was I willing to answer?

The ones that won't terrify you, I thought. The ones that won't make you flee.

The waiter arrived then with the food. We were both still leaning forward, and we automatically straightened.

"Did you change your mind?" the waiter asked me obsequiously. "Is there anything I can get you?"

There was no reason to deprive myself a moment of looking at his face, and I didn't look away from Beau as I gestured to the empty glasses. "Some more soda would be nice."

The waiter's eyes flickered to Beau, and his thoughts were full of disdain. The kid must be loaded. Son of a corporate president or something. She's putting out a lot of effort for this, you'd think she was totally absorbed in nothing but him. I wonder how often she looks for fun on the side—should I try to slip her my number? Or does she only go for guys if they're rich? Look at those designer clothes, I bet she's got half a dozen dupes like this bozo on a string. Wish I could get on her string. If only I had some cash...

He left the food and stalked off, stewing over his lack of monetary incentive to get female attention.

When he was gone, I spoke, softly, carefully.

"I imagine you have a lot of questions for me."

"Just a couple thousand," he answered.

"I'm sure," I said. I almost smiled, but I couldn't make my mouth form the expression. "Can I ask you one first?" I asked in a low voice. "Is that unfair?"

His face brightened slightly—he seemed to take this as agreement. "What do you want to know?" he said, suddenly cooperative.

I couldn't look at him. The fear was clutching at my chest, creeping up my throat.

"We spoke before," I said softly, "about how you were... trying to figure out what I am. I was just wondering if you'd made any more progress with that."

Silence. I was afraid to look up, but I knew I had to. Finally, I raised my eyes to gaze into his.

He had gone very still. Color was beginning to creep up his face, contrasting sharply with the pale scarf. Embarrassed, like before? But no, there was something else in his eyes this time, something I didn't know quite how to interpret. Anxiety? Guilt?

Though the fear was like a knife in my gut, something in the tension in his face made me want to reassure him. "It's that bad, then?" I said softly, gently.

"Can I—Can we not talk about it here?" he stammered. His eyes flickered toward the thin partition that separated us from the rest of the restaurant.

"Very bad," I said quietly.

We sat in silence for a moment. I felt suddenly drained. I had been on a roller coaster of emotion tonight—fear and desperation and rage and jubilation and fear again. One after another, sometimes swirling together until I could no longer separate one from the next. I wished I could sleep, and rest my weary mind. But there was no rest to be had, only thought, endless thought, torn between conscience, and passion. Could he have some inkling of the truth? If he did, didn't that mean it was already over—my time in my own personal fantasy up?

"Well," he said, his tone a little less serious. "Actually, if I answer your question first, I know you won't answer mine. You never do. So... you first."

I breathed again, and some of the fear eased, for the moment. As long as I felt I could push it off a little longer, keep feeling I had a little time left, I could still function.

"An exchange then?" I said with a bit of a smile.

He nodded. "Yes."

The waiter came back and dropped off the Cokes. Again, I didn't look at him, and he didn't bother to try to slip me his number.

"I suppose we can try that," I said at last, quietly. "But no promises." Still refusing to show my hand, clinging to the insubstantial attachment he felt toward me, made possible only by his ignorance.

He took a short breath. "So..." he began. "What brings you to Port Angeles tonight?"

Of course he would have to ask that. I had already decided I wouldn't lie in this conversation—but I certainly wasn't ready to admit to stalking him. I almost smiled.

"Next."

"But that's the easiest one!" he protested.

I shrugged, stonewalling. "Next?"

He glared at the table. Wordlessly he took out his silverware and took a bite of his food. "Fine then," he said. When he looked up at me, his eyes were a little harder. And I knew the next question wasn't going to be an easy one.

"Let's say," he began slowly, his tone almost accusing, "hypothetically that... someone... could know what people are thinking, read minds, you know—with just a few exceptions."

He glared, daring me not to reply.

I wasn't surprised he had guessed this about me. I hadn't exactly been subtle about it. I decided, if he had to know some of my secrets, this was one I could live with. It was one of the less horrifying, by far.

"Just one exception," I said. "Hypothetically."

He gaped at me, shocked. To hear me so casually acknowledge something he must have been theorizing about for awhile.

It took a minute, but at last he shook his head and continued, emboldened by what was almost a straight forward answer, "Okay. Just one exception, then. How would something like that work? What are the limitations?" His voice was growing more excited. "How would... that someone... find someone else at exactly the right time? How would she even know I was in trouble?"

I smiled a little. "Hypothetically?"

"Right." He watched me with wary anticipation.

"Well, if... that someone—"

"Call her Jane," he inserted.

I shook my head, still smiling. "If your hypothetical Jane had been paying better attention, the timing wouldn't have needed to be so exact."

My smile faded as I considered what had almost happened. It made me feel ill—and filled me with blinding fury. When I spoke again, my voice was low and incredulous, and I no longer bothered with the hypothetical nonsense. "I'm still not over how this could happen at all. How does anyone get into so much trouble, so consistently, and in such unlikely places?"

I added, shaking my head again, "You would have devastated Port Angeles's crime rate statistics for a decade, you know."

He frowned. "I don't see how this is my fault."

He had a point—bad luck, being at the wrong place at the wrong time, couldn't be his fault.

"I don't, either," I admitted finally, but in spite of the words, there was accusation in my voice. "But I don't know who to blame."

He stared back at me. "How did you know?" he asked suddenly again, voice low and oddly intense.

I gazed back into his eyes. They were wide, and blue, like a clear sky—the kind of sky you didn't see much of in Forks. I remembered how, the first time I'd laid eyes on him, I'd thought the light color made him look permanently uncertain. His eyes didn't look uncertain now. They were serious, determined.

Something crystallized in my mind then. I knew myself—and I knew this wasn't enough. I had a hold on him now, but it was a shallow one. He was attracted to me, in that indefinable way boys his age were attracted to girls. Like Jeremy, or the host, or the waiter. I enjoyed that feeling, was gratified by it, but I could never be satisfied this way, and neither could he. I wanted to reach the deeper parts of his heart—I knew he was capable of such a deeper love, like the love he had for his mother, and that was what I craved. But I knew the only way I could have it was if he knew the truth. If he knew me, understood me—accepted me in spite of the ugliness, in spite of the monstrous, without conditions...

But what if he ran? What would I do then?

He stared into my eyes, and his own were already full of the kindness and understanding I longed for. "You can trust me, you know," he said softly. Once again he stretched out a hand toward mine. Slowly this time, not to hold me back or stop me from leaving, but a reassuring gesture, full of gentleness.

As I stared back at him, for the first time all my doubt and fear was gone, and I suddenly wanted to tell him everything, without reservation. I wanted him to know about me, to share myself with him, so that someday he might be able to describe me the way he had described his mother—with fondness and understanding and acceptance of strengths and faults alike.

But once again I hesitated, for a completely different and unexpected reason this time. I'd been so focused on the possibility of rejection I hadn't looked closely at the alternative. What if I told him the truth now, and he didn't run? What if, instead, the two of us drew closer together?

It was what I hoped for, longed for—and yet, if I stopped to turn it around, look at it from his point of view, wouldn't that be the greatest tragedy of all? To love me—as more than a passing infatuation, to be bound to me the same way he was to his mother, like family. Bound to a monster. What torment would I put him through if I told him the truth? If I drew him into my world? He was too good, too kind to deserve that.

I drew back my hands slightly before he could touch them. I should have put them under the table, as before, but I didn't.

However, he noticed the way I drew back, and let his hand fall back to the table.

"It's what I want to do," I began slowly, haltingly. My voice dropped to barely a whisper, "But that doesn't mean it's right."

He leaned forward. I couldn't look away from his eyes. They were gentle, yet deep, and penetrating. He had talked about me hypnotizing him. How ironic that seemed now.

He spoke in a low voice. "Please?"

I stared back into his eyes one moment longer, and then I felt what was left of my resistance crumble away like chaff.

"I followed you to Port Angeles," I blurted out in a rush. I was talking too fast, as if getting it over with as quickly as possible would make the facts less bizarre, less creepy. "I've never tried to keep a specific person alive before, and it's much more troublesome than I would have believed. But that's probably just because it's you. Ordinary people seem to make it through the day without so many catastrophes. I was wrong before, when I said you were a magnet for accidents. That's not a broad enough classification. You are a magnet for trouble. If there is anything dangerous within a ten-mile radius, it will invariably find you."

I realized my confession had completely devolved into a rant, and I closed my mouth.

When I had pictured myself telling him the truth, I had imagined something more well thought out. Calm, articulate. But I already sounded slightly mad, psychotically obsessed. Well, maybe it was better that way. More honest.

He looked back at me for a long moment. I wasn't sure what I might expect—for him to get annoyed again, that I seemed to be blaming him for bad luck, things outside his control. Or maybe for his eyes to cloud, disturbed, as he asked, "You were... following me?"

I watched his face closely, and I saw something change in his eyes. But he wasn't disturbed. Though his expression remained impassive, I saw a brightening there. A flicker of excitement.

"You put yourself into that category, don't you?" he asked quietly.

I didn't understand what I was seeing in his eyes—that look like he was thrilled about something. I decided I didn't like it.

When I answered, my voice was flat. "Unequivocally."

He paused for a second, looking into my face. Then, deliberately, he stretched out his hand again for mine.

Once again I automatically pulled back from him. It felt wrong somehow. To let him touch me—to allow myself to be touched by him. Soft, warm, and so very breakable—it felt wrong to give in to what I wanted.

This time, he ignored my unwilling body language, and laid his hand firmly over mine.

I didn't move a muscle. I knew only too well how the slightest twitch on my part could injure him. When we were touching, I needed to focus my full concentration on the point of contact, and make sure I did nothing to harm him by accident. But even more—I didn't want the moment to end.

"That's twice now," he said softly, sincerely. "Thank you."

My eyes were trapped by his. You're wrong, I thought. Suddenly the tips of my fingers felt numb, my mind churning. I'd come this far. Was I going to tell him the truth? The real truth? Of all my countless secrets, along with the darkest of all?

He grinned a little sheepishly. "I mean, did you ever think that maybe my number was up the first time, with the van, and you're messing with fate? Like those Final Destination movies?"

His smile was a little goofy, and he probably expected me to laugh or at least smile. But I couldn't.

"Edythe?" he said at last cautiously, looking at me with concern. I was sure he must see it in my face—the conflict, the fear, the guilt.

My eyes dropped. I couldn't look him in the face as I readied myself to tell him—the one thing I had most dreaded him knowing.

"That wasn't the first time," I said, very quietly, my lips barely moving. "Your number was up the first day I met you."

I didn't want him to be in any doubt, so I added, "It's not twice you've almost died, it's three times. The first time I saved you... it was from myself."

Silence. When I finally forced myself to look into his eyes, I saw they had clouded over slightly—and I knew he was replaying the memory of that first day in Biology in his mind, the bizarre hatred in my face, the murder in my eyes. His breathing accelerated slightly, and I heard his heart rate increase in his chest.

"You remember?" I said quietly. "You understand?"

He snapped back to the present, and his eyes refocused on me. He stared back at me evenly, calmly. "Yes."

Again we were both quiet. I waited for him to say something more, to explain his thoughts. But he said nothing, and his hand didn't move from mine.

"You can leave, you know," I said. "Your friends are still at the movie."

His eyes never moved from my face. "I don't want to leave."

A sudden, unexpected wave of anger crashed over me. He said he understood, but obviously he didn't. He didn't understand that, from the moment he had stepped into the Biology class and his scent had hit me, I had been positioned like a guillotine hanging over his head. He didn't understand that, when he had come to sit beside me that day, it had been no different from the moment in the alley, when one of the men had pulled a gun and trained it on his chest. I knew, in spite of how nonchalant he might seem now, that he had felt fear in that moment—I'd seen it in the minds of those worthless thugs. The real fear in his eyes.

I was no different from the man holding the gun, a moment away from pulling the trigger, no different from the other man with the pipe, ready to beat out his brains—no different from even the woman, delighted at the prospect of murder.

I had more in common with those pitiless, bloodthirsty mongrels than I had with the naïve, innocent, pure boy sitting in front of me.

"How can you say that?" I asked, quietly, but with an edge.

He patted my hands. His breathing was perfectly even, his heart rate normal. There was not even a hint of fear in his blue eyes, only determination.

After a minute, he said, "You didn't finish answering my question. How did you find me?"

I stared back at him, hard, angry that this was his response. So cool, so unconcerned. Did he have absolutely no instincts for self-preservation? Had he lived such a sheltered, safe life he'd never developed the appropriate response to physical threats, to predators? Maybe he was like some domestic animal—a cow or a sheep—raised in the safety of captivity, and so when he saw a wolf or a mountain lion for the first time, rather than turn and flee as a wild, experienced animal would, his first response was to approach the carnivore with a naïve curiosity, unaware of the real danger.

He didn't respond in any way to the fierce look I directed his way, waiting patiently for the answer to his question.

At last I sighed and slumped slightly in defeat. Now that I had told him my worst secret, nothing else seemed to matter much. I would tell him whatever he wanted to know.

"I was keeping tabs on Jeremy's thoughts," I said without preamble.

I didn't bother to wait for a response of shock, or slow down with all the tedious explanations I knew he didn't need. Instead, I talked like I might have talked to Archie—to someone on the inside.

I explained how I hadn't been being careful, and I didn't notice right away when he'd left the others. How I'd reached the bookstore he'd apparently considered going into, and how I'd taken to searching random thoughts, seeking him out. How I knew I shouldn't have had any reason to worry, but grew increasingly anxious anyway. How I'd then seen his face in the woman's mind.

He listened attentively as I spoke, never once interrupting.

When I stopped talking, feeling the tendrils of fury rise up in my throat again as I recalled her thoughts, he said, "But you got there in time." As though that ought to cure everything, as though he couldn't understand why I would still be angry when it was over and done with.

I realized suddenly that that was the difference between him and me. He let things go. He didn't hold grudges when people had wronged him, but just went on with his life. He had forgiven me so easily, or else when I apologized told me it wasn't necessary, the same way he didn't resent Phil for taking away his mother. Whatever kind of person he was—I was his polar opposite.

I wanted him to understand exactly what I was, and I said, "It was harder than you know for me to drive away, to just let them get away with that." I hesitated. "It was the right thing, I know it was, but still... very difficult."

Though his hand on mine remained unmoved, his eyes dropped briefly, and I knew he was aware of what almost happened—what I would have done to them if he hadn't acted in a blind impulse to keep me out of danger.

I wasn't ready to relent yet, and I continued, "That's one reason I made you go to dinner with me. I could have let you go to the movie with Jeremy and Allen, but I was afraid if I wasn't with you, I would go looking for those people."

I gazed evenly into his face. I knew he knew what I meant. That when I said looking for them, I meant hunting them. That it would have been murder on my mind.

He didn't answer. His hand was still on mine and, incredibly, he looked into my face with a look much the same as before. Like he couldn't look away, like he didn't want to.

For a moment, I wondered incredulously if I had underestimated the power of the infatuation of a teenage boy. I was fairly certain that if McKayla had revealed she had stalked him to Port Angeles and considered murdering three people, and that she had come close to murdering him on his first day, he would have had the more appropriately horrified, severely creeped-out reaction. Then again, for McKayla to do all that, she would have to be a vampire, and every bit as outwardly appealing as I was. So maybe he wouldn't mind after all.

It was like he was literally under a spell. Would any teenage boy respond like this to a girl he liked, or was this only his own peculiar reaction?

I suspected it was the latter, but whatever the case, I knew it didn't change the way this was likely to play out. Just like a spell, he would probably be perfectly okay with all this right up until the infatuation wore off, and reality had a chance to set in—that having an obsessed vampire stalking him everywhere he went was not the dream come true he was apparently under the mistaken impression it was now.

I took a deep breath through my nose, letting the fiery scent scorch me again, as I tried to settle my suddenly strained nerves.

"Are you going to eat anything else?" I asked.

He blinked, and glanced down at the forgotten plate. "No, I'm good."

"Do you want to go home now?"

He considered briefly. "I'm not in any hurry."

I stared back at him, frustrated. Frustrated, because a part of me was dangerously close to being elated in all this, and I knew that was wrong.

I glanced down at his hand, still on mine. The back of my hands felt warm, so I knew likely his were cold as ice and numb by now. He showed no sign of caring in the slightest. Failing to pay attention to his own wellbeing, as usual.

As in all the other times, I couldn't bring myself to forcibly pull my hands away—either because I was afraid of hurting him physically or hurting him emotionally with a physical gesture that might be interpreted as rejection, I wasn't sure which. So I asked, "Can I have my hands back now?"

He abruptly pulled back as if he had been stung. He looked embarrassed. "Sure. Sorry."

I glanced at him as I drew out the money to pay the bill, bemused by his abrupt switch to shy and meek after his earlier display.

"Is it possible to go fifteen minutes without an unnecessary apology?" I wanted to know.

He considered. "Um, probably not."

The look on his face was so funny I couldn't stop the single laugh that escaped me, and I felt some of my dark mood lift. I knew I'd be thinking about all this again tonight, but for now, once again I was simply glad for this time together. In spite of the agony of warring conscience and selfish desires, everything felt so much more right when he was near.

The waiter returned then. "How are you do—" he began, still mentally debating whether to try slipping me his number.

I cut him off, still polite, but with an edge of impatience. "We're finished, thank you very much, that ought to cover it, no change, thanks."

I was already up even as I spoke, leaving the crisp hundred dollar bill on the table without really looking at the waiter.

Beau saw what I was doing and, looking dismayed, scrambled to his feet and tried to get his wallet out. "Um, let me—" he began, flushed. "You didn't even get anything—"

"My treat, Beau," I said, as I turned toward the door.

"But—"

I rolled my eyes. "Try not to get caught up in antiquated gender roles."

I started away, and Beau had no choice but to follow.

The waiter stared after us, mouth hanging slightly open, more confused than ever.

Apparently paying not the slightest attention to my suggestion about antiquated gender roles, Beau hurried ahead of me to get the door, then raced out to get the car door, too.

I understood what he was thinking better now than I had before. This was a date, and he was doing his best to act like it, do what a guy was supposed to do. He was awkward and clumsy about it—like he'd never done this before, which I suspected he hadn't. But he didn't look around, embarrassed, like he was afraid someone was watching. He didn't seem to care, not anymore.

Well, I hope you're happy, said a voice in the back of my mind bitterly. You got everything you wanted. Not only does he like you, he knows the truth and he doesn't care. Congratulations.

However, for the moment I felt the gnawing guilt fade to little more than background noise. As I got into the car, he shut the door carefully behind me, then raced around to the passenger side, as if he was afraid if he didn't make it I would drive off without him. I watched his clumsy antics with a strange mixture of feelings. It made me smile, partially because it seemed so ridiculous, particularly given how out-of-character it seemed, and partially because seeing him want to go to this kind of effort for me... treating me like a normal human girl... an undeniable part of me reveled in it.

Refusing to move the car until I saw his seat belt firmly in place, I finally took off down the street, though I slowed down from my usual pace. I wanted a little extra time, despite the scent now scorching down my throat and filling my mouth with venom. And as I weaved through traffic down the relatively quiet street, I turned to him, smiling grimly.

"Now," I said, "it's your turn."

A/N: Difficult chapter, though I guess I say that about all the long conversation chapters. (Edythe's extreme mood swings strike again.) I'm never sure if the flow comes out quite natural, but sometimes the constraints also make them some of the funnest challenges.

Anyway, thanks so much for all your thoughts, and for sticking with me! I'll be working on the next chapter as always (which will probably be picking back up on the new slightly longer schedule). Hope to see you next time!

Posted 11/4/18