A/N: Hey! We're finally here, the final chapter before the epilogue. Such a tough one—possibly the most difficult of this project, the constraints of having to go by the order of events in canon had a noticeable impact on natural flow this time around.
Hope you'll be able to forgive me on that, and enjoy it anyway. Thanks so much for sticking with me all this time, and see you at the end!
Chapter 16: Turning Point
I kept my eyes firmly closed as I stepped into the light.
Of course I felt no change. But I saw it in my mind's eye—the moment when my pale skin that could almost pass for that of a human was utterly transformed, glittering like the surface of hard diamond, a thousand tiny facets, refracting every color there was, so bright a human's eyes could barely look at me without pain in their fragile retinas.
I didn't open my eyes—I couldn't bear to look and see his reaction, not yet.
"Edythe!"
His voice cut through the quiet, high and panicked, and I heard the sound of his footsteps pounding against the grass as he ran.
Automatically, my eyes snapped open, and for a moment I was confused as I saw he was running toward me, instead of away. He had one hand outstretched in front of him.
Whatever this reaction was, it wasn't what I'd been expecting—but then, it never was.
I quickly put up my hands, and he slowed to a stop. I was tense enough without having him so close, startling me with his sheer unpredictability.
He stared at me, his eyes wide, then he blinked and had to squint.
I stared back at him, unable to look away as I tried to understand the expression on his face. He was thinking something—churning this over in his mind. But what conclusions was he reaching? Finally truly understanding what I meant when I said I wasn't human?
As always, his thoughts were hidden from me, so all I could do was wait. Wait and... fear.
At last, finally, he took a slow, unsteady step toward me.
Automatically I drew back a half-step, afraid of how clearly he would see me if he came closer. I had chosen this particular shirt on purpose, leaving my arms and collarbone exposed. Yet I almost wished now I'd left the sweater.
"Does that hurt you?" he asked, voice low with concern.
He was looking at my skin, the way it shimmered and flickered in the sunlight, still so bright to his eyes it must have looked white-hot and burning, like the surface of the sun.
"No," I answered softly.
He paused for a moment, then tentatively took another step toward me. This time, I let my hand fall, and made no sign to stop him. He stopped about several feet away from me, then turned slowly, walking all around me, keeping a wary measure of space between us all the time. I could feel his eyes studying me from every side, absorbing what I was.
My hands were clenched at my sides, and as he circled, for once I felt like the prey, helpless, unable to defend myself. His reaction would be what it would be, and there was nothing I could do to change it.
He at last came to a stop in the place he had started, before he deliberately took the last few steps to stand directly in front of me.
"Edythe," he breathed, sounding as though he'd been winded.
I forced myself to raise my eyes to his. "Are you scared now?" I whispered.
"No." His voice was emphatic, certain.
I stared back at him, trying to understand the quiet fierceness in his tone. Determined not to hurt my feelings? Or was this more of his bizarre calm in the face of that which was most horrifying, most alien?
He paused a moment longer, then his gaze flickered down to one of my arms. His eyes returned to my face before, slowly, he reached out a hand to touch.
I went as still as stone, startled—but I didn't signal him to back off, and he continued, until I felt the warmth of his fingertips brushing along the back, down to my wrist. He gazed down at the point where his hand met my arm, and his skin seemed to glow in the reflection from mine. He seemed perfectly relaxed, and yet a small crease formed between his eyebrows.
"What are you thinking?" I whispered at last.
He hesitated. "I am... I didn't know..." He couldn't seem to speak coherently. At last, he breathed deeply, then said in a steady, awed voice, "I've never seen anything more beautiful—never imagined anything so beautiful could exist."
I didn't answer. This was better than running away screaming, and yet, I wasn't sure if I felt happy or not. Maybe because a part of me still didn't believe it. Every moment I was with him, every time I shared some secret about myself, I was always on tenderhooks as I waited for his response. Maybe someone else would have been emboldened the first time he shrugged off some horrible, terrifying truth about our kind, and even more the second, or the third. But I was used to hearing thoughts, and I knew better than anyone just how quick minds were to change. Sometimes all it took was a single trigger to turn best friends into enemies, for magnanimity and trust to turn to suspicion and resentment.
What was more, I was used to hearing precise motivations, to understanding the reasons behind actions, and knowing whether the foundation of expressed feelings was built on something whimsical or flimsy, or rock-solid. But I was completely blind—I didn't know what thoughts might lie behind his actions. I didn't know if he was forcing himself to have such a positive reaction out of a fear of upsetting me. I didn't know if his calm was secure, or if he was, even now, teetering on the edge, and at any moment I may just push him one insane truth too far.
I lifted my hand automatically, wanting to touch him, but I forced it to drop back at my side. I had to be careful, more careful than I ever had before.
"It's very strange, though," I murmured, pointing out the obvious.
"Amazing," he said in a low, fervent voice, eyes studying me again.
"Aren't you repulsed by my flagrant lack of humanity?" I pressed.
He shook his head vigorously. "Not repulsed."
I gazed back at him and, for the first time, I was starting to believe him. But instead of relieved, I felt unsettled. It was like all the natural instincts inside him that were supposed to warn him of danger had been switched off. Like an untaught little boy drawn in by the bands of color on a poisonous snake.
"You should be," I said, a little forcefully.
"I'm feeling like humanity is pretty overrated," he answered, looking dazed.
Slightly annoyed now, and disturbed, I pulled my arm away from him, folding it behind my back so he couldn't touch it anymore, though I regretted the loss of warmth.
My rejection didn't make him step away. Just like the little boy, attracted by the snake, he took a step closer.
Maybe it was my distraction, worrying about his reaction to what I looked like in the sun, or maybe it was the warm air, but as he moved, the air suddenly swirled around me, and his scent was abruptly burning in my mouth and in my nose, concentrated, enhanced by the soft, warm air and subtle fragrance of wildflowers.
I didn't give myself time to consider, or the temptation time to build. I moved, instantly putting ten feet of space between us. I held up my hand again, warning him not to come closer.
He blinked, startled, and then his face turned penitent. "I'm sorry."
"I need some time," I called to him.
"I'll be more careful," he said.
I nodded, breathing deeply, forcing myself to concentrate on his overpowering scent as I inhaled, forcing myself to master it. I was the one who needed to be more careful. I needed to be thinking; I had to remember all the possible ways this might go wrong.
It was so frustrating—as strong as the scent was, I could endure it with a little space between us. But the moment he got close, as the more concentrated scent hit me, the pull seemed to magnify exponentially. I would steel my resolve, and then it would hit me, as powerful as that first time, all my basest instincts rising to the surface as I feverishly longed to taste that exquisite blood, to gorge myself on it.
Keeping my resolve firm, I turned slightly and strode across the meadow, keeping a set space between us as I passed by the place where he stood. I let myself sit down, facing away from him.
After a moment, I heard his footsteps as he approached me again, deliberately slow. He circled around, then finally gingerly sat down about five feet away, facing me.
"Is this all right?" he asked.
I nodded again, staring straight ahead. "Just let me... concentrate," I said quietly, and I let my eyes slide closed, focusing on nothing but him, and his burning scent.
I don't know how long I sat there, unmoving. I could have counted the seconds or the minutes, but my entire mind was consumed with the act of breathing in and out. I let the burning scent build in my nose, and in the back of my throat, allowing it to grow almost overpowering, then I focused on mastering it.
In spite of everything, in spite of how far I had come, in spite of knowing I couldn't live without him, the insidious thoughts of the long-dormant monster wormed their way in amidst my determination—If you're going to slip up, now is the time, it whispered. No one would know, no one would ever suspect. You know you will slip up sometime. Isn't it better now than later, spare yourself the endless agony of worry?
However, I shoved the thoughts viciously back, even as my mind swirled in a dizzying fog, the temptation trying to conquer my will, and I trying to conquer the temptation.
He never spoke, never interrupted my thoughts, only patiently waited. I don't know how long it must have seemed to him, but it felt like an eternity to me, as the war raged within, as I tried to convince myself I could emerge the victor. That my will could be strong enough to overcome, even if the strength of my addiction never faded. That I could be strong enough to never fear a moment of weakness or fatal distraction, no matter how close I got to him.
Finally, I sighed, and I laid back in the grass, resting my head on one hand. I continued to breathe deeply in and out.
He seemed to take the movement as a sign that he was allowed to speak, and he asked, "Can I...?"
I understood what he wanted, and I patted the ground right beside me.
Cautiously, he moved a little closer, then closer still. He stopped there, barely a foot from where I was.
I continued to breathe steadily, continuing to concentrate as the power of his scent strengthened with proximity, swirling around me in the air as he moved. My meditations had helped, I thought, but the tension wouldn't leave my body. I had to force myself to keep breathing, to keep taking in the fire that left my mouth feeling parched and desiccated, knowing I would never quench that thirst.
I was intentionally subjecting myself to an intense physical torture—telling myself that I could I live day after day, year after year, eternally famished and weak from hunger, my throat forever dry, swollen from the thirst and burning. I told myself I could live through the pain, no matter how intense—never fearing there would come a day, a moment, where the desire to find relief overpowered my resolve.
Better now, whispered the monster, than later.
Carine's face flashed behind my eyelids, her kind, ever gentle and understanding face. As the fear and anguish rose in my chest, without really thinking about it, I felt my mouth open, and a quiet sound poured out.
It had been a long time since I had sung. Longer even than I had gone without playing the piano. But now I softly breathed the words, too low for human ears to understand.
"Did you... say something?" he asked. I could feel his eyes on my face, watching my every breath, my every movement.
I paused. "Just singing to myself," I answered in a murmur. "It calms me."
Again, quiet and stillness fell over the meadow, and time passed. I continued to sing softly under my breath, hymns of prayer that Carine had shown me that she had sung in her youth. Of the songs I had sung before, I had never sung these—it had always seemed wrong, blasphemous to me, the idea of a vampire praying. Even Carine, who did not believe our souls had been lost in our dark transformation, I had never seen offer up a prayer to God. I tried not to see her innermost thoughts, but I knew even she, as good as she was, as kind and humble and generous—she was ashamed to pray, being what she was.
My quiet songs of prayer seemed wrong. How dare a monster, a monster who longed for human blood, and above all longed for the blood of this particular innocent, kind, generous human, pray for strength in the face of turmoil, the strength to resist temptation? And yet, the words of the songs I had never sung flowed out of me with ease, as natural as my breath coming in and out, in a cycle that never ceased. At long last, I felt the tension drain from my body, and I felt at peace.
I drew in a deep breath, feeling the burn. Yet when it reached my lungs, this time the pain didn't torment me as it had before, as I imagined the endless days and years of it ahead of me. Instead, I was content, to take each moment as it came, and I was blissful, enjoying the feel of everything even through the pain. The light of the sun on my face, the feel of the soft grass beneath my back, and most of all, his warm presence beside me.
He seemed to sense when the atmosphere calmed and the tension eased. I suddenly felt the tip of his finger on the back of my hand, and he stroked it gently, carefully.
I finally opened my eyes and he froze, looking back at me guiltily. I smiled back.
"I still don't scare you, do I?" I asked.
"Nope. Sorry."
My grin widened until he could see my teeth.
He blinked, and then moved slowly, carefully, a little closer. His eyes shifted back to where his hand touched mine. Delicately, he ran the tip of his fingers up over my wrist and along my forearm. They left a warm, tingling trail in their wake.
I let my eyes slide closed, wanting to fully absorb the sensation. However, after a second, his hand hesitated.
"Do you mind?" he asked, seemingly as an afterthought.
"No," I sighed, eyes still closed. "You can't imagine how that feels."
Carefully, gently, he resumed, his fingers tracing up to the inside of my elbow and back, like an artist sketching a painting. He reached for my hand next, and as I realized what he was aiming for, I flipped my hand over, palm up, willingly. His hand froze briefly, startled by my sudden movement.
"Sorry," I murmured, then smiled, because usually he was the one apologizing. My eyes had opened briefly, but I let them fall closed again. "It's too easy to be myself with you."
It was true. Right now I felt more relaxed, peaceful, than I could ever remember being. Did that mean I had conquered it? That there wouldn't ever be any danger to him again?
Here in the bright sunshine, surrounded by beauty and with him beside me, it was easy to think so.
I opened my eyes again to watch him. He was holding up my hand, and he carefully turned it one way, then another, watching the way the color glittered off the surface, eyes wide with fascination. He drew it close to his face to examine it, and I found myself reminded of how he'd looked through the microscope at the specimen on the slide that second day of Biology. I had to bite back a laugh.
Because I wanted to hear his voice again, I whispered, "Tell me what you're thinking. It's still so strange for me, not knowing."
He raised an eyebrow. "The rest of us feel that way all the time, you know."
"It's a hard life." I meant it to sound like a joke, but an oddly forlorn note crept into my tone. And then, because I noticed he had effortlessly evaded the question as he so often did, I added, "But you didn't tell me."
He looked back at me thoughtfully. "I was wishing I could know what you were thinking..."
"And?" I pressed lightly.
"I was wishing that I could believe that you were real," he said slowly. "I'm afraid..."
"I don't want you to be afraid," I said softly.
He glanced back at me. All the time I had been telling him over and over that he ought to be afraid of me, even gotten angry when he barely reacted to the ugly truths I'd told him. But I was sure he could see in my face I meant what I said—I didn't want him to be afraid, for there to be any reason for him to be afraid.
He shook his head, agitated. "That's not the kind of fear I meant."
Before I'd fully thought through what I was doing, I was sitting up, leaning on my right arm, his hands still holding mine. His head was bent slightly toward me, and suddenly his face was barely a few inches from mine.
I should have pulled away, but I didn't. This was what I wanted—to be close to him. Close enough to be mesmerized by his deep, sky blue eyes. I could withstand the pain of his scent this close—couldn't I?
"Then what are you afraid of?" I whispered.
I expected him to pull away, startled by my sudden proximity. However, he blinked once and, expression slightly dazed, leaned toward me, breathing in.
He was suddenly close—his concentrated scent swirling in the air around me, the steady thud of his heartbeat in my ears. I stared straight ahead, and his pale neck was inches from my mouth, the skin flushed with the hot, rushing blood beneath.
Venom rose in my mouth, ravenous hunger exploding to life in my stomach as flames tore down my throat in pain so acute I could barely think—
With every bit of willpower I possessed, I cut off the air from my lungs and tore my hand from his. In an instant I was back across the clearing, and I stood once again in the shadow of the trees, my skin human once more.
The taste of the scent continued to sear the back of my throat, and I concentrated. At last I raised my eyes to gaze back at where he sat, and found he was frozen where he was, his eyes wide.
"Edythe," he began, voice low and rough. "I'm... sorry."
Always apologizing.
"Give me a moment," I called to him.
He waited for me, as I checked my resolve, making sure I was in absolute control. I breathed deeply, letting the scent run through me again, making certain my concentration was firm. Finally, I stepped out from the shadows again, letting the sun play over my skin. I approached with exaggerated slowness—my sudden movement must have startled him again.
When I sat down this time, I kept a few feet between us.
"I am so very sorry," I said softly, soothingly. I smiled a little. "Would you understand what I meant if I said I was only human?"
He nodded, but he didn't return the smile. His eyes were still slightly wide, and I could hear his heart, continuing to jackhammer in his chest. There was an unusual taste in his scent—I recognized it. It was the same as the scent that filled my nostrils when, in that moment when I struck down my prey, the poor beast understood what was happening, in that brief second it had time to feel fear. Adrenaline.
I could smell it in the air as it continued to course through his veins, and I knew it was not the kind induced by excitement. He stared back at me, frozen, and I knew he knew as well as I did exactly what had almost happened. Just how close it had been.
Something inside me shifted. Panic like nothing I'd ever felt shot through me like a bolt of lightning, electric, down my arms and up my back. The glittering sunlight was no longer beautiful, but dark, oppressive. It seemed to press in around me like a cage. It had finally come—I could see him trying to compose himself, but it was too late. The fear was in his eyes, cold and irrevocable. The end was racing upon me now, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
And, strangely, the inevitability of it left me calm again. I was seized with a wild recklessness—it was over. The fantasy would soon come to an end. But before it did, I would make him see. I would make him understand.
"I'm the world's best predator, aren't I?" I said softly, and I stared at him with hard eyes. "Everything about me invites you in—my voice, my face, even my smell." A single harsh laugh escaped me. "As if I needed any of that!"
I was suddenly on my feet. In an instant, with all the speed I possessed, I circled the entire meadow. I halted in front of the same tree as before, stopping as quickly as I had started. He blinked—he hadn't even had time to turn his head.
"As if you could outrun me," I said, my lip curling with bitter self-mockery.
In an instant, I coiled the muscles in my legs before I sprang, a dozen feet straight up with no effort at all. Still in midair, I reached out a hand and seized one of the thickest branches of the tree, wrenching it free with ease in a hail of splinters and bark.
I didn't pause to think. The moment my feet touched the ground, with one arm I swung my weapon, without even turning my eyes to the target—I heard the shattering of wood and an echoing groan as the great broken trunk began to tilt.
In the blink of an eye, I moved again, and I was suddenly in the sun again, barely two feet from where he sat, still frozen.
"As if you could fight me off," I said gently. The ground shuddered beneath my feet as the felled tree struck the forest floor behind me.
For the first time I was released from all my careful restraints. I felt the strength surge through me, and the sense of freedom filled my chest and lungs, exhilarating, intoxicating. I was powerful, I was in control—nothing could stop me. I had nothing to fear.
He gazed back up at me, still unmoving, frozen in shock as he watched me. I stared into his wide blue eyes, and just like that first day in Biology, I saw my own face reflected in them. I saw the monster.
The glow of the wild moment slowly faded. The sense of loss, of defeat, returned, more complete than before. It was over now. My fantasy, my dream. Now he had seen for himself the monster that lurked beneath the surface. I was faster and more powerful than he could have imagined, inhuman, but more than that he had seen the predator. The savage beast behind the good intentions, that would take delight in the hunt, if only I allowed it.
I bowed my head, and for all the power I had displayed a moment before, I felt suddenly fragile, as though in a moment I might break apart.
He finally unfroze, and shifted clumsily up onto his knees. His brow creased with concern, he stretched out a hand toward me.
I stared back at him, and I was filled at once with both remorse for my reckless actions, for flaunting my power and his own helplessness before me, and with wonder. The dead hope revived itself once again. Would he still accept me, even now? Did he still see me as something other than the monster I was?
I stared back at him. Something seemed to expand in my chest, filling my heart full to bursting. This time it was not revelry in the tremendous power I possessed, but something warm and gentle. I was not worthy of him. I could never be worthy of him, not one so kind or understanding. But I longed to be—I longed to make myself as deserving as I possibly could.
He was still in the act of moving toward me, as though to comfort me, but I raised a hand to stop him where he was. "Wait," I whispered. He stopped, though his hand remained outstretched, offering it to me to take.
I stared down into his face, and found a faint glow to his skin in the sunlight. It was so painfully beautiful, and I had never been so aware of how fragile that beauty was. Like a sculpture of finest glass.
I stepped toward him, and I gazed at his frozen form with a plea in my eyes. "Don't be afraid," I whispered, but the moment the words left my mouth, I knew the tone was wrong—still the smooth, luring voice of a predator.
I tried again. "I promise..." I hesitated there, wondering what I could possibly promise him that I might not someday break. But in this moment, I was determined—I would keep it, I would be better. Not worthy, but as worthy as I could possibly make myself.
"I swear I will not hurt you," I said, with force, and yet the hint of uncertainty would not go away. "You don't have to be afraid."
I took another step, even slower, more careful than before. I reached out tentatively, but he did not draw his offered hand away, and I cautiously touched it with my fingers. His hand closed automatically around mine, and he held it firmly.
It felt like we were shaking hands, like we were making some kind of binding agreement.
"Please forgive me," I said formally. "I can control myself." I added, "You caught me off guard. I'm on my best behavior now."
He didn't answer, only stared up at me, still stunned. But he had already reached out his hand to me—forgiven me for my lapse, for my abominably poor manners. I could feel the heat from his hand flowing into mine as he gripped it tightly.
I smiled a little. "I'm not thirsty today, honestly," I said with a bit of a wink.
He blinked, and laughed, coming out of his stupor.
"Are you all right?" I asked gently, placing my other hand carefully over his.
He stared down at our joined hands for a moment, before he raised his gaze back to my face. Then, suddenly, his mouth split into a wide smile, and I couldn't help but beam back.
Carefully, I sank down on the grass in front of him, sitting, and he shifted. Our hands never broke.
"So," I said, "where were we, before I behaved so rudely?"
He shook his head. "I honestly have no idea."
I smiled, in spite of the deep ache of remorse that rose up inside me. I knew I had frightened him this time. Though I had no right to expect it, he still accepted me, had forgiven me. His goodness really knew no bounds—making my behavior all the more appalling.
"I think we were talking about why you were afraid, besides the obvious reason," I said. Not that he didn't have plenty of reason to be afraid for the obvious reason now.
"Oh, right." He frowned.
"Well?" I pressed.
Instead of answering, his eyes dropped to our joined hands again. He watched the glittering color of my skin in the sun.
I waited a long moment, but when he still didn't speak, I sighed. "How easily frustrated I am," I murmured.
He looked back up at me, studying my face, staring into my eyes.
He said at last, "I was afraid... because for, well, obvious reasons, I probably can't stay with you, can I? And that's what I want, much more than I should."
I paused. "Yes," I said slowly. "Being with me has never been in your best interest." My eyes wandered briefly from his. "I should have left that first day and not come back," I murmured, almost to myself. "I should leave now."
But no, that was wrong, wasn't it—I knew now, if I'd had strength enough to stay away, I would have come back to kill him. The thought was both horrifying and freeing at once.
However, I wasn't ready to get into all that, to explain the tangled threads of the past, the monster I could have been. So, raising my eyes back to his, I merely said, "I might have been able to do it then. I don't know how to do it now."
He gazed back at me, frowning, defiance in his eyes. "Don't. Please."
My mouth tightened. I'd hated the fact I'd frightened him a moment ago—but maybe that was wrong. Maybe I hadn't yet frightened him enough.
"Don't worry," I said a little coldly. "I'm essentially a selfish creature. I crave your company too much to do what I should."
His returning look was defiant. "Good!"
A flicker of anger pulsed through me again. I withdrew my hands from his, folding my arms across my chest where he couldn't reach them again.
"You should never forget that it's not only your company I crave," I said. "Never forget that I am more dangerous to you than I am to anyone else."
He considered that, gazing at me as I focused on the dark trees of the forest, just beyond the clearing.
At last he said, "I don't think I understand exactly what you mean by that last part."
I glanced back at him, at the slight frown on his face, and I couldn't help but smile again. I guess I never really had exactly outlined this particular facet of the truth. Every time I wondered if there was anything more to reveal, I remembered another secret, more disturbing than the last.
"How do I explain?" I murmured. "And without horrifying you?" Then again, perhaps at this point, a healthy dose of horror might be exactly what he needed.
I found my hand automatically reaching back out for his. He took it willingly, wrapping his fingers around it.
I gazed down at our hands, distracted for a moment. "That's amazingly pleasant, the warmth," I murmured, without really thinking about it. Perhaps unconsciously trying to delay the moment I would have to tell him.
He watched my face, patiently waiting for my answer.
I considered for a long moment, staring down at our hands. At last I closed my eyes briefly, then let my gaze finally rise to meet his.
"You know how everyone enjoys different flavors?" I said. "Some people love chocolate ice cream, others prefer strawberry?"
He nodded uncertainly.
I added, "I apologize for the food analogy—I couldn't think of a better way to explain."
He grinned, as though he found it funny, and I couldn't help but smile back, but I couldn't make it stretch very far.
"You see," I said slowly, "every person has their own scent, their own essence..."
I paused, then went on, "If you locked an alcoholic in a room full of stale beer, she'd drink it. But she could resist, if she wished to. If she were a recovering alcoholic. Now let's say you placed in that room a glass of hundred-year-old brandy, the rarest, finest glass of cognac—and filled that room with its warm aroma—how do you think our alcoholic would fare then?"
I watched him expectantly. However, he made no discernible response, and seemed to be waiting for me to continue. I could only conclude that my analogy hadn't been strong enough. I searched for something else.
"Maybe that's not the right comparison," I said. "Maybe it would be too easy to turn down the brandy. Perhaps I should have made our alcoholic a heroin addict instead."
A slow smile played at the corner of his lips. "So what you're saying is, I'm your brand of heroin?"
I couldn't help but smile back at the humor, so inappropriate in the face of the horror we were discussing. "Yes," I said, "you are exactly my brand of heroin."
He looked at me curiously. "Does that happen often?"
I understood what he meant, and my eyes wandered to the treetops as my thoughts returned to those conversations what already seemed so long ago.
"I spoke to my sisters about it," I said at last, thinking back to Eleanor's memories in the classroom, and Jessamine looking back at me, quietly contemplating my desperate questions. I added slowly, reluctantly, "To Jessamine, every one of you is much the same. She's the most recent to join our family. It's a struggle for her to abstain at all. She hasn't had time to grow sensitive to the differences in smell, in flavor." I realized what I was saying, and my gaze flashed back to him. "I'm sorry," I said quickly.
However, the look of curiosity on his face hadn't changed. "It's fine," he said. "Look, don't worry about offending me, or horrifying me, or whatever. That's the way you think. I can understand, or I can try to at least. Just explain however it makes sense to you."
I breathed deeply. It never ceased to amaze me, how my insensitivity never seemed to bother him. How his understanding never seemed to have any limits.
I let my gaze drift away once again, and continued.
"So Jessamine wasn't sure if she'd ever come across someone who was as—appealing as you are to me." I added, "Which makes me think not. She would remember this." My eyes returned to him briefly, but again there was no reaction. My eyes soon rose back to the treetops.
"El has been on the wagon longer, so to speak, and she understood what I meant. She says twice, for her, once stronger than the other."
"And for you?" he asked.
My eyes returned to his, and his expression was serious, but still simply curious rather than wary.
"Never before this," I whispered.
We continued to look at each other, and for a moment, it was silent. At last he asked, "What did Eleanor do?"
I couldn't hold his gaze, as the images from the orchard filled my mind, and the call of the man's blood. Guilt flooded through me, as if Eleanor's memories were my own, as if the guilty delight of the indescribable taste that had filled her senses were my own.
"Okay," he said at last when I didn't reply. "So I guess that was a dumb question."
There was a tinge of something in his tone that I couldn't quite identify. It wasn't accusation, or disapproval, and yet—his tone wasn't quite as gentle or kind as before. I wondered if he was picturing it too, the innocent man, lying dead in the grass. He may not be afraid for himself, may not blame me for anything, even though he should. But the thought of seeing other people hurt was perhaps more repugnant to him than anything I had said so far.
"Even the strongest of us fall off the wagon, don't we?" I said softly, looking into his eyes, knowing we didn't deserve to ask for his forgiveness, his understanding, but pleading for it anyway.
A strange expression flickered across his face as he looked at me, at the expression I wore now.
"Are you..." he began slowly, "...asking for my permission?" I felt through our hands as a hint of a shudder wracked his frame.
For an instant, the image of the man in the orchard was replaced with an image of Beau.
"No!" I gasped.
"But you're saying there's no hope, right?" he said, his voice oddly calm now.
The thought was intolerable—in a way, even more intolerable than the thought of him, still and lifeless in the sun, glowing skin pale and gray with death. The thought that the end of this story was already inevitable, that there wasn't even a chance of a happy ending.
"Of course there's hope," I insisted. "Of course I won't..." I couldn't make myself finish, to say the words. Kill you.
I continued earnestly, "It's different for us. El... these were strangers she happened across. It was a long time ago. She wasn't as practiced, as careful as she is now. And she's never been as good at this as I am." As the words spilled out, I willed them to be true—that the difference in circumstances would ensure the outcome would be different as well. It had to be.
I watched him carefully as he considered this.
At last he took a breath. "So," he said, "if we'd met... oh, in a dark alley or something..."
Of course he had read the implication of what I hadn't said, as clearly as if I had said it out loud.
I was committed now, to telling him the entire truth, holding nothing back. "It took everything I had," I whispered, "—every single year of practice and effort—not to jump up in the middle of that class full of children and—"
For a moment, the memories overtook me. Every single dark thought that passed through my mind a thousand times in that short hour. I had nearly become a murderer of the most brutal and vicious kind, I had fully intended on it. Only a miracle had prevented the scene from becoming a scene of blood and death.
I continued softly, "When you walked past me, I could have ruined everything Carine has built for us, right then and there. If I hadn't been denying my thirst for the last... too many years, I wouldn't have been able to stop myself."
I explained the entire story from the beginning. How I'd plotted a thousand ways to lure him away from the others, to get him alone. How, when I'd tried to rearrange my schedule in a hopeless attempt to avoid him, once again I nearly struck him down. How I'd taken Carine's car to flee, gone to Alaska, then convinced myself I was strong enough to endure it and came back. How I'd been determined to smooth things over, to talk normally and make him think my strange behavior before was all in his imagination, but ended up becoming fascinated, engrossed in reading his expressions, understanding the one mind that was silent to me. How, when the van nearly crushed him, I had reacted before I fully understood why, and how it had seemed to change everything—how, along with Carine and Archie, I fought the others to keep him alive.
I left out the part of Archie's visions—the twin futures, his death or his immortality. I was going to be honest with him from now on, but I'd already decided I would never even broach the topic of his potential change. That was not an option—I would never ask it of him. I knew if I did, after everything he had already accepted, he might very well agree to it, even ask for it. But he wouldn't know what he was asking, and I would never let him make such a sacrifice. That was the one thing I would never compromise.
I continued—how, after the near-miss of the van, I had watched him in the minds of others, waiting for him to tell the story, and was shocked when he never did. How I had been determined to stay away, and how the fragrance of his blood continued to torment me.
When I finished, my distant gaze refocused on him. I watched his face as he finally understood what must have seemed so bizarre, so strange, all the reasons behind my illogical behavior. I felt it suddenly rise in my cold chest, swelling until my heart felt like it would burst. All the love that had been building all this time, that had been unavoidable from the very beginning. Agony and warmth flooded through me together as one.
"And for all that," I murmured, "I'd have fared better if I had exposed us all that first moment, than if now, here—with no witnesses and nothing to stop me—I were to hurt you."
He gazed back at me, his light blue eyes bewildered. That same expression that had tormented me in Alaska what felt like an age ago. "Why?"
"Oh, Beau," I said softly. I reached up, and I let my fingertips carefully caress the side of his face. I wondered that, even after all this, all I had said, he still didn't seem to understand.
"Beau," I murmured, "I couldn't survive hurting you. You don't know how it's tortured me..." My eyes dropped, and for a moment I couldn't bear to look in his face, as the images I despised passed through my mind. "The thought of you, still, white, cold... to never see your face turn red again, to never see that flash of intuition in your eyes when you see through my pretenses... I couldn't bear it."
I had never before said anything that was so true, that so exposed my truest, deepest thoughts. Every day I saw the thoughts of others, things that would embarrass them if they knew that I could see, make them angry, hurt them. I saw everything that was supposed to be personal, private. Now it was my own thoughts spilling out, and there was perhaps never anything more terrifying.
I stared up into his eyes. "You are the most important thing to me now," I said softly. "The most important thing to me ever."
He stared down at me for a long second, surprised. Then he gripped my hand more tightly, his eyes never turning away from mine.
"You already know how I feel," he said earnestly, the words coming out in a rush. "I'm here because I would rather die than live without you."
He frowned then, as though he wished he hadn't shared that. "Sorry," he muttered, "I'm an idiot."
"You are an idiot," I agreed, but I couldn't help but laugh at his expression, and soon, he was laughing too, at the pure absurdity of this conversation, of this entire situation. It was a release to laugh.
When our laughter finally died away, I shook my head. "And so," I murmured, almost to myself, "the lion fell in love with the lamb."
He blinked, then smiled a bit. "What a stupid lamb."
I sighed, smiling ruefully. "What a sick, masochistic lion."
My eyes drifted to the forest yet again. I wanted more than anything to be a safe lion. Tame. What had once been my natural prey never in any danger from me. But every time I let myself think I might have finally conquered my instincts, they rose up again, monstrous and powerful as before. What could I do, to make myself more safe for him? What could I do, to do everything I could, to ensure that the love would always win out over the monster?
He was watching me. "Why...?" he began at last slowly. He hesitated.
My eyes flickered back to him, and I smiled—every moment with him was a blessing, a gift. "Yes?" I said.
His eyebrows furrowed, perplexed. "Tell me why you ran away from me before."
I didn't know how to answer. "You know why," I said quietly.
He shook his head vigorously. "No, I mean exactly what did I do wrong? I need to learn how to make this easier for you, what I should and shouldn't do." His eyes were fierce and determined. He glanced down, and I felt him rub his thumb along the inside edge of my wrist. "This, for example, seems to be all right."
I shook my head—of course he was blaming himself. When I was the one who had gotten overconfident, careless. "You didn't do anything wrong, Beau. It was my fault."
He frowned, and his gaze was steady as he looked at me. "But I want to help," he insisted again, quietly.
I considered, as I played the event in my thoughts again, exactly how it had happened. "Well..." I began at last, slowly. "It was just how close you were. Most humans instinctively shy away from us, are repelled by our alienness... I wasn't expecting you to come so close. And the smell of your throat—"
I hesitated, my eyes darting up to his face.
"Okay," he said seriously, dipping his chin with almost comic exaggeration. "No throat exposure."
I had to smile. "No, really, it was more the surprise than anything else."
I paused, and for a second, I stared back at him. No mistakes—that was what I had told myself, over and over. But I was beginning to wonder if that were possible. So often we were drawn together, naturally, irresistibly, like magnetism—a force of nature we couldn't seem to fight. It seemed inevitable that at times we would come close, at moments when I wasn't expecting it, when I wasn't mentally prepared.
I wondered if I could train myself. If, by doing it over and over enough times, I could make it so my first reaction when he came unexpectedly close was to stop everything, to draw back, rather than attack him. If I could change my automatic impulse purely through repetition, familiarity, this wouldn't be half so dangerous for him. But if I were to do that, I would have to deliberately let myself get close, get used to being close, so when he drew near, it wouldn't trigger the monster when I wasn't prepared for it. Could I do that? Could I let myself get that near to him, and not be overpowered by my instincts?
I was terrified at the thought, of deliberately taking such a risk—but it was better close as possible now, when I was prepared, than to be taken off guard again and make a mistake I couldn't take back.
Mind over matter, I thought. I willed it to be true.
Slowly, carefully, I reached out, and I gently placed my hand against the side of his neck. I could feel the pulse of his blood in the artery below the skin, and I felt it speed at my touch. I concentrated, forcing myself to stay relaxed as his warm skin burned against mine.
"You see?" I murmured. "Perfectly fine."
His pulse quickened even more, and I saw patches color beginning to creep up his face again.
I smiled. "I love that," I said softly, as I pulled my remaining hand from his grasp so I could reach up and touch his face where the blood had already flooded behind his skin. I cradled his face in my hands, gazing up at him.
"Be very still," I instructed softly.
He did as I said, and I slowly, carefully leaned forward, until my head rested against his chest, until the sound of his beating heart drowned out all else. Slowly, I let my hands drop from his face to his shoulders, and then I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling myself against him.
We were as close as we had ever been. I heard the sound of each beat of his heart as it pounded hard, heard the rush of his blood through his veins. I breathed deeply, letting the concentrated scent wash over me, engulf me. I was aware of nothing else but the feeling of his soft, warm body against my hard, cold one, the sound of his beating heart, and the scent that sent flames raking through my throat with every breath.
"Ah," I sighed, and even I couldn't be sure if it was a sigh of agony, or of bliss.
We stayed like that for a long time. He didn't try to pull away, though I could only imagine how cold he must be beginning to feel, with my hands touching his bare neck, and my head against his chest, nothing but a thin T-shirt to shield him. I didn't move, until at last his racing heart began to slow, evening out to a steady, normal rhythm. I finally pulled away to look up into his face.
"It won't be so hard again," I said, smiling.
He nodded. "Was that very hard for you?"
"Not nearly as bad as I imagined it would be," I said, the smile still lingering on my lips. I continued to stare up into his face—perhaps it was simply the absence of the color of a moment before, but I thought he looked a little pale. I added, "And you?"
"No," he said, "that wasn't... bad for me." In the pause, I thought I read something else. Like saying it wasn't bad was an understatement.
We both smiled.
I realized I felt good. Better than good. Everything that had happened was beginning to sink in. His acceptance, and my latest, resounding victory over the monster.
"Here," I said, still smiling, and I took his hand in mine. It felt more natural than ever before. I placed his hand up against my cheek. "Do you feel how warm you've made me?"
He didn't reply. Instead, he was gazing down at me with a strange expression. His eyes burned, as if he were contemplating something.
He paused. Then, as I had before, he said softly, "Don't move."
I stared back at him for a second, and I saw what he wanted. I closed my eyes, and obediently I went absolutely motionless.
Very slowly, carefully, as if I were the one he were afraid of breaking, he ran his thumb along the side of my face, then traced my closed eyelids with the very tip of his finger, then my nose, and finally, my lips. My mouth opened automatically, so his touch would be unobstructed.
He pressed his palms to my neck, then traced the shape of my collarbone with his thumbs. He reached around my back and, moving a little more quickly than before, he traced the shape of my shoulder blades, before I felt him pull me toward him. I moved willingly with the direction of his pull, until my head rested against his chest, as before. His arms wrapped around my waist.
This time, however, I didn't breathe as I listened to his heartbeat in his chest. If I had a pulse, it would be racing in my veins. I was in danger of becoming distracted.
I felt his face briefly in my hair, and he breathed deeply. Then, too soon, he pulled away. He was finished, though he kept one hand on my wrist, as though wanting to maintain some kind of contact.
"Sorry," he muttered.
I opened my eyes. Apologizing as usual—though in this case, perhaps it was partially warranted. As I stared back into his eyes, the burning trails of his touch still lingering on my skin, my collarbone, my eyes, my nose, my lips—my control over myself didn't feel quite so secure. This was definitely not making it easier.
He stared into my eyes, and I knew there was no mask concealing how I was feeling, and I heard as his pulse began to race again.
"I wish..." I began slowly, haltingly, "I wish that you could feel the... complexity... the confusion... I feel. That you could understand."
I reached up to run my fingers along the curve of his jaw again, then ran them through his dark hair.
"Tell me," he said softly, his eyes never moving from mine.
I let my hand slide back down to cradle his face, and I sighed. "I don't know if I can. You know, on the one hand, the hunger—the thirst—that, being what I am, I feel for you. And I think you can understand that, to an extent." I smiled a little. "Though, as you are not addicted to any illegal substances, you probably can't empathize completely." Humans understood the basic need of hunger, though I doubted he could have ever experienced it in a way that could, in any way, come close to this. I was glad for that—I didn't want him to have to suffer this kind of agony.
I hesitated, then continued slowly, uncertainly. "But..." I shifted the hand cupping his face, letting my fingertips brush against his lips. "There are other things I want, other hungers. Hungers I don't even understand myself."
I heard his heart quicken again, and he gazed back at me. "I might understand that better than you think," he said.
I stared back at him, and in this moment, the way his eyes seemed to burn, I didn't have trouble believing him. I smiled a little.
"I'm not used to feeling so human," I admitted. "Is it always like this?"
He stared back at me, frowning slightly now. "For me?" He considered for a moment. "No, never. Never before this."
The strange longing in his eyes was suddenly painful, compounding my own. Slowly, gently, I cradled his face in my hands, gazing up at him. "I don't know how to be close to you," I said softly, wretchedly. "I don't know if I can."
I expected a sinking of disappointment, or perhaps an argument—but his expression never changed. After a moment, he leaned forward, until his forehead rested lightly against mine. He closed his eyes with a sigh, and his expression was relaxed, with a contentment so profound it seemed to settle over me, too.
"This is enough," he said softly.
We sat in silence for a moment, and I felt all my new raging hungers slowly quiet. Not gone, but in the background, endurable. Everything was peaceful. How kind he was, how understanding—even more than I had ever given him credit for. He did understand a little of what I meant, what I felt—and he would still give up the things he wanted. All for this.
He was willing to make the sacrifice. But I didn't want him to—as much for his sake as for my own. I wondered if there was a way. If I could be strong enough after all.
I leaned up, and pressed my lips to his warm forehead. I pulled back again swiftly when I heard his heart erupt, hammering so loud I could barely hear myself think. However, I smiled. Having my lips against his skin—it hadn't felt as dangerous as I would have expected.
He was staring back at me, his eyes slightly wide. Fear, or excitement? For once, I almost didn't care—triumph and euphoria pulsed through me now, and even if he was afraid, this feeling now was worth it.
"You're a lot better at this than you give yourself credit for," he managed at last, his voice almost accusing.
I pulled away, taking both of his hands in mine. "I was born with human instincts," I said, a little dismissively. "They may be buried deep, but they exist."
We stayed there for a long moment, simply staring back at one another, as the full weight of everything that had happened slowly sank in. I absorbed every detail, the now fading sun glittering across my skin, his scent in my nose, mingled with the scent of grass and wildflowers, the feeling of his warm hands in mine.
At last, however, he sighed, and his eyes flickered toward the west, where the sun was dropping toward the horizon, and the long shadows of the trees were beginning to creep toward us. He looked reluctant, but resigned.
"You have to go," I said, before he could speak.
He blinked and turned back to me. "I thought you couldn't read my mind."
I smiled back. "It's getting clearer."
I paused then, as a thought suddenly occurred to me. I remembered the endlessly long trek through the woods this morning, and I knew such a journey would probably take us even longer as the light began to fade. It wouldn't do for us to not get back to his house until after dark. Besides, unlike this morning, right now I wasn't in any mood to go anywhere slow.
"Can I show you something?" I asked eagerly. My heart was light, and I felt suddenly giddy, excited—I wanted to show him everything about my world. What before had been a constant teetering balance was certain now. We had both made our decisions. He was mine, and I was his. For as long as he wanted.
He saw my excitement, and he smiled. "Anything."
My grin widened. "How about a faster way back to the truck?"
His acquiescent expression, ready to give me anything I wanted, suddenly turned wary.
"Don't you want to see how I travel in the forest?" I asked. Then I added, hardly able to keep the laughter out of my voice, "I promise it's safe."
He frowned, still suspicious. "Will you... turn into a bat?" he asked cautiously.
The laughter escaped me, too loud in the quiet. But I didn't care. I was euphoric, I was floating on air, and I didn't care who or what in the forest knew it. "Like I haven't heard that one before!"
"Right," he muttered, "I'm sure you get that all the time."
I climbed eagerly to my feet, too fast for his eyes to follow, and he blinked. But when I offered him my hand, he took it without hesitation.
We both stood there for a second, then I turned away from him. I glanced back at him over my shoulder.
"Climb on my back."
"Huh?" He looked confused.
Trying to galvanize him out of his stupor, I said, "Don't be a coward, Beau—" As if he would, in any lifetime, ever need that advice—"I promise this won't hurt."
He stared down at me like I was crazy. "Edythe," he said at last. "I don't... I mean, how?"
I turned back around, arms folded. "Surely you're familiar with the concept of a piggyback ride?" I was sure he must be, but perhaps I shouldn't take anything for granted. I readied myself to explain the mechanics of what I wanted him to do.
He shrugged. "Sure, but..."
"What's the problem, then?" I said impatiently.
"Well..." he said at last, looking me up and down. "You're so small."
I sighed dramatically. Then, without another word, I turned and took off into the forest at full tilt, too fast for him to follow. I went to a giant boulder I had seen just on the edge, easily half as big as I was, and casually picked it up. I was back to where he was standing before he'd even had time to blink.
He rolled his eyes. "That's not what I meant. I'm not saying you're not strong enough—"
I tossed the boulder casually over my shoulder, and it landed with a heavy crash back in the woods, the shock of the landing so powerful we both felt the tremble of the ground beneath our feet.
"Obviously," he said again. He hesitated, glancing back at my slight frame uncertainly. "But I... How would I fit?"
I spun back around again, offering my back. "Trust me," I insisted.
He paused. Then slowly, cautiously, he approached, tentatively wrapping his arms around my neck.
"Come on," I said. If this took any longer, it would be nightfall before we'd even left this clearing. I reached back and grabbed his leg, pulling it up past my hip.
"Whoa!" He teetered for a moment, off-balance and startled, but before he could protest, I already had his other knee locked in place, and I bent forward so he wouldn't fall back. His head was bowed over my left shoulder, and I felt the heat radiating off his face.
"Am I hurting you?" he asked anxiously, glancing down.
"Please, Beau."
The heat from his skin, if anything, intensified, and he looked up again, staring straight ahead.
I paused, and I suddenly took his hand in mine, pressing it to my face. I breathed deeply, taking in a lungful of the concentrated, burning scent.
"Easier all the time," I murmured to myself.
Then I was off.
I was on a high like never before—I felt his heart hammering against my back and his breath against my neck, and yet it was far more bearable than I ever would have guessed. Wonderful, even.
As we flew through the trees, for a moment my thoughts flickered back, to the feeling of my lips against his forehead. I'd been strong enough for that. More than strong enough, really. I wondered—what else might I be strong enough for?
We broke through the trees, and in a moment we were beside his truck.
"Exhilarating, isn't it?" I said. Excitement was pulsing through me—I had always loved to run, it had been my greatest distraction there in the beginning. But it was something else entirely to be able to share it with him.
I waited for him to get down, but several seconds passed and he didn't move. His limbs were rigid as boards, locked in place.
"Beau?" I said, glancing back, concerned.
His eyes were wide, face white. "I might need to lie down," he groaned at last.
"Oh," I said, a little penitent. "I'm sorry."
I waited, but he still didn't move for a second. Then at last he pried the fingers still gripping my shoulders loose, and suddenly everything seemed to come undone at the same time. He fell back, stumbled, and collapsed on the ground.
His eyes were still wide, face frozen in a look of such shock it was almost comical, but I didn't let myself laugh. I offered my hand to help him back up, but he ignored me, putting his head between his knees. He looked like he was going to be sick.
Not sure what else to do, I put a soothing hand on the back of his neck.
"I guess that wasn't the best idea," I murmured to myself.
"No," he mumbled from between his knees, "it was very interesting." He was a bad liar.
I couldn't suppress the laugh this time, a sound of mingled incredulity and delight at his usual oversensitivity to my feelings.
"You're as white as a ghost," I told him, laughing out loud again. "No, worse, you're as white as me!"
"I think I should have closed my eyes," he admitted.
I grinned. "Remember that next time."
At this, his head came up, and he stared at me. "Next time?" he said apprehensively.
The look on his face had me laughing again.
He gave me a dark look. "Show-off," he muttered as he put his head back down again.
I crouched down beside him and waited for him to recover. The tension in his body slowly relaxed, and some of the color returned to his face.
When I felt like I'd waited long enough, I leaned in, and murmured in his ear, "Look at me, Beau."
He raised his head obediently, and he blinked, apparently startled to find me so close.
"I was thinking, while I was running—" I began.
"—About not hitting trees, I hope," he interjected. He was still breathing a little unsteadily.
I smiled. "Silly Beau. Running is second nature to me. It's not something I have to think about."
"Show-off," he repeated.
We both sounded like little kids, but I didn't care. I had never felt like this before—so happy, so free, but free in a completely different way from the freedom I had felt when I had felled the tree. I felt younger than I had ever felt, full of unbound energy, capable of anything and everything.
"No," I said, "I was thinking there was something I wanted to try."
Carefully, so carefully, I reached up and took his face in my hands.
He went completely still. He didn't even breathe—just as well. I didn't want anything to interfere with my concentration. I moved very slowly, aware of each second, of every centimeter as I closed the gap. I hesitated for a moment, our faces barely an inch apart. Then, very carefully, I pressed my lips gently to his.
I remembered those afternoons in the Biology room. The electricity that hummed in the air, buzzing, trying to pull us together. It was like that—magnified a hundredfold. A shock coursed through my system, and the unfamiliar hunger suddenly rose up inside me, overwhelming, impossible to curb. Like having the taste of blood in my mouth, the frenzy had begun, and it was going to be impossible to stop.
However, I seized it where it was, taking control. My hands remained gentle, my resolve firm.
But there was one thing I hadn't considered. He felt it, too—the electricity, the onset of the frenzy. Suddenly his hands were in my hair, crushing my face to his. His mouth opened, and he breathed deeply, at the same time I felt his heavy breath on my face.
Venom filled my mouth, the lure of his blood impossibly magnetic as the scent spun around my head.
However, I was still in command of myself, and instantly all my safety measures went up. I froze within his grip, afraid I might hurt him if I tore myself away as I had before. Then I carefully forced his head back away from mine a few inches.
He saw my face, and he knew he was trouble.
"Whoops," he said, eyes a little wider than usual.
"That's an understatement," I answered. I'd stopped breathing, and I kept my teeth gritted against my instincts.
He glanced guiltily at me. "Should I...?" He tried to pull away from me, but I didn't let go.
"No, it's tolerable," I said, and it was true—the call for his blood was still as powerful as ever, but I was concentrating, and I felt in no danger of falling prey to my instincts. I added, "Wait for a moment, please."
I kept us where we were, our faces barely a few inches apart. I could tell he was trying not to breathe on me, but he didn't quite succeed. But I breathed steadily and evenly, at the same time I waited for the whirling storm of excitement—more than one—to subside.
At last I was calm again. However, there was no guilt or paralyzing fear of what almost happened—nothing had almost happened. In spite of the temptations, of more than one kind, never at any point did I fear I might give in to them.
"There," I said, grinning.
He was staring back at me, our faces still inches apart. "Tolerable?" he asked in a low voice.
I laughed. If I had felt good after the run, it was nothing to what I felt now. I would never allow myself to get overconfident, but I was getting better at this. All I needed was some more practice.
"I'm stronger than I thought," I marveled. I had held up better than I could have ever expected, given that twist at the end. "It's nice to know."
He looked penitent. "And I'm not. Sorry."
"You are only human, after all," I pointed out.
He didn't look as though he found that much of a comforting excuse. "Yeah," he muttered, sighing.
A little reluctantly, I disentangled his hands from my hair, then got to my feet. I held out my hand for him, and I pulled him to his feet. However, the moment he tried to step away, he swayed unsteadily, as if with vertigo.
I watched him, grinning. "Are you still reeling from the run, or was it my kissing expertise?" I said playfully, then laughed again.
"Both," he admitted.
I glanced at the truck. "Maybe you should let me drive," I suggested innocently.
He eyed me dubiously. "Uh, I think I've had enough of your need for speed for today..."
"I can drive better than you on your best day," I pointed out. "You have much slower reflexes."
"I believe you, but I don't think my truck could handle your driving."
I raised an eyebrow. "Some trust, please, Beau."
He paused, and reached into his pocket, as though in submission. However, his hand stayed there, and he suddenly grinned, a little impishly.
"Nope. Not a chance."
I pursed my lips. Like I was going to let him get away with that.
I reached out and grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him into me. He barely caught himself on my shoulder.
"Beau," I said in a low, serious voice, "I've already expended a great deal of personal effort at this point to keep you alive. I'm not about to let you get behind the wheel of a vehicle when you can't even walk straight." I added as an afterthought, "Friends don't let friends drive drunk."
He frowned. "Drunk?"
I grinned, and I was so giddy I felt almost drunk myself. Deliberately leaning up so my face was close to his, I murmured, "You're intoxicated by my very presence."
He blinked, and for a moment he looked dazed. Then he sighed in defeat. "I can't argue with that." As he held out the key and let it fall for me to catch, he added, giving me a look, "Take it easy. My truck is a senior citizen."
I gripped the key in my hand in triumph. "Very sensible."
I let go of his shirt, and reluctantly pulled away from the hand on my bare shoulder.
As I headed toward the driver's side of the door, he called after me, "So you're not affected at all? By my presence?"
I couldn't tell if this was a last-ditch effort to win the argument, or if he actually meant the question seriously—there was a note of insecurity that seemed too ridiculous to think about, but at this point I wasn't putting anything past him. I was beyond intoxicated. I was a life addict.
Automatically, I reached back and took one of his hands, pressing his palm to my cheek. I closed my eyes, absorbing the feeling of the soft feel of his skin against mine, the warmth. I breathed deeply, letting the scent wash over me.
"Regardless..." I murmured at last. "I have better reflexes."
I had not been sure what to expect today. So much could have gone wrong, so much I might have destroyed. I had lived in fear of the monster I might become, feared my own weakness. I still was not certain if what I was doing was right—no, I knew I was not right for him. But he had chosen me and, in spite of all the odds, I loved him enough that that decision did not have to be his death sentence.
In the midst of my eternal midnight, the sun had risen, and so began a day I never expected to have. I knew the day, this unreal dream, this fantasy, would eventually draw to a close, that day would once again give way to night. But that was all right. This was enough. So long as he was with me, my existence had meaning.
I remembered how for so long I had often wished for sleep, envied the humans who could lay down in their beds and drift off into oblivion. No longer. My mind was wide awake, full with anticipation for tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.
I knew this glorious day would eventually come to an end. But I still had time left, and I would enjoy this twilight to the fullest—until the night came again.
A/N: And! That's the end at last. Well... sort of.
The epilogue will be going up before long, which will be skipping ahead to the end of Life and Death. (For anyone out there who might have been reading this story on its own, again, this Midnight Sun Reimagined is a supplement to the other Reimagined stories I've worked on, so this is a Midnight Sun based on Life and Death with the original Twilight ending, not the real Life and Death alternate ending.)
You can expect it on the usual four-week schedule, at which time, if all goes well, the prologue along with the first chapter of Breaking Dawn will be going up. (Yes, though there might have been some doubts, Breaking Dawn is actually happening.) In the meantime, I'm also planning to put up the short story, 'The Third Life of Brenden Tanner,' most likely next week sometime. While I don't consider it in any way necessary to the core story, I had written it to help me get things straight for the chapter in the clearing near the end of Eclipse, and figured I might as well put it up. Feel free to check it out if you're interested.
Thanks so much to everyone for reading, I've so much appreciated every single one of your thoughts and comments. This might be the Life and Death story I've enjoyed working on most so far, and I'm so excited to get to Breaking Dawn. Let me know what you thought of this last chapter if you get a chance, or if you have any questions. Hope to see you in the epilogue! (And to those who celebrate it, Happy Easter!)
Posted 4/22/19