In the days that followed, the search for rogue bears remained unsuccessful, as did our own search for the three mysterious vampires. It appeared they may have simply been passing through, although we continued to keep watch. We all attended the funeral of Isabella Swan, noticing the uneasy glances and occasional hostile glares of some of the Quileutes who had attended, friends of Charlie Swan's, who evidently were more fully informed than most concerning our identity. I also took note of a woman in the front pew, middle-aged but youthful, sobbing openly against the shoulder of the man with her, and took this to be the deceased girl's mother. "What's that odd smell?" Alice asked quietly during the funeral service.
I had noticed it myself, but had no idea. It was completely unfamiliar, and quite repellant. It seemed to be coming from the area where Chief Swan's friend, Billy Black, and his teenaged son were seated, but it wasn't a human scent, and it didn't resemble anything else, natural or synthetic, that we were familiar with. We looked at each other: more mysteries.
We sat quietly while Bella's stepfather, an out-of-town aunt, a family friend who had travelled in from Arizona with Renee Dwyer, and Billy Black from LaPush, each stood to deliver an informal eulogy. They stressed the young woman's kindness, her warm heart and willingness to help, her quick mind and remarkable perceptiveness. This might have been no more than politeness, but I could discern that each of them were speaking the truth. Besides, the illustrations from the girl's real life, in the form of touching or amusing anecdotes, made clear that her virtues were not invented. The fact that they also referred to less positive traits, like her debilitating clumsiness and tremendous dislike of calling attention to herself, made their description believable. Billy Black spoke mostly of the time he'd spent with Isabella when she was a child, and had come to stay with her father every summer; while her stepfather, Phil Dwyer, had more to say about her in recent years. Neither of her parents were fit to make a statement. Her mother, after briefly thanking the minister, left directly from the funeral and was not seen again. She did not speak to Charlie, and I picked up some hints, among his hard-to-read thoughts, that he feared she blamed him for their daughter's death.
Only Carlisle, Esme, Alice, and I went on to the Swan house with the crowd of mourners following the funeral, the others claiming unfinished homework. The fact was, Jasper had had enough of crowds of humans in closed rooms for one day, Rosalie was bored with the idea of a small-town wake, and Emmett chose to go where Rose was. Esme brought a casserole (made by Alice, who was curious about the experience of cooking) to add to the many gifts of food brought by friends, colleagues, and members of the community. Chief Swan's mind had calmed slightly, leaving him far from peaceful, but now merely intensely grieving, as opposed to being consumed with pain. He was not, however, in any condition to deal with practical matters; the funeral, and the reception at the Swan house, were managed by friends, led by a female cousin of his who had come into town for the purpose. In her mind, I saw her arriving, getting one look at Charlie's face, and taking over practical matters. We once more said a few words to Charlie, mingled quietly with the other mourners, and carefully avoided approaching the Quileute guests. I paused at a small tribute someone had placed on a side table in the living room, a bowl of flowers in front of a carefully chosen array of photographs, showing Isabella Swan from childhood through the current year. I studied the more recent pictures with some interest, knowing that this was the girl who had carried the magical blood I'd recently encountered. She was slender, with long, dark brown hair and large brown eyes, and a delicate face with a pale complexion. I found myself staring. There was a very un-adolescent gentleness and maturity to her countenance, shyness and discomfort at being photographed clear in most of the images, as described by her friends and family at the funeral, but also other qualities that her expression seemed to suggest. She rarely smiled in the photographs, yet did not seem at all sad. I examined the pictures for some time, until another guest moved closer to look, and I made way.
The house, I could not help but notice, still retained a trace of the dead girl's scent, not intoxicating as her blood had been, but still intriguing. Hesitating, and a little ashamed of myself, I climbed the stairs, ostensibly to use the restroom, but actually in order to follow the scent to where is was more concentrated. Out of sight of the visitors downstairs, I tracked it to a room at the end of a corridor, quietly opened the door, and looked inside. It was obviously her room, decorated as any teenaged girl's room might be. I breathed in, enjoying the sweetness and attraction of the fragrance without the maddening quality of the blood associated with it. I pictured Isabella, the girl in the photographs, there at her desk, or lying in the bed with the purple comforter, or seated in the rocking chair, reading the book I saw lying on the floor beside it, a bookmark in place about halfway through the pages. Curious, I picked up the book: Mansfield Park. A Jane Austen fan, then. I scanned the bookshelves on the opposite wall, finding more classic literature than would be expected in the collection of a girl of seventeen: Thomas Hardy, Edith Wharton, Charles Dickens, and more Austen; but also some of the better modern authors: I saw George Orwell, Tolkein, Vonnegut, and Faulkner. Love in the Time of Cholera caught my eye, hinting at a more romantic nature than I'd expected. Beside it was The Handmaid's Tale - much darker! I took the Atwood novel down, finding the handwritten note on the flyleaf in a quirky, angular script: 'Happy Sweet Sixteen, Bella! All my love, Mom.' An odd present from a mother to an underaged daughter, I thought, and turned back to the shelf. A couple of history books, and a very eclectic selection of non-fiction volumes. I raised an eyebrow over Noam Chomsky placed beside a book of Greek mythology and…Chicken Soup for the Teenaged Soul? On impulse, I opened the last one, and found yet another dedication: Welcome to Forks Bells from Dad. Aha! A gift, chosen by a non-custodial father who knew his daughter loved books but was uncertain of her tastes, probably recommended by some bookstore clerk as 'perfect for girls her age.' I was foolishly pleased that I had picked out the volume Isabella hadn't chosen for herself. I realized that Bella must have carried most of these books with her when she transferred to her father's house, using up valuable suitcase space. An avid reader, obviously. I felt a profile of her character falling together, from the funeral remarks, the mental images in various minds, and even from her chosen reading. More romantic than cynical, I estimated, but not flighty or frivolous; generous and loving; mature beyond her years.
I turned to her small stack of CDs, and found even more variety in her choices of music. Again, not typical of a high school girl. She owned a couple of my favourites, in fact. I found a plastic box of audio cassettes behind the stereo system - an old device with, sure enough, a tape deck in it, probably furnished by her father - and began to look through them as well. They were homemade mix tapes, I realized, perhaps recorded from borrowed CDs or from the radio. I was mildly offended: a music lover with such diverse tastes should have decent equipment, I thought. I scanned through the hand-written labels, which listed the contents of each tape, and found them to be mixed indeed! Everything from medieval vocal music to modern jazz, classical to rock, Motown to Mbube. Stifling a base impulse to pocket a few of the more interesting, I settled for quickly reading the listings on all twelve tapes, reserving the option of finding the tracks later. I felt a wave of regret that I would never know their owner, then realized how ridiculous that thought was. If I'd met her alive, I would have either attacked and drained her the moment I smelled that amazing blood; or else would have had to flee from and avoid her completely. And in any case, I could not have had any kind of real friendship with a human. Nor would I have wanted to burden an apparently kind, clever, interesting human girl with the friendship of a monster. I still sighed a little, feeling an irrational sense of loss at the passing away of this young stranger.
Realizing that my snooping was inappropriate, and that my level of interest was odd, I scanned the room, committing the details to memory, and reluctantly left. I entered the bathroom, noted the presence of distinctly feminine toiletries but no makeup of any kind, then, as I heard someone start to climb the stairs, I flushed (maintaining a cover story means attention to detail), ran the water momentarily, and emerged, returning to the first floor. Carlisle looked my way questioningly, and I approached him. "I went into the daughter's room on the second floor," I said quietly. " I thought I might pick up on something helpful." It was a plausible enough excuse, and Carlisle accepted it without question. I could not have provided the real reason for my curiosity, as I wasn't sure of it myself.
"Anything significant?" he asked. I shook my head. We took our leave a few minutes later; my eyes were unaccountably drawn back to the little house as we drove away.
For whatever reason, the Forks death count ceased to climb after this, and the threat of marauding bears was gradually forgotten. The three nomads seemed to have moved on, and we considered the dangerous period over and done. We returned to our daily routine, with only one exception in my case: my choices of reading and music. I began re-reading Mansfield Park, and found myself pleasantly reminded of how much I appreciated the often-despised main character, the meek, self-effacing Fanny Price. From there, I selected the few books from the Swan girl's bedroom that I had never read, before moving on to re-read those already familiar to me; and systematically found and played the music I had found there. Why use those bedroom bookshelves as my guide? Again, I wasn't sure. It seemed, at least, as good a basis as random selection. I sometimes told myself it was a form of character study, a way of understanding human beings better by examining one human in particular, sharing her selections. In fact, I had studied enough psychology to recognize the symptoms of an obsession; but it seemed a mild and harmless obsession, merely a recreational fascination, like those who tracked celebrities or retraced the steps of celebrated explorers. It goes without saying, however, that I did not share my little project with my family.
There was one more death more or less within our circle, but not a suspicious one as far as we could tell. Harry, the man who had been our first contact with the Quileutes on returning to Forks, had died suddenly. It was ruled a natural death, a heart attack. Carlisle's first thought was that it would be a burden for Charlie Swan, losing a close friend so soon after the death of his daughter. "I would send a message of sympathy," he said, "but I'm sure it would not be welcome."
I agreed. "I don't suppose we need to establish a new contact at La Push?"
"Likely not. They are aware of our presence, and that is all that's required. I'm not sure who we would approach, in any case."
I saw Alice's thoughts idly explore local events, as she often did, scanning for potential trouble. Suddenly she gasped, her eyes wide.
Jasper turned to her. "Alice?"
"It's happening again!"
"What?" he asked in alarm.
"The blind spots," I explained, seeing it in Alice's thoughts.
"Yes," Alice agreed. "I saw Charlie Swan head for the funeral in La Push, then his future just disappeared."
Everyone gathered closer. "If our theory is correct," Carlisle said, "the coven that came through earlier may have returned."
"Not much we can do about it, if they're inside the reservation."
"I'm sure they won't stay inside; why would they? They'll pass over the boundary at some point, and we may be able to intercept them."
We once more travelled to the reserve, quickly running along the boundary line. "Nothing!" Emmett exclaimed. There was, in fact, no trace of the three vampires who'd been in the area before.
"We may have to revise our hypothesis," Carlisle said.
Alice looked worried. "Could I be losing my vision?"
"Highly unlikely. I could ask Eleazar about it, but I have never heard of a vampire losing his gift. Our particular talents tend to grow stronger and expand, not lessen."
"Then what's causing it?"
We were distracted from the discussion by a startling scent coming from west of us, some distance inside the boundary. "What is that?" Rosalie asked, wrinkling her nose.
"It's the same scent we encountered at the Swan funeral," Carlisle said. "We couldn't account for it then, either."
We saw the source of it a moment later: a man, young but unusually tall and muscular, was striding across the ground directly toward us, glaring in our direction. He seemed to be human, but did not carry a human smell; the normal scent, and the scent of blood, was virtually drowned in the unfamiliar, vaguely threatening reek. His level of confidence in approaching us was also unusual; his thoughts were largely non-verbal hostility. Jasper quietly moved in front of Alice, and we waited tensely for him to reach the border.
The stranger stopped short a few feet from us, still glaring. "What are you doing here?" he asked without preamble.
Carlisle began amiably, "My name is…"
"I know who you are," he interrupted. "And what you are. Why are you lurking around the rez?"
"We had reason to believe that there were others who had wandered onto your land. Three others of our kind." I saw the man's mind register this, but oddly, to hesitate over the word three. "We came to look for some trace of them."
"Why would you care if there were?"
"Because…may I ask your name?"
The young man seemed prepared to object, but unable to find a legitimate reason, he replied, "Sam."
"Pleased to meet you. As I was saying, it is not to our advantage, either, to have those who hunt humans in the area. They have already killed local residents - unless you subscribe to the animal attack theory?"
Sam snorted. "No, we know it wasn't bears that did it. But it's not a problem any more."
Carlisle hesitated before replying, as several more young men were seen hurrying to join Sam - also tall and strong, and also with angry expressions, as well as the same powerful, unpleasant, not-quite-human scent. "Why do you say that?" Carlisle began to ask, but turned to me as I gasped.
I saw in their minds the transformation, first of one of the Quileute men, then others, one by one. They changed form, and in doing so, they moved into something…something other, a different dimension, in which they seemed to occupy time and space in a completely unfamiliar way. Their minds linked, so that they could communicate instantly with one another; no, not communicate - it was more as if they had a shared mind, in addition to their own, individual mind. They were in the form of wolves, a form that held significance for them, but they were more than wolves, or werewolves; in their thoughts they were called spirit warriors. I was almost as fascinated by the phenomenon as I was shocked by the information I was receiving. I saw in several of their minds the memory of vampires; their fury at seeing a man killed by monsters; a flash of red hair from one, the fastest one; an attack, a vicious fight, and a sense of triumph. Injuries to the wolves, severe ones, but they healed themselves quickly, almost as if by magic.
The family were staring at me as I took a second or two to absorb it all. "The wolves!" I exclaimed. "They're back!"
"Wolves?" Jasper asked.
"Before your and Alice's time," Carlisle explained. "I'll explain more fully later, but some of the Quileutes, at one time, would take on werewolf form - of a sort - and gain the power to fight and defeat vampires."
"How do you know about that?" Sam demanded.
Carlisle turned back to the Quileutes. "We learned of your ability when we encountered your people years ago, when Ephraim Black was your leader." The men looked at each other, uneasy. They knew our history, but the face-to-face reality of talking to ageless beings was still unsettling. "Is it true, then, that your transformation into…spirit warriors still takes place, to this day?"
Sam's glare seemed to scale up a notch. "No, not all that time. It just began again recently."
"Excuse me for asking, but I find it fascinating. Is there a particular reason for it returning after so many years?"
They all stared at us. "You really don't know?" Sam asked. Carlisle shook his head. "You came back!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"We transform for one reason: to fight vampires. The wolves come around when the Cold Ones do."
Carlisle ignored the hostility in his voice, intent on this intriguing new information. "You mean, you begin to transform in response to the presence of our kind?"
"Yes! You guys came back, and then those other ones, the ones who…" He grimaced. I caught a glimpse in his mind of the nomads, attacking a local man, drinking from him, and then a confused image of the fight with the wolves. "…they kept wandering through the area. There's five of us now, and maybe more to come."
"Amazing!" Carlisle murmured.
"You may think so," another of the men snapped, "but it kind of screwed up our lives."
"Of course," Carlisle said apologetically. "I'm sorry. But we had no idea our presence could have that effect."
His words were accepted by all five, grudgingly but without additional anger. "Yeah, I get that now," Sam said.
"But what of the others, the group that had been travelling through here? You were able to dispatch them?"
"On the second try, we did. Well, not quite all. Two of 'em," Sam said, his pleasure in the victory clearly shared by the rest of the group.
"That is impressive," Jasper remarked.
The men seemed surprised to receive praise from one vampire for killing others, but accepted the tribute. "It went pretty well. There were all five of us, and we were able to take them by surprise; plus they didn't really know how to fight us, since we were a new thing to them, right?"
"Of course," Carlisle agreed.
"We took down the redhead first, because we'd seen that she was fastest, and we just had a feeling she'd be kind of tricky. Second one was a little easier. And then, we were helped out by the fact that they started fighting between themselves." We looked at each other, surprised at the odd behaviour described.
"Only two were destroyed, you said?" Carlisle asked Sam. "What about…?"
"Ran off. But probably won't be back."
"I'm sure you're right. Forgive me, but you do know how to permanently kill a vampire?"
"Oh, yeah. Dismember and then burn the parts - all the parts. Right?" A couple of the men grinned at us in a mildly threatening way, relishing the idea of getting us into a bonfire.
"Exactly," Carlisle agreed calmly. "Obviously you have kept a narrative history of past encounters. Well, you clearly have matters in hand. I thank you for the information, and again, I regret that our coming here had such an impact on your lives."
Sam merely nodded curtly, and we took our leave. I could hear the rather mixed reactions of the five to the conversation as they moved away.
Alice turned to Carlisle as we walked. "Excuse me, but werewolves? How did that never happen to come up during Story Hour?"