A/N: Hello my adoring public! Life has taught me some important lessons since we last met, and I would like to share them with you now:

1) If your AC adaptor isn't functioning properly, don't keep using it. It might fry your motherboard, and then you might have to drop 1k on a new laptop, delaying your work and hobbies in the meantime.

2) If you have tendinitis, don't bike 30 miles on the second ride of the season.

3) Fan fic readers, especially those who pm you with a detailed interpretation of your story, are the BEST! Seriously, huge thanks to everyone who has left a review. I absolutely love to hear from you readers, so keep it up!! My ego loves you...

One more thing. Thanks as always to my twilighted beta Twilightzoner. Also, a special thanks this week to angelvamp, who has been guest beta-ing since chapter 6, and made my totally hot new banner on . Go check it out!

Now, on with the show...

**********

Thursday evening found Edward on a bench in Lincoln Park, a second edition of Jack London's White Fang resting in his lap. He had developed a habit of coming here, particularly on those evenings when he felt most carefree. The scenery was pleasant enough, but it was the congregation of fellow city-dwellers that most effectively lured him out of his habitual solitude.

His latest methods of acquiring human blood brought him into contact with people on a regular basis now, but the interactions were hardly satisfying. Those individuals who sought out the services of a hitman were most often the very people he had come to despise. They had every opportunity for a virtuous and joyful life, yet they chose to waste it on trivial rivalries, false righteousness and materialistic pursuits of the most disgusting kind. Such carelessness! Each life, begun as a blank slate, would end corrupted, squandered by its own steward. Ah well. He had no power to change his "clients'" desires and motivations – he could, however, put some of their bodies to good use.

The greatest shame was that his own needs fettered him to the company of these scoundrels, and he yearned for some spiritual counterweight. Thus, when his thirst was minimal, he liked to surround himself with people of the opposite moral character, or at least, he liked to think of them as such. Surely some of these people were fundamentally good, and it brought some comfort, some balance to his life to be among them: Parents playing with their children, lovers reveling in each other's company, or someone enjoying the simple pleasures of the sky, the grass, and a favorite book.

On this night, however, the park itself proved particularly disarming. The sounds, but especially the scents in the air, were a kaleidoscope of stimuli. The sweetness of summer grass, the freshness of the water, the individual odors of people and their pets, even the food that they were eating, all of this was pleasant to inhale. He had eaten recently, really eaten, and now his senses were at their peak. It would continue this way for a several more weeks before his body depleted whatever metabolic ferment he had just recharged. For now, it was enough to simply sit here and feel whole.

Human blood was his elixir; abstinence not only robbed him of his physical strength, it eroded the unique functions of his body until it was nearly like that of a human. Only it wasn't a neutral transformation - each cycle of malnutrition felt a little bit like dying. First his vision would begin to dim, then his hearing and sense of smell. Even the tactile functions of his nervous system would fade, until his very skin felt like it was disappearing.

He wondered sometimes what it would feel like to fade away inside the shell of one's own body. To know that the blood and bone and sinew still held their shape, even after the mind was severed. To be completely alone, in infinite darkness, while the body drifted somewhere in the world, a vessel without its navigator.

He would never get to find out - self-imposed starvation was not a choice he could make. Wait long enough, and all ability to reason would vanish; he would pounce on the first person he could find. Hunting other animals could delay the need, but not erase it. Intervals between human meals were now a race against time to find the next acceptable victim. Most of the time, he had a target lined up, and could placate his conscience... Most of the time.

Tonight, however, he was free of such concerns. He now had not one, but two meals lined up, and if he timed it properly, his dietary dilemma was moot for nearly three more months. He would meet with potential clients if any tried to contact him, but the matter wasn't nearly as urgent, and could be shelved for the time being.

Stretching, he shifted in his seat, and leaned his head against the back of the bench. There was a light breeze blowing off the lake, and it rippled the hair on his head and arms. He breathed it in, savoring the flavors it carried. It was refreshing, delightful really, to be out in the world like this. He was sated and feared no temptation. Even the scent of fresh blood would not be unmanageable right now, though that would not last much longer.

His thoughts turned to Bella then, and the cuts on her arms that had nearly driven him into a frenzy the last time they had met. Someone would have to tell that girl to use bandages the next time she met a vampire indoors. He smiled to himself at that thought, but, in all seriousness, she didn't know how lucky she had been. Had he not spent years learning to manage his thirst, she might not have left his sight alive.

Bella. He fell yet again to musing over her situation. Her case was, without question, unique among the others he had been presented with. It might have seemed amazing that, out of the hundred-odd people he had met in the guise of hitman, she would be the first to have justice unambiguously on her side. Yet, this was the case, and he was relieved to the core to not have to struggle over his conduct, to agonize over who deserved his teeth more, the client or the target. If her version of events was correct, as he was now certain it was, then the men she wanted dead undoubtedly earned their fate, and he would enjoy delivering it to them.

But it wasn't just the job he thought about. The girl herself was worth pondering. As much as she tried to project otherwise, she was a mess. Both times he had seen her, her body had been in a continuous state of tension and not just from fear of him. He was now sure that neither eating nor sleeping came easily to her, and she wasn't particularly adept at handling her temper either. Most significantly, she was a cutter, which spoke volumes about her mental fragility. The scars he had seen weren't more than a year old, and he guessed that it was a relatively new habit, and all of this evidence suggested that she had not recovered from the trauma of her sister's death. In that case, he guessed his main purpose was to provide some closure. Only he didn't understand how he could. Justice and fairness aside, how did two more deaths undo the harm of the first? Bella was suffering, that much was clear, and to the extent that he admired human happiness, he regretted the lack of it in her life. Yet, he understood so little of what that happiness really was; the problem of restoring it under such trying circumstances as hers baffled him.

He wanted to learn about her life beyond all of this ugliness. There had to be more to her than her sister's death. He wanted to see her again, to talk to her. No business, just... a chat. Maybe some coffee. People seemed to like having conversations over coffee. But he laughed at these thoughts, as well as himself. Was he really going to call her and see if she wanted to meet again, for no particular reason? What would he say? Hello, this is the hitman you hired. Can I take you out for coffee?

Not very likely.

Reluctantly, he turned to his book, and sought distraction in the story of wild wolves and the Klondike.

* * *

Her phone began to ring. She ignored it, too absorbed in the text in front of her to bother with whoever was trying to reach her. It stopped, but only for a few minutes, after which the damn thing started to ring again.

She glared at it. It was probably Eric from the bike shop. She'd better answer, at least tell someone that she wasn't coming in. She was a no show yesterday, and Angela was certainly pissed. Summer was the wrong season to skip shifts, as the shop was packed all day long. Still, she couldn't handle work right now. Not after everything that had happened. Besides, she'd hardly be of any use. No sleep two nights ago, three hours the night before – not a good time to be around tools and moving machinery.

She put aside her laptop and reached down to grab the phone off the floor. Yup, it had been Eric. She punched in the number for the shop and considered the most convincing story to tell her coworkers.

"Johnny Sprockets, this is Eric."

"Hey Eric, it's Bella. Listen, I feel like shit. I think whatever I've been fighting off all week just sucker-punched me in the face."

"Oh, sorry dude. You okay?"

"Not really, I spent the night puking. Some stomach virus probably. Just need to lay low for a while, and I'll be fine."

"Sure man, take your time, take your time. You need anything? Some chow or something? I could swing by after my shift -"

"No no, I'm good. Definitely. Couldn't keep anything down right now anyway, but thanks. Will you tell Angela?"

"Yeah, of course, don't worry about it. Feel better."

"Thanks Eric, you rock."

"You got it. Later."

"Bye."

She turned off the phone and tossed it down, standing up from the couch. Her legs were stiff and her eyes felt sore from staring at the screen for so long. She was exhausted and frustrated as hell. No one seemed to know a damn thing about vampires – how was that even possible? She'd spent nearly 36 straight hours pouring over newspaper archives, police bulletins, even conspiracy theory blogs, and still nothing. Well, plenty of rumors and speculation, along with some bullshit safety propaganda, but nothing of any use. If she wasn't feeling so frantic, she might have found the whole thing interesting, in an "Unsolved Mysteries" sort of way.

Vampires had been around for quite a while – even ignoring the medieval legends, accounts of bodies drained of blood (exsanguinated was the proper term, apparently) dated as far back as written records themselves. Yet, there were surprisingly few of these events in modern times; either the vampire population was dwindling or getting better at covering their tracks. Most surprisingly, there were no reliable accounts of anyone actually coming in contact with a vampire, either alive or dead. The only evidence available was second hand. There were the bodies, the supposed sightings, and special profiles of brave and persevering FBI detectives, who, despite toiling away for many sleepless nights, had produced nothing. One year reporters would be quoting Special Agent Green as the expert on vampire-related crimes, then it would be Special Agent Berenbaum the next, and none of them had anything useful to say.

She took a few steps away from the couch, then back, trying to work out the restlessness that had settled into her joints. She looked at her laptop again, then shook her head and turned to the kitchen. She needed a snack or a drink or something. She needed a distraction.

This was bad. Really bad. She still had no idea what to do. The initial panic had worn off once she convinced herself that she had some time to come up with a plan. The hitman – the vampire – had said he wouldn't get kill Taylor and Pelzer for another few weeks, and he would probably want to take her money for a job well done before he... anyway.

The only thing she had thought to do so far was to copy the video off her phone and burn it onto a few CDs. She wasn't sure what she would do with them yet, but it seemed like a good idea.

She wandered over to the pantry and pulled out a jar of peanut butter and some crackers. A loud yawn interrupted her chewing, and she leaned against the counter heavily. Some coffee could help, but caffeine was a bad idea given how anxious she already felt. What she really wanted was a stiff drink, something to mellow out her nerves, except she was so exhausted that it would probably knock her out, and she couldn't go to sleep yet.

"Aha," she muttered through a mouth-full of peanut butter and saltines. "Spiked coffee it is."

* * *

James Pelzer was gone. It took Edward a few days to figure out what had happened, and he was angry with himself for not keeping a more careful watch. He'd gotten too relaxed, complacent, and now the man had left town. Apparently, James Pelzer, Sr. was terminally ill, and the son had traveled to his parents' home in Mexico to begin settling his father's affairs. Edward had no idea when he was supposed to return. If he'd been more vigilant, he might have been able to get his hands on the man's travel plans, and at least have a clue of when he would be back, but now he knew nothing.

On the whole, this new development wasn't devastating, but it meant that he would have to wait for James Pelzer's return before taking any action. He could kill the other one first, but James might spook and stay away even longer. Tracking him to Mexico was possible, but crossing the border would not be a trivial affair. Though he could probably find out where the man had been headed, his fake passport, though of decent quality, was always a risk to use. No, all in all, it was best to settle in and wait. He would keep better tabs on Pat Taylor in the meantime, and get his hands on James Pelzer's email and credit card statements.

And he would tell Bella. She should know. He had given her a time frame after all, and it would be poor business etiquette not to inform her of this setback. Yes, very poor. He should definitely call her and let her know.

Except that her phone seemed to be off. He called once, twice, five times – straight to voice mail. Well, he could hardly leave a message about something like this, it was too... impersonal.

Impersonal? he thought to himself. No, too dangerous. You don't leave voice mail about your work when it involves murder.

At any rate, he would have to tell her in person. He knew where she worked - oddly enough, the bar was quite close to the site of his most recent dinner – and he had even been by there once, just out of curiosity. She hadn't seen him, of course; he didn't even go in. Just paused by the window, caught a glimpse of her behind the counter...

He couldn't meet her there, nor at the cycling shop – this was not a discussion to have in public. Since she wasn't answering her phone, he would have to go to her house. As odd as it would be to arrive unannounced, he really had no choice. As already established, he couldn't not tell her; she would want to know. Yes, he repeated to himself, she would want to know. So he would go to her house, and tell her. Then he would leave. And that would be all. Of course, if the conversation happened to stray to any other topics... well, that would be all right too.

* * *

Saturday night, he stood at her doorstep, sweating so much that he had to wipe his hand against his clothes before ringing the door bell. It chimed back instantly and he flinched. Good lord, when was the last time he had felt this nervous? He was beyond his human memories now – the stochastic flashes had tapered off a few years ago – but this would have been the perfect trigger for yet another bout of adolescent angst and melodrama.

He shifted his weight, and peeked into one of the narrow windows on either side of the door frame. The area just beyond the door was dark, but there was light emanating from another room farther in. He stepped back and wiped his hands on his shirt again. Maybe she wasn't home and left the light on to ward off any would-be burglars. No, he shook his head, then she would have left the lights on in the front of the house. Besides, he could hear something, a television or radio, so maybe it was on too loud for her to have heard him, or maybe the doorbell only rang out in the front rooms.

He ran a hand through his hair, then knocked loudly on the door. No answer. He listened for the sounds of any movement and knocked again. Then, before he could really think the motion through, he put his hand on the doorknob and twisted.

To his great surprise, it was unlocked, and the door swung open. Feeling somewhat foolish, he peered in and called out a hello. Music was blaring from some inner room. She probably couldn't hear him over all that noise. Well, he was already in the house and on a very important errand, so... He stepped forward and closed the door behind him.

He stood in a foyer, which was empty and dark. There was a staircase in front of him, leading up to a balcony hallway, lined with several doors. Thresholds to his left and right led to more empty space, though the windows in each room were still adorned with drapes. The wooden floors were bare, and clusters of dust hugged the trim and corners. He wrinkled his nose. A short hallway took him past the stair case, then veered left into a kitchen that opened into a large room beyond. This one contained some furniture: a futon and a television faced each other in the center of the floor. A corner floor lamp illuminated the room, though the futon stood with its back to him, and he couldn't see if it held an occupant. The television was off, but two large speakers on either side of it vibrated with some variant of electronic music that made him cringe. It wasn't too loud for human ears, but his hearing was nearly overwhelmed. Nonetheless, he walked forward through the kitchen, then down two wooden steps into this room, which he guessed was meant to serve as the den.

"Hello? Bella? It's Edward..." he trailed off, not knowing what else to say. He approached the futon from one side and stopped abruptly when his gaze landed on bare feet. They rested against the cushion, gently curled toes nearly hanging off the edge. He took another soundless step forward and took in the scene. Bella lay in front of him, sound asleep. She was on her side, one arm hanging off the couch, the other folded under her neck. Hair spilled over her face, obscuring everything but parted lips and the gentle curve of her chin. She was wearing some form of sleepwear – thin cotton pants and a tank top (is that what it was called?), and he suddenly felt very indecent to be standing there, watching her like this.

He said her name again, louder, but she only stirred and rolled over onto her stomach, burying her face in a cushion. A new song had started, and it was louder and even more obnoxious than the last. He grimaced and crossed the room to the speakers, determined to turn the blasted things off. The source of music, as he could now see, was somewhere under the sleeping girl next to him, so he simply pulled the plug out of the wall and breathed a sigh of relief when the speakers fell silent. Turning back, his eyes landed on several books that were strewn about between him and the couch. Curious, he reached for the nearest one.

"Vampires: Myth or Menace?" Huh. How amusing. He had read this book decades before, back when he was still trying to learn something about his new life, and had found it absurdly ill-informed. Funny, that she would now be reading it too... He picked another book from the pile. "Vampire Legends in Contemporary American Culture." Well, she wouldn't learn anything useful out of that one either.

Wait.

Stiffening, he grabbed at the three books that remained in front of him. "Vampires and Vampirism," "Vampires: The Occult Truth," and finally "Vampires Among Us."

He jerked to his feet and the books tumbled out of his hands, landing on the wooden floor with three separate thumps.

She knew. She knew??

For a moment he stood rigid, rooted to the flooring, as his mind worked frantically to make sense of what he was seeing. In his gut, he felt a desperate, furious urge to destroy the threat this sleeping girl now embodied. He wanted to lunge at her. To snap her neck, to rip out her trachea, to keep her silent. He knew he could do it; he could move so quickly that she'd be dead before she took her next breath. He bared his teeth, fingers tightening at his sides, but something else reared up in protest.

Wait, it urged, just wait. Think. Plan your actions.

Did she really know the truth? Could this not be the evidence of some phase or hobby, completely independent of him? And if she did know or suspect something, then what, exactly? Was he willing to kill her on suspicion, without any proof of real danger? Would he throw his principles away so easily?

The feral creature within howled and snarled against this uncertainty. Kill it, protect yourself, avoid exposure - kill her!

Still he hesitated, muscle straining against muscle. He could leave. Think everything through. Determine the extent of danger first, then act.

Bella shifted again, rolling onto her back. The skin on her neck and cheeks was bright red, flushed from the heat of the night.

He should leave. He began to move away from the futon, forcing his feet back toward the kitchen. All the while, his instincts raged at him, demanding to be obeyed - turn around and kill her! - but he shook his head. He would not heed them. He was more than just the sum of these parts.

So he forced himself back, shifting his gaze away from her prone, defenseless form. He had barely taken three steps when she opened her eyes and began to scream.

Startled, he jumped back into a crouch. Bella had pulled herself up into a tangle of limbs, throwing her weight against the back of the futon. She stared at him with wild eyes while scrambling away, tumbling over the arm of the couch and onto the floor. She slipped and nearly fell, catching herself with palms splayed out against the floorboards, and scuttled awkwardly toward the kitchen. And she kept screaming – chocking, rasping shrieks that burst out of her throat and bored into his ears.

"Stop, stop it!" he shouted as she lunged at the counter that separated the kitchen from the den, grabbing a half-empty liquor bottle.

"Get away!" she bellowed back. Alcohol was pouring down her forearm from the upturned bottle that she now brandished for defense. Gin, from the smell of it.

"Stop," he repeated, forcing more composure into his voice. He held his hands up in what he hoped was a disarming gesture and straightened slowly.

"Get the fuck away from me!" She swung the bottle at the counter with all her might as though to break it, but the impact only cracked the thick green glass. She grimaced, her breath whistling through clenched teeth, and took two steps back, throwing a glance over her shoulder. He followed her eyes back to the knife block next to the sink.

"Wait, don't!" he urged. Knives slicing through the air would only make this worse. "I'm not here to hurt you."

"Shut up!" she hissed, thrusting the useless bottle at him, and he bit back a laugh despite himself. Her eyes narrowed, as panic began to make room for anger. "You're so full of shit!"

He shook his head. "This isn't what you think. I'm not -"

"I know why – what you -" she faltered, and the bottle in her hand slumped down for a moment before she tightened her grip again. "You're here to kill me."

"No. No, not at all! I'm sorry, I should not have come inside, but the door was open, and I had to tell you -" he broke off, aware of how idiotic his earlier reasoning now seemed.

"Shut up, shut up!" she cried. "Don't bother with the fucking lies, I know what you are!"

He stepped back. "You don't understand. Listen to me -"

"No, NO! I saw you, I saw you kill that woman! I saw how you killed that woman, I know!"

He shut his mouth with a snap. This was making much more sense now. "You followed me," he guessed, but she only stared back, her chest heaving. He looked away and nodded his head in understanding.

"It was you. I smelled... something. I smelled smoke and alcohol and garbage. I thought you were just some drunk..." he muttered nearly to himself. Then he looked up at her, and she flinched back.

"Look, I know what you saw, and I understand now what you must think of me, but I'm afraid you've drawn an erroneous conclusion from the -" he broke off to dodge the bottle that now spun at his head. It hit the wall behind him and shattered, and he ducked under the burst of glass.

Bella darted away from him then, bare feet flashing against the white tile of the kitchen floor. He followed her down the hallway and into the foyer, becoming exasperated with her refusal to see reason. Frantically, she fumbled for the front door handle, which he had left unlocked, and flung it open.

"Bella, wait!" he demanded again, reaching for her arm just as her feet hit the cement steps of the porch. His fingers closed around her wrist, and she shrieked again, a sound of pure panic, twisting back to jerk herself out of his grasp. Taken aback by the ferocity of her struggle, he thought better of trying to restrain her and let go.

Too late, he realized his mistake. She had been pulling against his grip, throwing all of her weight back to free her arm, and when he let her go, she staggered backwards, missed the step behind her feet, and fell.

He lunged for her then, but missed - his reflexes were always the first to diminish. Her head hit the cement walkway with a sickening crack and she lost consciousness. Cursing, he rushed down to her, gingerly lifting her shoulders off the ground. Her head slumped forward, and he could already smell the blood oozing out of a nasty gash on the back of her skull. He glanced up, but the street was deserted.

He could leave her here, in the dead of the night, and let her bleed out onto the front lawn. He could pull her body around back and suck the blood out of the wound until it was dry. He could snap her neck and dump the body in a dumpster.

He could solve this problem so easily...

But he didn't. Instead, he slipped an arm under her waist, lifted her up off the ground, and walked back into the house.

***********

End notes:

We've been nominated, we've been nominated!!! If you want to absolutely, totally make my day, please consider voting for this story on the Indie TwiFic Awards. It has been nominated in two categories: Best Alternate Universe WIP and Most Original Story Line WIP. The URL is here : /

Thanks!!! It would mean ever so much to me :)