Chapter One
"I Hate Mushrooms"
I hate mushrooms. Honestly, I really do, they're these stinky, mushy, horrible tasting things. So I really have no idea why my mother would want to spend money buying them.
All she had said hastily before she rushed out of our small house while sticking money in my shocked hands was that she needed mushrooms.
So here I was wandering the unpaved streets belonging to one of the many small villages in the country of Crete looking for, of all things, mushrooms.
I was told by the kind girl that lived next door to my mother and I that in school they learned that Crete was built from the ruins of a place that had once been known as North America.
Was there once a South America? A West America? If both those existed at one time, than surly East America had as well. But see, my mother had never let me go to school, choosing instead to home school me, so I can't be sure.
Our home is one on the outskirts of town and tiny in caparison to most, but it has a homey feel in its four solid walls that I have always loved. My mother though is a very hectic and … jumpy person, like she's always expecting someone to show up unexpectedly and kill her at any moment.
I think she's slightly crazy most of the time.
But my mother must have been very pretty when she was younger; she once had honey blonde hair and big grey eyes, though now her hair is turning grey and her eyes murky and dull, wrinkled by premature age.
She's too stressed and I constantly try to help with that, hence the dreaded mushroom hunt.
That was also why when she decided home school was for me and set my curfew at five o'clock every night, I didn't complain. Also when she made me wear this dreaded hood and told me that I was strictly forbidden from looking people directly in the eyes on the rare occasion I ventured to town I listened, even to the oddest rule: that I was not allowed to look in a mirror.
It's true; she made that rule when I was about five or six years old. But even with the underlying insanity, I didn't question her.
My mother may be slightly nuts and harebrained, but she is undeniably smart. There's always this look in her eyes, not that of a paranoid women that micromanages her only daughter, but the unsettling knowledge of something more.
A something that I didn't quite understand and may possibly never expect to. A something that could only be gained from a past, from a hard and painful past.
As I stroll through the market, I can't help but to get excited. I love the bright ribbons that the baker's daughter sells while her father's inside cooking big loafs of soft bread that never fails to fill the street with a beautiful aroma and my stomach with a harmony of rumbles and growls.
Oh! And the old widow of a long forgotten fisherman that sells the small glass bottles of herbs that can be used to heel anything from a small cut to the flu.
But my absolute favorite is the old man that stands by the docks and sells small music boxes.
These boxes are about the size of a persons palm and covered with swirls of exotic paints and designs, completed with a tiny metal handle that turns to play a soft melody.
Each time I come to the market I go down to the docks and look at the small boxes of music, always saving it until the grocery shopping and whatever other tasks are completed. It's my reward for getting mushrooms this time around.
After I finished buying the mushrooms from the bulky woman who went to the forest every morning and picked them, how unfortunate for her, I headed to the docks. As the smell of brine and salt hit my nose, the old man in the cloak spoke to me.
"You've come to see my boxes since you were but a tiny lass and I still don't know your name little lady." He had a gruff voice that contradicted the sweet sound he sold.
I hesitated; mother would most definitely faint if she saw me talking to this man, probably die if she knew I was thinking of giving him my name!
His gruff voice continued past my hesitation, "I won't bite, promise."
My mouth twitched into a small smile.
"My name is Isabella." I whispered, as I made sure my eyes stayed locked on the ground. If I was going to break that rule, I might as well try my best to stick to the others.
"Isabella what…don't have a last name, girl?" he asked with a laugh that reminded me of a waving crashing on the shore.
I kept my head down and started examining my favorite of all the magic music boxes, a small blue and silver painted box with a pale moon in the corner. I know this may sound as crazy as my mother, but I've never seen the moon. Not ever in my whole life, not even from the window.
How could giving my name to this old man with a gruff voice and ocean laugh, hurt?
"Isabella Swan" I murmured as I clutched my favorite box.
"Ahhh… Renée's child. You look at that box every time you come, one day are you going to actually buy it girly?" he teased me.
My lips curled into a slightly sad version of a smile.
"I don't have enough money." I whispered to him, still clutching my box.
He fell silent for a moment, I wouldn't dare look up, before saying, "Well, how about this, if I give you your box then every time you come to the market you have to come and keep me and my old self company?" he asked with a smile in his voice.
It was then that I truly crossed the line; if my mother were here she would have turned straight into a ghost and haunted me for the rest of my life.
I looked him right in the eyes.
Not just look up and stare above his head or at something in the distance, but I looked right into his baby blue eyes.
He seemed shocked for a moment but then muttered, "Figures", under his breath. I wonder what he was talking about, but I honestly can't think of anything but his proposal.
"Really, you would do that for me?" I can barley keep the excitement from my raising voice.
"Of course little lady" he grinned as he spoke.
"I will come and sit with you for hours and hours until you beg for me to leave!" I almost yelled in excitement.
All he did was laugh and say, "Okay, but I have a feeling that will not be the case my darlin'."
I almost squealed in excitement. "Well, get your music box and get goin', your mama won't want you to be late for dinner and all." He said gruffly.
I smile, grabbing the box and at the last moment rush up and kiss him on the cheek in sheer gratitude. He blushed and yelled at me to get going. I smiled and shouted back my thanks.
Over the next few weeks I found constant excuses to go to the market: my mother was busy and broke a glass while cleaning, I would rush and offer to go buy another. She mentioned the house needed color; I would rush off and buy her flowers at the market. She would tell me I needed to catch up on my schoolwork; I would rush to the market to buy a new book to read.
It went on like that so it was to the point where I was at the market almost every other day, people even started to recognize me!
The Bakers daughter waved when I passed by, I waved back. The herb lady nodded her head, I smiled. And the music box man talked to me, and I talked back.
On one of these many market days, we were sitting on the pier and I started to play my music box and hum along with the soft melody when a man that passed by glanced at me and shuddered.
I looked up at the music box man curiously, "Why did he do that?"
Over my many visits, I never got to know the music box man's name, even though he knew mine. Yet I never asked for his either, he was always the music box man to me and it fit.
He shrugged and went back to starring in space. I was silent for a moment then asked, "For years I always wanted this one music box, and every time I came here I always had a little piece of fear stuck in my stomach that someone had bought it, but it was always here. Why?"
He looked at me right in the eye and said, "Because of the melody. It is the melody of the moon."
I looked at him in shock, "What?" I whispered.
"That music, the sweet, soft, mysterious sound that you love so much is the song of night. And I don't need to tell you what that means." He whispered, still looking at me.
I knew exactly what he was talking about.
The night was not a … comfortable time for citizens of Crete, because of the people that roamed in it. Of those that glowed in the moon light and flitted around as quick and dark as shadows.
That is after all from where they got their name.
Back in the beginning of our history books, right after the downfall of North America and really of the world, a group of thirteen men set up refuge within the ruins of mankind and set to the task of making the rules for the haven.
The city rose from ashes on their shoulders and eventually made the current capital of Crete, called New Haven.
They appointed a king, the 13th man. His name being Charles Hale: a power hungry man that wished to spread his country to the furthest corners of the world.
But one problem stood in the way; a group of natives lived in the surrounding woods of New Haven since the beginning of the end. People called them magical and different, part of an ancient time and place.
Charles Hale went into the woods and sought these people out; Hale was determined to see what was standing between him and the goal. The people of the New Haven woods lead him to a dark haired woman with black eyes. The mysterious people told him that she was a seer and therefor, their leader. Charles Hale, always mesmerized by the idea of power, was intrigued by the idea of a seer and asked the lady of his future.
She said that Charles Hale would rot in hell and she would tell him no more. Hale was angered by the defying women and killed her right there in front of her people.
That was the start of the never-ending war against the shadows. The city of New Haven massacred the poor people, but they never the less fought back.
They learned to blend in, the Shadows had magic in their blood and they used it. Charles Hale hunted them almost to extinction and stole their land that he had so desperately wanted, as well as made a new rule.
The Shadows were not allowed to live. Hale set up a hand picked army of the best soldiers and assassins to hunt the rest of them down, these men were called the Guard. To this day the King hunts them, sending the Guard to villages and tears them apart.
A Shadow is to be recognized by the common characteristics; they all had dark hair and eyes, with pale skin. But the only true sign that a person was a Shadow was their midnight eyes, skin tones and hair colors were not always for sure. These people were the children of night, of darkness, and it shone through their eyes.
But, as the never-ending war continued and the man hunt went on, the Shadows developed things like colored pieces of plastic that stuck to the eyeball and concealed their identity.
So the only way the Guard really knew how to hunt the Shadows, was at night. Because even with the uncertainty of common characteristics and things like colored plastic, the Shadows could never conceal the fact that they glowed like the moon itself in the light of it.
The King not only sought after the Shadows and murdered them, but also made sure that the people of Crete were scared of their darkness. He spread stories of the moon children killing and casting spells all over the country.
But I honestly never really believed the stories; we did after all steal their land and massacre their people. Why were they so terrible if they tried to defend themselves against our ancestors? Wasn't it what anyone else would do?
But never the less, people were scared, intrigued, but still scared.
I was quickly jolted out of my thoughts when the music man shoved me under his stand of boxes and whispered for me to keep quite. I looked up at him in horror, wondering what could have happened and why he felt that I should not be seen.
I finally gave up on tugging the bottom corner of his coat to get him to tell me what was going on. I focused instead on the village; I could hear nothing out of the ordinary, like screaming or swords clashing. But that was also the problem; I could here nothing out of the ordinary because there was nothing to hear.
It had gone silent, as silent as the grave.
I shifted and wiggled a bit to face the street in my hiding place and I looked through one of the many holes in the boxes that sheltered me.
It was then that I saw him. He was looking at the bakers' daughters' ribbons and other trinkets with a polite grin on his face.
He had untidy bronze hair and skin that had been kissed by the sun, I was immediately jealous that he so obviously spent much of his time in the sun while I seemed to always have to fight my mother for the chance to be outdoors.
But after my irrational musings on his skin tone, I was struck by his eyes and cue more irrational musings. They were green, utterly unearthly green. I could tell even from my fortress of boxes, which was not close, just how bright green they were.
Unnatural.
But not only was there the combination of his skin tone and eyes to make me hold my breath, but he was utterly and unmistakably beautiful. Not in a pretty way or a too perfect way, but in a rugged way. His entire body screamed strength and life and sun.
I was just admiring this fact when I finally noticed what he was wearing; a black set of pants and a white shirt with a blood red cloak.
A blood red cloak with the Kings' symbol on it to be precise.
I nearly choked when I saw it; he was part of the Guard! This man was why everyone had been so silent, they were all afraid he was going to burn down the village because of the hunt for the Shadows.
Oh crap.
The Guard stayed quite a while in the market, talking softly and buying a few vegetables and other supplies from the village that I'm sure is going to his men… wherever they are.
As he went through the market, I watched him; seeing his strength as something more predatory than anything to do with the sun or life now.
As soon as he went from the last stand and quickly out of the market, effectively ending my shameless ogling, I felt a small bit of disappointment in my stomach that I shook quickly off. He's a Guard, Isabella! He's pretty much a professional killer, trained in the arts of murderer!
I was not left to my own devices and allowed to ponder my thoughts for long, as suddenly the music man gripped me tightly and urged me to go straight home and to stay there for a good while. I didn't understand his urgent requests, but I listened and went straight home to my mothers' nervous glances and schoolwork.
I went to sleep that night dreaming of the green eyed Guard, not knowing just how much this man would come to change my life.