Perhaps it hadn't been the smartest move to wander down the hall into Isabella's room. Edward would be warned of her return as soon as she came close enough to read her mind, but if he rifled through her few possessions, she might notice that they were out of place. The contents of her desk drawers were thrown together haphazardly – woodworking tools alongside pens, paperclips and ponytail holders. There was no way to look beneath what he could see on the surface without taking everything out piece by piece.

He sat, leaning over a drawer, curiosity with its claws in him, but another more circumspect voice was telling him to be careful. He'd already eavesdropped on her hunt, given her no privacy in her mind, and had lasted exactly thirteen days before he'd forced her to chase him down to keep him from ripping out the arteries of a couple of humans. She really is my babysitter, he thought, and the idea tasted bitter. Was that how she saw him? Ever since the change – and hell, he'd admit it, even before – he had always just been someone's responsibility.

But there had been a moment, even while submerged in the inky dread of Isabella's unknown talent, when it felt like she had needed something from him, and he'd responded to her kiss. If he hadn't been practically incapacitated, if he hadn't taken a blood scented breath, he wondered where that moment might have led. She'd claimed it was only comfort, but there were plenty of ways to calm someone down besides pressing your tongue to their lips, demanding access. He longed to replay the memory in his mind, but whenever he tried, all of it came back, the dread and the bloodlust inseparable from the feel of her urgent mouth against his. He groaned aloud. How was he supposed to know her when he didn't understand most of the things she did?

Perhaps her room would offer him some clues. That's what he told himself as he began to lay the contents of her top drawer in neat rows along the floor. He felt like an archaeologist, trying to create a picture from an odd assortment of items. A few things had outlived their usefulness: the busted pocket watch and an old book of 3¢ stamps commemorating an Antarctic expedition. But most were utilitarian: a flathead screwdriver, worn paintbrushes, a bottle of wood glue. If he had to present his findings, he'd say she was handy, had written a few letters many years ago, and probably didn't care what time it was. It wasn't exactly like seeing into the heart of her, so he decided to move on to the window seat. The urn on top stood like an ancient sentry. It was pointed at the bottom and wouldn't have stayed upright on its own. She had it sitting in a simple wooden base that she'd probably carved herself. Very carefully he lifted the cedar block and set the urn down a few feet away where he'd be sure not to bump it.

Just before he lifted the lid of the window seat, there was a moment when he felt like Carter and Carnarvan thrusting a candle into Tut's tomb. Edward hovered with the lid half up, savoring the feeling and the musty scent. Then he gave in to the pressure to explore.

There were books. He noticed that right away. There was a gold scarab bigger than his fist, proving that his feeling of kinship with the modern raiders of Tut's tomb was not far off; the gold alone was too valuable to contemplate. There was a large, jeweled knife that curved up at the end, and there were several boxes to explore. A deep blue sari was folded and wrapped in plastic.

He went for the books first. They were journals, light in color, simply bound, with worn remnants of handwritten script on the spine in a faded brown. He brought the cover to his face and smelled dust and age, but also a hint of verbena that was all Isabella. Though the books couldn't have been more than a few hundred years old, it was strange to catch a latter day scent of her. He opened the first of the journals.

He tilted his head and then the book, but it wasn't written in a language he knew. Interspersed with hand drawn pictographs, he saw a few lines of hieroglyphics and, as he flipped the crumbling pages, a short passage in old English caught his eye. He couldn't read the words, but he ran his finger along the page.

Fërend wyrcan Crïstemæl. Lîfgedäl cuman. Goldbeorht, wanfeax frëo, leona cuman.

He turned randomly and found a page near the end with the same word written several times in a shaky hand.

swëtïan

He stared, but the letters wouldn't give up their secrets. Even when Isabella's thoughts were open to him, even when her journal lay in his hands, she managed to elude him. He had returned the first book and was reaching for another when he froze in place.

There was a song in the trees, getting closer.

Are there any more real cowboys left out in these hills
Will the fire hit the iron one more time
And will one more dusty pickup come rolling down the road
With a load of feed before the sun gets high
Well I hope that working cowboy never dies

It was a man, and though he was singing a ragged tune, Edward had the memory to place that voice. He'd heard Bat speak to Isabella over the phone. Any hope of returning Isabella's things to the drawer in something like their original place was forgotten as he hurried to get everything out of sight. The urn nearly slipped from his hand when it wobbled in its wooden base. He backed up and reassured himself that the floor was clear before he headed downstairs. Then he wore a path back and forth as the song grew louder and finally stopped.

"You in there Isabella?" Bat called.

Edward read Bat's thoughts as he took a deep breath and realized that she wasn't close. No verbena on the breeze. It bothered Edward that someone else knew her scent like the back of his hand, but he didn't have time to mull it over, because Bat's thoughts turned to him.

"Just the new kid, eh?" he called.

Not wanting to seem like he was hiding in the house, he stepped onto the porch.

"Morning," Bat said. "Brought some things Isabella thought you'd need. Here."

Bat tossed a large olive green sack at Edward, and he leapt off the porch to catch it. It felt like more books and maybe some clothes or something else soft at the top. The drawstring was knotted about six times over.

Though he was casting off light in prisms, Bat looked exactly as Isabella had pictured him. Wiry and lean with white hair. But as he walked up to the porch Edward noticed some details that surprised him. There were fine wrinkles on his face, and deep lines around his mouth and his eyes. It was unlike anything he'd seen among their kind before, though granted he hadn't met but a dozen or so.

"You talk?" Bat asked. He had a bowie knife in a leather case that snapped to his belt. Hanging from his shoulders were three more olive green sacks, and he was holding a large cast iron weathervane.

"Hey," Edward said.

Bat shifted the metal piece to one arm and held out his left hand to shake.

Though Edward would have preferred to keep his distance from the stranger, he could tell from Bat's thoughts that there were no plans to fight, so he took his hand and let Bat give it a hard squeeze.

"Come in," Edward said. It was the closest he could come to sounding welcoming, but it was enough for Bat, who dumped the duffle bags on the downstairs floor and turned around to get a good look at Edward.

"You don't seem like much of a handful to me," Bat said.

Edward felt his breathing stop and his neck tense, but then he realized Bat was testing him, seeing how easily he would lose his temper.

"Hell when I was a newborn, a stranger come up to me, I would've knocked him sideways."

"You're not a stranger," Edward said, and he tapped his temple.

"Ah, right, you're the mind reader. Seen me in Isabella's head?" He laughed and then started to untie one of the bags. "You poor bastard. I bet that's more trouble than it's worth."

"I get along," Edward said. It was easier to keep his voice even when he knew that Bat was prodding him on purpose.

Bat had made quick work of the knots, but instead of opening the bag he stood up. "Well, I'd heard you were coming out here because you were wild, but you seem pretty tame to me. Now don't get upset," he said when he saw the look on Edward's face. "It takes a hell of a man to keep himself tame in the first ten years or so. I thought you'd be growling and snarling from the moment I got here." He laughed again. "I could have used a good scrap; it's been too long, but I don't think Isabella would approve. She likes things nice and quiet doesn't she? Keeps the peace."

It was the most anyone had said to Edward in a while, unless he counted some of Carlisle's longer speeches, and he realized he liked the distraction.

"I think I've given her a hard time," Edward said.

"Of course you have. She's been out here on her own since I built this place. Needs some stirring up before she turns into a goddamned tree."

"You do a lot for her," Edward said, and though it wasn't a question, he could tell Bat took it that way. For a moment the white haired vampire looked him up and down, and Edward had to fight to hold his gaze even as Bat speculated on whether Edward was jealous.

"I'd do anything for her," he said. "She saved my granddaughter when no one else could."

It all made sense then, the white hair, the fine lines. Bat had been a grandfather when he was turned. The perfect health and the strength had made it hard for Edward to figure out. He'd never seen a vampire with an old body before, nor had he thought about what it might be like. Clearly any illness or weakness was gone, so he guessed it hardly mattered.

"How old were you?" he asked.

"When she saved Ginnlaug?"

"No, when you were turned. Wait, Ginnlaug?" What kind of name was that?

"We didn't count the years like an obsession back then. I guess about seventy. And yes, Ginnlaug. Ginnie as she goes by now. She's my granddaughter."

Edward saw a flash of her in Bat's mind. She was beautiful and very thin with straight, blonde hair, but she had a tight lipped smile and narrowed eyes that made Edward want to step back.

"She's a pistol. No one can tell her anything. Or at least, I never could."

"And Isabella saved her? Did she turn her?" Edward asked. He wouldn't call that saving, but he knew Carlisle thought he had saved Edward when he'd changed him.

"I don't think Isabella's ever turned anyone. No, she went to New Mexico for me a while back and put the fear into my girl." Bat gave Edward a look to see if he understood, and Edward nodded. He knew all about the fear. "Nothing else would have pried Ginnie out of there. She was hip deep in the battle to take Santa Fe. I couldn't talk her down, and there were rumors the Volturi were coming in to end it. Turned out to be true. If Ginnie hadn't left when she did, she'd have been slaughtered like the rest of them." He shook his head.

In his mind Edward could see an image of Ginnie shouting and throwing furniture, and he hoped he wouldn't be meeting her anytime soon.

"I've never met two of our kind who were family before." Edward said. He thought of his own mother who had been too far gone for Carlisle to turn, but he couldn't see her as a newborn. The image of his mother being emotional and out of control was impossible to imagine.

"I was on my deathbed," Bat said. "I'd parceled out my things and said my goodbyes. I'd already seen everyone I'd grown up with die, either in battle or of old age. I was a relic even then. But Ginnie slipped into my hut. I hadn't seen her for months. Everyone believed she was dead, and I guess she was. I thought she'd come to take me to the warriors' table, but when she bit me it was Muspellheim, the land of fire, instead. She never did like to let go." He looked over at Edward with gold eyes.

"Were you always vegetarian?"

"What?"

"My maker, Carlisle, he calls us vegetarians. Those of us who hunt animals."

"No, I didn't stop draining humans until about a hundred and fifty years ago. It was Isabella."

"She told you to?"

He shook his head. "Not her style. I'd wanted to thank her for what she did in Santa Fe. I got her this land and built this cabin, but she hadn't asked for it. She wanted me to try to live off animals for one year. I thought it was for the sake of humans. I figured her for a sap. It took me all of four seasons to realize how much different I was once I got off the human blood. Less quick to fight, less moody. I was able to settle down in one place. She only asked for a year, but she must have known I would see things differently by then. I've never gone back. I live near Boston now. Set myself up with a custom shop. Which reminds me," he said, pulling the huge weather vane from the floor. "I'm going to put this on the roof. Come up and give me a hand and I'll tell you more about Isabella. Don't think I don't see how your face lights up every time I say her name."

Edward wondered if that was true, and then he saw his own expression mirrored back to him in Bat's mind. If anyone looked like a sap, it was him.

"Don't take all day," Bat said. "I can't imagine she'll leave a newborn like you on his own for much longer. If you have things you want to know, you better get up on that roof. Much as I love Isabella I won't be staying long when she gets back," he said. "She's an angel, but she scares the hell out of me."

Fërend wyrcan Crïstemæl. Lîfgedäl cuman. Goldbeorht, wanfeax frëo, leona cuman. - The messenger makes the sign of the cross. Death comes. Bright like gold, dark-haired, a lioness comes.

Lyrics by Willie Nelson.
All the usual characters, settings, etc. are the property of S. Meyer. Original characters and plot are mine. No copyright infringement is intended. May not be reprinted without express written permission.