The Twilight Series belongs to S. Meyer, no copyright infringement is intended. I'm just playing with the characters.
AN: For those of you that are following my other WIPs, I humbly apologize for the delay. The muse sometimes only lets me write what it wants me to write and at the moment it's this. I promise to beat her...ehrm him into submission and get some updates out for SB and UST next week. I'm loving all the reviews, alerts, and favs. It won't be too much longer before MW (mystery wolf) is named.
She didn't think they were doing anything less than walking into enemy territory. Her newly enhanced senses had her picking up on things she wouldn't have noticed a week ago. The muted conversation was clear as a bell which thankfully at the moment wasn't about her.
She counted the number of people in the house. Their numbers picked out by the beating of their hearts. No two were in sync with each other. Eight. Not including them.
Five of them were pack members and the other three—the elders of the tribe. Her father, Old Quil, and Billy. Strangely, she was irritated that there wasn't a single female present. Shouldn't there be a balance to things? Life was made up of pairs—so why wasn't this?
She continued to hold his hand. A lifeline, a raft, a buoy in the ocean; something to hang onto until she was rescued—she could only tread water for so long before she sank. As they got closer to the living room, he nudged her chin and mouthed something. She wasn't quite sure what he was trying to tell her but she understood it to mean she needed to walk into the room with confidence.
Her shoulders pulled back as she lifted her head up. Those final steps into the room were the hardest. But she resolved not to fall apart in front of them.
And as they crossed the threshold, he didn't let go of her hand. Instead he squeezed it tightly—once, twice, three times. A symbol to remind her; what he had told her more than once today.
"Leah? You're okay," her father asked as he took in her shocking appearance.
"I'm fine, dad."
"Is there something she can put on besides for my shirt? It's probably not very comfortable for her to be practically naked in a group of men."
Old Quil moved fast despite his years. In fact, as he brushed past her, she wondered what his age was. Her own grandparents had passed away before she entered high school. It seemed when one died the other closely followed. She shuddered, worrying that the same thing could happen to her parents.
He had been old—well, older when he met Molly Swan, fell in love, married, and nine months later welcomed their son, Quil IV. The more she thought about it—there was something odd about it all. Every generation there had been a Quil—but usually only one male. The same strange phenomenon was presented in the Uley family tree; male offspring outnumbering the female.
But the Black family tree was the exception. It was overrun with female offspring. It made her think of imprinting and its purpose. And when she thought about her own family tree—it seemed to have balance. She didn't understand why this was suddenly important to her but it meant something, she knew it did.
When Old Quil returned a few minutes later with a pair of pink sweatpants that held the odor of mothballs, she reluctantly let go of his hand. Then followed Old Quil down the narrow hallway towards the back of the house; the bathroom had been an addition after Molly had passed away.
She remembered attending the funeral and later coming to the house—only at that time there wasn't an indoor bathroom, just an outhouse near the woods. It had scared her to go in there. One of the boys—she couldn't remember who—told her a monster lived in it.
He gestured her to the bathroom and she quietly thanked him. Before entering she turned the light on and waited for the fluorescent bulb to stop flickering. Then she entered and softly shut the door. The bright light emanating from the bulbs gave her the appearance of a vagrant—a homeless person who had been abandoned and forgotten.
Her hair was a tangled mess and she wasn't even sure how to begin to smooth it out. Her face held small scratches and cuts; all in various forms of healing. She could tell they were healing too fast for it to be considered normal. Her skin was covered with a layer of dirt and grime.
Why hadn't she asked if it was okay to shower? She was wearing his shirt which looked too big on her but yet not big enough. Tugging the sweatpants on, she was grateful for his intervention. There was no way she would have found comfort being half-naked.
She did what she could to make it so she was more presentable. There was a small shelf with washcloths and towels and she borrowed one of each to wash some of the dirt from her face, neck, and arms. There was no hope for her hair—she realized that pretty quickly. She would simply have to wait until she got home.
She took one final look at in the mirror before opening the door. As she walked through it, she shut off the light and made her way back to face the firing squad. She didn't glance into any of the small rooms she passed while walking down the narrow hallway. Every ounce of her concentration was focused on what was waiting for her.
As she walked into the room, it was easy to see sides had been drawn—though none of them would acknowledge it. Billy, Sam, and several of the pack sat on one side. Her father along with the others sat across from them. Old Quil sat on neither side; if one looked at it from a bird's view—he would be at the top.
His body language and posture gave away nothing to suggest that he was siding with one group over the other. Perhaps he was a neutral party, the mediator of their gathering; she wasn't sure.
"Leah," his voice called; a rough quality to it as though he didn't speak often or he spoke too much. His hand raised into the air as he gestured her over to sit by him.
She had barely made it halfway across the room when there was a slight commotion. Feral growls filled the air which she realized were coming from Sam. She scampered over to Old Quil's side and took a seat on the small stool that accompanied the rocker he sat on.
Sam was furious as he ground out, "What the fuck? Don't you have any respect for Bella at all?"
"I thought we had this discussion before. How many times are we going to have it before you understand—I'm not going to accept what was chosen for me. I refuse to be tied to the leech lover for the rest of my days. It's not right—she's not meant for me."
She watched as the two of them faced each other, getting so close their faces nearly touched. The tension in the air was suffocating; thick enough to cut through it with your arm. The odd thing was her reaction. She should be afraid; worried about the impending violence and its repercussions. Instead, she found herself fascinated. It was salivating and didn't seem to have an explicit desire for who should win.
Without meaning to, she whimpered. The sound was foreign to her ears; a noise that she didn't recall making except when the heightened sensations during sex were too much for her. The knowledge excited and worried her at the same time. What was so different about her? Had she always been wired this differently? Or was this something to do with her other half?
Sam was the first one to strike. His fist connected solidly with his opponent's nose. The sickening crunch of breaking bones had the older men grimacing. Blood dripped; the coppery smell made her wrinkle her nose as memories came flooding back to her.
She watched as her father left the room and came back only moments later with a cool, wet washcloth which he held to his nose. The swelling and bruising nearly instantaneous at the same time it seemed to fade before her eyes.
It was as though he could feel her distress when he remarked, "Do you really want to do this here, Sam? I know exactly what's got you pissed off," his voice muffled by the washcloth. "You would do this—right here, right now—knowing that you'll never be able to change what's already happened? Stop thinking about yourself; it's never been about you."
The silence was deafening. Every occupant waited with baited breath while Sam decided whether this battle was worth the fight at this moment. The elders were confused; their gazes questioning but not a word was spoken to clarify their curiosity.
The tense moment cresting; the explosion imminent but suddenly, just as quickly as it had come—it dissipated. There were still underlying ripples and tremors of it but the thirst for violence and destruction minimized so the occupants could breathe again.
"Fine, but we're not done with this. Mark my words—we'll talk again."
A nervous chuckle sounded from one of the sides. Everyone's attention drawn as the owner of the laugh, spoke, "It might be time to let it go, Sam. It seems like the decision has been made, whether you like it or not."
She gasped as they looked at her and winked. How could they know? Her human brain couldn't process the meaning behind the words or how this knowledge was so easy to decipher. But the other part of her had no problem. Scent.
The unnaturalness earlier she had felt from Emily's scent, honeysuckle and pine. The realization that he smelled like juniper—an earthy wood scent with a hint of fruit. And his scent covered her body like a brand.
Her eyes snapped to him and the smirk on his face said it all; he knew exactly what he had done earlier. Whether it was his true intent or not—he knew it would cause a reaction. What was she going to do with this new information?
FF_8756144_15 12/15/12 4:03AM