Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)
A/N: Thank you for your patience and support of my story. RL and editing my OF consume more of time lately, but I am committed to this story and promise to update monthly at least.
Special thanks to my wc girls: Jmolly for, well… everything, and nuttyginger and my favorite Ghostwriter for their help with the deets on Rosalie's attire. You gals ROCK in every conceivable way!
This is the longest chapter so far…ENJOY!
Chapter 12: Night of Reckoning
Rosalie's POV
I turn out the lamp on my dresser and proceed to the hallway. Edward is in his room where I left him, and I sigh inwardly. There is no place for him in my life tonight.
As I emerge from the house and streak through the forest, I am surprised at my calm. I expected giddiness, anticipation even. But little emotion courses through me now, even less concern for unforeseen possibilities.
The only thing on my mind is me and the woman I should have been.
I always knew how people perceived Miss Rosalie Hale-beautiful, privileged, untouchable-and I enjoyed their superficiality to an extent. Being envied by women and desired by men had definite advantages, but most were intangible and useless. My goals were greater than amassing accolades and basking in adoration, but compared to the lavish lifestyles I was offered, they seemed almost primitive. I only craved a quaint house (with a parlor suitable for biweekly teas), a devoted husband, and a chubby baby boy with his father's eyes and my sense of adventure.
And to him who would bless me with such a life, who would value my happiness above his status or reputation, I would have given everything: the best part of my heart, the depth of my soul, the purest of my love. I had offered these treasures and more to my former paramour. And he cast my pearls before his porcine associates and made a mockery of my dreams.
We shall see who the swine is tonight.
When I awakened to this life and counted my losses, I initially decided not to avenge my attack. No pain I could inflict could restore my humanity. No words I could speak could contain my suffering, and as such, revenge seemed belated and unnecessary.
But that choice ensured they would never be punished. With their lone known victim lost to immortality, their depravity would go unchecked and likely unleashed on another innocent at a later date.
And I could not live with that for the next thousand years.
With the decision made, I turned to the issue of attire, as my appearance would convey as important a message as my actions. I strongly considered the coveted white gown in my favorite shop. The irony of ending his life wearing the dress in which I would have promised him mine would have been perfect. But the long skirt would have hindered my movements while the skimming silhouette too closely traced my frame.
Besides which, they didn't deserve to see me in my bridal satin.
But during midnight reconnaissance last week, I spotted a Morocco movie poster fading on wall on the outskirts of town. The romantic overtones notwithstanding, Ms. Dietrich arrested my attention because in the corner photo, she was wearing a tailored tuxedo. My otherworldly sight noted the smoke gray of her eyelids and the blood redness of her lips, and the image sent a deliciously defiant shiver down my spine. Her audacious eyes confirmed my convictions, and I sent off to collect the proper garments while the city slept unaware.
I copied her ensemble exactly—from the white bow tie to the matching pocket square—and added a ruby cocktail ring to the middle finger of my left hand. My hair was parted on a left-of-center slant and flowed in lush golden waves beneath my top hat. Red fingernail polish and rouge had been difficult to obtain, but the effect against my white skin was well worth it. And a silver cigarette case with one lone occupant was tucked in my jacket for my post-mission enjoyment. As I beheld my reflection in my bedroom mirror, I had never been more in love with myself.
Dull bells in the distance mark the hour, and I quicken my pace.
It will not be long now.
—B—I—
Although the grip of Prohibition is weakening in Rochester, respectable men still present themselves as its driest supporters. In public, they tout the letter of the law and disparage those who do not.
But while society averts its gaze, these gentlemen frequent a few fringe establishments where the liquor flows free. Here the judge and jokester are impossible to tell apart.
Mr. King and his merry men gather in such a place on this day each week under the guise of discussing articles from LIFE magazine. I had been ignorant of this deception in my human life, believing each lie he told. But my plot made it necessary to learn the details of his schedule down to how often he visits Mr. Alston for a shave.
Thrice weekly: Monday, Thursday, and Saturday.
And if last week is any indication, they will be the first to leave, scurrying from the side door like vermin. They will take the narrow alley which empties onto a dark side street which leads to a forgotten artery of the main road. The long trek back to town provides sufficient time to invent believable threads of discussion should anyone ask for details of their evening.
And sufficient space for an encounter with a dead acquaintance.
My mind briefly recalls the beautiful boy I left behind, and my heart constricts. Perhaps I should have made amends before embarking on this seminal quest. Perhaps I should have explained my reasons, fully acquainted him with the rightness of my decision.
But it is too late now.
The quintet is in sight.
The hairs on my neck stand on end, and my hands clench as I watch them from my perch in a tree on the edge of the road. Although they are a literal mile away, I can make out their features with inhuman precision. My mind fills with images which turn my stomach inside out.
A gold cap gleaming beside an invasive tongue.
An unkempt beard scraping my bare breast.
Thin chapped lips smirking at my tears.
Greasy hair falling in my dirt-stained face.
And a groomed mustache twitching as he steals what I would have offered had he properly asked my hand.
A low snarl rumbles in my chest, and the quintet halts.
"What was that?" one of them slurs.
"Probably a stray dog," the second one says.
"Or a coyote," laughs a third man, tossing a rock toward my tree. It takes a tricky bounce against a lower branch and hits my right leg, leaving a dark blotch on my pants.
I might kill him first for ruining my suit.
Their conversation returns to its base origins, and I am sickened by their wickedness. How could I not have seen Royce for who he was? How could I have imagined him to be anything other than a scoundrel? How could I have deemed him worthy of my love?
A white-hot blaze of anger propels me from the tree, and I leap toward my prey. Pulling myself back, I come to a swift silent landing in the middle of the street. As their eyes are otherwise occupied, my arrival goes unnoticed.
Until the familiar stench of lust and sweat invades my nostrils and I growl again.
"That was no coyote," the first one says.
"Then what is it?" The third one asks. "I don't want to get mauled before tomorrow's date with Mildred."
"Maybe that guy knows," a fourth replies, and I draw a sharp breath through my teeth as he looks up.
I would recognize his voice in a crowd of millions.
His royal highness.
The King of beasts.
"Hey," the second one whispers too loudly, "have you ever seen a man with hair so long?"
"Not on his head," the first one snorts. "Maybe he's a clown."
"Hey, buddy!" Royce laughs as he turns to me. "Are you a clown or someth—"
The final syllable dissolves on the night air as he sees my face. My eyes remain red despite my human-free diet and take profound pleasure in staring him down.
"No," I say smoothly. "Guess again."
He stumbles backward into the gaping crowd, his mouth working soundlessly.
"I must have had some bad whiskey," the fifth man mumbles as he wipes his eyes.
"Perhaps you are having a bad dream." I extend a hand at human speed. "Shall I pinch you to see?"
"This is not…" The man flattens his arm against his body. "I mean, you can't be…"
"What's the matter?" I smile. "Are you not happy to see me? I came all the way here for this moment."
"Of course, we are!" the ringleader cries with a trembling voice. "We are surprised is all."
The fifth gentleman's eyes bug out of his head as he nods. "Yeah, surprised."
"Surprised?" I echo. "Why should you be?"
"Well," the fourth one stammers. "We, uh… we thought you had… um…"
"Gone Hollywood," the first one says. "You know, took your beauty on the road."
Their audacity stuns me.
"That's right," Royce smiles. "Hollywood."
My eyes narrow as they catch his tone.
He thinks he can charm his way out.
He honestly believes he will survive.
His asininity makes me laugh, interrupting his blubbering.
"Your voice…" Royce's face pales another shade. "It's so…"
"Different?" I take another step forward, my icy fingers eliciting a terrified shiver as they slide down his face. "Oh, darling. That is the least of it."
"You are still an angel," Royce gulps as my hand cups his chin. "Like something out of dream."
"A dream?" I shrug. "We shall see."
He tries to clear his throat. "How's Tinsel Town?"
"I wouldn't know." My fingers press into his flesh, testing the bones beneath. "I have never been there."
"No?"
"No." Their collective fear has become a living breathing thing. "Perhaps you should have invented a more suitable lie."
He grimaces as his jawbone yields to my touch. "Then where have you been?"
"Isn't it obvious?" I release him and leap backward into the air, somersaulting out of sight and landing behind them, replacing my hat on my head. "To hell where you sent me."
They cry out in shock and whip around to face me, their collective faces beautifully terrified.
"Hell?" Royce squeaks.
"Naturally." I stalk toward them with a glacial gait. "When you violate and brutalize a woman, leaving her battered body for dead, she makes a requisite pit-stop in hell before reaching her eternal destination."
The group takes a retreating step with my every motion, and I fight another chuckle. A chase would be most diverting. I would even offer a head-start.
"Eternal destination?" Royce glances at his cowardly companions. "You mean heaven?"
"No, silly. We are here together, and savages are not allowed in the Holy of Holies." I continue my advance, sending their panic into overdrive. "My immortal resting place is here on earth."
A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face. "What are you saying?"
"I have become Death, the destroyer of worlds," I smiled. "Fitting I think, as you destroyed mine."
Five pairs of glassy eyes watch with increasing alarm as my declaration reaches their ears. Their doubt is delightful.
"You do not believe me." I shake my head in disappointment. "Perhaps I should demonstrate."
A harsh oath escapes the first and tubbiest man, and he runs in the opposite direction.
"Harley!" Royce calls out.
"Stay away!" Harley shouts, the onset of panic quickening his steps. From the soggy sound of his labored breaths, it seems death might be a kindness. His poor health would end him within the year.
"I had hoped to do this without breaking a sweat. But what am I saying?" I chuckle aloud. "Demons don't sweat."
Royce hears my retort, and his skin further pales . "Harley, come back!"
"Save your strength." I lean over my former choice, and his mouth snaps shut. "You will need it." I raise my eyes to his fleeing friend, annoyed that he has fallen into a puddle.
My new slacks will get wet.
I fly to the stumbler's side before Royce can cry out again, appreciating the frightened gasps from the crowd when I lift their friend over my head with ease.
"And where are you going in such a hurry?" I repeat his words from the last night of my life. "The fun is only beginning."
"Please…" His bloodshot eyes widen as I lick my teeth. "Rosalie, I…"
I slam him to the ground with furious speed, hearing the satisfying whoosh of air from his lungs as he is knocked unconscious. "Do not say my name."
"Mother of God." Royce whimpers from the other end of the street.
The wounded beast bleeds from the jagged gash in the back of his head. The liquored blood is ripe and flows with ease. And despite the deer I ingested this afternoon and my resolution to abstain, I bend to his broken body as venom pools in my mouth.
Think of what he did to you, Rose! Do you want his essence locked inside your body forever?
I am startled that my conscience has Edward's voice, but the thought effectively brings me up short. I hold my breath and count backwards from two million, relaxing as clarity slowly returns.
"Thank you," I whisper as though he can hear me.
"Good luck with that," the second man says to Royce, and my head snaps up.
"Anders," Royce whispers as if I cannot hear him. "We can take her if we stay together."
"This is not my fight," Anders replies tightly. "And I have a wife."
The poor woman. She will thank me in the morning.
"I'm sorry," the fourth one adds as he follows Anders into the forest at a breakneck speed. "I wish you well."
"Wallace, Anders!" Royce shouts. "Don't!"
His concern for those animals incenses me, and I take off after them with a low growl. I am hard upon them in moments, their flight response no match for my unnatural abilities.
"Run!" Anders cries from a few yards ahead. "She's right behind us!"
"What does she want?" Wallace shrieks as he whips around a tree.
"I don't know!" Anders replies. "But I hope she—"
His thought dies on the wind as my fingers close around his wrist and yank him toward me. His arm pops out of his shoulder, and he screeches in shock. Indignation fills his eyes as his brain registers the pain, and before he can voice his anger, I club him over the head with his oozing limb. His arm bones shatter upon impact, and I drop the useless appendage atop his cracked skull. Wallace lunges at me in a poor imitation of an ambush, and I catch him by the throat in midair. With a mindless squeeze, I crush his windpipe and toss him to the ground.
"Now's our chance!" Royce whispers from the street. "She cannot follow two paths at once."
"What about Anders and Wallace?" the fifth man worries.
"Did you not hear their cries?" Royce spits. "She has claimed them."
"Do you think she is an angel of death?"
"I think you are a buffoon for fretting about that when she is upon us nonetheless!" He takes a few steps. "Play with your life if you must. I shall save mine."
The coward's steps reveal the direction of his flight, and I am unsurprised to find his companion alone when I reemerge from the trees. In spite of the fresh urine staining his pant leg, he tries to appear unafraid.
I admire his bravery.
"The cheese stands alone," I smile. "Where is your friend?"
"He had to go," he stammers. "But he left his regards."
"And you stayed behind to deliver the message?" My movements are practically feline as I approach him. "How thoughtful."
"Ms. Hale, please." He is too terrified to move. "I am begging you."
"Not very effectively."
"I know we hurt you," he says. "And I have barely slept a wink since."
I pause mid-stride, unnerved by his sincerity. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"
"An apology would never be enough," he admits. "But I am truly sorry for how my actions may have destroyed your life."
His unfortunate phrasing erodes what sympathy might have taken root, and his eyes squeeze shut as mine turn to crimson frost. My fist connects with his jaw before I can stop it, taking his head off his shoulders. The oblong object hits the ground with a dull thud, and his body shortly follows. I shake out my hand, wishing I had brought a cloth on which to wipe my hands.
As the street falls silent once more, I take a moment to adjust my bow tie.
Four down, one to go.
So what do we think of part one of Rosalie's revenge?