Just a quick reminder to everyone of what I said a few chapters ago. The imprinting and vampire mate/blood-singer aspects are not going to work the same as they do in canon. It'll all come together and make sense when it does.


FIVE

IT WASN'T ENTIRELY unlike the last time the elders had told this all to an outsider, on the cliffs, a bonfire roaring, the night sky overheard making the shadows cast by the flames longer, deeper black than usual.

There were a few differences. This girl hadn't been what anyone had expected. Jacob had been correct in the car—her eagerness to show their ways respect had seemed to win over the elders. The pack as well, with the exception of the ever-guarded Leah, but then Hermione'd observed aloud how tough it must be for her, being the lone female of the pack, and how the males must struggle to keep up with her. After such a careful blend of understanding and admiration, even Leah had caved to the witch's deliberate attempts at charm.

Hermione'd asked for a moment to herself, after introductions but before the meeting officially began. All she did with the time granted was step to the edge of the cliff and look out at the foreign skyline. Everyone seemed content to observe this strange creature—they really didn't know anything about European 'good' witches, did they?—as she turned her head, following the water with her gaze. As she closed her eyes and breathed deep of the briny air.

It was a bit of a stark reminder that maybe even they did sometimes take the beauty of their home for granted.

Hermione listened, her attention rapt, to the stories of the Quileute elders. The spirit warriors, the traitorous Utlapa, the bizarre disembodied journey that had led Taha Aki, the last of the Great Spirit Chiefs, to become the Great Wolf . . . . The Cold Ones . . . . The sad, but brave and ultimately necessary sacrifice of the Third Wife . . . .

Though the pack remained silent, as well, it was for a different reason. They'd heard this story enough times to retell it themselves. No. It was because their attention was fixed on Jacob, whose attention was, in turn, fixed on the witch. Whenever there was a lapse in speech, she would turn her head, meeting his eyes quickly before the stories continued.

Seth had been in quite the hurry once they'd arrived to explain what he'd witnessed to the rest of them. That it wasn't an imprint confused them all, especially given that he'd only just met her and yet he watched her with a surety in his gaze that he'd not even shown during the Bella-infatuation fiasco that had gone one for entirely too long, in their collective opinion.

Sam was waiting for them to shift so he could glimpse the moment the way Jacob had experienced it, and perhaps have a better understanding. Perhaps it was an imprint but her magic made it different, somehow?

They were holding back until the elders were done, holding back until after the witch'd had the chance to ask questions if she needed. The way they understood it, their moon-cursed European cousins looked very different from them when shifted, and they thought perhaps throwing dire wolves at her might be a bit of a distraction.

Hermione stared back at Sue Clearwater long after the story had finished—the elders had, quite obviously, but also silently, agreed to let her carry the bulk of the tale, perhaps figuring the young woman would feel more set at ease being addressed by another female, seeing as the testosterone cloud here on the cliffs was a little heavy. She wasn't even sure what she was thinking, perhaps what a complete opposite it was that their wolves were protectors and the ones back home—with rare yet notable exception—were anything but. Perhaps it was the bizarre notion that the spirits only considered their people in need of protecting when 'Cold Ones' were near. Were they never in danger from anything else?

"So," she finally managed, feeling the press of everyone's gazes on her, "if you only change when there are Cold Ones about, that means that the current pack only exists because those vampires Jacob mentioned, the Cullens, are here?"

The one she thought might be named Paul—after getting tossed so many names at once it was difficult to keep track, even for Hermione Granger's brain—uttered a scoffing laugh. "Of course he told you about them already."

Hermione wasn't quite sure what happened next, but she did hear the unmistakable sound of a quick jab impacting flesh. Wincing, though she didn't look back to see what had transpired, she leaned toward Sue and dropped her voice to a whisper, "Is it often like this?"

"Only when their girlfriends aren't here . . . like now. Them being around usually breaks up the 'boys' club' stuff."

Nodding, Hermione offered an understanding smile. There always had been a distinct difference in the mood, perhaps the very air, itself, when Ginny and Luna were present rather than simply Hermione hanging out with Ron and Harry all by her lonesome. What she didn't know was that the elders had made the decision to ask the wolves not to have their imprinted partners present tonight. They'd thought the witch would have enough information to process without also learning about imprinting on her very first night.

Of course, no one had quite accounted for her unusual and immediate connection with Jacob.

Oblivious to the looks passing between the elders and the pack on that point, Hermione winced and spread her hands. "I know this might be awkward, given the circumstances of, well, everything, but if your change is triggered by their presence, then to make the appropriate observations for my research, I need to meet them, too. Any insight this doctor in their . . . their 'coven' might have could be useful."

What she was not oblivious to was the way everyone's collective attention pinned Jacob then.

Chewing at her lower lip, she, too, turned and looked at him. His broad shoulders had slumped, those ruggedly pretty features near blank in what might be an expression of defeat.

She hurried to clarify, the thought of making him uncomfortable twisting her stomach in knots. "I understand if you don't want to go. Um, if you just give me the information, I could get in touch with them myself and—"

"You absolutely will not." The words were out of Jacob's mouth before he even realized he'd spoken.

The way her brows pinched together over her widened eyes bothered him. Deeply. Had he frightened her just now, snapping like that? He couldn't tell, he only knew that she'd suddenly gone very still, even her breathing had slowed.

A mirthless grin curving his lips, he shook his head. "Sorry, I just . . . look, we trust them—to a point—like I said, there's peace but . . . ." He glanced around at his pack, at the elders, before returning his attention to her. "They've never been around anyone like you as far as we know. We don't know how they'd respond to you. You said yourself they're not like the vampires in your world. If you went alone and something happened to you—" He cut himself off, that already unhappy expression giving way to a grim frown.

Hermione reminded herself to breathe, her head flicking up for a brief second with her inhalation. "I understand," she whispered. It was all she could say. Her mind was too busy tripping over the fact he hadn't simply said if 'something happened,' but if 'something happened to her.' Such a small thing, but it felt wildly important.

"I'll, um . . . ." Jacob squared his shoulders and sighed. "I'll give them a call and see if we can go over tomorrow, or something."

"I think," Sam broke in, his tone all sorts of warm, even, and big-brothery, "now would be the time to show her our shift."

Unconscious of it, Hermione sucked in a breath. She hadn't been expecting it, but the thought sent a shock of cold through her, drained the feeling from her fingers.

Every. Werewolf. Noticed.

Jacob, who'd just been standing up to join his pack, immediately sat back down. Still they hadn't touched, and he hesitated, lifting his hand to grasp hers before dropping it limping down to rest upon his leg. "You okay? I can stay here with you while they shift, if you want."

They were nothing like Cursed wolves, she reminded herself again. They wouldn't look like Fenrir Greyback, or even Remus had. In fact, she realized, the sudden comprehension sobering, that she'd never been around Fenrir while he was shifted. His torments had been inflicted entirely whilst in his human form.

Forcing a smile, she shook her head. "I'm fine." There was a dreaded question hanging in her mind, though, as to whether or not she'd have to explain the reasons for her fear to him at some point. "Go on. I . . . I want to see. I need to see."

Jacob nodded, eyeing her warily as he climbed to his feet and stepped away from the fire.

The pack didn't go far, stepping back only enough to shroud themselves in the darkness outside the scope of the bonfire's illumination. She turned to face them, the noise of rustling fabric meeting her ears, followed by what sounded like . . . oh, dear . . . like joints and tendons popping and wrenching. That couldn't be pleasant.

She swallowed down another spike of fear as she waited.

The wolf that stepped into the firelight first she somehow knew was Jacob. His fur was the same color as his skin. And he was enormous. Like a prehistoric wolf she'd once seen a rendering of in a museum as a child, she thought.

He held back a bit, but the rest of the pack approached, cautious, curious. She didn't know what to make of it that they sniffed at her, nor as they each seemed to take a turn trying to figure out something.

She was pleased that she felt no overwhelming fear. No desire to run.

She gave a nod, letting them know she'd seen enough—they looked nothing like the lanky, misshapen victims of the lycathropy curse. The Cursed Ones appeared rather like giant, shaggy nightmare coyotes, now that she thought on it. These wolves, however, they were breathtaking. Perfect, even, with their lush coats and visibly healthy bodies.

They all drifted back into the shadows before returning , still pulling their clothes back on. Well, all except Jacob, who had apparently rushed to redress himself while still in the dark and reemerged with a notable blush in his cheeks.

It struck Hermione in that moment that he'd literally been standing yards away from her—a distance that would've been fully visible in daylight—naked. Swallowing hard, she lowered her head a moment, hiding a blush of her own.

When she lifted her head, she saw that the pack was still watching her.

Recoiling where she sat, she could only ask, "What?"

"Um, ya know, Hermione? It's late, if you're going to get any shopping down before I drop you at your hotel, we should go. I still have to call the Cullens, anyway."

"Oh, right." Pushing up to stand, she turned to the elders. She thanked each of them, in turn, and then the pack, her expression genuine and grateful. "I will see you all again very soon. I have no words for how honored I feel to be welcomed among you."

They watched as Jacob walked her down from the cliffs, the pair disappearing out of sight into the darkness.


There was no denying Jasper was unusually focused on the hunt. He normally was attuned to everything about the simple catch-and-kill activity—the woods, the animals scurrying underbrush away from their unnatural presence, the larger game they sought—but this was something new.

Carlisle had never seen Jasper in such deep concentration over a task that had always come easily to him. He watched as his adoptive son darted through the trees, over bramble and dead wood as though he were flying. He was on his prey in a blink, taking down the beast as he gorged on its blood.

When he was finished, he returned to Carlisle's side just as quiet as before. Already, Carlisle could feel the calm rolling off Jasper. Troubling. That was usually a sign he was making an effort to be calm, himself, rather than being in his more naturally serene state.

Seeing the look on his father's face, Jasper sighed. Now the spontaneous hunting trip made sense. "You spoke to Edward." It wasn't a question.

"I did." Carlisle sighed as he turned, Jasper moving with him, to start a leisurely stroll back through the woods. "I was hoping this would clear your head, or at least help you understand better why your head isn't clear. I get the feeling it didn't work."

Jasper shrugged, his hands folded behind his back like a soldier standing at ease. "I suppose it did, a little."

"Do you want to explain it?"

He cast his gaze around at the leaves of the forest canopy as they walked beneath it. "I'm still not entirely sure what it is, but . . . . It's almost like there's a scent in the air I can't quite catch. I know it's there, but I don't know what it is. Yet, there's this sense as though it should feel familiar to me."

"And you have no idea what it could be?"

Jasper shook his head, his lips pressing together in a line.

"I wish I had some bit of wisdom to offer," Carlisle lamented, slinging an arm around the younger vampire's shoulders. "But I'm afraid it doesn't sound like anything I've ever heard of before."

An oddly peaceful smile curving his lips, Jasper whispered, "Maybe this is what it feels like to lose your mind."

Carlisle's features pinched. He didn't like that at all, and especially didn't like Jasper speaking so lightly of it even as he recognized it was an attempt to make him not take it quite so seriously. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out."


There was no avoiding the tension in the car without Seth there to ease it. Worse, the strange behavior of the pack toward her right there at the end and Jacob's sudden reluctance to speak only made things worse.

He spoke offhandedly about the shops as they pulled into a carpark. Questioned certain things she bought, as half the recipes she personally enjoyed—and could cook without ruining—were things he'd never heard of. When she, just as offhandedly, suggested he could possibly join her for a meal, he agreed before either of them even realized they'd just made a date.

For a long moment, they'd just stood in the frozen food aisle, gaping at one another. The crash of two shopping carts in another aisle jarred them back to their senses and she immediately returned to looking through the shelves.

Then they were back in the car, the strain between them making her squirm in her seat a bit.

When they at last reached her resort and she was checked in, Jacob stood before the porch steps of her cabin—suite 6, on the end, to be precise—letting out the same low whistle he and Seth had shared earlier in the car.

She snickered, playfully elbowing past him as she made her way up to the door with an armful of her groceries, leaving him to take the rest. "C'mon, now. Let's get inside before you really tell me what you think of the place."

By the time he managed to unstick his feet from the ground and follow her inside—up across the porch, through the living room area to the attached kitchen—she'd already put away everything from the bag she'd taken and was setting the coffeemaker.

"Isn't it late for coffee?" he asked, almost unaware how natural it was as he set down the bags he carried and began handing her items to put wherever she needed.

"I mean to stay up and make notes of everything I learned today."

He paused in the midst of handing over a pint of raspberry sorbet. "You remember it all?"

"Yes," she said simply. "I don't have an eidetic memory, but I do have a very good memory."

Too soon, it seemed, she put away the last thing—canned pasta in the cupboard. And she turned to face him. "Now are you going to tell me what that was all about back there with the pack?"

"You're not going to give up on making me tell you if I just say 'no' now, are you?"

She smirked and walked past him. Back through the living room area and across the threshold of the bedroom. She already knew he was hesitating, that it didn't occur to him that their destination was wholly innocent.

And she was ignoring that being aware of the direction of his thoughts set off a little spark of tingling warmth low in her body.

"I'm just going to unpack, you know."

"Oh." Curious in spite of himself, he followed her. He had wanted to see this magic of hers firsthand.

She had opened the drawers of the bureau and then the small bag she'd had with her the entire time. He watched, fascinated, as she sprinkled miniature items into each drawer and then waved a wand—a legit wand, like something from a tv show or a movie—over the tiny bundles. Just like that, he was suddenly staring at neatly folded pants, shirts, a drawer full that seemed destined for all non-clothing items, and then—he immediately darted his attention away at the sight of satin and frilly lace.

No need to give his imagination more fuel than it already had.

Selecting a notebook and pen from her non-clothing drawer, she snapped them all closed at once with another wave of her wand.

"Impressed yet?" she asked, a smile in her voice.

Forcing his gaze to meet hers, he couldn't censor himself, the thought spilling from his lips, "What makes you think I wasn't already?"

The mirthful light in her eyes dimmed a little, making for a more serious look before she backpedaled from the bureau. Rounding him, she went back into the living room, having a feeling her bedroom might not be the best place for this, or well, any conversation with Jacob Black.

Yet, as they returned to the living room, just as she sat down, she spotted the fireplace. "Oh, dear Lord! I completely forgot I said I'd contact Harry and let him know I arrived safely!"

Jacob looked around before pointing to the phone, only to turn back and see the witch lighting the flames in the hearth.

"Um . . . ."

She knelt down, waving her wand at the fire and muttering something. Nearly as soon as she was finished, a face appeared in the flames.

"Hermione! Where have you been?!" a voice echoed off the stones. Clearly he'd been waiting for her communication by Floo.

Jacob's brows shot up. Unable to believe his eyes, he crept closer to the image.

"I'm so sorry, Harry. I didn't mean to worry you! Everything happened so fast once I got off the plane, but I'm at the resort, safe, about to settle in for the night."

The image's eyes, darted over her head, fixing on Jacob from behind a pair of wire-rim glasses. "That so?"

A nervous giggle burst out of her as she glanced back to see Jacob's sad attempt to force a smile at this visage in the flames. "Hermione," he managed to murmur from the side of his mouth, "what exactly is happening?"

"Sorry, it's a method of magical communication. I should've warned you. Harry Potter, this is Jacob Black. Jacob Black, Harry Potter."

"Oh," Harry said, dragging out the sound. "Billy Black's son, right. Make 'em large there, don't they?"

Her attention immediately went back to her friend's face. "Actually, yes. It might be a thing with their kind. I met with the pack—and the elders, they were all so wonderful—and these werewolves are all enormous fellows. Wait . . . except Leah. The one female, she's not overly tall, but very impressively built."

"So," Harry said after it was safely determined Hermione was finished talking, "brought one of the werewolves home to help with your research, then?"

Jacob balked at the not at all subtle implication while she shook her head, laughing—she knew she recognized that concerned-brother tone Harry was using. "Stop that. He was simply about to explain a few things I didn't get to discuss with the pack and then he'll be on his way."

Seeming satisfied with that explanation—and after making a schedule with Hermione to check in for safety reasons—Harry bid her, and Jacob, goodnight.

"That, um, yeah, that was something."

Hermione snickered as she stood and came to the sofa. Taking a seat, she didn't even wait for him to follow suit before she asked, "What was going on with how the pack looked at me after you shifted?"

He caught the back of the couch, stopping himself from sinking into the cushion. "You know? That coffee might be good right about now."

Sighing harshly through her nostrils, she stood. "You're not getting out of this, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," he answered, his tone heavy with the sort of resignation typically born of familiarity.

Moments later, each settled at the kitchen table with mugs in hand, he started. "Everyone felt it was best to introduce you to . . . werewolf life, I guess, a little at a time. Tonight was our legends and seeing us shifted. The next visit was going to be watching the shift in process, and explaining our life spans, and probably explaining imprinting, too."

"Okay," she said the word slow and lifted her mug for a sip, her gaze never leaving his.

He took a sip as well, not really sure how to do this, except simply to start. It had been easy with Bella because as much as he'd felt for her at the time, he knew he was not imprinted on her. With Hermione? He didn't have clue what was happening.

"Imprinting is kind of like . . . it's like finding your soul mate, and being aware, right then, that that's what they are to you." He was cognizant of the way her posture stiffened. "It's something we don't have any control over. Um, I saw it, through the eyes of my brothers when they imprinted. Felt what it was like for them. There's no way to describe it that could really make someone else understand it the way we do. We—"

"Hang on, sorry. What d'you mean you saw it through their eyes?"

His expression was a sort of wincing smile as he shook his head. "When we're shifted, we're all sort of linked, like, in our minds. We can't shield our thoughts from each other."

"Sounds kind of terrible."

"It's helpful when you're hunting something or in combat."

"Or when you need to show someone something you can't quite explain?"

Jacob nodded. "Anyway . . . . It's like imagine you meet someone and the first moment you look in their eyes, suddenly they're your whole heart. There's nothing you wouldn't do for them and you know deep down, you'd die before you let something happen to them, because if you lose them . . . . If you lose them, literally nothing else will ever matter to you again."

He almost thought he could feel the way her breath trembled out of her then.

"Sounds kind of terrible," she said again, her voice soft, thoughtful. "Why does it happen?"

"No one's really sure. Sam thinks it is like a soul mate, like it's this person who's meant to be with you and understand you, but my dad thinks the point of an imprint is to make you stronger."

She lifted her coffee for another sip, watching him, still, as she waited for him to go on.

This time, he tore his gaze from hers, instead looking to the movement of his own fingertips as he traced the lip of his mug. "When I first saw you at the airport, I felt . . . something inexplicable. A connection, I think, but it—"

"So it wasn't just me?" she asked, still whispering.

He snapped his head up to meet her eyes, again. "Wait. You felt it, too?"

"I think so . . . I've been . . . all night it's just . . . ." Hermione uttered a relieved laugh. "I thought I might be going a little bit mad."

"See? That's the thing! Imprints aren't a two-way street like that. I mean, its rare for someone to reject the person who's imprinted on them, but it's more like 'how do you say no to someone who will be everything you ever need?' sort o' thing." He shrugged. "When we all shifted and the pack saw those feelings, when they felt that connection, they didn't know what to make of it, either."

"Maybe imprints work differently with other supernatural beings?"

Jacob arched a brow. "That's a thought, actually."

An awkward silence stretched between them as he processed that possibility.

"Um," he finally said after too long of both of them trying to ignore the sudden spike in tension, "is it okay if I use the phone over there to call the Cullens? I mean, I could always just swing by and talk to them in person before heading home, but . . . I kinda don't want to just show up unannounced."

She offered a small smile and nodded. Her mug held between both hands, she stared down into the dark liquid as he got up and crossed to the living room area.

Somewhat dully she could hear the conversation that followed. Apparently someone named Edward picked up the line, which was followed by a taunting over distance which she did not understand. But Jacob insisted on speaking to the head of the coven—the doctor, Carlisle. After a brief explanation of the reason behind his call, there was a time set for late tomorrow morning.

Hermione had no idea why she was so listless until he returned to the kitchen table. He didn't reclaim his seat, instead, bringing his mug to the sink and rinsing it out. "It's getting pretty late. I should get home."

"Uh huh," was all that came out of her.

Setting the mug down, he turned to look at her. "Hermione? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. No, n—nothing. It's stupid. It's mad, actually."

The tremor in her voice ripped at his heart. Kneeling beside her, he peered up into her face. "Hey, what is it?"

"I don't know, really, just . . . ." She chewed at her lower lip a moment as she weighed her words. "If this isn't an imprint, then that means the one whom you are meant to imprint upon is still out there. Which would mean that even if this connection we have means anything, then one day, suddenly, it won't. It just . . . I don't know, but it hurt to think that. And isn't that just madness on the face of it?"

"Maybe?" he said, his voice uncertain as he shook his head, a smile that was equally uncertain tugging at the corners of his mouth. "But hearing it like that—" He broke off, inhaling deep and casting his eyes upward before he could continue. "It hurts me, too. And I have no idea what that means."

She hadn't turned toward him, wouldn't even look at him just now, her focus still trained on her coffee mug. "This is just . . . I've known you less than half a bloody day! I should not be feeling like . . . ." She let out a shuddering breath.

"Like what?"

Then, she did look at him. Meeting his gaze, she wanted to tell him so very badly that she felt like she might go a little bit mad if she didn't feel the press of his skin against hers soon.

But . . . they had known one another less than half a day. She was afraid to put herself in so vulnerable position. What did it matter that he felt the same things if it might only be ripped away by some mystical bond to another person he was meant to be with?

"Perhaps this is a discussion best not held when we're both tired and, well, alone."

He wanted to tell her to say it anyway. Wanted to say fuck common sense and exhaustion . . . but looking up at her like this, some concern she couldn't or wouldn't share with him in her eyes, he understood maybe it was best not to do this now. They had all summer, no point jumping into anything.

She scooted back her chair and stood. "I'll walk you out."

He stood, towering over her, and chuckled. "The door is literally right there," he said, pointing across the space.

"I know, but it's common courtesy."

His dark eyes narrowed. "You're always going to insist on stuff like this, aren't you?"

"Very probably, yes."

Jacob gave in, letting her walk beside him to the door. She stood there, at the threshold, watching as he lumbered across the porch and down the steps.

Later, alone in her bed, after taking her notes and indulging in a nice, hot bath, she wondered—and wondered, and wondered some more—if she should have told him.

If she should've asked him to stay.

If the night might've ended very differently if she'd touched him, just once.


Well, that was the shittiest night's sleep he'd had in a long time. Jacob swallowed a yawn as he pulled up in front of her cabin.

She looked far better rested than he felt, sitting on her porch with another mug in hand. Her eyes were closed and her head tipped back against her chair.

He thought she might be sleeping for how peaceful she looked, until she lifted her free hand, gesturing for him to give her a minute. Which turned into five, apparently, as she finished her coffee, ran the mug back into the cabin, and—with notebook and pen clutched to her abdomen, this time—finally climbed into the passenger seat.

On the drive, he described the various family members so that Hermione could brace herself. The unavoidable cold of shaking their hands, the poking about in her brain that one named Edward might be unable to stop himself from engaging in, the annoyingly captivating beauty of an exceptionally angry creature named Rosalie. There was Bella, of course with some sort of defensive power Hermione might not have any reason to ever see in-use. Some massive bloke named Emmett, who was apparently a bit of a cuddly bear in human form, Carlisle and his too-nice-to-everyone wife, Esme. He rounded it off with Alice, the 'tiny fortune teller', and finally Jasper.

He considered Jasper sort of a special case. The only one all the pack grudgingly respected aside from Carlisle—many of them played favorites, only able to tolerate a particular one or two of them at any given time unless they were hunting together— as they perceived him as the biggest threat amongst the Olympic coven. Emmett might be strongest, Edward might be fastest, but Jasper was second to each of them in those regards, and neither possessed his militaristic mindset. Wholly at odds with his typical demeanor—the polite, quiet Southern gentleman—he was perhaps the fiercest hunter in the family.

She wasn't particularly concerned about the mind reader as she'd mastered Occlumency years ago, but the emotion control thing sounded interesting. How helpful and curious would it be to carry out what should be an enraging argument as a calm debate, instead?

"That's a lot to remember," she said in a small voice, nodding. "And they're all pretty?"

"Yeah." Jacob's mouth curled in a sneer. "It's kind of grossly irritating."

As they pulled up in front of the house, she imitated Jacob's whistle of appreciation from the day before. The place was lovely, by entirely modern standards, of course. The werewolf ran around to the passenger side to get the door for her.

Stepping from the car, she stared up at the massive white-and-glass edifice. "Huh. I don't think I expected vampires to live in anything so—"

"Bright and sunny?" Jacob asked while they started walking toward the short, wide front steps.

"I was going to say 'contemporary', but that works, too, actually."

He shrugged. "Turns out they actually like the sun, but there's . . . you'll see, there's a reason they don't like to be seen in direct sunlight. Oh, and they never sleep."

Hermione stumbled as she crossed the porch. "Never?"

Jacob shook his head.

The bridge of her nose crinkled. The very thought—at first it might seem appealing to have so much time to do whatever one wanted, study as long as one wanted. But after a while, didn't time get sort of monotonous?

"A life without dreams seems miserable to me."

He felt as if everything in him stopped for a split second as her words sank in. He hadn't even considered it that way, but yes. It sounded excruciating now that he thought on it.

Sooner than he could ring the bell, the door flew open. A beautiful girl with long red-brown hair and snowy white skin erupted from the house, flinging herself on Jacob.

"Jake," she nearly shrieked. "It's so good to see you!"

He caught her easily, swinging her about before setting her on her feet. Hermione was surprised she didn't feel an immediate stab of jealousy, but she knew from personal experience that this must be Bella, as it was not much different from her greetings with Harry after a long time apart. Well, with the glaring exception that Harry wasn't much taller than Hermione and wasn't exactly sturdy, so more often than not, her flinging herself at him ended with both of them toppled on the floor.

"Bella Swan, this is Hermione Granger. Hermione, Bella."

"Hi! Um, I'm . . . I'm sorry, I've never met a 'real' witch before, I'm not sure what to say."

Hermione glanced at Jacob before returning her attention to Bella. Her hair was so perfect, it held Hermione's gaze with little effort. "Well, 'hi' is a perfectly fine start."

Bella winced, nodding. "I guess I'm making this weird. Come in, everyone's expecting you."

Hermione didn't follow until she felt Jacob's hand on her back—she could feel how he was crowded protectively beside her. The sensation nearly distracted her, and she knew it would have for certain, if not for her shirt blocking any actual skin contact. She was ushered inside through a sunlit foyer and into a stylishly wide-open living room space.

Jacob was making introductions, she could sense the timbre of his voice beating against her pulse. She recognized the names he'd already told her, heard something about the little one, Alice, not being here, but as she faced them, she found her thoughts fleeing her.

Their eyes . . . they weren't all exactly the same, and yet they were. Varied depths of gold, amber, ocher. She'd seen eyes like these only once before.

The air locked in her chest. In a flash, she saw the face of Fenrir Greyback, heard his deep, rasping breath in her ear, felt the scrape of his teeth against her throat. The vicious stab of his clawed fingers in the back of her neck.

She dropped her gaze to the floor, her eyes filling with immediate tears, hot and angry, as she forced herself to breathe. Her fingers flexed as she fought the instant desire to draw her wand and strike out at those eyes.

She could hear Jacob speaking her name in a concerned whisper—she was a witch, meeting some 'tame' Muggle vampires was supposed to be nothing.

Her lips trembled and her voice came out shaky. "I'm sorry, I just . . . ." There was a sense of calm attempting to steal through her then, trying to muffle her fear and agitation. Rather than welcoming it, she forced the soothing impression away. Hermione was certain she heard a soft, low sound of surprise from one of them as she backpedaled a step.

"I need some air, if . . . if you'll all excuse me." She was back out the door without a single glance in their direction.

Jasper knew everyone was turning to look at him as Jacob followed the witch back outside. They were aware he'd used his gift, they were all calm due to it. She wasn't immune, no; he recognized that the witch had deliberately pushed his ability aside.

He only shook his head in response to their unasked questions, managing quietly, "I don't understand what just happened." All he did know, and a troubling realization it was, was that whatever had been wrong with him since yesterday had seemed to evaporate entirely the moment she set foot in front of him.

In the face of Jasper's not at all subtle confusion, the family turned their collective attention to Edward for answers.

Frowning thoughtfully, he shrugged. "I don't know, either. I couldn't read her."

Bella's eyes widened. "I thought I was the only person your gift didn't work on."

He met her gaze, frown deepening. "This is different. I can't hear you at all, like a blank spot. With that girl, it was more like trying to listen to a whispered conversation—you can hear someone speaking, but you can't quite catch what they're saying." He shook his head, just as his brother had. "It was as if she was actively stopping me from hearing her, not like your gift at all."

Carlisle broke into his children's discussion before anyone could get uncomfortable or irrational about the unexpected way this introduction had gone. "I've heard about this, I simply never believed I'd encounter it. Witches of her kind have a way—a discipline—that teaches them to protect their thoughts. It's usually to shield themselves from others of their own kind, because there is another discipline which permits the user to look into their target's mind."

"But you said there aren't any of her kind around here," Rosalie pointed out, dubious about the entire situation, but then there wasn't much she trusted.

Carlisle nodded, shrugging. "There aren't. Closest of her kind are a small handful in Port Angeles, but . . . ." He paused, unsure if this was information he even had a right to share with them. Their lives were so far removed from that girl's world that the tragic events in Wizarding Britain, as they called it, one decade ago never even registered on their radar. If not for his contact with other vampires still in Europe, he'd never have known, either.

Letting out a sigh, he nodded. "There was a war among her people about ten years ago. I can only guess that anyone who lived through it learned to be on guard at all times."

A thoughtful, silent moment passed in the room as they considered his answer. They'd caused bloodshed, they'd been in battles. They knew what it was to have trouble letting go of instincts built from such harsh foundations.

Jasper's eyes returned to the door. "And her emotions?" He couldn't be sure what it was, but he felt certain if his heart still beat, it would've stopped at the way she looked around at them.

If his lungs still worked, they'd have halted at the fear he felt rippling from her.

Regardless of ifs and stills, he knew there was something in the back of his mind he couldn't quite make sense of. Something dark and lurking that had awakened with her departure.

"That, I have no idea." Again Carlisle shrugged. He didn't particularly like it when he didn't have answers to offer them. "She may simply have a strong self-awareness, or it maybe something to do with what she is. I'll caution you all." He gave Bella a meaningful look—she was known for rash decisions, after all, and being turned had not tempered that aspect of her personality much. "All. She's a witch and none of us really know what one is capable of. She's not here as an enemy, so let's not try to find out."

Bella frowned, finding the collective weight of her family's attention on her. She knew they ultimately trusted her, but the added reminder for restraint that was targeted at her was irritating. "I understand."

Their collective weight, with the exception of Jasper and Edward.

Jasper's attention was still on the door, and Edward's was on his adoptive brother. Whatever was happening in the blond vampire's head, it was because of her.

But how . . . ? Her blood didn't sing to Jasper, as it were, that was a distinct impression Edward would recognize from his own experience. It also was not quite like Rosalie's thoughts when she'd found Emmett, nor Carlyle's thoughts when he'd found Esme.

Holding in a sigh, he turned his head, following his Jasper's gaze. Once again, he had no idea what Jasper was actually feeling.

But, as had happened with his own experience, it seemed Jacob Black was—once again—going to prove an obstacle. At least if the incredibly witch-centric thoughts filling the werewolf's head were anything to go by.