A/N I don't own Twilight, that's the property of Stephanie Meyer. Anya Simms is all mine.

Chapter 9 Wash Rinse Repeat

JPOV

The next few days were a blur of rain, routine, and the ever-present task of playing private eye. I was still stuck on tailing Anya, watching her every move like some sort of supernatural detective. The thought of digging out a fedora to complete the look crossed my mind more than once—if I was going to be stuck in this role, I might as look the part. Plus, I did actually own a few.

Anya's behaviour, though, remained as perplexing as ever.

Remember what I said about humans' emotional cocktail is one part excitement, one part anger, a splash of fear?

Anya's was decidedly not. Her cocktail wasn't even on the same menu – she was this strange blend of carefree happiness and focused determination. Every morning, she'd arrive at the school dressed impeccably, her trademark chicness on full display. Alice and Rosalie were always impressed by her wardrobe that I fleetingly wondered if I had to worry about them turning cat burglar to raid the librarian's closet. I shook the thought free – while they were impressed, they still preferred haute couture. Which Anya was a step or two below.

Don't ask how I – the God of War – know the difference. Please don't.

She'd stride into the library and then by midmorning, reemerge in what I could only describe as her battle gear—battered overalls, work boots, and plaid button-downs that somehow still managed to look tailored.

I managed to catch a very fleeting glimpse of said battle gear as I had been out in the hall ostensibly to use the toilet. I needed a break from the hormonal cocktail that was my Social Studies class. I can only handle Jessica Stanley ogling me with nauseating lust for so long; when, I kid you not, I saw Anya poke her head out of the library doors scan the halls and then dart out into the girl's washroom across the hall, to I presume answer her own call of nature as every other time I would see her in the school she was every ounce of the librarian – pencil skirts, fitted blouses or sweaters, and three inch heels that would clack on the floor announcing her arrival.

Given the state of the library the battle gear made sense. She was a glorified cleaner and rather than outright refuse as Carlisle shared with me one night when I provided my daily update on Anya, as the three previous librarians had done, not even lasting the day, Anya tackled it with gusto.

"Her references were glowing about her organizational skills." Was all Carlisle had to say on the matter.

I wondered if perhaps Anya had lied on her résumé, and she was hiding that she wasn't really a librarian but instead a master cleaner.

Emmett thought the idea was hilarious when I suggested it one night while playing PS2 with him.

Edward did not.

He, of course, remained as frustrated as ever. His inability to read her mind was gnawing at him, and he was constantly pestering me for updates, asking if I'd sensed anything out of the ordinary.

The truth was, there wasn't much to report. Anya was… Anya. Still happy, still humming, still jumping in puddles when she thought no one was looking.

She'd taken to bringing her lunch from home, probably in a futile attempt to avoid the cafeteria, but the lack of a microwave in the faculty lounge meant she still found herself in line, waiting patiently for her food to heat up. Mike Newton, ever the eager puppy, was always there, ready to chat her up, and I'd catch snippets of their conversations as I watched from a distance.

And then there were the moments when she'd catch my eye—usually just after she'd said or think something particularly amusing. At least I think it was her thoughts because she still remained solidly silent to Edward. Her emotions were always on for me.

She'd give me a nod, a small smile, like we were in on some inside joke that no one else understood. It was disarming, really. There was no fear, no hesitation—just a quiet acknowledgment that I was there, that she knew I was watching, and that she found the whole situation as asinine as I did.

Yet…I found it hard not to be drawn to her. There was something about Anya that defied explanation. She was a puzzle, one that I was still trying to piece together, but every time I thought I was getting closer to understanding her, she'd throw something new into the mix—humming a rock tune, a glance, a wink—that would leave me second-guessing everything.

Ahh yes, the wink.

If Emmett hadn't been beside Edward, and at that moment slapped him on the back in response to something funny Edward supposedly had said, I am positive Edward would have lunged across the table and slaughtered half the student body between us and Anya as she walked out of the cafeteria door.

Holy shit did that wink set him off.

He outright refused to believe that all that I could feel from her was nothing but happiness and amusement.

I wish I could say the frustration was limited to Edward, but Rosalie too was fuming. Not about the wink of course, she gave two shits about that. Oh no, her source was the constant lack of a red BMW in the faculty parking lot. Every time she brought it up, I could practically see the wheels turning in her head, trying to figure out why someone would have such a fancy car if they weren't going to drive it. It wasn't like Rosalie to let something like that go, and her irritation only grew with each passing day.

But as it turned out, Anya did drive it—just not to school. One afternoon, while I was tailing her, she called for a tow truck to take it in to repair the broken headlight. I watched from my perch in my preferred oak tree – we were fast becoming well acquainted – as she met the driver outside on her porch, barefoot, in low-rise jeans and a fitted Guns N Roses t-shirt that completely contradicted her more professional librarian looks at school. Her hair was up in a messy bun, held together by what looked like chopsticks—another detail that didn't quite fit the neat, put-together image she usually presented.

Rosalie would have a field day if she knew about this, I thought, shaking my head at the sight. Here was the car she'd been obsessing over, and the woman who drove it was nothing like the buttoned-up school librarian she'd been imagining. The fancy BMW was real, and so was the woman behind the wheel—unpredictable, full of surprises, and apparently very adept at keeping people guessing.

Watching the tow truck driver hook up the car, I found myself studying Anya more closely, trying to reconcile this version of her with the one I'd been following all week. The way she carried herself at school, the way she handled the disaster of the library, the way she engaged with the students—all of it seemed so carefully controlled. And yet, here she was, looking completely at ease in a way that felt almost… unreal.

Like I said, a puzzle. The more I learned, the more I realized just how little I actually knew about her. And a solider does not do well with the unknown.

Not that I thought of her as the enemy. She still hadn't given any indication that she was an enemy. The driver finished his work, and Anya exchanged a few words with him before he drove off, the BMW in tow. She lingered on the porch for a moment, stretching out her bare feet and looking out at the rain-soaked yard with a contented expression, as if she didn't have a care in the world.

It was a scene that didn't quite fit with the narrative I'd been building in my mind, and I couldn't help but feel my own twinge of frustration. Every time I thought I was getting closer to understanding her, she'd do something like this—something that threw everything off balance.

But then again, maybe that was the point. Maybe Anya was more complicated than any of us had given her credit for. And maybe, just maybe, that was why she intrigued me so much.

This woman would shamelessly rock out in her living room with only the sheers haphazardly closed, a fire roaring in the grate, and the kind of abandon that made you forget she was supposed to be the new librarian at Forks High. Every evening was a different concert, and she was the star—always to rock, her extensive record collection blasting through the sound system. But this Thursday evening, she switched it up to… Gowan. A Criminal Mind of all things.

I watched from my usual spot, perched in the oak tree with a perfect view of her living room. The firelight flickered across the room, casting shadows on the walls as Anya took centre stage, a candlestick in hand as her makeshift microphone. She belted out the lyrics with all the intensity of someone who truly felt the music, her voice echoing through the empty house.

And she could dance—really dance. The kind of movements that were all instinct, fluid and confident, as if the music was coursing through her veins, directing her every step. There was something almost mesmerizing about the way she moved, the way she gave herself over to the music without a care in the world.

The sight of her—barefoot, in comfortable clothes that barely resembled the ones she wore at school, her hair tumbling loose around her shoulders—was enough to make me forget, for a moment, why I was even there. She was in her element, completely at ease, and it was clear that this was her sanctuary, her escape from the world.

And she was doing it all with the curtains open, I thought with a shake of my head. She didn't seem to care who might be watching if anyone at all. It was as if she was daring the world to look in, to see her as she really was.

And Edward was convinced she knew what we were.

I have stalked my share of humans. Before I jump aboard the vegetarian band wagon, that is. The moment they have even an inkling of who – what – we are they are cowering. They cover up the windows, they jump at the smallest of noises, one eye always over their shoulder.

They do not rock out in their living room with only the sheers to block out the boogeymen.

Edward would lose his shit if he saw this, I thought, shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it all. His irritation over not being able to read her mind would probably pale in comparison to the sight of her rocking out to Gowan in her living room.

And just when I thought the show was over—Anya lying on the couch, catching her breath after her spirited performance—she suddenly shot up, screeching, "YES!" The sudden burst of energy had me leaning forward in curiosity. What now?

She hurried over to her record collection, flipping through them madly, her feet tapping impatiently as if the anticipation was too much to bear. I watched, intrigued, as she finally found what she was looking for and hugged it with giddy joy. She practically cradled the record before carefully taking it out of its sleeve and placing it on the turntable.

The moment the beat dropped, she was grooving again, her body moving instinctively to the rhythm. The familiar opening notes filled the room, and it didn't take long for me to recognize the song: Werewolves of London.

And yes, when the chorus hit, she howled right along with it, throwing her head back and letting loose with a grin so wide it was contagious. The sound of her laughter and howling echoed through the room, and I couldn't help but laugh along with her, thoroughly entertained by the sight. Here she was, completely uninhibited, dancing and howling like a lunatic in her living room, and it was the most alive I'd seen anyone in a long time. The joy radiating from her was infectious, filling the space with an energy that was impossible to ignore.

It was too much—I couldn't help myself.

No, I didn't drain her.

Instead, I merely opened myself up to all of the unabashed happiness and energy she radiated, and I swear my dead heart wanted to flip in response.

Who would have thought, I mused, shaking my head in disbelief. A librarian who rocks out like no one's watching, and here I am, a vampire laughing along from a tree. Much like the first night I encountered here on the windswept Highway 1.

See what I mean, her emotional cocktail was from a totally different menu and man if I didn't fucking love it.

I should have kept that thought to myself when I entered the house a few hours later. The moment I was in range, Edward pounced on me—yes, the fucker actually pounced on me—and got the clobbering he deserved for pulling that stunt.

"What did you mean by that?" he demanded; his frustration clear. Before I could respond, he dragged Alice into the mix, insisting she scour the future for any decisions that I or the librarian might have made.

Apparently, he thought I meant I loved Anya's blood so much I wanted to drain her. Is he deranged? I thought, trying not to roll my eyes too hard. "No, Edward, I do not want to take a snack out of the librarian," I said, attempting to keep my voice calm. "I'm talking about her emotions. They're just… different. And it's refreshing."

But of course, Edward wouldn't let it go. He was obsessed with figuring out what made Anya tick, and he wasn't about to drop it. As I tried to reason with him, Alice was sitting on the couch, her expression one of utter boredom as she dutifully scoured the future for Anya's mundane, everyday decisions.

"Anything?" I asked, casting a glance in her direction.

Alice sighed dramatically, still staring off into the future. "Oh, you know, the usual," she drawled, her voice tinged with exasperation. "Pencil skirt or dress pants… Gowan or Guns N' Roses. And here's a real shocker—salmon or haddock."

"Thrilling decisions," I added sarcastically, crossing my arms as I leaned against the wall. "That's all she saw, Edward. Nothing sinister, nothing to warrant this level of paranoia."

Alice gave a small shrug, still half-lost in her visions. "It's all very routine," she muttered, flipping through the mental images like they were channels on a TV. "Honestly, it's like watching paint dry."

Edward huffed, clearly unsatisfied with our answers, but he couldn't argue with Alice's visions. They were, after all, as mundane as they came. Still, I could see him overthinking, trying to piece together something that wasn't there.

"Look," I said, my tone softening slightly. "I get that you're frustrated. But there's nothing nefarious going on here. Anya's just… different. And maybe that's exactly why she's so intriguing. But I repeat for what is the hundredth time – it does not mean she is a threat."

Fucker didn't respond, but the tension in the room slowly eased. He was still on edge, still obsessed, but at least for now, he seemed to accept that there was no immediate danger.

Meanwhile, Alice was still slumped on the couch, her eyes glazing over as she watched Anya make another unremarkable decision—whether or not to pick up a loaf of sourdough at the grocery store tomorrow. "Riveting," she muttered under her breath, shooting me a pointed look.

Edward finally backed off, and Alice was free from watching the paint dry as she put it and the two of them left to return to what they had been doing before my wayward professing of loving Anya's emotional cocktail disrupted them – the chess match.

I retreated to my room to stare off into the woods, guitar in hand and strumming along to Werewolves of London as thoughts wandering back to Anya's impromptu performance, the utter joy she'd radiated in that moment. It was a rare thing, to see someone so unabashedly happy.

If only its counterpoint wasn't Edward's growing paranoia. Perhaps I should try and shoot out some Anya happiness his way…