theory

Can I ask just one more?" he entreated instead of answering my demand.

I was on edge, anxious for the worst. And yet, how tempting it was to prolong this moment. To have Beau with me, willingly, for just a few seconds longer. I sighed at the dilemma, and then said, "One."

"Well…," he hesitated for a moment, as if deciding which question to voice. "You said you knew I hadn't gone into the bookstore, and that I had gone south. I was just wondering how you knew that."

I glared out the windshield. Here was another question that revealed nothing on his part, and too much on mine.

"Really? I thought we were past all the evasiveness," he said, his tone critical and disappointed.

How ironic. He was relentlessly evasive, without even trying.

Well, he wanted me to be direct. And this conversation wasn't going anywhere good, regardless.

"Fine, then," I said. "I followed your scent."

I wanted to watch his face, but I was afraid of what I would see. Instead, I listened to his breath accelerate and then stabilize. He spoke again after a moment, and his voice was steadier than I would have expected.

"And then you didn't answer one of my first questions…" he said.

I looked down at him, frowning. He was stalling, too.

"Which one?"

"How does it work—the mind-reading thing?" he asked, reiterating his question from the restaurant. "Can you read anybody's mind, anywhere? How do you do it? Can the rest of your family do the same thing?" His seemed more confident with his questions now.

"That's more than one question," I said.

He just looked at me, waiting for his answers.

And why not tell him? He'd already guessed most of this, and it was an easier subject that the one that loomed.

 "No, it's just me. And I can't hear anyone, anywhere. They have to be fairly close. The more familiar someone's… 'voice' is, the farther away I can hear them. But still, no more than a few miles." I tried to think of a way to describe it so that he would understand. An analogy that he could relate to. "It's a little like being in a huge hall filled with people, everyone talking at once. It's just a hum—a buzzing of voices in the background. Until I focus on one voice, and then what they're thinking is clear. Most of the time, I tune it all out—it can be very distracting. And then it's easier to seem normal"—I grimaced—"when I'm not accidentally answering someone's thought rather than their words."

"Why do you think you can't hear me?" he wondered.

Ah. The question of the century. I examined his face, searching for the answer in his beautiful eyes and coming up short yet again. I decided to give him another truth and another analogy.

"I don't know," I admitted. "The only guess I have is that maybe your mind doesn't work the same way the rest of theirs do. Like your thoughts are on the AM frequency and I'm only getting FM."

I realized that he would not like this analogy. The anticipation of his reaction had me smiling. He didn't disappoint.

"Did you just suggest my mind doesn't work right?" he asked, his voice rising with chagrin. "Like I'm a freak?"

Ah, the irony again.

"I hear voices in my mind and you're worried that you're the freak," I laughed. He understood all the small things, and yet the big ones he got backwards. Always the wrong instincts…

Beau was gnawing on his lip, and the crease between his eyes was etched deep.

"Don't worry," I reassured him. "It's just a theory…" And there was a more important theory to be discussed. I was anxious to get it over with. Each passing second was beginning to feel more and more like borrowed time.

"Which brings us back to you."

He sighed, still chewing his lip—I worried that he would hurt himself. He stared into my eyes, his face troubled.

"Aren't we past all evasions now?" I asked quietly.

He looked down, struggling with some internal dilemma. Suddenly, he stiffened and his eyes flew wide open. Fear flashed across his face for the first time.

"Holy crow!" he gasped.

I panicked. What had he seen? How had I frightened him?

Then he shouted, "Slow down!"

"What's wrong?" I didn't understand where his terror was coming from.

"You're pushing a hundred and ten miles an hour!" he yelled at me. He flashed a look out the window, and recoiled from the dark trees racing past us.

This little thing, just a bit of speed, had him shouting in fear?

I rolled my eyes. "Relax, Beau."

"Are you trying to kill us?" he demanded, his voice high and tight.

"We're not going to crash," I promised him.

He sucked in a sharp breath, and then spoke in a slightly more level tone. "Why are you in such a hurry?"

"I always drive like this."

I met his gaze, amused by his shocked expression.

"Keep your eyes on the road, Edward!" He shouted.

"I've never had an accident, Beau—I've never even gotten a ticket." I grinned at him and touched my forehead. It made it even more comical—the absurdity of being able to joke with him about something so secret and strange. "Built-in radar detector."

"Very funny," he said sarcastically, his voice more frightened than angry. "Charlie's a cop, remember? I was raised to abide by traffic laws. Besides, if you turn us into a Volvo pretzel around a tree trunk, you can probably just walk away."

"Probably," I repeated, and then laughed without humor. Yes, we would fare quite differently in a car accident. He was right to be afraid, despite my driving abilities… "But you can't."

With a sigh, I let the car drift to a crawl. "Happy?"

He eyed the speedometer, and smirked. "Good boy."

I felt a thrill of excitement rush through my body at his words. I couldn't understand what I was feeling. I narrowed my eyes and stared at him, but I couldn't fight the smile that wanted to break across my face

Despite the thrill of his words, the torture of crawling along the highway was nearly unbearable. "I hate driving slow." I muttered, but let the needle slide another notch down.

"This is slow?" he asked.

"Enough commentary on my driving," I said impatiently. He stifled a laugh at my tone, but I was frustrated now. How many times had he dodged my question? Three times? Four? Were his speculations that horrific? I had to know—immediately. "I'm still waiting for your latest theory."

He bit his lip again, and his expression became upset, almost pained.

I reined in my impatience and softened my voice. I didn't want him to be distressed.

"I won't laugh," I promised, wishing that it was only embarrassment that made him unwilling to talk.

"I'm not worried about that." His voice was soft.

"Then what?" I pressed.

"I'm worried that you'll be… upset," he whispered.

I considered his words. I didn't want him to be worried about that. I never wanted him to be afraid of me being upset with him. It made me feel more like a monster than I already was. I watched him from the corners of my eyes. He was fretting. Rubbing his hands, nervously. I decided to take a chance. I held my hand out towards him—just a few centimeters.

His eyes darted up to mine, confusion apparent in their silvery depths.

"Don't worry about me," I assured him. "I can handle it."

He tentatively took my hand, and I curled my fingers around his as gently as I could for just a brief moment. Absorbing the sensation of his warm hand—like silk over glass. Glass I could shatter with the slightest wrong move. I unwillingly untangled my hand from his and placed it on the gearshift.

He slowly placed his hand over the top of mine again. Did he really want his hand on mine? Was he truly not repulsed by my hand? He ran his thumb along the outside of my hand, tracing from my wrist to the tip of my little finger. The sensation was exhilarating, and yet I could not revel in it as deeply as I wished. He had to be repulsed by the cold hardness of my skin…

"The suspense is killing me, Beau," the words came out a shaky breath as I watched his hand. His touch was stirring me in ways I couldn't understand.

His voice was small. "I don't know where to start."

"Why don't you start at the beginning…" I remembered his words before dinner. "You said you didn't come up with this on your own?"

"No," he agreed, and then he was silent again.

I thought about what might have inspired him. "What got you started—a book? A film?"

I should have looked through his collections when he was out of the house. I had no idea if Bram Stoker or Anne Rice was there in his stack of worn paperbacks…

"No," he said again. "It was Saturday, at the beach."

I hadn't expected that. The local gossip about us had never strayed into anything too bizarre—or too precise. Was there a new rumor I'd missed? Beau peeked up at me and saw the surprise on my face.

"I ran into an old family friend—Jacob Black," he went on. "His dad and Charlie have been friends since I was a baby."

Jacob Black—the name was no familiar, and yet it reminded me of something… some time, long ago… I stared out of the windshield, flipping through memories to find the connection.

"His dad is one of the Quileute elders," he said.

Jacob Black. Ephraim Black. A descendant, no doubt.

It was as bad as it could get.

He knew the truth.

My mind was flying through the ramifications as the car flew around the dark curves in the road, my body rigid with anguish—motionless except for the small, automatic actions it took to steer the car.

He knew the truth.

But… if he'd learned the truth Saturday… then he'd known it all evening long… and yet…

"We went for a walk on the beach together," he went on.

Despite my growing panic, I still felt a twinge of jealousy over the way he described the walk. Laughable. Like that mattered anymore now that he knew the truth.

He continued, "And he was telling me about some old legends—trying to scare me, I guess. He told me one…"

He stopped short, but there was no need for his qualms now; I knew what he was going to say. The only mystery left was why he was here with me now.

"Go on," I said.

"About vampires," he breathed, the words less than a whisper.

Somehow, it was even worse than knowing that he knew, hearing him speak the word aloud. I flinched at the sound of it. Yet, his thumb continued to trace the lines of my hand. Somehow, the gesture comforted me and I controlled myself again.

"And… you immediately thought of me?" I asked.

"No. He mentioned your family."

How ironic that it would be Ephraim's own progeny that would violate the treaty he'd vowed to uphold. A grandson, or great-grandson perhaps. How many years had it been? Seventy?

I should have realized that it was not the old men who believed in the legends that would be the danger. Of course, the younger generation—those who would have been warned, but would have thought the ancient superstitions laughable—of course that was where the danger of exposure would lie.

I suppose this meant I was now free to slaughter the small, defenseless tribe on the coastline, were I so inclined. Ephraim and his pack of protectors were long dead…

"He just thought it was a silly folk-tale," Beau said suddenly, his voice edged with a new anxiety. "He didn't expect me to think anything of it."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his free hand tense uneasily.

"It was my fault," he said after a brief pause, and then he hung his head as if he were ashamed. "I convinced him to tell me."

"Why?" It wasn't so hard to keep my voice level now. The worst was already done. As long as we spoke of the details of the revelation, we didn't have to move on to the consequences of it.

"Logan said something about you—he was trying to provoke me." He made a little face at the memory. I was slightly distracted, wondering how Beau would be provoked by someone talking about me… "And an older boy from the tribe said your family didn't come to the reservation, only it sounded like he meant something different. So, when Jacob and I went off alone I asked him."

His head dropped slightly lower as he admitted this.

Surely, there was more to the story. The Black boy must have had some idea that the tribe legends were secrets. Surely he wouldn't have just given away the information.

"You must have said something to convince him to tell you."

Beau looked confused by this, "No… I just… asked him?"

Suddenly, I could just imagine—considering the attraction he seemed to have for everyone, totally unconscious on his part—how overwhelming his charm could be, when he wasn't even trying. Alone, walking on the beach with this boy and his stunning silver eyes, I was suddenly full of pity for the unsuspecting boy he'd questioned and I couldn't stop myself from laughing.

"You obviously don't understand your own charm," I said, and then I laughed again with black humor. I wished I could have heard the Black boy's reaction, witnessed the devastation for myself. "And you accused me of dazzling people—poor Jacob Black."

I wasn't as angry with the source of my exposure as I would have expected to feel. He didn't know any better. And how could I except anyone to deny Beau what he wanted? No, I only felt sympathy for the damage Beau would have done to the Black boy's peace of mind.

I felt his blush heat the air between us. I glanced at him, and he was glaring at me, scarlet faced. "Are you jealous?" he said quickly.

I probably was, if I was honest. How much I would prefer it were me walking along the beach with Beau while he unleashed the full power of his charm on me. Ah, perchance to dream.

"What did you do then?" I prompted. Time to get back to the horror story.

"I did some research on the internet."

Ever practical. "And did that convince you?"

"No," he said. "Nothing fit. Most of it was kind of silly. And then…" He trailed off. He seemed thoughtful for a moment. "I decided… It didn't matter," he whispered the words.

Shock froze my thoughts for a half-second, and then it all fit together. Why he'd sent his friends away tonight rather than escape with them. Why he had gotten into my car with me again instead of running, screaming for the police…

His reactions were always wrong—always completely wrong. He pulled danger toward himself. He invited it.

"It didn't matter?" I said through my teeth, anger filling me. I pulled my hand out from under his. How was I supposed to protect someone so… so… so determined to be unprotected?

"No," he said in a low voice that was inexplicably tender. "It doesn't matter to me what you are."

He was impossible.

"You don't care if I'm a monster? If I'm not human?"

"No."

I started to wonder if he was entirely stable.

I supposed that I could arrange for him to receive the best care available… Carlisle would have the connections to find him the most skilled doctors, the most talented therapists. Perhaps something could be done to fix whatever it was that was wrong with him, what ever it was that made him content to sit beside a vampire with his heart beating calmly and steadily. I would watch over the facility, naturally, and visit as often as I was allowed…

"You're upset," he sighed. "I shouldn't have said anything."

As if him hiding these disturbing tendencies would help either of us.

"No. I'd rather know what you're thinking—even if what you're thinking is insane."

I had rested my hand back on the gearshift, and his hand returned to stroking the back of mine with his thumb. Despite everything, it was soothing.

"What are you thinking about now?" I needed to know, I needed some explanation to the workings of his mind.

"I'm just curious about a few things." His voice was composed.

It was like it didn't matter what I was. He didn't care. He knew I was inhuman, a monster, and this didn't really matter to him.

Aside from my worries about his sanity, I began to feel a swelling of hope. I tried to quash it.

"What are you curious about?" I asked him. There were no secrets left, only minor details.

"How old are you?" he asked.

My answer was automatic and ingrained. "Seventeen."

"And how long have you been seventeen?"

I tried not to smile at the patronizing tone. "A while," I admitted.

"Okay," he said, abruptly enthusiastic. He smiled up at me. When I stared back, anxious again about his mental health, he smiled wider. I grimaced.

"Don't laugh," he warned. "But how can you come out during the daytime?"

I laughed despite his request. His research had not netted him anything unusual, it seemed. "Myth," I told him.

"Burned by the sun?"

"Myth."

"Sleeping in coffins?"

"Myth."

Sleep had not been a part of my life for so long—not until these last few nights, as I'd watched Beau dreaming…

"I can't sleep," I murmured, answering his question more fully.

He was silent for a moment.

"At all?"

"Never," I breathed.

I stared into his eyes, wide under the thick fringe of lashes, and yearned for sleep. Not for oblivion, as I had before, not to escape boredom, but because I wanted to dream. Maybe I could be unconscious, if I could dream, I could live for a few hours in a world where he and I could be together. He dreamed of me. I wanted to dream of him.

He stared back at me, his expression full of wonder. I had to look away.

I could not dream of him. He should not dream of me.

"You haven't asked the most important question yet," I said, my silent chest colder and harder than before. He had to be forced to understand. At some point, he would have to realize what he was doing now. He must be made to see that this all did matter—more than any other consideration. Considerations like the fact that I loved him.

"Which one is that?" he asked, surprised and unaware.

This only made my voice harder. "You aren't concerned about my diet?"

"Oh. That." He spoke in a quiet tone that I couldn't interpret.

"Yes, that. Don't you want to know if I drink blood?"

He cringed away from my question. Finally. He was understanding.

"Well, Jacob said something about that," he said.

"What did Jacob say?"

"He said you didn't… hunt people. He said your family wasn't supposed to be dangerous because you only hunted animals."

"He said we weren't dangerous?" I repeated cynically.

"Not exactly," he clarified. "He said you weren't supposed to be dangerous. But the Quileutes still didn't want you on their land, just in case."

I stared at the road, my thoughts in a hopeless snarl, my throat aching with the familiar fiery thirst.

"So, was he right?" he asked, as calmly as if he were confirming aweather report. "About not hunting people?"

"The Quileutes have a long memory."

He nodded to himself, thinking hard.

"Don't let that make you complacent, though," I said quickly. "They're right to keep their distance from us. We are still dangerous."

"I don't understand."

No he didn't. How to make him see?

"We try," I told him. "We're usually very good at what we do. Sometimes we make mistakes. Me, for example. Allowing myself to be alone with you."

His scent was still a force in the car. I was growing used to it, I could almost ignore it, but there was no denying that my body still yearned toward him for the wrong reason. My mouth was swimming with venom.

"This is a mistake?" he asked, and there was heartbreak in his voice. The sound of it disarmed me. He wanted to be with me—despite everything, he wanted to be with me.

Hope swelled again, and I beat it back.

"A very dangerous one," I told him truthfully, wishing the truth could really somehow cease to matter.

He didn't respond for a moment. I heard his breathing change—it hitched in strange ways that did not sound like fear.

"Tell me more," he said suddenly, his voice distorted by anguish.

I examined him carefully.

He was in pain. How had I allowed this?

"What more do you want to know?" I asked, trying to think of a way to keep him from hurting. He should not hurt. I couldn't let him be hurt.

"Tell me why you hunt animals instead of people," he said, still anguished.

Wasn't it obvious? Or maybe this didn't matter to him either.

"I don't want to be a monster," I muttered.

"But animals aren't enough?"

I searched for another comparison, a way that he could understand. "I can't be sure, of course, but I'd compare it to living on tofu and soy milk; we call ourselves vegetarians, our little inside joke. It doesn't completely satiate the hunger—or rather the thirst. But it keeps us strong enough to resist. Most of the time." My voice got lower; I was ashamed of the danger I had allowed him to be in. Danger I continued to allow... "Sometimes it's more difficult than others."

"Is it very difficult for you now?"

I sighed. Of course he would ask the question I didn't want to answer. "Yes," I admitted.

I expected his physical response correctly this time; his breathing held steady, his heart kept an even pattern. I expected it, but I did not understand it. How could he not be afraid?

"But you're not hungry now," he declared, perfectly sure of himself.

"Why do you think that?"

"Your eyes," he said, his tone offhand. "I told you I had a theory. I've noticed that people are crabbier when they're hungry."

I chuckled at his description: crabby. That was an understatement. But he was dead right, as usual. "You're observant, aren't you?"

He smirked, but a crease ran between his eyes as if he were concentrating on something.

"Were you hunting this weekend, with Emmett?" he asked after my laugh had faded. The casual way he spoke was as fascinating as it was frustrating. Could he really accept so much in stride? I was closer to shock than he seemed to be.

"Yes," I told him, and then, as I was about to leave it at that, I felt the same urge I'd had in the restaurant: I wanted him to know me. "I didn't want to leave," I went on slowly, "but it was necessary. It's a bit easier to be around you when I'm not thirsty."

"Why didn't you want to leave?"

I took a deep breath, and then I turned to meet his gaze. This kind of honesty was difficult in a very different way.

"It makes me… anxious," I supposed that word would suffice, thought it wasn't strong enough, "to be away from you. I wasn't joking when I asked you to try not to fall in the ocean or get run over last Thursday. I was distracted all weekend, worrying about you. And after what happened tonight, I'm surprised that you did make it through a whole weekend unscathed." Then I remembered the scrapes on his palms. "Well, not totally unscathed," I amended.

"What?"

"Your hands," I reminded him.

He sighed and grimaced. "I fell. Once."

I'd guessed right. "That's what I thought," I said, unable to contain my smile. "I suppose it could have been much worse—and that possibility tormented me the entire time I was away. It was a very long three days. I really got on Emmett's nerves." Honestly, that didn't belong in the past tense. I was probably still irritating Emmett, and all the rest of my family, too. Except Alice…

"Three days?" he asked, his voice suddenly sharp. "Didn't you just get back today?"

I didn't understand the edge in his voice. "No, we got back Sunday."

"Then why weren't any of you in school?" He asked, frustration in his voice. His irritation confused me. He didn't seem to realize that this question was one that related to mythology again.

"Well, you asked if the sun hurt me, and it doesn't," I said. "But I can't go out in the sunlight—at least, not where anyone can see."

That distracted him from his mysterious frustration. "Why?" he asked, leaning his head to one side.

I doubted I could come up with the appropriate analogy to explain this one. So I just told him, "I'll show you sometime." And then I wondered if this was a promise I would end up breaking. Would I see him again, after tonight? Did I love him enough yet to be able to bear leaving him?

"You could have called me," he said.

What an odd conclusion. "But I knew you were safe."

"But I didn't know where you were. I—" He came to an abrupt stop, and looked at his hands.

"What?"

"I just… I thought you might not come back. That somehow you knew that I knew and…" he paused, his voice shy, the skin over his cheekbones warming. "I was afraid you would disappear."

Are you happy now? I demanded of myself. Well, here was my reward for hoping.

I was bewildered, elated, horrified—mostly horrified—to realize that all my wildest imaginings were not so far off the mark. This was why it didn't matter to him that I was a monster. It was exactly the same reason that the rules no longer mattered to me. Why right and wrong were no longer compelling influences. Why all my priorities had shifted one rung down to make room for this boy at the very top.

Beau cared for me, too.

I knew it could be nothing in comparison to how I loved him. But it was enough for him to risk his life to sit here with me. To do so gladly.

Enough to cause him pain if I did the right thing and left him.

Was there anything I could do now that would not hurt him? Anything at all?

I should have stayed away. I should never have come back to Forks. I would cause him nothing but pain.

Would that stop me from staying now? From making it worse?

The way I felt right now, feeling his warmth against my skin…

No. Nothing would stop me.

"Ah," I groaned to myself. "This is wrong."

"What did I say?" he asked, quick to take the blame on himself.

"Don't you see, Beau? It's one thing for me to make myself miserable, but a wholly other thing for you to be so involved. I don't want to hear that you feel that way." It was the truth, it was a lie. The most selfish part of me was flying with the knowledge that he wanted me as I wanted him. "It's wrong. It's not safe. I'm dangerous, Beau—please grasp that."

"No." His lips pouted out.

"I'm serious." I was battling with myself so strongly—half desperate for him to accept, half desperate to keep the warnings from escaping—that the words came through my teeth as a growl.

"So am I," he insisted. "I told you, it doesn't matter to me what you are. It's too late."

Too late? The world was bleakly black and white for one endless second as I watched the shadows crawl across the sunny lawn toward Beau's sleeping form in my memory. Inevitable, unstoppable. They stole the color from his skin, and plunged him into darkness.

Too late? Alice's vision swirled in my head, Beau's blood red eyes staring back at me impassively. Expressionless—but there was no way that he could not hate me for that future. Hate me for stealing everything from him. Stealing his life and his soul.

It could not be too late.

"Never say that," I hissed.

He stared out his window, and his teeth bit into his lip again. His hands were balled into tight fists in his lap. His breathing hitched and broke.

"What are you thinking?" I had to know.

He shook his head without looking at me. I saw something glisten, like a crystal, on his cheek.

Agony. "Are you crying?" I'd made him cry. I'd hurt him that much.

He scrubbed the tears away with the back of his hand.

"No," he lied, his voice breaking.

Some long buried instinct had me reaching out toward him—in that one second I felt more human than I ever had. And then I remembered that I was… not. And I lowered my hand.

And yet, why couldn't I be human? Why couldn't I deny the monster I was and at least try? So I reached out and placed my hand on top of his. His eyes shot open to look at me.

"I'm sorry," I said, my jaw locked. How could I ever tell him how sorry I was? Sorry for all the stupid mistakes I'd made. Sorry for my never-ending selfishness. Sorry that he was so unfortunate as to have inspired this first, tragic love of mine. Sorry also for the things beyond my control—that I'd been the monster chosen by fate to end his life in the first place.

I took a deep breath—ignoring the wretched reaction to the flavor in the car—and tried to collect myself, concentrating on gently stroking the back of his hand with my thumb.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" He asked, his voice full of emotion.

I grappled with the question. I wanted nothing more than to see him, but I had hurt him—I had made him cry. Would he want to see me?

"Do you want to see me?" I asked, my voice tinged with the sadness and worry that he would say no.

"I do." Was his simple reply.

Elation beyond words.

As long as I was on my way to hell—I might as well enjoy the journey.

"Then I'll be there," I smiled at him, and it felt good to do this. "I'll save you a seat at lunch."

His heart fluttered; my dead heart suddenly felt warmer.

I stopped the car in front of his father's house. He made no move to leave.

"You'll really be there tomorrow?" He asked.

"I promise." I gave his hand a gentle squeeze of assurance—exercising as much control as I could—before removing my hand from his.

How could doing the wrong thing give me so much happiness? Surely there was something amiss in that.

He nodded, satisfied, and started to remove my jacket.

"You can keep it," I assured him quickly. I rather wanted to leave him with something of myself. A token, like the bottle cap that was in my pocket now… "You don't have a jacket for tomorrow."

He handed it back to me, smiling ruefully. "I don't want to have to explain to Charlie," he told me.

I would imagine not. I smiled at him. "Oh, right."

He put his hand on the door handle, and then stopped. Unwilling to leave, just as I was unwilling to let him go.

To have him unprotected, even for a few moments…

Peter and Charlotte were well on their way by now, long past Seattle, no doubt. But there were always others. This world was not a safe place for any human, and for him it seemed to be more dangerous than it was for the rest.

"Beau?" I asked, surprised at the pleasure there was in simply speaking his name.

"Yes?"

"Will you promise me something?"

"Sure," he said hesitantly, his eyes tightened curiously.

"Don't go into the woods alone," I warned him, wondering if this request would trigger the objection in his eyes.

He blinked, startled. "Why?"

I glowered into the untrustworthy darkness. The lack of light was no problem for my eyes, but neither would it trouble another hunter. It only blinded humans.

"I'm not always the most dangerous thing out there," I told him. "Let's leave it at that."

He shivered, but recovered quickly and was even smiling when he told me, "Sure, Edward."

His breath touched my face, so sweet and fragrant.

I could stay here all night like this, but he needed his sleep. The two desires seemed equally strong as they continually warned inside me; wanting him versus wanting him to be safe.

I sighed at the impossibilities. "I'll see you tomorrow," I said, knowing that I would see him much sooner than that. He wouldn't see me until tomorrow, though.

"Tomorrow, then," he agreed as he slowly opened his door.

Agony again, watching him leave.

I leaned after him, wanting to hold him there. "Beau?"

My hand caught his, he turned, and then froze, surprised to find our faces so close together.

I, too, was overwhelmed by the proximity. The heat rolled off him in waves, caressing my face. I could all but feel the silk of his skin.

"Beau, I…" but I couldn't finish. So much I wanted to say, but I didn't know how. My hand held his, as gently as I could. I searched his silver eyes, wishing I could know how he had decided that he cared for a monster such as myself. More than that, I was searching for the will to be strong enough to be as human as possible for him. I felt myself lean even closer to him, and my lips parted ever so slightly. Why? To speak? Or was some deep, long unspoken human instinct fighting to break free?

His heartbeat stuttered, and his lips fell open.

I could not go any further than this, after all, I was only so strong.

"Sleep well," I whispered, and leaned away, releasing his hand, before the urgency in my body—either the familiar thirst or the very new and strange hunger I suddenly felt—could make me do something that might hurt him.

He sat there motionless for a moment, his eyes wide and stunned. Dazzled, I guessed.

As was I.

He recovered—though his face was still a bit bemused—and half fell out of the car, tripping over his feet and having to catch the frame of the car to right himself.

I chuckled—hopefully it was too quiet for him to hear.

I watched him stumble his pay up to the pool of light that surrounded the front door. Safe for the moment. And I would be back soon to make sure.

I could feel his eyes follow me as I drove down the dark street. Such a different sensation than I was accustomed to. Usually, I could simply watch myself through someone's following eyes, were I of a mind to. This was strangely exciting—this intangible sensation of watching eyes. I knew it was just because they were his eyes.

A million thoughts chased each other through my head as I drove aimlessly into the night.

For a long time, I circled through the streets, going nowhere, thinking of Beau and the incredible release of having the truth known. No longer did I have to dread that he would find out what I was. He knew. It didn't matter to him. Even though this was obviously a bad thing for him, it was amazingly liberating for me.

More than that, I thought of Beau and requited love. He couldn't love me the way I loved him—such an overpowering, all-consuming, crushing love would probably break his fragile body. But he felt strongly enough. Enough to subdue the instinctive fear. Enough to want to be with me. And being with him was the greatest happiness I had ever known.

For a while—as I was all alone and hurting no one else for a change—I allowed myself to feel that happiness without dwelling on the tragedy. Just to be happy that he cared for me. Just to exult in the triumph of winning his affection. Just to imagine day after day of sitting close to him, hearing his voice and earning and earning his smiles.

I replayed that smile in my head, seeing his full lips pull up at the corners, the hint of a dimple that touched his chin, the way his eyes warmed and melted… His fingers had felt so warm and soft on my hand tonight. I imagined how it would feel to touch the delicate skin that stretched over his cheekbones—silky, warm… so fragile. Silk over glass… frighteningly breakable.

I didn't see where my thoughts were leading until it was too late. As I dwelt on that devastating vulnerability, new images of his face intruded on my fantasies.

Lost in the shadows, pale with fear—yet his jaw tight and determined, his eyes fierce, full of concentration, his lean body braced to strike at the hulking forms that gathered around him, nightmares in the gloom…

"Ah," I groaned as the simmering hate that I'd all but forgotten in the joy of loving him burst again into an inferno of rage.

I was alone. Beau was, I trusted, safe inside his home; for a moment I was fiercely glad that Charlie Swan—head of the local law enforcement, trained and armed—was his father. That ought to mean something, provide some shelter for him.

He was safe. It would not take me so very long to avenge the insult…

No. Beau deserved better. I could not allow him to care for a murderer.

But… what about the others?

Beau was safe, yes. Angela and Jessica were also, surely, safe in their beds.

Yet a monster was loose in the streets of Port Angeles. A human monster—did that make him the humans' problem? To commit the murder I ached to commit was wrong. I knew that. But leaving him free to attack again could not be the right thing either.

The blond hostess from the restaurant. The server I'd never really looked at. Both had irritated me in a trivial way, but that did not mean they deserved to be in danger. This human monster did not discriminate.

Either one of them could be somebody's Beau.

That realization decided me.

I turned the car north, accelerating now that I had a purpose. Whenever I had a problem that was beyong me—something tangible like this—I knew where I could go for help.

Alice was sitting on the porch, waiting for me. I pulled to a stop in front of the house rather than going around to the garage.

"Carlisle's in his study," Alice told me before I could ask.

"Thank you," I said, tousling her hair as I passed.

Thank you for returning my call, she thought sarcastically.

"Oh." I paused by the door, pulling out my phone and checking my missed calls. "Sorry. I didn't even check to see who it was. I was… busy."

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, too. By the time I saw what was going to happen, you were on your way."

"It was close," I murmured.

Sorry, she repeated, ashamed of herself.

It was easy to be generous, knowing that Beau was fine. "Don't be. I know you can't catch everything. No one expects you to be omniscient, Alice."

"Thanks."

"I almost asked you out to dinner tonight—did you catch that before I changed my mind?"

She grinned. "No, I missed that one, too. Wish I'd known. I would have come."

"What were you concentrating on, that you missed so much?"

Jasper's thinking about our anniversary. She laughed. He's trying not to make a decision on my gift, but I think I have a pretty good idea…

"You're shameless."

"Yep."

She pursed her lips, and stared up at me, a hint of accusation in her expression. I paid better attention later. Are you going to tell them that he knows?

I sighed. "Yes. Later."

I won't say anything. Do me a favor and tell Royal when I'm not around, okay?

I flinched. "Sure."

Beau took it pretty well.

"Too well."

Alice grinned at me. Don't underestimate Beau.

I tried to block the image I didn't want to see—Beau and Alice, best of friends.

Impatient now, I sighed heavily. I wanted to be through with the next part of the evening; I wanted it over with. But I was a little worried to leave Forks…

"Alice…" I began. She saw what I was planning to ask.

He'll be fine tonight. I'm keeping a better watch now. He sort of needs twenty-four hour supervision, doesn't he?

"At least."

"Anyway, you'll be with him soon enough."

I took a deep breath. The words were beautiful to me.

"Go on—get this done so you can be where you want to be," she told me.

I nodded, and hurried up to Carlisle's office.

He was waiting for me, his eyes on the door rather than the thick book on his desk.

"I heard Alice tell you where to find me," he said, and smiled.

It was a relief to be with him, to see the empathy and deep intelligence in his eyes. Carlisle would know what to do.

"I need help."

"Anything, Edward," he promised.

"Did Alice tell you what happened to Beau tonight?"

Almost happened, he amended.

"Yes, almost. I've got a dilemma, Carlisle. You see, I want… very much… to kill him." The words started to flow fast and passionate. "So much. But I know that would be wrong, because it would be vengeance, not justice. All anger, no impartiality. Still it can't be right to leave a serial rapist and killer wandering Port Angeles! I don't know the humans there, but I can't let someone else take Beau's place as this monster's victim. Those other young men and women—someone might feel about them the same way I feel about Beau. Might suffer what I would have suffered if he'd been harmed. It's not right—"

His wide, unexpected smile stopped the rush of my words cold.

He's very good for you, isn't he? So much compassion, so much control. I'm impressed.

"I'm not looking for compliments, Carlisle."

"Of course not. But I can't help my thoughts, can I?" He smiled again. "I'll take care of it. You can rest easy. No one else will be harmed in Beau's place."

I saw the plan in his head. It wasn't exactly what I wanted, it did not satisfy my craving for brutality, but I could see that it was the right thing.

"I'll show you where to find him," I said.

"Let's go."

He grabbed his black bag on the way. I would have preferred a more aggressive form of sedation—like a cracked skull—but I would let Carlisle do this his way.

We took my car. Alice was still on the steps. She grinned and waved as we drove way. I saw that she had looked ahead for me; we would have no difficulties.

The trip was very short on the dark, empty road. I left my headlights off to keep from attraction attention. It made me smile to think how Beau would have reacted to this pace. I'd already been driving slower than usual—to prolong my time with him—when he'd objected.

Carlisle was thinking of Beau, too.

I didn't foresee that he would be so good for Edward. That's unexpected. Perhaps this was somehow meant to be. Perhaps it serves a higher purpose. Only…

He pictures Beau with snow cold skin and blood red eyes, and then flinched away from the image.

Yes. Only. Indeed. Because how could there be any good in destroying something so pure and lovely.

I glowered into the night, all the joy of the evening destroyed by his thoughts.

Edward deserves happiness. He's owed it. The fierceness of Carlisle's thoughts surprised me. There must be a way.

I wished I could believe that—either one. But there was no higher purpose to what was happening to Beau. Just a vicious harpy, an ugly, butter face who could not bear for Beau to have the life he deserved.

I did not linger in Port Angeles. I took Carlisle to the dive bar where the creature named Lonnie was drowning his disappointment with his friends—two of whom had already passed out. Carlisle could see how hard this was for me to be so close—for me to hear t he monsters thoughts and see his memories, memories of Beau mixed in with his less fortunate victims who no one could save now.

My breaching sped. I clenched the steering wheel.

Go, Edward, he told me gently. I'll make the rest of them safe. You go back to Beau.

It was exactly the right thing to say. His name was the only distraction that could mean anything to me now.

I left him in the car, and ran back to Forks in a straight line though the sleeping forest. It took less time than the first journey in the speeding car. It was just minutes later that I scaled the side of his house and slid his window out of my way.

I sighed silently with relief. Everything was just as it should be. Beau was safe in his bed, dreaming, his wet hair tangled around itself on the pillow.

But, unlike most nights, he was curled into a small ball with the covers stretched taut around his shoulders. Cold, I guessed. Before I could settled into my usual seat, he shivered in his sleep, and his lips trembled.

I thought for a brief moment, and then I eased out into the hallway, exploring another part of his house for the first time.

Charlie's snores were loud and even. I could almost catch the edge of his dream. Something with the rush of water and patient expectation… fishing, maybe?

There, at the top of the stairs, was a promising looking cupboard. I opened it hopefully, and found what I was looking for. I selected the thickest blanket from the tiny linen closet, and took it back into Beau's room. I would return it before he awoke, and no one would be the wiser.

Holding my breath, I cautiously spread the blanket over him; he didn't react to the added weight. I returned to the rocking chair.

While I waited anxiously for him to warm up, I thought of Carlisle, wondering where he was now. I knew his plan would go smoothly—Alice had seen that.

Thinking of my father made me sigh—Carlisle gave me too much credit. I wished I was the person he thought me to be. That person, the one who deserved happiness, might hope to be worthy of this sleeping boy. How different things would be if I could be that Edward.

For a moment, the hag-faced fate I'd imagined, the one who sought Beau's destruction, was replaced by the most foolish and reckless of angels. A guardian angel—something Carlisle's version of me might have had. With a heedless smile on her lips, her sky-colored eyes full of mischief, the angel formed Beau in such a fashion that there was no way I could possibly overlook him. A ridiculously potent scent to demand my attention, a silent mind to enflame my curiosity, a quiet beauty to hold my eyes, a selfless soul to earn my awe. Leave out the natural sense of self-preservation—so that Beau could bear to be near me—and, finally, add a wide streak of appallingly bad luck.

With a careless laugh, the irresponsible angel propelled her fragile creation directly into my path, trusting blithely in my flawed morality to keep Beau alive.

In this vision, I was not Beau's sentence; he was my reward.

I shook my head at the fantasy of the unthinking angel. She was not much better than the harpy. I could not think well of a higher power that would behave in such a dangerous and stupid manner. At least the ugly fate I could fight against.

And I had no angel. They were reserved for the good—for people like Beau. So where was his angel through all this? Who was watching over him?

I laughed silently, startled, as I realized that, just now, I was filling that role.

A vampire angel—there was a stretch.

After about a half hour, Beau relaxed out of the tight ball. His breathing got deeper and he started to murmur. I smiled, satisfied. It was a small thing, but at least he was sleeping more comfortably tonight because I was here.

"Edward," he sighed, and he smiled, too.

I shoved tragedy aside for the moment, and let myself be happy again.