"I found these this morning." Mrs. Hastings passed the photos to Melissa, who glanced at them quickly and passed them back. "Remember how you girls used to be such good friends? You were always babbling in the backseat of the car. You never wanted to go anywhere without each other." "That was ten years ago, Mom," Melissa said wearily. Mrs. Hastings stared at the photo of Spencer and Melissa on the hammock. "You used to love Nana's beach house. You used to be friends at Nana's beach house. So we've decided to take a trip to Stone Harbor today. Nana isn't there, but we have keys. So pack up your things." Spencer's parents were nodding feverishly, their faces hopeful. "That's just stupid," Spencer and Melissa said together. Spencer glanced at her sister, astounded they'd thought the same thing. Mrs. Hastings left the photo on the counter and carried her mug to the sink. "We're doing it, and that's final." Melissa rose from the table, holding her wrist at an awkward angle. She glanced at Spencer, and for a moment, her eyes softened. Spencer gave her a tiny smile. Perhaps they'd connected just then, finding common ground in hating their parents' naive plan. Perhaps Melissa could forgive Spencer for shoving her down the stairs and stealing her paper. If she did, Spencer would forgive Melissa for saying their parents didn't love her. Spencer looked down at the photo and thought of the magic shows she and Melissa used to perform. After their friendship had splintered, Spencer had thought that if she muttered some of her and Melissa's old magic words, they'd be best friends again. If only it were that easy. When she looked up again, Melissa's expression had shifted. She narrowed her eyes and turned away. "Bitch," she said over her shoulder as she sashayed down the hall. Spencer curled her hands into fists, all of her anger gushing back in. It would take a whole lot more than magic for them to get along. It would take a miracle. 3

EMILY'S OWN AMERICAN GOTHIC Late Sunday afternoon, Emily Fields followed an old lady with a walker onto the moving sidewalk of the Des Moines International Airport, dragging her ratty blue swim duffel behind her. The bag was stuffed with all her worldly goods--her clothes, shoes, her two favorite stuffed walruses, her journal, her iPod, and various carefully folded notes from Alison DiLaurentis that she couldn't bear to part with. When the plane was over Chicago, she realized she'd forgotten underwear. But then, that was what she got for packing frantically this morning. She'd only gotten three hours of sleep, shell-shocked from seeing Hanna's body fly up into the air when that SUV hit her. Emily arrived in the main terminal and ducked into the first bathroom she could find, squeezing around a very large woman in too-tight jeans. She stared at her bleary-eyed reflection in the mirror over the sink. Her parents had really done it. They'd really sent her here, to Addams, Iowa, to live with her aunt Helene and her uncle Allen. It was all because A had outed Emily to the entire school, and all because Emily's mother had caught her hugging Maya St. Germain, the girl she loved, at Mona Vanderwaal's party last night. Emily had known the deal--she'd promised to do the "gay-away" Tree Tops program to rid herself of her feelings for Maya or it was good-bye, Rosewood. But when she discovered that even her Tree Tops counselor, Becka, couldn't resist her true urges, all bets were off. The Des Moines airport was small, boasting only a couple of restaurants, a bookshop, and a store that sold colorful Vera Bradley bags. When Emily reached the baggage claim area, she looked around uncertainly. All she remembered about her aunt and uncle was their super-strictness. They avoided anything that might trigger sexual impulses--even certain foods. As she scanned the crowd, Emily half-expected to see the stern, long-faced farmer and his plain, bitter wife from the American Gothic painting standing near the baggage carousel. "Emily." She whirled around. Helene and Allen Weaver were leaning against a Smarte Carte machine, their hands

there because it had news of Hanna's accident. But then she saw her own face staring back at her from the paper's front page. She wore a sleek black suit and was giving the camera a confident smirk. Move Over, Trumps! the headline said. Golden Orchid Essay Contest Nominee Spencer Hastings Is Coming! Spencer's stomach heaved. She'd forgotten. The paper was on everyone's doorsteps right now. A figure emerged from the pantry. Spencer stepped back in fear. There was Melissa, glaring at her, clutching a box of Raisin Bran so tightly Spencer thought she might crush it. There was a tiny scratch on her sister's left cheek, a Band-Aid over her right eyebrow, a yellow hospital bracelet still around her left wrist, and a pink cast on her right wrist, clearly a souvenir of yesterday's fight with Spencer. Spencer lowered her eyes, feeling a whole mess of guilty feelings. Yesterday, A had sent Melissa the first few sentences of her old AP economics paper, the very one Spencer had pilfered from Melissa's computer hard drive and disguised as her own AP economics homework. The same essay Spencer's econ teacher, Mr. McAdam, had nominated for a Golden Orchid essay award, the most prestigious high school璴evel award in the country. Melissa had figured out what Spencer had done, and although Spencer had begged for forgiveness, Melissa had said horrible things to her--things way worse than Spencer thought she deserved. The fight had ended when Spencer, enraged by Melissa's words, had accidentally shoved her sister down the stairs. "So, girls." Mrs. Hastings set her coffee cup on the table and gestured for Melissa to sit. "Your father and I have made some big decisions." Spencer braced for what was coming. They were going to turn Spencer in for plagiarizing. She wouldn't get into college. She'd have to go to trade school. She'd end up working as a telemarketer at QVC, taking orders for ab rollers and fake diamonds, and Melissa would get off scot-free, just like she always did. Somehow, her sister always found a way to come out on top. "First off, we don't want you girls to see Dr. Evans anymore." Mrs. Hastings laced her fingers together. "She's done more harm than good. Understood?"

Melissa nodded silently, but Spencer scrunched up her nose in confusion. Dr. Evans, Spencer and Melissa's shrink, was one of the few people who didn't try to kiss Melissa's ass. Spencer began to protest but noticed the warning looks on both her parents' faces. "Okay," she mumbled, feeling a bit hopeless. "Second of all." Mr. Hastings tapped the Sentinel, squashing his thumb over Spencer's face. "Plagiarizing Melissa's paper was very wrong, Spencer." "I know," Spencer said quickly, terrified to look anywhere in Melissa's direction. "But after some careful thought, we've decided that we don't want to go public with it. This family's been through too much already. So, Spencer, you'll continue to compete for the Golden Orchid. We will tell no one about this." "What?" Melissa slammed her coffee cup down on the table. "That's what we've decided," Mrs. Hastings said tightly, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin. "And we also expect Spencer to win." "To win?" Spencer repeated, shocked. "You're rewarding her?" Melissa shrieked. "Enough." Mr. Hastings used the tone of voice he typically reserved for underlings at his law practice when they dared call him at home. "Third thing," Mrs. Hastings said. "You girls are going to bond." Her mother pulled two snapshots out of her cardigan pocket. The first was of Spencer and Melissa at four and nine years old, respectively, lying on a hammock at their grandmother's beach house in Stone Harbor, New Jersey. The second photo was of them in the same beach house's playroom, a few years later. Melissa wore a magician's hat and cape, and Spencer had on her Tommy Hilfiger stars-and-stripes ruffled bikini. On her feet were the black motorcycle boots she'd worn until they'd gotten so small that they cut off all the circulation to her toes. The sisters were performing a magic show for their parents; Melissa was the magician, and Spencer was her lovely assistant.

Marin. Hanna's body flew up in the air, and she hit the ground with a sharp crack. Instead of all her makeup and BlackBerry bursting out of her purse as from a smashed-open pi馻ta, Hanna's internal organs spewed out of her body, raining down on the concrete like hail. Spencer shot up, her blond hair damp with sweat. It was Sunday morning, and she was lying in her bed, still in the black satin dress and uncomfortable thong underwear she'd meant to wear to Mona Vanderwaal's birthday party the night before. Soft gold light slanted across her desk, and starlings chirped innocently in the giant oak next to her window. She'd been awake nearly all night, waiting for her phone to ring with news about Hanna. But no one had called. Spencer had no idea if the silence was good...or terrible. Hanna. She'd called Spencer late last night, just after Spencer had recalled her long-suppressed memory of shoving Ali in the woods the night Ali disappeared. Hanna had told Spencer she'd found out something important, and that they had to meet at the Rosewood Day swings. Spencer had pulled up to the parking lot just as Hanna's body flew into the air. She'd maneuvered her car to the side of the road, then run out on foot into the trees, shocked by what she saw. "Call an ambulance!" Aria was shrieking. Emily was sobbing with fear. Hanna remained immobile. Spencer had never witnessed anything so terrifying in her entire life. Seconds later, Spencer's Sidekick had pinged with a text from A. Still shrouded in the woods, Spencer saw Emily and Aria pull out their phones as well, and her stomach flipped as she realized they must have all received the same creepy message: She knew too much. Had A figured out whatever it was that Hanna had discovered--something that A must have been trying to hide--and hit Hanna to shut her up? That had to be it, but it was hard for Spencer to truly believe it had actually happened. It was just so diabolical. But maybe Spencer was just as diabolical. Just hours before Hanna's accident, she'd shoved her sister, Melissa, down the stairs. And she'd finally remembered what had happened the night Ali went missing, recovered those lost ten minutes she'd suppressed for so long. She'd pushed Ali to the ground--maybe

even hard enough to kill her. Spencer didn't know what had happened next, but it seemed like A did. A had sent Spencer a text only a couple days ago, hinting that Ali's murderer was right in front of her. Spencer had received the text just as she was looking in the mirror...at herself. Spencer hadn't run into the parking lot to join her friends. Instead, she'd sped home, in desperate need to think all this through. Could she have killed Ali? Did she have it in her? But after an entire sleepless night, she just couldn't compare what she had done to Melissa and Ali to what A had done to Hanna. Yes, Spencer lost her temper, yes, Spencer could be pushed to the limit, but deep down, she just didn't think she could kill. Why, then, was A so convinced Spencer was the culprit? Was it possible A was wrong...or lying? But A knew about Spencer's seventh-grade kiss with Ian Thomas, her illicit affair with Wren, Melissa's college boyfriend, and that the five of them had blinded Jenna Cavanaugh--all things that were true. A had so much ammo on them, it was hardly necessary to start making stuff up. Suddenly, as Spencer wiped the sweat off her face, something hit her, sending her heart sinking to her feet. She could think of a very good reason why A might have lied and suggested that Spencer killed Ali. Perhaps A had secrets, too. Perhaps A needed a scapegoat. "Spencer?" Her mother's voice floated up. "Can you come downstairs?" Spencer jumped and peeked at her reflection in her vanity mirror. Her eyes looked puffy and bloodshot, her lips were chapped, and her hair had leaves stuck in it from hiding in the woods last night. She couldn't handle a family meeting right now. The first floor smelled of fresh-brewed Nicaraguan Segovia coffee, Fresh Fields Danishes, and the fresh-cut calla lilies their housekeeper, Candace, bought every morning. Spencer's father stood at the granite-topped island, decked out in his black spandex bike pants and U.S. Postal Service bike jersey. Perhaps that was a good sign--they couldn't be too angry if her dad had gone for his regular 5 A.M. bike ride. On the kitchen table was a copy of the Sunday Philadelphia Sentinel. At first Spencer thought it was

Aria was lost in her thoughts when suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. She flinched and turned, her heart racing. Standing behind her, wearing a ratty Hollis College sweatshirt and a pair of jeans with a hole through the left front pocket, was Aria's father, Byron. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling awkward. She hadn't really spoken to her father in a few weeks. "Jesus, Aria. Are you all right?" Byron blurted out. "I saw you on the news." "I'm okay," Aria said stiffly. "It was Hanna who was hurt, not me." As her father pulled her in for a hug, Aria wasn't sure whether to squeeze him tight or let her arms go limp. She'd missed him since he'd moved out of their house a month ago. But Aria was also furious that it had taken a life-threatening accident and a TV appearance to motivate Byron to leave Meredith's side and reach out to his own daughter. "I called your mother this morning, asking how you were, but she said you weren't living there anymore." Byron's voice quivered with concern. He ran his hand over the top of his head, mussing up his hair even more. "Where are you living?" Aria stared blearily at the brightly printed Heimlich maneuver poster tucked behind the Coke machine. Someone had drawn a pair of boobs on the choking victim's chest, and it looked like the person giving the Heimlich was feeling her up. Aria had been staying at her boyfriend Sean Ackard's house, but Sean had made it clear she wasn't welcome there anymore when he'd ordered a raid on Ezra's apartment and dumped Aria's crap on Ezra's doorstep. Who had tipped Sean off about Aria's affair with Ezra? Ding ding ding! A. She hadn't given a new living situation much thought. "The Olde Hollis Inn?" Aria suggested. "The Olde Hollis Inn has rats. Why don't you stay with me?" Aria vigorously shook her head. "You're living with--" "Meredith," Byron stated firmly. "I want you to get to know her."

"But..." Aria protested. Her father, however, was giving her his classic Buddhist monk look. Aria knew the look well--she'd seen it after he'd refused to let Aria go to an arty summer camp in the Berkshires instead of Hollis Happy Hooray day camp for the fourth summer in a row, which meant ten long weeks of making paper-bag puppets and competing in the egg-and-spoon race. Byron had donned the look again when Aria asked if she could finish school at the American Academy in Reykjav韐 instead of coming back to Rosewood with the rest of the family. The look was often followed by a saying Byron had learned from a monk he'd met during his graduate work in Japan: The obstacle is the path. Meaning what wouldn't kill Aria would just make her stronger. But when she imagined moving in with Meredith, a more appropriate quote came to mind: There are some remedies worse than the disease. 2 ABRACADABRA, NOW WE LOVE EACH OTHER AGAIN Ali sank onto one hip and glared at Spencer Hastings, who stood across from her on the back path that led from the Hastingses' barn to the woods. "You try to steal everything from me," she hissed. "But you can't have this." Spencer shivered in the cold evening air. "Can't have what?" "You know," Ali said. "You read it in my diary." She pushed her honey-blond hair over her shoulder. "You think you're so special, but you're so lame, acting like you didn't know Ian was with me. Of course you knew, Spence. That's why you liked him in the first place, isn't it? Because I'm with him? Because your sister's with him?" Spencer's eyes boggled. The night air turned sharp, almost acrid-smelling. Ali stuck out her bottom lip. "Oh, Spence. Did you really believe he liked you?" Suddenly, Spencer felt a burst of anger, and her arms shot out in front of her, pushing Ali in the chest. Ali teetered backward, stumbling against the slippery rocks. Only, it wasn't Ali anymore--it was Hanna

those clues in place, and once Aria had realized Ian and Ali were together, Spencer was the logical suspect. "After a while, I went outside to look for them," she said. "They weren't anywhere...and I just have this horrible feeling that Spencer..." Wilden sat back. "Spencer and Alison weighed about the same, right?" Aria nodded. "Sure. I guess." "Could you drag someone your size over to a hole and push her in?" "I璉 don't know," Aria stammered. "Maybe? If I was mad enough?" Wilden shook his head. Aria's eyes filled with tears. She recalled how eerily silent it had been that night. Ali had been just a few hundred yards away from them, and they hadn't heard a sound. "Spencer also would've had to calm down enough so she didn't seem suspicious when she returned to you guys," Wilden added. "It takes a pretty damn good actor to pull that off--not a seventh-grade girl. I think whoever did this was obviously nearby, but the whole thing took more time." He raised his eyebrows. "Is this what you Rosewood Day girls do these days? Blame your old friends for murder?" Aria's mouth dropped open, surprised at Wilden's scolding tone. "It's just--" "Spencer Hastings is a competitive, high-strung girl, but she doesn't strike me as a killer," Wilden interrupted. Then, he smiled at Aria sadly. "I get it. This must be tough for you--you just want to figure out what happened to your friend. I didn't know that Alison was secretly with Melissa Hastings's boyfriend, though. That's interesting." Wilden gave Aria a terse nod, stood up, and turned back to the hallway. Aria remained by the vending machines, her eyes on the mint-green linoleum floor. She felt overheated and disoriented, as if she'd spent too much time in a sauna. Maybe she should be ashamed of herself, blaming an old best friend. And the holes Wilden had poked in her theory made a lot of sense. Maybe she'd been foolish to trust A's clues at all. A chill went up Aria's spine. Perhaps A had sent Aria those clues to deliberately throw her off track--and take the heat off the true murderer. And maybe, just maybe, the true murderer was...A.

Bern! You're back! You're back!

"Bern! You're back! You're back!" she cried, in joy that rang of her loneliness.

"Yes, I'm back," he said, as she rushed to meet him.

She had reached out for him when suddenly, as she saw him closely, something checked her, and as quickly all her joy fled, and with it her color, leaving her pale and trembling.

"Oh! What's happened?"

"A good deal has happened, Bess. I don't need to tell you what. And I'm played out. Worn out in mind more than body."

"Dear--you look strange to me!" faltered Bess.

"Never mind that. I'm all right. There's nothing for you to be scared about. Things are going to turn out just as we have planned. As soon as I'm rested we'll make a break to get out of the country. Only now, right now, I must know the truth about you."

"Truth about me?" echoed Bess, shrinkingly. She seemed to be casting back into her mind for a forgotten key. Venters himself, as he saw her, received a pang.

"Yes--the truth. Bess, don't misunderstand. I haven't changed that way. I love you still. I'll love you more afterward. Life will be just as sweet--sweeter to us. We'll be--be married as soon as ever we can. We'll be happy--but there's a devil in me. A perverse, jealous devil! Then I've queer fancies. I forgot for a long time. Now all those fiendish little whispers of doubt and faith and fear and hope come torturing me again. I've got to kill them with the truth."

"I'll tell you anything you want to know," she replied, frankly.

"Then by Heaven! we'll have it over and done with!...Bess--did Oldring love you?"

"Certainly he did."

What words for a dying man to whisper!

What words for a dying man to whisper! Why had not Venters waited? For what? That was no plea for life. It was regret that there was not a moment of life left in which to speak. Bess was--Herein lay renewed torture for Venters. What had Bess been to Oldring? The old question, like a specter, stalked from its grave to haunt him. He had overlooked, he had forgiven, he had loved and he had forgotten; and now, out of the mystery of a dying man's whisper rose again that perverse, unsatisfied, jealous uncertainty. Bess had loved that splendid, black-crowned giant--by her own confession she had loved him; and in Venters's soul again flamed up the jealous hell. Then into the clamoring hell burst the shot that had killed Oldring, and it rang in a wild fiendish gladness, a hateful, vengeful joy. That passed to the memory of the love and light in Oldring's eyes and the mystery in his whisper. So the changing, swaying emotions fluctuated in Venters's heart.

This was the climax of his year of suffering and the crucial struggle of his life. And when the gray dawn came he rose, a gloomy, almost heartbroken man, but victor over evil passions. He could not change the past; and, even if he had not loved Bess with all his soul, he had grown into a man who would not change the future he had planned for her. Only, and once for all, he must know the truth, know the worst, stifle all these insistent doubts and subtle hopes and jealous fancies, and kill the past by knowing truly what Bess had been to Oldring. For that matter he knew--he had always known, but he must hear it spoken. Then, when they had safely gotten out of that wild country to take up a new and an absorbing life, she would forget, she would be happy, and through that, in the years to come, he could not but find life worth living.

All day he rode slowly and cautiously up the Pass, taking time to peer around corners, to pick out hard ground and grassy patches, and to make sure there was no one in pursuit. In the night sometime he came to the smooth, scrawled rocks dividing the valley, and here set the burro at liberty. He walked beyond, climbed the slope and the dim, starlit gorge. Then, weary to the point of exhaustion, he crept into a shallow cave and fell asleep.

In the morning, when he descended the trail, he found the sun was pouring a golden stream of light through the arch of the great stone bridge. Surprise Valley, like a valley of dreams, lay mystically soft and beautiful, awakening to the golden flood which was rolling away its slumberous bands of mist, brightening its walled faces.

While yet far off he discerned Bess moving under the silver spruces, and soon the barking of the dogs told him that they had seen him. He heard the mocking-birds singing in the trees, and then the twittering of the quail. Ring and Whitie came bounding toward him, and behind them ran Bess, her hands outstretched.

He felt only vaguely,

Hour by hour the tireless burro kept to his faithful, steady trot. The sun sank and the long shadows lengthened down the slope. Moving veils of purple twilight crept out of the hollows and, mustering and forming on the levels, soon merged and shaded into night. Venters guided the burro nearer to the trail, so that he could see its white line from the ridges, and rode on through the hours.

Once down in the Pass without leaving a trail, he would hold himself safe for the time being. When late in the night he reached the break in the sage, he sent the burro down ahead of him, and started an avalanche that all but buried the animal at the bottom of the trail. Bruised and battered as he was, he had a moment's elation, for he had hidden his tracks. Once more he mounted the burro and rode on. The hour was the blackest of the night when he made the thicket which inclosed his old camp. Here he turned the burro loose in the grass near the spring, and then lay down on his old bed of leaves.

He felt only vaguely, as outside things, the ache and burn and throb of the muscles of his body. But a dammed-up torrent of emotion at last burst its bounds, and the hour that saw his release from immediate action was one that confounded him in the reaction of his spirit. He suffered without understanding why. He caught glimpses into himself, into unlit darkness of soul. The fire that had blistered him and the cold which had frozen him now united in one torturing possession of his mind and heart, and like a fiery steed with ice-shod feet, ranged his being, ran rioting through his blood, trampling the resurging good, dragging ever at the evil.

Out of the subsiding chaos came a clear question. What had happened? He had left the valley to go to Cottonwoods. Why? It seemed that he had gone to kill a man--Oldring! The name riveted his consciousness upon the one man of all men upon earth whom he had wanted to meet. He had met the rustler. Venters recalled the smoky haze of the saloon, the dark-visaged men, the huge Oldring. He saw him step out of the door, a splendid specimen of manhood, a handsome giant with purple-black and sweeping beard. He remembered inquisitive gaze of falcon eyes. He heard himself repeating: "Oldring, Bess is alive! But she's dead to you," and he felt himself jerk, and his ears throbbed to the thunder of a gun, and he saw the giant sink slowly to his knees. Was that only the vitality of him--that awful light in the eyes--only the hard-dying life of a tremendously powerful brute? A broken whisper, strange as death: "Man, why--didn't--you wait! Bess--was--" And Oldring plunged face forward, dead.

"I killed him," cried Venters, in remembering shock. "But it wasn't that. Ah, the look in his eyes and his whisper!"

Herein lay the secret that had clamored to him through all the tumult and stress of his emotions. What a look in the eyes of a man shot through the heart! It had been neither hate nor ferocity nor fear of men nor fear of death. It had been no passionate glinting spirit of a fearless foe, willing shot for shot, life for life, but lacking physical power. Distinctly recalled now, never to be forgotten, Venters saw in Oldring's magnificent eyes the rolling of great, glad surprise--softness--love! Then came a shadow and the terrible superhuman striving of his spirit to speak. Oldring shot through the heart, had fought and forced back death, not for a moment in which to shoot or curse, but to whisper strange words.

Bounding swiftly away

"Oldring, Bess is alive! But she's dead to you--dead to the life you made her lead--dead as you will be in one second!"

Swift as lightning Venters's glance dropped from Oldring's rolling eyes to his hands. One of them, the right, swept out, then toward his gun--and Venters shot him through the heart.

Slowly Oldring sank to his knees, and the hand, dragging at the gun, fell away. Venters's strangely acute faculties grasped the meaning of that limp arm, of the swaying hulk, of the gasp and heave, of the quivering beard. But was that awful spirit in the black eyes only one of vitality?

"Man--why--didn't--you--wait? Bess--was--" Oldring's whisper died under his beard, and with a heavy lurch he fell forward.

Bounding swiftly away, Venters fled around the corner, across the street, and, leaping a hedge, he ran through yard, orchard, and garden to the sage. Here, under cover of the tall brush, he turned west and ran on to the place where he had hidden his rifle. Securing that, he again set out into a run, and, circling through the sage, came up behind Jane Withersteen's stable and corrals. With laboring, dripping chest, and pain as of a knife thrust in his side, he stopped to regain his breath, and while resting his eyes roved around in search of a horse. Doors and windows of the stable were open wide and had a deserted look. One dejected, lonely burro stood in the near corral. Strange indeed was the silence brooding over the once happy, noisy home of Jane Withersteen's pets.

He went into the corral, exercising care to leave no tracks, and led the burro to the watering-trough. Venters, though not thirsty, drank till he could drink no more. Then, leading the burro over hard ground, he struck into the sage and down the slope.

He strode swiftly, turning from time to time to scan the slope for riders. His head just topped the level of sage-brush, and the burro could not have been seen at all. Slowly the green of Cottonwoods sank behind the slope, and at last a wavering line of purple sage met the blue of sky.

To avoid being seen, to get away, to hide his trail--these were the sole ideas in his mind as he headed for Deception Pass, and he directed all his acuteness of eye and ear, and the keenness of a rider's judgment for distance and ground, to stern accomplishment of the task. He kept to the sage far to the left of the trail leading into the Pass. He walked ten miles and looked back a thousand times. Always the graceful, purple wave of sage remained wide and lonely, a clear, undotted waste. Coming to a stretch of rocky ground, he took advantage of it to cross the trail and then continued down on the right. At length he persuaded himself that he would be able to see riders mounted on horses before they could see him on the little burro, and he rode bareback.

His entrance had been unnoticed,

His entrance had been unnoticed, and he bent his gaze upon the drinkers at the bar. Dark-clothed, dark-faced men they all were, burned by the sun, bow-legged as were most riders of the sage, but neither lean nor gaunt. Then Venters's gaze passed to the tables, and swiftly it swept over the hard-featured gamesters, to alight upon the huge, shaggy, black head of the rustler chief.

"Oldring!" he cried, and to him his voice seemed to split a bell in his ears.

It stilled the din.

That silence suddenly broke to the scrape and crash of Oldring's chair as he rose; and then, while he passed, a great gloomy figure, again the thronged room stilled in silence yet deeper.

"Oldring, a word with you!" continued Venters.

"Ho! What's this?" boomed Oldring, in frowning scrutiny.

"Come outside, alone. A word for you--from your Masked Rider!"

Oldring kicked a chair out of his way and lunged forward with a stamp of heavy boot that jarred the floor. He waved down his muttering, rising men.

Venters backed out of the door and waited, hearing, as no sound had ever before struck into his soul, the rapid, heavy steps of the rustler.

Oldring appeared, and Venters had one glimpse of his great breadth and bulk, his gold-buckled belt with hanging guns, his high-top boots with gold spurs. In that moment Venters had a strange, unintelligible curiosity to see Oldring alive. The rustler's broad brow, his large black eyes, his sweeping beard, as dark as the wing of a raven, his enormous width of shoulder and depth of chest, his whole splendid presence so wonderfully charged with vitality and force and strength, seemed to afford Venters an unutterable fiendish joy because for that magnificent manhood and life he meant cold and sudden death.

Finally

With shaky legs, ignoring the fact that my action was useless, I followed him into the forest. The evidence
of his path had disappeared instantly. There were no footprints, the leaves were still again, but I walked
forward without thinking. I could not do anything else. I had to keep moving. If I stopped looking for
him, it was over.

Love, life, meaning… over.

I walked and walked. Time made no sense as I pushed slowly through the thick undergrowth. It was
hours passing, but also only seconds. Maybe it felt like time had frozen because the forest looked the
same no matter how far I went. I started to worry that I was traveling in a circle, a very small circle at
that, but I kept going. I stumbled often, and, as it grew darker and darker, I fell often, too.

Finally, I tripped over something—it was black now, I had no idea what caught my foot—and I stayed
down. I rolled onto my side, so that I could breathe, and curled up on the wet bracken.

As I lay there, I had a feeling that more time was passing than I realized. I couldn't remember how long it
had been since nightfall. Was it always so dark here at night? Surely, as a rule, some little bit of moonlight
would filter down through the clouds, through the chinks in the canopy of trees, and find the ground.

Not tonight. Tonight the sky was utterly black. Perhaps there was no moon tonight—a lunar eclipse, a
new moon.

A new moon. I shivered, though I wasn't cold.

It was black for a long time before I heard them calling.

Someone was shouting my name. It was muted, muffled by the wet growth that surrounded me, but it
was definitely my name. I didn't recognize the voice. I thought about answering, but I was dazed, and it
took a long time to come to the conclusion that I should answer. By then, the calling had stopped.

Sometime later, the rain woke me up. I don't think I'd really fallen asleep; I was just lost in an unthinking
stupor, holding with all my strength to the numbness that kept me from realizing what I didn't want to
know.

I nodded helplessly.

My whole body went numb. I couldn't feel anything below the neck.

"I would like to ask one favor, though, if that's not too much," he said.

I wonder what he saw on my face, because something flickered across his own face in response. But,
before I could identify it, he'd composed his features into the same serene mask.

"Anything," I vowed, my voice faintly stronger.

As I watched, his frozen eyes melted. The gold became liquid again, molten, burning down into mine with
an intensity that was overwhelming.

"Don't do anything reckless or stupid," he ordered, no longer detached. "Do you understand what I'm
saying?"

I nodded helplessly.

His eyes cooled, the distance returned. "I'm thinking of Charlie, of course. He needs you. Take care of
yourself—for him."

I nodded again. "I will," I whispered.

He seemed to relax just a little.

"And I'll make you a promise in return," he said. "I promise that this will be the last time you'll see me. I
won't come back. I won't put you through anything like this again. You can go on with your life without
any more interference from me. It will be as if I'd never existed."

My knees must have started to shake, because the trees were suddenly wobbling. I could hear the blood
pounding faster than normal behind my ears. His voice sounded farther away.

He smiled gently. "Don't worry. You're human—your memory is no more than a sieve. Time heals all
wounds for your kind."

"And your memories?" I asked. It sounded like there was something stuck in my throat, like I was
choking.

"Well"—he hesitated for a short second—"I won't forget. But my kind… we're very easily distracted."
He smiled; the smile was tranquil and it did not touch his eyes.

Alice is gone?

He took a step away from me. "That's everything, I suppose. We won't bother you again."

The plural caught my attention. That surprised me; I would have thought I was beyond noticing anything.

"Alice isn't coming back," I realized. I don't know how he heard me—the words made no sound—but he
seemed to understand.

He shook his head slowly, always watching my face.

"No. They're all gone. I staved behind to tell you goodbye."

"Alice is gone?" My voice was blank with disbelief.

"She wanted to say goodbye, but I convinced her that a clean break would be better for you."

I was dizzy; it was hard to concentrate. His words swirled around in my head, and I heard the doctor at
the hospital in Phoenix, last spring, as he showed me the X-rays. You can see it's a clean break, his
finger traced along the picture of my severed bone. That's good. It will heal more easily, more quickly
.

I tried to breathe normally. I needed to concentrate, to find a way out of this nightmare.

"Goodbye, Bella," he said in the same quiet, peaceful voice.

"Wait!" I choked out the word, reaching for him, willing my deadened legs to carry me forward.

I thought he was reaching for me, too. But his cold hands locked around my wrists and pinned them to
my sides. He leaned down, and pressed his lips very lightly to my forehead for the briefest instant. My
eyes closed.

"Take care of yourself," he breathed, cool against my skin.

There was a light, unnatural breeze. My eyes flashed open. The leaves on a small vine maple shuddered
with the gentle wind of his passage.

He was gone.

I stared

He took a deep breath and stared, unseeingly, at the ground for a long moment. His mouth twisted the
tiniest bit. When he finally looked up, his eyes were different, harder—like the liquid gold had frozen
solid.

"Bella, I don't want you to come with me." He spoke the words slowly and precisely, his cold eyes on
my face, watching as I absorbed what he was really saying.

There was a pause as I repeated the words in my head a few times, sifting through them for their real
intent.

"You… don't… want me?" I tried out the words, confused by the way they sounded, placed in that
order.

"No."

I stared, uncomprehending, into his eyes. He stared back without apology. His eyes were like
topaz—hard and clear and very deep. I felt like I could see into them for miles and miles, yet nowhere in
rheir bottomless depths could I see a contradiction to the word he'd spoken.

"Well, that changes things." I was surprised by how calm and reasonable my voice sounded. It must be
because I was so numb. I couldn't realize what he was telling me. It still didn't make any sense.

He looked away into the trees as he spoke again. "Of course, I'll always love you… in a way. But what
happened the other night made me realize that it's time for a change. Because I'm… tired of pretending
to be something I'm not, Bella. I am not human." He looked back, and the icy planes of his perfect face
were not human. "I've let this go on much too long, and I'm sorry for that."

"Don't." My voice was just a whisper now; awareness was beginning to seep through me, trickling like
acid through my veins. "Don't do this."

He just stared at me, and I could see from his eyes that my words were far too late. He already had.

"You're not good for me, Bella." He turned his earlier words around, and so I had no argument. How
well I knew that I wasn't good enough for him.

I opened my mouth to say something, and then closed it again. He waited patiently, his face wiped clean
of all emotion. I tried again.

"If… that's what you want."

He nodded once.

When you say we—

His answer confused me. I thought the point of leaving was to let his family live in peace. Why did we
have to leave if they were going? I stared at him, trying to understand what he meant.

He stared back coldly.

With a roll of nausea, I realized I'd misunderstood.

"When you say we—," I whispered.

"I mean my family and myself." Each word separate and distinct.

I shook my head back and forth mechanically, trying to clear it. He waited without any sign of
impatience. It took a few minutes before I could speak.

"Okay," I said. "I'll come with you."

"You can't, Bella. Where we're going… It's not the right place for you."

"Where you are is the right place for me."

"I'm no good for you, Bella."

"Don't be ridiculous." I wanted to sound angry, but it just sounded like I was begging. "You're the very
best part of my life."

"My world is not for you," he said grimly.

"What happened with Jasper—that was nothing, Edward! Nothing!"

"You're right," he agreed. "It was exactly what was to be expected."

"You promised! In Phoenix, you promised that you would stay—"

"As long as that was best for you," he interrupted to correct me.

"No! This is about my soul, isn't it?" I shouted, furious, the words exploding out of me—somehow it still
sounded like a plea. "Carlisle told me about that, and I don't care, Edward. I don't care! You can have
my soul. I don't want it without you—it's yours already!"

Martha saith unto Him

　　Then Martha as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming went andmet Him: but Mary sat still in the house.

　　Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if Thou hadst been here, mybrother had not died.

　　But I know that even now whatsoever Thou wilt ask of God, God willgive it Thee...."

　　Then she stopped again with a shamefaced feeling that her voicewould quiver and break again.

　　"Jesus said unto her, thy brother shall rise again.

　　Martha saith unto Him, I know that he shall rise again in theresurrection, at the last day.

　　Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he thatbelieveth in Me though he were dead, yet shall he live.

　　And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.Believest thou this?

　　She saith unto Him,"

　　(And drawing a painful breath, Sonia read distinctly and forcibly asthough she were making a public confession of faith.)

　　"Yea, Lord: I believe that Thou art the Christ, the Son of God Whichshould come into the world."

　　She stopped and looked up quickly at him, but controlling herselfwent on reading. Raskolnikov sat without moving, his elbows on thetable and his eyes turned away. She read to the thirty-second verse.

　　"Then when Mary was come where Jesus was and saw Him, she felldown at His feet, saying unto Him, Lord if Thou hadst been here, mybrother had not died.

　　When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weepingwhich came with her, He groaned in the spirit and was troubled,

　　And said, Where have ye laid him? They said unto Him, Lord, come andsee.

　　Jesus wept.

It's infectious!

　　"Yes, I shall. I was at church last week, too... I had a requiemservice."

　　"For whom?"

　　"For Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe."

　　His nerves were more and more strained. His head began to go round.

　　"Were you friends with Lizaveta?"

　　"Yes.... She was good... she used to come... not often... shecouldn't.... We used to read together and... talk. She will see God."

　　The last phrase sounded strange in his ears. And here wassomething new again: the mysterious meetings with Lizaveta and both ofthem- religious maniacs.

　　"I shall be a religious maniac myself soon! It's infectious!"

　　"Read!" he cried irritably and insistently.

　　Sonia still hesitated. Her heart was throbbing. She hardly daredto read to him. He looked almost with exasperation at the "unhappylunatic."

　　"What for? You don't believe?..." she whispered softly and as itwere breathlessly.

　　"Read! I want you to," he persisted. "You used to read to Lizaveta."

　　Sonia opened the book and found the place. Her hands were shaking,her voice failed her. Twice she tried to begin and could not bring outthe first syllable.

　　"Now a certain man was sick named Lazarus of Bethany..." sheforced herself at last to read, but at the third word her voicebroke like an overstrained string. There was a catch in her breath.

　　Raskolnikov saw in part why Sonia could not bring herself to read tohim and the more he saw this, the more roughly and irritably heinsisted on her doing so. He understood only too well how painful itwas for her to betray and unveil all that was her own. He understoodthat these feelings really were her secret treasure, which she hadkept perhaps for years, perhaps from childhood, while she lived withan unhappy father and a distracted stepmother crazed by grief, inthe midst of starving children and unseemly abuse and reproaches.But at the same time he knew now and knew for certain that, althoughit filled her with dread and suffering, yet she had a tormentingdesire to read and to read to him that he might hear it, and to readnow whatever might come of it!... He read this in her eyes, he couldsee it in her intense emotion. She mastered herself, controlled thespasm in her throat and went on reading the eleventh chapter of St.John. She went on to the nineteenth verse:

　　"And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary to comfort themconcerning their brother.

"Where is the story of Lazarus?"

　　"Who brought it?"

　　"Lizaveta, I asked her for it."

　　"Lizaveta! strange!" he thought.

　　Everything about Sonia seemed to him stranger and more wonderfulevery moment. He carried the book to the candle and began to turn overthe pages.

　　"Where is the story of Lazarus?" he asked suddenly.

　　Sonia looked obstinately at the ground and would not answer. She wasstanding sideways to the table.

　　"Where is the raising of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonia."

　　She stole a glance at him.

　　"You are not looking in the right place.... It's in the fourthgospel," she whispered sternly, without looking at him.

　　"Find it and read it to me," he said. He sat down with his elbowon the table, leaned his head on his hand and looked away sullenly,prepared to listen.

　　"In three weeks' time they'll welcome me in the madhouse! I shall bethere if I am not in a worse place," he muttered to himself.

　　Sonia heard Raskolnikov's request distrustfully and movedhesitatingly to the table. She took the book however.

　　"Haven't you read it?" she asked, looking up at him across thetable.

　　Her voice became sterner and sterner.

　　"Long ago.... When I was at school. Read!"

　　"And haven't you heard it in church?"

　　"I... haven't been. Do you often go?"

　　"N-no," whispered Sonia.

　　Raskolnikov smiled.

　　"I understand.... And you won't go to your father's funeralto-morrow?"

Sonia did not speak

　　He stayed obstinately at that thought. He liked that explanationindeed better than any other. He began looking more intently at her.

　　"So you pray to God a great deal, Sonia?" he asked her.

　　Sonia did not speak; he stood beside her waiting for an answer.

　　"What should I be without God?" she whispered rapidly, forcibly,glancing at him with suddenly flashing eyes, and squeezing his hand.

　　"Ah, so that is it!" he thought.

　　"And what does God do for you?" he asked, probing her further.

　　Sonia was silent a long while, as though she could not answer. Herweak chest kept heaving with emotion.

　　"Be silent! Don't ask! You don't deserve!" she cried suddenly,looking sternly and wrathfully at him.

　　"That's it, that's it," he repeated to himself.

　　"He does everything," she whispered quickly, looking down again.

　　"That's the way out! That's the explanation," he decided,scrutinising her with eager curiosity, with a new, strange, almostmorbid feeling. He gazed at that pale, thin, irregular, angular littleface, those soft blue eyes, which could flash with such fire, suchstern energy, that little body still shaking with indignation andanger- and it all seemed to him more and more strange, almostimpossible. "She is a religious maniac!" he repeated to himself.

　　There was a book lying on the chest of drawers. He had noticed itevery time he paced up and down the room. Now he took it up and lookedat it. It was the New Testament in the Russian translation. It wasbound in leather, old and worn.

　　"Where did you get that?" he called to her across the room.

　　She was still standing in the same place, three steps from thetable.

　　"It was brought me," she answered, as it were unwillingly, notlooking at him.

But, nevertheless,

　　"Ach, you said that to them! And in her presence?" cried Sonia,frightened. "Sit down with me! An honour! Why, I'm...dishonourable.... Ah, why did you say that?"

　　"It was not because of your dishonour and your sin I said that ofyou, but because of your great suffering. But you are a greatsinner, that's true," he added almost solemnly, "and your worst sin isthat you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing. Isn'tthat fearful? Isn't it fearful that you are living in this filth whichyou loathe so, and at the same time you know yourself (you've onlyto open your eyes) that you are not helping any one by it, notsaving any one from anything! Tell me," he went on almost in a frenzy,"how this shame and degradation can exist in you side by side withother, opposite, holy feelings? It would be better, a thousand timesbetter and wiser to leap into the water and end it all!"

　　"But what would become of them?" Sonia asked faintly, gazing athim with eyes of anguish, but not seeming surprised at his suggestion.

　　Raskolnikov looked strangely at her. He read it all in her face;so she must have had that thought already, perhaps many times, andearnestly she had thought out in her despair how to end it and soearnestly, that now she scarcely wondered at his suggestion. She hadnot even noticed the cruelty of his words. (The significance of hisreproaches and his peculiar attitude to her shame she had, ofcourse, not noticed either, and that, too, was clear to him.) But hesaw how monstrously the thought of her disgraceful, shamefulposition was torturing her and had long tortured her. "What, what," hethought, "could hitherto have hindered her from putting an end to it?"Only then he realised what those poor little orphan children andthat pitiful half-crazy Katerina Ivanovna, knocking her head againstthe wall in her consumption, meant for Sonia.

　　But, nevertheless, it was clear to him again that with her characterand the amount of education she had after all received, she couldnot in any case remain so. He was still confronted by the question howcould she have remained so long in that position without going outof her mind, since she could not bring herself to jump into the water?Of course he knew that Sonia's position was an exceptional case,though unhappily not unique and not infrequent, indeed; but thatvery exceptionalness, her tinge of education, her previous life might,one would have thought, have killed her at the first step on thatrevolting path. What held her up- surely not depravity? All thatinfamy had obviously only touched her mechanically, not one drop ofreal depravity had penetrated to her heart; he saw that. He sawthrough her as she stood before him....

　　"There are three ways before her," he thought, "the canal, themadhouse, or... at last to sink into depravity which obscures the mindand turns the heart to stone."

　　The last idea was the most revolting, but he was a sceptic, he wasyoung, abstract, and therefore cruel, and so he could not helpbelieving that the last end was the most likely.

　　"But can that be true?" he cried to himself. "Can that creaturewho has still preserved the purity of her spirit be consciouslydrawn at last into that sink of filth and iniquity? Can the processalready have begun? Can it be that she has only been able to bear ittill now, because vice has begun to be less loathsome to her? No,no, that cannot be!" he cried, as Sonia had just before. "No, what haskept her from the canal till now is the idea of sin and they, thechildren.... And if she has not gone out of her mind... but who saysshe has not gone out of her mind? Is she in her senses? Can onetalk, can one reason as she does? How can she sit on the edge of theabyss of loathsomeness into which she is slipping and refuse to listenwhen she is told of danger? Does she expect a miracle? No doubt shedoes. Doesn't that all mean madness?"

It was effortless as biting into butter. My teeth were steel razors; they cut through the fur and fat and
sinews like they weren't there.

The flavor was wrong, but the blood was hot and wet and it soothed the ragged, itching thirst as I drank
in an eager rush. The cat's struggles grew more and more feeble, and his screams choked off with a
gurgle. The warmth of the blood radiated throughout my whole body, heating even my fingertips and
toes.

The lion was finished before I was. The thirst flared again when he ran dry, and I shoved his carcass off
my body in disgust. How could I still be thirsty after all that?



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I wrenched myself erect in one quick move. Standing, I realized I was a bit of a mess. I wiped my face
off on the back of my arm and tried to fix the dress. The claws that had been so ineffectual against my
skin had had more success with the thin satin.

"Hmm," Edward said. I looked up to see him leaning casually against a tree trunk, watching me with a
thoughtful look on his face.

"I guess I could have done that better." I was covered in dirt, my hair knotted, my dress bloodstained
and hanging in tatters. Edward didn't come home from hunting trips looking like this.

"You did perfectly fine," he assured me. "It's just that... it was much more difficult for me to watch than it
should have been."

I raised my eyebrows, confused.

"It goes against the grain," he explained, "letting you wrestle with lions. I was having an anxiety attack the
whole time."

I tried to swallow and then sighed, closing my eyes like I had before to help me concentrate. I let my
senses range out around me, tensed this time in case of another onslaught of the delicious taboo scent.

Edward dropped his hands, not even breathing while I listened farther and farther out into the web of
green life, sifting through the scents and sounds for something not totally repellant to my thirst. There was
a hint of something different, a faint trail to the east___

My eyes flashed open, but my focus was still on sharper senses as I turned and darted silently eastward.
The ground sloped steeply upward almost at once, and I ran in a hunting crouch, close to the ground,
taking to the trees when that was easier. I sensed rather than heard Edward with me, flowing quietly
through the woods, letting me lead.

The vegetation thinned as we climbed higher; the scent of pitch and resin grew more powerful, as did the
trail I followed—it was a warm scent, sharper than the smell of the elk and more appealing. A few
seconds more and I could hear the muted padding of immense feet, so much subtler than the crunch of
hooves. The sound was up—in the branches rather than on the ground. Automatically I darted into the
boughs as well, gaining the strategic higher position, halfway up a towering silver fir.

The soft thud of paws continued stealthily beneath me now; the rich scent was very close. My eyes
pinpointed the movement linked with the sound, and I saw the tawny hide of the great cat slinking along
the wide branch of a spruce just down and to the left of my perch. He was big—easily four times my
mass. His eyes were intent on the ground beneath; the cat hunted, too. I caught the smell of something
smaller, bland next to the aroma of my prey, cowering in brush below the tree. The lion's tail twitched
spasmodically as he prepared to spring.

With a light bound, I sailed through the air and landed on the lion's branch. He felt the shiver of the wood
and whirled, shrieking surprise and defiance. He clawed the space between us, his eyes bright with fury.
Half-crazed with

thirst, I ignored the exposed fangs and the hooked claws and launched myself at him, knocking us both
to the forest floor.

It wasn't much of a fight.

His raking claws could have been caressing fingers for all the impact they had on my skin. His teeth
could find no purchase against my shoulder or my throat. His weight was nothing. My teeth unerringly
sought his throat, and his instinctive resistance was pitifully feeble against my strength. My jaws locked
easily over the precise point where the heat flow concentrated.

"Why are you laughing at me?"

He stopped at once, and I could see he was wary again.

Keep it under control,I thought to myself. I had to watch my temper. Just like I was a young werewolf
rather than a vampire.

"I'm not laughing at you,Bella. I'm laughing because I am in shock. And I am in shock because I am
completely amazed."

"Why?"

"You shouldn't be able to do any of this. You shouldn't be so... so rational. You shouldn't be able to
stand here discussing this with me calmly and coolly. And, much more than any of that, you should not
have been able to break

off mid-hunt with the scent of human blood in the air. Even mature vampires have difficulty with that
—we're always very careful of where we hunt so as not to put ourselves in the path of temptation. Bella,
you're behaving like you're decades rather than days old."

"Oh." But I'd known it was going to be hard. That was why I'd been so on guard. I'd been expecting it
to be difficult.

He put his hands on my face again, and his eyes were full of wonder. "What wouldn't I give to be able to
see into your mind for just this one moment."

Such powerful emotions. I'd been prepared for the thirst part, but not this. I'd been so sure it wouldn't
be the same when he touched me. Well, truthfully, it wasn't the same.

It was stronger.

I reached up to trace the planes of his face; my fingers lingered on his lips.

"I thought I wouldn't feel this way for a long time?" My uncertainty made the words a question. "But I
stillwant you."

He blinked in shock. "How can you even concentrate on that? Aren't you unbearably thirsty?"


Of course I was now, now that he'd brought it up again!

                                                                                                                Page 246

 




Edward hesitated a few feet away, his arms raised as if to embrace me—or restrain me. His face was
intent and cautious as I froze, horrified.

I realized that I had been about to attack him. With a hard jerk, I straightened out of my defensive
crouch. I held my breath as I refocused, fearing the power of the fragrance swirling up from the south.

He could see reason return to my face, and he took a step toward me, lowering his arms.

"I have to get away from here," I spit through my teeth, using the breath I had.

Shock crossed his face. "Can you leave?"

I didn't have time to ask him what he meant by that. I knew the ability to think clearly would last only as
long as I could stop myself from thinking of—

I burst into a run again, a flat-out sprint straight north, concentrating solely on the uncomfortable feeling
of sensory deprivation that seemed to be my body's only response to the lack of air. My one goal was to
run far

enough away that the scent behind me would be completely lost. Impossible to find, even if I changed
my mind...

Once again, I was aware of being followed, but I was sane this time. I fought the instinct to breathe—to
use the flavors in the air to be sure it was Edward. I didn't have to fight long; though I was running faster
than I ever had before, shooting like a comet through the straightest path I could find in the trees; Edward
caught up with me after a short minute.

A new thought occurred to me, and I stopped dead, my feet planted. I was sure it must be safe here, but
I held my breath just in case.

Edward blew past me, surprised by my sudden freeze. He wheeled around and was at my side in a
second. He put his hands on my shoulders and stared into my eyes, shock still the dominant emotion on
his face.

He chuckled. "I know—it takes some getting used to."

"Three?" I guessed.



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"Five. There are two more in the trees behind them."

"What do I do now?"

His voice sounded like he was smiling. "What do you feel like doing?"

I thought about that, my eyes still shut as I listened and breathed in the scent. Another bout of baking
thirst intruded on my awareness, and suddenly the warm, tangy odor wasn't quite so objectionable. At
least it would be something hot and wet in my desiccated mouth. My eyes snapped open.

"Don't think about it," he suggested as he lifted his hands off my face and took a step back. "Just follow
your

instincts."

I let myself drift with the scent, barely aware of my movement as I ghosted down the incline to the
narrow meadow where the stream flowed. My body shifted forward automatically into a low crouch as I
hesitated at the fern-fringed edge of the trees. I could see a big buck, two dozen antler points crowning
his head, at the stream's edge, and the shadow-spotted shapes of the four others heading eastward into
forest at a leisurely pace.

I stared across the campus,

133

"Thanks," she said, smiling at me now.  "It's worth getting sick to miss Gym."
I stared across the campus, wondering how to prolong my time with her.
"Anytime," I said.
"So are you going?  This Saturday, I mean?"  She sounded hopeful.
Ah, her hope was soothing.  She wanted me with her, not Mike Newton.  And I
wanted to say yes.  But there were many things to consider.  For one, the sun would be
shining this Saturday?
"Where are you all going, exactly?" I tried to keep my voice nonchalant, as if it
didn't matter much.  Mike had said beach, though.  Not much chance of avoiding
sunlight there.
"Down to La Push, to First Beach."
Damn.  Well, it was impossible, then.
Anyway, Emmett would be irritated if I cancelled our plans.
I glanced down at her, smiling wryly.  "I really don't think I was invited."
She sighed, already resigned.  "I just invited you."
"Let's you and I not push poor Mike any further this week.  We don't want him to
snap."  I thought about snapping poor Mike myself, and enjoyed the mental picture
intensely.
"Mike-schmike," she said, dismissive again.  I smiled widely.
And then she started to walk away from me.
Without thinking about my action, I reached out and caught her by the back of her
rain jacket.  She jerked to a stop.
"Where do you think you're going?"  I was almost angry that she was leaving me.
I hadn't had enough time with her.  She couldn't go, not yet.
"I'm going home," she said, baffled as to why this should upset me.
"Didn't you hear me promise to take you safely home?  Do you think I'm going to
let you drive in your condition?"  I knew she wouldn't like that—my implication of
weakness on her part.  But I needed to practice for the Seattle trip, anyway.  See if I could
handle her proximity in an enclosed space.  This was a much shorter journey.
? 2008 Stephenie Meyer

That was interesting.

132

That was interesting.  When Shelly Cope's pulse quickened, it was because she
found me physically attractive, not because she was frightened.  I was used to that around
human females?yet I hadn't considered that explanation for Bella's racing heart.
I rather liked that.  Too much, in fact.  I smiled, and Mrs. Cope's breathing got
louder.
"Bella has gym next hour, and I don't think she feels well enough.  Actually, I
was thinking I should take her home now.  Do you think you could excuse her from
class?"  I stared into her depthless eyes, enjoying the havoc that this wreaked on her
thought processes.  Was it possible that Bella??
Mrs. Cope had to swallow loudly before she answered.  "Do you need to be
excused, too, Edward?"
"No, I have Mrs. Goff, she won't mind."
I wasn't paying much attention to her now.  I was exploring this new possibility.
Hmm.  I'd like to believe that Bella found me attractive like other humans did, but
when did Bella ever have the same reactions as other humans?  I shouldn't get my hopes
up.
"Okay, it's all taken care of.  You feel better, Bella."
Bella nodded weakly—overacting a bit.
"Can you walk, or do you want me to carry you again?" I asked, amused by her
poor theatrics.  I knew she would want to walk—she wouldn't want to be weak.
"I'll walk," she said.
Right again.  I was getting better at this.
She got up, hesitating for a moment as if to check her balance.  I held the door for
her, and we walked out into the rain.
I watched her as she lifted her face to the light rain with her eyes closed, a slight
smile on her lips.  What was she thinking?  Something about this action seemed off, and I
quickly realized why the posture looked unfamiliar to me.  Normal human girls wouldn't
raise their faces to the drizzle that way; normal human girls usually wore makeup, even
here in this wet place.
Bella never wore makeup, nor should she.  The cosmetics industry made billions
of dollars a year from women who were trying to attain skin like hers.
? 2008 Stephenie Meyer

I tried to disguise my laughter as coughing.

128
"Sometimes," Bella admitted.
I tried to disguise my laughter as coughing.
This brought me to the nurse's attention.  "You can go back to class now," she
said.
I looked her straight in the eye and lied with perfect confidence.  "I'm supposed to
stay with her."
Hmm.  I wonder? oh well.  Mrs. Hammond nodded.
It worked just fine on her.  Why did Bella have to be so difficult?
"I'll go get you some ice for your forehead, dear," the nurse said, slightly
uncomfortable from looking into my eyes—the way a human should be—and left the
room.
"You were right," Bella moaned, closing her eyes.
What did she mean?  I jumped to the worst conclusion: she'd accepted my
warnings.
"I usually am," I said, trying to keep the amusement in my voice; it sounded sour
now.  "But about what in particular this time?"
"Ditching is healthy," she sighed.
Ah, relief again.
She was silent then.  She just breathed slowly in and out.  Her lips were beginning
to turn pink.  Her mouth was slightly out of balance, her lower lip just a little too full to
match the top.  Staring at her mouth made me feel strange.  Made me want to move closer
to her, which was not a good idea.
"You scared me for a minute there," I said—to restart the conversation so that I
could hear her voice again.  "I thought Newton was dragging your dead body off to bury
it in the woods."
"Ha ha," she said.
"Honestly—I've seen corpses with better color."  This was actually true.  "I was
concerned that I might have to avenge your murder."  And I would have.
"Poor Mike," she sighed.  "I'll bet he's mad."
Fury pulsed through me, but I contained it quickly.  Her concern was surely just
pity.  She was kind.  That was all.
? 2008 Stephenie Meyer

Run, Bella, run.

125

Run, Bella, run.  I couldn't make myself say the words out loud.
She jumped to her feet.  "We're going to be late," she said, just as I'd started to
worry that she'd somehow heard my silent warning.
"I'm not going to class."
"Why not?"
Because I don't want to kill you.  "It's healthy to ditch class now and then."
To be precise, it was healthier for the humans if the vampires ditched on days
when human blood would be spilt.  Mr. Banner was blood typing today.  Alice had
already ditched her morning class.
"Well, I'm going," she said.  This didn't surprise me.  She was responsible—she
always did the right thing.
She was my opposite.
"I'll see you later then," I said, trying for casual again, staring down at the
whirling lid.  And, by the way, I adore you?in frightening, dangerous ways.
She hesitated, and I hoped for a moment that she would stay with me after all.
But the bell rang and she hurried away.
I waited until she was gone, and then I put the lid in my pocket—a souvenir of
this most consequential conversation—and walked through the rain to my car.
I put on my favorite calming CD—the same one I'd listened to that first day—but
I wasn't hearing Debussy's notes for long.  Other notes were running through my head, a
fragment of a tune that pleased and intrigued me.  I turned down the stereo and listened to
the music in my head, playing with the fragment until it evolved into a fuller harmony.
Instinctively, my fingers moved in the air over imaginary piano keys.
The new composition was really coming along when my attention was caught by
a wave of mental anguish.
I looked toward the distress.
Is she going to pass out?  What do I do?  Mike panicked.
A hundred yards away, Mike Newton was lowering Bella's limp body to the
sidewalk.  She slumped unresponsively against the wet concrete, her eyes closed, her skin
chalky as a corpse.
I almost took the door off the car.
? 2008 Stephenie Meyer

What had made me say that?

119

What had made me say that?  I supposed it was honest, at least.  And perhaps
she'd hear the unsubtle warning my words implied.  Maybe she would realize that she
should get up and walk away as quickly as possible?
She didn't get up.  She stared at me, waiting, as if I'd left my sentence unfinished.
"You know I don't have any idea what you mean," she said when I didn't
continue.
That was a relief.  I smiled.
"I know."
It was hard to ignore the thoughts screaming at me from behind her back—and I
wanted to change the subject anyway.
"I think your friends are angry at me for stealing you."
This did not appear to concern her.  "They'll survive."
"I may not give you back, though."  I didn't even know if I was trying to be
honest now, or just trying to tease her again.  Being near her made it hard to make sense
of my own thoughts.
Bella swallowed loudly.
I laughed at her expression.  "You look worried."  It really shouldn't be funny?
She should worry.
"No."  She was a bad liar; it didn't help that her voice broke.  "Surprised,
actually?.  What brought this on?"
"I told you," I reminded her.  "I got tired of trying to stay away from you.  So I'm
giving up."  I held my smile in place with a bit of effort.  This wasn't working at all—
trying to be honest and casual at the same time.
"Giving up?" she repeated, baffled.
"Yes—giving up trying to be good."  And, apparently, giving up trying to be
casual.  "I'm just going to do what I want now, and let the chips fall where they may."
That was honest enough.  Let her see my selfishness.  Let that warn her, too.
"You lost me again."
I was selfish enough to be glad that this was the case.  "I always say too much
when I'm talking to you—that's one of the problems."
A rather insignificant problem, compared to the rest.
? 2008 Stephenie Meyer

She didn't pick up on my mood.

It was really hard to take, that adoring tone she used to describe the thing that was tearing her up.
Especially after Rosalie's callousness. Made me wish I could throw something at Bella, too.

She didn't pick up on my mood. "You know, he reminds me of you, Jake," she said—affectionate
tone—still gasping.

"Do not compare me to that thing," I spit out through my teeth.

"I just meant your growth spurt," she said, looking like I'd hurt her feelings. Good. "You shot right up. I
could watch you getting taller by the minute. He's like that, too. Growing so fast."

I bit my tongue to keep from saying what I wanted to say—hard enough that I tasted blood in my
mouth. Of course, it would heal before I could swallow. That's what Bella needed. To be strong like me,
to be able to heal....
She took an easier breath and then relaxed back into the sofa, her body going limp.

"Hmm," Carlisle murmured. I looked up, and his eyes were on me.

"What?" I demanded.

Edward's head leaned to one side as he reflected on whatever was in Carlisle's head.

"You know that I was wondering about the fetus's genetic makeup, Jacob. About his chromosomes."

"What of it?"

"Well, taking your similarities into consideration—"

"Similarif/es?" I growled, not appreciating the plural.

How did you find... ?

"Then is this thing not the first of its kind?" Edward asked, anticipating my question. "Maybe. It's all very
sketchy. The myths could easily be the products of fear and imagination. Though .. ."—he
hesitated—"your myths are true, are they not? Perhaps these are, too. They do seem to be localized,
linked___"

"How did you find... ?"

"There was a woman we encountered in South America. She'd been raised in the traditions of her
people. She'd heard warnings about such creatures, old stories that had been passed down."

"What were the warnings?" I whispered.


"That the creature must be killed immediately. Before it could gain too much strength."

Just like Sam thought. Was he right?

"Of course, their legends say the same of us. That we must be destroyed. That we are soulless
murderers."

Two for two.

Edward laughed one hard chuckle.

"What did their stories say about the... mothers?"

Agony ripped across his face, and, as I flinched away from his pain, I knew he wasn't going to give me
an answer. I doubted he could talk.

tt was Rosalie—who'd been so still and quiet since Bella'd fallen asleep that I'd nearly forgotten
her—who answered.

Charlie's not stupid.

Oh, this just got better and better.

"See. Charlie." I finally looked at him, my eyes bugging. "Afterwards. See Charlie when she's all sparkly
white with the bright red eyes. I'm not a bloodsucker, so maybe I'm missing something, but Charlie
seems like kind of a strange choice for her first meal."

Edward sighed. "She knows she won't be able to be near him for at least a year. She thinks she can stall.
Tell Charlie she has to go to a special hospital on the other side of the world. Keep in contact through
phone calls___"

"That's insane."

"Yes."

"Charlie's not stupid. Even if she doesn't kill him, he's going to notice a difference."

"She's sort of banking on that."

I continued to stare, waiting for him to explain.

"She wouldn't be aging, of course, so that would set a time limit, even if Charlie accepted whatever
excuse she comes up with for the changes." He smiled faintly. "Do you remember when you tried to tell
her about your transformation? How you made her guess?"

My free hand flexed into a fist. "She told you about that?"

"Yes. She was explaining her... idea. You see, she's not allowed totell Charlie the truth—it would be
very dangerous for him. But he's a smart, practical man. She thinks he'll come up with his own
explanation. She assumes he'll get it wrong." Edward snorted. "After all, we hardly adhere to vampire
canon. He'll make some wrong assumption about us, like she did in the beginning, and we'll go along with

it. She thinks she'll be able to see him... from time to time."

"Insane," I repeated.

"Yes," he agreed again.

Occasionally

"Let me know when she gets hot again."

"Yeah."

She still had goose bumps on the arm that wasn't touching mine. I'd barely raised my head to look for a
blanket when Edward snagged one draped over the arm of the sofa and flung it out so that it settled over
her.

Occasionally, the mind-reading thing saved time. For example, maybe I wouldn't have to make a big
production out of the accusation about what was going on with Charlie. That mess. Edward would just
hear exactly how furious—


"Yes," he agreed. "It's not a good idea."

"Then why?" Why was Bella telling her father she was on the mend when it would only make him more
miserable?

"She can't bear his anxiety."

"So it's better—"

"No. It's not better. But I'm not going to force her to do anything that makes her unhappy now.
Whatever happens, this makes her feel better. I'll deal with the rest afterward."

That didn't sound right. Bella wouldn't just shuffle Charlie's pain off to some later date, for someone else
to face. Even dying. That wasn't her. If I knew Bella, she had to have some other plan.

"She's very sure she's going to live," Edward said.

"But not human," I protested.

"No, not human. But she hopes to see Charlie again, anyway."

I felt her flinch.

"You've always been a part of my family," she disagreed.

My teeth made a grinding sound. 'That's a crap answer."

"What's a good one?"

"How about, 'Jacob, I get a kick out of your pain.'"

I felt her flinch.

"You'd like that better?" she whispered.

"It's easier, at least. I could wrap my head around it. I could deal with it."

I looked back down at her face then, so close to mine. Her eyes were shut and she was frowning. "We
got off track, Jake. Out of balance. You're supposed to be part of my life—I can feel that, and so can
you." She paused for a second without opening her eyes—like she was waiting for me to deny it. When I
didn't say anything, she went on. "But not like this. We did something wrong. No. I did. I did something
wrong, and we got off track___"

Her voice trailed off, and the frown on her face relaxed until it was just a little pucker at the corner of her
lips. I waited for her to pour some more lemon juice into my paper cuts, but then a soft snore came from
the back of her throat.

"She's exhausted," Edward murmured. "It's been a long day. A hard day. I think she would have gone to
sleep earlier, but she was waiting for you."

I didn't look at him.

"Seth said it broke another of her ribs."

"Yes. It's making it hard for her to breathe."

"Great."