demon, but yet who partakes the dark natures and possesses the mysterious
and terrible qualities of both. — Rev. Montague Summers
If there is in this world a well-attested account, it is that of the
vampires. Nothing is lacking: official reports, affidavits of well-known
people, of surgeons, of priests, of magistrates; the judicial proof is
most complete. And with all that, who is there who believes in vampires?
— Rousseau
The rest of the site was an alphabetized listing of all the different
myths of vampires held throughout the world. The first I clicked on, the
Danag, was a Filipino vampire supposedly responsible for planting taro on
the islands long ago. The myth continued that the Danag worked with
humans for many years, but the partnership ended one day when a woman cut
her finger and a Danag sucked her wound, enjoying the taste so much that
it drained her body completely of blood.
I read carefully through the descriptions, looking for anything that
sounded familiar, let alone plausible. It seemed that most vampire myths
centered around beautiful women as demons and children as victims; they
also seemed like constructs created to explain away the high mortality
rates for young children, and to give men an excuse for infidelity. Many
of the stories involved bodiless spirits and warnings against improper
burials. There wasn't much that sounded like the movies I'd seen, and
only a very few, like the Hebrew Estrie and the Polish Upier, who were
even preoccupied with drinking blood.
Only three entries really caught my attention: the Romanian Varacolaci, a
powerful undead being who could appear as a beautiful, pale-skinned
human, the Slovak Nelapsi, a creature so strong and fast it could
massacre an entire village in the single hour after midnight, and one
other, the Stregoni benefici.
About this last there was only one brief sentence.
Stregoni benefici: An Italian vampire, said to be on the side of
goodness, and a mortal enemy of all evil vampires.
It was a relief, that one small entry, the one myth among hundreds that
claimed the existence of good vampires.
Overall, though, there was little that coincided with Jacob's stories or
my own observations. I'd made a little catalogue in my mind as I'd read
and carefully compared it with each myth. Speed, strength, beauty, pale
skin, eyes that shift color; and then Jacob's criteria: blood drinkers,
enemies of the werewolf, cold-skinned, and immortal. There were very few
myths that matched even one factor.
And then another problem, one that I'd remembered from the small number
of scary movies that I'd seen and was backed up by today's reading —
vampires couldn't come out in the daytime, the sun would burn them to a
cinder. They slept in coffins all day and came out only at night.
Aggravated, I snapped off the computer's main power switch, not waiting
to shut things down properly. Through my irritation, I felt overwhelming
embarrassment. It was all so stupid. I was sitting in my room,
researching vampires. What was wrong with me? I decided that most of the
blame belonged on the doorstep of the town of Forks — and the entire
sodden Olympic Peninsula, for that matter.
I had to get out of the house, but there was nowhere I wanted to go that
didn't involve a three-day drive. I pulled on my boots anyway, unclear
where I was headed, and went downstairs. I shrugged into my raincoat
without checking the weather and stomped out the door.
It was overcast, but not raining yet. I ignored my truck and started east
on foot, angling across Charlie's yard toward the ever-encroaching
forest. It didn't take long till I was deep enough for the house and the
road to be invisible, for the only sound to be the squish of the damp
earth under my feet and the sudden cries of the jays.
There was a thin ribbon of a trail that led through the forest here, or I
wouldn't risk wandering on my own like this. My sense of direction was
hopeless; I could get lost in much less helpful surroundings. The trail
wound deeper and deeper into the forest, mostly east as far as I could
tell. It snaked around the Sitka spruces and the hemlocks, the yews and
the maples. I only vaguely knew the names of the trees around me, and all
I knew was due to Charlie pointing them out to me from the cruiser window
in earlier days. There were many I didn't know, and others I couldn't be
sure about because they were so covered in green parasites.
I followed the trail as long as my anger at myself pushed me forward. As
that started to ebb, I slowed. A few drops of moisture trickled down from
the canopy above me, but I couldn't be certain if it was beginning to
rain or if it was simply pools left over from yesterday, held high in the
leaves above me, slowly dripping their way back to the earth. A recently
fallen tree — I knew it was recent because it wasn't entirely carpeted in
moss — rested against the trunk of one of her sisters, creating a
sheltered little bench just a few safe feet off the trail. I stepped over
the ferns and sat carefully, making sure my jacket was between the damp
seat and my clothes wherever they touched, and leaned my hooded head back
against the living tree.
This was the wrong place to have come. I should have known, but where
else was there to go? The forest was deep green and far too much like the
scene in last night's dream to allow for peace of mind. Now that there
was no longer the sound of my soggy footsteps, the silence was piercing.
The birds were quiet, too, the drops increasing in frequency, so it must
be raining above. The ferns stood higher than my head, now that I was
seated, and I knew someone could walk by on the path, three feet away,
and not see me.
Here in the trees it was much easier to believe the absurdities that
embarrassed me indoors. Nothing had changed in this forest for thousands
of years, and all the myths and legends of a hundred different lands
seemed much more likely in this green haze than they had in my clear-cut
bedroom.
I forced myself to focus on the two most vital questions I had to answer,
but I did so unwillingly.
First, I had to decide if it was possible that what Jacob had said about
the Cullens could be true.
Immediately my mind responded with a resounding negative. It was silly
and morbid to entertain such ridiculous notions. But what, then? I asked
myself. There was no rational explanation for how I was alive at this
moment. I listed again in my head the things I'd observed myself: the
impossible speed and strength, the eye color shifting from black to gold
and back again, the inhuman beauty, the pale, frigid skin. And more —
small things that registered slowly — how they never seemed to eat, the
disturbing grace with which they moved. And the way be
sometimes spoke, with unfamiliar cadences and phrases that better fit the
style of a turn-of-the-century novel than that of a twenty-first-century
classroom. He had skipped class the day we'd done blood typing. He hadn't
said no to the beach trip till he heard where we were going. He seemed to
know what everyone around him was thinking… except me. He had told me he
was the villain, dangerous…
Could the Cullens be vampires?
Well, they were something. Something outside the possibility of rational
justification was taking place in front of my incredulous eyes. Whether
it be Jacob's cold ones or my own superhero theory, Edward Cullen was
not… human. He was something more.
So then — maybe. That would have to be my answer for now.
And then the most important question of all. What was I going to do if it
was true?
If Edward was a vampire — I could hardly make myself think the words —
then what should I do? Involving someone else was definitely out. I
couldn't even believe myself; anyone I told would have me committed.
Only two options seemed practical. The first was to take his advice: to
be smart, to avoid him as much as possible. To cancel our plans, to go
back to ignoring him as far as I was able. To pretend there was an
impenetrably thick glass wall between us in the one class where we were
forced together. To tell him to leave me alone — and mean it this time.
I was gripped in a sudden agony of despair as I considered that
alternative. My mind rejected the pain, quickly skipping on to the next
option.
I could do nothing different. After all, if he was something… sinister,
he'd done nothing to hurt me so far. In fact, I would be a dent in
Tyler's fender if he hadn't acted so quickly. So quickly, I argued with
myself, that it might have been sheer reflexes. But if it was a reflex to
save lives, how bad could he be? I retorted. My head spun around in
answerless circles.
There was one thing I was sure of, if I was sure of anything. The dark
Edward in my dream last night was a reflection only of my fear of the
word Jacob had spoken, and not Edward himself. Even so, when I'd screamed
out in terror at the werewolf's lunge, it wasn't fear for the wolf that
brought the cry of "no" to my lips. It was fear that he would be harmed —
even as he called to me with sharp-edged fangs, I feared for him.
And I knew in that I had my answer. I didn't know if there ever was a
choice, really. I was already in too deep. Now that I knew — if I knew —
I could do nothing about my frightening secret. Because when I thought of
him, of his voice, his hypnotic eyes, the magnetic force of his
personality, I wanted nothing more than to be with him right now. Even
if… but I couldn't think it. Not here, alone in the darkening forest. Not
while the rain made it dim as twilight under the canopy and pattered like
footsteps across the matted earthen floor. I shivered and rose quickly
from my place of concealment, worried that somehow the path would have
disappeared with the rain.
But it was there, safe and clear, winding its way out of the dripping
green maze. I followed it hastily, my hood pulled close around my face,
becoming surprised, as I nearly ran through the trees, at how far I had
come. I started to wonder if I was heading out at all, or following the
path farther into the confines of the forest. Before I could get too
panicky, though, I began to glimpse some open spaces through the webbed
branches. And then I could hear a car passing on the street, and I was
free, Charlie's lawn stretched out in front of me, the house beckoning
me, promising warmth and dry socks.
It was just noon when I got back inside. I went upstairs and got dressed
for the day, jeans and a t-shirt, since I was staying indoors. It didn't
take too much effort to concentrate on my task for the day, a paper on
Macbeth that was due Wednesday. I settled into outlining a rough draft
contentedly, more serene than I'd felt since… well, since Thursday
afternoon, if I was being honest.
That had always been my way, though. Making decisions was the painful
part for me, the part I agonized over. But once the decision was made, I
simply followed through — usually with relief that the choice was made.
Sometimes the relief was tainted by despair, like my decision to come to
Forks. But it was still better than wrestling with the alternatives.
This decision was ridiculously easy to live with. Dangerously easy.
And so the day was quiet, productive — I finished my paper before eight.
Charlie came home with a large catch, and I made a mental note to pick up
a book of recipes for fish while I was in Seattle next week. The chills
that flashed up my spine whenever I thought of that trip were no
different than the ones I'd felt before I'd taken my walk with Jacob
Black. They should be different, I thought. I should be afraid — I knew I
should be, but I couldn't feel the right kind of fear.
I slept dreamlessly that night, exhausted from beginning my day so early,
and sleeping so poorly the night before. I woke, for the second time
since arriving in Forks, to the bright yellow light of a sunny day. I
skipped to the window, stunned to see that there was hardly a cloud in
the sky, and those there were just fleecy little white puffs that
couldn't possibly be carrying any rain. I opened the window — surprised
when it opened silently, without sticking, not having opened it in who
knows how many years — and sucked in the relatively dry air. It was
nearly warm and hardly windy at all. My blood was electric in my veins.
Charlie was finishing breakfast when I came downstairs, and he picked up
on my mood immediately.
"Nice day out," he commented.
"Yes," I agreed with a grin.
He smiled back, his brown eyes crinkling around the edges. When Charlie
smiled, it was easier to see why he and my mother had jumped too quickly
into an early marriage. Most of the young romantic he'd been in those
days had faded before I'd known him, as the curly brown hair — the same
color, if not the same texture, as mine — had dwindled, slowly revealing
more and more of the shiny skin of his forehead. But when he smiled I
could see a little of the man who had run away with Renée when she was
just two years older than I was now.
I ate breakfast cheerily, watching the dust moats stirring in the
sunlight that streamed in the back window. Charlie called out a goodbye,
and I heard the cruiser pull away from the house. I hesitated on my way
out the door, hand on my rain jacket. It would be tempting fate to leave
it home. With a sigh, I folded it over my arm and stepped out into the
brightest light I'd seen in months.
By dint of much elbow grease, I was able to get both windows in the truck
almost completely rolled down. I was one of the first ones to school; I
hadn't even checked the clock in my hurry to get outside. I parked and
headed toward the seldom-used picnic benches on the south side of the
