Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to Stephanie Meyer and the Twilight Saga.

This fic is not beta'd, so please forgive any errors. The location is entirely fictional as well as other certain things coming up. Thanks so much for reading.

*Prologue*

Once a year, the carnival comes to Delphian.

When those trucks that tow limbs of thrill rides are spotted driving down Continental, excitement spreads through the city like wildfire. Even I can feel it. By the time dusk rolls around a cacophony of lights pulse, generators hum—a temporary heart that draws everyone in. When they leave they're filled with nostalgia and maybe even hope, returning subsequent days as long as the carnival lives on. It is a consuming thing, like an addiction; I can see it in their eyes, their smiles.

I lick powdered sugar from my thumb then toss the greasy paper plate into a trash can. As far back as I can remember funnel cakes have always been my favorite. My dad used to bring me here as a child and we'd always followed the same routine: share a funnel cake, ride the Zipper, the Ferris Wheel, the Mixer, win a goldfish, eat another funnel cake. He'd drive me home to my mother's, carry me up the porch over his shoulder because even though I'd fought it, sleep had won out every time. Every morning I'd hoped to find him sitting at our table reading the paper, drinking coffee, but he'd never stayed.

I've been here for an hour now and have counted more than fifteen cops patrolling through the crowd; who knows how many are stationed along the perimeter. What they don't realize is there's no threat tonight.

I recognize all of them, the cops, but none know exactly who I am. We make eye contact; I have no reason to avoid them. To them I am nothing more than the college kid who delivers sandwiches to the station every Thursday at noon. My arms always loaded with brown paper bags containing Marie's finest culinary creations for the men in blue. The one who just nodded at me likes tuna on rye, no tomato, extra mayo—his partner wishes he'd eat a mint afterward. Maybe I'll throw one in next week.

Striped tents are scattered throughout, some hiding in the shadows of tall rides while others stand proud, pulling curious patrons in. I, myself, am pulled toward one which is half hidden, partly illuminated in quick succession by its neighbor's flashing neon sign. The irony of this tent's locale does not escape me, so the draw is even more tempting.

I push aside the canvas flap and it's oddly cool in here, the din of the carnival muffled. A woman tells me to sit. The whole scene is predictable: lighted candles, colored scarves, a frail, old woman with a weak voice sitting behind a crystal ball.

"Have a seat, boy," she says again, and I do. "Twenty-five dollars before you give me your hand."

I reach into my pocket then slide two twenties toward her. She glances down, lifts a white brow. "I don't have change."

"I don't need any."

She takes my hand, palm up, and grips it tightly between hers. She drags her nail over the creases, tilts it to the left then right. "Why do you come to me?" she asks, still staring at my palm.

"Not sure. Curiosity?" I say, testing her, and she nods.

"I see lack of sleep, stress, roast beef. You're going to get an A on a science paper…What is it? Biomechanics?"

Not bad.

"What? I'm not going to win the lottery?" I ask, but my sarcasm doesn't ruffle her.

"No, boy. You have everything you need, don't you?"

"Do I? You tell me," I say. She rubs her thumb against her fingers; I slide her another twenty.

She regards me for a long while then smiles, though her confident expression is somewhat sickening. As she begins to speak there is a shift in the room, in the air, reaching deep into my bones because she knows, she fucking knows exactly why I'm here and who I am.

"It won't help, that thing you've been working on. Things will get worse, boy. The demon that lives within you will bring destruction and death to your city." She pauses, scraping her nail deep into my palm. "There's nothing you can do. No matter how hard you fight it, you will lose."

I swallow, close my eyes and for a second there's only ringing in my ears. The old woman pinches the side of my hand, hard, but I don't flinch. When I open my eyes she stares at me devoid of emotion. All traces of bullshit are gone, yet there is something in her eyes that flicker, like a cat about to kill its prey.

After a moment, the old woman breaks into a throaty laugh. "Go ahead, ask. Ask me what you really want to know." I don't have to; the answer is written in every wrinkle that's etched into her decrepit face.

But I can't stop myself. "Will she survive it?"