Hello again! I can't believe it's been nearly a year since we began this! Maybe this summer we'll finally see the illiustrious conclusion. Just as a note, TWR will be posted on my account from now on, not M's, though she'll continue to update on Twilighted. Now, let's relive, shall we?

--

Living forever is completely romanticized by those whose life span is incredibly brief and so very easily ended. They are shortsighted, naïve, never realizing that such a so-called gift must require some kind of payment. For anyone who lives - and that term he uses with derision - beyond his or her allotted time must also live with this curse. An unquenchable thirst, sated only temporarily by blood.

They also fail to take into consideration that eternity is exceedingly dull.

It's another overcast day in Seattle - February is only just creeping in. Despite the unpleasant weather he can smell spring on the air, that time of year for growth and renewal. It comes down in the water, the wind carries a fresh scent from less urban areas.

He isn't hunting, having just fed the previous evening. It's difficult to cover his tracks sometimes, but over the years he has learned to be cautious. While he spends most of his time in Seattle – foolishly unwilling to be too far from his former family - he often travels for hunting. Too many killings and disappearances limited to killers and rapists and the other monsters of human society would garner attention and people would begin to believe some vigilante group was at work.

He'd learned from that error over fifty years ago.

Of course, mistakes happen now and again, and the ones he deems deserving to die sometimes aren't his only victims.

So when he catches her scent that day, the ever-present monster whispers inside him with glee that an innocent is going to die soon.

He's been drinking human blood for almost eighty years. Some taste more appealing than others, but this is by far the most enticing aroma he's ever encountered. If he were a younger vampire, he'd be tearing off after this scent without a second thought as to who could see him. Even with his experience it's incredibly difficult not to lose control completely.

Immediately, he starts planning. He isn't much of a tracker, but this scent is already engrained onto his brain.

Taking stock, he glances around. He is standing in a large bookshop, concealed behind large shelves filled with books on music theory. It's a Saturday afternoon, and the city is buzzing with shoppers, although this particular corner of the shop is quiet.

Resisting the urge to fall into a crouch and stalk his prey, he tries to remain casual as he inhales. The scent hits him again like a battering ram and a shudder runs through him. A few people glance his way, giving him odd looks, and their thoughts drift into his head. But they are easily ignored; he is more than used to this by now.

He moves along the shelves before coming out into the more open plan aspect of the shop and halts abruptly. The scent is stronger here, forcing him to stop his breathing temporarily. He's going to need some fresh air soon, before he loses all control. But first he needs to find this human – he's running no risk of losing it. His black eyes are roaming over the area and he moves again just as a girl walks in front of him, clutching her purchases in a bag. He inhales, and it hits him stronger than ever.

In that second his vision narrows down to her as he watches her leave the shop.

--

Seattle is an excuse.

She's been fumbling with them all week, not at all used to the sudden attention that has been lavished upon her. She wants to dismiss it as just small-town curiosity. Not used to the strange geography of Washington, where everything is rough, watery, and unnaturally green, she picks the first large city she that comes to mind; something that constitutes an all day trip, and Seattle is it. It could have just as easily been Portland or even Port Angeles, taking into consideration the way her sturdy red truck chugs and groans along the two lane highway in and out of Forks. She could have picked Everett. That's a good four hours in any normal car—which meant at least six for her, trips across four different bodies of water and through various small towns on the shores of Lake Washington. But she doesn't have any particular craving for out-of-commission Chuck Taylor's and no desire to pick some up as an afterthought to her imaginary trip.

Charlie isn't pleased with the idea of letting her go to Seattle alone. In fact, to her horror he offers to chaperone, after inquiring after her status in regards to Forks' upcoming dance, of course. He calls Mike Newton by name, and she flushes a deep cherry, shaking her head, and reminding him that Phoenix is far more dangerous than Seattle, and even she had somehow managed survival there.

The ferry ride is interesting, uneventful and lacking in stares, which she relishes. Here, her almost sickly-pale skin doesn't stick out, and she can tuck herself into a corner without event.

She locates a bookstore rather quickly, a combination of inner radar and the fact that the city is nearly teeming with out of the way, family-owned stores and hodgepodges of half a century of compiled junk that her fingers itch at the chance to go through. There are only Barnes & Nobles' back home; this is a new literary frontier.

Her perch near the back of haphazard piles and dusty shelves is occupied for a good two hours, as she searches her way through tattered copies of Shakespeare and Jane Austen (and even the occasional Danielle Steele, because she's curious, after all), and when she leaves - paper package clutched tightly to her chest - she muses that perhaps this day has not been just an excuse after all.

The next thing to do, the smart thing, would be to find some place to sit. Preferably somewhere with lots of sunlight, and a fair amount of people. But however good at taking care of others she may be, she has never done well when it comes to herself, and today is no exception. There is an odd noise in an alleyway, something that reminds her of the high-pitched whine of a young kitten, and touched with a young girl's curiosity and daring (for all things animal, five-year-olds will do nearly anything) she peers in, the whine escalating to almost a yowl.

A shiver passes through her, and she realises - perhaps too late - that this, like many of her other ideas is best left on the drawing board.

--

He can see her. He's following her. She's right there, with her blood screaming at him and yet her mind is totally silent. It's something that has never happened before, and yet only a small part of him cares about that. Her somehow impenetrable mind takes a backseat to her other, more delicious qualities.

It is mildly irritating, not knowing exactly what she will do next. But humans are predictable and it isn't like there's any way she could possibly fight or outrun him. Another wash of venom needs to be swallowed and his fists clench as someone bumps into him. He knows he should walk away – this is a young girl, usually the type of human he would try and save in his own twisted way from a would-be attacker. Yes, he knows this. But again, it just doesn't seem to matter.

She stops. At the entrance to an alleyway.

A smirk appears on his face for just a split second. That, he has to admit, is unexpected, but her distraction could work in his favour. He steels himself to breathe in her scent and slowly approaches her.

"Excuse me." If there is one thing he can do well, it is turn on the charm. It's something that's been bred into him, really, remnants of an old human past with customs so different from today. "Are you okay? You look a little shaken." His voice is smooth, seductive and his sweet breath swirls in the air around her. There's no trace of insincerity in his tone or his looks – he's the poster boy for wide eyed, well meaning young gentlemen everywhere.

Minus the black eyes with the sinister iris of red, of course.

But that is a negligible concern; he doubts it would be enough to scare her away.

It's then that he looks at her properly, and is slightly staggered that such a frail looking human girl could smell so good. He stops breathing when she stares at him and blushes, and has to close his eyes momentarily. It was hard enough trying to block one sense, but seeing the blood pooling like that is a little too much. This is still too dangerous; there are too many other humans around, and he needs to keep up this façade for just a few moments longer.

She doesn't reply immediately, so he leans in closer, taking her arm with exaggerated gentleness. He is really pushing it now, feeling her warmth through her clothes, knowing that what he craves is so close.

"Can I help you at all?" The concerned mask is still in place, but the slight urgency in his voice isn't faked at all. His even closer proximity means his breath is wafting in her face, and he wonders if he is perhaps overdoing it. The girl seems to be staring without seeing, and she still doesn't immediately reply, apparently deep in thought – and at that second he would give anything to know what's going through her head.

--

She hasn't been entirely truthful with Charlie.

She's survived Phoenix, but mentally adds on just barely to her sentences. It's unsurprising, given the general character traits that have emerged over the years. Even a flat surface is dangerous when you forget to tie your shoelaces, and while she can remember to fish water bills out of a plastic salad bowl before vital utilities are cut off, daily preventive care is a myth for her.

The scratching in the alley that followed the yowl makes her draw backwards in surprise, all of her illusions of a small, abandoned kitten shattering with a suspicious crash and the clang of metal trashcans. When she turns, expecting to find sunlight, she nearly runs into the darkness.

It strikes her as odd, his attire. Washington is by no means the warmest place she's been, a revelation evident when she pulls on her old winter clothes for a "warm" day. Still, black is an odd colour to be wearing. Even stranger is the rest of his appearance. She is sure she's never seen anything quite so beautiful as him, and she feels her jaw go slack as she takes him in, entirely neglecting the fact that words are coming out of his mouth, directed at her.

Another shiver runs up her spine when she notices his eyes. Dark, almost black, they contrast everything else about his appearance, and make him look almost demonic.

You've seen slasher movies that start out this way, Bella, the tinny voice in her head reminds her, and she pushes it away half-heartedly, all the while murmuring to herself that Phoenix is far more dangerous than Seattle, over and over again. There are a couple of romance movies that begin this way too, she compromises. It doesn't matter that she can't recall any names.

"Oh—I didn't see you there," she ducks her head, a rich blush spreading into her cheeks, as she steps back just slightly, starting in surprise when he takes hold of her arm. She chances one quick glance up at him, "Seattle's unofficial welcoming committee?"

The joke comes out weak; she feels like she's spinning - he's so close. His hand against her arm is cool, and as the chill spreads to the rest of her body, she shivers, wondering, leaning back as he leans in closer.

"I—I just thought I heard a cat or something. Um. You know girls and animals," she smiles tentatively up at him, and is thoroughly surprised at his expression. Like he's waiting, expressly for her to do something. To run? She can't say.

"I should catch—the ferry. The ferry's not going to leave for another two hours after this," she mumbles, caught in his stare, and though something feels wrong about it, she can't say quite say what. Charlie would worry. Charlie would search and she can imagine that embarrassment quite vividly. It's not another one that she wants added to her list.

He pays little attention to her mumblings, somehow hoping to be able to hear her mind now that he's so close to her. And he is dangerously close, his grip tightening on her arm as he thinks about it. He can just feel that blood gushing just under her skin.

She doesn't move beyond leaning back slightly from him, and he decides that he's waited long enough. He straightens, still holding her arm and chances a glance at the humans surrounding them. Her scent is dancing around him and he swallows another mouthful of venom. Searching the thoughts of everyone around them and scanning their faces quickly, he realizes with pleasure that no one is paying them any attention. Why should they? Humans are selfish creatures, all wrapped up in their own activities. No one would notice what he and the girl were doing, all of them would merely pay lip service when they heard of her death.

Glancing back down at her, he sees that she's still staring at him.

She's finding his silence entirely unnerving, and it only makes her babble more as he continues to stare at her, and she feels a quiet sort of panic creeping up her spine. "I'll—I'll just go then," she murmurs, not knowing that she cannot escape this. Her chance flew by with the wind, and it's probably halfway to Hoquiam by now.

Again he smiles, but this isn't the disarming, innocent smile of before.

Seattle is safer than Phoenix. Seattle is safer than Phoenix. Seattle is safer than Phoenix.

This is a predator's smile, and it's sending a movie montage of newsreel and gritty film trailers through her head. She tries to back away, her breath catching in her throat as she imagines that grin on Ted Bundy and The Preppy Killer.

If I make it out of this alive, she promises silently, Charlie can have an ankle bracelet hooked up.

No one is watching as he moves with inhuman speed, bringing the girl with him into the dark alley. Whatever creatures that were in there – feral cats, foxes, who knew, who cared – make a hasty exit. Their survival instincts are better than the human's. They know that he is top of the food chain and staying is not in their best interests.

She's against the wall before she can react to the sudden movement. But he's gentle - for now, not wanting to spill her blood before he has appreciated the bouquet. He will never encounter something like her again, and he intends to savour the moment.

She can't blink, scream, breathe before his body is pressed into hers, and her mind is reeling too fast to realize that every inch of him feels frostbitten against her torso. And somehow, underneath the coolness, there is an ice-hot burn wherever her bare skin brushes against his.

She gulps in air, brown eyes wide as she stares at him, waiting. Waiting for something that doesn't come, and in the space where there should be panic, there are only his eyes, deep and black as onyx, and trained solely on her. Blood rushes to her cheeks once more as she processes the fact that she's trapped beneath him, with no escape.