3,224A/N I'm sorry for the long wait for this chapter. Updates may be a bit sporadic for the time being. I know it's frustrating, but life has gotten busy, and I'm struggling with a lack of free time. I promise I am doing my best.
Special thanks and props to KarenAnn4, who caught a big error on my part in the last chapter where I had Edward's journal entries dated 1803 rather than 1903. It's been corrected.
Please know I appreciate you all.
. . . . . .
Prey for the Wicked
Chapter 32
Yuuwaku
. . . . . .
"Tell me what you want to do?"
Leah sits at the kitchen table and closes her eyes. Jake sits across from her and reaches out to take her hands. She draws them back, and with a rough exhale, he accepts the rebuff as his due. He hasn't given her a whole lot of reasons to trust him lately.
"Leah."
When she finally looks at him, tears no longer held at bay slip down her face like rain on a windshield. "I'm bleeding again," she tells him.
His stomach clenches. "Then let's go back to the hospital."
"No. My mom is right. It's not a chance we can take."
"So what? We do nothing?" Concern makes him gruff, but he reaches out again, and this time, she allows him to take her hands in his. Her fingers feel cold as she curls her thumbs around his pinkies.
She jerks her chin toward the journals. "We need more information."
Jake shakes his head. "I've been looking. So far, nothing is useful."
Pulling free, she grabs one he hasn't read yet. "There has to be something. Ephraim wrote these for a reason. For future generations, it says so right here." She points to the first entry.
Frustrated, Jake works to moderate his tone. "Like your mom pointed out, he couldn't give advice on things he didn't know."
Leah frowns in concentration, flipping through pages, her eyes scanning in the quick, productive way Jake has seen her do at his shop.
She pauses mid-way down a page and taps a paragraph with a bitten-down fingernail. She glances up at Jake and then slowly turns it to face him.
He pulls the journal closer and reads out loud. The original, written in Quileute, is beyond his comprehension. Still, as though he knew the language would not survive the times, Ephraim also wrote in English—a painstaking process that grants Jake a new respect for the man he never knew.
"I met with Edward Cullen today. I find myself becoming interested in him as time skips by us like the smooth stones we tossed across the pond that borders our territories. He isn't like the others. He struggles with deep moral quandaries. He asks important questions. The ones that begin with why and answer with, why not?"
"Not that," Leah interjects. "The next part."
"Good," Jake mutters, more to himself than her. "I really don't feel like finding out my great-grandfather had a crush on a leech."
"The way you two were last night, hurling insults back and forth like teenagers, I'd say it runs in the family." Leah's smart-ass comment earns her the finger. When she smirks, Jake figures it's worth taking the ribbing to see the worry lines bracketing her mouth diminish.
He reads the next passage to himself.
Martha has been struggling with our unborn child. Her time is late, and still the birth pains have not begun. I admit I do not trust the midwife. She is old and set in her ways, grown careless with experience, assuming all will be well when my instinct warns me something is wrong.
And so, I've done the unthinkable. I have asked Carlisle Cullen for help. Martha is wary, but she will do as I bid her. She's seen that he takes excellent care of the townsfolk, and I can tell the child weighs heavy in her body and mind.
The paragraph ends, and Jake flips pages, looking for more and coming up empty. "What are you thinking?" he asks Leah. "Carlisle Cullen? A vampire doctor?"
"Doctor is the operative word here, Jake. You want me to see a doctor, right?"
"But he's a—"
Leah cuts him off, impatient. "Bloodsucking parasite. Yeah, I know. But he's a Cullen. Not just a Cullen. He's the Cullen," She backtracks through the discarded pile, restacking them haphazardly until she finds the one she wants. She jerks it open to the page where Ephraim has painstakingly written out the treaty, pointing out the fluid signature of Carlisle Cullen. "He's the head of an entire coven of vampires who don't kill. And he knows about our kind. And he helped your great-grandmother."
"We don't know that for sure."
"There's probably more about Martha in one of these," Leah waves her hand at the precarious stack. "And there's others, too. Sam has them locked up in the Tribal Council office."
"So, your plan is to sit here all day going through my great-grandfather's diaries?"
She rolls her eyes. "No. We don't need to. We can talk to one of the originals, remember?"
Jake scratches his chin. He lets his hand thud back to the table, taking in Leah's defiant expression and running through every option in his head.
"I don't trust him," he tells her.
"Who?"
"Edward Cullen."
Leah makes a snorting sound. "Of course you don't. Neither do I. But he did save me from getting seriously hurt last night. And he did drag your ass out of the woods and back home when you were as weak as a kitten. He could've easily offed you and left you for coyote chow. Or worse."
"I know all that. But he might not be the same Edward Cullen Ephraim had a man crush on, Leah. A lot changes in a hundred years. Even in an undead thing, a lot changes."
She nods. "I'm sure. But let's not forget Bella. Or, more importantly, his attachment to Bella. He has a stake in this situation having a positive outcome." She smooths a hand over her stomach, and Jake's guts clench in reaction to the swell that seems larger today than it was yesterday. Leah's hand trembles in the action, and she gets to her feet, scooting her chair back. "So, I'm going to go break a treaty. Are you coming with me?"
. . . . . .
Looking around the small room as if it might provide more answers, Bella dusts off her hands and stares at the trunks stacked in the corner. The silence is as thick as the air in this stuffy little room. She listens to the house, realizing she's already learning the soft creaks, knocks, and whispers shifting down its halls, as though it has a language and wants to share secrets with her.
Was this room Edward's back in the early nineteen hundreds, she wonders? Unlike the spacious rooms hidden behind other doors on this floor, this one is the size of a walk-in closet by modern standards. There's something sad about imagining him in this cramped space, sitting at the tiny desk, cute and quaint as it is, using pen and paper to vent his frustrations and loneliness. It's clear to her in those few entries how isolated he felt, struggling to be who they all wanted him to be.
Feeling a tremor in her lips, she places her fingers against her mouth to help her swallow past the lump in her throat. Hollow reminders of her isolated, lonely childhood stomp to the forefront of her thoughts. Common ground, but she doesn't want to make room for that now.
Squaring her shoulders, she steps around the seen-better-days chaise and studies the scuffed, aged leather of the chests, curiosity burning. The iron bottoms are flecked with rust, scratched and nicked. She touches the corner, her hand leaving marks in the thick, grimy dust. They are not locked, and she sees this as an invitation, digging her fingers into the lid's groove. She swings it open, and the smell that wafts out isn't unpleasant. Faint notes of warm cedar mingle with the cool spice of pine and a tinge of mustiness.
There isn't much inside, and she has to go on tiptoe to reach deep into the interior. A folded quilt in blues, greens, and time-worn grays is the source of the musty odour. Bella manages to shift it out of the way to reveal what looks like a sketchbook. Carefully, she lifts it out and sets it on the chaise. A tiny spider sack, long since vacated, sticks to the corner. The page edges are curled, and some are hopelessly fused.
The dried-out spine crackles as she cautiously opens it, revealing another sketch of the house. She can't tell what was used to create the drawing, only that the artist's skill is again apparent.
She flips to the next page and discovers a forest landscape. Several more follow, as though the artist was playing with different levels of shading. Forced to skip the next half dozen because she's too afraid to pry them apart, Bella finds only one more she can view.
Her heart skips in her chest. It's Edward, sitting at what she assumes is a piano. The artist kept that area blurred and abstract, as though they didn't want the focus to be taken away from the subject. The high collar of his shirt brushes the base of his jaw, his hair swept back and pulled taut, so unlike the unruly and careless waves she's used to. It's his expression, though, that traps air in her chest. Intense, angry, perhaps even sad.
She finds herself remembering the first time she was in this house, the night Edward brought her home from Seattle. His fingers elegantly mastered Rachmaninoff as she wandered the rooms, captured and leery but full of curiosity.
She briefly wonders if the piano is still in that back room on the main floor.
Despite the warm, stuffy air, Bella shivers. It feels like a lifetime has passed since the night she met him at the Twilight Tavern. In reality, it's only been a little more than two weeks. One of those weeks she spent fighting to recover from his first bite, left reeling and thinking herself mad, alone with her fears until he came back to her.
Her life has been irrevocably altered, and she understands there is no going back to who she used to be.
Deeply unsettled, Bella quietly replaces the sketchbook in the trunk and closes the lid. Her mind races. There is so much about Edward she doesn't know. He's lived for two centuries. More than two lifetimes to her one, barely a quarter. Her twenty-fourth birthday is around the corner, but what is that in comparison?
Taking stock, Bella makes sure the room looks the same to her eye as it did when she entered. As she exits, she also takes stock of her body, feeling the ache in her middle, vast and void. When she reaches the stairs, she hears someone moving around and knows it isn't Edward. Her body tells her so as she descends, and her body never lies.
. . . . . .
Edward is mainly using his phone as a prop. Seated on a stool at the Forks Diner's counter, surrounded by humans whose interest in him is bordering on rudeness, he waits for his takeout order to be filled.
The cup of coffee in front of him steams. He's been miming taking sips, but if his order isn't filled soon, he'll have to actually consume some of the brew to remain inconspicuous. The waitress, carafe in her hands, heads his way, imagination churning out options to engage him in conversation.
Snippets of thoughts from the other diners intertwine and overlap in an annoying assault.
'That's the rich guy who is fixing up that decrepit house. Looks like an asshole. Bet he thinks his shit doesn't stink.'
'Woah. Full stop, he's gorgeous. Wish I knew he'd be here. I would've worn my new dress.'
'I don't care what anyone says. The last thing we need is some wealthy, young upstart changing things around here.'
Overlapping the churning minds, the vocal speculation isn't an improvement, hitting his ears in razor-barbed whispers.
Two tables behind him, he hears, "Did you know he asked Tyler Crowley to hire an additional twenty workers? Pulling people from other projects is what he's doing. Who does he think he is? I can't even get a plumber to fix my sink till tomorrow because they're all too busy."
To his left, the rasp of an obvious smoker intones, "You ask me, that house should've been torn down ages ago. Why spend so much to fix that dump? Rich people are nuts."
Near the back of the diner, a feminine voice grouses. "Rumour is he's dating that mousy Swan girl. Not sure what he sees in her, but I guess some women have all the luck."
Placing his hand over the mug in the universal sign of no thank you, Edward stops staring at his phone screen and raises it to his ear, further deterring the waitress. She moves on, her thoughts revealing her disappointment at the lost opportunity to ask him how he's handling the heat wave.
Edward listens to his voicemail disinterestedly. They are all business-related, though nothing is pressing.
Lowering the phone, Edward is grateful to see his order finally appear in the window between the kitchen and the dining area. The mental noise is wearing on him.
As though the universe decides to add to his frustrations, the door opens and a familiar scent wafts in.
Charlie Swan.
His blood lacks Isabella's floral ambrosia, but it's similar enough to engage his thirst, and his incisors grow sharp against his tongue.
Edward shifts in his seat, angling his body away from Charlie's line of sight, leaning into the counter and slumping. Appearing casual and unobtrusive, he uses the space to his advantage, donning a human cloak to blend in.
Luckily, the Chief is distracted by a phone call. From his periphery, Edward sees him make a beeline for the nearest empty table on the far side of the diner.
Similar to the last time Edward was in Isabella's father's presence, he finds the man's mind murky—a deep pond full of silt and algae, hiding the silver minnows of thought and reason.
Edward lifts the cup of coffee to his mouth and drinks deeply, buying time to take advantage of the opportunity to read the man. The chicory-laden bitterness, lukewarm and rather disgusting, lands in his stomach with all the subtlety of a hammer. As expected, the moment he lowers the cup, the waitress makes haste to locate the coffee pot. This time, he smiles ingratiatingly, keeping her occupied by asking about the nearest automotive retailer.
The scrape of a chair as Charlie sits has Edward cocking his head slightly; all the better to hear you with, my dear, he thinks, amused.
The waitress chatters. "Port Angeles would be your closest bet. I know the owner of the Ford dealership there. I can get you his card."
Edward nods, giving the impression of interest. Charlie's thoughts dart and skip, slippery and fragmented.
Snatches of the phone conversation become clearer as Edward lets everything else to fade into a background hum. The waitress leaves to attend to other customers, giving Edward more mental space and greater focus.
"So, what can I do for you, Lieutenant Samuels?"
Edward frowns, mild curiosity piquing the moment he recognizes the name.
Samuels, from Seattle PD. The same man Edward had Jenks pay to create a stolen vehicle report when Isabella ran away. A report meant to protect her from his actions when he impulsively burned the vehicle she made her getaway in. Black's ancient truck, now in cinders, represents a loss of control Edward might regret if it didn't seem fitting.
Edward wants to know why Samuels would need to renew contact with Charlie Swan. He doesn't like loose ends.
Samuels complies, saying, "You're aware of the multiple homicide investigations in Seattle?"
"Of course." Charlie works to keep his tone patient, pegging Samuels as 'one of those egotistical types who believe small-town police don't know their asses from a hole in the ground.' "I've gotten the bulletins."
"Yeah, good."
"Vigilante on the loose, right?" The waitress arrives at Charlie's side with coffee, which he accepts gratefully, taking a swallow while he waits for the Lieutenant's reply. Edward catches the slightly hostile thoughts, reflecting that Charlie has not forgiven or forgotten Samuels attitude the last time they conversed.
"Well…" Samuels draws the word out and gives a pause for dramatic effect. "That's what we thought at first. But the victimology doesn't fit. We've got the Diablo's gang victims staged in some sick message we've yet to figure out. And then we've got three average-joe citizens. Males. All were exsanguinated and left to rot, with no staging at all. Not a trace of blood was found at the scenes."
Edward picks up Charlie's caution about having this conversation in a public space. He also senses him wince. "Jesus. That wasn't in the reports." The more agitated Charlie gets, the easier he is to read.
"Yeah, well, we were trying to keep it quiet. Need to know and all that, but here's the thing. Someone leaked it. The news anchors are having a field day." Samuels snorts. "They're already starting the whole Dracula-killer crap."
"You're kidding me?"
"Wish I was."
"All right. Well, I assume you aren't calling to fill me in on this for no reason. Is there something you need?" Charlie's radar is up. Edward can smell his stress pheromones.
"We've found a possible tie-in with your missing person, Michael Newton. Our three average Joe's have all been to Forks. Wanna take a guess who they came to see and where?"
The waitress chooses that moment to bring Edward the promised business card and his take-out order bags, distracting Edward from Charlie's reply.
Not that it matters. Edward knows the answer.
Newton and the Twilight Tavern.
Finding that prolonged contact with Edward is starting to make her nervous, the waitress decides to give him space. He resumes listening, attempting to discern the Lieutenant's end game.
"What's the link?" Charlie asks.
Charlie knows the link. Narcotics. He's evading and acting uninterested when he's the farthest thing from it. His thoughts flip their silvery tails and dart.
…last thing I need is anyone outside Forks digging into Newton…
"My guess is prescription painkillers and a good mix of the popular club pharmaceuticals."
"You think they came here to buy?"
"Yeah. I do, Chief."
"So, our MP could be in a similar state as the others. Another victim." Charlie is careful with his words even though the noise of the busy diner makes it impossible for any human to eavesdrop.
On the other end of the line, Samuels clears his throat. "Could be," he states. He's too far away for Edward to use his telepathy, but Charlie's mind is clearing, and Edward is getting some interesting information.
… Way off base if he thinks Mike had an altercation here with any outsiders the night he went missing. I checked all the security camera footage … questioned everyone … all local residents… except one. Edward Masen.
Reading his name in Charlie's thoughts isn't surprising, but what swims out next is.
The three of them don't know I'm on to them. This drug connection crap is going to cause all kinds of eyes to turn their way if I don't get out in front of it.
Those split-second thoughts provide more questions than answers, much to Edward's consternation. He wants to know who these "three" are. Charlie's mind plays games, withholding any visual imagery.
Samuels makes a sound like he's sucking on his teeth. "Word on the streets is that he is selling to the people attending those band nights he orchestrates at that little tavern."
Charlie intervenes, quick to clarify. "I have no concrete proof of that. Only anecdotal."
"Right. But your gut says yes?"
"My gut says I need more than gossip. Until I have it, I'm not putting my two cents in." Charlie's reluctance to agree with Samuels surprises Edward.
"Just so you're aware, that could give us a connection between the other victims and the motorcycle gang. The Diablos dabbled in drugs as well as trafficking. They could've been getting their supply from the same source as your missing person."
Charlie gets to his feet, dropping a five-dollar bill on the table before he heads for the exit. His thoughts reveal he's lost his appetite.
Edward gives him a moment before he likewise puts a tip on the counter. He gathers the takeout bags, follows suit, and leaves, keeping his distance and moving into Charlie's blindside should he look over his shoulder.
When Charlie walks to the left toward his patrol car, Edward turns right and heads for the Aston Martin. He chose to park in the adjoining lot of a dental office, wanting to deflect any onlookers from deducing his exact whereabouts. His steps now are slow and measured, hanging on to the last of the words being spoken.
With no listeners in his proximity, at least any he's aware of, Charlie stops guarding his speech.
"Mike Newton isn't the smartest cookie in the jar, Lieutenant. It wouldn't surprise me to find out he got in over his head, and his disappearance suggests that. But that's about all I'm willing to speculate on at this point."
Samuels sighs. "That's understandable, I suppose."
"I can tell you this, Lieutenant. Whatever happened to him, it didn't happen in this town."
Edward reaches his car and stands still at the driver's side door, frowning. Charlie is adamant, but his thoughts show deception. He isn't sure that's the truth, but he wants—no needs— Samuels to believe it.
"You are likely right." Samuels lets out a short chuckle. "I read his background info. Daddy's helper at a sporting goods store, college dropout. No priors beyond a few unpaid parking tickets. Chances are he waded out of the kiddie pool of Forks into the Olympic-sized pool of our jurisdiction. Little fish tend to get eaten by big sharks in this neck of the woods."
"Yeah, I'd agree with that."
Edward turns to watch Charlie get in his cruiser. The man's heart rate, previously elevated, slows at Samuels's evaluation. A minnow of thought darts, silver-quick. Need to keep it that way until I can figure out how to clean all this up…
Charlie starts the car and drives away, leaving Edward to speculate on what he's heard.
Samuels didn't mention Newton's deranged stalking of Isabella or the assault on the young woman he used as her replacement. That can only mean Charlie hasn't officially filed any charges and is keeping it off the record.
Why?
As Charlie's car nears the corner, stopping for a red light, Edward catches the end of the phone call.
"All right, Chief. Let's keep in touch. Our investigations might lead us both in the same direction."
Charlie replies in a vague, uncommitted way, but Edward stops listening.
What a tangled weave, he thinks, wryly amused. His decision to miss his flight out of Seattle so he could dispatch the Diablo members to their deserved deaths was the catalyst that brought him to Isabella.
The decision to stay, to keep her, led him straight to another predator. Mike Newton.
Ending the sexual sadist's life before he could make his fantasies of rape, torture and murder a reality has brought Edward full circle, with a new player emerging. One with connections to Mike and the Diablo's. One far more dangerous than gang members or an infantile psychopath.
His soft, short laugh is tinged with dark humour and recrimination as he studies the surrounding area, alert to any sign he is not alone.
He replays Isabella's conversation with her friend Jessica last night. With this new information, Edward realizes the friend's fear might be grounded. If another vampire is searching for Newton, Edward must take care of that. Quickly and efficiently.
Charlie is also hunting, though his prey of choice isn't known. He's underestimated Isabella's father, and that problem won't be solved as easily.
He takes one last look around, letting his vampire senses engage fully with the scents in the air and the variations of the energies surrounding him. His upper lip curls from his teeth, eyes narrowing to magnify his vision. His fingers hook into claws where they rest on the top of the driver's side door, sparks shooting as he drags them away, peels of paint wedging beneath his nails.
Seeing nothing, sensing nothing, he gets in the car, eager to get home. As he drives, he thinks of his actions and where they have left him. Somehow, his efforts to protect Isabella have made him the reason she needs protection. The Aston Martin devours the miles between him and her, but his conscience weighs so heavy it feels as though he's standing still.
. . . . .