Chapter 11 Commentary

[11]

I’ve only ever seen the parade on television, and that’s not really seeing it. On TV it’s all highly edited, a successive series of quick cuts to create story and enhance tension. There are even two separate broadcasts of the Morphing Games—one for the humans and one for the vampires. The vampire broadcast has an announcer speaking at speeds no human could understand, a backtrack of atonal music and references to languages not spoken by humans anymore. (This is part of my explore consequences of Vampires being super-smart. Obviously their society would be very different from our own.)

Those things led me to believe that vampires were all sophisticated killers, but after meeting Bree and Cynthia I’m revising my original thought: they’re just killers. Becoming a vampire doesn’t automatically make you debonair. Even Tanya, with all of her darlings, is jealous of Rosalie’s beauty. In some ways, vampires aren’t what I expected at all. (Super-human, just means super-fallible.)

The person I am most surprised by is also the person who best fits the archetype of what I thought a vampire should be: Edward. A rebel whose motivation isn’t just hatred of the government, but his own mistakes. He’s a creature like me, but utterly inhuman. Esme played at humanity, but he, with his cryptic questions and piercing gaze, doesn’t even pretend.

The memory of Edward is so strong that I’m surprised when I’m jolted at the shoulder by a petite girl with jet-black hair, her body lined in a skin-tight suite lined with tiny lightbulbs. She darts away from me before I can apologize. (Hey there Alice, how you doin’. Eww in retrospect I used lined twice in this sentence, sorry guyz. Confession it was edited in retroactively.)

The procession is an imitation of classic human parades, with each district getting their own moving platform, outfitted in whatever theme they’re portraying.

I was dressed by Esme in my armor, which while beautiful and sturdy—expecting it to crumple, I bruise my wrist after punching it—is also incredibly light. I’m able to easily maneuver inside the herd of floats that have congregated in the underground chamber waiting to get out. (I got the idea for Bella in armor when I made the banner. I love how visual and audio medium can inspire a story.)

Because the districts go out in order, Jasper and I are near the front of the line. So I have to maneuver through the rest of the floats before I reach mine. Unconsciously, I look for the small girl from District 6 with the red curls. I don’t find her, though I do see the District 6 float. It’s hard to miss; it’s blood-red, with metal chains of silver double-helixes surrounding it. District 6 is known for their experiments with genetics. (District 6 being genetics is an idea vaguely stolen from Aim My Arrows High.) I can’t imagine a twelve-year-old standing on it; it looks like a torture chamber. I don’t look at it long.

Next, I pass the District 3 float, which is a blinking imitation of a computer chip, housing a petite girl and a small boy. They almost blend into the float in their black jumpsuits decorated with tiny, blinking LEDs. On closer examination, I notice the same girl who bumped me in the shoulder is standing impatiently, shifting from foot to foot. She meets my appraisal with the curiosity of a little bird, (I describe things as bird like wayyy to much. It’s kind of a tic–erm I mean signature.) and I can see scrappy fear in her eyes. I turn around to find out what’s so frightening, but then I realize it’s me. She’s afraid of me.

I don’t know how I feel about that, so I soldier on through the crowd to our float. Our float is an idyllic depiction of a fairy-tale forest, which has nothing really to do with the urban sprawl of District 2, but who wants to see graffiti and sewers? Jasper stands on it, dressed in a simple black robe. I narrow my eyes, trying to discern the crest stitched below the collar. That can’t be what I think it is.

I hoist myself onto the float by grabbing the synthetic root of the one of the giant oaks. Our float is definitely the tallest, that’s for sure. Once up on the float, I allow my disbelief to show. The crest below his collar is the same ones the Volturi guard wear. It’s the crest of the Volterran Empire, and no one but the Volturi gaurd are allowed to wear it.

Let him see a little hatred, know that I disdain him just as much as he apparently disdains me. “Those are some morbid pajamas.” (oh bella u funny.)

He smiles that damn charming smile, as if I meant my comment sincerely. “My stylist and I decided that it would be best to deviate from tradition and not represent where I come from, but where I hope to be going.” (The characterization of Jasper being ambitious is shown through a couple of ways, the dismissing of her parents and then now his heritage. He really is the Capitol’s man through and through.)

“The Volturi Gaurd?”

In front of us the District 1 float, an imitation of a giant diamond, lurches unsteadily forward. (I had fun thinking of floats instead of outfits (I mean outfits too, but okay) Floats are so much more fun.)

“Where else?” He speaks as if this is the most plausible destination for a Prospective, when most of us actually end up in coffins, veins collapsed, drained of blood.

He must notice my somber mood because he smiles teasingly. “And what are you, a robot?” He pushes me lightly in the arm in what’s supposed to be a playful gesture, but I can smell trademark Hale scorn in his breath.

I toss my hair behind me as I stomp forward. I want the crowd to see me first. “I’m a knight.” (Whenever Bella says this I think of Ron Weasley.)

I’m angry at his insult to Esme’s costume. It’s not until I feel the anger that I realize that, unlike everyone else I’ve met so far associated with the Morphing Games, I actually like Esme in a way that isn’t tinged with terror.

Not too far away, I can hear the screams of the crowd applauding for District 1. I’m sure the Prospectives look even more beautiful in person than they do on TV. They have to in order to pull off ridiculous names like Aston Martin and Volvina. (Guys these two are my favorite characters kind of. Just for there names.)

We begin to move slowly forward, too, and I grab a tree branch for balance. Jasper, of course has no problem keeping his footing.

“Aren’t you worried about offending President Aro?” I gesture lamely to the robes. “Technically, to put the crest on anything not state-made is illegal.”

“The only way to stay alive is to be constantly on the offensive.” He shrugs. “I guess we’ll see how successful I am.” We’ve moved almost all the way into the light now, only four more seconds and millions of eyes will be trained on us, and about half that many cameras.

“You know, you don’t talk like you’re a kid, but you’re only what, sixteen?” I ask.

“You can’t come here if you’re a kid.” (Jasper is not a kid. In fact as we’ll see his relationship with the concept of childhood, and that he is not one will play an important role. Go search the EPOV for clues, it’s there.)

“You can this year.” I correct, trying not to sound too bitter about it. Even a statement of the facts can get you in trouble. If you’re not careful, facts can be some of the most dangerous things out there.

He looks like he’s about to say something, but all hints of introspection disappear once we pass through the awning and into the light of the street. Immediately, he turns to the crowd of vampires, and begins a measured wave. I move my hand, too, but it doesn’t have nearly the same effect on the crowd.

Up close, it’s hard to see how Jasper Hale’s wave is different from mine, but it gets twice the reaction. In frustration, I draw my sword and thrust it upward lamely, which draws some attention, but not a lot.

The truth is, I’m not really focused on the float or the games or even Jasper. I can’t take my eyes off the crowd. They sparkle, not subtly, but sending full blown refractory shards of light everywhere. (This was a problem I had with a city of Stephanie Meyer vamps in sunlight, sparkling.) With all of the vampires about I almost have to close my eyes. I wish I had sunglasses, but what knight wears sunglasses?

Quicker than I would have thought, we arrive at the main square of Volterra. It’s furbished in all white limestone and glinting copper, much like the Blood Bank. The smooth whirring of the wheels changes into a click-clack as the road underneath us turns from pavement to bricks.

In the center, there is a tall podium with a large screen above it. For the first time, I can see myself on camera and I’m surprised by how dashing I look. Esme has given volume to my normally limp hair, and pieces of the armor frame my face nicely. Realizing that this perhaps the one chance to get the camera’s attention before it undoubtedly rests on Jasper, I give my sword a long swipe through the air.
I don’t know what makes me do it, because the moment after the words leave my mouth I realize how stupid they are, but with my sword up in the air, I yell, “For Emily.”

I didn’t think the crowd could hear me over the sound of their chatter and clapping, but of course, having super hearing, they do. All eyes turn on me, and for a second I’m worried that they’re going to rush onto the float and tear me limb from limb.

Instead, they start clapping even louder. Next to me Jasper does nothing so bold as to grit his teeth to show his annoyance, but his waving slows a little.

Somewhere from the back someone has figured out the my name and has started a chant, “Swan! Swan! Swan!” One of the people out there chanting my name has to have enough money to be a sponsor.

Knots in in my muscles loosen, tension letting up at the idea of sponsors, but the tension doesn’t dissipate completely. If any of the other competitors are as serious as Jasper about an offensive strategy, I don’t stand a chance, because when it comes down to it, I’m not sure if I can kill. Oh, I mean, I know I have the ability, but I haven’t gotten in a serious physical fight with anyone since I hurt my brother.

Edward would’ve been certain to get me sponsors, but once he figures out that I’m not following his plan I’m sure he’ll retract all help. At least once I’m in the arena he won’t be able to touch me or persuade me. It’s a hard and fast rule that no one but the tributes are allowed in the arena.

All this adoration makes me sick. Even if I did volunteer, that doesn’t make me some kind of white knight, even if Esme dresses me up in armor, because what I volunteered to do isn’t go on a quest to fight a dragon or rescue a princess. No, I volunteered to kill people, to kill children.

If they knew that I wasn’t going to kill children, well they wouldn’t be cheering. They’d probably be trying me for treason.

As the other floats come the fervor dies down until finally President Aro takes the stage. He’s dressed in black robes much like Jasper’s, but if he sees the similarity he doesn’t acknowledge it.

Aro’s speech seems to go on for a long time; it’s littered with words so long I don’t understand them. Once or twice he slips into another language, one with trilled r’s and a rising and falling cadence. (Hello Italian!) The crowd understands it, but it makes no sense to me.

Normally once his speech finishes, each pair is led through a small, roped off area to the mansion on the right side of the square: the Prospective Palace. But after the applause Aro holds up a hand, which from where I’m standing, looks no bigger than a pale dot. “Citizens and future citizen!”

The fact that he doesn’t use the plural for future citizen makes me twitch. It’s just another reminder that only one of us will end up here in Volterra.

“This is no ordinary Morphing Games. As you all know, it’s the 100th anniversary of our now beloved pastime.” (It was a nice touch that Susan had it be the 74th hunger games, made it feel more real. But I went for more bombastic.)

The crowd shifts-expectant, almost uneasy. For the first time it occurs to me maybe there are other vampires like Edward and Esme, those who aren’t happy with the way things are, let alone the fact that now children are going to lose their lives.

“As has been revealed to you, we’ve brought innocence into the hallowed streets of Volterra. Brought hope. Perhaps in response to that hope, or perhaps because he simply is a man of whimsy who I will never fully understand, my good friend has returned as well. Let us all welcome Edward Cullen!”

And there is Edward Cullen, as if he has never been anywhere else, standing ramrod straight next to President Aro. Not acknowledging the crowd or anyone- not even me. The smooth lines of his dark Volturi robes contrast with the untamed mess on his head. Even from so far away, when I see him, I swallow to moisten my suddenly dry throat.

Whispers undercut (originally I used the word underlace here which according to my  beta doesn’t exist. I vote it becomes a new word, all who are with me say aye!) the applause, only from the vampires though. None of the Prospectives, except for Jasper and me, have a clue who Edward is. I imagine Jasper’s probably angry that I have a mentor who’s close with the President.

Good. Angry people are people out of control, and as Edward demonstrated—I find a disturbing amount of my thoughts being about him—power is nothing without control.     (I like Tactician!Bella she’ll be making more and more of an appearance as the story goes on. Gives it kind of an Enders Game feel.”

Except when I look at Jasper, he’s smirking, too.

“There’s a story I don’t think many of you here know about Edward-—” Aro begins in the measured storyteller’s cadence all Volterran politicians seem to use “—certainly our darling Prospectives don’t.” The way Aro says “darling” it becomes clear to me where the origins of Volterran slang come from.

“I hope you don’t mind if I share it, Edward?” Aro doesn’t even glance at Edward as he asks. “We have no secrets here, do we?”

President Aro’s gaze, even from far away, finds mine. I’m sure everyone feels like that. At least, that’s what I tell myself to keep from screaming at the way his beady crimson eyes bore into me.

“Once, long ago, before the Volterran Empire existed in its present form, I had a friend who was distinctive. He didn’t drink human blood. In fact, he watched and guarded over their frailty, and lived among them with a boy he called son. They came to me across the oceans and the sands to tell me of the tragedy in this continent, of the horrors we now know as the Time of Excess. The days of a thousand floods, a hundred earthquakes, and that one most deadly eruption.”

At this point, I’m distracted by a fact that I didn’t notice until recently, so focused was I on Edward and Aro. Behind Aro stands Rosalie. (Why is Rosalie on stage, hmm. I’ll give you a clue. Finnick O’dair.) This was why Jasper was smirking. Edward is not the only one close to President Aro, but how can Rosalie already be in the upper ranks? She only won last year. More importantly, are Rosalie and Edward associates, is Rosalie a part of the cause? The cause I’m only half-committed to.

“I had been living so long in selfishness and here were two beings who saw immortality for what it really was: an opportunity to help save humanity from itself.” Aro turns slightly, as if to smile at Edward, but it’s hard for me to discern details from so far away.

“I can testify with confidence that all of Volterra mourned the day Carlisle Cullen was thoughtlessly murdered by a newborn. Five recently turned humans struck out against a man only trying to help them. Of course, we had long known something had to be done about the newborn problem, but none of us quite understood the severity of the issue, let alone how to go about fixing it.”

None of the crowd seems surprised by this story, so maybe most of them knew about Edward Cullen while only the lowlies like Cynthia and Bree were oblivious.

I’m not sure how I feel. My eyes are glued to Edward, to his every motion. I don’t know what I expect to see. Do I think he’ll cry about the father that wasn’t his father? Of course not. For a second his eyes meet mine.

At first, despite the fiery color, they are impassive, but then for just a moment-no longer-his brow furrows slightly. If it weren’t completely insane, I would say he almost looks . . . apologetic.

“As the Morphing Games demonstrates, loss is the greatest teacher. (This is kind of a theme of the story. Loss is actually an awful teacher. It made Bella blind her brother and made Edward do well. . . you’ll see.) After Carlisle moved forth from this plane toward the next, inspiration bequeathed to Edward her greatest gift: an idea.” Aro brings up a hand in front of him, as if he could pluck an idea from inspiration’s invisible grasp.

Edward’s glare turns glacial once more before tearing away from me. I can’t help but want him to look at me again. It’s sick.

“Ah, Edward, how well grief taught him truth, for he came up with the most elegant solution to the newborn problem.” Aro continues. (I had fun writing Aro, he’s me at my most pretensions.)

Even though Aro is speaking, I can’t help but find myself unable to look away from Edward. There is something so noble about him. I can’t label it or understand it, really. Maybe it’s how square his shoulders are or how tall he stands. I’m so caught up in Edward that I almost miss the next words Aro says.

“What an elegant solution the Morphing Games were and what a brilliant man their founder: Edward Cullen.”

(And here’s where everyone shit bricks.

But guys, guys. It makes sense. Edward is just a reflection of Bella, but on a much larger scale. And he made his mistakes for a reason. Like Aro said loss is the greatest teacher . . .

of bad decision making. )

Chapter 11

[11]

<a href=”http://s57.photobucket.com/albums/g239/originalcliche/?action=view&amp;current=morphingamesfinal.gif&#8221; target=”_blank”><img src=”http://i57.photobucket.com/albums/g239/originalcliche/morphingamesfinal.gif&#8221; border=”0″ alt=”Photobucket”></a>

I’ve only ever seen the parade on television, and that’s not really seeing it. On TV it’s all highly edited, a successive series of quick cuts to create story and enhance tension. There are even two separate broadcasts of the Morphing Games—one for the humans and one for the vampires. The vampire broadcast has an announcer speaking at speeds no human could understand, a backtrack of atonal music and references to languages not spoken by humans anymore.

Those things led me to believe that vampires were all sophisticated killers, but after meeting Bree and Cynthia I’m revising my original thought: they’re just killers. Becoming a vampire doesn’t automatically make you debonair. Even Tanya, with all of her darlings, is jealous of Rosalie’s beauty. In some ways, vampires aren’t what I expected at all.

The person I am most surprised by is also the person who best fits the archetype of what I thought a vampire should be: Edward. A rebel whose motivation isn’t just hatred of the government, but his own mistakes. He’s a creature like me, but utterly inhuman. Esme played at humanity, but he, with his cryptic questions and piercing gaze, doesn’t even pretend.

The memory of Edward is so strong that I’m surprised when I’m jolted at the shoulder by a petite girl with jet-black hair, her body lined in a skin-tight suite lined with tiny lightbulbs. She darts away from me before I can apologize.

The procession is an imitation of classic human parades, with each district getting their own moving platform, outfitted in whatever theme they’re portraying.

I was dressed by Esme in my armor, which while beautiful and sturdy—expecting it to crumple, I bruise my wrist after punching it—is also incredibly light. I’m able to easily maneuver inside the herd of floats that have congregated in the underground chamber waiting to get out.

Because the districts go out in order, Jasper and I are near the front of the line. So I have to maneuver through the rest of the floats before I reach mine. Unconsciously, I look for the small girl from District 6 with the red curls. I don’t find her, though I do see the District 6 float. It’s hard to miss; it’s blood-red, with metal chains of silver double-helixes surrounding it. District 6 is known for their experiments with genetics. I can’t imagine a twelve-year-old standing on it; it looks like a torture chamber. I don’t look at it long.

Next, I pass the District 3 float, which is a blinking imitation of a computer chip, housing a petite girl and a small boy. They almost blend into the float in their black jumpsuits decorated with tiny, blinking LEDs. On closer examination, I notice the same girl who bumped me in the shoulder is standing impatiently, shifting from foot to foot. She meets my appraisal with the curiosity of a little bird, and I can see scrappy fear in her eyes. I turn around to find out what’s so frightening, but then I realize it’s me. She’s afraid of me.

I don’t know how I feel about that, so I soldier on through the crowd to our float. Our float is an idyllic depiction of a fairy-tale forest, which has nothing really to do with the urban sprawl of District 2, but who wants to see graffiti and sewers? Jasper stands on it, dressed in a simple black robe. I narrow my eyes, trying to discern the crest stitched below the collar. That can’t be what I think it is.

I hoist myself onto the float by grabbing the synthetic root of the one of the giant oaks. Our float is definitely the tallest, that’s for sure. Once up on the float, I allow my disbelief to show. The crest below his collar is the same ones the Volturi guard wear. It’s the crest of the Volterran Empire, and no one but the Volturi gaurd are allowed to wear it.

Let him see a little hatred, know that I disdain him just as much as he apparently disdains me. “Those are some morbid pajamas.”

He smiles that damn charming smile, as if I meant my comment sincerely. “My stylist and I decided that it would be best to deviate from tradition and not represent where I come from, but where I hope to be going.”

“The Volturi Gaurd?”

In front of us the District 1 float, an imitation of a giant diamond, lurches unsteadily forward.

“Where else?” He speaks as if this is the most plausible destination for a Prospective, when most of us actually end up in coffins, veins collapsed, drained of blood.

He must notice my somber mood because he smiles teasingly. “And what are you, a robot?” He pushes me lightly in the arm in what’s supposed to be a playful gesture, but I can smell trademark Hale scorn in his breath.

I toss my hair behind me as I stomp forward. I want the crowd to see me first. “I’m a knight.”

I’m angry at his insult to Esme’s costume. It’s not until I feel the anger that I realize that, unlike everyone else I’ve met so far associated with the Morphing Games, I actually like Esme in a way that isn’t tinged with terror.

Not too far away, I can hear the screams of the crowd applauding for District 1. I’m sure the Prospectives look even more beautiful in person than they do on TV. They have to in order to pull off ridiculous names like Aston Martin and Volvina.

We begin to move slowly forward, too, and I grab a tree branch for balance. Jasper, of course has no problem keeping his footing.

“Aren’t you worried about offending President Aro?” I gesture lamely to the robes. “Technically, to put the crest on anything not state-made is illegal.”

“The only way to stay alive is to be constantly on the offensive.” He shrugs. “I guess we’ll see how successful I am.” We’ve moved almost all the way into the light now, only four more seconds and millions of eyes will be trained on us, and about half that many cameras.

“You know, you don’t talk like you’re a kid, but you’re only what, sixteen?” I ask.

“You can’t come here if you’re a kid.”

“You can this year.” I correct, trying not to sound too bitter about it. Even a statement of the facts can get you in trouble. If you’re not careful, facts can be some of the most dangerous things out there.

He looks like he’s about to say something, but all hints of introspection disappear once we pass through the awning and into the light of the street. Immediately, he turns to the crowd of vampires, and begins a measured wave. I move my hand, too, but it doesn’t have nearly the same effect on the crowd.

Up close, it’s hard to see howJasper Hale’s wave is different from mine, but it gets twice the reaction. In frustration, I draw my sword and thrust it upward lamely, which draws some attention, but not a lot.

The truth is, I’m not really focused on the float or the games or even Jasper. I can’t take my eyes off the crowd. They sparkle, not subtly, but sending full blown refractory shards of light everywhere. With all of the vampires about I almost have to close my eyes. I wish I had sunglasses, but what knight wears sunglasses?

Quicker than I would have thought, we arrive at the main square of Volterra. It’s furbished in all white limestone and glinting copper, much like the Blood Bank. The smooth whirring of the wheels changes into a click-clack as the road underneath us turns from pavement to bricks.

In the center, there is a tall podium with a large screen above it. For the first time, I can see myself on camera and I’m surprised by how dashing I look. Esme has given volume to my normally limp hair, and pieces of the armor frame my face nicely. Realizing that this perhaps the one chance to get the camera’s attention before it undoubtedly rests on Jasper, I give my sword a long swipe through the air.
I don’t know what makes me do it, because the moment after the words leave my mouth I realize how stupid they are, but with my sword up in the air, I yell, “For Emily.”

I didn’t think the crowd could hear me over the sound of their chatter and clapping, but of course, having super hearing, they do. All eyes turn on me, and for a second I’m worried that they’re going to rush onto the float and tear me limb from limb.

Instead, they start clapping even louder. Next to me Jasper does nothing so bold as to grit his teeth to show his annoyance, but his waving slows a little.

Somewhere from the back someone has figured out the my name and has started a chant, “Swan! Swan! Swan!” One of the people out there chanting my name has to have enough money to be a sponsor.

Knots in in my muscles loosen, tension letting up at the idea of sponsors, but the tension doesn’t dissipate completely. If any of the other competitors are as serious as Jasper about an offensive strategy, I don’t stand a chance, because when it comes down to it, I’m not sure if I can kill. Oh, I mean, I know I have the ability, but I haven’t gotten in a serious physical fight with anyone since I hurt my brother.

Edward would’ve been certain to get me sponsors, but once he figures out that I’m not following his plan I’m sure he’ll retract all help. At least once I’m in the arena he won’t be able to touch me or persuade me. It’s a hard and fast rule that no one but the tributes are allowed in the arena.

All this adoration makes me sick. Even if I did volunteer, that doesn’t make me some kind of white knight, even if Esme dresses me up in armor, because what I volunteered to do isn’t go on a quest to fight a dragon or rescue a princess. No, I volunteered to kill people, to kill children.

If they knew that I wasn’t going to kill children, well they wouldn’t be cheering. They’d probably be trying me for treason.

As the other floats come the fervor dies down until finally President Aro takes the stage. He’s dressed in black robes much like Jasper’s, but if he sees the similarity he doesn’t acknowledge it.

Aro’s speech seems to go on for a long time; it’s littered with words so long I don’t understand them. Once or twice he slips into another language, one with trilled r’s and a rising and falling cadence. The crowd understands it, but it makes no sense to me.

Normally once his speech finishes, each pair is led through a small, roped off area to the mansion on the right side of the square: the Prospective Palace. But after the applause Aro holds up a hand, which from where I’m standing, looks no bigger than a pale dot. “Citizens and future citizen!”

The fact that he doesn’t use the plural for future citizen makes me twitch. It’s just another reminder that only one of us will end up here in Volterra.

“This is no ordinary Morphing Games. As you all know, it’s the 100th anniversary of our now beloved pastime.”

The crowd shifts-expectant, almost uneasy. For the first time it occurs to me maybe there are other vampires like Edward and Esme, those who aren’t happy with the way things are, let alone the fact that now children are going to lose their lives.

“As has been revealed to you, we’ve brought innocence into the hallowed streets of Volterra. Brought hope. Perhaps in response to that hope, or perhaps because he simply is a man of whimsy who I will never fully understand, my good friend has returned as well. Let us all welcome Edward Cullen!”

And there is Edward Cullen, as if he has never been anywhere else, standing ramrod straight next to President Aro. Not acknowledging the crowd or anyone- not even me. The smooth lines of his dark Volturi robes contrast with the untamed mess on his head. Even from so far away, when I see him, I swallow to moisten my suddenly dry throat.

Whispers undercut the applause, only from the vampires though. None of the Prospectives, except for Jasper and me, have a clue who Edward is. I imagine Jasper’s probably angry that I have a mentor who’s close with the President.

Good. Angry people are people out of control, and as Edward demonstrated—I find a disturbing amount of my thoughts being about him—power is nothing without control.

Except when I look at Jasper, he’s smirking, too.

“There’s a story I don’t think many of you here know about Edward-—” Aro begins in the measured storyteller’s cadence all Volterran politicians seem to use “—certainly our darling Prospectives don’t.” The way Aro says “darling” it becomes clear to me where the origins of Volterran slang come from.

“I hope you don’t mind if I share it, Edward?” Aro doesn’t even glance at Edward as he asks. “We have no secrets here, do we?”

President Aro’s gaze, even from far away, finds mine. I’m sure everyone feels like that. At least, that’s what I tell myself to keep from screaming at the way his beady crimson eyes bore into me.

“Once, long ago, before the Volterran Empire existed in its present form, I had a friend who was distinctive. He didn’t drink human blood. In fact, he watched and guarded over their frailty, and lived among them with a boy he called son. They came to me across the oceans and the sands to tell me of the tragedy in this continent, of the horrors we now know as the Time of Excess. The days of a thousand floods, a hundred earthquakes, and that one most deadly eruption.”

At this point, I’m distracted by a fact that I didn’t notice until recently, so focused was I on Edward and Aro. Behind Aro stands Rosalie. This was why Jasper was smirking. Edward is not the only one close to President Aro, but how can Rosalie already be in the upper ranks? She only won last year. More importantly, are Rosalie and Edward associates, is Rosalie a part of the cause? The cause I’m only half-committed to.

“I had been living so long in selfishness and here were two beings who saw immortality for what it really was: an opportunity to help save humanity from itself.” Aro turns slightly, as if to smile at Edward, but it’s hard for me to discern details from so far away.

“I can testify with confidence that all of Volterra mourned the day Carlisle Cullen was thoughtlessly murdered by a newborn. Five recently turned humans struck out against a man only trying to help them. Of course, we had long known something had to be done about the newborn problem, but none of us quite understood the severity of the issue, let alone how to go about fixing it.”

None of the crowd seems surprised by this story, so maybe most of them knew about Edward Cullen while only the lowlies like Cynthia and Bree were oblivious.

I’m not sure how I feel. My eyes are glued to Edward, to his every motion. I don’t know what I expect to see. Do I think he’ll cry about the father that wasn’t his father? Of course not. For a second his eyes meet mine.

At first, despite the fiery color, they are impassive, but then for just a moment-no longer-his brow furrows slightly. If it weren’t completely insane, I would say he almost looks . . . apologetic.

“As the Morphing Games demonstrates, loss is the greatest teacher. After Carlisle moved forth from this plane toward the next, inspiration bequeathed to Edward her greatest gift: an idea.” Aro brings up a hand in front of him, as if he could pluck an idea from inspiration’s invisible grasp.

Edward’s glare turns glacial once more before tearing away from me. I can’t help but want him to look at me again. It’s sick.

“Ah, Edward, how well grief taught him truth, for he came up with the most elegant solution to the newborn problem.” Aro continues.

Even though Aro is speaking, I can’t help but find myself unable to look away from Edward. There is something so noble about him. I can’t label it or understand it, really. Maybe it’s how square his shoulders are or how tall he stands. I’m so caught up in Edward that I almost miss the next words Aro says.

“What an elegant solution the Morphing Games were and what a brilliant man their founder: Edward Cullen.”

Chapter Ten Visual Glossary

Music

Cynthia and Bree were inspired by the following:

Bree’s Dress

Cynthia’s dress/Hat

Esme

Her Dress (the one the blonde is wearing)

 

 

 

Chapter 10 Commentary

 

[10]

Come morning, I’m ushered out of the Cloud Gate by Tanya, who seems to know just what to say in order to part the crowds that have gathered to watch our arrival. Edward is nowhere to be seen, but he doesn’t need to be. I can hear his words, feel his presence as if it’s been seared into my skin.

In Tanya’s opinion, we’re going much too slow, and she keeps tutting impatiently. “Places to be, things to do, darlings.”

She says “darlings,” but the real cause of the delay is me, because I’m gaping at all the different kinds of buildings in Volterra. There is no sense to be made of the hodgepodge of architectures. On one street there might be a many-tiered pagoda right next to a Victorian mansion, complete with huge storybook windows. Not to mention the vampires. There are almost as many here as there are people in District 2, and Volterra can’t be half the size. The streets are packed with lean, beautiful red-eyed monsters, and they’re all staring at me.

Finally, we make it to a sleek, black, three-story building. I’ve seen pictures of it on the feeds from previous Morphing Games. It’s the stylist headquarters.

“Make over time.” Tanya chirps. “Have to look pretty for the opening parade.”

My stomach twists into a nauseous knot at the thought of even more vampires staring at me. The streets will be packed for tonight’s processional.

Tanya nudges me forward with more force than necessary. “You won’t win sponsors looking like you do now, Isabella.”

Winning sponsors is an important part of the game. Anyone who has enough money, and it does take quite a bit of money, can send gifts to the Prospectives. Anything from food to weapons to life saving medicine can be tied up to a silver-parachute and dropped into the arena.

Also, Tanya’s right. Beauty is an important part of winning sponsors, because the vampires are evaluating you not only a contestant, but as someone who may be joining their city and society in the future. No one wants an ugly new arrival.

I wonder if I’ll even need to bother with sponsors, since Edward seems to have a huge amount of influence. Not to mention he’s trying to over-throw the government; what role do sponsors play in a revolution? I still can’t accept or even understand his plan—what he told me of it at least, which was nothing really, besides a few cryptic remarks. Even less do I understand why he touched me and did . . . those other things.

I mean, I understood why he did it: to manipulate me. Dazzle me with dark touches, diamond-stars and feelings I did not and do not understand.

What I don’t understand is why it worked. (Bella is so damn naive, but it’s part of her charm and the joy of writing this story is how she’ll grow to and learn about herself)

Oh, it won’t work for the long-term. I’m not killing children for him—not for an imaginary rebellion—not for anything. I’ve lost so much of myself already. I can’t afford to lose any more, do any more evil. He can think that I am following his orders. In fact, my plan, rough and unformed as it is, depends on it.

But I couldn’t think about that when I was with Edward. All I could think about was . . . well, I couldn’t really think of anything.

I just wanted to be near him.

Somehow this thought is almost as disturbing as the Prospective whose eyes I clawed out in a dream. The little girl.

After we enter the building, Jasper and I part ways with little ceremony, Jasper heading to the second floor and I to the eighth, via an elevator. Again, vampires have all these powers and yet they still have machines to do things for them. (MACHINES MACHINES FORSHADOWING FORSHADOWING) It baffles me.

I wait for a little while outside of a door that leads into a room with walls of tinted sepia glass. Just as I finally get up the courage to knock, the door swings open, and in front of me are two vampires, one dressed in bright floral prints with what appears to be a giant petunia on her head, the other clad in a rainbow-neon leopard print unitard.

“Cynthia,” says the one with the flower on her head, “she could be worse, right?”

“I don’t know, her nose looks like it was added on as an afterthought,” the leopard-lady says. (Cynthia and Bree were vaguely inspired by the two crazy-hatted antdees at the Royal Wedding. I also wanted them to be darker than the original prep-team and unsympathetic. But in a sense this shows how they’ve been changed and warped by the society too.)

“I’d say it was added on without any thought at all.” Rejoins the walking garden.

They chuckle in unison.

I would find this much more amusing if my life didn’t depend on getting sponsors, and if getting sponsors didn’t depend on me not having parts of my body on crooked.

No, that’s a lie.

I would hate them no matter what.

Before I can vocalize my distaste, they’ve put me in a chair and have begun the smelly process of, washing, dying, cropping and clipping.

I wonder how they know they have the right person—they didn’t ask me my name. What if they’d accidentally kidnapped some poor wandering human for a make-over attack?  Upon further thought, I suppose they don’t have to worry about that, there are only twenty-four humans in Volterra right now.

Bree, aka flowery lady, aka botanical bitch with bright red eyes, doesn’t acknowledge me until after she’s already put three coats of foil on my head and painted some chunky white goop over my hair that smells like permanent markers.

“Isabella, this is going to hurt just an einie-minnie-mo of a bit.” She turns to Cynthia and whispers, “That is a human expression—right?” (I had a lot of fun writing their dialect–can you tell?)

As she brings two fingers to my nose, one of her flower petals from her head piece gets in my eye. I’m about to wave it away, but the pressure from her finger increases.

Crack.

“Fuck!”

I think she just broke my nose. (I loved the idea of upping the stakes compared to the Hunger Games here. They’re not just waxing etc–they broke her nose!!)

They both titter in amusement at the explicative.

Normally, I would fight them, or struggle do something, but it’s pointless. They’re a million times stronger and faster than me, and any action on my part would be an embarrassment at best and suicide at worst.

“What a charming little human!” says Bree.

A rainbow-leopard-print-clad boob is shoved in my face as Cynthia reaches over my head to grab something from the shelf above me.

The pain isn’t that bad, but I’m a little nervous about the small trickle of blood running over my lip. It’s hot, pure, and flowing fast. I know that vampires have their blood lust fixed chemically, but there’s still a reason why no humans live in the Capitol.

Both Bree and Cynthia seem entirely unaffected by the wound. I, however, am not. It’s beginning to throb unpleasantly. It’s not that I can’t handle the pain, it’s just that my strategy for coping with pain is to deal with it; patch it up, run it off, do something else to take my mind off of it. I can’t now though; I’m trapped between a rainbow-leopard and a moving plant.

I should start thinking up strategies, because there’s no way that I’m going to get sponsors if it’s their fashion sense I’ll be subjected too.

“Here you go for the pain, Belly-da-Boop,” chimes Cynthia, her chest now away from my face. She dabs at the blood lightly with a cotton pad. Her touches are so gentle and fast, so I’m amazed that these are the same monsters who can pull a tree out of the ground like a weed. Then she spreads another goop, this one blue and slightly runny, over my nose. The pain dissipates instantly.

Bree kneels down, takes off my shoes and plunges my feet into a bubbling mixture.
“So are you absolutely, over the top, amazing-thrilled for the Morphing Games?”

“I’m honored to be given the opportunity.” I repeat the stock line. I’ll have to think of some other ones, considering eventually all the Prospectives are interviewed.

Bree makes a whistling noise through her teeth and sticks my hands into a concoction similar to the one my feet are floating in. “Posh, posh! Come on Bella-la-lella, you can give us the real ice-cream scoop. I was just like you once!”

Cynthia is at my hair now, removing the foil. Her fingers brush the base of my neck, tilting my head back. Does my neck need cosmetic surgery too. Just a quick dab of cream and a cotton pad to fix it? I shudder.

“Head back, and tell us all about how you’re feeling. We’re here for you.” She coos as she speaks, but as I tilt my head back into the tub, I can see in the mirror they exchange a brief snicker.

If I’ll ever find vampire confidants, I don’t know, but these two are definitely not them. That doesn’t mean I can’t use them, however. “Which Morphing Games did you win? I don’t remember seeing you.”

Bree drips something hot over my eyebrows. “I was in the third one, actually!”

I try not to wince at the heat. “Really? How’d you win?”

“You didn’t watch it in history class?” she asks through pouted lips.

I flinch as the hot substance solidifys on my face. Is my face so ugly they literally are casting a new one? “I think that’s one of the few I haven’t seen.”

Rip!

Cynthia pulls off the layer of wax from my face, taking what feels like half of my eyebrows with it. It hurts only slightly less than my broken nose.  “Oh pity-party for you then, Bree was a genius.”

The sound of my teeth grinding almost drowns out my own voice. “Yeah?”

“Yeah?” Bree mocks  as she removes my feet and hands from their imprisonment of scented water and bubbles.  “It was a year set around a lake. They did everything to us you could imagine, quick-sand, sun poisoning, forest fires—you name it.”

I don’t say that these horrors are pretty tame compared to the later Morphing Games. One time the food in the arena was poisoned—all of it.  Another time, the dead Prospectives were resurrected by electricity and set upon the few remaining ones.

What feels like millions of tiny jets of water shoot towards my skull before Cynthia’s hands begin to massage my scalp. I can tell it’s Cynthia by the neon bracelets that jangle as she washes my hair.

“The problem was everyone was all spread out; lots of good runners and hiders in Bree’s year. Anyway, like the clever girl she was, she figured out that everyone needs water; right? And all the water in the arena has to come from somewhere. So, she took all the poison from her darts and just poured it in the lake.  It was strong poison—vampire made, sent by a sponsor, but no one would have thought it was strong enough to poison a whole lake let alone all the rivers connected to it. ”

Bree begins filing all of my nails into shapes so perfect you might find outlines of them in a trigonometry problem. “Watching the re-caps was fun, too, seeing how they all shriveled up and just sort of cried. One big boy just kept running around yelling ‘Wha happe,’ as all of his teeth—and eventually his tongue—fell out before he died.”

Cynthia gives a long titter accompanied by the groan of a fan starting. “It was delightful!”

“Lovely.” My  is sarcasm as thick and hot as the goop on my face.

The neon-Amazon Cynthia wields the hair-dryer like a weapon. With a click she turns it on, and its hot-air pushes my cheeks back with its force. Soon my hair is a tangle of dry strands instead of wet.

Cynthia has about three brushes in her hands, and each one pulls my head in a different direction. “I’m almost sad I was turned before the Morphing Games started. I’m sure I would have done something clever, too. Maybe use giant magnets to pull out all the iron from their blood, causing it to rip through their skin.”

Clouds of flowery scented mist envelope me as Cynthia sprays me with something to make my hair shine. (This mist and it’s purpose will play a role in later chapters, keep an eye out.) I see in her reflection in the mirror that her nose wrinkles from the smell.

“Then I would be able to drink from all of them without that yucky iron after-taste. Gross.”

“Everyone knows the bodies of the dead Prospectives get auctioned off to the highest bidder, Cynth, so you wouldn’t get to drink it.” (Ugh, this is so gross. But this is about how disturbing this story is going to be. Hold your horses people.) Bree files my toenails with a clam efficiency, not even looking up as she rattles of the sickening facts—like it’s gossip. “‘Sides, a magnet that would be powerful enough to take the iron out of their blood would be powerful enough to reverse the poles.”

God, it’s just too much. These stylists sit here calmly talking about horrible deaths, deaths that could be my horrible death, that could have been Emily’s. I wonder if they’ll buy my body if I die. Will they sit here drinking me from bottles as they talk about how Cynthia just should have gotten the opportunity to be in the Morphing Games because she would never have let her insides be torn out by a giant magnet?

Bree mistakes my disgust for impatience. “Just a few more seconds and you’ll get to meet Esme, Bella-Boop.”

“Esme?” What more can they do me, what else can be left? I haven’t even entered the arena, and I want to give up.

Bree says, “she’s your stylist, silly.”

My brow furrows. “I thought you were my stylist.”

Cynthia sighs, as if thinking about a vid-star.  “No, no, no! We’re just the prep team. We can only aspire to the level of genius of Esme Cullen.”

“You think they’d let us handle a tribute all by ourselves?” Bre barrels onward at close to vampire speed before I can answer. “Of course not. We’re just the sous-chefs if you will, and Esme Cullen is like the waiter.”

I would correct their metaphor, but I’m too curious about Esme. “Oh yes, Edward told me all about her.” I offer this lamely, trying to seem as if I do have a clue— or if not a clue then maybe at least a hint.

Simultaneously, both stop their bustling.

“Did you say ‘Edward?’” asks Cynthia.

Shit. Was I not supposed to mention his name? No, that wasn’t something he had told me last night.

“No.” I hedge. If they seem surprised by the fact that I’m associated with Edward, so perhaps it’s better that they don’t know. Maybe he has a rebellious reputation already.

“Of course she didn’t say ‘Edward.’” Bree glares at Cynthia. “Sometimes you’re as dumb as a bad-hairdo.”
“Who’s Edward?” I ask, playing pitch perfectly the part of the naïve Prospective Edward seemed to think I was.

Cynthia gives a little twitter. “Right, I forgot they leave him out of the history books. You know, honestly, I don’t think I learned about him until recently—and I was here for the change.”

She lowers her voice, as if that could stop her from being picked up by the bugs, which are surely listening in. “Apparently, he used to be one of the founders.” (FORSHADOWING FORSHADOWING!)

“But there are only three founders,” I say. I know it makes me sound stupid, but it’s best for them to think that’s all I am. I consider the possibility that Edward was in fact a ripped out chapter from the history books. He had said he had made mistakes. Not to mention that if he was telling the truth, he had chosen me, which meant he  circumvented very old and established laws. Then again, these are just stylists, and not even head stylists at that.

“Cynth, remember what Esme said about us focusing. Let’s just finish it.” Bree’s tone makes it clear that “us” really means “Cynthia.”

“No, we have to put something of our own on the look.”  Cynthia talks so fast I almost don’t understand it. “We have to show her our genius.”

Their genius, as I can see in the mirror, is a small pink butterfly clip with wings that flap slowly. I think it’s getting glitter in my hair, but I nearly fail to notice it, because I’m caught staring at the reflection of a girl who’s almost pretty. I think she’s me; she’s certainly glaring like I do.

Now my brown hair is darker, almost the color of my mahogany eyebrows, my skin has lost it’s pallor, and my lips seem fuller. Everything about me feels smooth. I run my finger-tips over my eyebrows, tracing the strange new arch of them and then my nose, which now rests right in the center of my face. It doesn’t hurt anymore, either.

“I know—huge-mungo transformation, right? You almost look like Belle instead of the Beast—no offense of course,” says Bree.

I want to tell them that talking about drinking the blood of humans and buying corpses is more offensive to me than insulting my hairstyle, but I know that no matter how “respected” Prospectives are by people back home, our position in the Volterra is tenuous. I want to tell them that just because it’s the way things are doesn’t they mean they can talk about it like it’s gossip.

People are going to die.

One them will probably be me.

“Esme should be in shortly!” Cynthia grabs a puffy bubble gum colored coat to put over her dress.

How does Esme know we’re done? Could she smell the transformation or something? Before I can ask, the pair of them are out of the door, travelling at vampire speed, having no need to slow themselves for my human eyes.

It’s not long until I hear a gentle clap from the other end of the room. The door slides open. I don’t know what I expected, perhaps a badly-dressed blur to come up to me and start poking and prodding?
Instead,  comes a woman dressed in a poofy skirt with a waist no bigger than my fist. Unlike the leopard and the plant, there is nothing revealing about her outfit. The neckline barely reveals the delicate bowing of her shoulder blades, and below the skirt are opaque ivory tights. (I was in a show called Assasins and I played a 1950s houswife and I had the most awesome dress. This dress was the basis for all of Esme’s character. I really wanted to give her some unique characteristic, and I like the idea of her being from a more modern time period, but by their standards the 1950s are still ancient!)

She walks slowly, her skirt so voluminous that it swooshes behind her with each small step. She stops a few paces away before tentatively raising a hand and giving a short elegant wave. “Hello.”

I lean back into the head-rest of the chair. “Uh, hello.”

“I’m Esme.” She takes a step closer, her eyes focused calmly on me. It’s a very different gaze from Edward’s; I don’t feel as if I’m being evaluated, but acknowledged instead. “I assume Edward told you about me.”

Is she actually concerned for my personal space? I let out a sigh, and I’m relieved—until her eyes begin to squint in annoyance. “May I touch your hair, Bella?”

“Sure.” I offer hesitantly.

Her hands fish around in my newly volumized hair until they pluck out the butterfly. Its wings slow and I could swear it turns its mechanical head and looks bashfully at Esme with its cheap rhinestone eyes.

“Hello there, little one,” She whispers.

Delicately, she brushes some of the glitter off its wings, and it follows suit shaking off its wings until they’re clean. What’s left is small and reflective, appearing to be made out of the same substance as the balloon. ((LOOK AT THAT! MORE MACHINES!)

She gives a rich laugh, and it’s the most human sound I’ve heard from a vampire. I didn’t know vampires could even do that: smile and laugh in a way that doesn’t seem foreboding and wrong.

Then I’m laughing, too, because the little butterfly is trying to flap it’s wings away from Esme, who looks at it like it’s an untied-shoe.

My laughs turn to thick guffaws, seizures of hilarity. It’s not really that funny, but if I didn’t do something I was going to explode. I can’t afford to burst into tears. Not in front of my stylist, a woman whose faith in me will determine whether or not I get a good concept design for my outfit. A woman who was an affiliate of Edwards wasn’t someone I wanted to upset, if Edward’s temper was any indication.

“If you don’t stop laughing, you’re going to fall down.” Esme warns, voice tinged with authentic concern.

Still, I can’t stop, and I literally manage to fall out of the salon chair—laughing. Esme catches me, and deposits me with infinite grace back into the chair.

“That’s a pretty accurate reading you had there,” I say.

“Oh.” Her voice is light like summer breezes through summer leaves.  “Just womanly intuition.”

She touches my hair, stroking it lightly, and it feels embarrassingly good. I’m a little disappointed when she stops and takes out a brush and begins to part my hair absentmindedly. “I’m sorry about my assistants. To say they don’t quite know how to act around humans would be an understatement. It’s hard living here. One forgets what it’s like to be human. To be able to die.”

I flinch.

No, what’s hard is losing your mother.

What’s hard is trying to decide whether to kill yourself or an innocent.

What’s hard is knowing that in the end you might not even get the luxury of the choice.
(Yeah Bella’s not bitter /at all/.)
“Come, let’s get lunch before you fall out of that chair again.” She offers me a hand.
I take it and we walk at normal speed, thankfully, to a small antechamber that holds a small table and two chairs. Sitting on the table is a white plate filled with rice and covered with strips of grilled chicken and a steaming red sauce

At the center of the table is a centerpiece made of  three pink flowers and one white. Surreptitiously, I glance toward Esme. It matches her dress perfectly.

More real food. I can hardly believe it. I’m so skeptical, in fact, I hang back.

“Please sit down, Bella,” Esme says, “I promise it’s not going to run away.”

“Can you read minds, too?” I ask as I tuck my chair in and pick up my fork.

She joins me. “No, that’s the domain of my son.”

“Son?” I scoot my chair into the table. “I thought vampires couldn’t have children?”

Esme’s expression clouds. “I never got the privilege of having children as a human. So I . . . adopted Edward.”

“Edward?” The man who looked into my soul, if you say I had something like that, and dissected and then rebuilt me to fit his parameters. It was hard to believe a creature like him having a mother, it made him seem so human.

She nods. “Yes, there’s a reason why I’m your stylist. Much like Edward, usually I prefer not to involve myself in the Games directly.”

If it wasn’t crazy I’d say she said Games with almost as much as disdain—and maybe even despair—as I do when I think it.

Mention of her son reminds me of my family. I wonder what Ben’s doing. He’s probably with Prim. It’s a good thing she’s there, maybe she can take care of Charlie, too. Someone will have to, without me there. I don’t think Ben ever realized how much I did for them. I think my attack on him after Mom died blinded him to a lot more than just the world around him.

And it was all because of the vampires.

“I don’t blame you.”

“What?” I am shaken out of my reverie to see Esme’s small mouth pursed slightly.

“For hating us.” (This bit is stolen verbatim from Hunger Games, a lot of this chapter follows the HG very very closely. I really wanted something to inspire me and give me a plot-line and HG does that. Obviously this is definately my own twist on it, but this fic is definately a cross-over in the traditional sense.)

“I don’t. Vampires shoulder the burden that humanity can’t.” I rattle off quickly. Have I been that transparent? Edward is going to kill me—literally. He doesn’t seem like the type to renege on death threats.

“Bella, I’m not going to get angry at you for the way you feel, let alone report you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I can’t take the chance that this is a trap.

There are stories of Prospectives’ families being hurt when they tried to escape as well as stories of Prospectives committing suicide before the games. If I were to be reported for treason, what if they tried to get to Ben or, even worse, Jacob? Also, I’m sure Edward would make my own death long and unpleasant.

She gives a frustrated sigh, but then smiles warmly. As she shakes her head her pearl earrings jangle. “If I didn’t know that you are going to trust me eventually, I’d imagine this conversation would be much more frustrating.”

I shrug. Even if she’s right about me trusting her, which seems very unlikely, she also could just be saying this to get a confession. I try to keep my eyes wide and innocent. “Sorry, I don’t quite know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, Bella, what has been done to you?” She reaches out a hand, and suddenly her eyes seem so old.

I have to change the topic. “What are you thinking of for the concept?”

For the opening parade every district usually dresses in a costume relating to the industry that their district comes from. For us in District 2, it meant some skimpy parody of a Peacekeepers uniform. A couple of years ago there had been an experimental stylist who dressed the Prospectives in yellow unitards and said they were the color of justice. That didn’t go over well. I hope Esme has something better planned for me.

Her sense of fashion isn’t deplorable like the prep team’s, but it looks like something from the history books of the time before. I hope she puts me in something a little less girlish. I’m going to be entering an arena to fight for my life, not attending a party.

“I have an idea for what to wear, but you’ll have to tell me if you like it.” She smiles, leaning forward. “District 2 produces peacekeepers—protectors of the peace. Well I wondered, what if we connect your outfit to a fairy tale?”

I must look confused because she backtracks.

“You know how you volunteered for that little girl? Many people were impressed by that.” She looks down at the centerpiece thoughtfully. “Myself included. They—we saw you as a hero, brave and self-sacrificing.”

“I’m not a hero.” I can never be a hero, not after what I did to my brother, not even if I do save the world. Edward made that painfully clear. I may be able to be good, but I will never be pure again. The world doesn’t work like that; people don’t forget the bad stuff you do just because you do something good, and even if they do, you don’t.

Esme shoots me a look both kind and admonishing, and I quiet because I know that look; my mother used to give it to me.  “You were like something out of a fairy tale up on that stage, like a knight going out on a quest to save a maiden. So why not make you a knight?”
(The thing I love about making graphic/trailers, is that often when I make the trailer it totally inspires me for writing the fic. It helps to have concrete real images to work off of. So yeah Bella being a knight was definately a case of the graphics inspiring the story.)
“But aren’t knights supposed to be boys?” This is not my real objection. My real objection is that I am not a knight, not a good guy. I’m pretty sure that to most everyone in my life, I’m the villain.

She gives a small, bitter laugh. “A hundred thirty years go by, I lose my husband and I still haven’t escaped sexism.”

“What?”

“You’ll look perfect in this costume, Bella. Just trust me.”

And the odd thing is, I do.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I will not look like a fool, that’s good. “What’s Jasper wearing?”

Usually partners coordinate, but he’s not here, so I’m not sure he’ll be getting the same costume.

She frowns. “I can see that he’s decided not to coordinate with you.” She looks over at me hesitantly, deciding whether or not to mention something. “He doesn’t see you as someone to reckoned with . . . at least not yet.”

I grit my teeth. Hale thought he was better than me with his fancy training and brave façade, but he didn’t know the truth; everything he had gotten: all of his bravado, his house, his life—it was stolen from me.

“I want a big sword,” I say.

Esme grins. “I knew you would agree, Bella.”

Jasper Hale had better watch out, because in the arena I’m going to take back what he stole. (This is a direct quote from the Labryinth. Because as I said, in spirit this is a Labryinth/Hunger Games/Twilight cross over.)

Chapter 10

[11]

Come morning, I’m ushered out of the Cloud Gate by Tanya, who seems to know just what to say in order to part the crowds that have gathered to watch our arrival. Edward is nowhere to be seen, but he doesn’t need to be. I can hear his words, feel his presence as if it’s been seared into my skin.

In Tanya’s opinion, we’re going much too slow, and she keeps tutting impatiently. “Places to be, things to do, darlings.”

She says “darlings,” but the real cause of the delay is me, because I’m gaping at all the different kinds of buildings in Volterra. There is no sense to be made of the hodgepodge of architectures. On one street there might be a many-tiered pagoda right next to a Victorian mansion, complete with huge storybook windows. Not to mention the vampires. There are almost as many here as there are people in District 2, and Volterra can’t be half the size. The streets are packed with lean, beautiful red-eyed monsters, and they’re all staring at me.

Finally, we make it to a sleek, black, three-story building. I’ve seen pictures of it on the feeds from previous Morphing Games. It’s the stylist headquarters.

“Make over time.” Tanya chirps. “Have to look pretty for the opening parade.”

My stomach twists into a nauseous knot at the thought of even more vampires staring at me. The streets will be packed for tonight’s processional.

Tanya nudges me forward with more force than necessary. “You won’t win sponsors looking like you do now, Isabella.”

Winning sponsors is an important part of the game. Anyone who has enough money, and it does take quite a bit of money, can send gifts to the Prospectives. Anything from food to weapons to life saving medicine can be tied up to a silver-parachute and dropped into the arena.

Also, Tanya’s right. Beauty is an important part of winning sponsors, because the vampires are evaluating you not only a contestant, but as someone who may be joining their city and society in the future. No one wants an ugly new arrival.

I wonder if I’ll even need to bother with sponsors, since Edward seems to have a huge amount of influence. Not to mention he’s trying to over-throw the government; what role do sponsors play in a revolution? I still can’t accept or even understand his plan—what he told me of it at least, which was nothing really, besides a few cryptic remarks. Even less do I understand why he touched me and did . . . those other things.

I mean, I understood why he did it: to manipulate me. Dazzle me with dark touches, diamond-stars and feelings I did not and do not understand.

What I don’t understand is why it worked.

Oh, it won’t work for the long-term. I’m not killing children for him—not for an imaginary rebellion—not for anything. I’ve lost so much of myself already. I can’t afford to lose any more, do any more evil. He can think that I am following his orders. In fact, my plan, rough and unformed as it is, depends on it.

But I couldn’t think about that when I was with Edward. All I could think about was . . . well, I couldn’t really think of anything.

I just wanted to be near him.

Somehow this thought is almost as disturbing as the Prospective whose eyes I clawed out in a dream. The little girl.

After we enter the building, Jasper and I part ways with little ceremony, Jasper heading to the second floor and I to the eighth, via an elevator. Again, vampires have all these powers and yet they still have machines to do things for them. It baffles me.

I wait for a little while outside of a door that leads into a room with walls of tinted sepia glass. Just as I finally get up the courage to knock, the door swings open, and in front of me are two vampires, one dressed in bright floral prints with what appears to be a giant petunia on her head, the other clad in a rainbow-neon leopard print unitard.

“Cynthia,” says the one with the flower on her head, “she could be worse, right?”

“I don’t know, her nose looks like it was added on as an afterthought,” the leopard-lady says.

“I’d say it was added on without any thought at all.” Rejoins the walking garden.

They chuckle in unison.

I would find this much more amusing if my life didn’t depend on getting sponsors, and if getting sponsors didn’t depend on me not having parts of my body on crooked.

No, that’s a lie.

I would hate them no matter what.

Before I can vocalize my distaste, they’ve put me in a chair and have begun the smelly process of, washing, dying, cropping and clipping.

I wonder how they know they have the right person—they didn’t ask me my name. What if they’d accidentally kidnapped some poor wandering human for a make-over attack?  Upon further thought, I suppose they don’t have to worry about that, there are only twenty-four humans in Volterra right now.

Bree, aka flowery lady, aka botanical bitch with bright red eyes, doesn’t acknowledge me until after she’s already put three coats of foil on my head and painted some chunky white goop over my hair that smells like permanent markers.

“Isabella, this is going to hurt just an einie-minnie-mo of a bit.” She turns to Cynthia and whispers, “That is a human expression—right?”

As she brings two fingers to my nose, one of her flower petals from her head piece gets in my eye. I’m about to wave it away, but the pressure from her finger increases.

Crack.

“Fuck!”

I think she just broke my nose.

They both titter in amusement at the explicative.

Normally, I would fight them, or struggle do something, but it’s pointless. They’re a million times stronger and faster than me, and any action on my part would be an embarrassment at best and suicide at worst.

“What a charming little human!” says Bree.

A rainbow-leopard-print-clad boob is shoved in my face as Cynthia reaches over my head to grab something from the shelf above me.

The pain isn’t that bad, but I’m a little nervous about the small trickle of blood running over my lip. It’s hot, pure, and flowing fast. I know that vampires have their blood lust fixed chemically, but there’s still a reason why no humans live in the Capitol.

Both Bree and Cynthia seem entirely unaffected by the wound. I, however, am not. It’s beginning to throb unpleasantly. It’s not that I can’t handle the pain, it’s just that my strategy for coping with pain is to deal with it; patch it up, run it off, do something else to take my mind off of it. I can’t now though; I’m trapped between a rainbow-leopard and a moving plant.

I should start thinking up strategies, because there’s no way that I’m going to get sponsors if it’s their fashion sense I’ll be subjected too.

“Here you go for the pain, Belly-da-Boop,” chimes Cynthia, her chest now away from my face. She dabs at the blood lightly with a cotton pad. Her touches are so gentle and fast, so I’m amazed that these are the same monsters who can pull a tree out of the ground like a weed. Then she spreads another goop, this one blue and slightly runny, over my nose. The pain dissipates instantly.

Bree kneels down, takes off my shoes and plunges my feet into a bubbling mixture.
“So are you absolutely, over the top, amazing-thrilled for the Morphing Games?”

“I’m honored to be given the opportunity.” I repeat the stock line. I’ll have to think of some other ones, considering eventually all the Prospectives are interviewed.

Bree makes a whistling noise through her teeth and sticks my hands into a concoction similar to the one my feet are floating in. “Posh, posh! Come on Bella-la-lella, you can give us the real ice-cream scoop. I was just like you once!”

Cynthia is at my hair now, removing the foil. Her fingers brush the base of my neck, tilting my head back. Does my neck need cosmetic surgery too. Just a quick dab of cream and a cotton pad to fix it? I shudder.

“Head back, and tell us all about how you’re feeling. We’re here for you.” She coos as she speaks, but as I tilt my head back into the tub, I can see in the mirror they exchange a brief snicker.

If I’ll ever find vampire confidants, I don’t know, but these two are definitely not them. That doesn’t mean I can’t use them, however. “Which Morphing Games did you win? I don’t remember seeing you.”

Bree drips something hot over my eyebrows. “I was in the third one, actually!”

I try not to wince at the heat. “Really? How’d you win?”

“You didn’t watch it in history class?” she asks through pouted lips.

I flinch as the hot substance solidifys on my face. Is my face so ugly they literally are casting a new one? “I think that’s one of the few I haven’t seen.”

Rip!

Cynthia pulls off the layer of wax from my face, taking what feels like half of my eyebrows with it. It hurts only slightly less than my broken nose.  “Oh pity-party for you then, Bree was a genius.”

The sound of my teeth grinding almost drowns out my own voice. “Yeah?”

“Yeah?” Bree mocks  as she removes my feet and hands from their imprisonment of scented water and bubbles.  “It was a year set around a lake. They did everything to us you could imagine, quick-sand, sun poisoning, forest fires—you name it.”

I don’t say that these horrors are pretty tame compared to the later Morphing Games. One time the food in the arena was poisoned—all of it.  Another time, the dead Prospectives were resurrected by electricity and set upon the few remaining ones.

What feels like millions of tiny jets of water shoot towards my skull before Cynthia’s hands begin to massage my scalp. I can tell it’s Cynthia by the neon bracelets that jangle as she washes my hair.

“The problem was everyone was all spread out; lots of good runners and hiders in Bree’s year. Anyway, like the clever girl she was, she figured out that everyone needs water; right? And all the water in the arena has to come from somewhere. So, she took all the poison from her darts and just poured it in the lake.  It was strong poison—vampire made, sent by a sponsor, but no one would have thought it was strong enough to poison a whole lake let alone all the rivers connected to it. ”

Bree begins filing all of my nails into shapes so perfect you might find outlines of them in a trigonometry problem. “Watching the re-caps was fun, too, seeing how they all shriveled up and just sort of cried. One big boy just kept running around yelling ‘Wha happe,’ as all of his teeth—and eventually his tongue—fell out before he died.”

Cynthia gives a long titter accompanied by the groan of a fan starting. “It was delightful!”

“Lovely.” My  is sarcasm as thick and hot as the goop on my face.

The neon-Amazon Cynthia wields the hair-dryer like a weapon. With a click she turns it on, and its hot-air pushes my cheeks back with its force. Soon my hair is a tangle of dry strands instead of wet.

Cynthia has about three brushes in her hands, and each one pulls my head in a different direction. “I’m almost sad I was turned before the Morphing Games started. I’m sure I would have done something clever, too. Maybe use giant magnets to pull out all the iron from their blood, causing it to rip through their skin.”

Clouds of flowery scented mist envelope me as Cynthia sprays me with something to make my hair shine. I see in her reflection in the mirror that her nose wrinkles from the smell.

“Then I would be able to drink from all of them without that yucky iron after-taste. Gross.”

“Everyone knows the bodies of the dead Prospectives get auctioned off to the highest bidder, Cynth, so you wouldn’t get to drink it.” Bree files my toenails with a clam efficiency, not even looking up as she rattles of the sickening facts—like it’s gossip. “‘Sides, a magnet that would be powerful enough to take the iron out of their blood would be powerful enough to reverse the poles.”

God, it’s just too much. These stylists sit here calmly talking about horrible deaths, deaths that could be my horrible death, that could have been Emily’s. I wonder if they’ll buy my body if I die. Will they sit here drinking me from bottles as they talk about how Cynthia just should have gotten the opportunity to be in the Morphing Games because she would never have let her insides be torn out by a giant magnet?

Bree mistakes my disgust for impatience. “Just a few more seconds and you’ll get to meet Esme, Bella-Boop.”

“Esme?” What more can they do me, what else can be left? I haven’t even entered the arena, and I want to give up.

Bree says, “she’s your stylist, silly.”

My brow furrows. “I thought you were my stylist.”

Cynthia sighs, as if thinking about a vid-star.  “No, no, no! We’re just the prep team. We can only aspire to the level of genius of Esme Cullen.”

“You think they’d let us handle a tribute all by ourselves?” Bre barrels onward at close to vampire speed before I can answer. “Of course not. We’re just the sous-chefs if you will, and Esme Cullen is like the waiter.”

I would correct their metaphor, but I’m too curious about Esme. “Oh yes, Edward told me all about her.” I offer this lamely, trying to seem as if I do have a clue— or if not a clue then maybe at least a hint.

Simultaneously, both stop their bustling.

“Did you say ‘Edward?’” asks Cynthia.

Shit. Was I not supposed to mention his name? No, that wasn’t something he had told me last night.

“No.” I hedge. If they seem surprised by the fact that I’m associated with Edward, so perhaps it’s better that they don’t know. Maybe he has a rebellious reputation already.

“Of course she didn’t say ‘Edward.’” Bree glares at Cynthia. “Sometimes you’re as dumb as a bad-hairdo.”
“Who’s Edward?” I ask, playing pitch perfectly the part of the naïve Prospective Edward seemed to think I was.

Cynthia gives a little twitter. “Right, I forgot they leave him out of the history books. You know, honestly, I don’t think I learned about him until recently—and I was here for the change.”

She lowers her voice, as if that could stop her from being picked up by the bugs, which are surely listening in. “Apparently, he used to be one of the founders.”

“But there are only three founders,” I say. I know it makes me sound stupid, but it’s best for them to think that’s all I am. I consider the possibility that Edward was in fact a ripped out chapter from the history books. He had said he had made mistakes. Not to mention that if he was telling the truth, he had chosen me, which meant he  circumvented very old and established laws. Then again, these are just stylists, and not even head stylists at that.

“Cynth, remember what Esme said about us focusing. Let’s just finish it.” Bree’s tone makes it clear that “us” really means “Cynthia.”

“No, we have to put something of our own on the look.”  Cynthia talks so fast I almost don’t understand it. “We have to show her our genius.”

Their genius, as I can see in the mirror, is a small pink butterfly clip with wings that flap slowly. I think it’s getting glitter in my hair, but I nearly fail to notice it, because I’m caught staring at the reflection of a girl who’s almost pretty. I think she’s me; she’s certainly glaring like I do.

Now my brown hair is darker, almost the color of my mahogany eyebrows, my skin has lost it’s pallor, and my lips seem fuller. Everything about me feels smooth. I run my finger-tips over my eyebrows, tracing the strange new arch of them and then my nose, which now rests right in the center of my face. It doesn’t hurt anymore, either.

“I know—huge-mungo transformation, right? You almost look like Belle instead of the Beast—no offense of course,” says Bree.

I want to tell them that talking about drinking the blood of humans and buying corpses is more offensive to me than insulting my hairstyle, but I know that no matter how “respected” Prospectives are by people back home, our position in the Volterra is tenuous. I want to tell them that just because it’s the way things are doesn’t they mean they can talk about it like it’s gossip.

People are going to die.

One them will probably be me.

“Esme should be in shortly!” Cynthia grabs a puffy bubble gum colored coat to put over her dress.

How does Esme know we’re done? Could she smell the transformation or something? Before I can ask, the pair of them are out of the door, travelling at vampire speed, having no need to slow themselves for my human eyes.

It’s not long until I hear a gentle clap from the other end of the room. The door slides open. I don’t know what I expected, perhaps a badly-dressed blur to come up to me and start poking and prodding?
Instead,  comes a woman dressed in a poofy skirt with a waist no bigger than my fist. Unlike the leopard and the plant, there is nothing revealing about her outfit. The neckline barely reveals the delicate bowing of her shoulder blades, and below the skirt are opaque ivory tights.

She walks slowly, her skirt so voluminous that it swooshes behind her with each small step. She stops a few paces away before tentatively raising a hand and giving a short elegant wave. “Hello.”

I lean back into the head-rest of the chair. “Uh, hello.”

“I’m Esme.” She takes a step closer, her eyes focused calmly on me. It’s a very different gaze from Edward’s; I don’t feel as if I’m being evaluated, but acknowledged instead. “I assume Edward told you about me.”

Is she actually concerned for my personal space? I let out a sigh, and I’m relieved—until her eyes begin to squint in annoyance. “May I touch your hair, Bella?”

“Sure.” I offer hesitantly.

Her hands fish around in my newly volumized hair until they pluck out the butterfly. Its wings slow and I could swear it turns its mechanical head and looks bashfully at Esme with its cheap rhinestone eyes.

“Hello there, little one,” She whispers.

Delicately, she brushes some of the glitter off its wings, and it follows suit shaking off its wings until they’re clean. What’s left is small and reflective, appearing to be made out of the same substance as the balloon.

She gives a rich laugh, and it’s the most human sound I’ve heard from a vampire. I didn’t know vampires could even do that: smile and laugh in a way that doesn’t seem foreboding and wrong.

Then I’m laughing, too, because the little butterfly is trying to flap it’s wings away from Esme, who looks at it like it’s an untied-shoe.

My laughs turn to thick guffaws, seizures of hilarity. It’s not really that funny, but if I didn’t do something I was going to explode. I can’t afford to burst into tears. Not in front of my stylist, a woman whose faith in me will determine whether or not I get a good concept design for my outfit. A woman who was an affiliate of Edwards wasn’t someone I wanted to upset, if Edward’s temper was any indication.

“If you don’t stop laughing, you’re going to fall down.” Esme warns, voice tinged with authentic concern.

Still, I can’t stop, and I literally manage to fall out of the salon chair—laughing. Esme catches me, and deposits me with infinite grace back into the chair.

“That’s a pretty accurate reading you had there,” I say.

“Oh.” Her voice is light like summer breezes through summer leaves.  “Just womanly intuition.”

She touches my hair, stroking it lightly, and it feels embarrassingly good. I’m a little disappointed when she stops and takes out a brush and begins to part my hair absentmindedly. “I’m sorry about my assistants. To say they don’t quite know how to act around humans would be an understatement. It’s hard living here. One forgets what it’s like to be human. To be able to die.”

I flinch.

No, what’s hard is losing your mother.

What’s hard is trying to decide whether to kill yourself or an innocent.

What’s hard is knowing that in the end you might not even get the luxury of the choice.

“Come, let’s get lunch before you fall out of that chair again.” She offers me a hand.
I take it and we walk at normal speed, thankfully, to a small antechamber that holds a small table and two chairs. Sitting on the table is a white plate filled with rice and covered with strips of grilled chicken and a steaming red sauce

At the center of the table is a centerpiece made of  three pink flowers and one white. Surreptitiously, I glance toward Esme. It matches her dress perfectly.

More real food. I can hardly believe it. I’m so skeptical, in fact, I hang back.

“Please sit down, Bella,” Esme says, “I promise it’s not going to run away.”

“Can you read minds, too?” I ask as I tuck my chair in and pick up my fork.

She joins me. “No, that’s the domain of my son.”

“Son?” I scoot my chair into the table. “I thought vampires couldn’t have children?”

Esme’s expression clouds. “I never got the privilege of having children as a human. So I . . . adopted Edward.”

“Edward?” The man who looked into my soul, if you say I had something like that, and dissected and then rebuilt me to fit his parameters. It was hard to believe a creature like him having a mother, it made him seem so human.

She nods. “Yes, there’s a reason why I’m your stylist. Much like Edward, usually I prefer not to involve myself in the Games directly.”

If it wasn’t crazy I’d say she said Games with almost as much as disdain—and maybe even despair—as I do when I think it.

Mention of her son reminds me of my family. I wonder what Ben’s doing. He’s probably with Prim. It’s a good thing she’s there, maybe she can take care of Charlie, too. Someone will have to, without me there. I don’t think Ben ever realized how much I did for them. I think my attack on him after Mom died blinded him to a lot more than just the world around him.

And it was all because of the vampires.

“I don’t blame you.”

“What?” I am shaken out of my reverie to see Esme’s small mouth pursed slightly.

“For hating us.”

“I don’t. Vampires shoulder the burden that humanity can’t.” I rattle off quickly. Have I been that transparent? Edward is going to kill me—literally. He doesn’t seem like the type to renege on death threats.

“Bella, I’m not going to get angry at you for the way you feel, let alone report you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I can’t take the chance that this is a trap.

There are stories of Prospectives’ families being hurt when they tried to escape as well as stories of Prospectives committing suicide before the games. If I were to be reported for treason, what if they tried to get to Ben or, even worse, Jacob? Also, I’m sure Edward would make my own death long and unpleasant.

She gives a frustrated sigh, but then smiles warmly. As she shakes her head her pearl earrings jangle. “If I didn’t know that you are going to trust me eventually, I’d imagine this conversation would be much more frustrating.”

I shrug. Even if she’s right about me trusting her, which seems very unlikely, she also could just be saying this to get a confession. I try to keep my eyes wide and innocent. “Sorry, I don’t quite know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, Bella, what has been done to you?” She reaches out a hand, and suddenly her eyes seem so old.

I have to change the topic. “What are you thinking of for the concept?”

For the opening parade every district usually dresses in a costume relating to the industry that their district comes from. For us in District 2, it meant some skimpy parody of a Peacekeepers uniform. A couple of years ago there had been an experimental stylist who dressed the Prospectives in yellow unitards and said they were the color of justice. That didn’t go over well. I hope Esme has something better planned for me.

Her sense of fashion isn’t deplorable like the prep team’s, but it looks like something from the history books of the time before. I hope she puts me in something a little less girlish. I’m going to be entering an arena to fight for my life, not attending a party.

“I have an idea for what to wear, but you’ll have to tell me if you like it.” She smiles, leaning forward. “District 2 produces peacekeepers—protectors of the peace. Well I wondered, what if we connect your outfit to a fairy tale?”

I must look confused because she backtracks.

“You know how you volunteered for that little girl? Many people were impressed by that.” She looks down at the centerpiece thoughtfully. “Myself included. They—we saw you as a hero, brave and self-sacrificing.”

“I’m not a hero.” I can never be a hero, not after what I did to my brother, not even if I do save the world. Edward made that painfully clear. I may be able to be good, but I will never be pure again. The world doesn’t work like that; people don’t forget the bad stuff you do just because you do something good, and even if they do, you don’t.

Esme shoots me a look both kind and admonishing, and I quiet because I know that look; my mother used to give it to me.  “You were like something out of a fairy tale up on that stage, like a knight going out on a quest to save a maiden. So why not make you a knight?”

“But aren’t knights supposed to be boys?” This is not my real objection. My real objection is that I am not a knight, not a good guy. I’m pretty sure that to most everyone in my life, I’m the villain.

She gives a small, bitter laugh. “A hundred thirty years go by, I lose my husband and I still haven’t escaped sexism.”

“What?”

“You’ll look perfect in this costume, Bella. Just trust me.”

And the odd thing is, I do.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I will not look like a fool, that’s good. “What’s Jasper wearing?”

Usually partners coordinate, but he’s not here, so I’m not sure he’ll be getting the same costume.

She frowns. “I can see that he’s decided not to coordinate with you.” She looks over at me hesitantly, deciding whether or not to mention something. “He doesn’t see you as someone to reckoned with . . . at least not yet.”

I grit my teeth. Hale thought he was better than me with his fancy training and brave façade, but he didn’t know the truth; everything he had gotten: all of his bravado, his house, his life—it was stolen from me.

“I want a big sword,” I say.

Esme grins. “I knew you would agree, Bella.”

Jasper Hale had better watch out, because in the arena I’m going to take back what he stole.

Chapter Nine Glossary

Not a lot visually here, but here are some songs that I think fit this chapter well:

Chapter Nine w/ Commentary

[9]

“Are you mated?”

“What?” I’m assuming he doesn’t mean mated as in check-mated, but we didn’t study vampire courtship rituals in school thoroughly, as most, if not all, Vampires were mated already.

The little I do know is that every vampire has a mate, and who their mate is isn’t a choice. I can remember the passage in the textbook because all the girls spent weeks giggling over it.

“Another example of the inherent superiority of the vampire race is their tendency to take mates. A vampire bond grows slowly, but once acknowledged is irrefutable, passionate and eternal. There is no infidelity.”

(I ❤ the textbook that is the ultimate 3rd person narration tool. It’s kind of a cop-out, but whatever.)

The real subject of gossip were the rumors of humans disappearing, being stolen away and changed by mateless vampires. (This would be an interesting story, wouldn’t it.) But they were just stories. Yet . . . I wonder if this is this his way of flirting with me?

Instantly, I dismiss the idea. I’m a human with a crooked nose, frizzy, brown hair and eyes the color of shit. He’s an immortal god-monster.

“Bonded, engaged, married, betrothed, hitched . . . in love?” He rattles through the list cleanly, until he gets to the last phrase which he spits out with disgust.

“Bonded?” Calling it that makes it sound like construction work..

His eyes don’t narrow and his expression is as nonchalant as ever, but his pupils dialaite. “Stop blushing.”

What kind of person reprimands someone for a reaction they can’t control?

I glance down at the spoon and see my distorted reflection, complete with ruddy cheeks. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“You don’t?” He looks at me carefully, and I know it’s a warning even though he doesn’t look angry.

“No.” It comes out timid, but it comes out.

“Well, then.” He leans back in the chair.. “You’re dismissed.”

“What?”

“You’re dismissed. You can go.” With an economical grace, he holds his hands above his head and claps once. Behind me, the doors open.

I reach for the tablet, but he doesn’t make any move to give it to me. (Bella really wants her I-pad2) “Listen, I’m sorry. It’s not my fault I blush, I just don’t feel comfortab—”

His face is as still as water at daybreak. “I said you were dismissed, Isabella. Was I not clear?”

“I don’t understand. You said you needed me to fill out my information on that thing, but you’re not giving it to me?” I point at it, as if he had forgotten and not taken it from the table on purpose.

“Why would I give you the tablet, Isabella? Why should I care what you can and cannot do, what survival skills you may or may not have? Why should I help a girl who doesn’t have the mental facility to answer a single question?”

Enough. All my fear crystallizes into one single long frustrated gasp. “Why should you help me? Try, ‘why should I trust you?’ If I was with someone, why would I ever tell you? So you could torment them if I displeased you or said something wrong?”

“You will trust me because you have no choice. You will trust me because if you don’t you will die.”

Outwardly, he gives no sign that he’s furious; his tone is droll as if I’ve just suggested something so ridiculous he won’t even indulge me by responding emotionally, but his eyes are scraping across my every imperfection. It’s clear from his sneer that he’s finding me wanting, but for being disgusted with me he looks a surprisingly long time.

“You know what?” I ask.

His eyes practically glow, two coals heated up from darkness by annoyance, but I don’t care. If I’m going to piss him off, I’m going to do it right.

“Maybe I want to die. Maybe that’d be better than being a murderer.” I stand up from the chair, but my hand still grips it hard, tethering me, keeping me from falling down.

“You want to die?” he asks softly. There’s something burnt about his smell, caramelized and cold; sweet, but metallic and off.

I take a step backwards. “There are worse things.” The little girl with blood for eyes, flashes before me, the girl from my nightmares.

I shake my head. “Anyway, I can’t trust you. I can’t trust anybody. What’s to stop you from reporting me or even just getting bored, like Tanya.” My own honesty shocks me. I hadn’t meant to be so candid.

“I am nothing like that woman,” he says.

“Prove it.”

“I forget sometimes. We have so many plans for you, yet you—you don’t know anything. You can’t know anything. But—” His face twists into a grimace. “I suppose it may be necessary to enlighten you somewhat.”

And then he’s gone, blurring around the room.

He practically teleports, all at once at the window, the floor, and the vid-screen. Finally, he stops by the table and opens his hand. At least twenty little black spheres tumble onto the white tablecloth, bouncing and clattering against the dirty dishes and onto the floor.

I try to peer around him to see what he gathered from every nook and cranny, but Edward merely side-steps me. “Look,” he says steady and low. I can feel the vibrations from his voice in soles of my feet.

Just as I’m about to ask at what, because the only thing I can see right now is the square, strong line of his jaw, he holds something up. It’s the size of a pebble, but black and very plastic. He squeezes it with incredible gentleness. I had thought the textbooks exaggerated the physical godliness of vampires, but Edward doesn’t just have super-human strength, but superhuman control of that strength. Perhaps the stories in the textbook of vampires performing thought-impossible surgeries on humans were true.

“Bonded?” A girls voice asks, tinny and gritty, filtered through a tiny speaker on the plastic pebble.

“Stop blushing.” A man’s voice deep and commanding replies. Edward.

Whiny and petulant. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

It’s me. A recording.

“Bugs,” I whisper, as if they can hear me.

He tosses away the sphere. “They’re disengaged, but only for a moment. I will signal their respawning in the walls by commenting on your token.” A long elegant finger gestures to the silver bull pin on my chest. “Until then we can talk freely.”

“You say that as if they’re are alive.”

He smirks. “They are.” He brings his hands upwards, gesturing to the Zepplin as a whole. “This is. A marvel of vampire bio-engineering, half alive, half not. Much like me.” (Vampire technology will play large role in the story.)

“Bio-engi—”

“The explanation itself would take an hour, and for you to understand it, seven years schooling more.”

I pivot slowly, looking at the walls, at the floor. They’re still and give no hint that they’re alive. I don’t know what I expected; I guess thought if it was alive the walls to go up and down like the belly of a large sleeping animal.

“Focus.” Edward reprimands sharply. “There are some key misunderstandings I’m going to clear up for you. First of all, I wasn’t assigned to be your mentor. I chose you.”

“That’s not possible. It’s based on what district you come from. Anyway, how would you even know it was going to be me?”

“Do you take pleasure in interrupting me?”

His eyes are wide and guileless, but there is a sharpness to his smile that makes me grit my teeth. I had my share of controlling teachers in training school, but Edward is on a whole other level.

“I enjoy an unprecedented level of privilege in the Capitol due to some mistakes(HAHA! that’s what he’s calling it now-a-days?!) I made when I was younger, mistakes I am now trying to rectify. Because of my inability to read your mind, among other factors, you have been pre-selected as the Prospective most likely to successfully aid my associates and I with our cause.”

So I’m right, he can’t read my mind, but what other factors could there be? Please let him not know what I did to my brother. Please let him not have chosen me because he thinks I’ll be a good killer.

He must see the questions teeming in my eyes, because he elaborates. “I cannot tell you exactly what our cause is, let alone how we plan on achieving it. All I can tell you is that it is diametrically opposed to the current Volterran government.”

“That’s treason.” I breathe out. “I could report you.” I am in shock. My own mother was killed for saying these things, and here I am, playing with fire—no—dancing in the inferno with the devil himself.

“You won’t,” he says with all the lightness of someone making small-talk.

He’s right, but there’s no way he could know that without reading my mind, which he can’t. But him plotting treason with me, after knowing me less than forty-eight hours? Well, it’s stupid. And I don’t entrust my life to stupid people.

“You’re putting a lot of trust in someone whose thoughts you can’t read.” I cross my arms.

He gives a short laugh and moves closer to me. “Just because I don’t know your thoughts doesn’t mean I don’t know you.” Without looking, he reaches backwards and plucks the tablet from the table.

“Those questions? This?” He waves the tablet front of my face before setting it down again. “A prop, a formality to appease the Volturi. I know everything about you already. Isabella Swan, daughter of Charlie Swan and Renee Swan, née Dwyer. Good with knives and poisons. Can’t shoot a bow to save her life. Can run fast but not fast enough. Excellent swimmer. Good with knots and boats. Above average sense of direction. Greatest weakness: stealth. Lacking grace of any kind.”

I re-cross my arms—tighter. “Those are just facts anyone could find out from my school record.”(Sometimes writing a scene is like directing it on stage you don’t want the actors to repeat actions, and you don’t want actions to be repeats. My favorite kind of scenes to write are ones where the character has business to keep their hands busy, which is why this scene was so hard to write– they weren’t really doing anything.)

“Rich girl. Grew up with dad in high places. Mom got scared of seeing her baby playing with knives, so she acted out.” His adoption of the District 2 accent—bright vowels mutated by thick consonants—makes me cringe.

He’s closer still now. I can feel his cool breath on my skin. “Mom got caught. Killed. Dad went crazy. You, well, you went a little crazy too, Isabella. Didn’t you?”

I back up, tripping over the chair and landing on it. “Shut up.”

But he doesn’t let up, his eyes capturing mine and not letting me go. “Hurt your brother. Not just hurt, damaged. Felt so bad about it, you thought you’d act out, too.”

“I said shut up,” I stammer. I turn and scramble toward the door, but I only come crashing into his chest. Everywhere I go, there is Edward.

He ignores me, stepping forward, and I’m forced to move further backward or else end up in his arms. “But then you met a friend, good old Jacob Black: sunny, solid, happy.” He looks at me meaningfully. “Ignorant of the real struggles and sins of this world, of our world. Ignorant of who you really are.”

“Jacob knows me.”

Edward backs up slightly, satisfied that I won’t try and escape, making a low humming in his throat, non-committal. “You know what he thought as you volunteered for his sister?”

“No, because I’m not some kind of mind rapist.” I sneer. What right has Edward to know these things, let alone taunt me with them?

Edward contorts his face into an innocent expression of worry, which reminds me so much of Jacob it makes my heart ache. “I will never be as pure as Bella Swan.” It’s such an accurate imitation that I almost believe it’s not satirical. (Yeah E doesn’t like Jacob..)

I’m not sure if I want to cry in his arms or kill him. Instead I ask, “Why are you doing this?”

He bends down to whisper in my ear. Look me in the eye, I want to scream. Look me in the eye as you say these things about me. These true things.

“Why?” He hisses, repeating my question. “You’ve spent so long thinking you can’t ever make up for what you’ve done, haven’t you, Isabella? You’re sure that you will die with your sins, or worse, live with them forever, damned to eternal perdition.”

I turn my head to get a glimpse of him, but he is gone, a disembodied voice. It’s as if he’s coming from inside my own head.

He croons in my right ear. “You don’t have to live with that, Isabella. You can change the world.”

In my left. “We can change the world.”

“I can’t do anything like that,” I whisper, choked. I had thought about trying to save the children, but I hadn’t thought about the repercussions. My thoughts were all scrappy and torn, so torn that I didn’t even think they could be pieces of a bigger picture. “You said yourself I’m not pure.”

His harsh laugh rings out so discordantly that I flinch. It sounds like vampire music. “You think it’s the pure that change the world? If that were the case you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation. The Volturi never would have taken power. You’d be in a quaint university, lounging in bed with a boyfriend, fretting about the economy and whether your philosophy degree would result in you being poor or absolutely destitute.” (Lol, replace philosophy with music and you have my life.)

“University? Philosophy?” The words sounding ancient and mystical.

He sighs, but I can’t see where from. Analytically, it’s most likely that he’s moving so quickly I can’t see him, but understanding the effect doesn’t make it less powerful.

“What power do I have?” Maybe it’s because I can’t see him, but I feel somehow freed by his odd omnipresence. “God, I can’t even protect people from myself, how can I save the world?”

In the encroaching darkness, the sun has long since given way to the skeletal crescent-moon, and through the skin of the Zepplin I can just barely see the stars. The strange shadow-light silhouettes Edward.

“It’s because you’ve hurt people that you are the one to do it,” he says.

“So only evil people can have power? That’s why you want me? Because I’m a monster, like you?”

He gives a bark of a laugh, dark as a starless sky. “You aren’t a monster.”

“Don’t laugh at me.” I want it to come out sharp and imposing, but it comes out more of rasp.

My attempts to dislodge his mirth fail. His eyes still dance. “You don’t even have a conception of the word.”

“I blinded my own brother,” I murmur into my folded hands. The weight of the words settle onto me. I’ve never said it like that before. I’ve never admitted it aloud. I didn’t think it would feel good, but I thought there would be a release.

There isn’t.

His posture softens slightly, and when he speaks it’s almost tender. “You aren’t pure, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t good. The pure are the ones who think themselves heroes. The good are the ones who actually are. I believe in you because of your mistakes; I believe in you because only people who understand the perils of darkness can have a prayer of defeating it.”

“Believe in me to do what? Are you talking about— ” I don’t even know how to express the sentiment.

“I am not talking about anything until you are an official part of our organization, which means being changed. Which means winning the games.” He glides from the table to the edge of the room. With pensive slowness he trails his fingertips over the walls of the Zepplin, skating over it like a skipped rock. There is something about the way that he touches the wall, drawing connections from stars, composing constellations, that affects me. It’s as if he’s performing magic.

A puppeteer of the sky.

He turns around slowly, fingertips lingering. “So, what say you?”

Do I really have a choice?

He steps closer, but I don’t step back. I can feel every molecule between us. I want to keep the feeling, as painfully present (I do over-use this word a little, ah well.) as it makes me feel.

“Train me, then.” This times the words come out as bold as I feel, but my voice doesn’t sound like my own.

He looks me over for a moment—every part of me. I can’t help the blush that flows from my cheeks. There is no scorn in his expression this time. Some part of me wishes desperately that he’s liking what he sees.

He brings one hand to touch my cheek, and I know I should move away, but I can’t. “Perhaps I will.”

He sees the forest fire of blush spreading across my skin and withdraws. “I’m almost positive that the very sincere promise of atonement will allow you to trust me, even when it seems I’ve led you false. But only almost.”

“I thought you know everything about me? What’s keeping you from making your decision?” It’s not until I notice that somehow he seems taller, that I realize I’m hunched and cowering before him. Funny, he could have threatened to break my neck. He could have actually broken my neck, and I would have screamed, but I wouldn’t have whimpered. His emotional assault is more effective than any physical one.

He moves back in front of me, pulling up a chair so that we are eye level. The hordes of dead bugs are strewn out between us like toppled chess pieces. “I know everything you’ve done, and I can make logical conjectures from that about how you feel, but there’s one thing I don’t yet know.” He takes one of the spheres between his fingers and crushes it like a nut. “Are you in love with Jacob Black?”

I turn from him, so that I can only see him through the curtain of my hair. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

“If you want me to insure your survival in the arena, you do.”

“Jealous?” I snort.

“I could care less about your feelings towards me. But I need to know if at the end of the day you’re greatest priority is changing the world, making up for your mistakes and allowing others never to be forced to make the same ones, or about returning home safe to your sweetheart.”

My lips part slightly at the shock of it all.

His voice is so soft so sure, and his gaze stirs something hungry in me. I am about to say, yes, anything. I would do anything, but then, he smirks.

I hate that smirk. Like I’m something to be triumphed over. Like he’s better than me.

“I love Jacob Black.” I huff.

The smirk widens.

I bite my lip in frustration. “Why are you so happy?”

“Prepositions, Isabella, make all the difference.”

“I don’t follow.”

He rolls his eyes.

“What? I studied Kali knife fighting and field craft, not sentence structure.” I retort. (This is the response I give to my Beta’s, they find it just as amusing as Edward seems to.)

He gives me a condescending smile. “You love Jacob Black, but you are not in love with him.” He draws away, and I can’t help but lean forward by an inch, some part of me drawn to the echoes of him. God, it’s pathetic, no worse—dangerous. Yes, he may be against the Volterran government, but the enemy of your enemy is not always your friend, and even if they are friendship is a dangerous game if you’re friend is ambitious. And Edward clearly has plans.

“I didn’t say that I wasn’t.” I say gruffly, leaning backwards. The chair creaks, giving my façade of bravery away.

He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me, Isabella. Did you ever yearn for him to kiss you? Were there moments of silence when you tilted your head up so prettily and begged with your eyes for his lips to meet yours?”

“I—”

“No?” He smiles but it is so sharp. “Then were your fantasies of a rougher nature?” He taps a finger against his chin almost casually, like a professor puzzling over how to explain a particularly complicated concept, but his eyes darken in a way that is not at all clinical.

His eyes stalk even my most microscopic of movements. “I’d imagine you’d hardly be content with sweet nothings.”

I push up from the chair. “I don’t want to talk about this,” I say stiffly, taking a step backwards.

He doesn’t stand up but sits perfectly still. “Would you want him to pin you down onto the soft, glassy beach as you tried to scratch and claw him? Maybe, you fantasized of him biting you and marking you as his, until the only word you could remember was his name? Until you writhed like a little fish gasping for air, gasping for life, grasping for him.” Each word falls over and into the other, the cadence of his voice musical and feral at the same time.

The thought of Jacob ever doing anything like that (Bella is a little repressed, she can’t even say the word sexual. In some ways she’s very much a child. But I think it also signifies the importance of how she feels to Edward, the intensity of her own feelings makes her recalcitrant to acknowledge it.) would make me laugh and squirm were it not for the fact I can’t help but picture Edward doing these things to me. And that doesn’t make me laugh at all. “No, I don’t think of Jacob t-that way.”

He doesn’t have the same problem of mixing darkness with amusement. “Of course you don’t.”

“I don’t think about anyone that way.” I clarify.

But this is a lie; I have now. I’ve imagined Edward pinning my hands against the table, twisting my body towards him and crashing his lips against mine.

He hums low in his throat. “Are you sure?”

I gulp. “P-positive.”

He smiles, and this time it is almost polite. “I wouldn’t expect an innocent like you to think those things.”

I blush, but say, “Edward, if you know anything about me, you know I’m not innocent.” All too late, I realize I’ve fallen into a trap.

“So then you do have such dreams?”

“No, I—”

“I suggest you not argue the point further unless you want a demonstration of the full extent of your naïveté.”

His face has fallen back into that eerie stillness, but now that I know what lies beneath it, I can’t help but be more wary.

I will never take his smile at face value again.

He is oblivious to my revelation, because he continues on. “I’d also strongly advise that you try to contain that blush of yours.”

I bring my hands to my neck as if this will protect me. “Blood lust?”

“Something like that,” he says colorlessly, but his eyes don’t leave the spot on my neck that my hand covers.

“I thought the chemicals in blood prevented that?”

He stands up, tucking his chair in neatly to the table. “Oh, they do. I imagine if I was on my normal diet of animal blood there would have been an incident long ago. Probably the first moment I was close to you in the atrium of your little Blood Temple.”

“Blood Bank.” I correct instinctively, suppressing a shiver at the image of him cracking my neck. I’ll have to get used to the idea of lethal violence quickly, because I’ll be facing the reality of it soon enough.

“A bank is where you make deposits you can get back; a temple is where you make sacrifices.” His eyes flit across my skin in a way that makes me feel as if I am the sacrifice.

The shiver I tried to fight, wins, blighting my body with goosebumps. Hastily, I change the subject. “Fine, so I’m not in love with Jacob. But you don’t know everything about me.” I tilt my chin upwards.

“Don’t I?” he asks. For the first time he looks surprised. When his eyes widen, when really open up, you can see every shade of red in them. It’s beautiful, like the way the sea-glass darkens when they’re wet.

But he’s a monster. I have to remember that. He was talking about killing me as being an incident. And it doesn’t matter that he was nice before when he untied my shoes or told me I didn’t have to worry about what I said.

“I’m going to save them,” I look at the now star-painted walls. I can do this.

Edward tilts his head again, but this time it throws his whole face into shadow. “Who?” he asks, so low it vibrates my skin a little.

“The kids.” With the bugs off for the first time, I can be completely candid. “I’m not going to kill them. I’m going to protect them.”

Something snaps. I look down and see his hand clasped around the jagged edge of a newly broken fork. He sees that I see it and quickly spirits it away.

I decide that if I’m going to continue ruining his plans than I should be grateful that it’s a piece of silverware broken and not my neck.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache. “You could only save one of them. It would be emotional and physical torture to try and beat the game, and in the end you would lose.”

“And it’s not torture already? I’m being forced to fight for my life, to kill people, for a prize I don’t even want?”

He grimaces. “There is no one less in need of instruction on the evils of the Morphing Games than I, Isabella, but you’re not going to kill yourself to save anyone.”

“I didn’t say that.” Framed as suicide—which in truth it is—I feel much less sure of my plan.

“The implication was perfectly clear.” He moves closer to me. “Put such thoughts out of your mind.”

As he nears, my stomach tightens. Too close. He’s too close.

“I have to do it,” I mumble, hoping that he won’t hear me.

His hand stills in his hair and he turns to face me. “You’re serious, aren’t you,” he says incredulously.

Before I can confirm this, he moves toward me. “I won’t let you.” Roughly he grabs my wrists and I try to tug away from him, but his grip is unshakable. “If I can convince you of anything let it be this: you will not die in the games.”

His hands are cold, but when they touch me I feel so warm, no hot. It’s like there’s chemical reactions every place our skin meets.

I want. I need—

He turns me slowly, his hands wrapping around my abdomen, pushing me into him. I was wrong he doesn’t smell sweet or sour. He smells like a nothing I can name.

Then—oh god—one of his hands draws back the curtain of my hair twisting it, capturing it. With the other, he trails a gentle path down my neck with his fingernail tracing a vein.

“Isabella.” He cajoles in a falsetto that lends an illusion of vulnerability. “Promise me you’ll do as I say. Forget about this nonsense.”

“I, no—”

The nail digs in. “What was that?”

I try to clench my fists, but my nerves are all cross-wired.

“Isabella.” He sing-songs over my skin, his lips dancing against the small invisible hairs on my neck. “Answer me.”

Then, he presses a single kiss to my neck.

It undoes me.

“Yes,” I whisper.

Instantly, assured of my compliance, he lets go. I fall to my knees, but he doesn’t offer me a hand up, just surveys me dispassionately.

“What the hell?” I ask when I finally get my voice back.

He looks at me silent, expressionless, but his eyes are just a bit wider. He’s also not acknowledging my swearing at him..

I bring my hands up to my neck. “Seriously? What was that?”

“I play to win; you will, too.”

I snort, hiding in the hole of sarcasm. “Not if you kill me first.”

His gaze roots me out.

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”

I guess I really have to play his game. I’m not going to kill the children, but he has to believe I will. Who knows what he’ll do if it seems like I’m not going along with his plans.

Still, I want to leave. So I do.

His hands remain at the table, his eyes don’t even meet mine, but the masculine weight of his voice stops me. “You do not leave until I dismiss you.”

I sigh. Fine. I can do rules. I had a training professor, Banner, who was this strict. Although he wasn’t half as beautiful—not even a quarter, really. I bend my knees to sit back down.

“The bugs are set to be fully functional in less than a minute. Once they are, you are never to mention any of this again. If you do I will claim that you are trying to weasel your way out of the competition by plotting treason. In the trial against you, I will argue passionately for your immediate death.”

My breath catches in my throat. How is it that I haven’t even entered the arena and I already feel like I’m fighting for my life?

“And, Isabella, make no mistake, I will win.”

And I had threatened him before about telling someone. He was right, I was naïve, no, even worse — I was foolish to think that I could ever have power in this game we were playing, ever be a step ahead of him. I don’t know why, but I almost feel choked with bitter tears at the thought of it.

I had actually thought he was stupid for trusting me, when the truth was there was never any way he could have been hurt by me. He doesn’t care about me. I’m just a tool. It was amazing how naïve I could be, even after years of training in manipulation. The only explanation was he had dazzled me somehow.

“Secondly—” he holds up two fingers, numbering his list “—my first goal is your survival. As I am better equipped to coach and teach you than anyone else, and you will follow my instructions explicitly. This starts with not complaining about whatever choices the stylist makes when you meet with her tomorrow.”

For the first time I see what appears a genuine smile over Edward’s face. It’s almost as disconcerting as his glare; it looks so out of place. “Esme may seem demure, but she is a better stylist than anyone, perhaps even better at her job than I am at mine.”

Fashion is perhaps my weakest area after stealth, but I don’t let Edward know this, partly because I’m sure he already does, and partly for a reason I don’t quite understand, I don’t want him to know how unstable I am in heels. “Fine.”

A thought occurs to me as I stare at the bugs, and then at the walls. Nothing has appeared to have grown or changed, but then again I hadn’t noticed the bugs in the first place. “Won’t this thing—”

“The Cloud Gate.” He corrects.

“Won’t it monitor that you killed the bugs; won’t it sense a gap in its records?”

He nods. “It will notice the gap, but with some rewiring and reconditioning of it’s nervous system I should be able to convince it that that it had an immune malfunction. Namely that its built in security systems accidentally pegged parts of its own body, if you will, as hostile.”

“Oh,” I say to the floor, not looking at him, not really comprehending, but tired of looking a feeling like an off balance idiot.

If it wasn’t totally crazy I would almost say that Edward’s expression softens a little, “This is a lot for you to take in, I understand, but—” In an instant, whatever gentleness there was in his expression disappears.

“But what?” I ask, baffled.

“But that’s a very charming pin you have there.” He gestures to the pin in my chest, and I can’t help but sigh.

That’s our agreed upon cue. The bugs are functional again. Hello, anonymous audience. I missed you.

I would be getting no more answers from Edward tonight. In fact, it was possible that he wouldn’t talk to me candidly again until the games were over. I realize the sinking feeling in my gut isn’t because I won’t be getting answers, but because some part of me liked the honesty of Edward, no matter how brutal it was. True honesty was something I hadn’t had a taste of in almost five years. I hadn’t realized how freeing it could be. It made my blood electric . . . or maybe that was something else?

No, it had to be the candidness.

“Thanks.” I fingered the two bulls horns, overlaid upon each other. “Emily, Jacob’s sister, gave it to me.”

He gives an almost genial smile. So he can be nice. “That was a very kind thing you did, volunteering for her, but I expect you wanted some of the glory, too.”

I look at him in confusion. “What?”

I am beginning to see hidden shadows in his smile, and I can’t help be almost be in equal parts fascinated and disturbed. “Stirb und werde.” (this is German for Die and become from Goethe.)

I don’t know what he just said— but I can guess. We had to do a unit on codes; was it possible that this was just a formulated code? If S=1— no. No, the answer was simpler somehow. Maybe the words were modifications of English sounds.

Does this hold the answer to the mysterious “cause”?

Unfortunately, the best I can come up with is, “Wearing the stirrup?” (Oh lol Bella and your funnyz tranzlations.)

I didn’t think it was possible to surprise Edward more than a quirked eyebrow, but he bursts into laughter. Something catches in me, like my heart is velcro and his laugh has a thousand little hooks to latch right onto it.

I glare. Partially because I am angry at him for making fun of me, partially because I’m angry at myself for smiling at his laugh.

His chuckles soothe and his grin compresses to a smile. “You know what it means; you’ve seen it plastered across every surface of District 2.”

“Your vitality is your greatest asset?”

The memory of the smile lingers on his lower lip, even as his upper lip falls. “Try a bit more topical to our current situation.”

Not for the first time, I think it is convenient Edward cannot read my mind, because I think loudly: I have the most treasonous, arrogant, asshole of a mentor on the history of the planet. Childish, I know, but I can’t help but regress under the pressure.

“I give up,” I say instead.

The smile is gone now entirely, leaving only boredom and disappointment. Except his eyes, his eyes still watch me with unnerving patience. “It’s late and we’ve had a long conversation, but if this is the kind of effort you’re going to put into training, then Tanya was right, I do have my work cut out for me.”

“Die and become.” I blurt out. “The slogan for the Morphing Games.” The words and syllable numbers map out better than anything else I can think of.

“And what does this mean?” he asks, reminding me of the times a teacher would try to have us figure out new weapon hold on our own.

I can’t help but roll my eyes. This is what we learn in first-year: the symbolism, the history. Why is Edward making me repeat it now when I could be in a nice comfortable bed, forgetting all about causes and atonement, running back to my old friend denial. “Only through the power of death, can we be transformed into a vampire, only through morphing, metamorphosis, can we grow.”

“A caterpillar dies to become a butterfly, a snake sheds its skin. Growth is loss at its heart, but humans only die once.”

On the surface I could take it to be a comment for me to stay alive, but I know there’s a deeper meaning here. “But vampires never die, never change,” I say slowly.

For the second time, Edward smiles at me. It’s utterly devastating and he knows it. I’ll have to keep myself aware of the fact that it seems Edward will use every weapon in his arsenal to bend me to his “cause.” Certainly, his beauty is one of them.

“Anything can change with enough pressure and force, even vampires. Throw lame old graphite into the fiery furnace of the deep, dark mantle of the earth and what do you get—” (Hunger Games reference ahoy!!!)

His face is illuminated by starlight as he speaks. I hadn’t realized it until now, now the outside wall of his suite is completely coated with constellations. They cast thousands of glimmering dots over Edward’s face. He’s sparkling like . . .

“Diamonds,” I say.(In an interesting play Edward sparkles but in the night-time. hmm.)

He gives me a pensive look. “I know you’re tired, Isabella, but if you could stay for just one moment more.”

I’m about to grumble and ask why. I am tired of riddles and cross-examinations. I just want to sleep. Forever maybe. Just as I open my mouth to say so, I notice something: a burst of red at my feet.

I look down.

“There it is,” he says, as if he had been holding his breath, waiting for something, but of course, he hadn’t. As a vampire he has no reason to breathe.

“What is it?” I look at the dot. It’s growing bigger and bigger.

“Just watch,” he says, reverently.(I like that this is a continuation of the Edward as puppeteer of the stars metaphor. The man playing God images is one of my favorites. I find it very sexy.)

As the light grows it fractures, and while most of the off-shoots are red some are white. It divides and divides until the whole floor is covered with patterns of light, patterns that look almost like a city.

Then, the lights burst into shapes below us, towers, spires and long illuminated neon ropes of streets looping between and around every surface, with cars zipping through them at unimaginable speeds. Soon the shapes and shadows grow from the floor onto the walls.

It isn’t like a city— it is one, and we are plummeting right into it.

“Welcome to Volterra, Isabella.”

(DUM DUM DUM!)

Chapter 9

[9]

“Are you mated?”

“What?” I’m assuming he doesn’t mean mated as in check-mated, but we didn’t study vampire courtship rituals in school thoroughly, as most, if not all, Vampires were mated already.

The little I do know is that every vampire has a mate, and who their mate is isn’t a choice. I can remember the passage in the textbook because all the girls spent weeks giggling over it.

“Another example of the inherent superiority of the vampire race is their tendency to take mates. A vampire bond grows slowly, but once acknowledged is irrefutable, passionate and eternal. There is no infidelity.”

The real subject of gossip were the rumors of humans disappearing, being stolen away and changed by mateless vampires. But they were just stories. Yet . . . I wonder if this is this his way of flirting with me?

Instantly, I dismiss the idea. I’m a human with a crooked nose, frizzy, brown hair and eyes the color of shit. He’s an immortal god-monster.

“Bonded, engaged, married, betrothed, hitched . . . in love?” He rattles through the list cleanly, until he gets to the last phrase which he spits out with disgust.

“Bonded?” Calling it that makes it sound like construction work..

His eyes don’t narrow and his expression is as nonchalant as ever, but his pupils dialaite. “Stop blushing.”

What kind of person reprimands someone for a reaction they can’t control?

I glance down at the spoon and see my distorted reflection, complete with ruddy cheeks. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“You don’t?” He looks at me carefully, and I know it’s a warning even though he doesn’t look angry.

“No.” It comes out timid, but it comes out.

“Well, then.” He leans back in the chair.. “You’re dismissed.”

“What?”

“You’re dismissed. You can go.” With an economical grace, he holds his hands above his head and claps once. Behind me, the doors open.

I reach for the tablet, but he doesn’t make any move to give it to me. “Listen, I’m sorry. It’s not my fault I blush, I just don’t feel comfortab—”

His face is as still as water at daybreak. “I said you were dismissed, Isabella. Was I not clear?”

“I don’t understand. You said you needed me to fill out my information on that thing, but you’re not giving it to me?” I point at it, as if he had forgotten and not taken it from the table on purpose.

“Why would I give you the tablet, Isabella? Why should I care what you can and cannot do, what survival skills you may or may not have? Why should I help a girl who doesn’t have the mental facility to answer a single question?”

Enough. All my fear crystallizes into one single long frustrated gasp. “Why should you help me? Try, ‘why should I trust you?’ If I was with someone, why would I ever tell you? So you could torment them if I displeased you or said something wrong?”

“You will trust me because you have no choice. You will trust me because if you don’t you will die.”

Outwardly, he gives no sign that he’s furious; his tone is droll as if I’ve just suggested something so ridiculous he won’t even indulge me by responding emotionally, but his eyes are scraping across my every imperfection. It’s clear from his sneer that he’s finding me wanting, but for being disgusted with me he looks a surprisingly long time.

“You know what?” I ask.

His eyes practically glow, two coals heated up from darkness by annoyance, but I don’t care. If I’m going to piss him off, I’m going to do it right.

“Maybe I want to die. Maybe that’d be better than being a murderer.” I stand up from the chair, but my hand still grips it hard, tethering me, keeping me from falling down.

“You want to die?” he asks softly. There’s something burnt about his smell, caramelized and cold; sweet, but metallic and off.

I take a step backwards. “There are worse things.” The little girl with blood for eyes, flashes before me, the girl from my nightmares.

I shake my head. “Anyway, I can’t trust you. I can’t trust anybody. What’s to stop you from reporting me or even just getting bored, like Tanya.” My own honesty shocks me. I hadn’t meant to be so candid.

“I am nothing like that woman,” he says.

“Prove it.”

“I forget sometimes. We have so many plans for you, yet you—you don’t know anything. You can’t know anything. But—” His face twists into a grimace. “I suppose it may be necessary to enlighten you somewhat.”

And then he’s gone, blurring around the room.

He practically teleports, all at once at the window, the floor, and the vid-screen. Finally, he stops by the table and opens his hand. At least twenty little black spheres tumble onto the white tablecloth, bouncing and clattering against the dirty dishes and onto the floor.

I try to peer around him to see what he gathered from every nook and cranny, but Edward merely side-steps me. “Look,” he says steady and low. I can feel the vibrations from his voice in soles of my feet.

Just as I’m about to ask at what, because the only thing I can see right now is the square, strong line of his jaw, he holds something up. It’s the size of a pebble, but black and very plastic. He squeezes it with incredible gentleness. I had thought the textbooks exaggerated the physical godliness of vampires, but Edward does’nt just have super-human strength, but superhuman control of that strength. Perhaps the stories in the textbook of vampires performing thought-impossible surgeries on humans were true.

“Bonded?” A girls voice asks, tinny and gritty, filtered through a tiny speaker on the plastic pebble.

“Stop blushing.” A man’s voice deep and commanding replies. Edward.

Whiny and petulant. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

It’s me. A recording.

“Bugs,” I whisper, as if they can hear me.

He tosses away the sphere. “They’re disengaged, but only for a moment. I will signal their respawning in the walls by commenting on your token.” A long elegant finger gestures to the silver bull pin on my chest. “Until then we can talk freely.”

“You say that as if they’re are alive.”

He smirks. “They are.” He brings his hands upwards, gesturing to the Zepplin as a whole. “This is. A marvel of vampire bio-engineering, half alive, half not. Much like me.”

“Bio-engi—”

“The explanation itself would take an hour, and for you to understand it, seven years schooling more.”

I pivot slowly, looking at the walls, at the floor. They’re still and give no hint that they’re alive. I don’t know what I expected; I guess thought if it was alive the walls to go up and down like the belly of a large sleeping animal.

“Focus.” Edward reprimands sharply. “There are some key misunderstandings I’m going to clear up for you. First of all, I wasn’t assigned to be your mentor. I chose you.”

“That’s not possible. It’s based on what district you come from. Anyway, how would you even know it was going to be me?”

“Do you take pleasure in interrupting me?”

His eyes are wide and guileless, but there is a sharpness to his smile that makes me grit my teeth. I had my share of controlling teachers in training school, but Edward is on a whole other level.

“I enjoy an unprecedented level of privilege in the Capitol due to some mistakes I made when I was younger, mistakes I am now trying to rectify. Because of my inability to read your mind, among other factors, you have been pre-selected as the Prospective most likely to successfully aid my associates and I with our cause.”

So I’m right, he can’t read my mind, but what other factors could there be? Please let him not know what I did to my brother. Please let him not have chosen me because he thinks I’ll be a good killer.

He must see the questions teeming in my eyes, because he elaborates. “I cannot tell you exactly what our cause is, let alone how we plan on achieving it. All I can tell you is that it is diametrically opposed to the current Volterran government.”

“That’s treason.” I breathe out. “I could report you.” I am in shock. My own mother was killed for saying these things, and here I am, playing with fire—no—dancing in the inferno with the devil himself.

“You won’t,” he says with all the lightness of someone making small-talk.

He’s right, but there’s no way he could know that without reading my mind, which he can’t. But him plotting treason with me, after knowing me less than forty-eight hours? Well, it’s stupid. And I don’t entrust my life to stupid people.

“You’re putting a lot of trust in someone whose thoughts you can’t read.” I cross my arms.

He gives a short laugh and moves closer to me. “Just because I don’t know your thoughts doesn’t mean I don’t know you.” Without looking, he reaches backwards and plucks the tablet from the table.

“Those questions? This?” He waves the tablet front of my face before setting it down again. “A prop, a formality to appease the Volturi. I know everything about you already. Isabella Swan, daughter of Charlie Swan and Renee Swan, née Dwyer. Good with knives and poisons. Can’t shoot a bow to save her life. Can run fast but not fast enough. Excellent swimmer. Good with knots and boats. Above average sense of direction. Greatest weakness: stealth. Lacking grace of any kind.”

I re-cross my arms—tighter. “Those are just facts anyone could find out from my school record.”

“Rich girl. Grew up with dad in high places. Mom got scared of seeing her baby playing with knives, so she acted out.” His adoption of the District 2 accent—bright vowels mutated by thick consonants—makes me cringe.

He’s closer still now. I can feel his cool breath on my skin. “Mom got caught. Killed. Dad went crazy. You, well, you went a little crazy too, Isabella. Didn’t you?”

I back up, tripping over the chair and landing on it. “Shut up.”

But he doesn’t let up, his eyes capturing mine and not letting me go. “Hurt your brother. Not just hurt, damaged. Felt so bad about it, you thought you’d act out, too.”

“I said shut up,” I stammer. I turn and scramble toward the door, but I only come crashing into his chest. Everywhere I go, there is Edward.

He ignores me, stepping forward, and I’m forced to move further backward or else end up in his arms. “But then you met a friend, good old Jacob Black: sunny, solid, happy.” He looks at me meaningfully. “Ignorant of the real struggles and sins of this world, of our world. Ignorant of who you really are.”

“Jacob knows me.”

Edward backs up slightly, satisfied that I won’t try and escape, making a low humming in his throat, non-committal. “You know what he thought as you volunteered for his sister?”

“No, because I’m not some kind of mind rapist.” I sneer. What right has Edward to know these things, let alone taunt me with them?

Edward contorts his face into an innocent expression of worry, which reminds me so much of Jacob it makes my heart ache. “I will never be as pure as Bella Swan.” It’s such an accurate imitation that I almost believe it’s not satirical.

I’m not sure if I want to cry in his arms or kill him. Instead I ask, “Why are you doing this?”

He bends down to whisper in my ear. Look me in the eye, I want to scream. Look me in the eye as you say these things about me. These true things.

“Why?” He hisses, repeating my question. “You’ve spent so long thinking you can’t ever make up for what you’ve done, haven’t you, Isabella? You’re sure that you will die with your sins, or worse, live with them forever, Damned to eternal perdition.”

I turn my head to get a glimpse of him, but he is gone, a disembodied voice. It’s as if he’s coming from inside my own head.

He croons in my right ear. “You don’t have to live with that, Isabella. You can change the world.”

In my left. “We can change the world.”

“I can’t do anything like that,” I whisper, choked. I had thought about trying to save the children, but I hadn’t thought about the repercussions. My thoughts were all scrappy and torn, so torn that I didn’t even think they could be pieces of a bigger picture. “You said yourself I’m not pure.”

His harsh laugh rings out so discordantly that I flinch. It sounds like vampire music. “You think it’s the pure that change the world? If that were the case you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation. The Volturi never would have taken power. You’d be in a quaint university, lounging in bed with a boyfriend, fretting about the economy and whether your philosophy degree would result in you being poor or absolutely destitute.”

“University? Philosophy?” The words sounding ancient and mystical.

He sighs, but I can’t see where from. Analytically, it’s most likely that he’s moving so quickly I can’t see him, but understanding the effect doesn’t make it less powerful.

“What power do I have?” Maybe it’s because I can’t see him, but I feel somehow freed by his odd omnipresence. “God, I can’t even protect people from myself, how can I save the world?”

In the encroaching darkness, the sun has long since given way to the skeletal crescent-moon, and through the skin of the Zepplin I can just barely see the stars. The strange shadow-light silhouettes Edward.

“It’s because you’ve hurt people that you are the one to do it,” he says.

“So only evil people can have power? That’s why you want me? Because I’m a monster, like you?”

He gives a bark of a laugh, dark as a starless sky. “You aren’t a monster.”

“Don’t laugh at me.” I want it to come out sharp and imposing, but it comes out more of rasp.

My attempts to dislodge his mirth fail. His eyes still dance. “You don’t even have a conception of the word.”

“I blinded my own brother,” I murmur into my folded hands. The weight of the words settle onto me. I’ve never said it like that before. I’ve never admitted it aloud. I didn’t think it would feel good, but I thought there would be a release.

There isn’t.

His posture softens slightly, and when he speaks it’s almost tender. “You aren’t pure, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t good. The pure are the ones who think themselves heroes. The good are the ones who actually are. I believe in you because of your mistakes; I believe in you because only people who understand the perils of darkness can have a prayer of defeating it.”

“Believe in me to do what? Are you talking about— ” I don’t even know how to express the sentiment.

“I am not talking about anything until you are an official part of our organization, which means being changed. Which means winning the games.” He glides from the table to the edge of the room. With pensive slowness he trails his fingertips over the walls of the Zepplin, skating over it like a skipped rock. There is something about the way that he touches the wall, drawing connections from stars, composing constellations, that affects me. It’s as if he’s performing magic.

A puppeteer of the sky.

He turns around slowly, fingertips lingering. “So, what say you?”

Do I really have a choice?

He steps closer, but I don’t step back. I can feel every molecule between us. I want to keep the feeling, as painfully present as it makes me feel.

“Train me, then.” This times the words come out as bold as I feel, but my voice doesn’t sound like my own.

He looks me over for a moment—every part of me. I can’t help the blush that flows from my cheeks. There is no scorn in his expression this time. Some part of me wishes desperately that he’s liking what he sees.

He brings one hand to touch my cheek, and I know I should move away, but I can’t. “Perhaps I will.”

He sees the forest fire of blush spreading across my skin and withdraws. “I’m almost positive that the very sincere promise of atonement will allow you to trust me, even when it seems I’ve led you false. But only almost.”

“I thought you know everything about me? What’s keeping you from making your decision?” It’s not until I notice that somehow he seems taller, that I realize I’m hunched and cowering before him. Funny, he could have threatened to break my neck. He could have actually broken my neck, and I would have screamed, but I wouldn’t have whimpered. His emotional assault is more effective than any physical one.

He moves back in front of me, pulling up a chair so that we are eye level. The hordes of dead bugs are strewn out between us like toppled chess pieces. “I know everything you’ve done, and I can make logical conjectures from that about how you feel, but there’s one thing I don’t yet know.” He takes one of the spheres between his fingers and crushes it like a nut. “Are you in love with Jacob Black?”

I turn from him, so that I can only see him through the curtain of my hair. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

“If you want me to insure your survival in the arena, you do.”

“Jealous?” I snort.

“I could care less about your feelings towards me. But I need to know if at the end of the day you’re greatest priority is changing the world, making up for your mistakes and allowing others never to be forced to make the same ones, or about returning home safe to your sweetheart.”

My lips part slightly at the shock of it all.

His voice is so soft so sure, and his gaze stirs something hungry in me. I am about to say, yes, anything. I would do anything, but then, he smirks.

I hate that smirk. Like I’m something to be triumphed over. Like he’s better than me.

“I love Jacob Black.” I huff.

The smirk widens.

I bite my lip in frustration. “Why are you so happy?”

“Prepositions, Isabella, make all the difference.”

“I don’t follow.”

He rolls his eyes.

“What? I studied Kali knife fighting and field craft, not sentence structure.” I retort.

He gives me a condescending smile. “You love Jacob Black, but you are not in love with him.” He draws away, and I can’t help but lean forward by an inch, some part of me drawn to the echoes of him. God, it’s pathetic, no worse—dangerous. Yes, he may be against the Volterran government, but the enemy of your enemy is not always your friend, and even if they are friendship is a dangerous game if you’re friend is ambitious. And Edward clearly has plans.

“I didn’t say that I wasn’t.” I say gruffly, leaning backwards. The chair creaks, giving my façade of bravery away.

He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me, Isabella. Did you ever yearn for him to kiss you? Were there moments of silence when you tilted your head up so prettily and begged with your eyes for his lips to meet yours?”

“I—”

“No?” He smiles but it is so sharp. “Then were your fantasies of a rougher nature?” He taps a finger against his chin almost casually, like a professor puzzling over how to explain a particularly complicated concept, but his eyes darken in a way that is not at all clinical.

His eyes stalk even my most microscopic of movements. “I’d imagine you’d hardly be content with sweet nothings.”

I push up from the chair. “I don’t want to talk about this,” I say stiffly, taking a step backwards.

He doesn’t stand up but sits perfectly still. “Would you want him to pin you down onto the soft, glassy beach as you tried to scratch and claw him? Maybe, you fantasized of him biting you and marking you as his, until the only word you could remember was his name? Until you writhed like a little fish gasping for air, gasping for life, grasping for him.” Each word falls over and into the other, the cadence of his voice musical and feral at the same time.

The thought of Jacob ever doing anything like that would make me laugh and squirm were it not for the fact I can’t help but picture Edward doing these things to me. And that doesn’t make me laugh at all. “No, I don’t think of Jacob t-that way.”

He doesn’t have the same problem of mixing darkness with amusement. “Of course you don’t.”

“I don’t think about anyone that way.” I clarify.

But this is a lie; I have now. I’ve imagined Edward pinning my hands against the table, twisting my body towards him and crashing his lips against mine.

He hums low in his throat. “Are you sure?”

I gulp. “P-positive.”

He smiles, and this time it is almost polite. “I wouldn’t expect an innocent like you to think those things.”

I blush, but say, “Edward, if you know anything about me, you know I’m not innocent.” All too late, I realize I’ve fallen into a trap.

“So then you do have such dreams?”

“No, I—”

“I suggest you not argue the point further unless you want a demonstration of the full extent of your naïveté.”

His face has fallen back into that eerie stillness, but now that I know what lies beneath it, I can’t help but be more wary.

I will never take his smile at face value again.

He is oblivious to my revelation, because he continues on. “I’d also strongly advise that you try to contain that blush of yours.”

I bring my hands to my neck as if this will protect me. “Blood lust?”

“Something like that,” he says colorlessly, but his eyes don’t leave the spot on my neck that my hand covers.

“I thought the chemicals in blood prevented that?”

He stands up, tucking his chair in neatly to the table. “Oh, they do. I imagine if I was on my normal diet of animal blood there would have been an incident long ago. Probably the first moment I was close to you in the atrium of your little Blood Temple.”

“Blood Bank.” I correct instinctively, suppressing a shiver at the image of him cracking my neck. I’ll have to get used to the idea of lethal violence quickly, because I’ll be facing the reality of it soon enough.

“A bank is where you make deposits you can get back; a temple is where you make sacrifices.” His eyes flit across my skin in a way that makes me feel as if I am the sacrifice.

The shiver I tried to fight, wins, blighting my body with goosebumps. Hastily, I change the subject. “Fine, so I’m not in love with Jacob. But you don’t know everything about me.” I tilt my chin upwards.

“Don’t I?” he asks. Hor the first time he looks surprised. When his eyes widen, when really open up, you can see every shade of red in them. It’s beautiful, like the way the sea-glass darkens when they’re wet.

But he’s a monster. I have to remember that. He was talking about killing me as being an incident. And it doesn’t matter that he was nice before when he untied my shoes or told me I didn’t have to worry about what I said.

“I’m going to save them,” I look at the now star-painted walls. I can do this.

Edward tilts his head again, but this time it throws his whole face into shadow. “Who?” he asks, so low it vibrates my skin a little.

“The kids.” With the bugs off for the first time, I can be completely candid. “I’m not going to kill them. I’m going to protect them.”

Something snaps. I look down and see his hand clasped around the jagged edge of a newly broken fork. He sees that I see it and quickly spirits it away.

I decide that if I’m going to continue ruining his plans than I should be grateful that it’s a piece of silverware broken and not my neck.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache. “You could only save one of them. It would be emotional and physical torture to try and beat the game, and in the end you would lose.”

“And it’s not torture already? I’m being forced to fight for my life, to kill people, for a prize I don’t even want?”

He grimaces. “There is no one less in need of instruction on the evils of the Morphing Games than I, Isabella, but you’re not going to kill yourself to save anyone.”

“I didn’t say that.” Framed as suicide—which in truth it is—I feel much less sure of my plan.

“The implication was perfectly clear.” He moves closer to me. “Put such thoughts out of your mind.”

As he nears, my stomach tightens. Too close. He’s too close.

“I have to do it,” I mumble, hoping that he won’t hear me.

His hand stills in his hair and he turns to face me. “You’re serious, aren’t you,” he says incredulously.

Before I can confirm this, he moves toward me. “I won’t let you.” Roughly he grabs my wrists and I try to tug away from him, but his grip is unshakable. “If I can convince you of anything let it be this: you will not die in the games.”

His hands are cold, but when they touch me I feel so warm, no hot. It’s like there’s chemical reactions every place our skin meets.

I want. I need—

He turns me slowly, his hands wrapping around my abdomen, pushing me into him. I was wrong he doesn’t smell sweet or sour. He smells like a nothing I can name.

Then—oh god—one of his hands draws back the curtain of my hair twisting it, capturing it. With the other, he trails a gentle path down my neck with his fingernail tracing a vein.

“Isabella.” He cajoles in a falsetto that lends an illusion of vulnerability. “Promise me you’ll do as I say. Forget about this nonsense.”

“I, no—”

The nail digs in. “What was that?”

I try to clench my fists, but my nerves are all cross-wired.

“Isabella.” He sing-songs over my skin, his lips dancing against the small invisible hairs on my neck. “Answer me.”

Then, he presses a single kiss to my neck.

It undoes me.

“Yes,” I whisper.

Instantly, assured of my compliance, he lets go. I fall to my knees, but he doesn’t offer me a hand up, just surveys me dispassionately.

“What the hell?” I ask when I finally get my voice back.

He looks at me silent, expressionless, but his eyes are just a bit wider. He’s also not acknowledging my swearing at him..

I bring my hands up to my neck. “Seriously? What was that?”

“I play to win; you will, too.”

I snort, hiding in the hole of sarcasm. “Not if you kill me first.”

His gaze roots me out.

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”

I guess I really have to play his game. I’m not going to kill the children, but he has to believe I will. Who knows what he’ll do if it seems like I’m not going along with his plans.

Still, I want to leave. So I do.

His hands remain at the table, his eyes don’t even meet mine, but the masculine weight of his voice stops me. “You do not leave until I dismiss you.”

I sigh. Fine. I can do rules. I had a training professor, Banner, who was this strict. Although he wasn’t half as beautiful—not even a quarter, really. I bend my knees to sit back down.

“The bugs are set to be fully functional in less than a minute. Once they are, you are never to mention any of this again. If you do I will claim that you are trying to weasel your way out of the competition by plotting treason. In the trial against you, I will argue passionately for your immediate death.”

My breath catches in my throat. How is it that I haven’t even entered the arena and I already feel like I’m fighting for my life?

“And, Isabella, make no mistake, I will win.”

And I had threatened him before about telling someone. He was right, I was naïve, no, even worse — I was foolish to think that I could ever have power in this game we were playing, ever be a step ahead of him. I don’t know why, but I almost feel choked with bitter tears at the thought of it.

I had actually thought he was stupid for trusting me, when the truth was there was never any way he could have been hurt by me. He doesn’t care about me. I’m just a tool. It was amazing how naïve I could be, even after years of training in manipulation. The only explanation was he had dazzled me somehow.

“Secondly—” he holds up two fingers, numbering his list “—my first goal is your survival. As I am better equipped to coach and teach you than anyone else, and you will follow my instructions explicitly. This starts with not complaining about whatever choices the stylist makes when you meet with her tomorrow.”

For the first time I see what appears a genuine smile over Edward’s face. It’s almost as disconcerting as his glare; it looks so out of place. “Esme may seem demure, but she is a better stylist than anyone, perhaps even better at her job than I am at mine.”

Fashion is perhaps my weakest area after stealth, but I don’t let Edward know this, partly because I’m sure he already does, and partly for a reason I don’t quite understand, I don’t want him to know how unstable I am in heels. “Fine.”

A thought occurs to me as I stare at the bugs, and then at the walls. Nothing has appeared to have grown or changed, but then again I hadn’t noticed the bugs in the first place. “Won’t this thing—”

“The Cloud Gate.” He corrects.

“Won’t it monitor that you killed the bugs; won’t it sense a gap in its records?”

He nods. “It will notice the gap, but with some rewiring and reconditioning of it’s nervous system I should be able to convince it that that it had an immune malfunction. Namely that its built in security systems accidentally pegged parts of its own body, if you will, as hostile.”

“Oh,” I say to the floor, not looking at him, not really comprehending, but tired of looking a feeling like an off balance idiot.

If it wasn’t totally crazy I would almost say that Edward’s expression softens a little, “This is a lot for you to take in, I understand, but—” In an instant, whatever gentleness there was in his expression disappears.

“But what?” I ask, baffled.

“But that’s a very charming pin you have there.” He gestures to the pin in my chest, and I can’t help but sigh.

That’s our agreed upon cue. The bugs are functional again. Hello, anonymous audience. I missed you.

I would be getting no more answers from Edward tonight. In fact, it was possible that he wouldn’t talk to me candidly again until the games were over. I realize the sinking feeling in my gut isn’t because I won’t be getting answers, but because some part of me liked the honesty of Edward, no matter how brutal it was. True honesty was something I hadn’t had a taste of in almost five years. I hadn’t realized how freeing it could be. It made my blood electric . . . or maybe that was something else?

No, it had to be the candidness.

“Thanks.” I fingered the two bulls horns, overlaid upon each other. “Emily, Jacob’s sister, gave it to me.”

He gives an almost genial smile. So he can be nice. “That was a very kind thing you did, volunteering for her, but I expect you wanted some of the glory, too.”

I look at him in confusion. “What?”

I am beginning to see hidden shadows in his smile, and I can’t help be almost be in equal parts fascinated and disturbed. “Stirb und werde.”

I don’t know what he just said— but I can guess. We had to do a unit on codes; was it possible that this was just a formulated code? If S=1— no. No, the answer was simpler somehow. Maybe the words were modifications of English sounds.

Does this hold the answer to the mysterious “cause”?

Unfortunately, the best I can come up with is, “Wearing the stirrup?”

I didn’t think it was possible to surprise Edward more than a quirked eyebrow, but he bursts into laughter. Something catches in me, like my heart is velcro and his laugh has a thousand little hooks to latch right onto it.

I glare. Partially because I am angry at him for making fun of me, partially because I’m angry at myself for smiling at his laugh.

His chuckles soothe and his grin compresses to a smile. “You know what it means; you’ve seen it plastered across every surface of District 2.”

“Your vitality is your greatest asset?”

The memory of the smile lingers on his lower lip, even as his upper lip falls. “Try a bit more topical to our current situation.”

Not for the first time, I think it is convenient Edward cannot read my mind, because I think loudly: I have the most treasonous, arrogant, asshole of a Mentor on the history of the planet. Childish, I know, but I can’t help but regress under the pressure.

“I give up,” I say instead.

The smile is gone now entirely, leaving only boredom and disappointment. Except his eyes, his eyes still watch me with unnerving patience. “It’s late and we’ve had a long conversation, but if this is the kind of effort you’re going to put into training, then Tanya was right, I do have my work cut out for me.

“Die and become.” I blurt out. “The slogan for the Morphing Games.” The words and syllable numbers map out better than anything else I can think of.

“And what does this mean?” he asks, reminding me of the times a teacher would try to have us figure out new weapon hold on our own.

I can’t help but roll my eyes. This is what we learn in first-year: the symbolism, the history. Why is Edward making me repeat it now when I could be in a nice comfortable bed, forgetting all about causes and atonement, running back to my old friend denial. “Only through the power of death, can we be transformed into a vampire, only through morphing, metamorphosis, can we grow.”

“A caterpillar dies to become a butterfly, a snake sheds its skin. Growth is loss at its heart, but Humans only die once.”

On the surface I could take it to be a comment for me to stay alive, but I know there’s a deeper meaning here. “But vampires never die, never change,” I say slowly.

For the second time, Edward smiles at me. It’s utterly devastating and he knows it. I’ll have to keep myself aware of the fact that it seems Edward will use every weapon in his arsenal to bend me to his “cause.” Certainly, his beauty is one of them.

“Anything can change with enough pressure and force, even vampires. Throw lame old graphite into the fiery furnace of the deep, dark mantle of the earth and what do you get—”

His face is illuminated by starlight as he speaks. I hadn’t realized it until now, now the outside wall of his suite is completely coated with constellations. They cast thousands of glimmering dots over Edward’s face. He’s sparkling like . . .

“Diamonds,” I say.

He gives me a pensive look. “I know you’re tired, Isabella, but if you could stay for just one moment more.”

I’m about to grumble and ask why. I am tired of riddles and cross-examinations. I just want to sleep. Forever maybe. Just as I open my mouth to say so, I notice something: a burst of red at my feet.

I look down.

“There it is,” he says, as if he had been holding his breath, waiting for something, but of course, he hadn’t. As a vampire he has no reason to breathe.

“What is it?” I look at the dot. It’s growing bigger and bigger.

“Just watch,” he says, reverently.

As the light grows it fractures, and while most of the off-shoots are red some are white. It divides and divides until the whole floor is covered with patterns of light, patterns that look almost like a city.

Then, the lights burst into shapes below us, towers, spires and long illuminated neon ropes of streets looping between and around every surface, with cars zipping through them at unimaginable speeds. Soon the shapes and shadows grow from the floor onto the walls.

It isn’t like a city— it is one, and we are plummeting right into it.

“Welcome to Volterra, Isabella.”

Morphing Games not angsty enough for you?

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Blessed Are the Forgetful » reviews

My name is Bella Swan, and I am in love with a man, Edward Cullen, who doesn’t love me, who left me. This is the story of how I had him erased from my memory. This is the story of what I forgot. daily update short chaps

Twilight – Rated: M – English – Angst/Tragedy – Chapters: 2 – Words: 845 – Reviews: 6

– Published: 11-11-11 – Bella & Edward

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