Visual Appendix Chapter Seven + Eight

Okay so a lot of new characters/things here.

First the real star of this chapter– the Bean! aka The Cloud Gate, which is basically the bean from Chicago, but flying!

 

In blimp form, like the Hindenberg:

But also like being inside a shadow puppet show:

And here are pictures of the prospectives:

Aston Martin and Vovlina Doublyuu

(Obviously a nod to the cars the cullens drive.)

I picture them as having this hair:

But

looking like this:
Volvina: (20)

Aston: (20)

District 10

Mike Newton(18)

 

And Jessica Stanely (18)

District 3

Alice Brandon (17)

Ashley Green never looked delicate enough for me

Eric Yorkie (13)

 

District 7

Victoria (15)

District 6

Renesmee (12)

District 8

Angela Weber

(14)

 

 

 

Chapter 8 Commentary

[8]

Pinpricks of black swim in front my eyes, so close that if I try to focus on them my head hurts. It’s not until my vision un-blurs that I realize exactly what has woken me up. (Isn’t it funny how the narrative staple of waking up becomes a bookend for chapters. Such an antique device.)

Light and color. All the walls are back-lit, and what I thought was a dark-silver color, actually turns out to be made of fierce oranges and pale yellows. As I slip out of the bed, still clothed in the now rumpled beyond repair polka-dot dress, I realize that it’s not the walls that have changed color; it’s the sky. The walls are transparent. (Like she’s travelling in a giant lantern)

The lights must be coming from the sky. We are inside the sunset, a boat riding on air, swimming through pure color. Blurry shadows drift lazily across the walls— clouds.

It takes my breath away, but not for long, I can’t afford to be distracted by beauty here. The thought of beauty drags my eye to the dresser. I’ve never been one for nice clothes, mostly because in training school, ability was more important than appearance.

More important, but not useless. Last year, Rosalie won most of her sponsors because of her beauty. In training school we were taught to have a strategy and I was never pretty enough to use beauty as mine. I leave the room naked. I wonder what Edward would think if I did. The thought brings a blush to my cheeks and I don’t know why.

He’s a monster. Why should I care what he thinks about my body? But then again, am I really any less of a monster than him?

I fold the blue dress away underneath the bed carefully, worried that while I’m gone someone will take it. Then I filter through a litany of gaudy dresses and some seriously scandalous lingerie before settling on training clothes.

Just as I finish pulling on the black pants and tank top, the door opens.

“Edward?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from shaking. Usually, I wouldn’t be modest. For our sixth-year training exercise they left us in the woods nakedm and we had to find our way out, but somehow the idea of Edward seeing me naked makes my heart beat almost as fast as when I worry about the Morphing Games.

But it’s not Edward or Jasper or even Rosalie.

“Surprise!” chirps a very feminine voice. “C’est moi!” (Originally there was a long bit in here about Tanya speaking german and how Bella wasn’t supposed to know about other countries. But I cut it. Because french is so much better. And I already have too many world-building details to keep straight.)

“Tanya?” I ask.

Every part of me tenses up, ready to fight, but it’s pointless. Even as I watch her stomach muscles— she’s changed into a sparkling cut-off top with shorts the size of some of the lingerie in my closet—I know that I won’t be able to win. She could kill me before I’d even register it.

“Ugh, you look like you’re ready to beat me up.” She pouts.

I relax my posture. “What are you doing here?”

She gives me a look as if I am a class A idiot. “I’m here to bring you for dinner, Jasper is up on the viewing deck eating. Come on.” She looks me up and down and gives a put upon sigh. “Unlike you, he took advantage of his wardrobe. Nice black suit, red tie.” She begins to walk down the corridor clapping her hands above her head, closing the door as I scurry out of it. “He’s cute, don’t you think?”

“He’s my competitor.”

Her fangs glimmer as she smiles. “All the better.”

I jog to catch up to her. “I thought you were going to visit District 12?”

“Nosy aren’t you, little human.”

I successfully fight the desire to punch her in the face, knowing if I did I’d probably only get a broken hand out of it—or worse. (Forshadowing, forshadowing, forshadowing.)

“Where’s Edward, he said I was supposed to meet with him.” His instructions had been explicit, and although he had decided not to kill me, it would be prudent not to push my luck.

Tanya sighs even louder, tossing her head of blonde curls. “Probably in his room, reading or composing. I’m sure he’s forgotten all about wanting to meet with you. He has a tendency to disappear for long periods of time. You know how men are.”

I don’t, though. Jacob was always the talkative one, and I don’t know if he is a man, let alone my man. Tanya certainly seems to think Edward is hers though, but it had been him that had reminded her to leave to go to District 12, and he had only kissed her on the cheek.

We turn the corner, my feet hitting the ground just after her heels. “Does Edward know you’re here?”

“Oh, no. I’m giving him a good, old-fashioned surprise.” She winks.

I have a feeling that Edward isn’t the kind of vampire who likes surprises, but it could be I’m just projecting. In my ninth year, I was so involved in figuring out different combinations of tinctures and powders for timed explosives that I came home late almost every day. One day when I came home the house was dark, and even after I called out for my parents or Ben, no one answered. We were being burglarized—I was sure of it. When the lights flicked and a crowd yelled surprise, with Rosalie standing next to the cake smirking and all my family gathered, my first thought was to dive towards the cake searching for a bomb. I tore off the top of the cake and dug through the interior, but came up only with handfuls of frosting. (Bella has serious PTSD and she hasn’t even seen the horrors yet to come.)

“So it’s just me, you, Jasper and Rosalie then?”

“Rosalie is also hiding out in her room. You’d think she’d at least want to talk to her brother, but I guess her bitchiness applies even to family members.” Tanya leans towards me and says in a stage-whisper, “I think she’s bitter because she’s ugly, frankly.”

Why is Rosalie hiding from her brother??

 

I restrain myself from rolling my eyes. If anything, it’s the other way around, but I file away Tanya’s jealousy of Rosalie. Maybe I can use it later.

In front of me a door opens and soft rays of pink and orange, more muted than before, pour through.

I step through the threshold and into the observation deck, a room constructed entirely of glass. What had been colorful shadows are made clear by the transparent walls. Wisps of clouds, like bolts of moth-bitten silk, dance and turn in the sea of warm light. The only thing more beautiful than the sky is the reflection of it in the exterior of the balloon. I hadn’t noticed it before. The balloon isn’t perfectly oblong, but arcs upward from the bottom, almost like a bean. (You know the Bean from Chicago. I really liked the idea of having it be the mode of transportation for District 2, since District 2 is Chicago.) All the reflections of clouds are twisted and distorted. If that weren’t enough, the Zepplin is also glowing oddly, the distortion of the glass sending strange loops of light out into the ether.

We must have walked upward through the balloon, because I can see down the side of it in every direction. This must also be another miracle of vampire engineering, because I hadn’t felt any incline on the way up.

Tethered to a pole outiside is what looks like a motorcycle. That must be how Tanya reached us mid-flight.

In the middle of the room, or rather, deck, is a long table, set with every kind of food imaginable. Real food, not blood bars. At the end of the table sits Jasper, his hair tied up, exposing every plane of his face. He’s handsome, but the real grandeur is outside and no lavish table settings will convince me otherwise.

“Jasper, darling, Bella and I shall join you for dinner, yes?” asks Tanya, her voice taking a more sophisticated Volterran accent than it had with me. I have to stifle a smirk. A-thousand-year-old vampire, trying to impress a sixteen-year-old boy? Ridiculous.

Jasper gives an easy smile. “Plenty here for everyone, darling.” His eyes catch mine. I’m surprised by how cold they are. I feel caught on it like a tongue on an ice-cube.

He rips his gaze from me and toward Tanya. “I didn’t fancy you for the salad type.”

She licks her lips. Woah. Tanya Denali is trying to do a little more than charm Jasper Hale. If the smirk on his face is anything to go by, he is open to manipulating her, and he is much better at it than I am.

“No, but I have a good vintage here, a good year 2080,” Tanya says, pointing to a small container of blood, kept refrigerated in a mini-cooler. She pulls out the bottle and shakes it, redistributing the platelets.

I can’t help but watch, fascinated and horrified in equal measure. She’s going to drink blood—human blood. For all I know it could be my blood in that bottle. I plop into one of the chairs, all thought of the luscious food on the table gone.

Jasper is impassive at horror around him. He’s the perfect Prospective. “Is that from District 7? I hear that blood has a nice note of maple, but obviously—” he grins, “—I don’t speak from experience.”

Tanya sips the blood and gives a little sigh. “Yes, it does. Quite pleasant. Funny for you to know that.”

“My mother works in a Blood Bank; it is her job to know such things.”

My mother used to work in a Blood Bank. His mother must have gotten her job just like he had gotten everything else from my life. This could have been my brother, sophisticated, able to hold his own with a vampire. Instead, my brother is blind.

But he has something on Jasper: he’s alive, and going to stay that way. For all his sophistication, I can’t say that about Hale.

(This is a question we must ask ourselves. Do the wealthy really have it better in this society.)

“You know,” says Tanya, her gaze darkening . . . “you should be grateful for Edward, Jasper. Even if he’s not your mentor.”

“And why is that?” he asks, as if he’s indulging her, when the truth is the entire existence of humanity is entirely dependent on the whims of vampires.

“Because he invented the chemical agent that suppresses my blood lust and keeps me from tearing you apart.” She takes another sip of blood from her glass, her eyes never leaving his. “I’d imagine you’d taste delicious.”

I know my heart accelerates; I can feel it pounding in my chest in a frenzied polka of fear. (Danse Macabre anyone.) Oom-pah.Oom-pah.

Jasper blinks once, and then gives a slow grin. “I’d imagine I would . . . darling.”(I like playing with Jasper’s tendancy(cliche) of calling people Darling, and making it more sinister.)

I stand up. I do not want to be around to see Jasper get disemboweled, or possibly other things, but I’m hungry enough that I grab a bowl of a creamy looking soup and a whole loaf of bread to take with me, which draws Jasper’s attention.

“Going so soon, Bella?” asks Jasper.

“Going to read up on strategy.” This is a lie, but the moment I say it, I realize it’s not a bad idea. If I’m going to try and figure out a way to keep other people, the kids, alive and not just myself, I’m going to have to know the Games backwards and forwards.

“And what’s your strategy? Going the route of beauty?” he asks. (He actually was trying to be charming, not mean. But of course Bella doesn’t see herself as pretty.)

I’m not quite sure if he’s trying to be charming, but it comes off rude. I’m not beautiful.

I wish I could tell him the truth, throw in his face that I am going to be saving people, sacrificing myself. But I know that my plan of saving the kids is controversial at best, and treasonous at worst, so I say instead, “I’m going the route of staying alive.”

Tanya rolls her eyes.

“Sounds like you do need to read up on your strategy books then. Everyone knows the game’s won by preemptive warfare, alliances, violence. Hiding out in the woods just leads to death by starvation—” Jasper smirks “—or worse.”

“I’ll take my chances,” I say.

“No, you won’t,” a voice whispers in my ear.

I whirl and to my utter humiliation grab at thin air, almost stumbling in the process. Thankfully, no one else notices it because Tanya has stolen all the attention.

“Edward!” She cries, flinging herself into his arms in a blur of sequins and giggles.

Edward stands about six feet away from me, by the door. Damn, vampires are fast. It just isn’t fair.

Edward transforms the hug into a kiss on the cheek. “I was under the impression that you were in District 12.”

“I got bored.”

“How unfortunate,” he says coldly.

“Yes, for them.” She waltzes over to the table, picks up her wine glass and takes a sip. “I don’t know how they shall survive without me.”

Her lips are stained red with blood, and as she tilt her head back to laugh I see dabs of blood, viscous and dark, staining her fangs, too. “Oh, that’s right! They won’t!”

No one laughs, not even Jasper, but even he’s probably only silent because the joke’s not funny, not because he has some problem with sending starving children off to die.

“Tanya, Isabella and I have Morphing Game business to discuss.” Adroitly,(My fav fanfic writer uses this word like it’s going out of style and I’ve picked up the tick.) he plucks the soup and baguette out of my hands. I turn to look at him, my lips parting slightly.

He raises an eyebrow at my appraisal. I quickly screw my lips together in a scowl.

“Bella hasn’t had anything to eat yet today, darling, why don’t you all stay?” She raises her wine-glass in a salute. “The vintage is delicious!”

“Isabella will be dining with me in my suite. The food may be slightly cold because of her tardiness.” His red eyes find me harshly, and I wince from the force of it. “But for her training it’s important to maintain a strict diet.”      (Lol liarward. He just wants to get Bella alone.)

If strict diet means blood bars, I think I will revolt. I can almost taste the crunchy shell of the bread and the fluffy, buttery interior. I haven’t had real food in so very long, but I will not beg.

“You didn’t tell me where your room was,” I say, my eyes still caressing each contour of the leg of turkey slathered in gravy, half eaten on Jasper’s plate.

“If you want to have this discussion, and I guarantee you don’t, we’ll have it in private,” Edward whispers. But this time, he doesn’t move away, so instead brings a cold hand to touch the edge of my shoulder blade, herding me toward him.

A lamb towards the slaughter.

“Fine,” I hiss back.

“Edward, you aren’t going to let a human talk to you like that are you?” Tanya asks indignantly.

I shouldn’t have underestimated the power of her jealousy, especially now that it’s turned on me. I hate that I’m so physically underpowered here. If she wants to kill me there’s nothing I can do.

“She’s not a human anymore, neither of us are,” says Jasper. (Key insight to Jasper with this line. This is how he’s  going to get through the games by dehumanizing himself and those around him.)

Everyone, Edward included, turns to look at Jasper Hale. He raises an eyebrow at the sudden attention, as if he hadn’t just said something patently false.

In his hand, he holds a glass of blood he must have poured for himself. Is he going to drink it? That is sick! “We’re Prospectives; soon we’ll either be dead or immortal. Under Volturi law that makes us not human.” The pride with which he speaks sounds just like those kids in the propaganda videos.

“I’m human,” I retort.

Jasper scoffs.

“I’m human, and I’m proud of it.” I elaborate.

look to see if this makes Edward mad, because I don’t care about Tanya. If Edward, a man who calls the Game Master by his first name, won’t kill me for treasonous thoughts, than how can Tanya hurt me?

My bravado calms Tanya, maybe because she thinks I’m crazy. The crazies usually die right after the weaklings in the arena. No reason to be mad at a dead girl.

“You have your work cut out for you, Edward.” She sneers.

Edward, for his part, says nothing. Again his hand reaches out to the small of my back. I feel like a puppet, every touch a tug on my string— a manipulation.

The only sound is the subtle squeak of the floor bending as we walk through darkened corridors towards his room.

He remains silent even as he claps the door open and escorts me to a small table. Thankfully, my plate is full of pasta, laden with a thick red sauce.(Port Angeles reference anyone.) This is a good sign: pasta means carbs. Carbs mean he’s going to give me a solid work out. He’s taking this seriously.

I look up at him questioningly. I really want to eat, but he’s already spared my life numerous times so maybe it’s not wise to piss him off further.

“Eat, Isabella.”

I dig into the pasta shoveling forkful upon forkful into my mouth. My lips end up smeared with the sauce, in a human parody of Tanya’s blood stained ones. What would life be like if spaghetti could talk and think? Would we corral noodles up in cities and eat the disobedient. The thought makes me laugh a little hysterical giggle. (Dark humor folks.)

God, am I going insane? If I’m going to be dead soon, I’d at least like to be myself for the time I have left. I take deep breaths to clean the choked laughter from my lungs.

“May I ask what’s so amusing?” Edward said. For the first time he looks almost sincere Like he could almost be my friend. But there’s a puzzle piece missing.

“Don’t you know?” I frown.

He leans forward. “No, I don’t.”

“But you said you could read thoughts?” Maybe he doesn’t want to immerse himself in my mind. I wouldn’t blame him; sometimes I just want to get out of my mind too.

“Usually.”

I set down my fork with a clink. “Usually?”

“Never mind, we have more pressing matters to discuss than your internal monologue.” He’s back to his commanding self, and before I can ask him what exactly he means by “usually” he takes out a screen much like the vid-screen in my room, but smaller. With a simple touch of his finger it explodes into life, with a logo of a red V. Volterra-tech. Definitely won’t be keeping a diary on this baby.

“This tablet has a list of information you need to give me about your strengths and weaknesses in the arena. You volunteered, so I assume you trained through level 15.”

The logo disappears and the screen is filled with thirty or so pictures of weapons. Maces, clubs, axes, bows, darts, swords, knives, daggers and staves.

“I stopped at level 10,” I say, praying he won’t ask me why. Even if he can’t read my thoughts, he’ll surely be able to read my face.

He frowns, but moves his finger across the screen again, showing generic figures performing various skills. “Just write it in the report.”

At first the symbols are simple and easy to understand, but eventually they become abstract: a picture of the sun, an image of a man baring his teeth, a series of numbers. Since when would I have to solve a math problem in the arena?

I look up at him, and am startled to find his eyes boring into mine, exactly like I am some kind of math problem he’s trying to solve. Can he not read my thoughts? That must have been what he was saying earlier.

I expect him to make a remark on that, but instead he says something that knocks the wind out of me. “Are you mated?”

(AAH Cliffhanger!)

Chapter 7 commentary

[7]

Outside, the air is still coated with the stale mist of yesterday. We’ve managed to miss most of the crowds by ducking out the poor man’s entrance, but at least two hundred people clamor toward us through the fog.

After the people follow the cameras, hovering in the air, their large lens-faces trained squarely on Jasper and me. ( I love the camera’s they’ll keep showing up.)

Muffled by the moisture, girls, raggedy and rich alike, scream, “Hale dynasty! Hale dynasty! Hail to the Hales!”

I look straight ahead, but from the corner of my eye I can see Jasper smiling, stopping occasionally to shake hands. Startlingly enough, people seem to ignore his sister, the one who actually won. Maybe it’s because she’s distant from them, unreadable.

How does he have the energy, the will? I’m trying my best not to just . . . stop. The only the way to keep up my energy is to distance myself from the ever growing mob, but he seems to thrive on the crowd. He will have no problem winning sponsors.

Yet, I’m not totally alone.

Once, I think I hear a voice suspiciously like Greasy Ol Sae’s yell, “Now you have a reason to break someone’s arm.”

A chorus starts from somewhere. “Swan! Swan!” Jacob, Leah, even Emily on Jacob’s shoulders, all pump their fists. I swallow my disappointment at the fact that I don’t see Charlie or Ben anywhere.

Finally, we push out to a door in the marble wall. I remember when I was little, thinking it was some kind of tomb. As I got older, I was sure it was just a glamorized supply closet. In truth, it leads to a small tunnel. I expect it to be like the sewers, but it’s clean, made of marble. We walk for a minute and then come across a square platform hanging over a metal track.

A soft whirring sound comes from the dot of light in the distance, where the tunnel ends. As we are encouraged up the stairs by Tanya, the sound gets louder. By the time we are all standing on the platform, a metal sphere, large enough to fit four people, has arrived. I cock my head, looking at it. I don’t see any bolts or lines where the steel is joined together.

Tanya smirks at our questioning looks. “Vampire technology. We usually don’t let you humans see the real goods. Your brains wouldn’t be able to comprehend it. ” She looks less stunning up close than from far away. I can almost see a wrinkle on her forehead. The transformation is supposed to eliminate all but the most severe signs of aging. She must have been turned when she was very old. (I like the idea of Tanya being simultaneously a cougar trying to stay young for eternity.)

“Tanya, I believe this is where we part ways,” Edward says.

She moves to him, pouting, and tugs on the shiny sleeve of his black suit. It’s an odd contrast; her made up face and the childishness of the motion. “Darling, I could always join you in the Zeppelin. Just like old times.”

He removes her hands and kisses her lightly on the cheek, so quick I almost don’t see it. “I think you have other Districts to see to.”

“I only have District 12 left. Everyone knows their story anyways; two sad, emaciated humans going off to die. Boo hoo.” (Hello! Hunger Games reference.) She looks up at Edward for approval.

I have to force myself not to spit in Tanya’s crimson eyes. We are people. She can’t just joke about us dying. Except, I can’t stop her, so I guess she can.

“We all must make sacrifices,” Edward says coldly, his eyes flitting towards mine.

He knows about my thoughts. And he’s going to do what? Sacrifice me? Kill me? But his gaze doesn’t seem angry as they catch mine. So maybe he’s going to hurt me for my thoughts.

Her eyes narrow. “Well, ta-ta for now then,” Tanya says, before giving a jaunty little wave and disappearing.

With an economical gesture of the hand, Edward commands the three of us towards the sphere.

Edward and I get in on one side and Jasper and Rosalie on the other. Immediately after we enter, the carriage lurches into motion. As I’m thrown back from the lurch, I can’t help but meet Rosalie’s eyes across from me. I know that she’s powerful now, that she could destroy me with just a thought, but I don’t care. I scowl at her for all I’m worth.

“What?” she says, as if she actually has no clue why I’m staring at her. Although she glares right back despite her confusion. This isn’t surprising. Glaring was always Rosalie Hale’s default expression.

Maybe she’s forgotten. Maybe she doesn’t remember what she did to me, who I am. The process of being a vampire dulls human memories, all but the most important.

I’d think informing on your best friend’s mother would be an important memory, but it’s possible I’m wrong. It’s possible that Rosalie Hale doesn’t remember how she ruined my life.

I invited her to my mother’s birthday party, because she was my best friend. For all the beatings she gave me (and I beat her up a few times just as good), she wasn’t a bad friend. She terrorized anyone who teased me about my inability to shoot a bow, and when Garrett, an eleventh year I had a crush on, ended up going out with Kate, Rosalie told everyone that he had gotten a 2 on his last sparring quiz.

After she came to the party and heard my mother sing the song about flowers, she told someone. (A song loosly based on where have all the flowers gone. The idea of flowers and stories and songs will play a large role in this story.) Maybe her parents, maybe a teacher, maybe she wrote a letter to the President himself, I don’t know.

I know it was her, because she didn’t speak to me all day in training-school, and when I got to my house after staying late for afterschool, everything was wrong.

Everything I owned, not the expensive stuff, but the important things: photos, recipes, clothes, the jar we used to keep the moths we caught in summer, the preserves of jams, lay strewn across the yard. There caught on the branches of the little tree out in front dangled the dress my mother had worn only yesterday.

Our other things were hidden in the grass, toy trucks, chipped coffee-mugs, pictures, picture-books with the pages torn out fluttering lamely the clipped-wings of a dying bird.

“What are you doing here?” said someone behind me.

I whirled to see Rosalie. She looked as confused as I felt, but instead of staring at the wreckage outside of my house, she was staring at me. Like I was the anomaly.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, cold as if she was talking to a first year that had tried to get too friendly.

“Rose?” Her nickname sounded wrong the moment I said it. Even though everything was a mess she looked almost sterile standing there. Sterile and formal.

“You should be at your home,” she mumbled.

Rosalie never mumbled. Her whole strategy was beauty and charisma.

The world was upside down.

“This is my home.” I said, my voice rising in confusion and anger.

“Not anymore,” she said bitterly.

Coldness seeped into me. “What?”

She just stood there, silent and beautiful. Like it was just part of her strategy—to seem invulnerable.

“Why is all my stuff on the lawn?” I repeated, louder.

A light breeze picked up, stealing between the strands of her shiny, straight, blond hair, animating it.

“Rose! Seriously, this is a shitty joke, even for you.”

She tried to step away from me, but I couldn’t just let her go. She knew something about why everything was so wrong, and she wasn’t telling me. She was supposed to be my friend.

Using my back foot, I propelled myself forward. She hit the ground with a thud and I followed soon after, but she shouldn’t have gone down so easy.

She let me push her back into the dirt, not moving to break my hold. “If this your house, why isn’t your father stopping us?”

“Rose, what’s your pro—”

Finally she turned to look at me again, but her gaze wasn’t just cold, it was glacial. “Why isn’t your mother here?”

“I don’t know!” I yelled. I was just about thrust my fist into the side of her jaw with all my might, because I didn’t know what else to do, when I heard the thump of heavy boots.

Peacekeeper boots. I turned around, expecting my father, my strong, stoic father. He wouldn’t tolerate people doing things like this to his family, his house.

But when I turned, it wasn’t just father’s face that greeted me, just an anonymous Peacekeeper. And there, behind him, was my brother. ((There is more to this story. Did Rosalie really betray them? Read on to find out.))

Ben didn’t even look worried. He always looked awkward and frightened before my mom died, but that day his back was straight and his gaze flinty and strong. Holding his hand, looking so lost, like a child, like an animal, was my father, the strongest man I ever knew— broken.

“Charles, Benjamin, and Isabella Swan, you are hereby relocated to grey-level,” said the Peacekeeper.

“What?” I asked, choked.

Rosalie looked away. I don’t know if she was ashamed or just couldn’t see my face as I looked at my brother.

In his hand, my brother held up the letter.

Embossed on it was a blood red-seal and the words, in flowing red, script, “The Empire appreciates your contribution.”

Rosalie was the reason my mother was dead.

Abruptly, the pod is filled with the pink light of breaking dawn. The tunnel has ended. I hadn’t noticed in the darkness, but the hull of the pod is semi-transparent, a cross between steel and glass.

I press my cheeks to the cold wall-window and look at outside. It’s a blur, but I’m able to see things that are far enough away, like the craggy shoreline and the tall tree surrounded by gravestones, crowding like children around a teacher eager to hear a story. The fog is gone now, migrated somewhere else; soon I will have too.

The countryside morphs from the half-wild ruins of suburbia to long stretches of deserted fields. Then even those are swallowed up by rag-tag bands of trees. ( I have a minor obsession with trees ever since reading the line the trees rioted on the Earth in Heart of Darkness by Joeseph Conrad.)

All the Morphing Game Prospectives go the capitol, Volterra, for the opening ceremony, but I don’t know how far away it is. Rumor has that it’s located on the East Coast, in the North near a waterfall so tall and fierce that if you tried to swim underneath it, you’d drown. The oceans swallowed up most of the eastern seaboard, so Volterra is now a coastal town too. (Aka niagra falls.)

Gradually, so gradually that at first it’s almost imperceptible, the pod begins to slow, until it stops right on the edge of a field of rust-colored stalks of wheat. ( A nod to the later persephone reference.)  But as I exit the pod, I don’t notice the way the trees here are so much brighter than the dying ones near the lake, or how bitingly fresh the air is.

All I can focus on is the thing resting on the grain.

It looks a lot like the pod, but much, much larger, and warped slightly, like the back a spoon, taking in light, color and distorting it.

If Ben were here his jaw would drop. He loved big, moving things when he was little.

“I’ve heard it said that traveling in it is like riding in the clouds,” Edward breathes against my ear.

I jump a little, bumping into his chest, and I can swear he rumbles with inaudible mirth before I step away from him.

“Others say it’s like dissolving into the ether. Some consider it a spiritual experience.”

I root my feet into the ground. If I turn around I’ll know exactly how close he is, and I can’t know that. Just the possibility that he is as close as he is, is doing frightening things to my stomach.

I briefly contemplate running off into the field. But there’s no cover to hide in, and even if was he would have no problem catching me. My face would be reflected in the surface of the zeppelin—it catches every scrap of light.

“And what do you think?” I ask I can almost feel him, even though he’s not touching me. Just a few more millimeters and I will be able feel his muscles explicitly.

He waits so long to speak that finally I pivot, expecting to see him right behind me. Instead he’s leaning indolently against the bottom of the balloon, gazing at his reflection with mocking curiosity. “I think that four black horses and a chariot would be more appropriate.” (Obviously he sees himself as Hades stealing away Persephone to hell. I have a penchent for this myth and yes it’s overused as hell in the romance genre, but who cares. here hell def has a super dark connotation, perhaps relating directly to death.)

I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

He’s not making any sense, and he has to know that he’s not. He’s playing with his food. I can’t help but turn towards the grain-edged horizon and step toward it. But before I can take another step, he is standing right in front of me.

“Sorry, Persephone,” he says soft as the wind brushing against the top of the stalks. “No running away.

I move to the side, but he grabs my wrist, not hard, but tightly enough I know I won’t be able to get out. The tips of his fingernails graze the inside of my wrists right over the branching tributaries of my veins.

My heart beats so loudly I can hear it.

Immediately, he drops my hand and stills, like he’s been flushed out of hiding. Yet I am the one being hunted.

Then as if he hadn’t just started, he gestures upward to the sky. “Unfortunately, black horses or not, we have places to be, and the Cloud Gate (The cloud gate is actually a cross between the Hindenberg, the Bean and a Japanese Lantern– see visual appendix for more.) waits for no man or beast.”

It’s almost like he’s speaking another language, a beautiful one, but one I don’t understand all the same.

I tip my head back, my hair falling slightly out of the twist, tickling the back of my neck, as I see my own face, contorted and enlarged in the mirror-balloon. “Cloud Gate?”

He smiles, eyes slightly hooded. “It’s the name of the zeppelin. Do try to keep up, Isa-”

“My name’s not Persephone or Isabella. It’s Bella.” It’s a long shot, but maybe if he sees me as a person and not just as a name from a slip of paper, he’ll decide not to kill me for my thoughts.

“Come, Isabella,” is all he says in reply.

So much for my strategy.

Despite the command he doesn’t move, his hand remains immobile saluting the giant zeppelin.

Then I see why.

In response to his motion, unfolding from the belly of the balloon and down to the ground is a long arm of stairs. It contorts and unfurls, each tread popping out like a finger out of a fist.

Before it is even down to the ground, Edward jumps onto it, and once the jump is manageable, I follow. The ladder shakes slightly as we walk up it, and I realize that it’s lifting up off of the ground.

Finally, the name makes sense because of the movement and reflection the upper edge of it seems to be made of sky and the lower half earth. It really is a gate to the clouds.

Edward closes the hatch behind me, and I’m left looking at a long hallway. “Take off your shoes,” he commands, a blur as he slips out of his brown loaders

I bend down to try and try to untie my laces, but by fingers are trembling too much to pick open the knot. Is he going to kill me now?

I look up to Edward whose expression is unreadable as ever. He leans forward, and I flinch. Now. He’s going to do it now. Break my neck. It would be so easy.

But the blow never comes. Instead, he bends over, and in seconds my shoes are off. I shiver at the feeling of his cold hands through my threadbare socks.

“I did ask you to keep up, didn’t I?” is all he says for explanation before setting off at a brisk walk.

I have to jog to keep up as we make a few turns along the long corridor. As I run, I discover why he wanted me to take off my shoes. The floor bends. There’s no other way to describe it. It doesn’t bend much with each step, not enough to be alarming, but ever so slightly.

“Is this some kind of glass balloon?” I joke. I have to joke; the only other option is fainting from the fear that at any moment Edward is going to rip me apart for my treasonous thoughts.

But now in such a tight space, the truth of my situation becomes clear. I am trapped.

Edward makes a sound that must be a laugh, but it seems more like a cough. Humor never was my strong suit, but I seem to amuse him a little at least. Maybe he won’t rip me limb from limb.

“A glass balloon,” he says. “If Marcus heard you call his precious Cloud Gate a balloon.”

Before I can reply, he points to a door. “Look.”

I can’t help but stare at his hands pointing; they are large but his fingers are still tapered and long.

I look at him blankly. The door isn’t opening.

He could have killed me in the field, but maybe he wanted to wait until I had let down my guard. Didn’t want a scream to disturb the other Prospective.

But I can’t take it anymore, the waiting.

“Just get it over with.” I blurt out.

His eyes narrow, “Get what over with?”

He was going to make me say it out loud? Fine. “Just kill me.”

He chuckles that same low laughter that makes me prickle in a way I’ve never felt before.

He leans over slightly, so that we are eye to eye. “Why would I kill you, Isabella?”

It’s hard to think when he says my name like that. “B-because you heard my thoughts.”

“Did I?” He moves closer until his cold breath tickles the tip of my nose.

I square my jaw. I will not die afraid. “Tanya said that you could read thoughts.”

He smiles and I can see every tooth, even the fangs. “I can.”

“So?” I will not close my eyes. I will look my killer in the face, make him realize what he’s killing is alive, is a person.

“Silly girl, I’m not going to kill you.” He admonishes, and to my great surprise brings out a finger to touch my face. Stroking it. Something in me clenches. “Even if I could read your thoughts, I wouldn’t care whatever heretical thoughts you have.”

“Y-you don’t?” It is so unfair. My mom died for one little song. And Edward must have heard my every explicit hatred of vampires, and he’s going to do nothing. Why do I deserve this? I almost feel disappointed.

His hand is at the underside of my chin now, and goose bumps have emerged from my skin like buds from the dirt.

“Not an iota,” he says so fiercely, the words seem like they’ll combust.

His hand leaves my face. Involuntarily, I lean forward.

His eyes darken, but he raises a hand over his head and snaps his finger, behind him the door opens.

Watching his fingers press together like that, so fast and hard, makes me blush. “Is that your power too?” I ask, and it comes out oddly breathless.

Edward chuckles, raising an eyebrow. “No, the door is just the magic of vampire engineering and electronics.”

I move away from him cautiously, still not sure that he isn’t going to come from behind me and snap my neck.

“I’m not quite finished with you yet, Isabella.” All mirth is gone from his voice. (If she only knew how unfinished he was with her.)

I stop suddenly, all of the hairs on the back of my neck raising. “Yes?”

His expression turns sharp and serious “Dinner’s at eight. Do not be late; you and I have things to discuss. You may do whatever you please until then. There are clothes in the closet, and breakfast on the bed. The reaping should be on the vid-screen. I strongly encourage you to watch your competition.”

‘Thanks,” I say, the thought of food pushing away my fear of Edward. Will it be real food and not the blood flavor bars? Maybe it will be hot and steaming. Saliva floods my mouth at the thought, and I find myself scrambling through the doorway.

Once through, I turn around and give a slow clap, not sure exactly how this will close it, but the door swings shut in spite of my hesitation. This seems silly to me. If you can move at super-speed, with super strength, how are you too lazy to open a door?

The room in front of me isn’t grandiose like the Blood Bank, but looks rich in a different way. Every surface, except for the bed, desk, and a few chests of drawers, is made of a smooth malleable material; the same material making up the mirror-balloon, as I’ve dubbed it, and the floor. The ceiling appears to be slightly convex, as if it’s a canopy. On the right wall is a small screen, and as Tanya said, it’s playing re-runs of the Reapings. I’ll need to watch that soon to understand my competition.

But first I am drawn to the plate of food lying on a tray on my bed. There’s a tall glass of some pink liquid I’ve never seen before, as well as plate of toast and waffles. The toast is coated with a thin white and yellow film of eggs. Circling the perimeter of the plate are lines of strawberry’s cut into quarters. The artfulness of the display lasts approximately two seconds before it is in my mouth.

As I scarf down the food, I watch the Reapings. What I see causes me to slow my pace of consumption, and eventually push the plate aside all together. For all the luxury, I had almost forgotten the price I had paid, what was to come. The recaps of the Reapings remind me.

The first Reaping looks almost festive. District 1, the richest of all the districts, produces luxury goods. The women are wearing dresses that look more like cupcakes and columns than clothing, and then men are in suits.

Unsurprisingly, the Prospectives are two volunteers.

Aston Martin and Volvina Doubleyuu (Does nobody get this? 😦 Aston Martin is and Volvina are references to the Cullen’s cars. I thought it was funny.) look every inch the perfect perspectives from their blank faces, beady eyes to their midnight skin and matching silver dreadlocks.

But the tone of the other Reapings is very different.

For one, in not one other district does anyone volunteer.

Except for in District 10.

Unlike District 1, the Reaping Room of District 10 is not theatrical, but over-illuminated by fluorescent lights, with only a makeshift stage below which the crowd stands.

I pause the video and peer closer to check something.

Oddly enough, there doesn’t appear to be families or any other smaller groups, just row upon row of shaved head and empty eyes, like soldiers. Even odder, the moment the liaison gets on stage, the same vampire from District 1 who looks much less at home in the moldy basement than on the mahogany stage, the crowd explodes into sound.

It’s hard to tell the boy apart from the girl, let alone the girls apart from each other. But eventually two scramble out of the crowd and onto the stage. But unlike the volunteers of District 1, they don’t seem in any way physically fit or possessing any skills that could lead them to victory.

This happens every year; the District 10’s are always the most eager to participate and they are usually the first to die. I’ve never understood, and even high definition doesn’t clarify this mystery. (A mystery which will be clarified.)

Only a few other contestants stick out to me. From District 3, in what looks to have been a school auditorium, a small girl with dark hair and darker eyes who seems to be on the stage before they’ve even called her name, even though when I rewind I see she was in the twenties pen, the one farthest away from the stage. (Hello, Alice!)

A sly, slender girl with a mane of bright curly red hair from District 7, takes her place in the out-door amphitheater bordered by tall winter-trees. (Hello, Victoria!)

Most hauntingly, is a girl from District 6, who were it not for the pale skin and bronze-curls, looks exactly like Emily, with her big brown eyes. She’s a child. Unlike Emily, though, she doesn’t cry as she walks up to the platform, and also unlike Emily, when she stands on stage there is no desperate voice volunteering for her. (Hello, Renesmee!)

The racketeers would have put her odds as being abysmal in any other year, but this year she’s not the only child.

From District 3 is a small boy with black hair and almond eyes who doesn’t ever meet the camera head on (Hello, Eric!), and from District 8, a girl obviously too tall for her (Hello, Angela!) body, lanky with early adolescence. Most surprisingly, a pair of twelve-year-old twins is called from District 11. (Hello Alec and Jane!)

This shouldn’t be my competition. There should be large eighteen-year olds, the kind who know how to use axes and blowguns. Looking at the pictures of the small, frightened children that come on stage, I can’t help but feel that this is going to be impossible. How can I watch these children die? How can I kill them?

After I finish watching the Reapings, I draw the covers over my head, much like I had earlier yesterday morning. Was it really only a morning ago? As I drift off to sleep, I can’t help but remember the face of the girl with the bronze curls. She is so pale, so delicate looking. I won’t be surprised if she is the first to go.

In my dreams I cradle her to my breast and whisper in her ear, “I’ll love you forever.”

She turns her face, curls bouncing, cheeks dimpled with a smile. “Mommy, tell me again.”

But this time I don’t say anything. I just raise my hand, and claw out her eyes.

She doesn’t even cry as the blood runs down her cheeks.

I wake up screaming, clutching at sheets.

And I know the answer to how I’m going to watch them die.

I’m not.

I know what I have to do.

I don’t know how I’m going to do it, or if it’s even possible. But I know I have to do it, even if it means my own death.

I’m not going to watch the children die. I’m certainly not going to kill them.

No.

I’m going to save them.

 

 

Chapter 7

[7]

Outside, the air is still coated with the stale mist of yesterday. We’ve managed to miss most of the crowds by ducking out the poor man’s entrance, but at least two hundred people clamor toward us through the fog.

After the people follow the cameras, hovering in the air, their large lens-faces trained squarely on Jasper and me.

Muffled by the moisture, girls, raggedy and rich alike, scream, “Hale dynasty! Hale dynasty! Hail to the Hales!”

I look straight ahead, but from the corner of my eye I can see Jasper smiling, stopping occasionally to shake hands. Startlingly enough, people seem to ignore his sister, the one who actually won. Maybe it’s because she’s distant from them, unreadable.

How does he have the energy, the will? I’m trying my best not to just . . . stop. The only the way to keep up my energy is to distance myself from the ever growing mob, but he seems to thrive on the crowd. He will have no problem winning sponsors.

Yet, I’m not totally alone.

Once, I think I hear a voice suspiciously like Greasy Ol Sae’s yell, “Now you have a reason to break someone’s arm.”

A chorus starts from somewhere. “Swan! Swan!” Jacob, Leah, even Emily on Jacob’s shoulders, all pump their fists. I swallow my disappointment at the fact that I don’t see Charlie or Ben anywhere.

Finally, we push out to a door in the marble wall. I remember when I was little, thinking it was some kind of tomb. As I got older, I was sure it was just a glamorized supply closet. In truth, it leads to a small tunnel. I expect it to be like the sewers, but it’s clean, made of marble. We walk for a minute and then come across a square platform hanging over a metal track.

A soft whirring sound comes from the dot of light in the distance, where the tunnel ends. As we are encouraged up the stairs by Tanya, the sound gets louder. By the time we are all standing on the platform, a metal sphere, large enough to fit four people, has arrived. I cock my head, looking at it. I don’t see any bolts or lines where the steel is joined together.

Tanya smirks at our questioning looks. “Vampire technology. We usually don’t let you humans see the real goods. Your brains wouldn’t be able to comprehend it. ” She looks less stunning up close than from far away. I can almost see a wrinkle on her forehead. The transformation is supposed to eliminate all but the most severe signs of aging. She must have been turned when she was very old.

“Tanya, I believe this is where we part ways,” Edward says.

She moves to him, pouting, and tugs on the shiny sleeve of his black suit. It’s an odd contrast; her made up face and the childishness of the motion. “Darling, I could always join you in the Zeppelin. Just like old times.”

He removes her hands and kisses her lightly on the cheek, so quick I almost don’t see it. “I think you have other Districts to see to.”

“I only have District 12 left. Everyone knows their story anyways; two sad, emaciated humans going off to die. Boo hoo.” She looks up at Edward for approval.

I have to force myself not to spit in Tanya’s crimson eyes. We are people. She can’t just joke about us dying. Except, I can’t stop her, so I guess she can.

“We all must make sacrifices,” Edward says coldly, his eyes flitting towards mine.

He knows about my thoughts. And he’s going to do what? Sacrifice me? Kill me? But his gaze doesn’t seem angry as they catch mine. So maybe he’s going to hurt me for my thoughts.

Her eyes narrow. “Well, ta-ta for now then,” Tanya says, before giving a jaunty little wave and disappearing.

With an economical gesture of the hand, Edward commands the three of us towards the sphere.

Edward and I get in on one side and Jasper and Rosalie on the other. Immediately after we enter, the carriage lurches into motion. As I’m thrown back from the lurch, I can’t help but meet Rosalie’s eyes across from me. I know that she’s powerful now, that she could destroy me with just a thought, but I don’t care. I scowl at her for all I’m worth.

“What?” she says, as if she actually has no clue why I’m staring at her. Although she glares right back despite her confusion. This isn’t surprising. Glaring was always Rosalie Hale’s default expression.

Maybe she’s forgotten. Maybe she doesn’t remember what she did to me, who I am. The process of being a vampire dulls human memories, all but the most important.

I’d think informing on your best friend’s mother would be an important memory, but it’s possible I’m wrong. It’s possible that Rosalie Hale doesn’t remember how she ruined my life.

I invited her to my mother’s birthday party, because she was my best friend. For all the beatings she gave me (and I beat her up a few times just as good), she wasn’t a bad friend. She terrorized anyone who teased me about my inability to shoot a bow, and when Garrett, an eleventh year I had a crush on, ended up going out with Kate, Rosalie told everyone that he had gotten a 2 on his last sparring quiz.

After she came to the party and heard my mother sing the song about flowers, she told someone. Maybe her parents, maybe a teacher, maybe she wrote a letter to the President himself, I don’t know.

I know it was her, because she didn’t speak to me all day in training-school, and when I got to my house after staying late for afterschool, everything was wrong.

Everything I owned, not the expensive stuff, but the important things: photos, recipes, clothes, the jar we used to keep the moths we caught in summer, the preserves of jams, lay strewn across the yard. There caught on the branches of the little tree out in front dangled the dress my mother had worn only yesterday.

Our other things were hidden in the grass, toy trucks, chipped coffee-mugs, pictures, picture-books with the pages torn out fluttering lamely the clipped-wings of a dying bird.

“What are you doing here?” said someone behind me.

I whirled to see Rosalie. She looked as confused as I felt, but instead of staring at the wreckage outside of my house, she was staring at me. Like I was the anomaly.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, cold as if she was talking to a first year that had tried to get too friendly.

“Rose?” Her nickname sounded wrong the moment I said it. Even though everything was a mess she looked almost sterile standing there. Sterile and formal.

“You should be at your home,” she mumbled.

Rosalie never mumbled. Her whole strategy was beauty and charisma.

The world was upside down.

“This is my home.” I said, my voice rising in confusion and anger.

“Not anymore,” she said bitterly.

Coldness seeped into me. “What?”

She just stood there, silent and beautiful. Like it was just part of her strategy—to seem invulnerable.

“Why is all my stuff on the lawn?” I repeated, louder.

A light breeze picked up, stealing between the strands of her shiny, straight, blond hair, animating it.

“Rose! Seriously, this is a shitty joke, even for you.”

She tried to step away from me, but I couldn’t just let her go. She knew something about why everything was so wrong, and she wasn’t telling me. She was supposed to be my friend.

Using my back foot, I propelled myself forward. She hit the ground with a thud and I followed soon after, but she shouldn’t have gone down so easy.

She let me push her back into the dirt, not moving to break my hold. “If this your house, why isn’t your father stopping us?”

“Rose, what’s your pro—”

Finally she turned to look at me again, but her gaze wasn’t just cold, it was glacial. “Why isn’t your mother here?”

“I don’t know!” I yelled. I was just about thrust my fist into the side of her jaw with all my might, because I didn’t know what else to do, when I heard the thump of heavy boots.

Peacekeeper boots. I turned around, expecting my father, my strong, stoic father. He wouldn’t tolerate people doing things like this to his family, his house.

But when I turned, it wasn’t just father’s face that greeted me, just an anonymous Peacekeeper. And there, behind him, was my brother.

Ben didn’t even look worried. He always looked awkward and frightened before my mom died, but that day his back was straight and his gaze flinty and strong. Holding his hand, looking so lost, like a child, like an animal, was my father, the strongest man I ever knew— broken.

“Charles, Benjamin, and Isabella Swan, you are hereby relocated to grey-level,” said the Peacekeeper.

“What?” I asked, choked.

Rosalie looked away. I don’t know if she was ashamed or just couldn’t see my face as I looked at my brother.

In his hand, my brother held up the letter.

Embossed on it was a blood red-seal and the words, in flowing red, script, “The Empire appreciates your contribution.”

Rosalie was the reason my mother was dead.

Abruptly, the pod is filled with the pink light of breaking dawn. The tunnel has ended. I hadn’t noticed in the darkness, but the hull of the pod is semi-transparent, a cross between steel and glass.

I press my cheeks to the cold wall-window and look at outside. It’s a blur, but I’m able to see things that are far enough away, like the craggy shoreline and the tall tree surrounded by gravestones, crowding like children around a teacher eager to hear a story. The fog is gone now, migrated somewhere else; soon I will have too.

The countryside morphs from the half-wild ruins of suburbia to long stretches of deserted fields. Then even those are swallowed up by rag-tag bands of trees.

All the Morphing Game Prospectives go the capitol, Volterra, for the opening ceremony, but I don’t know how far away it is. Rumor has that it’s located on the East Coast, in the North near a waterfall so tall and fierce that if you tried to swim underneath it, you’d drown. The oceans swallowed up most of the eastern seaboard, so Volterra is now a coastal town too.

Gradually, so gradually that at first it’s almost imperceptible, the pod begins to slow, until it stops right on the edge of a field of rust-colored stalks of wheat. But as I exit the pod, I don’t notice the way the trees here are so much brighter than the dying ones near the lake, or how bitingly fresh the air is.

All I can focus on is the thing resting on the grain.

It looks a lot like the pod, but much, much larger, and warped slightly, like the back a spoon, taking in light, color and distorting it.

If Ben were here his jaw would drop. He loved big, moving things when he was little.

“I’ve heard it said that traveling in it is like riding in the clouds,” Edward breathes against my ear.

I jump a little, bumping into his chest, and I can swear he rumbles with inaudible mirth before I step away from him.

“Others say it’s like dissolving into the ether. Some consider it a spiritual experience.”

I root my feet into the ground. If I turn around I’ll know exactly how close he is, and I can’t know that. Just the possibility that he is as close as he is, is doing frightening things to my stomach.

I briefly contemplate running off into the field. But there’s no cover to hide in, and even if was he would have no problem catching me. My face would be reflected in the surface of the zeppelin—it catches every scrap of light.

“And what do you think?” I ask I can almost feel him, even though he’s not touching me. Just a few more millimeters and I will be able feel his muscles explicitly.

He waits so long to speak that finally I pivot, expecting to see him right behind me. Instead he’s leaning indolently against the bottom of the balloon, gazing at his reflection with mocking curiosity. “I think that four black horses and a chariot would be more appropriate.”

I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

He’s not making any sense, and he has to know that he’s not. He’s playing with his food. I can’t help but turn towards the grain-edged horizon and step toward it. But before I can take another step, he is standing right in front of me.

“Sorry, Persephone,” he says soft as the wind brushing against the top of the stalks. “No running away.

I move to the side, but he grabs my wrist, not hard, but tightly enough I know I won’t be able to get out. The tips of his fingernails graze the inside of my wrists right over the branching tributaries of my veins.

My heart beats so loudly I can hear it.

Immediately, he drops my hand and stills, like he’s been flushed out of hiding. Yet I am the one being hunted.

Then as if he hadn’t just started, he gestures upward to the sky. “Unfortunately, black horses or not, we have places to be, and the Cloud Gate waits for no man or beast.”

It’s almost like he’s speaking another language, a beautiful one, but one I don’t understand all the same.

I tip my head back, my hair falling slightly out of the twist, tickling the back of my neck, as I see my own face, contorted and enlarged in the mirror-balloon. “Cloud Gate?”

He smiles, eyes slightly hooded. “It’s the name of the zeppelin. Do try to keep up, Isa-”

“My name’s not Persephone or Isabella. It’s Bella.” It’s a long shot, but maybe if he sees me as a person and not just as a name from a slip of paper, he’ll decide not to kill me for my thoughts.

“Come, Isabella,” is all he says in reply.

So much for my strategy.

Despite the command he doesn’t move, his hand remains immobile saluting the giant zeppelin.

Then I see why.

In response to his motion, unfolding from the belly of the balloon and down to the ground is a long arm of stairs. It contorts and unfurls, each tread popping out like a finger out of a fist.

Before it is even down to the ground, Edward jumps onto it, and once the jump is manageable, I follow. The ladder shakes slightly as we walk up it, and I realize that it’s lifting up off of the ground.

Finally, the name makes sense because of the movement and reflection the upper edge of it seems to be made of sky and the lower half earth. It really is a gate to the clouds.

Edward closes the hatch behind me, and I’m left looking at a long hallway. “Take off your shoes,” he commands, a blur as he slips out of his brown loaders

I bend down to try and try to untie my laces, but by fingers are trembling too much to pick open the knot. Is he going to kill me now?

I look up to Edward whose expression is unreadable as ever. He leans forward, and I flinch. Now. He’s going to do it now. Break my neck. It would be so easy.

But the blow never comes. Instead, he bends over, and in seconds my shoes are off. I shiver at the feeling of his cold hands through my threadbare socks.

“I did ask you to keep up, didn’t I?” is all he says for explanation before setting off at a brisk walk.

I have to jog to keep up as we make a few turns along the long corridor. As I run, I discover why he wanted me to take off my shoes. The floor bends. There’s no other way to describe it. It doesn’t bend much with each step, not enough to be alarming, but ever so slightly.

“Is this some kind of glass balloon?” I joke. I have to joke; the only other option is fainting from the fear that at any moment Edward is going to rip me apart for my treasonous thoughts.

But now in such a tight space, the truth of my situation becomes clear. I am trapped.

Edward makes a sound that must be a laugh, but it seems more like a cough. Humor never was my strong suit, but I seem to amuse him a little at least. Maybe he won’t rip me limb from limb.

“A glass balloon,” he says. “If Marcus heard you call his precious Cloud Gate a balloon.”

Before I can reply, he points to a door. “Look.”

I can’t help but stare at his hands pointing; they are large but his fingers are still tapered and long.

I look at him blankly. The door isn’t opening.

He could have killed me in the field, but maybe he wanted to wait until I had let down my guard. Didn’t want a scream to disturb the other Prospective.

But I can’t take it anymore, the waiting.

“Just get it over with.” I blurt out.

His eyes narrow, “Get what over with?”

He was going to make me say it out loud? Fine. “Just kill me.”

He chuckles that same low laughter that makes me prickle in a way I’ve never felt before.

He leans over slightly, so that we are eye to eye. “Why would I kill you, Isabella?”

It’s hard to think when he says my name like that. “B-because you heard my thoughts.”

“Did I?” He moves closer until his cold breath tickles the tip of my nose.

I square my jaw. I will not die afraid. “Tanya said that you could read thoughts.”

He smiles and I can see every tooth, even the fangs. “I can.”

“So?” I will not close my eyes. I will look my killer in the face, make him realize what he’s killing is alive, is a person.

“Silly girl, I’m not going to kill you.” He admonishes, and to my great surprise brings out a finger to touch my face. Stroking it. Something in me clenches. “Even if I could read your thoughts, I wouldn’t care whatever heretical thoughts you have.”

“Y-you don’t?” It is so unfair. My mom died for one little song. And Edward must have heard my every explicit hatred of vampires, and he’s going to do nothing. Why do I deserve this? I almost feel disappointed.

His hand is at the underside of my chin now, and goose bumps have emerged from my skin like buds from the dirt.

“Not an iota,” he says so fiercely, the words seem like they’ll combust.

His hand leaves my face. Involuntarily, I lean forward.

His eyes darken, but he raises a hand over his head and snaps his finger, behind him the door opens.

Watching his fingers press together like that, so fast and hard, makes me blush. “Is that your power too?” I ask, and it comes out oddly breathless.

Edward chuckles, raising an eyebrow. “No, the door is just the magic of vampire engineering and electronics.”

I move away from him cautiously, still not sure that he isn’t going to come from behind me and snap my neck.

“I’m not quite finished with you yet, Isabella.” All mirth is gone from his voice.

I stop suddenly, all of the hairs on the back of my neck raising. “Yes?”

His expression turns sharp and serious “Dinner’s at eight. Do not be late; you and I have things to discuss. You may do whatever you please until then. There are clothes in the closet, and breakfast on the bed. The reaping should be on the vid-screen. I strongly encourage you to watch your competition.”

‘Thanks,” I say, the thought of food pushing away my fear of Edward. Will it be real food and not the blood flavor bars? Maybe it will be hot and steaming. Saliva floods my mouth at the thought, and I find myself scrambling through the doorway.

Once through, I turn around and give a slow clap, not sure exactly how this will close it, but the door swings shut in spite of my hesitation. This seems silly to me. If you can move at super-speed, with super strength, how are you too lazy to open a door?

The room in front of me isn’t grandiose like the Blood Bank, but looks rich in a different way. Every surface, except for the bed, desk, and a few chests of drawers, is made of a smooth malleable material; the same material making up the mirror-balloon, as I’ve dubbed it, and the floor. The ceiling appears to be slightly convex, as if it’s a canopy. On the right wall is a small screen, and as Tanya said, it’s playing re-runs of the Reapings. I’ll need to watch that soon to understand my competition.

But first I am drawn to the plate of food lying on a tray on my bed. There’s a tall glass of some pink liquid I’ve never seen before, as well as plate of toast and waffles. The toast is coated with a thin white and yellow film of eggs. Circling the perimeter of the plate are lines of strawberry’s cut into quarters. The artfulness of the display lasts approximately two seconds before it is in my mouth.

As I scarf down the food, I watch the Reapings. What I see causes me to slow my pace of consumption, and eventually push the plate aside all together. For all the luxury, I had almost forgotten the price I had paid, what was to come. The recaps of the Reapings remind me.

The first Reaping looks almost festive. District 1, the richest of all the districts, produces luxury goods. The women are wearing dresses that look more like cupcakes and columns than clothing, and then men are in suits.

Unsurprisingly, the Prospectives are two volunteers.

Aston Martin and Volvina Doubleyuu look every inch the perfect perspectives from their blank faces, beady eyes to their midnight skin and matching silver dreadlocks.

But the tone of the other Reapings is very different.

For one, in not one other district does anyone volunteer.

Except for in District 10.

Unlike District 1, the Reaping Room of District 10 is not theatrical, but over-illuminated by fluorescent lights, with only a makeshift stage below which the crowd stands.

I pause the video and peer closer to check something.

Oddly enough, there doesn’t appear to be families or any other smaller groups, just row upon row of shaved head and empty eyes, like soldiers. Even odder, the moment the liaison gets on stage, the same vampire from District 1 who looks much less at home in the moldy basement than on the mahogany stage, the crowd explodes into sound.

It’s hard to tell the boy apart from the girl, let alone the girls apart from each other. But eventually two scramble out of the crowd and onto the stage. But unlike the volunteers of District 1, they don’t seem in any way physically fit or possessing any skills that could lead them to victory.

This happens every year; the District 10’s are always the most eager to participate and they are usually the first to die. I’ve never understood, and even high definition doesn’t clarify this mystery.

Only a few other contestants stick out to me. From District 3, in what looks to have been a school auditorium, a small girl with dark hair and darker eyes who seems to be on the stage before they’ve even called her name, even though when I rewind I see she was in the twenties pen, the one farthest away from the stage.

A sly, slender girl with a mane of bright curly red hair from District 7, takes her place in the out-door amphitheater bordered by tall winter-trees.

Most hauntingly, is a girl from District 6, who were it not for the pale skin and bronze-curls, looks exactly like Emily, with her big brown eyes. She’s a child. Unlike Emily, though, she doesn’t cry as she walks up to the platform, and also unlike Emily, when she stands on stage there is no desperate voice volunteering for her.

The racketeers would have put her odds as being abysmal in any other year, but this year she’s not the only child.

From District 3 is a small boy with black hair and almond eyes who doesn’t ever meet the camera head on, and from District 8, a girl obviously too tall for her body, lanky with early adolescence. Most surprisingly, a pair of twelve-year-old twins is called from District 11.

This shouldn’t be my competition. There should be large eighteen-year olds, the kind who know how to use axes and blowguns. Looking at the pictures of the small, frightened children that come on stage, I can’t help but feel that this is going to be impossible. How can I watch these children die? How can I kill them?

After I finish watching the Reapings, I draw the covers over my head, much like I had earlier yesterday morning. Was it really only a morning ago? As I drift off to sleep, I can’t help but remember the face of the girl with the bronze curls. She is so pale, so delicate looking. I won’t be surprised if she is the first to go.

In my dreams I cradle her to my breast and whisper in her ear, “I’ll love you forever.”

She turns her face, curls bouncing, cheeks dimpled with a smile. “Mommy, tell me again.”

But this time I don’t say anything. I just raise my hand, and claw out her eyes.

She doesn’t even cry as the blood runs down her cheeks.

I wake up screaming, clutching at sheets.

And I know the answer to how I’m going to watch them die.

I’m not.

I know what I have to do.

I don’t know how I’m going to do it, or if it’s even possible. But I know I have to do it, even if it means my own death.

I’m not going to watch the children die. I’m certainly not going to kill them.

No.

I’m going to save them.

EPOV OUT TAKE

 

Authors Note:

So first off! Huuuge thank you for the out-pouring of reviews on the last chapter.  Both sites went well over the 100 review finish line.  So here is your reward (with disclaimers).

Warning! This may make no sense! The problem with writing EPOV, and why I won’t do it often (ever again?) is that he knows WAY more than Bella does at this point. And the engimaticness of his feelings/understanding of what the HELL is going on is a key point for the plot. After the story’s finished, I might do more of these, but I doubt before then.

You aren’t supposed to understand what’s going on, with the plot. All will be revealed as the story goes on. Also I apologize for grammar mistakes. This is un-beta’d and un pre-read.

All in all this is an unofficial part of the story. So read at your own risk.  I wrote this for myself to help aide with my own understanding of Edward. But you guys gave me such wonderful reviews and I am loathe to renig on a promise. So here it is.

(I know for f.f readers I said I’d be making it as a separate story, but the lack of word count made it hard for me to justify.)

—
I know everything about Isabella Swan.

I know every grade she’s ever gotten, every sparring partner she’s ever beaten, every bone she’s ever broken.

I know how she tastes.  I’ve been drinking her blood for a year now. In my pent-house in Volterra there is a vault where I keep every donation she’s given. When Esme comes over for our nightly chats, we sip it.

I didn’t always drink it with such civility.

The first time I drank Isabella’s Swan’s blood I was in the outskirts of Chicago, by a gravestone.

My gravestone.

I don’t know why I returned there after wandering the earth. It wasn’t homesickness. Chicago hadn’t been home since I died there among the feverish dying bodies, and unsanitary funeral pyres. If anything Forks was home, but that was long gone too.

I think I was following a flock of birds, for food. I tracked them across the plains, the abandoned farms, the canyons carved by acid rain. There weren’t many mountain lions left to hunt, but no matter what I had done I wasn’t going to kill a human.

I had too many human deaths to my name. Two-thousand-three-hundred of those in the last hundred years.  Yet I hadn’t had crimson eyes since the days before Carlisle died.

Needless to say, I had been following birds and squirrels for a while.

It was coincidence that the birds landed in Chicago.

It wasn’t coincidence that Esme (dressed still in her poofy 1950s housewife garb, with the sticks in her hair and wild eyes) found me there, nursing the broken-necked goose.

It wasn’t coincidence that she brought me into her icy arms, and said chocked with laughter and tears she couldn’t shed,  “You’ve got to eat better.”

No, that was love.

Something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Something I didn’t deserve. Not from her of all people.

As I extricated myself out of her arms, I asked, “Why are you here?”

For an answer she popped open the cork of a vial that held Isabella’s blood. “Drink,” she said.

 

With the first sip I was unconscious from pleasure. Vampires aren’t supposed to ever lose awareness, but I did. It was easily the highlight of my too-long existence.

Esme knew I would do anything for the blood. Even return to the citadel that held my sins, my demons—Volterra.

But if I would do anything for blood, than I would do everything to make up for my mistakes.

Isabella’s Swan’s blood has other benefits than being unbearably delicious. Benefits that allowed us to begin sowing the seeds of our revolution in earnest. After drinking Bella’s blood, my mind became as inscrutable to Aro as hers is to mine.

I would have been content to merely plot for eternity, but then Esme had one of her bouts of womanly intuition, as she calls them. In truth, she is a Seer of the highest caliber, but if Aro believes her a piddling old woman all the better.

No one suspects a widowed housewife of revolution. Not one who makes scrap-books and still decorates the table with seasonal place-settings even when there’s no food and the seasons are mutilated by global warming.

One night in August, we sat at a table at my pent-house in Volterra. A hundred years Esme kept it for me, so nothing was touched by decay. Vampire engineering—my engineering—was beyond impeccable, so the twisted, vacant silver tower was still structurally sound.

Our hands looked so pale, clasped there together against the black, polished ebony of the table. The room was silent, only the muted ticking of the grand-father clock.

Edward, she thought. I’ve had a vision. She held up the thin-stemmed wine glass filled with Isabella’s blood. About your singer.

“Finally trust my control?” I asked.

Esme had kept the information from me out of fear that if I knew the source of the blood I would seek it out and drain it dry. There was also the matter of each of us having as little information as possible, in case we were ever compromised.

She fiddled with the lacy tea-cozy she always placed underneath her wineglass. Unlike me she respected the sanctity of wood varnish.

And then she showed me the vision.

The vision I am fulfilling now, as I watch Isabella walk towards me, to the stage.

But I know more than the vision.

I know everything.

Thankfully, Aro still sees me as something of a son. He was thrilled with my return, even more thrilled with my newly crimson eyes. So leaving Volterra to come to Chicago to observe Isabella wasn’t a problem.

Once there, I was struck by how little had changed since the take-over. The humans were still kept corralled in their playpens of broken streets and graffitied walls.

Much sickens me about what the world has become. But nothing physically repulsed me more than what had been done to my old home. I can’t help but remember the days when I patrolled the streets for the scum of the earth, before Carlisle found me. I tried so hard then to protect the innocent.

And now?

Now similar scum rule Chicago. Rule the world.

But not for long.

Not if Isabella follows my plans.

Which she will.

As I said, I know her.

I’ve followed her, seen her reflection in of every mind that thinks they know her.

I know that her first word was da-da. Or at least that is what her father remembers it as being. This is the image he holds in his head, Isabella’s small hand reaching out for his own, as he watches her come up to the stage to sacrifice herself for a girl he thinks she’s never even met before. (This is one of his moments of greater clarity. Most of the time he spends counting steps, trying to think of something, anything, except for his dead wife’s face. He was worse than useless in my quest to understand my singer.)

I know of every illegal escape she’s made from the city-walls to meet with that boy. The one who thinks he knows her.

He doesn’t, of course.

There is cruelty in Isabella that he will never understand. He is so preoccupied with the curve of her chest, or the few times she smiles, that he doesn’t think to ask himself why she really tried to kill herself. In truth, he doesn’t want to know.

But his ignorance is to be expected. He’s young, strapping and gay. Back when there were boy scouts he likely would have been one. He wears his badge of ignorance proudly, anyway.

But for all his naïveté, he knows things I don’t. He’s felt the friction of her hand sliding into his, the brush of finger-tip on finger-tip. He knows how her lips pull over her teeth when she smiles. Whether or not she has dimples. He’s heard the melodic line of her laugh.

My dirty little secret will always be that I almost everything I’ve seen or heard about Isabella Swan, I’ve heard through the boy.

I doubt she will ever laugh with me.

I shouldn’t want to.

Her smile is irrelevant.

But even though I have seen the sea swallow the shore in waves as tall as mountains, peered into the cracks of the earth and seen the magma core festering below, as the volcanoes spewed ash and fire into the sky, the fact that I haven’t seen her smile makes me feel as if I haven’t seen anything at all.

As I watch her on the stage, looking so painfully terrified, and yet so brave, I can’t help but yearn to see her smile through my own eyes and not the boy’s.

When she turns to look at me, I am surprised with my own composure. I shouldn’t be. I’ve had centuries of practice with it. Living on the outskirts of reality, in ignorance about the exact nature of my own sins.

She is nothing but a means to an end.

I don’t feel bad thinking of her as such. We all must make sacrifices to the greater good. And I have miles to go before I will have given enough to make up for what I did.

But I have knowledge now. I have lots of things I thought I had lost forever.

A plan being perhaps the most notable.

But with the girl standing in front of me, grasping the hand of the even littler girl, Emily was it, (in the end she’s irrelevant), I have something else, too.

Hope.

Of course being the sexy, awful bastard that I am—Tanya’s words on my return and subsequent refusal of her advances—I want more.

Not just her blood. Although as I step closer to her I have a hard time reigning in my fantasies of her broken neck, blood decanted by my teeth. I have never been this close to her before. All my spying took place from a palatable distance.

I want her thoughts.

But fate has a black sense of humor, or at least irony. Because just as I can’t have her blood; I can’t have those either.

I know her through the eyes of others. I’ve assembled scraps of memories, mosaics of lies, truths and shades between them.

But I’ve never been introduced to her. I’ve never met her really.

“Announce it,” I say.

I am deluded if I think just hearing her name will sate the hunger in me, but it’s a start. What I really need her to say is my name, but that can wait.

“Announce your name.”

She looks up at me with anger and fear.

I want—

No.

But her name. I can have that for now. What harm is there in a name?

I have read her files so many times, seen the construction of syllables an etymology.  Swan, a bird long extinct. Bella, a diminutive of Isabella, but also the adjective in Italian meaning, beautiful. O che bella giornata. What a beautiful day.

Her lips purse, forming the words.

She says it.

“I’m I-Isabella Swan.”

And I know immediately I was wrong.

There is great harm in a name.

From the side I hear the other boy, Rosalie’s brother, snicker. His thoughts are bloody dreams of glory that I prefer not to indulge in, despite his charming smile. I wonder if Isabella knows that her most daunting opponent stands beside her.

My penchant for stories and myths has cost me greatly, but even now I compare Jasper to the pied piper. His charisma is his pipe.

Sometimes, I wish I didn’t have to see all of Esme’s visions.

“I am Isabella Swan and I volunteer for the 100^th Morphing Games,” the force of her yell jars my sensitive hearing. But somehow I am grateful even for that. I like her scream, I realize. Perhaps like is the wrong word, it is more that her scream is so much of her. She is so vivid, when she yells. The color of her soul brightens and flickers in front of me.

And then of course. I know.

Little, foolish girl, what have you done?

Feelings that I can’t afford to have, creep into my chest.

She can’t stop looking at me either. Like a child seeing the sky for the first time, she is all coltish wonder and girlish innocence.

It does things to a man to be stared at like that.

But I am not a man.

I am a monster.

And Isabella Swan will pay the price for it.

I’ll be taking her to the river of bones, and encouraging her to journey to Hell without lyre or bargain. But, in the end I will not be able to force her to abide by my plan. I can already tell this will be hard. She brings out force and violence in me.

If I look deeper I would hazard to say that around her I feel almost afraid.  Esme would say I am afraid of losing her. Perhaps in part. But I think mostly I am afraid of how she makes me feel.

Once the ceremony is over and the goodbyes begin, I move to the shadows. I have lost focus, here, being so close to her. Analyzing my reaction to the girl, I wonder if perhaps other parts of Esme’s vision were accurate as well.

But no, I realize as she asks for her family and the boy, Isabella cannot be anything to me but a tool, something to be wielded in the coming battle.

With this thought, it is surprisingly easy to watch Isabella in pain.

I had thought it would be harder to watch a young girl being forced to say goodbye to her loved ones.

But then again, only one of them actually loves her.

Not her father, who is gone, continually lost in memory. Even as he holds out his hand for her to squeeze he isn’t seeing her face, but her mother’s. Isabella doesn’t know it, but that was the dress her mother wore the day Charlie proposed.

Certainly not her brother. He hates her. Not just because she blinded him, although that’s his excuse. In truth, it’s because he just wanted a friend after their mother died. And she didn’t want to be his friend. She didn’t know how.

He remembers that vividly. He wishes he could say goodbye, could forgive her, but he can’t, even now. Because he’s sure that his sister will never love him.  (you don’t blind someone you love, is his mantra.) And if he can’t have her love, then he’ll take her guilt.

But he’ll always hate that he’s sure she doesn’t love him.

And nothing hurts worse when she tries to pretend that she does.

The blond woman, Prim, might love Isabella. She is a mind full of light and goodness like I haven’t felt since Carlisle.

The boy loves her though. For certain. He’s never told her, but he does.

I don’t like the boy.

The thought that her pain mirrors his makes it much easier to withstand.

As he wraps her in his arms, I realize I hate him.  It’s odd. I have been so consumed with hate for ideas, first for the newborns, then the Volturi, it’s a strange feeling to have my loathing be so focused.

No matter.

She will be free of him soon enough.

In exactly– “One minute,” I say.

He glares at me and I offer him a fraction of my own feeling in return.

I am pleased when he backs down. This is as it should be. He may have bits of Isabella I will never get, but I know Isabella’s sins.

I know why her brother glares at her. I know why his eye is clouded.

I know she did it.

I understand her cruelty.  Because the same thing resides in my still-heart. (I have no soul to house such things as a personality.)

Unlike the boy scout, she doesn’t back-down when I stare at her.

My eyes narrow. Careful little one. Stare to long at the abyss and it will stare back. Bravery or no.

Her defiance makes her beautiful, even though the dress she wears is far too small and her nose more than slightly crooked. (A fight with a schoolmate in year five.)

But for a moment as she stares at me, it is not at all coltish.

It says, “Test me. Forge me anew.”

If the little woman-child knew what her eyes asked then I would oblige.

But she doesn’t.

I probably will test her anyway. Her brand of defiance and fear makes my blood sing.

It makes me want to play beautiful, terrible games with her, against her.

Play them and win.

I am a monster after all.

But when the little chubby girl gives her the pin, I remember.

Isabella is a spoke in the wheel.

(I don’t call her Bella, it would make her even more bound to me.)

She belongs not to me, but to the revolution.

I can never have her.

And maybe this is why I hate the boy.

Because he could have had her.

In some ways-

(As I tear him away from her all he thinks about is the kiss they shared on the beach, replayed in lurid and embellished detail)

-he did.

 

Chapter Six with Commentary

[6]

Everyone’s looking at me, but it’s Jacob’s eyes that pop out. In them, surprise, fear, rebuke, but above everything else: gratitude. His eyes are the only reason that I don’t shout out that I take it back. That I don’t scream that I don’t want to die. That, I don’t want to kill.

Emily was halfway to the podium when I volunteered. Now she stands stock still, glancing back to the rafters desperately.

The walk to reach her is one of the longest of my life. My cheeks burn and whispers trail after me like smoke after fire.

When I reach her, I give her a shaky smile. “Come on,” I say, “you just have to go to the stage with me, that’s all.”

I think Jacob must have lied about her liking me, because she looks at me skeptically. Still, I have to admit she’s cute, even with her swollen nose and tear-stained cheeks.

She shakes her head from side to side, no doubt remembering the talk of duels, and when I pushed her down earlier today.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I promise,” I say. It’s true. I won’t be hurting her. I’ll be hurting other children instead.

I hold out a shaking hand. She looks at it for a long moment.

“Okay,” she whispers, “but I want to go to Jacob right afterwards.”

She takes it.

I nod, but I’m not sure how people are taking this. Do me holding her hand make me look like a hero? I almost feel like one; I almost don’t have to work to keep my neck elongated and gait rolling.

When we get to the stage, Tanya motions us to stand a few feet apart, but Emily doesn’t let go of my hand. I’m afraid Tanya’s going to break her fingers in trying to pry her away from me, but then Rosalie whispers harshly, “Just let them hold hands.”

But it’s not until the alabaster man, Edward, adroitly moves Tanya away from me that she stops. “Please, Tanya, you know how these things can drag.” Unlike Tanya, his capitol accent doesn’t sound affected, just smooth. Like the tailoring of his midnight suit hugging his lean thighs.

Even now, even facing the possibility of my own death, I can’t help the shiver that comes over me at the timbre of Edward’s voice. Almost against my own will, I turn to look at him.

I’m surprised to see him looking back at me intensely, not with sophisticated apathy, but with something else. He doesn’t smile or move his face; his eyes, as blood-red as every other vampire, just bore into me. It’s as if he’s trying to strip-mine my soul.

“And who are you?” he whispers, so soft I think only I’m supposed to hear it.

I can’t help but feel as if I am his prey. As if he is going to consume me. But the weird part is, I don’t want to run—no, my first instinct is to tip back my neck and offer him a sip.

Thankfully, my first instincts always come quick enough to be analyzed, and I’m able to stop myself and turn my frank staring into a glare.

“Edward, just read her thoughts for it,” says Tanya, waving a hand.

Read my thoughts? Oh no. All at once, my knees weaken. Now instead of Emily holding onto me out of fear, I’m leaning on her. She can’t support all of my weight and looks up at me, wide-eyed.

I know that vampires have powers. We learned about it in school, but never occurred to me that there might one who could read my mind. ( I imagine that they learn about basic powers like super-speed and tracking maybe. But the “special powers” they don’t actually learn about.)

His eyes don’t move from mine. I’m drowning in them, losing air. What has he heard inside my mind? Does he know how much I hate vamp—

I eliminate the thought as soon as it enters my brain, but it’s already too late. The moment he looked inside my head, he must have seen all the treasonous thoughts I have.

Will he report me? Can you disqualify a Prospective? Could he change me to Chattel status? Technically, I’m not even an official Prospective yet. Maybe, he’ll just deny my offer to volunteer. If Emily’s life wasn’t at stake I would—

Another thought I can’t afford to finish.

“I’d like to hear her say it.” He turns away from me.

Maybe I can run? It’s impossible of course; I’m on a stage with thousands of people watching my every move. Where would I even go? (Bella planning on running away is a something of a running gag in the next couple of chapters.

His eyes meet mine again. (as are staring contest between E/B. No lemons only staring contests lolol. In all seriousness. I don’t know if there ever will be a lemon in this story. I’m not quite sure the story calls for it, but we’ll see.)

“Announce it,” his eyes darken to crimson. “Announce your name.” (Small parady of the  “say it out loud bit. Was that even in the books.)

“I-sabella Swan,” I stutter.

I think, but I’m not sure, that Jasper Hale smothers a snicker.   (I think people’s love of Jasper is blinding them a bit to his true nature. But then again an important part of my Jasper is his charisma, he ability to decieve.)

Fuck him.

I can’t help but glance to Edward. For reasons I don’t—no, can’t afford to understand—my gaze seems to always get stuck on his face, like burs on cotton. He watches me patiently. (Have you ever had someone like that. I find it’s the first clue I “like” someone, when I can’t stop looking at them, for them. Rarely is it the people who I have some big inner monolougue about how hot they are that I end up with a serious crush on. It’s more subtle than that. For me at least. Also Bella is very naive about her sexuality. Despite being 20. She is a virgin in both my mind and  body.)

Fuck him too.

The crowd, ripples, outstretched, not stopping this. Not doing anything.

Fuck them all.

For the first time, I meet Edward’s steady gaze, unflinchingly. I am not that girl who tried to kill herself in the abandoned building because she felt was guilty. No longer. I will not be ashamed. (Already Edward’s having quite an effect on her, although very few readers seemed to percieve it that way.) If I’m going to do this? If I’m going to die, or worse live forever?

Then I’m going to do it right.

He holds my gaze for a moment longer still. If it wasn’t totally insane I would say there is something sad about the puckering of his brow.

“We still have to contend with the duel!” says Tanya.

“D-duel?” stutters Emily.

“You concede,” Jasper whispers hastily before I can.

He’s going to be a threat. I can tell already. But he’s the one person I won’t feel any guilt about killing, even if he tries to be helpful now. An eye for an eye, a family member for a family member. Right, Rosalie?

“I can read!” Emily yells.

Edward laughs, a dark, low, chuckle that turns my muscles inside out.

This isn’t funny. But I laugh too, because if I don’t I know I will cry.

“No, darling, you concede,” corrects Tanya, hurriedly.

Emily grips my hand even tighter. “I concede,” she says. I give her a little nudge and she looks up at me accusingly. “What?”

“You can go back now, Emily. Go back to Jacob.”

The smile she gives to me is the one that saved her life. It was the sparkle of teeth and earnestness that dimmed my resentment and paranoia.

She scurries down the steps and flutters through the crowd like a moth flying to light.

And I know.

(This is my favorite part of the chapter. There is a huge paralell here to Bella saying she just wants to fix anything in the previous chapter. Now she’s getting something of the oppertunity And while it’s a dark road, one probably with an unhappy end, it’s her first bit of purpose and self-actualization in a long time. Bella is sacrificing her life to save her life, her conception of herself as a good person.

Dying to redeem her own sins.This is what makes her a compelling character to me. She is  in some ways fundamentally selfish. But in other-ways the ultimate picture of self-lessness. Paradox and contrdiction appeal to me greatly.

This isn’t of course to say that Bella will die at the end of the story.

Though it’s certainly possible.)

Whatever the audience thinks, I’m not a hero. I’m not doing this for Emily or even Jacob. I’m doing this for myself. I’m doing this, because as Emily turns around the way she moves reminds me of summer nights outside of our old, big house near the water. Ben and I running in circles under the serenade of the cicadas. Picking weeds and calling them flowers, catching moths and pretending they’re lightening bugs.

Watching Emily run to her family is like watching myself, skipping. Soft, wet grass under-foot, laughing at nothing.

It is as if I have reversed time.

As if I’ve fixed things.

As if I’ve saved them.

Saved myself.

In my memory, my mother calls us in because it’s late. I can almost hear her voice now.

“Three lightening bugs!” She was the one who started the game of calling the moths lightening bugs, stories were Mom’s specialty. “I’m so proud of you, Isabella.”

“Isabella,” she says again, only it’s not her speaking.

I whirl, and come face to face with Edward. He’s closer than he’ ever been before, and for a moment I am enthralled by the riotous forest of hair growing from his scalp. I want to run my fingers through it.

While everything about him is hard, and cold, somehow his eye are gentle. Not earnest, because there is something sardonic about the way his lips turn slightly, but careful.

I’m not a complete idiot, I realize. There is a reason he said my name twice before I turned around. The first time he said it, there was such knowing in his voice, such utter understanding.

He looks at me the way I look at Emily, and says my name the way my mother used to say it.

I want to throw myself into his arms.

(The cornerstone of their Romance will be a deep similarity and understanding of each-other. As well as the contrast inherent in both of their characters. Both are going to sacrifice everything  to change the world–or at least try to–but only because they are trying to save their own souls, moral centers if you will.)

Then I remember where I am, who he is.

(And this is the second part that makes their romance appealing, the contrast. My Edward, as you will come to see, is calculating, cold, extremely sophisticated, in control, and even occasionally playfull.

Bella is his foil, in that she is emotionally voilatle, hasty, and extremely naive. Which is why the Romance hasn’t blossomed through her eyes. She isn’t aware of it.)

He is a monster who has just seen my most intimate, possibly treasonous thoughts. But the only courage I can summon comes from ignoring this fact. (Denial is Bella’s number one psychological fault. This will manifest itself in HUGE ways in the upcoming chapters. She really doesn’t like to plan ahead.) So I rip my gaze from his, and turn inwards and offer my hand to Jasper Hale.

Up close there is a strange flush to Jasper’s cheek and twinkle to his eye. His long, blond hair, flows in waves to his chin and his bright blue eyes almost twinkle at me. How can he be happy now?

We shake hands three times, but instead of breaking apart afterwards, we turn to the crowd and hold our joined hands above our heads. As if we’re a team. As if we’re not planning to kill each other the moment we enter the arena.

“May I present to you, your two Prospectives: Jasper Hale and Isabella Swan! May they die and become!”

The anthem plays one more time, but I am outside of time, outside of my body, outside of the room. In my mind, I am standing on thousands of nickels,(Remember the first chapter! I told you it was forshadowing lol! They put up the statues for a reason!) being faced with a child with a bloody dagger aimed at my heart. I am paralyzed.

Hopefully, it will come across as stoicism (I think Bella is different from Katniss in that she is a little more animated. My Bella owes a lot to Sarah from the movie Labryinth for her characterization to be honest.) to the cameras, because now my every move will be watched, evaluated by human racketeers and vampire sponsors.

As Tanya leads us from the front, through the crowd, the cameras’ heads swivel 360 degrees, following Jasper and I. Rosalie follows behind Tanya at heel, and Edward follows her, moving silently through the shadows. I glance back at him once, to see if he’s looking at me, to see if he really can read my thoughts, but he doesn’t look back.

Jasper’s smart, he’s looking at the crowd waving, not just in general, but picking specific people and making eye contact. I think a girl in the seventeen-pen swoons a little when he blows her a kiss. (Just a random girl. Jasper is kind of a playah.)

All around me, the dissonant screams of the national anthem mix with the shouts of the crowd, all for Jasper of course.

Thank God, I don’t have to worry about winning the sponsorship of District 2. If I did, I would be totally fucked.

After we exit the building, we’re in official custody. I don’t mean in handcuffs or anything, but from now until the Morphing Games, either Tanya, Rosalie or Edward will be present at our side at all times.

They lead us into a small holding room, not unlike the waiting room for the blood letting. It’s funny to imagine how nervous I was then at the thought of failing my quota.

What am I nervous about now? Dying? Or perhaps worse, not dying, being turned into a monster for eternity, becoming like Rosalie.

“Who should we gather for goodbyes?” asks Rosalie brusquely, not even looking at me.

I’m sure Jasper will have millions of friends that will take up most of the time so I blurt out, “Jacob, Ben and Charlie.”

Tanya raises a thin eyebrow at me. “Last names please.”

Rosalie still isn’t looking at me. What is she afraid of? Yes, I hate her. I’d do anything to get revenge for what she did to my family. But I can’t hurt her now. She may as well be one of the statues in the atrium for how vulnerable she is.

Edward stands next to Tanya, looking lazy and indolent. It makes me furious. This is the last time we’ll ever see our families and he looks bored?

“Jasper?” Rosalie asks, and I know the way she looks at her brother, almost afraid.

Oh, of course. She must be worried that I’m going to kill Jasper. It’s a good thing I have Edward as my mentor, and not her. No doubt she would sabotage me.

“Nobody, thanks,” he says—cavalier.

“What? What about your parents?” I ask.

“Jasper,” Rosalie says warningly, “Mother and Father will want to say goodbye to you.”

He smiles coolly at her. “It will be easier for them if I don’t. I don’t think I’ll be able to soothe them as usual, dear Sister.”

Was it all an act, the kissing, manipulating the crowd? He’s as terrified as I am. But then why did he volunteer? No, there has to be another explanation for not wanting to see his parents.

(Jasper is a very layered character, we’ll learn more and more about him as time goes on. Him and Rosalie are key characters.)

Rosalie grits her teeth, “If you insist.”

She disappears, moving at vampire speed.

I can’t help but stare at the spot Rosalie just was at, as if she’ll simply reappear. And then, to my surprise, she does, not a hair out of place. Beside her are Ben, Jacob, Charlie and two other people I didn’t expect—Emily and Prim.

Charlie steps forward first. I hope that he’ll say something, but for a long time, he just stares at me, focused on the bow of my shirt.

“Charlie,” I begin, “I’m entering the Games just like you wanted.” Tears scrape at my eyes, trying to claw their way out—but I won’t let them. The moment I exit this room, the metal animal-cameras will be back in full force. Any show of weakness will be televised.

He grunts. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think he shakes his head a little. As if to say no, he never wanted this.

“Charlie.” He has to say something. This can’t be it. He’s the only person left who really knows me and doesn’t hate me.

But even he can’t look at me.

“Dad,” I say softly.

And finally, he looks at me.

But still he says nothing. Instead he outstretches one of his big hands, weathered and dirty from working and never washing.

As I put my hand in his, I am amazed by how little and pale my fingers look against his. Once, and so softly I can barely feel it, he squeezes my hand.

Before I can say thanks, or wait or anything, his hand falls away and he shuffling backwards with a quick, uneven gait.

For the first time since Mom died, I don’t want him to go.

Maybe it’s bad, but I don’t notice Prim and Ben, holding hands, until they stand in front of me.

“I didn’t want to come,” says Ben awkwardly, but I feel comforted by his uncertainty. Maybe he doesn’t want me dead after all.

“Ben,” says Prim softly, reprimanding. I expect her to say something pithy, about dying and becoming or my health being the best sacrifice to the empire, but instead she says, “Jasper Hale.”

He’s back to charming, as he gives her his full powered smile. “Can I help you, darling?” he asks adopting the Capitol affect.

Prim grips Ben’s hand tighter and gives Jasper an open smile in return. Hers is nice too, but not dazzling. “I just wanted to thank you, for volunteering.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Abruptly, she switches her gaze to me. “And you. I know what you did.”

The room goes silent.

I am going off to die, and this is my going away present? A reminder of my sins? Ben must have told her about his eye.

“I know,” she says. “It’s not my place to forgive you, that’s Ben’s burden, and that’s something he has to come to terms with.”

Next to her, Ben shifts uneasily.

“But I want you to know. I’m going to look after Ben, and Charlie too.” She reaches a hand out to touch Charlie, who surprisingly doesn’t move away from her.

“And, for what it’s worth, I forgive you.”

I let out a startled gasp. Anger, relief and sadness, wash through me. She’s not Ben; she can’t forgive me. And she’s possibly insane too, dating a boy young enough to be her nephew, but her gesture moves me all the same.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. It sounds as sincere as I feel it.

She grabs my hands between hers and brings them up to her mouth, kissing them lightly. “One shouldn’t hate their sisters. No matter what you’ve done, you’re my sister now.” (Prim is Good with a capitol G. Fun/really odd fact! Originally I had her pregnant with Ben’s kid and that’s why he didn’t volunteer. Now I just had them have a conversation.)

I clench my fist, the pain of my nails into my flesh distracting me from tears that will flow over my eyes if I don’t stem the tide.   (Again bella does this all the time. Bad writer’s tic on my part.)

I look over towards Ben, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. “Ben,” I whisper.

“Don’t fuck up, Bella.” He gives a tight expression that could almost be called a grin.

My heart swells with pride and love. I’m not forgiven. But he doesn’t want me dead at least. Then again maybe wishing me dead at this point would be a kindness.

He takes Prim’s small hand and they step out of the room, following the lumbering form of Charlie.

Once they’re gone, they reveal the well-muscled form of my best and only friend.

“Jacob,” I sigh, giving a watery smile as if this is graduation and not the day I’m shipped off to the Capitol to kill or be killed.

He rushes to me so fast I can’t stop him, enveloping me in a tight, warm hug. Emily hangs back.

“I told you not to volunteer, and you do it anyway,” he says, but he doesn’t sound angry at all.

When he releases me from the hug, I can see that he’s crying, thick, wet tears. He doesn’t try to wipe them away or hide them. I envy the luxury. “One of my sisters would’ve taken your place.”

“One of your sisters almost did,” I say wryly.

He rolls his eyes. “No, I mean Leah. She’s strong. Not as strong as you, but she could’ve done alright.”

“Maybe,” I say. But we both know the truth: in the Morphing Games, doing ‘alright’ is synonymous with death. There is no second place.

And I know Leah; most of her fighting ability is intimidation. No one would be afraid of her in the arena, at least not until she showed her self worthy at the Proving.

“Jacob, I need to thank you,” I say, because I realize I never have thanked him, not for saving my life that day, not for showing me the secret beach, not for giving me friendship when I thought I was unworthy of it. I always kind of assumed he was stupid for all of it.

“Fuck it, Bella, don’t say that. Don’t make it sound like you’re not coming back.”

“Pardon,” Edward says from the corner.

We both whirl to glare at him. I hate that something in my stomach drops at his frank look of disapproval.

He raises an eyebrow. “You have five minutes left.”

Jacob’s eyes meet Edward’s, and Jacob shrinks a little.

“Fine,” I say coldly, not backing down. Or maybe I just can’t stop looking at him.

From the corner of my eye, I see his expression shift to surprise. Very few vampires stand up to him, I imagine, and no humans. He has the older look of an original, a vampire made before the change.

One of Jacob’s calloused hands comes up to fiddle with the bow on my chest. “This is pretty. I’m glad you look nice.”

“Jacob,” I warn. “You’re not going to distract me with compliments.”

“Distract you from what?”

“Thanking you. For everything.”

His expression darkens. For a second, I wonder if he’s going to call in my debt and ask for another kiss. I’m not sure how I’d feel about this. Instead he says, “So, if you owe me then I can ask a favor, right?”

“In theory,” I say hesitantly. Will he ask for something more than a kiss? The idea makes me squirm.

“You’ve gotta win.” There he is. The boy from the beach. The boy with the sister. The boy who believes. In things. In me.

“What?”

“You can do it. You said yourself, this is what you’ve spent your whole life training for.”

I haven’t even honestly thought of trying to win. Without realizing it, I guess I just figured that I would lose, if not out of lack of skill, than out of weakness, an inability to kill. And even if I do win. Then what? Then I become like them? A monster? I kill people and as a reward I get to be a parasite forever? I become subsumed into the system that killed my mother.

But I can’t say this. They can still hurt the people I love.

“Of course I’ll win,” I say unconvincingly. To say anything else in front of the vampires would be foolish.

“No. I don’t care, Bella, about anyone else, even if they’re just . . . kids. You have to come home.” His eyes are bereft of tears, and his voice is husky. He’s never looked more like a child. He’s never hurt anyone, not an innocent. He’s asking me to do things he doesn’t comprehend.

(Of course Jacob wants her to survive, but he’s asking her to do really awful things. In the upcoming chapters we’ll explore the motivation for Bella not just giving up in the games.)

“Jacob,” I begin tenderly, smoothing back his hair. “I’m not coming home. Even if I win. That’s just the way it works.”

He shakes his head, escaping from my almost mothering touch and glaring. “You can come visit there’s no rule against visiting your family and friends. She’s here isn’t she?” He throws out a hand to point to Rosalie.

“You’re right,” I say, rubbing my hands over his biceps, trying to calm him, or to be honest, myself.

It doesn’t matter. Even though I saved him from losing his sister, he’s still going to lose me. And now he’s asking me to kill kids just so I can see him one more time. I may have just gouged out one of his eyes for all the damage I’ve done to him.

Except this time, it’s not my fault. I can’t control who I fight or how I die. I may have volunteered, but I didn’t choose to do this. The fact that he’s asking me to kill children, a child that could have been his sister, there’s no one else to blame for that except for the vampires.

“Bella,” he says weakly, “come back from worry-land. (I like this little Jacob-ism. He says it often.) Tell me you’ll do it. Tell me.”

“I’ll tr—”

“No. Tell me you’ll do it. Tell me you’ll win.”

“Enough,” I say so sharply Jacob’s eyes widen. He takes a step back away from me, as if seeing me for the first time. In some ways he is. I imagine I have the same expression I used to when I was on the sparring mat or mixing poisons.

The fear in his eyes hurts, but I’m not going to kill kids. Not for Jacob, not for anyone. My life isn’t worth that.

“I just want you to . . .” he chokes swallowing a sob, looking to me for reassurance that everything is going to be okay.

I shouldn’t be mad at him. This is the last time I’m ever going to see him. And he doesn’t know how damaging violence is—to everyone.

“Let’s not ruin our goodbye, Jacob,” I say softly, grabbing his hand before he can turn around.

“One minute,” says Edward. And I have to stop myself from turning around just to look at his face again.

Jacob draws back, and for a second, I think he’s about to leave. But he only bends down, and whispers something very quickly to Emily, who scampers forward.

“B-bella,” she says, her voice still racked with nervousness. She looks towards Tanya, the clock, and clears her throat. “I’ve got a present for you.” She holds out her hand, much like I had held out my hand to her earlier that night.

Something bright and silver flashes up at me: a pin, an expensive one at that. Is that real silver? It can’t be? “That’s not what you scavenged from the beach today.”

“I know,” she says brightly. “I traded an old woman for it. She really seemed to want that bottle cap pin from the beach.”

Whoever traded a bottle-cap for this pin needs to be hidden in away in the attic or risk being changed to Chattel status on grounds of insanity. The pin is beautiful, an interlocking set of bull horns cast in silver. I bend over closer to get a better look. The silver seems real.

“She said to tell you that Greasy Ol Sae wanted you to have it.” Emily gives a giggle. “What kind of a name is Greasy Ol Sae? Do you think she eats too many Fatty blood bars?” It’s good to see that Emily is able to recover easily from the fright of the Reaping. She will have nightmares though. I’m sure.

“I’d love to have this as my token,” I say gently, as I take the silver pin and fasten it onto my dress.

“Time,” says Edward coolly.

“Wait!” Jacob pleads.

This time, it’s Tanya who speaks, “The rules are strict on this, we can’t dither around here all day. This isn’t even the fun part!” (Oh sadisitic Tanya.)

Emily lunges towards Jacob, grabbing the edge of his gray-jumpsuit, afraid of the two beautiful, deadly creatures moving towards us.

“Bella,” says Jacob, and I can’t help but admire his bravery, defying a vampire. “F-forever,” he chokes, “I’ll— “

(Is he saying I love you? This line is taken verbatim from Hunger Games. Answer yes. Especially because I’ll love you forever; like you for always is the song B’s mom sang to her in Chapter 2.)

But the vampires must have grabbed him, because before he can finish he just disappears. A few seconds later, Edward, Tanya and Rosalie are back and after a few seconds more, they are leading Jasper and I out of the Blood Bank.

Chapter Six

[6]

 

“Say what you will – I am The Kill.”

-The Dresden Dolls

Everyone’s looking at me, but it’s Jacob’s eyes that pop out. In them, surprise, fear, rebuke, but above everything else: gratitude. His eyes are the only reason that I don’t shout out that I take it back. That I don’t scream that I don’t want to die. That, I don’t want to kill.

Emily was halfway to the podium when I  volunteered. Now she stands stock still, glancing back to the rafters desperately.

The walk to reach her is one of the longest of my life. My cheeks burn and whispers trail after me like smoke after fire.

When I reach her, I give her a shaky smile. “Come on,” I say, “you just have to go to the stage with me, that’s all.”

I think Jacob must have lied about her liking me, because she looks at me skeptically. Still, I have to admit she’s cute, even with her swollen nose and tear-stained cheeks.

She shakes her head from side to side, no doubt remembering the talk of duels, and when I pushed her down earlier today.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I promise,” I say. It’s true. I won’t be hurting her. I’ll be hurting other children instead.

I hold out a shaking hand. She looks at it for a long moment.

“Okay,” she whispers, “but I want to go to Jacob right afterwards.”

She takes it.

I nod, but I’m not sure how people are taking this. Do me holding her hand make me look like a hero? I almost feel like one; I almost don’t have to work to keep my neck elongated and gait rolling.

When we get to the stage, Tanya motions us to stand a few feet apart, but Emily doesn’t let go of my hand. I’m afraid Tanya’s going to break her fingers in trying to pry her away from me, but then Rosalie whispers harshly, “Just let them hold hands.”

But it’s not until the alabaster man, Edward, adroitly moves Tanya away from me that she stops. “Please, Tanya, you know how these things can drag.” Unlike Tanya, his capitol accent doesn’t sound affected, just smooth. Like the tailoring of his midnight suit hugging his lean thighs.

Even now, even facing the possibility of my own death, I can’t help the shiver that comes over me at the timbre of Edward’s voice. Almost against my own will, I turn to look at him.

I’m surprised to see him looking back at me intensely, not with sophisticated apathy, but with something else. He doesn’t smile or move his face; his eyes, as blood-red as every other vampire, just bore into me. It’s as if he’s trying to strip-mine my soul.

“And who are you?” he whispers, so soft I think only I’m supposed to hear it.

I can’t help but feel as if I am his prey. As if he is going to consume me. But the weird part is, I don’t want to run—no, my first instinct is to tip back my neck and offer him a sip.

Thankfully, my first instincts always come quick enough to be analyzed, and I’m able to stop myself and turn my frank staring into a glare.

“Edward, just read her thoughts for it,” says Tanya, waving a hand.

Read my thoughts? Oh no. All at once, my knees weaken. Now instead of Emily holding onto me out of fear, I’m leaning on her. She can’t support all of my weight and looks up at me, wide-eyed.

I know that vampires have powers. We learned about it in school, but never occurred to me that there might one who could read my mind.

His eyes don’t move from mine. I’m drowning in them, losing air. What has he heard inside my mind? Does he know how much I hate vamp—

I eliminate the thought as soon as it enters my brain, but it’s already too late. The moment he looked inside my head, he must have seen all the treasonous thoughts I have.

Will he report me? Can you disqualify a Prospective? Could he change me to Chattel status? Technically, I’m not even an official Prospective yet. Maybe, he’ll just deny my offer to volunteer. If Emily’s life wasn’t at stake I would—

Another thought I can’t afford to finish.

“I’d like to hear her say it.” He turns away from me.

Maybe I can run? It’s impossible of course; I’m on a stage with thousands of people watching my every move. Where would I even go?

His eyes meet mine again.

“Announce it,” his eyes darken to crimson. “Announce your name.”

“I-sabella Swan,” I stutter.

I think, but I’m not sure, that Jasper Hale smothers a snicker.

Fuck him.

I can’t help but glance to Edward. For reasons I don’t—no, can’t afford to understand—my gaze seems to always get stuck on his face, like burs on cotton. He watches me patiently.

Fuck him too.

The crowd, ripples, outstretched, not stopping this. Not doing anything.

Fuck them all.

For the first time, I meet Edward’s steady gaze, unflinchingly. I am not that girl who tried to kill herself in the abandoned building because she felt was guilty. No longer. I will not be ashamed. If I’m going to do this? If I’m going to die, or worse live forever?

Then I’m going to do it right.

He holds my gaze for a moment longer still. If it wasn’t totally insane I would say there is something sad about the puckering of his brow.

“We still have to contend with the duel!” says Tanya.

“D-duel?” stutters Emily.

“You concede,” Jasper whispers hastily before I can.

He’s going to be a threat. I can tell already. But he’s the one person I won’t feel any guilt about killing, even if he tries to be helpful now. An eye for an eye, a family member for a family member. Right, Rosalie?

“I can read!” Emily yells.

Edward laughs, a dark, low, chuckle that turns my muscles inside out.

This isn’t funny. But I laugh too, because if I don’t I know I will cry.

“No, darling, you concede,” corrects Tanya, hurriedly.

Emily grips my hand even tighter. “I concede,” she says. I give her a little nudge and she looks up at me accusingly. “What?”

“You can go back now, Emily. Go back to Jacob.”

The smile she gives to me is the one that saved her life. It was the sparkle of teeth and earnestness that dimmed my resentment and paranoia.

She scurries down the steps and flutters through the crowd like a moth flying to light.

And I know.

Whatever the audience thinks, I’m not a hero. I’m not doing this for Emily or even Jacob. I’m doing this for myself. I’m doing this, because as Emily turns around the way she moves reminds me of summer nights outside of our old, big house near the water. Ben and I running in circles under the serenade of the cicadas. Picking weeds and calling them flowers, catching moths and pretending they’re lightening bugs.

Watching Emily run to her family is like watching myself, skipping. Soft, wet grass under-foot, laughing at nothing.

It is as if I have reversed time.

As if I’ve fixed things.

As if I’ve saved them.

Saved myself.

In my memory, my mother calls us in because it’s late. I can almost hear her voice now.

“Three lightening bugs!” She was the one who started the game of calling the moths lightening bugs, stories were Mom’s specialty. “I’m so proud of you, Isabella.”

“Isabella,” she says again, only it’s not her speaking.

I whirl, and come face to face with Edward. He’s closer than he’ ever been before, and for a moment I am enthralled by the riotous forest of hair growing from his scalp. I want to run my fingers through it.

While everything about him is hard, and cold, somehow his eye are gentle. Not earnest, because there is something sardonic about the way his lips turn slightly, but careful.

I’m not a complete idiot, I realize. There is a reason he said my name twice before I turned around. The first time he said it, there was such knowing in his voice, such utter understanding.

He looks at me the way I look at Emily, and says my name the way my mother used to say it.

I want to throw myself into his arms.

Then I remember where I am, who he is.

He is a monster who has just seen my most intimate, possibly treasonous thoughts. But the only courage I can summon comes from ignoring this fact. So I rip my gaze from his, and turn inwards and offer my hand to Jasper Hale.

Up close there is a strange flush to Jasper’s cheek and twinkle to his eye. His long, blond hair, flows in waves to his chin and his bright blue eyes almost twinkle at me. How can he be happy now?

We shake hands three times, but instead of breaking apart afterwards, we turn to the crowd and hold our joined hands above our heads. As if we’re a team. As if we’re not planning to kill each other the moment we enter the arena.

“May I present to you, your two Prospectives: Jasper Hale and Isabella Swan! May they die and become!”

The anthem plays one more time, but I am outside of time, outside of my body, outside of the room. In my mind, I am standing on thousands of nickels, being faced with a child with a bloody dagger aimed at my heart. I am paralyzed.

Hopefully, it will come across as stoicism to the cameras, because now my every move will be watched, evaluated by human racketeers and vampire sponsors.

As Tanya leads us from the front, through the crowd, the cameras’ heads swivel 360 degrees, following Jasper and I. Rosalie follows behind Tanya at heel, and Edward follows her, moving silently through the shadows. I glance back at him once, to see if he’s looking at me, to see if he really can read my thoughts, but he doesn’t look back.

Jasper’s smart, he’s looking at the crowd waving, not just in general, but picking specific people and making eye contact. I think a girl in the seventeen-pen swoons a little when he blows her a kiss.

All around me, the dissonant screams of the national anthem mix with the shouts of the crowd, all for Jasper of course.

Thank God, I don’t have to worry about winning the sponsorship of District 2. If I did, I would be totally fucked.

After we exit the building, we’re in official custody. I don’t mean in handcuffs or anything, but from now until the Morphing Games, either Tanya, Rosalie or Edward will be present at our side at all times.

They lead us into a small holding room, not unlike the waiting room for the blood letting. It’s funny to imagine how nervous I was then at the thought of failing my quota.

What am I nervous about now? Dying? Or perhaps worse, not dying, being turned into a monster for eternity, becoming like Rosalie.

“Who should we gather for goodbyes?” asks Rosalie brusquely, not even looking at me.

I’m sure Jasper will have millions of friends that will take up most of the time so I blurt out, “Jacob, Ben and Charlie.”

Tanya raises a thin eyebrow at me. “Last names please.”

I’m going to be surrounded by vampires soon, so I’d better practice not being intimidated by them. “Charlie, Benjamin Swan and Jacob Black, that’s who I claim for my goodbyes,” I say steadily. Maybe I will be able to keep my make-shift mask of strength on until I get to a place where I can break down? Will there ever be a place like that again? Was there ever a place like that?

Rosalie still isn’t looking at me. What is she afraid of? Yes, I hate her. I’d do anything to get revenge for what she did to my family. But I can’t hurt her now. She may as well be one of the statues in the atrium for how vulnerable she is.

Edward stands next to Tanya, looking lazy and indolent. It makes me furious. This is the last time we’ll ever see our families and he looks bored?

“Jasper?” Rosalie asks, and I know the way she looks at her brother, almost afraid.

Oh, of course. She must be worried that I’m going to kill Jasper. It’s a good thing I have Edward as my mentor, and not her. No doubt she would sabotage me.

“Nobody, thanks,” he says—cavalier.

“What? What about your parents?” I ask.

“Jasper,” Rosalie says warningly, “Mother and Father will want to say goodbye to you.”

He smiles coolly at her. “It will be easier for them if I don’t. I don’t think I’ll be able to soothe them as usual, dear Sister.”

Was it all an act, the kissing, manipulating the crowd? He’s as terrified as I am. But then why did he volunteer? No, there has to be another explanation for not wanting to see his parents.

Rosalie grits her teeth, “If you insist.”

She disappears, moving at vampire speed.

I can’t help but stare at the spot Rosalie just was at, as if she’ll simply reappear. And then, to my surprise, she does, not a hair out of place. Beside her are Ben, Jacob, Charlie and two other people I didn’t expect—Emily and Prim.

Charlie steps forward first. I hope that he’ll say something, but for a long time, he just stares at me, focused on the bow of my shirt.

“Charlie,” I begin, “I’m entering the Games just like you wanted.” Tears scrape at my eyes, trying to claw their way out—but I won’t let them. The moment I exit this room, the metal animal-cameras will be back in full force. Any show of weakness will be televised.

He grunts. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think he shakes his head a little. As if to say no, he never wanted this.

“Charlie.” He has to say something. This can’t be it. He’s the only person left who really knows me and doesn’t hate me.

But even he can’t look at me.

“Dad,” I say softly.

And finally, he looks at me.

But still he says nothing. Instead he outstretches one of his big hands, weathered and dirty from working and never washing.

As I put my hand in his, I am amazed by how little and pale my fingers look against his. Once, and so softly I can barely feel it, he squeezes my hand.

Before I can say thanks, or wait or anything, his hand falls away and he shuffling backwards with a quick, uneven gait.

For the first time since Mom died, I don’t want him to go.

Maybe it’s bad, but I don’t notice Prim and Ben, holding hands, until they stand in front of me.

“I didn’t want to come,” says Ben awkwardly, but I feel comforted by his uncertainty. Maybe he doesn’t want me dead after all.

“Ben,” says Prim softly, reprimanding. I expect her to say something pithy, about dying and becoming or my health being the best sacrifice to the empire, but instead she says, “Jasper Hale.”

He’s back to charming, as he gives her his full powered smile. “Can I help you, darling?” he asks adopting the Capitol affect.

Prim grips Ben’s hand tighter and gives Jasper an open smile in return. Hers is nice too, but not dazzling. “I just wanted to thank you, for volunteering.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Abruptly, she switches her gaze to me. “And you. I know what you did.”

The room goes silent.

I am going off to die, and this is my going away present? A reminder of my sins? Ben must have told her about his eye.

“I know,” she says. “It’s not my place to forgive you, that’s Ben’s burden, and that’s something he has to come to terms with.”

Next to her, Ben shifts uneasily.

“But I want you to know. I’m going to look after Ben, and Charlie too.” She reaches a hand out to touch Charlie, who surprisingly doesn’t move away from her.

“And, for what it’s worth, I forgive you.”

I let out a startled gasp. Anger, relief and sadness, wash through me. She’s not Ben; she can’t forgive me. And she’s possibly insane too, dating a boy young enough to be her nephew, but her gesture moves me all the same.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. It sounds as sincere as I feel it.

She grabs my hands between hers and brings them up to her mouth, kissing them lightly. “One shouldn’t hate their sisters. No matter what you’ve done, you’re my sister now.”

I clench my fist, the pain of my nails into my flesh distracting me from tears that will flow over my eyes if I don’t stem the tide.

I look over towards Ben, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. “Ben,” I whisper.

“Don’t fuck up, Bella.” He gives a tight expression that could almost be called a grin.

My heart swells with pride and love. I’m not forgiven. But he doesn’t want me dead at least. Then again maybe wishing me dead at this point would be a kindness.

He takes Prim’s small hand and they step out of the room, following the lumbering form of Charlie.

Once they’re gone, they reveal the well-muscled form of my best and only friend.

“Jacob,” I sigh, giving a watery smile as if this is graduation and not the day I’m shipped off to the Capitol to kill or be killed.

He rushes to me so fast I can’t stop him, enveloping me in a tight, warm hug. Emily hangs back.

“I told you not to volunteer, and you do it anyway,” he says, but he doesn’t sound angry at all.

When he releases me from the hug, I can see that he’s crying, thick, wet tears. He doesn’t try to wipe them away or hide them. I envy the luxury. “One of my sisters would’ve taken your place.”

“One of your sisters almost did,” I say wryly.

He rolls his eyes. “No, I mean Leah. She’s strong. Not as strong as you, but she could’ve done alright.”

“Maybe,” I say. But we both know the truth: in the Morphing Games, doing ‘alright’ is synonymous with death. There is no second place.

And I know Leah; most of her fighting ability is intimidation. No one would be afraid of her in the arena, at least not until she showed her self worthy at the Proving.

“Jacob, I need to thank you,” I say, because I realize I never have thanked him, not for saving my life that day, not for showing me the secret beach, not for giving me friendship when I thought I was unworthy of it. I always kind of assumed he was stupid for all of it.

“Fuck it, Bella, don’t say that. Don’t make it sound like you’re not coming back.”

“Pardon,” Edward says from the corner.

We both whirl to glare at him. I hate that something in my stomach drops at his frank look of disapproval.

He raises an eyebrow. “You have five minutes left.”

Jacob’s eyes meet Edward’s, and Jacob shrinks a little.

“Fine,” I say coldly, not backing down. Or maybe I just can’t stop looking at him.

From the corner of my eye, I see his expression shift to surprise. Very few vampires stand up to him, I imagine, and no humans. He has the older look of an original, a vampire made before the change.

One of Jacob’s calloused hands comes up to fiddle with the bow on my chest. “This is pretty. I’m glad you look nice.”

“Jacob,” I warn. “You’re not going to distract me with compliments.”

“Distract you from what?”

“Thanking you. For everything.”

His expression darkens. For a second, I wonder if he’s going to call in my debt and ask for another kiss. I’m not sure how I’d feel about this. Instead he says, “So, if you owe me then I can ask a favor, right?”

“In theory,” I say hesitantly. Will he ask for something more than a kiss? The idea makes me squirm.

“You’ve gotta win.” There he is. The boy from the beach. The boy with the sister. The boy who believes. In things. In me.

“What?”

“You can do it. You said yourself, this is what you’ve spent your whole life training for.”

I haven’t even honestly thought of trying to win. Without realizing it, I guess I just figured that I would lose, if not out of lack of skill, than out of weakness, an inability to kill. And even if I do win. Then what? Then I become like them? A monster? I kill people and as a reward I get to be a parasite forever? I become subsumed into the system that killed my mother.

But I can’t say this. They can still hurt the people I love.

“Of course I’ll win,” I say unconvincingly. To say anything else in front of the vampires would be foolish.

“No. I don’t care, Bella, about anyone else, even if they’re just . . . kids. You have to come home.” His eyes are bereft of tears, and his voice is husky. He’s never looked more like a child. He’s never hurt anyone, not an innocent. He’s asking me to do things he doesn’t comprehend.

“Jacob,” I begin tenderly, smoothing back his hair. “I’m not coming home. Even if I win. That’s just the way it works.”

He shakes his head, escaping from my almost mothering touch and glaring. “You can come visit there’s no rule against visiting your family and friends. She’s here isn’t she?” He throws out a hand to point to Rosalie.

“You’re right,” I say, rubbing my hands over his biceps, trying to calm him, or to be honest, myself.

It doesn’t matter. Even though I saved him from losing his sister, he’s still going to lose me. And now he’s asking me to kill kids just so I can see him one more time. I may have just gouged out one of his eyes for all the damage I’ve done to him.

Except this time, it’s not my fault. I can’t control who I fight or how I die. I may have volunteered, but I didn’t choose to do this. The fact that he’s asking me to kill children, a child that could have been his sister, there’s no one else to blame for that except for the vampires.

“Bella,” he says weakly, “come back from worry-land. Tell me you’ll do it. Tell me.”

“I’ll tr—”

“No. Tell me you’ll do it. Tell me you’ll win.”

“Enough,” I say so sharply Jacob’s eyes widen. He takes a step back away from me, as if seeing me for the first time. In some ways he is. I imagine I have the same expression I used to when I was on the sparring mat or mixing poisons.

The fear in his eyes hurts, but I’m not going to kill kids. Not for Jacob, not for anyone. My life isn’t worth that.

“I just want you to . . .” he chokes swallowing a sob, looking to me for reassurance that everything is going to be okay.

I shouldn’t be mad at him. This is the last time I’m ever going to see him. And he doesn’t know how damaging violence is—to everyone.

“Let’s not ruin our goodbye, Jacob,” I say softly, grabbing his hand before he can turn around.

“One minute,” says Edward. And I have to stop myself from turning around just to look at his face again.

Jacob draws back, and for a second, I think he’s about to leave. But he only bends down, and whispers something very quickly to Emily, who scampers forward.

“B-bella,” she says, her voice still racked with nervousness. She looks towards Tanya, the clock, and clears her throat. “I’ve got a present for you.” She holds out her hand, much like I had held out my hand to her earlier that night.

Something bright and silver flashes up at me: a pin, an expensive one at that. Is that real silver? It can’t be? “That’s not what you scavenged from the beach today.”

“I know,” she says brightly. “I traded an old woman for it. She really seemed to want that bottle cap pin from the beach.”

Whoever traded a bottle-cap for this pin needs to be hidden in away in the attic or risk being changed to Chattel status on grounds of insanity. The pin is beautiful, an interlocking set of bull horns cast in silver. I bend over closer to get a better look. The silver seems real.

“She said to tell you that Greasy Ol Sae wanted you to have it.” Emily gives a giggle. “What kind of a name is Greasy Ol Sae? Do you think she eats too many Fatty blood bars?” It’s good to see that Emily is able to recover easily from the fright of the Reaping. She will have nightmares though. I’m sure.

“I’d love to have this as my token,” I say gently, as I take the silver pin and fasten it onto my dress.

“Time,” says Edward coolly.

“Wait!” Jacob pleads.

This time, it’s Tanya who speaks, “The rules are strict on this, we can’t dither around here all day. This isn’t even the fun part!”

Emily lunges towards Jacob, grabbing the edge of his gray-jumpsuit, afraid of the two beautiful, deadly creatures moving towards us.

“Bella,” says Jacob, and I can’t help but admire his bravery, defying a vampire. “F-forever,” he chokes, “I’ll— ”

But the vampires must have grabbed him, because before he can finish he just disappears. A few seconds later, Edward, Tanya and Rosalie are back and after a few seconds more, they are leading Jasper and I out of the Blood Bank.

 

Chapter Five Commentary

[5]

  In silence Ben, Charlie, and I move up the marble stairs between the two statues of the child-vampires and into the main hall of the Blood Bank.      (Imho in the Hunger Games there wasn’t enough emphasis placed on the fact that the kids in the morphing games were just that. . . kids. Susan Collins pulled this punch because it would have just been too much. I won’t pull this punch. From the very start this is a story of the effects of violence  on children.)

The main hall is circular with vaulted ceilings frescoed with the red-eyed angels rolling green hills, and vines laden with grapes. (This is strongly inspired by s.t peter’s Cathedral in Italy. This hints at the  origins of the Volturi.)

But tonight the grandeur is overshadowed by one thing: cameras. There are at least a hundred of them. Many are on the ceiling, perched upside-down like bats, others are on the walls and still more are on the floor. Their robotic heads turn stiffly every couple of seconds to catch a new target. (Camera’s will come back later. Namely machines. One of my favorite characters in the games is actually a machine. )  The cameras don’t just record video; the edges of the wide lenses are bearded with black, foamy microphones.

As I pass through the double doors, for one second it feels as if every camera has swiveled in my direction. I don’t have time to care.

“Ben,” I whisper, worried that the microphones will catch my words, “if you really like Prim, if you really do, then you shouldn’t volunteer.”

“Don’t talk to me,” he says stiffly before turning and walking away over to the roped off section for the sixteen-year-old boys. As I watch him go, I notice that one of his pant-legs is tucked into his sock. I want to run up to him and fix it. I want so badly to fix everything. (Shameless reference to Prim’s shirt being tucked back into her sock.)

But I can’t.  (Again, big difference between Katniss and Bella. Katniss has a wonderful relationship with her sister. Bella– doesn’t.) There’s nothing I can do that will change what happened. I’m just about to turn to go to the pen for the twenties, resigned to the fact that my world is about to end—again—and there’s nothing I can do about it, when a flash of blonde hair garners attention.

Someone pulls my brother aside before he gets to the tent. (this is supposed to be pen. I don’t know why I wrote tent.) There’s only person it could be—Prim.

I wish I could get closer so I could hear, but the crowd obstructs my view, and I know if I move closer that Ben will notice. And if Prim is doing what I think she is, then there’s nothing more important than her having Ben’s full focus.

She motions upwards to the rafters. At who, I don’t know. Her family? She points to him again. He shakes his head before wrenching his arm free from her grasp and stomping to the pen for the sixteen-year-olds.

I look for Jacob in the pen of eighteen-year olds, but, unsurprisingly, I can’t find him. There are almost ten thousand people here. Most are in the infinitely large upper rafters. (Assuming that all the members of District 2 are here, and District 2 is about the size of chicago, the upper atrium has to fit at least 10,000 people!!)) Only possible future Prospectives, city officials, and vampires from the Capitol are on the ground floor.

The rafters are where Charlie must have headed, because when I turn to look he’s gone too. I sigh and thread my way through the crowd to the last pen on the right, the one for the twenty-year olds.

I watch from behind the rope as the rest of the possible Prospectives file into the pens, as parents separate from their anxious children to go sit in the rafters. The poor children are gaunt and terrified that their name will be called and no one will volunteer.  The rich look keen, all except one boy who heads to the sixteens’ pen to stand next to my brother. He seems almost bored. (This is key forshadowing for Jasper’s character.) His blonde hair looks familiar.

An instrument that sounds like a duck begins to play the first notes of the Volterran National Anthem. Tension spreads across the crowd. No one likes the anthem, but we’re not expected to. It’s vampire music. (We’re studying atonal music, in school, which is where I got the idea. If you look closely you can  see a lot of music terms here.)                       

Vampires don’t exist in the same sound world as humans. They can process thousands of different melodies and harmonies, so the sounds of the human scale aren’t enough to make interesting music for them. Their songs are made up of the spaces between normal notes.

The music comes from speakers hidden beneath the frescos, making it sound as if the angels are screaming the strange, fractured melodies.

After the anthem, a woman steps up to the platform. Even from far away—the pen for the twenties is located near the back of the atrium—I am struck by the symmetry in her face, the gloss of her perfectly coiffed blonde hair. I hate that every time I see a vampire I’m always forced to worship their beauty.

She has no need to step up to a microphone to project her voice; we are dead silent. Everyone’s seen the videos from the days of the rebellion, where a single vampire killed hundreds of humans at once, so fast the camera almost couldn’t keep up. (This idea of moving to fast for humans to keep up was stolen from the Playing God and the Vampire of the Odd)          

“Greetings, and welcome to the 100th annual Morphing Games,” she says with a bounce. “May you die and become!” (this is taken from a goethe poem. the idea of dying as a part of transformation. This is a very old idea, Odessyeus goes to the underworld and emerges. Jesus is nailed to the cross. The volturi have corrupted even the most basic of human ideas).

Applause, same as every year, echoes through the hall.

“What a time of year it is! A young man and woman will be granted the opportunity to compete, risking their most valuable asset to the empire—their vitality—in order to pursue the most honored goal . . . immortality. ”(See the posters from the Blood Bank come back!)

She gives a wide smile that would be warm, if not for the fangs peeking out over her too-bright lips. “I am Tanya Denali, and I am pleased to serve as the liaison for District 2. I am even more excited to announce that there will be some modifications to the rules this year, in honor of the anniversary of the founding of the Volterran Empire.”

Whispers ripple outward from the souls brave enough to comment. I say nothing. She gives a firm stare to the foci of the commotion and silence descends again.

“President Aro has decided that the streets of Volterra are crowded with old blood and old ways. Too long: has cynicism ruled. Innocence is the rarest commodity in the Capitol. We need it badly. For all the things we give to you, protection, stability, it is time you began giving us your greatest export. So, we’ve decided to open up the brackets. Instead of allowing only sixteen through twenty year olds the glorious opportunity to become immortal, we are allowing anyone over the age of twelve.”

She claps her hands together and smiles like a child. “Isn’t that delightful?”

Bile emerges from my stomach and burns my throat. The images of the statues flit over my eyes.  Children, just like I was, drafted into violence.(Bella doesn’t realize it but by Emily, more than saving her for Jacob, more than saving her for her own sake. She’s saving Emily to try and save herself as she was as a kid.) Only, for them the consequences of failure would be more than a few broken bones. It would be death.

“Rosalie, quickly now!” summons Tanya.

From the shadows emerges last year’s winner, my former best friend, the girl who broke my bones, taught me the importance of violence, and sinned against me in another way so heinous I can’t even say it.

Her blonde hair is brighter than Tanya’s, her lips redder, and her green eyes fiercer. She is sharp to Tanya’s blurriness. This must be why Tanya treats her like a servant; because she knows Rosalie looks like a queen.

Fierce applause swells up for Rosalie, originating mostly from those wearing colorful clothes: the rich. They welcome their goddess back with frenzied clapping. She stares out at the crowd, smiling, and even though she has fangs, the applause surges further, all talk of murderous children gone.

In her hand is a silver box.

“Please,” Tanya says, and this is all it takes to quiet us. Because, while we know that Rosalie is beautiful, it is Tanya who will kill us if we don’t obey.

“Let’s begin with the boys’ names. Remember, volunteers, please wait until the name is called.”

I look over at my brother, hoping that whatever he feels for the Blood Bank worker, Prim, is enough to convince him to stay.

Rosalie sticks one of her hands into the box.

Take any child, just not my brother.

It doesn’t matter if he hates me; I love him. I always have, even as I beat him I did. I wasn’t beating him to hurt him really; I was hurting him to hurt myself.

I find my brother’s eyes, and he notices me too, even from far away. And then, in what must be a miracle, he slowly shakes his head back and forth. It means no, he’s not going to volunteer. We are safe. He is safe. He is not a monster. I didn’t destroy his goodness when I destroyed his eye.

And then Rosalie calls out the name; with a ringing soprano, so clear there can be no mistaking it.

“Benjamin Swan.”

Shock courses through me as I watch my brother walk, stiff-jointed, up to the podium. The crowd parts easily before him, curious to see the new contender, examining him for strengths and weaknesses. I’m sure that everyone notices his eye. I see a couple of the training school kids snickering at him because of it.

Finally, he reaches the stage. I’m proud of him because he’s standing tall, even though his jacket is too big and everyone can smell the fear on him. When they show this video to the other Prospectives later he will be marked as an easy target, but not the easiest.

“Well now, Benjamin Swan, you will be the lucky Prospective, unless we have a volunteer who wants to duel you for the right,” says Tanya, clapping my brother so hard on the back that he stumbles.

I had almost forgotten. My brother could be saved, and he probably will be. Someone usually volunteers . . . usually.

But the rules are different this year. The Prospectives will have to kill children. The Careers were bloody and brutal, but they had pride. There was no glory to be gained from slitting the throat of someone who struggled to tie their shoe.

For a moment I can almost convince myself that my brother will be fine; that everything will be alright. He has been training, and most of the kids from the other districts haven’t had any training at all.

But then I see his pant leg, tucked right into his sock. All my rationalizations come avalanching down, suffocating me. (Again another HG reference.)

This is my brother. Not a killer. My brother.

And the silence makes one fact undeniable… he is going to the Morphing Games and he will die.

“Well, if no one wants to volunteer, then I’ll keep the ceremony moving.”

I can’t volunteer. I’m a girl. The best I can do is to volunteer for the girls’ side and work to keep my brother alive. But I know what the outcome for that would be; my brother would kill me.

Well, it would be absolution at least.

“I volunteer,” a voice soft, but sure comes from the same section as my brother, the sixteens. The crowd in the pen turns to look at the speaker as he gracefully moves his way through the masses and toward the stage.

All the tension in my muscles unravels, leaving me so weak-kneed I have to grip the post marking off the corner of the pen in order to stay upright.

“No,” says Rosalie. (The reason why Rosalie doesn’t want Jasper in the games is quite complicated.)

Tanya turns to her, confused, “Is there something wrong with the candidate?”

As the boy stands there on the stage next to my brother, I realize I saw him earlier tonight. He was the blonde who looked bored.

He gives a winning smile to the crowd. It is clear to them that he is a much better candidate than the nervous, half-blind boy. “There’s nothing wrong, Mrs. Denali. My sister’s just startled to see her brother up on stage—that’s all.”

The crowd goes wild. It seems whenever the Hales are involved, people forget about the violence of the games, even with the new variable of the children. They’re just too charming; too composed.

“Please,” says Tanya, a little upset by the rambunctiousness. This time the crowd doesn’t quiet as easily.

Two Prospective from the same family; it’s unheard of. But if anyone could make a legacy it would be the Hales. I wonder how their parents feel, losing two children. I hope they cry into their pillows at night like I never could. I hope they sit at the kitchen table I used to sit at and suffer.

Rosalie holds up a hand and the crowd settles as if she’s a conductor. “The proper dueling procedure must be followed.”

“Yes, of course,” says Tanya snidely, sending a glare to Rosalie.

“I concede,” says my brother, his voice sounding dull in comparison to the musicality of the vampires and Jasper’s rough charm.

Tanya gives another forced chuckle. “Lacking the guts of a true Prospective, are we? Well then, hurry along.”

My brother doesn’t flinch, and thankfully the crowd lets him pass. He’s a nobody now, lost in the shadows of the shining glory that is the Hale siblings.

“Your name?” Tanya asks.

“You can call me Jasper Hale,” Jasper answers, giving her a wink.

The crowd mumbles, wanting to clap, wanting to shower this boy with their pride. It’s only fear of fangs keeps them quiet.

I’m not focused on any of this though. My eyes are trained on my brother, whose back is still straight. It doesn’t matter that I’ll never get to fight for him, to die for him, to atone for what I did. I would trade any forgiveness I could get for his safety.

“Let’s move onto the next name, shall we?” trills Tanya.

My brother is safe. I, however, am not. There is the possibility, however unlikely, that my name will be called, too. Around me all the other twenty-year-olds tense up. Most of us don’t want to volunteer by this age; even the rich ones have sweet-hearts, settled lives, jobs lined up after we finish school at the end of this year. I don’t think there has ever been a volunteer over eighteen. The young know they’re foolish and the old have wisdom, only the adolescents straddle the difference.

“I have another surprise for you,” Tanya begins, her tone lighter and almost saccharine. “A special guest.”

Something stirs in the shadows. A breeze. A movement.

A vampire.

“My good friend has never been a mentor before, but he’s come out of hiding especially for the 100th anniversary of the games.” She smiles over her shoulder, in a way that I’m sure will inspire decades of wet dreams in the boy pens. (The fact that Edward has been missing is very important!)

“You’re too kind, Tanya,” says a voice, soft as velvet, cold as steel.

Vampires always sound ethereal but there’s something about his voice that rubs against me, not the wrong way, not the right way, but in a way I didn’t even know existed. A way that makes me ache in deep places, in my bones.

The voice matches a face so striking, it breaks my heart to look at it.

If Tanya is manicured, and Rosalie feral, then this vampire’s appeal is a different kind altogether: a fantastic kind. His skin is alabaster and his hair the color of the dome of the Blood Bank: copper. It grows wild from his scalp. He looks as if he has just woken up from a fever dream—no, as if he is a dream.

“Edward Cullen, the mentor for the female Prospectives of District 2!”

Simultaneously, all the female hands fly together in rapturous applause. I’m proud of myself that I manage to keep from clapping.

Edward frowns and holds up a single finger. “I think many are anxious to see the results.” His voice is so low it almost rumbles the rafters.

He picks up the steel box. Even the women grow somber.

I know I’m thinking the same thoughts everyone else. Don’t pick me; don’t pick me. But there’s a difference, unlike everyone else, I’m not afraid of dying—well, okay, a little—but mostly I’m afraid of killing.

I remember my brother’s horror as I punched him in the jaw, and in the chest. And in the eye. I’ll remember it forever.

Edward has the slip in his hand now. Reading it—his supple, full lips forming syllables—he says it.

It’s not me. I never thought there was anything worse than it not being me.

But there is.

“Emily Black.” He says her name so sonorously, I almost forget who exactly he’s talking about.

She isn’t like my brother; she doesn’t contain the immediate burst of tears as she stumbles down from her place in the rafters with her family. She wasn’t even in the pens. She didn’t even think she’d have to worry about it.

“Jacob,” she cries.

Jacob pushes up against the red, velvet rope that sections off the sixteens. And it’s not her screams, or tears, or the fact that she is only twelve, and if they put her in the arena she will die, that bothers me. No. It’s his face. It’s the way you can see his heart break, his innocent, easy heart.

Jacob Black, a man who carries his sister on his shoulders, takes her to his secret place, who calls her Emmy-Bear. He has done nothing wrong. He doesn’t deserve to know what it’s like to have someone important to you die.  Maybe I did, but not him. Someone has to volunteer to stop it.

But who? I won’t do it. I don’t like the girl. She is just an annoyance to me, an intruder into the only stable relationship I.

“I volunteer,” says a shaky voice.

For the second time that night, relief courses though me. Everyone I love is safe. Jacob and I can go hunting with Emily. I realize now that I actually like her. Well, maybe like is a strong word, but I am surprised by how relieved I am that she’s safe.

My feelings of relief are so strong that at first I don’t notice the eerie silence that has descended over the crowd. Shouldn’t they be clapping for the winner?

I look around for a moment, confused. Why is everyone looking at me?

A girl next to me hisses, “Well, go on then.”

The crowd hesitantly begins to clap.

Oh God.

The volunteer, the person who took Emily’s place?

It’s me.

Visual and Musical Glossary for Chapter Five

So we get tons ‘o new characters this chapter!!

Let’s first start with Tanya.

Next up, Rosalie!

Jasper:

Edward:

 

Cameras

Atrium of the Blood Bank

The Vampire National Anthem

 

 

Chapter Five

Authors Note: Hey guys, thanks so much for all of the review! Really lovely.  I’d like to tell you that the more you review the faster I update, but that’s just not true. The thanks for the quick update go to my lovely Betas. Someone Aka Me and ChloeCougar. As usually check out the blog, Orringtonrose dot wordpess. We have a trailer now!

[5]

            In silence Ben, Charlie, a,,asadnd I move up the marble stairs between the two statues of the child-vampires and into the main hall of the Blood Bank.

The main hall is circular with vaulted ceilings frescoed with the red-eyed angels rolling green hills, and vines laden with grapes.

But tonight the grandeur is overshadowed by one thing: cameras. There are at least a hundred of them. Many are on the ceiling, perched upside-down like bats, others are on the walls and still more are on the floor. Their robotic heads turn stiffly every couple of seconds to catch a new target. The cameras don’t just record video; the edges of the wide lenses are bearded with black, foamy microphones.

As I pass through the double doors, for one second it feels as if every camera has swiveled in my direction. I don’t have time to care.

“Ben,” I whisper, worried that the microphones will catch my words, “if you really like Prim, if you really do, then you shouldn’t volunteer.”

“Don’t talk to me,” he says stiffly before turning and walking away over to the roped off section for the sixteen-year-old boys. As I watch him go, I notice that one of his pant-legs is tucked into his sock. I want to run up to him and fix it. I want so badly to fix everything.

But I can’t. There’s nothing I can do that will change what happened. I’m just about to turn to go to the pen for the twenties, resigned to the fact that my world is about to end—again—and there’s nothing I can do about it, when a flash of blonde hair garners attention.

Someone pulls my brother aside before he gets to the tent. There’s only person it could be—PPprim.

I wish I could get closer so I could hear, but the crowd obstructs my view, and I know if I move closer that Ben will notice. And if Prim is doing what I think she is, than there’s nothing more important than her having Ben’s full focus.

She motions upwards to the rafters. At who, I don’t know. Her family? She points to him again. He shakes his head before wrenching his arm free from her grasp and stomping to the pen for the sixteen-year-olds.

I look for Jacob in the pen of eighteen-year olds, but, unsurprisingly, I can’t find him. There are almost ten thousand people here. Most are in the infinitely large upper rafters. Only possible future Prospectives, city officials, and vampires from the Capitol are on the ground floor.

The rafters are where Charlie must have headed, because when I turn to look he’s gone too. I sigh and thread my way through the crowd to the last pen on the right, the one for the twenty-year olds.

I watch from behind the rope as the rest of the possible Prospectives file into the pens, as parents separate from their anxious children to go sit in the rafters. The poor children are gaunt and terrified that their name will be called and no one will volunteer.  The rich look keen, all except one boy who heads to the sixteens’ pen to stand next to my brother. He seems almost bored. His blonde hair looks familiar.

An instrument that sounds like a duck begins to play the first notes of the Volterran National Anthem. Tension spreads across the crowd. No one likes the anthem, but we’re not expected to. It’s vampire music.

Vampires don’t exist in the same sound world as humans. They can process thousands of different melodies and harmonies, so the sounds of the human scale aren’t enough to make interesting music for them. Their songs are made up of the spaces between normal notes.

The music comes from speakers hidden beneath the frescos, making it sound as if the angels are screaming the strange, fractured melodies.

After the anthem, a woman steps up to the platform. Even from far away—the pen for the twenties is located near the back of the atrium—I am struck by the symmetry in her face, the gloss of her perfectly coiffed blonde hair. I hate that every time I see a vampire I’m always forced to worship their beauty.

She has no need to step up to a microphone to project her voice; we are dead silent. Everyone’s seen the videos from the days of the rebellion, where a single vampire killed hundreds of humans at once, so fast the camera almost couldn’t keep up.

“Greetings, and welcome to the 100^th annual Morphing Games,” she says with a bounce, “May you die and become!”

Applause, same as every year, echoes through the hall.

“What a time of year it is! A young man and woman will be granted the opportunity to compete, risking their most valuable asset to the empire—their vitality—in order to pursue the most honored goal . . . immortality. ”

She gives a wide smile that would be warm, if not for the fangs peeking out over her too-bright lips. “I am Tanya Denali, and I am pleased to serve as the liaison for District 2. I am even more excited to announce that there will be some modifications to the rules this year, in honor of the anniversary of the founding of the Volterran Empire.”

Whispers ripple outward from the souls brave enough to comment. I say nothing. She gives a firm stare to the foci of the commotion and silence descends again.

“President Aro has decided that the streets of Volterra are crowded with old blood and old ways. Too long: has cynicism ruled. Innocence is the rarest commodity in the Capitol. We need it badly. For all the things we give to you, protection, stability, it is time you began giving us your greatest export. So, we’ve decided to open up the brackets. Instead of allowing only sixteen through twenty year olds the glorious opportunity to become immortal, we are allowing anyone over the age of twelve.”

She claps her hands together and smiles like a child. “Isn’t that delightful?”

Bile emerges from my stomach and burns my throat. The images of the statues flit over my eyes.  Children, just like I was, drafted into violence. Only, for them the consequences of failure would be more than a few broken bones. It would be death.

“Rosalie, quickly now!” summons Tanya.

From the shadows emerges last year’s winner, my former best friend, the girl who broke my bones, taught me the importance of violence, and sinned against me in another way so heinous I can’t even say it.

Her blonde hair is brighter than Tanya’s, her lips redder, and her green eyes fiercer. She is sharp to Tanya’s blurriness. This must be why Tanya treats her like a servant; because she knows Rosalie looks like a queen.

Fierce applause swells up for Rosalie, originating mostly from those wearing colorful clothes: the rich. They welcome their goddess back with frenzied clapping. She stares out at the crowd, smiling, and even though she has fangs, the applause surges further, all talk of murderous children gone.

In her hand is a silver box.

“Please,” Tanya says, and this is all it takes to quitet. Because, while we know that Rosalie is beautiful, it is Tanya who will kill us if we don’t obey.

“Let’s begin with the boys’ names. Remember, volunteers, please wait until the name is called.”

I look over at my brother, hoping that whatever he feels for the Blood Bank worker, Prim, is enough to convince him to stay.

Rosalie sticks one of her hands into the box.

Take any child, just not my brother.

It doesn’t matter if he hates me; I love him. I always have, even as I beat him I did. I wasn’t beating him to hurt him really; I was hurting him to hurt myself.

I find my brother’s eyes, and he notices me too, even from far away. And then, in what must be a miracle, he slowly shakes his head back and forth. It means no, he’s not going to volunteer. We are safe. He is safe. He is not a monster. I didn’t destroy his goodness when I destroyed his eye.

And then Rosalie calls out the name; with a ringing soprano, so clear there can be no mistaking it.

“Benjamin Swan.”

Shock courses through me as I watch my brother walk stiff—ointed up to the podium. The crowd parts easily before him, curious to see the new contender, examining him for strengths and weaknesses. I’m sure that everyone notices his eye. I see a couple of the training school kids snickering at him because of it.

Finally, he reaches the stage. I’m proud of him because he’s standing tall, even though his jacket is too big, and everyone can smell the fear on him. When they show this video to the other Prospectives later he will be marked as an easy target, but not the easiest.

“Well now, Benjamin Swan, you will be the lucky Prospective, unless we have a volunteer who wants to duel you for the right,” says Tanya, clapping my brother so hard on the back that he stumbles.

I had almost forgotten. My brother could be saved, and he probably will be. Someone usually volunteers . . . usually.

But the rules are different this year. The Prospectives will have to kill children. The Careers were bloody and brutal but they had pride. There was no glory to be gained from slitting the throat of someone who struggled to tie their shoe.

For a moment I can almostconvince myself that my brother will be fine, that everything will be alright. He has been training, and most of the kids from the other districts haven’t had any training at all.

But then I see his pant leg, tucked right into his sock. All my rationalizations come avalanching down, suffocating me.

This is my brother. Not a killer. My brother.

And the silence makes one fact undeniable: He is going to the Morphing Games and he will die.

“Well, if no one wants to volunteer, then I’ll keep the ceremony moving.”

I can’t volunteer. I’m a girl. The best I can do is to volunteer for the girls’ side and work to keep my brother alive. But I know what the outcome for that would be; my brother would kill me.

Well, it would be absolution at least.

“I volunteer,” a voice,,,oft, but sure comes from the same section as my brother, the sixteens. The crowd in the pen turns to look at the speaker as he gracefully moves his way through the masses and toward the stage.

All the tension in my muscles unravels, leaving me so weak-kneed I have to grip the post marking off the corner of the pen in order to stay upright.

“No,” says Rosalie.

Tanya turns to her, confused, “Is there something wrong with the candidate?”

As the boy stands there on the stage next to my brother, I realize I saw him earlier tonight. He was the blonde who looked bored.

He gives a winning smile to the crowd. It is clear to them that he is a much better candidate than the nervous, half-blind boy. “There’s nothing wrong, Mrs. Denali. My sister’s just startled to see her brother up on stage—that’s all.”

The crowd goes wild. It seems whenever the Hales are involved, people forget about the violence of the games, even with the new variable of the children. They’re just too charming, too composed.

“Please,” says Tanya, a little upset by the rambunctiousness. This time the crowd doesn’t quiet as easily.

Two Prospective from the same family; it’s unheard of. But if anyone could make a legacy it would be the Hales. I wonder how their parents feel, losing two children. I hope they cry into their pillows at night like I never could. I hope they sit at the kitchen table I used to sit at and suffer.

Rosalie holds up a hand    and crowd settles as if she’s a conductor. “The proper dueling procedure must be followed.”

“Yes, of course,” says Tanya snidely, sending a glare to Rosalie.

“I concede,” says my brother, his voice sounding dull in comparison to the musicality of the vampires and Jasper’s rough charm.

Tanya gives another forced chuckle. “Lacking the guts of a true Prospective, are we? Well then, hurry along.”

My brother doesn’t flinch, and thankfully the crowd lets him pass. He’s a nobody now, lost in the shadows of the shining glory that is the Hale siblings.

“Your name?” Tanya asks.

“You can call me Jasper Hale,” Jasper answers, giving her a wink.

The crowd mumbles, wanting to clap, wanting to shower this boy with their pride. It’s only fear of fangs keeps them quiet.

I’m not focused on any of this though. My eyes are trained on my brother, whose back is still straight. It doesn’t matter that I’ll never get to fight for him, to die for him, to atone for what I did. I would trade any forgiveness I could get for his safety.

“Let’s move onto the next name, shall we?” trills Tanya.

My brother is safe. I, however, am not. There is the possibility, however unlikely, that my name will be called, too. Around me all the other twenty-year-olds tense up. Most of us don’t want to volunteer by this age; even the rich ones have sweet-hearts, settled lives, jobs lined up after we finish school at the end of this year. I don’t think there has ever been a volunteer over eighteen. The young know they’re foolish and the old have wisdom, only the adolescents straddle the difference.

“I have another surprise for you,” Tanya begins, her tone lighter and almost saccharine. “A special guest.”

Something stirs in the shadows. A breeze. A movement.

A vampire.

“My good friend has never been a mentor before, but he’s come out of hiding especially for the hundredth anniversary of the games.” She smiles over her shoulder, in a way that I’m sure will inspire decades of wet dreams in the boy pens.

“You’re too kind, Tanya,” says a voice, soft as velvet, cold as steel.

Vampires always sound ethereal but there’s something about his voice that rubs against me, not the wrong way, not the right way, but in a way I didn’t even know existed. A way that makes me ache in deep places, in my bones.

The voice matches a face so striking, it breaks my heart to look at it.

If Tanya is manicured, and Rosalie feral, then this vampire’s appeal is a different kind altogether: a fantastic kind. His skin is alabaster and his hair the color of the dome of the Blood Bank: copper. It grows wild from his scalp. He looks as if he has just woken up from a fever dream—nnnno, as if he is a dream.

“Edward Cullen, the mentor for the female Prospectives of District 2!”

Simultaneously, all the female hands fly together in rapturous applause. I’m proud of myself that I manage to keep from clapping.

Edward frowns and holds up a single finger. “I think many are anxious to see the results.” His voice is so low it almost rumbles the rafters.

He picks up the steel box. Even the women grow somber.

I know I’m thinking the same thoughts everyone else. Don’t pick me; don’t pick me. But there’s a difference, unlike everyone else, I’m not afraid of dying—well, okay, a little—bbbut mostly I’m afraid of killing.

I remember my brother’s horror as I punched him in the jaw, and in the chest. And in the eye. I’ll remember it forever.

Edward has the slip in his hand now. Reading it—his supple, full lips forming syllables—He says it.

It’s not me. I never thought there was anything worse than it not being me.

But there is.

“Emily Black.” He says her name so sonorously, I almost forget who exactly he’s talking about.

She isn’t like my brother; she doesn’t contain the immediate burst of tears as she stumbles down from her place in the rafters with her family. She wasn’t even in the pens. She didn’t even think she’d have to worry about it.

“Jacoob,” she cries.

Jacob pushes up against the red, velvet rope that sections off the sixteens. And it’s not her screams, or tears, or the fact that she is only twelve, and if they put her in the arena she will die, that bothers me. No. It’s his face. It’s the way you can see his heart break, his innocent, easy heart.

Jacob Black, a man who carries his sister on his shoulders, takes her to his secret place, who calls her Emmy-Bear. He has done nothing wrong. He doesn’t deserve to know what it’s like to have someone important to you die.  Maybe I did, but not him. Someone has to volunteer to stop it.

But who? I won’t do it. I don’t like the girl. She is just an annoyance to me, an intruder into the only stable relationship I.

“I volunteer,” says a shaky voice.

For the second time that night, relief courses though me. Everyone I love is safe. Jacob and I can go hunting with Emily. I realize now I actually like her. Well, maybe like is a strong word. But I am surprised by how relieved I am that she’s safe.

My feelings of relief are so strong that at first I don’t notice the eerie silence that has descended over the crowd. Shouldn’t they be clapping for the winner?

I look around for a moment, confused. Why is everyone looking at me?

A girl next to me hisses, “Well, go on then.”

The crowd hesitantly begins to clap.

Oh God.

The volunteer, the person who took Emily’s place?

It’s me.