Chapter Text
November 2002,
It’s been sixty-two years since I last set foot in Port Angeles. The town feels different now like it’s shed its old skin and put on a new, modern face—one that feels almost unrecognizable to me. The buildings, though in the same places, have morphed into sleek, contemporary designs. The streets are busier, the people younger, and there’s a faint hum of technology in the air, something that was never here before.
I shouldn’t be so surprised. Sixty-two years is a long time for a place to not change. But for someone like me, forever stuck in the body of a seventeen-year-old, change feels distant—almost foreign.
Carlisle always tells me it gets easier with time. He says adapting is part of our existence, though lately, I’ve been sceptical of his optimism. He’s been saying the same thing for decades now, and each time it sounds more like a song I’ve heard too many times—one I’m tired of.
Jasper, of course, has his own take. As the second oldest among us, his centuries of experience have given him a more cynical view. He says it doesn’t get easier; we just learn to endure it. According to him, immortality isn’t about overcoming the passing of time; it’s about finding peace in the endless monotony. Maybe that’s easier for him; after all, he isn’t the one stuck in a body of a teenager.
Thank goodness for Alice’s unmatched makeup skills and our ability to convince people; without them, there’s no way I’d be able to attend college. It’s only her expert touch that can turn my pale complexion into something that looks, at least on the surface, more human—more alive.
And here I am, standing in a town I thought I’d never see again—not for another century, at least—all for the sake of a single book. It’s absurd, really, even to me. Port Angeles doesn’t hold any sentimental value; it’s just a necessary stop.
Forks, though, is different. That small, rain-soaked town has an inexplicable pull on me. For a family like mine, whose entire existence depends on secrecy, Forks is more than just a place—it’s a sanctuary. Its isolation keeps us hidden from the world, letting us fade into the shadows beneath the towering trees.
It mirrors the life we lead, where our truths are spoken only to the forest, and the mist takes our burdens away. It’s odd how such an unremarkable town can feel like home. Maybe it’s because Forks is one of the few places where we don’t have to try so hard to fit in.
I spot the sign for Pacific Northwest Booksellers ahead—a weathered, modest building tucked between newer, shinier stores. This shop wasn’t here the last time I visited Port Angeles, but already it looks worn out. The rain has nearly wiped away the lettering on the sign, making it almost unreadable.
Doubts begin to settle in my mind about the state of the books inside. The awning sags, its fabric faded and drooping like tired shoulders. The glass door is so streaked and fogged that it doesn’t offer even a hint of what’s inside. The paint peels in patches, revealing bare wood beneath, and the doormat—worn and weathered—clings to its place, as if stubbornly refusing to give in to time.
And yet, despite its condition, there’s something strangely endearing about the shop, a quiet charm that tugs at something deep inside me—something long buried. It pulls at the heartstrings I thought no longer responded to the world around me.
Small figurines dangle from the eaves, swaying gently in the cool, damp breeze. They’re intricately carved and painted with a craftsmanship I recognize instantly: Quileute artistry. Wolves in various poses peer out with solemn expressions, each figure full of life, as if their creators held great reverence for the animals they represented.
Other charms hang there, too—wooden feathers, crescent moons, and abstract shapes—all painted in earthy tones and etched with patterns that speak of an ancient heritage. The sight of these figures sparks a memory: small boys from La Push selling similar trinkets door-to-door, their faces serious, their pockets jingling with the modest earnings of their trade. It feels like another lifetime, yet for me, every memory is clear, untouched by the blur of time or forgetfulness.
Some of the figurines bear tiny inscriptions, and posters in an unfamiliar language are pinned beside the shop’s entrance. Quileute, I think. While I don’t understand the words, I can guess their meaning. Wolves as protectors, maybe—guardians against the cold ones, if I recall the legends from La Push.
A wry smile pulls at my lips as I stare at the threshold. If these figurines and charms are meant to ward off beings like me, they’re ultimately useless. Once, they might have instilled fear and reverence among my kind, but now they exist as nothing more than curiosities—remnants of a long-forgotten conflict between predator and prey.
It’s almost laughable to think of Alice, who usually gravitates toward the most luxurious boutiques, needing anything from a place as shabby as this. She’s always had a taste for the finer things, so why on earth would she be drawn to a run-down shop like this? The idea that this might be the only place to find the book seems strange.
But Alice insisted. And as much as I try to reason with myself, I know she rarely requests without a deeper purpose. Her determination to get what she wants is always paired with a sense of urgency that’s hard to ignore. Given Jasper’s ongoing wariness around humans—especially when he’s alone—it’s clear I became the choice for this errand.
I glance at the worn storefront once more, the unease in the pit of my stomach growing stronger.
Why this shop? Why now? And why me?
There’s something undeniably unsettling about this place. Alice could have easily asked someone else, someone less likely to question her motives. But she chose me.
Alice rarely leaves anything to chance. Her decision to send me on this errand feels intentional, even if she didn’t say it outright. Her cryptic smiles and offhand comments have been echoing in my mind since she gave me the task. Experience has taught me that when Alice acts especially secretive, it’s because she’s hiding something big. And, more often than not, it’s something she insists is “for my own good.”
Her recent behaviour only deepens my unease. It’s not just the strange request for a book from this rundown shop or her insistence that I be the one to get it; it’s the way she’s been acting lately. Alice has always been puzzling, her visions and bubbly nature a constant source of fascination, but this feels different. For months now, I’ve had this sense that something’s been simmering beneath the surface—visions she’s been carefully keeping from me.
I first noticed it about two months ago. At first, it’s subtle—fleeting moments when her thoughts shift too quickly, too deliberately. But the more I pay attention, the more it becomes clear that she’s hiding something. And knowing Alice, she’s probably been doing it far longer than I’ve realized.
For most people, keeping secrets from me is nearly impossible. Being a mind reader is both a gift and a curse, leaving me constantly exposed to the endless flow of thoughts around me. Even the most disciplined minds falter eventually—Carlisle included. The harder someone tries not to think about something, the more it lingers at the edges of their mind. Eventually, I find it.
But Alice? Alice is different.
She’s too skilled, too methodical. Whenever I try to dig into her thoughts, she deflects with maddening precision, reciting that Japanese nursery rhyme she’s been obsessed with lately. The rhythmic flow of the unfamiliar syllables forms a perfect barrier, locking me out.
Her determination to keep her thoughts hidden is unusual. Alice loves surprises—planning elaborate gestures, throwing surprise parties, and creating thoughtful gifts. But this feels heavier—more calculated. Whatever she’s hiding isn’t one of her playful secrets, the kind she likes teasing me with.
This is different.
It’s not like I’m completely in the dark. Despite Alice’s best efforts to shield her mind, I’ve caught glimpses—disjointed pieces of her elusive visions. Among them, one stands out with clarity: a red Chevy pickup truck, long black hair flowing in soft waves, and a pair of deep, brown eyes.
Those eyes.
They’re impossible to forget, lingering in my mind like a half-remembered song—achingly familiar. Dark as the richest chocolate, they seem to see straight through me. It’s not just their beauty; it’s the way they hold this knowing gaze as if they could peel back the layers of my being and peer into the deepest parts of my soul.
The first time I saw them in Alice’s mind, I froze, overwhelmed by their presence. Those eyes, piercing and haunting, feel like they’ve left a mark on me. Before I can process what I’ve just seen, Alice’s thoughts shift abruptly—right to that maddening Japanese rhyme.
It’s infuriating, but I can’t entirely blame her. Whatever she’s hiding, it’s intentional. Alice has always been a master of timing, showing her cards only when she knows the moment is right. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that whatever is buried in her visions holds great significance—not just for her, but for me as well.
For now, I have no choice but to trust her. Trust her timing. Trust that when the time is right, she’ll finally reveal the truth she’s kept hidden from me.
As I step into the bookstore, I’m immediately surrounded by a mix of sensory delights. It’s not the musty, stale smell I expected; instead, the air is filled with a blend of scents that tell their own stories. The rich, earthy smell of aged paper carries the weight of wisdom gathered over time, mingling with the sharper tang of fresh ink. There’s a subtle hint of pine, and the faint musk of old wood lingers in the background as if the space itself breathes life into the stories it holds. With each breath, I inhale the distinct essence of narratives—some well-loved and worn, others fresh and ready to be shared.
The store is dimly lit, shadows lingering in corners where the light from mismatched vintage lamps fades. Dust motes dance in the beams of light streaming through smudged windows. Rows of bookshelves—some slightly crooked with age, their wood creaking under the weight of stories—line the room. The books are stacked haphazardly, as though hands have sifted through them, searching for forgotten treasures.
My gaze drifts to the man behind the counter. It’s clear he’s not your typical shopkeeper. His weathered features speak of time, the faint lines around his eyes and mouth telling a story of both wisdom and hardship. His skin carries the sun-kissed tone of Quileute heritage, and his posture exudes a quiet authority—not one of command, but of respect earned over decades.
But it’s his eyes that captivate me. Dark and deep, they seem to hold a sea of secrets and pain. They remind me too much of my own—eyes that have seen far too much.
I move toward the counter, intending to ask about the book Alice sent me for, but as I reach into my jacket pocket, a sudden realization halts me: I haven’t read the note she gave me. The thought of fumbling for answers under the weight of his intense gaze makes me hesitate. Instead, I shift toward the nearest shelf, buying myself a moment to gather myself.
I casually drift to a bookcase, discreetly pulling out the folded slip of paper. As I unfold it, Alice’s delicate handwriting comes into view.
The moment my eyes land on the title written across the page, I can’t help but gasp—an involuntary reaction, far too human and completely out of character for my usual composure. All the dignity I brought into this shop vanishes in an instant.
Nocturnal Union: A Love of Fang and Fur.
The absurdity of it all threatens to overwhelm me. For a brief moment, I wonder if Alice is playing some elaborate joke on me. The title alone brings to mind the cover of those cheesy romance novels—brooding werewolves and damsels in distress. I can already hear Emmett’s booming laugh echoing through the house if he ever found out about this.
But it’s Alice. Whatever her reasons, they’re buried under layers of logic and foresight I can’t quite see. With a resigned sigh, tinged with a bit of melodrama, I accept the task at hand. I can only hope she doesn’t expect me to read it.
I school my expression into something resembling a polite smile—though it probably looks more like a grimace—and approach the old man behind the counter. “Excuse me, sir,” I say, my voice calm and controlled, “I’m looking for a book titled Nocturnal Union: A Love of Fang and Fur.”
The words feel almost ridiculous as they leave my mouth. Even speaking them out loud feels like it’s chipping away at the reputation I’ve spent decades carefully crafting.
Suddenly, memories of my human father flash into my mind. I see his disapproving glare, the way his jaw would set when he caught me indulging in what he called “unmanly frivolities.” His voice rings in my ears: “Edward, no respectable young man should waste his time on something as trivial as love.”
The irony is almost too much to bear. Decades later, here I am, forever frozen in the form of a teenager, asking for a book with a title so over-the-top it could be a parody. I can’t help but think, Well, Father, you’d be thrilled to know that your son—who you would never have considered ‘young-blooded’—has no blood at all.
The shopkeeper doesn’t seem to share my amusement. The bored expression he wore moments ago disappears, replaced by something else—shock, maybe? Or is it awe?
His dark eyes widen, flicking between my face and the slip of paper in my hand. For a split second—just the briefest heartbeat—he seems frozen.
He looks at me as though I’ve stepped out of legend like I’m some myth brought to life. The weight of his gaze might have unsettled me once and might have even prompted a nervous laugh. But the Edward I am now is far removed from such vulnerabilities. I meet his stare with calm, though a flicker of curiosity stirs in the back of my mind.
And then, I hear it.
"It’s him! It’s him!"
The thought pounds in his mind like a drum, repeating with an insistence that grows stronger with every beat. It isn’t a question or idle curiosity—it’s a statement, unshakable and firm. The intensity of his conviction catches me off guard.
I frown, diving deeper into his thoughts, searching for meaning, for context. What makes him so sure? But there’s nothing else—no explanation, no reasoning. Just those three words, looping endlessly like a mantra.
"It’s him!"
I hold his gaze, keeping my expression composed, revealing none of the questions now swirling in my mind. Whatever revelation he believes he’s had; I still don’t understand it. But one thing is clear: to him, I’m not just a customer looking for a book.
To him, I’m something more.
His reaction piques my interest. What does this man think he sees? More importantly, why does he see it in me? The question nags at the edges of my thoughts. I hold his gaze, resisting the urge to dig deeper into his mind. Something about his awe-struck expression feels too deliberate to be a simple coincidence. There’s a story here—one waiting to be uncovered—but I’m reluctant to break the tension that hangs between us.
When he moves, it’s with a speed that belies his age. Rising from his chair with surprising steadiness, he walks briskly to a far corner of the shop, where stacks of books tower. My sharp eyes catch the slight tremor in his hands as he begins sifting through the disarray. Is it excitement? Anxiety? The cause remains unclear, but the urgency in his movements is irrefutable.
The books he handles are thick with dust, each shift sending soft plumes spiralling into the air. There’s a reverence to the way he handles the books, a careful, almost ritualistic precision as his fingers skim the spines. Each motion is thoughtful, each touch filled with purpose. Though the shop itself is chaotic, his actions are anything but—methodical, sure, and familiar, as though he knows these books as intimately as old friends. He pauses often, brushing dust off the covers with the care of someone tending to something sacred.
Minutes stretch on, until finally, he lets out a quiet exhale of triumph. In his hands, he holds a thin, fragile-looking book. The leather cover is cracked and worn, the edges curling in on themselves as though trying to protect the precious contents inside. The book looks positively ancient.
For a brief moment, he hesitates, holding the book with a reverence that borders on awe. He seems reluctant to part with it, almost as if doing so might sever some invisible connection to whatever sacred purpose it once served.
When he turns back to me, his expression shifts, hardening. There’s no mistaking it now: this moment, this book, this strange encounter are far more important than I’d first realized. The question is no longer whether I am connected to whatever mystery he believes in, but how deeply that connection goes.
He stops just short of the counter and, with a brusque efficiency that contrasts sharply with the reverence he showed during his search, pulls a hand towel from beneath it. My brows rise slightly in silent protest as he begins to wipe down the book’s cover. The rough motion sends flakes of dust scattering to the floor, the sound grating against my heightened senses.
A faint shiver of dismay runs through me. For someone who seems to hold this book in such high regard, his treatment of it feels almost disrespectful. My inner bibliophile protests, but I manage to keep my outward composure in check. Only the slightest furrow of my brow betrays my thoughts.
Finally, the shopkeeper finishes and steps behind the counter. He places the book before me with a quiet ceremony. He doesn’t speak, allowing the weight of the moment to fill the air between us.
The silence stretches, thick with unspoken meaning. My fingers hover over the book’s cover, the worn leather unexpectedly warm beneath my touch. For a brief second, I hesitate, wary of the fragile object in my hands—and the watchful gaze locked on me.
Still, he says nothing. His physical presence is subtle, but the weight of his gaze presses on the space between us. He’s waiting—for me to speak, or perhaps for me to solve the riddle he’s so carefully guarded.
But what does he expect me to do or say? The question lingers in my mind, but I hold back.
The book feels surprisingly heavy for its size, as though it carries more than just its physical weight. My gaze is immediately drawn to the title, written in what I can only assume is Quileute—another piece of this mystery. The words "Lahwa’as T’la’aysi: Aki’ ‘O S’ok’wilh Ch’etl" are etched in delicate, flowing characters. The golden ink catches the dim light and shimmers. Despite the book’s worn, fragile appearance, the title remains untouched by time, glowing with an almost otherworldly vitality.
As I carefully open the book, my attention is immediately drawn to the first page. A painting, vivid and captivating, stares back at me. A wolf’s head fills the center of the canvas, its russet fur painted with such detail and depth that it seems to almost breathe. The blending of reds and browns gives the fur a texture so real that I almost expect it to shift under my touch. The wolf’s expression is fierce. There’s something about it that pulls me in, holding my gaze.
But it’s the eyes that catch me—deep, intelligent, and dark. They seem to bore straight through the canvas, locking onto mine. A shiver runs through me as the realization hits. These are the eyes Alice spoke of in her visions, the same haunting gaze that had lingered in my mind long after her cryptic words. Now, those eyes stare back at me with unsettling clarity, as though the painting itself is alive.
I instinctively snap the book shut halfway, as if to shield myself from the gaze that seems to reach out to me. What am I seeing? More importantly, why am I seeing it?
As I turn to the back page, I’m confronted with an image that sets my nerves on edge. A portrait fills the space, so lifelike that it seems less like a painting and more like a photograph. The figure depicted is a man with hair the colour of burnished bronze, falling in loose waves that catch the light as though they’re ablaze with an inner fire.
His eyes are impossible to ignore—molten topaz, glowing with an intensity that feels like they could pierce through the page. They radiate a dangerous allure, a predatory gleam that makes it clear he is not someone to be trifled with. It’s the kind of gaze that could compel anyone to submit, caught between awe and terror. Yet, strangely, it feels familiar, like looking into a reflection of my nature.
The figure’s skin is flawless, smooth as polished marble, almost glowing as if lit from within by some unearthly radiance. Its perfection is at once captivating and foreign, the stark fairness only making the blood trailing from the corner of his lips stand out more. Fresh and vivid against his pale skin, the blood tells a simple story: a predator, just after the hunt—satisfied but never fully sated. It’s a scene of primal beauty.
But the most disturbing part? The man in the portrait is me.
The resemblance isn’t just close—it’s exact. Every detail, from the curve of my brows to the sharpness of my jaw, is mirrored with unsettling precision. The artist hasn’t just captured my likeness; they’ve captured my essence. But not the version of me that I’ve become, the Edward Cullen who fights to stay grounded. No, this is the predator—unrestrained, unapologetic. It’s as if they’ve painted not the man I am now, but the vampire I’ve spent decades trying to suppress.
I snap the book shut, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and dread.
How is this possible? What does it mean? And more importantly, how does the shopkeeper fit into all of this?
His words echo in my head: "It’s him! It’s him!" Now I’m left wondering if those words were a warning, a revelation, or something far more than I could have imagined.
The questions multiply, crowding my thoughts. The answers are so close, within reach, yet still vague. The shopkeeper knows something, and I can see it in how he darts between the book and my face like he’s trying to piece something together.
I turn my full attention to him, my resolve solidifying.
I need answers, and I’ll get them—one way or another.