Reckoner, Part IV, i. [Twilight Fan Fiction]

A/N

Happy New Year, you guys!

So, I have almost all of this story written but there are a few scenes scattered throughout that need to be finished. One of those comes in the middle of this chapter, and sadly, I have been too sick to write it this week. But I didn't want to not post something, so what you have is the first part of this chapter. What I'm trying to tell you is, I'M SO FUCKING SICK, OH MY GOD. I think I caught a man cold, no lie.

If you haven't been reading this and you still want to, quit here and go start reading here, then go to Part II here. And onto Part III here. As always I'd like to thank the generous donors of Fandom Gives Back for making this story see the light of day.

Hope you are all healthy and in eager anticipation of rockin' New Years Eve plans. I'll be toasting all of you with a fizzy glass of Airborne right before I pass out at around 7:30.

xoxo and Happy 2012.

Myg

___________

Reckoner, Part IV, i.

I ran north, all the way up to the town of Caribou without stopping. I didn’t answer the phone, didn’t read any text messages. I didn’t care if they called me a coward, or an asshole or even a brother or son. I only cared that I find some way to get them out of harm’s way. That meant I needed distance, and lots of it. Quickly. Eventually, I’d come back a solitary vampire like Mercy. And then I could kill whomever I damn well pleased for whatever reason suited me.

I booked a room at the Caribou Lodge, ignoring the tired old woman behind the counter when she raised her eyes at my lack of luggage. 

“I’m just here for the hookers,” I said with a smile, slapping a pile of hundred dollar bills down on the counter. She scowled and thought I didn’t notice when she pocketed all of it.

For the first two weeks I stayed alone in a poorly decorated third-rate hotel room. Bad pastel wall paper, uncomfortable, cheap furniture, an outdated television I never watched. A bible I thumbed through now and then. I was still plagued daily by the unfaded vision of the woman of my dreams and by the twisted face of the man I’d killed in her name, whatever it was. I fantasized all the different ways I might kill Allston Kaine, too. Hell. All twelve Kaines. Why not? Really, why the fuck not? They were all murderers when it came down to it, and was I the Reckoner or not?

After another week of incessant stewing in that depressing hole, I desperately needed to hunt, but Caribou was somewhat lacking in rapists, child molesters and murderers. I could have hunted elk or moose or bear but if I was really going so far as to renounce my family, I wanted to indulge my thirst for human blood. I needed a bad guy. 

After days of fruitless stalking in Caribou’s public school, church and three bars, I wandered over to the medical center in Fort Kent where I pretended to be a psychotic tourist. It had been awhile since I’d indulged the sicker side of my sense of humor, but the laughter that ensued when the poor intern tried to find my pulse only added to the authenticity of my ruse. Eventually, after they found that no needle could penetrate my skin and the Thorazine they administered by mouth had absolutely no effect, they called the local police. I thought I might hang out in the jail and see who came in, but before the local law enforcement team arrived, I’d found my next kill.

He was on the young side and I’d never enjoyed killing young men, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and I was feeling sketchy by then. My victim was a skinny, pale alcoholic kid, early twenties. Jimmy Colter was his name. He was an EMT and he had startling, relentless thoughts of a fixed murder-suicide plot with what appeared to be his ex-girlfriend, some girl named Jolene. I followed him home and watched him carefully load his handgun from his bedroom window. He still lived with his parents, there were still superhero posters on the wall, an old lamp with footballs printed on the paper shade. He drank two Budweisers from a can in under ten minutes, and then got into his truck and drove to the girl’s trailer. I dragged him out from behind the wheel before she even came to the door.

Out in the woods he struggled to run away but I held him firmly with his arms behind his back, dragging his legs behind him through the underbrush of the forest floor. There was some survival instinct left in this one, that was obvious and that for some reason pleased me. His eyes were blue, his hair was black and unwashed, probably for days. He shivered, underdressed for the dropping November temperature. When I found a good killing spot, I let him go and he ran, but I caught him easily. After a couple of more chases, he finally stopped trying to get away.

“What… are you?” he asked. “What do you want with me?”

“I know what you’re planning to do to her—what’s her name?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stammered and nearly pissed in his pants, shifting from foot to foot as he wrung his hands together. 

“Jolene,” I said as he thought her name, and then he began to cry softly. I hated when they did that. “That’s her, right? What did she do to piss you off so bad?”

“She… she slept with my cousin Ted. It all went to shit after that.”

“You were going to shoot her and then kill yourself in her kitchen? You think that’s justified for infidelity? Seriously?”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even ask me how I knew. He just cried harder.

“Do you know what I am?” I asked.

“Are you a cop or something?”

“No,” I said. “I’m the Reckoner.”

“The what?”

“I kill rapists and murderers.”

“Shit,” he whispered and began to tremble. Then he wiped more tears from the corner of his eyes and surveyed the woods. He began to scream for help and I just watched him go through all those emotions, the fear, the denial. The fight. He tried to run again and I dragged him back, finally limp with resignation and sobbing into his shirt sleeve.

He didn’t ask me to spare him and that bothered me. They usually beg for another chance, swear to do better. Promise to turn things around, to find Jesus—something, anything they think will convince me to let them go. This kid didn’t do any of that, though. He just lay there crying, didn’t even try to hide it.

“I need a drink,” he said. “Do I get a last request or anything?”

“Are you serious?” 

Then he broke down into sobs. Full-on choking sobs. He thought about Budweiser, of all things. Shitty, canned Budweiser. Then he started thinking about some dog at home, a fat pit-bull with brown splotches, bleeding gums and missing teeth. Something about the whole situation there made me sick.

“Who is the dog?

“What?” 

“The dog.”

“Sally?” he said. “How’d you know about her?”

“Is that your dog?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t want her to go to the pound. They’ll put her down and she don’t deserve that.”

“Oh yeah? Did you think of that when you decided to murder someone and kill yourself today, asshole?”

“No.” He started sobbing again and then I had no thirst at all. None. In fact, the thought of drinking this guy's blood made me feel ill, though I knew it had to be psychological. He wiped his face with his sleeve. His eyes were puffy and red, his thoughts a tangled mess of pain I didn't even want to know.

“Let me ask you a question,” I said, regret filling me like dirty, wet sand. “What if I don’t kill you? What then?”

“You gonna send me to jail?”

“I’m not a cop.” Jesus, this kid was thick. “Just, tell me, if I let you live, what will you do?”

He was quiet, and I perused the clutter of his mind as he pondered this question. The first thing he thought of was shooting himself. I shook my head at him.

“No,” I said. “Not that.”

He looked at me funny, like he was confused. Then he had a thought of himself, obviously a memory from when he was young, maybe 11 or 12. There was another man there—some kind of coach. Soccer, maybe. And then I understood why he suddenly went back to the thought of him shooting himself and I had to ask myself, what the fuck should I do? What on fucking earth do I do?

His eyes went cold as they fixed on some blank spot in the distance, his thoughts very far from the moment. His mind then began to race, frantic fragments of memories. I saw not the intended rape-murder of Jolene or the suicide, but an elderly man he’d saved by administering CPR. A stray cat he’d rescued from the scene of a house fire. A toddler he’d saved from choking. His tears were flowing hot, running down his face, onto his jacket. His guilt, his shame, his rage, his remorse—I couldn’t stomach it. Not figuratively, not literally.

“I’m not going to kill you,” I said.

Jimmy stirred and looked up at me, his face contorted, confused, distrustful. He put his head back down between his knees and wretched, dry heaving and then coughing up clear mucus he spat onto the dead leaves between his legs. He wrapped his arms around his head and rocked back and forth like a frightened child trying to soothe himself.

“I need a drink real bad,” he said.

“You need a lot more than that,” I answered. 

~~~~~~~

That's all for tonight, folks. See you all again here soon.

I Don't Want Your Dildo in My Cay

Enjoy another TexasKatherine post in her absence. How long is a maternity leave anyway? And be sure to (a) maybe not be at work, and (b) empty your mouth of any liquids. This bitch is funny.

************************

I don't have much time to troll the interwebs these days, so I rely on others to spit entertaining info into my mouth like a baby bird. Mr TK sent me this link a while back ago. I kind of dismissed it because I didn't believe it was real. It's a blog article about the worst book ever written. It's called (wait for it...) Dildo Cay.

You totally thought I made up that title, didn't you?

It was written in the 40's so it's possible the author didn't notice the island's resemblance to this...

Possible. But not plausible. (P.S. This not so little beauty is available from Good Vibrations. P.P.S You might not want to read this post on your work computer.)

There is an actual place called Dildo Cay. I would consider visiting but I don't think they have a Nordstrom. I'd rather have a staycation and visit my cay. *ahem*

I'm sure you're wondering exactly what this book is about. I've read the following summary from the jacket at least a dozen times and I still can't tell you.

Ainsworths do not marry for love. They choose their women to carry on the line–thoroughbreds who can endure the loneliness and the eternal wind of the Ainsworth island–Dildo Cay. This speck in the Atlantic lies six hundred miles southeast of Great Bahama. Here the Ainsworths have lived for eleven generations–the one white family among two hundred blacks.

Young Adrian Ainsworth has followed the family tradition in selecting his wife, Mary. Then Carol arrives with her father, hired to revive the salt industry on which the livelihood of the Ainsworths and the blacks depends. Carol is a glittering and sophisticated creature caught in a strange situation. Adrian’s deep, growing desire for Carol and the tension between her arrogant father and the blacks mount to an electric climax. Without sentimentality, but with a powerful honesty, the author paints a consuming passion against a romantic and exotic background.

So, I guess this is some kind of apartheid romance between rough-looking people set in a salt mine. I can't believe it wasn't an instant classic. I'm not really up on my seasoning history, but I had no idea the salt industry was so robust after the invention of the ice box. Color me...still not interested.

The fact that this book was published and so many of my friends are stuck in a revolving door of querying agents makes me want to punch someone in their Dildo Cay. The few excerpts of this book I read were so painfully full of stilted dialogue and repetition I can not bear to repost it here. I found the Dick and Jane series more riveting in kindergarten.

 Hmmm. Maybe these books are more similar to Dildo Cay than I first thought.

I would love to know if anyone here has ever read this book. What's the worst book you've ever read?

Here's To Our Tribe (A New Year's Thing a Couple of Days Early)

 Happy holidays, you amazing, loving, crazy, genius women (and a few men). It's the end of the year, the usual time for us to all ruminate fondly (or not so fondly) on another year that has gone under the bridge, been filed under "past" or... Something like that.

All I'm saying is that another year has passed and we are all still here, going strong. I once read somewhere that the average lifespan of a blog is less than one year. With Twitarded, I think it's less about the content and more about the readers that have kept this blog going.

Oooh, we made it into purple!!

See, here's the thing (and bear with me because I'm on cold drugs and am possibly high off my face) I think adolescent/teenage girls have a bit of a curse on them. Sort of like werewolves, but less hairy and way more in-pain-y and emotional. Lost and alone, sort of. Adult women are more like vampires. Vampires are smarter and classier but are also tortured in their ridiculously and eternal good looks by being... well, alone.

 We're just like Edward Cullen, tortured and alone. Or not.

So, in 2009, we were all sort of wandering around lost, a little confused and maybe a wee bit embarrassed about our affection for all things Twilight. We loved the fantasy of them, the suspension of reality. But we were still all alone. Like the vampires (I'm definitely high). You know, like Victoria and James, before they got they together. But we were less murder-y (well, most of us were, I think).

Oh fuck it. I guess what I'm trying to say is this - thank you, all of you, for another wonderful year spent together. Thank you all for being so open-minded and generous with your love and kindness. Thank you SO much for totally digging the same porn as I do.

 Unnnnnf.

You ladies have banded together and helped each other out when someone needs it, and that's just amazing. It blows my mind and warms my cold, cynical heart. Your acts of kindness have made me a better person, I promise.

Our last Forks trip (ever) was awesome and I hold so many memories from both those trips close in my heart.

The Twitter conversations I've witnessed between all you people are proof that not only are you ladies intelligent and kind, you're also fucking funny as shit. Nine out of ten times that my boss asks me why I'm laughing so hard, it's because I'm reading something one of you wrote.

So, thanks again for being exactly who you are. All of you. Stay awesome, be safe and have a kick-ass New Year.

Love you!

Buh-bye, Breaking Dawn Before the Spawn... See You in February?

I totally remember this scene, don't you? 

Bella was SO radiant when she was preggers...

I've been meaning to see Breaking Dawn again before it left the theaters since the second time I saw it with Myg and Jenny Jerkface in late November or early December (I have the ticket stub around here somewhere because I keep things like that but it would probably take me two hours to find it in the piles of other little things I feel compelled to hold on to). The first viewing I was all giddy and hopped up and it's hard to remember all the details after waiting so long to see it on the big screen. I was so baffled by some parts that I read the book again. That's right: I read Breaking Dawn again! Then at the second viewing, I just wanted to watch it without being all dumbfounded that I was FINALLY watching it and having to make notes to blog about it (my brain is like a sieve and I depend on a precarious system of notes jotted on everything to recall shit and make things happen).

I always knew I was going to see it one more time in the theater (how could I NOT?!), at which point I would REALLY pay attention and take a small notebooks' worth of chicken-scratched memos that I would later spend hours trying to decipher into a comprehensible post about what I liked and didn't like. Because the fandom really needed more of that, I think.

 Yeah I remember that this never happened quite like this. I think. 

There might not have been an ass-slip but I DID hear there was a nip-slip.

...and I totally remember this part too. Oh wait no I don't.

WTF is she eating, a lemon meringue omelette???

Sadly, even with a couple of years to practice behind me, I was unprepared for the fact that some time shortly after November 18th, life spontaneously churns into an out-of-control tailspin of holiday madness that starts to wind down at about the same time that all the Christmas-release and last-minute Oscar contenders hit the theaters and push poor little ol' Robward & Company out of the theaters for good. I kept thinking that I would have plenty of time for one last matinee with JJ and Myg... Then I started threatening to go alone, but never found the time. I vaguely considered taking a reeeeeeeally long lunch and seeing it at the theater near my office, but work has been too busy for me to disappear for several hours, at least if I want to remain gainfully employed. Which I kind of do, most days.

Today, after semi-wrapping up some family Christmas mayhem, I realized time was super-short and ran to  Fandango to see what options were still available. It wasn't pretty - a midnight showing playing on a weeknight at one theater near me, or an earlier show at one of a very small handful of theaters (is two a handful?) within inconvenient driving distance, and in very sketchy locations. I won't name city names, but it's what Papa Snarky once referred to as "The Armpit of New Jersey" - is pretty much the kind of crappy, blighted town people not from around here think of when they think of New Jersey, and I will never go back there ever again, even if Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart were putting on a stage production of the entire Twilight Saga. The one time I went there I think I saw a tumbleweed of crack vials and pit bull fur go rolling down the street.

So I bid you a fond farewell - for now! - Breaking Dawn: Before the Spawn. Until we meet again - you, me, and all your not-very-enticing-sounding "extras." I'll be there. With sparkles on. And with JJ and Myg in my little clutches, unless they manage to escape again.

Happy Boxing Day! Um...What Is Boxing Day?

I'm not even sure what Boxing Day is but I like it. Especially when I don't have to work. So is Boxing Day always the day after Christmas? Seriously... I really have no idea and I'm super lazy (and possibly just a teensy bit drunk) and I have no desire to Google that shit right now. What I do know is that it happens in the UK and I probably have no right to even celebrate it!

Really not sure this is what they meant by Boxing Day!

So anywho...how was everyone's Christmas/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah? For those of you who celebrate Christmas, did the fat man deliver the goods or what? I love that pudgy elf -- he makes me so happy! Do you remember when you were a kid and you believed that crazy bearded man actually visited every single kids' house on Christmas eve? And how your parents would wrap the "Santa" gifts in different paper so they would stand out from the regular gifts? Those were the fucking days! I miss the "Santa" gifts now that I'm older and even though I really want to believe that jolly mo-fo is real, I know that he's just a myth. I kinda wish my mom would still designate one of my gifts to be from Santa. I would totally believe!!

This guy must sleep for weeks after his busy night.

My Christmas was pretty amazing! I love spending time with my family and it was my seven-month-old niece's first one and even though she was more interested in eating the wrapping paper than seeing what was actually in the package, it still made the day that much more fun. And I also had two cousins visiting that I hadn't seen in five years, which also made me really happy. At my age, I'm more thankful for these moments than I am for the presents. Which, if you know me, is a very bold statement. I fucking love presents.

My mom still goes all Christmas crazy and buys us all a ton of stuff even though she probably doesn't really have to since there's nothing we really "need-need". I think my favorite gift this year is something I haven't even received yet. I asked for a ClamCase for my iPad. If you're not familiar with this contraption, it turns your iPad into a sort of laptoppy type thingy. The iPad snaps into one half and the other half is a wireless keyboard. Sometimes I get super tired of typing on that touch keyboard so I thought this would be really cool. Of course, the fucking this is sold out so now I have to wait...

This thing better be kick ass or I will kick someone's ass.

What was your favorite gift this year or your favorite moment? Did you get a new Kindle Fire or an iPad or a new smartphone? Or maybe it was something else... or someone? If anyone had Robert Pattinson under their tree, you'd better fess up! And please tell me you've secured him away in your basement and will be selling him to the highest bidder in a private Twitarded auction, natch - lol. I'd like to start the bidding please... (For charity, of course...)

Why the fuck wasn't this under my tree this year?
Maybe Santa knows I've been just a liiiitle bit naughty this year!

PS: You know what is NOT a good chaser for a bottle of wine? Peanut butter chip brownies and a glass of milk. I might vomit soon.

Reckoner, Part III [Twilight Fan Fiction]

Author's Note

Happy Holidays you guys! 

I know that late Friday night right before Christmas is exactly the time everyone wants to dive into Reckoner again, right? I'm sure you have no baking/wrapping/panicking to do right about now. Well, hey, it'll be here whenever you're ready just the same. 

Looks as though Friday night is the new posting schedule for this tale, so if you're reading it week to week you can look for it then. Thanks to those of you who have been reading it--I truly appreciate it. In case you are wondering, the answer is yes, this tale will wrap somewhere in the Osa Bella timeline, though I'm not telling where (mostly because I'm not 100% sure yet).

If you are new here, Reckoner is a pre-quel to Osa Bella in Edward's Point of View. You don't need to have read Osa Bella to understand what's going on here.  If you'd like to read Reckoner but haven't started it yet, please start at the beginning here, then read the second part here. And then come back here. Whew. I'm exhausted just from cutting and pasting those links.

Reckoner is brought to you by the generous donors of the Fandom Gives Back. The first part appeared in the big author's compilation there. It will continue here at Twitarded until it's done, and I'm not 100% sure when that will be, but probably a few more weeks at least. If you donated to FGB, you are welcome to receive a pdf and an ebook version of Reckoner when it's all finished. Just email your receipt to me at mygdala @ gmail. (No need to include any private information though.)

Okay, I'm off to wrap presents until 3am. All the best to you, Twitards. May your holidays be sparkly and filled with dreams of your favorite Edward.

Love, 

Myg

~~~~~~~~~

“I love it. Show me the chords.” 

Mercy picked up her guitar from the stand and tuned it as I strummed the chords on the new song again. It was the fourth I’d composed in two weeks and darker than the other three combined. 

“We need to record these,” she said. “We’ll make an album. What do you think?”

“What for?”

“Why not?”

I couldn’t really argue that, as much as I felt like arguing and did argue with her or anyone at every turn these days for any or no reason. I didn’t know how Mercy could even stand to be around me. I’d become so surly since Boston that I couldn’t pass by a mirror without wishing my reflection would disappear like a ghost’s.

“Listen to this, Edward,” Mercy said and began to sing.

Woman of your dreams, so young now...and you—you were younger still. Dreaming all the ways she fell still...Did you tell her about those dreams?

Open up your fantasy and ride your darkest fear... Baby I will get us home…***

“That’s good,” I said. “Really good.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re right—we should book some studio time. Maybe put something out.”

“Really?” Her surprised smile lit her face and I suddenly felt like a royal asshole for how distant and cold I’d been.

“Sure,” I said. “Why don’t you call and set it up for next week?”

“I will,” she said, still smiling.  She went back to strumming her guitar again, humming as she began to compose the rest of the vocal line. 

I considered her carefully as she played. Mercy was beautiful. Petite, but hardly fragile. Long, flowing black hair. Perfectly huge eyes, lashes out to next week. She was without question the most beautiful vampire I knew. Prettier than Rosalie, and even I could admit that was saying something. She was graceful, elegant, talented. The sound of her voice always calmed me, brought me back from many a dark place. Mercy was always there with a supportive ear when I needed her. There was so much I loved about Mercy. Why couldn’t I just fall in love with her?

I knew the answer, though. I couldn’t fall in love with Mercy because I was still in love with someone else. It didn’t matter that the woman I loved was dead—nothing about how I felt about her had changed. I didn’t know if it ever would. If it even could.

But maybe I should try, I thought. Maybe if I gave myself some time I could try to fall in love with Mercy. Maybe if it worked, she would fall in love with me, too. We could get married, lead our lives peacefully. Everybody would be happy about that, right? Esme would be thrilled. Carlisle, relieved. Mercy and I were already close, rarely argued, shared a lot of the same interests. 

Then as though she was the mind reader, Mercy glanced up and saw me staring and cracked another small smile. “Do you like that?” she asked, about the song. “I’m just fooling around here now.”

“Mercy?” 

She stopped playing and gave me an expectant look. I felt like I might say something important, monumental. Significant. 

“Do you have any cigarettes?” I asked.

“No, I need to run to the store,” she said. “There’s money in my wallet.”

~~~

At the Cumberland Farms a rumpled, balding middle aged guy had just hidden a porno mag beneath the counter when I walked in. His thoughts were as ugly as the stained teeth he showed when he grunted, “eight dollars,” after I asked him for a pack of American Spirits. He was thinking of girls. Young ones. Very young ones, though I wasn’t sure if he had a specific kid in mind or if this was just a sick fucking fantasy. Then I realized I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.

“Edward Cullen,” you asshole, I heard from behind me. “You’re back in Portland, I see.”

Allston Kaine was a tall, thin vampire with close-cropped salt and pepper hair and the look of a distinguished older man. He stood in the doorway of the convenience store, flanked by three of his coven, Timothy, Mark and Adam Kaine. 

“Let’s take it outside,” I said, nodding to the door, not at all happy with the fantasy of my beheaded body I found in Allston’s mind. 

The Kaines were the largest coven north of Boston until you got into Montréal. Allston was its maker. They were your regular variety parasitic vampires, preying on whatever unsuspecting humans they could cull from Portland and the surrounding tourist areas. Allston was a former US naval officer turned vampire by Caribbean pirates in the mid 1800s. He’d known Mercy a hundred years at least and the two of them had their baggage. She had been entertaining an offer of marriage from Allston when I first met her, but she ended up eschewing traditional vampirism in favor of the humanitarian practices of our coven and turned him down. He always blamed me for that, but if I was to blame to keep Mercy from marrying that asshole I was proud of it.

Outside, we stepped into the alley next to the convenience store and they surrounded me while Allston spoke.

“An acquaintance of ours in Boston has gone missing,” he said. “We thought you might have heard something about it while you were there.”

“Why would you think that?” I asked. I had no idea how they knew I’d been in Boston, but I didn’t react.

“You’re familiar with the witch Elle Moreau, right?”

“The Boston witch? Everyone knows who she is.”

“Did you know that she’s dead?” Allston said. 

I hadn’t heard that, but after my encounter with her I’d suspected it wouldn’t be long. My first thought was that Mercy wouldn’t be able to settle whatever score she had with Elle, but then it was obvious that wasn’t a concern of Allston’s.

“So?” I asked.

“Elle had marked one of our… suppliers.”

“What do you mean, suppliers?”

“What do you think I mean, idiot?” Allston hissed. “You think Portland has enough prey to feed a coven as large as mine without the police interfering?”

“You sick fucking bastards,” I seethed. “Too lazy now to properly hunt?”

“Edward, our Boston connection has been missing for weeks. Do you know anything about it?”

I hadn’t known what kind of strength I truly possessed until I stopped myself from killing Allston Kaine right then and there. The face of the man I’d last killed fixed itself in Allston’s mind and then I realized that the unrequited love of my life, the woman I still grieved for, might not have been murdered by the man I killed at all. Maybe she was just supplied by him, procured like livestock for the Kaine coven. Maybe Allston had enjoyed her, drank her, killed her, right under my fucking nose.

And so now I marked Allston Kaine as my next target. Sooner or later he was going to die by my hand, and hopefully sooner. But not here in the street. Somewhere where I could make his torment last a long, gruesomely long time.

My phone rang, and I didn’t have to look to see who it was. I ignored it.

“Are you picking that up?” Allston asked.

“I don’t know anything about your human trafficking connection,” I said. “Who was he bringing you, anyway?” 

I searched Allston’s mind for glimpses of the last humans he’d fed the coven. I searched the minds of Timothy, Adam, and Mark and saw flashes of hunger, lust, and several pretty, horrified faces. All young looking women, but none that I recognized.

“What do you care?” Allston asked, studying the disgusted expression on my face. “My, you look thirsty just thinking about it. Maybe we should have you by for dinner.”

“I don’t fucking think so.”

“Well anyway, the does were for sustenance, Edward,” Allston said with a laugh. “You don’t name dinner. That’s sick.”

“Jesus Christ…”

“Someone we know saw you talking to Elle Moreau in Boston the night she died,” Timothy said. “The night we lost contact with our supplier.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. 

“So you’re saying you don’t know what happened to him?” Allston said.

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“We’ll be looking into it,” Allston said. “But mind that you watch yourself up here. Without a supply of prey shipped up from Boston, we will be carefully hunting around Portland, and I don’t want any interference.”

“I don’t hunt humans, you know that,” I said.

“Yes, yes, I know all you Cullens call yourselves humanitarians.” Allston scowled and shook his head in disgust. “But let’s just be clear about something. If by chance you do decide to interfere, we will take out every Cullen.” Then he leaned in close and exhaled a ghastly cold blast of his breath in my face. “Am I understood?”

“Fuck you,” I said. You are a dead man.

Don’t try my patience, Reckoner.

I didn’t blink. I didn’t say a word. I just stared blankly at him, looking bored, doing my damned best to cover the rage and the disquiet I felt that he’d been tipped off to my identity. Damn that Elle Moreau, straight to hell where she belonged.

My phone rang again, and this time it wasn’t Alice, but Carlisle. I answered but before I could say a word he said, “Don’t even think about it.”

~~~

Carlisle met me deep in the woods near Sebago Lake, near our local hunting rendezvous. It was dark and drizzling where I waited, and quiet save the soft pattering of light rain on fallen leaves. He appeared at around one a.m. with Alice and no one else, as I’d requested. She looked out of place, nervous and fidgeting in her black rain slicker with penguins on it and shiny, white rain boots. Carlisle was in a trench and a fedora, perturbed and torn. He opened a large golf umbrella over the three of us and we huddled under it talking quietly, despite the fact that no one else was there.

“You don’t know, for a fact, that Allston is the one who killed her, do you?” Carlisle said. “Did you see her in his mind? In any of theirs?”

“No,” I said. “But…”

“Then we’ve got no basis for retaliation.”

“They’re engaged in human trafficking,” I said. “How can I do nothing? It goes against everything I…”

“This isn’t Boston—you’re not the Reckoner up here,” Carlisle said, cutting me off with a stern look and a commanding tone.

“How can you look me in the eye and say that?”

“This family is my priority,” Carlisle said. “Imagine what would happen to us if we decided to go after every vampire who killed humans. We’d all be dead, Edward. We do a lot more good in this world by being a peaceful example to others than by delivering some rogue justice. I thought you understood that.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“If you kill Allston it will be war,” Alice said. Her eyes were wide and hollow, her face forlorn with whatever horror she saw but didn’t share, but I saw it. In a flash of Alice’s mind, Mercy was torn and burning on a great fire. Carlisle was decapitated, his head cradled in Timothy Kaine’s arms. Esme was laying still on the ground. I reached out to comfort Alice but she moved out of my grasp, wrapped her arms around herself and glared at me as rain began to pour down on her. “We won’t win.”

“What is happening?” Carlisle demanded. “What do you see?”

“We can’t do this,” Alice said. “Edward, you can’t do it.”

“Allston knows,” I said. “He knows I’m the Reckoner. He will hold this over us—do you have any idea how many enemies I have down in Boston?”

“We’ll make an agreement with the Kaines,” Carlisle said. “I’ll speak to him about it.”

“You can’t trust him!” I yelled. “Alice, can you see that working out in any way?”

“All I can see is your vengeance,” she said, uncharacteristically adamant, frustrated. “You’ve got to stop thinking about revenge.”

She was out of her mind if she thought I wasn’t killing Allston Kaine after what he’d told me. Somehow, somewhere, he was going to die by my hand if it was the last thing I did.

“You need to take the family back to Forks,” I insisted. “It isn’t safe here in Maine anymore. Take Mercy, too.”

“If it’s too much temptation for you here, then we can discuss going back to Forks,” Carlisle said. “We need to discuss this with everyone else.”

“There’s nothing to discuss, Carlisle. You’ll be safer there, you know that.”

“If we go, you’re coming with us,” he said.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“What do you mean you can’t do it?” Carlisle said. “Do you think that you’ll stay behind, start a war with the Kaines and there won’t be repercussions for the rest of us, regardless of where we go?”

“Edward,” Alice whispered. “I know what you’re thinking. Please, please don’t.”

But the way I saw it, I had no choice. My feelings about my lost beloved aside, my disgust with the Kaine human trafficking issue aside, Allston had my number. One phone call to the wrong witch in Salem or the wrong vampire in Boston and everyone in my family would be a target, a retribution kill for those murderers I’d slain as the Reckoner. Now I only saw one way to keep my family safe. One choice that wouldn’t end with me dragging the rest of them into a war they had no place fighting.

“I renounce the Cullens,” I said.

Alice dropped her eyes to the sodden forest floor and refused to look at me again.

“You what?” Carlisle said, his eyes nearly glowing red with rage at the heartless words I spoke. “What did you just say to me?”

“I renounce you, Carlisle. I renounce the Cullens.”

~~~~~~~

***These lyrics are from the song "Fantasy" by Family Band. You guys know I love Family Band and always think of Mercy as having this kind of voice and writing this kind of music. 

Until next time...

He Sees You When You're Sleeping...

If you're all as busy as I am this week, you probably don't have a heck of a lot of time to spare so I won't keep you too long. I'm not sure what's going on lately but it's like all the busy-bee stars are aligned and I can't seem to keep my head on straight. I thought work was supposed to slow down this time of year. Fuck no!

Work + Christmas + Going on Vacation = Spinning LKW

Good news is my shopping is done. Bad news is I still have to wrap it all. Good news is I still found a little time to rustle up some funny Christmas-y videos to entertain you. I thought I'd make things good and simple tonight and I Googled "Robert Pattinson Christmas" and nearly pissed my pants when I watched this JibJab video.



If you've never played around with those hilarious JibJab videos, you have no idea what you're missing. My cousin Double_Dippin was even on a JibJab tear a couple weeks ago and did this one for the Twitarded crew.

Don't we make the cutest fucking elves ever?? And our guest elf... well, he never made it back from that cabin. You wonder why he's been MIA lately. *whistles innocently*

I truly hope you all have a wonderful and safe holiday season!

Merry Christmas from the Latchkey house!!