Rain begins tapping on the fallen leaves and thrumming against the earth beneath my feet.

The wind picks up, and there's a howl to it. It sprays mist in my face and moistens my robe. It'll soak through within minutes. No matter how this vampire-werewolf thing plays out, it'll be miserable, probably for the rest of my short life.

I was freezing before I was wet, but strangely enough, that sensation is fading the longer I'm being held captive. In fact, the chill has ignited something in me—the will to survive by any means necessary.

"Sam, I need an answer," Bryony stage-whispers in my ear, ensuring that Jael can hear her, too. "You'll go back with me no matter what. I'm just giving you the option to take the deal. It's contingent upon your good behavior."

Good behavior. Hmm. Where has that ever gotten me?

"You will play nice, Sam. Walk with me," she insists, and it pokes into my skull. "And I'll put in a good word for you."

I could play along, pretending she succeeded. But then I'd be twiddling my thumbs, simply hoping for someone to intervene on my behalf.

This has happened only once in two weeks. I suppose I should give Jael some credit for trying, but after all that's been said and done, I can't rely on him. His intentions are questionable, and his competence in this new terrain, even more so. During our last forest experience, I dragged him out, and we only had football players and cheerleaders to evade.

"It must be amateur hour." I've apparently conjured a voice from somewhere other. "Get out of my fucking head."

Compared to Ishmael, her glamour attempt was barely a graze. I'm embarrassed for her that she even bothered.

At my voice and uncharacteristic words, Jael, the mighty wolf, takes a few steps back.

Bryony tightens her grip around my neck, unafraid. She makes her distaste known with a little cluck in her throat. About to utter some inane comeback, I bite down on her arm—and mean it this time—before she has the breath.

Her skin is as tough as leather. Worse, maybe. It's hard to make a comparison. It's not like I've ever done this before. I don't let that dissuade me, latching on and twisting, like a rabid animal. I retract my head with a mouthful of cold, rancid flesh.

I spit the chunk to the ground, ready for another attack—anyway, anyhow—but she shrieks and nudges me off her with a force I'm not sure I could ever match.

While I'm falling forward, to an inevitably painful landing on my knees, hands, stomach, or face, there's a brownish blur whizzing past me, heading in the opposite direction. It's followed by a growl, a yelp, and a tussle.

Teeth, hair, nails, clothing, flesh...

I skid to a stop, losing skin on my knees, naked chest, palms, and a little bit of my chin.

That's it. I have nothing left. No deal to take. I blew it. Unless...

I sluggishly turn my head, afraid of what I might see.

Bryony is face-down on the ground. Her red, wavy, formerly well-tamed hair is tangled and splayed out. Jael has his full wolf-weight on her back.

She's twitching, losing the battle, but clinging to the vendetta that isn't quite over. Then, like the strike of a viper, his teeth sink into the back of her head and neck. There's a nauseating squish and crunch. He yanks hard and his mouth retracts with gray matter and sinew.

She does bleed, but there's something abnormal about it. It looks like liquid tar in the shade of the trees and waning light.

It must taste as foul as it looks. Jael coughs and splutters the mouthful onto the ground. There's some retching behind it, a few very dog-like sneezes, and some bounding around, as if the jarring motion would somehow rid him of death's aftertaste.

I gag by association and squirm away from them both. Everything in my body is screaming, go to sleep, but I locate some choice in the matter. I keep moving and dig in deep for the will to get up.

The sirens are still wailing in the distance. I'm not that far away from the source. If I want to survive, I can't surrender, not even to my own needs, which are sort of conflicting right now, and rest is winning.

Contrary to the strength I summoned, the aftermath is debilitating, especially after a vampire's attempted intrusion.

Jael slinks up beside me. He then sits, cocks his head, and emits a whiny little yip. He seems to think that if he's a cute animal and hinders our ability to communicate, I'll despise him less.

I have no desire to need him right now. And it puts some lead in my feet. They find the ground and the rest of my body pops up, heavy as I've ever experienced, but buoyant by comparison. "I've got it from here. Thanks for not being a complete asshole."

He blasts out a loud breath through his nose and seems to stay put.

I walk on, not sure he'll follow me. I'm not sure if I want him to or not. Do I need his help? Can I tolerate his company? Do I want his death on my conscience if things don't work out? He did just kill Ivy's best friend, and I doubt this will be taken lightly.

We are so dead. Perhaps we'd have better odds of survival if we weren't together, a fact I'm sure he's considered, too, if he's in his right mind. After killing someone and whatever else he's done or endured during my era, and even before—whatever it was that made Ivy and Ishmael the solution—I can't get into his headspace.

Not sure where I'm going, or even where I came from, going downhill makes the most sense. My walk becomes a jog. In excruciating spurts, I attempt to run. A mile or two later, I'm about to crack, though, in multiple places, including my mind.

I'm barely upright when I discover running water up ahead. A whole lot of it. I can't think of any other major body of water, anywhere nearby. It must be the Shenandoah River in the very last light of day. The rain has let up and the moon is peeking through the ominous cloud cover.

It's . . . overwhelming. How beauty can still exist out there. It's undeniable, no matter what lens you're looking through and how besmirched it may be. As long as you have eyes and can interpret light, it's an indelible truth. It makes me wonder how many people have sat on these very banks in a similar situation and washed off dirt, blood, or cried tears that felt significant but were infinitesimally small once they fell into the historic river.

I should keep running, up or downriver, but instead, I untangle my elbow, hang my robe on a branch and drape my underwear beside it.

Everything hurts. It's all the more poignant, stepping from stone to stone, until the water is deep enough to sit in. I plop down and intend to just be for a minute.

The icy cold water is a shock to my system. I cry out and brace myself for more discomfort. But gradually, it dulls away much of the pain. My teeth are chattering, but my lung capacity has grown. My heart isn't quite as greedy. I can breathe again.

An animal is lapping up water behind me. I shake my head and don't bother to look, knowing I didn't outrun the wolf.

He's a glutton for punishment. It's apparently his thing, and I don't think I'll leave this river feeling special about it.

After his thirst is quenched, there's a subtle whooshing sound that I'm now familiar with. His movement isn't quite as agile anymore. He skips and sloshes through the water much like I did. His naked male form looms closer, which I do my best to ignore, but its lack of subtlety makes that next to impossible. He takes a seat a couple of yards to my right. I'm bare above the hips, but I've lost the urge to care. He's not looking at me anyway, careful as always, except for that one time, which was probably the biggest mistake we've ever made.

He takes in the sight of the moon through a clearing instead and begins rinsing off his mouth and face with one hand. Then he scoops water onto his arms, chest, and hair.

I guess I'm not the only one who has a vampire stench to remove.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," he breaks the silence. "If there was any other way..."

"I know," I fill in. "I'm not dumb. Her deal was no good." I copy his motions, hoping the smell of Ishmael is removable, for my own peace of mind, and I catch sight of a sizable scratch on his shoulder. Bryony certainly dug in with all five fingers, and he had fur at the time. "Are you all right?"

"Are you?" His eyes flick toward my submerged backside. "I've never seen that shade of purple before. I'm surprised you can sit at all. Did he do that to you?"

I didn't bother to look at the injury. I didn't want to know the details. It must be worse than I thought if Jael noticed from afar in just the glow of evening. "It's what the cold water is for," I inform him, unkindly. "And . . . why?"

"Why what?" he tosses back.

"Why do you care? Why are you still here? Why didn't you just let me die and resume your life? You've known me for only about a month. I'm just a 'reasonably attractive' girl..." This is a direct quote from the video that Ivy showed me. When describing me to Ishmael, those were his exact words. I didn't have to hear them twice. Every word, in the tone and order they were delivered—they will haunt me until I die. "Reasonably attractive," I repeat, "if you can ignore a few character flaws and red flags in the heat of the moment," I go on, mimicking his voice. "Which, you know, I could. Dry spell, and all, I guess."

He lets that sink with a slow nod. The shock seems to shift fast to a cold, hard understanding. "I hope you don't believe everything you've heard."

"If I can't believe your own words, what can I believe?"

"It was taken out of context."

"Okay? Put it in context for me."

He leans back on his hands. After staring at the moon for a few seconds, he closes his eyes and blasts out a sigh.

"Nothing to say?" I follow up, before I probably should.

"Plenty to say," he responds.

"Then just say it already!"

Without any further pause for thought: "If I told him I was in love with you, we'd both be dead by now, and I would have been right then and there. I'm not proud, but I did what I had to do."

Now I have nothing to say. Not much, that is. I simply offer a "same," and hope to leave it at that. But then a sob burst forth, from seemingly out of nowhere. I bury my head between my knees and block out all light with my arms.

"It was Prue," I drivel on when he scoots over and places a hand between my shoulders. "When she found out." I find the strength to lift my head and wipe cold water over my face. "I don't even remember most of it. I regret it all, not because it happened, but because it was in vain. He rejected me. He'd rather get rid of Ivy than have me."

"I can't say I'm surprised." His hand slides from my back before any comfort really sets in. "And you shouldn't take it to heart."

"I am taking it to heart. It's all you people think I'm good for. It's the only edge I have..."

"That's not true," he mutters darkly. Not anymore, he probably means to add. I don't know what happened with Bryony, but there was a change in me that I'm sure he noticed.

"It is true. And what's sad, it's all I'm worth and still, I came up so embarrassingly short. I tried to save myself and couldn't. How typical, really."

"Look..." he starts over, and in that one word, the blame seems to shift already. "Here's some more context for you. Ishmael's the purest, most selfish evil you will ever come across. It's constant and ironclad, but he leads you to believe otherwise and then strips it away when you're the most vulnerable. Trust me. I fell for it, too, and there's no recourse once he makes up his mind about something. Almost as bad, he's screwed everyone under that roof, probably for centuries, in any way you want to interpret that. He has this thirst for youth and beauty and doesn't believe human laws apply to him. Even with power of their own, it's a cycle no one has had the will to break. Mothers offering up daughters? If that's not fucked up, I don't know what is. I really do believe that all evil in that household can be traced back to him. It's no excuse for doing what they did to you, but it should explain a few things..." Jael throws a glance over his shoulder and then stands up. He offers a hand and helps me to my feet as well.

"Let me guess. We have to go," I say when we're face to chest and awkwardly close.

I keep my eyes on his and he does the same.

He blinks away from our mini-truce first and veers to the left, his back turned, allowing me a chance to scurry to my robe, relatively unseen.

"We should have left as soon as we arrived," he divulges, his hand tugging at the back of his overgrown hair. "Now that there's a body, they'll be even less forgiving."

At a glance, he's tall, slender—he looks like he lost weight too, and he didn't exactly have any excess—and the sheen of black hair does nothing to detract from the shape of him.

Ugh. He's talking about a corpse, and I'm . . . glad that it's almost dark, and I don't have my glasses.

"Got it," I claim, pinching my eyes shut. "We keep running and pray we're faster." While I'm wrapping up my elbow, I spin away so I can no longer see him. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"We..." He pauses, seemingly unsure. "I was going to take you to your parents. But we should stay by the river for a while."

Pulling my robe closed, I accidentally nick my side with my fingernail and hiss.

My finger is sticky. The devil's mark must be oozing too, but the elbow is worse, so I guess the tie stays there. "It's four hours away by car," I belatedly respond. "And the river goes southwest!"

Not southeast...

And . . . and . . . for starters, won't the witches and vampire-king find me there? Will the crosses everywhere really keep them away?

I can't even begin to process this. There isn't room in my head for any more . . . strife.

"Well, then, we better get moving." He transforms into a wolf, and trots up beside me, stretching out his paws and lowering his chest.

We need to work on our communication in this dynamic. Well, really, all dynamics. There's so much left unsaid. Still, it's a pretty clear climb on, and I've lost any inclination to argue.