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For a city of ghosts, La Push sure was lively, Seth mused, leaning over the café counter to peer curiously out the dusty window. He’d promised his mom he’d keep the business running long after she was gone - expecting that future to be ten, twenty years away - and even in the total absence of customers, the idea of closing up shop seemed inconceivable.
He’d only made her that promise a year ago.Life was funny like that - it gave you everything you wanted, and just as you took that delicious, refreshing sigh of relief, it was snatched right back out of your clammy hands. Still, grief aside, he needed business - shit, he’d trade his soul for ten dollars and a can of coke - and the unexpected group milling about the darkened street looked suitably promising. Sure, they weren’t the usual type, but the cash register didn’t discriminate. Funeral costs, utility bills, Leah’s college fees - they all added up.
He had only to beckon with a simple welcoming tip of the chin before they were sweeping in, filing through the saloon door with a disquieting grace. Though they were five, they moved as one, falling into step behind the tallest man.
Their leader?
But that was pack-talk, and he didn’t do that anymore.
Seth shook his head, focusing on the approaching figures. Something was off, though he couldn’t quite place it. It was as if the answer was just out of reach, slipping lithely through his desperately grasping fingers.
A memory from years prior, perhaps.
The hair on his neck bristled as the man drew closer. He was in spitting distance, and my god was the fellow deserving of that offence. There was something so off-putting about his visage; the man’s skin was crinkled like paper, and as starkly white as a fresh ream. Though he seemed young, his eyes appeared oddly aged, with a peculiar gleam unlike any Seth had ever seen. Oh, and that was before mentioning their impossible colour…
Seth had met this man before, of that he was certain. Before he could extract the memory from the depths of his mind, slotting the pieces together, the stranger spoke.
“Good evening, Mr. Clearwater.”
Seth sniffed. “Something I can help you with?”
The man cocked his head to the side, bearing an additional inch of appallingly pale skin. His neck was littered with dozens upon dozens of repulsive crescent-shaped scars, cross-hatching from his chin to below his collar. His mother had always instructed him not to stare, but Seth couldn’t seem to drag his eyes away. The marks were familiar...but how?
“We were just out for a wonderful night’s stroll, and I couldn’t help but appreciate your hospitality. It’s been too long, my friend.”
Seth blinked, snapping out of his transfixion. “How do you know my-”
The man slowly raised a wizened finger to rest against Seth’s lips.
“Now, now, you’ve done more than enough speaking. It’s time for you to be still.”
At last, Seth Clearwater remembered. And then -
Seth Clearwater was no more.
ONE YEAR EARLIER
6.30 AM
Sue Clearwater stood before her dining room table, the beautiful mahogany wood laden with piles upon piles of her late Harry’s belongings. Many months had passed since it happened, but there was no conceivable way Sue could have faced what remained any sooner. From his patch-work fishing jacket on the mud-room hook to the handmade picture frame above their (her) bed, Harry’s touch was everywhere.
Everywhere except for her, that was.
Some days, if she squeezed her eyes tightly shut for long enough, she could pretend Harry was beside her, the staccato breaths blowing across her cheek. If she closed her eyes just right, the arm pulling her tight felt as familiar as her own. Still, no matter how hard she tried, despite all the wishes and prayers and pleading messages she sent to whatever higher power would deign to listen, the illusion was always shattered.
Sometimes it would be the sudden slam of Leah’s door, jolting her into alertness in a split-second. Sue had heard that noise a billion times over, despite her repeated lectures about respecting the house, keeping the peace.
The lectures never worked on Leah.
Other mornings, her dreams dissipated with the disquieting scratching of Seth clumsily scrambling through his bedroom window, crawling home after a marathon patrol.
Sue could let that one slide.
No, the worst one of all, the disruption to her dreams that really, truly cemented that Harry was gone, were Charlie’s abrupt, choking snores. They never failed to banish any residual hope she could muster, knocking sense into her bones like a freight train. It was a fact, as much as she tried to deny it: Harry was dead, and his memory was sure to follow. It was as if everybody else had already forgotten - as if Harry hadn’t lain faithfully beside her for the better part of thirty years, consoling her through misery and exalting her in joy.
She would never breathe a word to her children, but the pain of Harry’s absence was slowly lessening to a traitorous sense of relief. There was no more hiding - no more lying.
In his death, Sue was free.
She breathed in the crisp air wafting through the living room window. It was summer, and the beautiful morning was yet to give way to the oppressive heat.
It was morning, and she was free.
9.00 AM
The wails of the infant echoed through the tiled monstrosity of the Uley household. In his retirement from pack life - exercising his stubborn right to exile - Sam had taken up amateur handy-work. Emily wasn’t sure if the desire sprang from a genuine interest in home improvement, or if it was a desperate effort to squash down the terrible memories of bloodshed with mind-numbing manual labour, but she said nothing of the sort. His experimentation gave her some blessed peace and quiet; it was a beautiful reprieve from the unruliness of her previously crowded house, which now sat wonderfully empty upon the hill.
Empty, bar her insufferable infant.
She had wished and prayed and begged Sam endlessly to give her a child, one that she could love and dote on and mould in her image. After all, that was the purpose of the imprint: breeding. The Elders had said so, and that was that.
He had obliged three months before his resignation - three months before the bond had loosened, and not a moment sooner.
Something was wrong with this one, though - it screamed and cried and fussed incessantly, whether it rested against her breast or in the quiet solitude of the crib. Emily had taken to refusing her breast after the thing had chanced a nip at her tender skin, and so had become enemies.
She climbed the stairs wearily, clutching a lukewarm bottle in her tense fists. “Jesus, I’m coming. Please, please, shut up. I’m coming.”
Emily knew quite plainly that the child loathed her, only making eyes for its damned father, and that was the nail in the coffin for their cooling bond. She climbed the stairs with dreadfully slow steps, wishing she was instead descending the newly-laid porch steps, bundling into her old Buick. She knew that she was a shit mother - that much was clear - but her child should have loved her regardless. A child, clamouring for any shred of attention, should love her. It was what she deserved.
As she ascended the final step, moving wordlessly towards the crib - towards that maddening noise - something loosened within her. Like a dam releasing, there was another noise echoing from the walls of the room, a noise far more primal than the baby could ever hope to utter.
Emily closed her mouth. Screaming was, of course, terribly unbecoming for a lady.
The noise had worked, though, and the thing fell silent in shock. Her mouth quirked upwards into a smile, self-satisfied. For that wondrous, fantastic moment, she finally was at peace.
All too soon, it started again, the keening burrowing into her eardrums like hammered nails. Her arm seemed to raise of its own accord, cocking back and releasing the bottle before she could let out another strangled breath. And just like that, it fell silent, laying stunned on its back. Peering down at the thing, bowled over helplessly like a flipped roach, Emily couldn’t help but sneer. The perfectly round red welt adorning its forehead was both retribution and damnation, the kind of incontrovertible evidence that would earn Sam’s rebuke in a heartbeat.
This time, Emily wailed in earnest, collapsed against the wooden slats of Sam’s delicately hand-carved crib.
Would the torture ever end?
2.00 PM
For Mike Newton, Forks’ aspiring real estate developer, the torture was ongoing. His father had financed his MBA - Mike’s only ticket to turning his inherited fortune into something worthwhile - on the proviso that he repay the costly sum with the boutique firm’s earnings in his first year of operation.
Mike had agreed with a gleaming smile and too-firm handshake, envisioning mountains of cash atop the bespoke writing desk he’d acquired from an exotics dealer up Settle-ways. His only problem? He was a tidy $60,000 in the hole - ignoring his personal debts, which were steadily climbing as the calendar pages turned - and not a single step closer to securing any profitable deals. For all the listings he had (and being the only realtor in Forks, he had plenty), Mike had secured one pathetic contract in his full eight months of trading.
Not even the Weber’s paltry purchase could save him from his cataclysmic debts.
Mike loosened his moth-eaten tie, squeezing his eyes closed. With no movement on his lengthy list of offerings, and no leads to pursue, the bottle of bourbon hidden beneath his files appeared increasingly tempting. Alcoholism wasn’t part of the plan, but neither was declaring bankruptcy at twenty-six, and both seemed steadily forthcoming. His shaking hands were busy trying to extract his ornamental whisky glass from its decorative box when the stranger entered, soundlessly sliding into the plush chair across from his desk.
Mike twisted and turned the box, studying it for any point of weakness. It was only when he sliced the tape in two with his fingernail that the stranger cleared his throat, startling the developer.
The crystalline glass, a keepsake from his mother, shattered into a million irreparable pieces on the hardwood floor.
“For God’s sake,” Mike hissed, bending to study the shards, as if to confirm that the glass, just like everything else in his life, was absolutely fucked. He glanced up at the stranger, attempting to rearrange his face into some sort of welcoming expression.
Mike knew, amongst a few other things, that it was possible to simultaneously detest a man and to desire to squeeze him for every dollar of business that he had.
And so he stretched his mouth into some grotesque grin, appearing every bit as slimy as his heart confirmed him to be. He rose, crossing to the man in quick, short steps.
“Mike. Mike Newton. And you are?” He asked, offering an outstretched hand.
The stranger peered at his palm for a moment, as if contemplating the gesture, before raising his own to grip in greeting. His palm was unusually cold, unlike any handshake Mike was used to.
“You can call me Aro. A last name is not necessary.”
Mike opened his mouth to speak, but Aro simply raised his hand, as if hushing a child. His fingers were peculiarly long, like odd little skewers atop a tiny hunk of pale flesh.
“I am here to purchase a residence in your fair town. I do not wish to hear any of your offerings, nor any of your so-called ‘tax schemes’,” Aro spoke, casting a wary eye towards the brochure atop Mike’s desk. “The residence I wish to purchase is the lot on Quimby Street.”
Mike’s eyebrow quirked infinitesimally. “Quimby Street? You mean the old Cullen home?”
Aro nodded gravely. “The very same. The purchase will be made in my name. You may prepare the papers immediately.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I’m not sure that you understand-”
“I understand completely. You will sell me the house on two conditions,” Aro spoke, his mouth settling into a thin line.
“Conditions,” Mike uttered, shaking his head slightly. The Newtons were not men to be commanded and prodded, not in this lifetime or the next, but Mike knew damn well the Cullen home was set to net him a formidable sum. He’d be a fool to throw that away over his goddamned pride, something that was virtually in the gutter as it was. “What are they?”
“First, you will say nothing of our transaction here today. Nothing. Should anyone ask - if there is ever a question - all you know of the matter is what I have told you - that I am simply seeking a residence in this fair town. This is very important.”
“You have my word,” Mike nodded, offering him a thin smile. Very important business my ass, he thought, sizing the man up. Between the immaculately pressed grey wool suit - obviously last season, if not more - and his overly waxed hair, he was a strain on the eyes. “The next condition?”
“The house will need certain restorations.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Mike said drily.
“From time to time, I may call on you for assistance. You will select men of your employ for the tasks I deem necessary. You will not speak of such services. Do you understand?”
“You aren’t from ‘round here, are you?”
Aro’s eyebrows dipped into a deep frown. “Does that have a bearing?”
“I suppose. This isn’t like Seattle, or even Port Angeles. I can keep my mouth shut morning to night, but that won’t stop the locals from talking. That’s the nature of the beast.”
“I have no concern for the townspeople. With time, they will accept me, just as they accept you.”
“I see. Were there any other conditions?”
Aro’s cracked lips pulled into a cold smile. “That will be all. In exchange for your services and your discreet manner, you will be rewarded with a healthy commission, and then some. Have we a deal?”
With an odd feeling of reluctance, Mike had nodded, sliding across his business card. “The papers will be ready on Thursday. You can come by to sign in the afternoon.”
“Very well. Good-day, Mr. Newton.”
The stranger - Aro - had slipped out of Newton & Newton’s offices as silently as he had arrived, disappearing from sight within moments.
Mike turned up the thermostat.
Success was a chilly business.
Leah flips her sun-visor down as she drives, eyeing the quote she’s hastily affixed to the vinyl.
God grant me the SERENITY to accept what I cannot change, the TENACITY to change what I may, and the GOOD LUCK not to fuck up too often. 1
Four years out, she’s got the routine pretty well on-lock. Classes. Hospital shifts. Keeping her cool. It’s not quite as easy as breathing, but it’s good enough. Resisting the phase still requires daily attention, even with the time and the distance separating her from La Push - a pleasant one thousand, one hundred, and fifteen miles. She keeps track.
Even at fourteen months no-phase, the heat still licks at her skin as it did in the summer of eighteen. Sure, her control is immeasurably improved - her roommates haven’t noticed her tremble once, and that’s not for a lack of effort.
Seth lost the wolf in six months.
Sam, after his stupid baby, managed it in three.
The last Leah had heard, only Jacob remained, and he was somewhere out in the Alaskan wilderness with the thing .
Some things are better left unknown.
Leah wants more than anything to lose the weirding way, but as hard as she tries, the wolf lingers. Her muscles tense at foreign smells and odd noises, and she can’t help but prickle at any fool who puts on an Alpha front. The wolf is part of her - it always will be, clearly - but she’d give her left tit for a goddamn moment of silence. Presently, her inhuman senses are on high alert, her leg restlessly jiggling as she pushes the speed limit.
Leah likes her silence. Cherishes it, even. A week’s reprieve from her mother’s phone calls was fortunate, and two weeks was a blessing. Three was a concern, especially when Seth had failed to answer his Blackberry. The internet hadn’t inspired much confidence, either; googling her home town in a moment of desperation was definitely a poor choice. The article’s still open on her laptop, if only to validate her worst fears.
GHOST TOWN IN WASHINGTON
By Ellis Bowers
Press-Herald Features Editor
FORKS - Forks is a small town on the outskirts of Olympic National Park, situated one-hundred and thirty miles west of Seattle, and fifteen minutes from the local Quileute Reservation. In the census of 2010, Forks claimed 3,532 souls - a gain of exactly 192 souls in the preceding ten years. It is a quiet, comfortable township, where locals will tell you that little of note takes place. Forks is a place of solitude, scenic in its position by the stunning beaches and forests of the local Reservation.
But a little over a year ago, something began to happen in Forks that was not usual. People began to drop out of sight. The larger proportion of these, naturally, haven't disappeared in the real sense of the word at all. Rebecca Black, the eldest daughter of the tribe’s active chief, was located at her residence in Hawaii with her husband and two daughters. Lauren Mallory, Forks High School alum, was tracked down to her clothing boutique in neighbouring Tacoma. Eric Yorkie now resides in Oregon. The list of ‘undisappearances’ could go on.
What is peculiar, as noted by this reporter, is the apparent unwillingness of the found people to speak about Forks, and what, if anything, may have happened there. Despite ongoing efforts, no previous residents of the area are available (and willing) to speak on the record about their lives, the ones that they have left behind in Forks.
Still, for all the located persons and logical explanations, unanswered questions remain. Where are Karen and John Newton, proprietors of Newton’s Olympic Outfitters? Why does the newly purchased Cheney house sit vacant? Files relating to the local mechanic, librarian and Spanish teacher are all marked with a question mark. The collection of files is of a disquieting size.
Is Forks haunted? Cursed? Predated by untamed wildlife? This reporter intends to find out.
Some of the people that the state police would like to locate or at least hear from include Melinda and John Stanley; Jessica Newton, Mike Newton, and their daughter; Benjamin Cheney. Angela Weber-Cheney and their two sons; Bob Banner of Forks High School...
She flips up the sun-visor, obscuring the quote from view. Leah doesn’t need good luck. She’s a Clearwater, after all. They endure.
Gas pedal flat to the floor, she continues down the I-84, muscles taut and face expressionless.
This will be her last journey on the I-84.
Sue Clearwater is buried on a Tuesday.
The groundskeeper at the high school had found her only an hour after Leah had departed Seattle; her body was initially mistaken for a battered, discarded mannequin.
It’s a closed casket funeral.
Leah has her suspicions, naturally, but with Jacob AWOL and the rest of the pack retired and disinterested, her theories are as good as buried. The coroner had ruled her mother’s death as a freak medical event - heart problems, hereditary. A simple shock had sent her six feet under before help could even be called ( or before anyone bothered to notice her absence , Leah thinks bitterly).
Leah books in for the cardiologist the day the coroner’s report is returned.
Somehow, life returns to normal around her - whatever that even means - as if she hadn’t suddenly become an orphan in charge of the world’s worst breakfast joint. Seth takes the mantle of responsibility with a simple nod and a glazed look in his eye, and she sees the bottom of the bottle more than she sees her own flesh and blood.
Seattle has never been so lonely.
“...did you hear? Martha saw Jared Cameron leaving the Uley house while Sammy was away. She said he was all over her…”
“...I heard they found old Sue’s body naked and drained of blood…”
“...wonder if it’s got anything to do with that Banner fella disappearin’...”
“...the Mallory girl, too, and the baby. Something weird goin’ on with that lot…”
“...supposedly they lost the Cheney girl in the morgue. Lost! What would you even do with a body…”
And so it went, the grapevine swiftly moving between Forks and La Push and back again. Newspapers be damned, there was something afoot in the area, even if the police department had refused to investigate.
Bodies didn’t just go missing.
Sam, oblivious to his wife’s indiscretions, returns to the house on the hill with an uncharacteristic spring in his step. Sure, he hasn’t seen Jared or Paul or even Embry in weeks, but he’d had a solid two days of peace and quiet on the boat, Emily be damned. How hard could it be to look after a baby for a coupl’a days? All Hannah did was sleep, anyway, once you got a bottle in her. That part was tricky.
Still, Emily struggled with Hannah.
She wouldn’t take Hannah to her mom, and she outright refused any mommy group Sam would bother to find.
He stopped bothering.
Sam lets himself into the house on the hill, slipping his sneakers off in the doorway The house was silent; it didn’t register at first, the unusual tranquillity which his house was not generally known for. It wasn’t always like that - the red-brick bungalow used to host a mob of jostling teens, celebrating their wins and lamenting their losses as one.
On quiet days like today, Sam can’t ignore how empty his life has become.
“Em?” he calls, letting the door slam behind him.
His voice echoes against the porcelain tile that lines the hallway, throwing his dull voice back at him like a slap. “Babe?”
Sam paces down the hallway, craning his neck to peer through each doorway as he passes. Empty, empty, empty. Finally, as ascends the steps leading to Hannah’s nursery, he sees it.
It’s worse than the time he’d asked Leah for his mom’s emerald ring back.
Worse than having to hold Jared’s severed arm after the newborn battle.
Worse than watching his first-born son stop breathing in his arms.
A trail of red, glistening on the pristine polished tile.
“Emily? Han?”
Sam’s footsteps stutter into a run as he approaches the nursery, hoping - willing, praying - that his girls were okay. And then - he is still.
He’s seen the waxy pallor of her skin before, and the awkward angles of her arms and legs from her crumpled slump by the bassinet are of no comfort. He rests his fingers against the curve of her cool neck for a moment to be sure.
“The baby. Jesus fuck, where’s the baby?” Sam roars, his voice cracking. “Han?”
He peers into the bassinet, willing her to be alive. Breathing. Still his girl.
There is no horror, no bloody mangled corpse, as his mind had insisted upon conjuring. The reality is almost worse: her crib is empty, cot sheet unwrinkled, as if she had never lain before him. Only a single, bloody sock remains, affixed to the bars of the crib with an awful, gelatinous substance.
“No,” Sam breathes, hopelessly tearing apart the crib.
She’s gone.
They’re gone.
The house on the hill is no longer silent.
Brady Fuller tips his beer back, relishing the frosty ale as it trickles down his throat. Even after he stopped phasing, he can’t work up a buzz, no matter the volume he drinks.
He’s settled for being a one-and-done sort of man.
Still, he may need to break his rule, just this once. He flips his phone over, checking the digital display. 9:48 P.M.
So much for an eight o’clock date.
Before he even speaks, the bartender slides another pint across the counter, seemingly reading his mind (or perhaps, decoding his depressed disposition). Brady keeps his head low, refusing to meet the pitying look of the man who sees him four times a week. Fuck online dating . He’s of half a mind to down the glass and go, slinking out the back door - and deleting Grindr, but that’s practically a given - when the stranger glides into the bar. He’s familiar, somehow - not enough for it to be a dealbreaker, but enough to make him wonder.
The stranger cocks his head towards the dim lighting of the booths, striding ahead before Brady can protest.
Forward , he thinks, lifting his glass to follow. I can live with that .
As soon as Brady is concealed from view, the man pounces, simultaneously gripping the back of Brady’s neck and guiding his hand. He’s bored and a little desperate and with standards low enough to permit it, and so he lets the stranger show him the way.
It’s quick and passionless and the man barely casts him a second glance. Brady presses himself to make a little noise now and then, if only to push the man further towards completion. It’s gotta be, like, ten-thirty. So not worth it .
The man’s hips still unceremoniously; Brady pulls back, wiping a thin trail of spit from his lips, confused. He’s never had complaints, not even when he was inexperienced-
The stranger wraps his hand around Brady’s throat, twisting to the left with a loud snap before he can protest.
After it’s finished, the man downs the pint, disappearing into the darkness before the bartender can sound the alarm. Even so, what could he do - Brady’s killing is just another misfortune to add to the rapidly growing case load, a case that is cold the moment his body slumps to the floor.
Charlie Swan knows his death is approaching well before it happens. He’d watched his lover, his friends, his neighbours all disappear, leaving no traces or M.O. for the hapless Forks P.D. to pursue. Charlie does what he can, and he knows damn well he can’t prevent his own killing, despite the endless years he’s served on the force. He accepts death’s inevitability, even welcoming it in the wake of the destruction being inflicted upon Forks.
When they come for him, Charlie does not scream.
His cooling body is left outstretched on the decking, as if to make a statement: we have taken your protector, and now you have nothing .
The Cullen house sits undisturbed in the grove, unblemished by the presence of insufferable mortals. Once a place of sheer wonder and allure, it had been left to rot in the years following the coven’s departure. The Cullens had failed to bring the order to fruition; the beasts had been free to roam as they pleased, and the fresh blood of the blooming youth had remained unconsumed.
The dissolution of the Olympic Coven following the birth of the halfling was truly opportune for the Volturi; not only had they free access to the Cullens’ land, but they had the convenient deniability and secrecy that had been so carefully cultivated by the home’s predecessors.
At night, when his sires depart to feed, Aro is content to lounge in spectacular opulence, finally certain in the security they have found.
In the darkness his coven have wrought, he has found peace.
In five years, Forks had gone to ruin. Half missing, half strange and feral (or somehow, oblivious, in the case of Old Quil). Leah knew what was going on, but there wasn’t a single thing she could do about it. In her depressing pack of one, she watched Jared fall at the hands of a Cold One, and witnessed Paul’s heart stopping the moment Rachel was taken. Soon, it was only her that remained of the original pack, holed up in her mother’s home on the Reservation, terrified and isolated. There was a single option that remained - aside from taking a suicide run through the heart of Forks - and that was dredging Jacob from the shadows in which he had taken residence in the hopes of vanquishing Forks’ new rulers.
They’d lost contact years before, somewhere in the months after the first Volturi battle. It was stupid, really - she let the thing get between them, ignoring the fact that Jacob was her blood, even if he loved a cold one. Jacob, assuming he was still shifting, was her only option.
Leah bowed her head, stripping off her t-shirt and shorts. “God, if you’re out there, and you'll have to beg for my forgiveness if you are...I could really use some good luck right now. Don’t let them get me,” she whispered, allowing the wolf to reclaim her body.
The Volturi has won twice in Leah’s eyes: first, they claimed the town; second, they’ve taken her body and soul.
She finds Jacob and Ren in the rural wilderness of Canada, sheltering from the weather and the world and her family. By the time she finds them, she’s whiled away the better part of the year on four paws, and phasing back to speak with him is an awkward, arduous process that takes her back to being eighteen and unsure. Her throat scratches as she speaks, her vocal cords long disused, but Jacob hangs on to her every word. When Leah finally finishes speaking, Ren grabs Leah’s broad hand between two of hers, and somehow, Leah manages not to pull away.
“We’ll take them out. I know we can.”
Jacob doesn’t seem so sure, but he’s hell-bent on returning to La Push regardless. Ancestral pride, or some shit.
It’s not that deep for Leah. They’ve killed everyone else that she cares about. What’s one more death?
The day they return, it’s as hot and dry as if hell has truly taken up residence on the Olympic Peninsula. They come with matches and sticks and gasoline, wordlessly laying waste to the town they’d once loved, a life so distant from their horrific reality. The trio work while their enemies shelter from the broad light of day, spreading accelerant as far and wide as their supplies will allow.
Ren hands Leah the matches, and Jacob nods in silent encouragement as her shaking hands strike the matchbox. When the flames rise and the purple smog spreads across the sky, as the grotesque screams of their trapped combatants echo in the empty air, the trio simply watch.
Eventually, it’s Jacob who speaks, half looking at Ren, half-focused on Leah. “What now?”
Ren steels herself, unlinking her cold fingers from Jacob’s. “Now, you live. You live like you were meant to, before all this.”
Jacob takes a shaky breath, fixing her with a wary stare, but it’s too late to argue. In the blink of an eye, Ren is gone, darting into the plumes that swirl around them. She crumbles into ash and smoke as they watch, her form melting into indistinguishable nothingness. Leah clamps her hand around Jacob’s bicep before he can take off after her, anchoring him to the smouldering earth. Her fingers rest against his tattoo, the traditional one they had all once shared, many lifetimes ago.
“She wants you to live. She wanted that for us. That’s what we do.”
Jacob watches the flames for hours, waiting until they dwindle into steadily diminishing embers. She’s gone - they’re all gone - and Forks is gone too, leaving behind scorched planes of uninhabitable land. When they turn their back on Forks, on La Push, it is wordlessly acknowledged as the last time.
Their home is gone, but they live. In their desolation, they are together, and that will be enough.
They will endure.
- 'Salem's Lot, Stephen King, page 154.