Wayward ➳ Edward Cullen

12. Dilemmas

Dean, Sam, and I were in the woods, following a trail of human footprints. Every so often Dean would point them out to me and ask, "What do you see?"

I'd reply, "Just a deer."

But Dean wouldn't believe me. He'd kept on the hunt. Sam and I followed like ducklings. The trail led to many monsters—shifters, wendigos, and the ghoul from the funeral home. Dean would tell me to kill each thing we found, and I would with ridiculous ease. A swing of my machete and they'd be dead.

At some point, the woods thinned into mounds of snow and frozen rivers. We followed the footprints through an arctic landscape. Edward waited at the end. He sat on top of his Volvo parked at the edge of a sheer cliff, overlooking a black sea. The bright green lights of the aurora borealis glowed above him in a midnight-blue sky dusted with stars. He was like a beautiful marble statue, too perfect to be real.

"Kill him," Dean ordered, exactly as he had before.

I approached from behind, aware in the way of dreams that Edward knew I was there. I had to climb onto the trunk, but it didn't give. When I was close enough to reach out and run my fingers through his hair, I raised my machete.

I couldn't let it fall.

"Kill him!" Dean demanded.

My arm wouldn't move. I stood behind Edward, machete raised, and trembled.

He turned. "Sarah," Edward said, sounding sad, eyes black as coal. His mouth stretched impossibly wide as he snarled. I still couldn't move. He lunged.

As he knocked me down, I heard Sam's dry voice observe, "Your boyfriend's killing you."

I woke, Sam's words a haunting echo in my mind. I tried to shake them off, but they mixed with Edward's confession. Sitting up in the bed, I rubbed my face and sought out the window. It was still dark outside. Sadly, I was wide awake with an aching throat.

I readied myself for the day and still had hours before school. And Edward. I had my plan to carry out but couldn't ignore what was said. He'd taken human life.

The knowledge kept stealing my attention, causing me to stop and pause, to breathe and think. He'd said only men guilty of horrible crimes—but did that justify it? He had been driven by bloodlust. Wasn't the rest just an excuse to ease his conscience?

Could monsters have a conscience?

It was confusing. I had only my upbringing to guide me. By the philosophy of Dad and Dean, the only good monster was a dead one. I'd thought I believed that too. Then one had saved me.

It was simpler believing he'd never given in to the bloodlust. Still not black and white anymore, but on the lighter side. Now it was all on a steady downward slide towards the other end. Things were easier before I'd noticed all these shades of gray.

I dug my winter scarf from the bottom of my duffle, uncertain how I was going to get away with wearing it all day every day until my bruising went down. Not that I was much for trends and styles—there was no way to be a fashionista on a scam budget (and not get caught)—but I did like to dress somewhat normal. I supposed fielding looks was the price I'd pay for skipping into a ghoul's lair unprepared. Considering the alternative, it wasn't much of a price at all, really.

Since Dean still had the couch, I pulled open my backpack and attempted to do some homework. It went about as well as I expected. Which was to say not very. But making the attempt was a step up from not handing anything in.

By the time I heard Sam enter the bathroom, I packed the homework away and went downstairs.

Dean was still laying on the couch, on his stomach, television on. I tried to sneak past but ended up noticing his eyes were cracked open with the machete in hand before I reached the archway. He frowned and slid the machete back under the couch before closing his eyes. I hurried into the kitchen, glad to be spared the worst of grumpy Dean.