Icy droplets spattered against my face as the rain began to fall.
It was too dark to see much besides the black triangles of the spruces leaning and shaking with the wind. But I strained my eyes anyway, searching for other shapes in the storm. A pale silhouette, moving like a ghost through the black . . . or maybe the shadowy outline of an enormous wolf . . . My eyes were too weak.
Then there was a movement in the night, right beside me. Edward slid through my open window, his hands colder than the rain.
"Is Jacob out there?" I asked, shivering as Edward pulled me into the circle of his arm.
"Yes . . . somewhere. And Esme's on her way home."
I sighed. "It's so cold and wet. This is silly." I shivered again.
He chuckled. "It's only cold to you, Bella."
It was cold in my dream that night, too, maybe because I slept in Edward's arms. But I dreamt I was outside in the storm, the wind whipping my hair in my face and blinding my eyes. I stood on the rocky crescent of First Beach, trying to understand the quickly moving shapes I could only dimly see in the darkness at the shore's edge. At first, there was nothing but a flash of white and black, darting toward each other and dancing away. And then, as if the moon had suddenly broken from the clouds, I could see everything.
Rosalie, her hair swinging wet and golden down to the back of her knees, was lunging at an enormous wolf-its muzzle shot through with silver-that I instinctively recognized as Billy Black.
I broke into a run, but found myself moving in the frustrating slow motion of dreamers. I tried to scream to them, to tell them to stop, but my voice was stolen by the wind, and I could make no sound. I waved my arms, hoping to catch their attention. Something flashed in my hand, and I noticed for the first time that my right hand wasn't empty.
I held a long, sharp blade, ancient and silver, crusted in dried, blackened blood.
I cringed away from the knife, and my eyes snapped open to the quiet darkness of my bedroom. The first thing I realized was that I was not alone, and I turned to bury my face in Edward's chest, knowing the sweet scent of his skin would chase the nightmare away more effectively than anything else.
"Did I wake you?" he whispered. There was the sound of paper, the ruffling of pages, and a faint thump as something light fell to the wooden floor.
"No," I mumbled, sighing in contentment as his arms tightened around me. "I had a bad dream."
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
I shook my head. "Too tired. Maybe in the morning, if I remember."
I felt a silent laugh shake through him.
"In the morning," he agreed.
"What were you reading?" I muttered, not really awake at all.
"Wuthering Heights," he said.
I frowned sleepily. "I thought you didn't like that book."
"You left it out," he murmured, his soft voice lulling me toward unconsciousness. "Besides . . . the more time I spend with you, the more human emotions seem comprehensible to me. I'm discovering that I can sympathize with Heathcliff in ways I didn't think possible before."
"Mmm," I sighed.
He said something else, something low, but I was already asleep.
The next morning dawned pearl gray and still. Edward asked me about my dream, but I couldn't get a handle on it. I only remembered that I was cold, and that I was glad he was there when I woke up. He kissed me, long enough to get my pulse racing, and then headed home to change and get his car.
I dressed quickly, low on options. Whoever had ransacked my hamper had critically impaired my wardrobe. If it wasn't so frightening, it would be seriously annoying.
As I was about to head down for breakfast, I noticed my battered copy of Wuthering Heights lying open on the floor where Edward had dropped it in the night, holding his place the way the damaged binding always held mine.
I picked it up curiously, trying to remember what he'd said. Something about feeling sympathy for Heathcliff, of all people. That couldn't be right; I must have dreamed that part.
Three words on the open page caught my eye, and I bent my head to read the paragraph more closely. It was Heathcliff speaking, and I knew the passage well.
And there you see the distinction between our feelings: had he been in my place and I in his, though I hated him with a hatred that turned my life to gall, I never would have raised a hand against him. You may look incredulous, if you please! I never would have banished him from her society as long as she desired his. The moment her regard ceased, I would have torn his heart out, and drank his blood! But, till then-if you don't believe me, you don't know me-till then, I would have died by inches before I touched a single hair of his head!
The three words that had caught my eye were "drank his blood."