The house was completely quiet.
Edward stood outside the guest room door, his hand lightly on the doorknob. The corridor beyond was dimly lit, but there was a thin beam of light coming under the door—a warm, leaping, candleflame-like beam at the tip of the candle. He could still sense the sting of the previous jolt in his shoulder, where Sam had appeared in wild, disoriented states. He hadn't gotten that close to him then. Not yet.
He reminded himself that he needed to go see about her. That Kyle was arriving, and she had to be all right before he did. But the truth was simpler: he needed to know if she was still the same Sam who'd laughed with him in the heat of summer. Or something else.
He knocked lightly. No answer.
"Sam?" he called quietly.
Still nothing.
He slowly grasped the knob and opened the door.
She was there, huddled on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, her hair masking her face. Her fingers shuffled in her lap, and she breathed shallowly. The air in the room was thick—overpowering. Edward moved into the room slowly.
"Sam?" he repeated, softly.
She sat up with a start.
Her face whirled around to him, and her eyes were all wrong—glassy, too wide, too dark. Her body held a strange tension, as though she was humming just beneath the surface of her skin. For a moment, she didn't stir. Then she attacked.
Edward didn't have time to react. Her hands struck his chest, pushing him a step back. Her mouth opened—too wide—and he caught a glimpse of her teeth bared as she sunk them into his shoulder.
"Ah—Jesus, Sam!" he screamed out, pain erupting red-hot across his nerves.
He thrust her, hard, back into the hallway, stumbling. She lurched, but kept coming, half-savage, growling low in her throat. He braced in the doorway, slamming his weight against the doorframe to close it in time as she lunged again at him.
Click.
He turned the lock and collapsed against the other wall, panting. The bite hurt, sickish heat and pain burning through his arm and chest. He tore his shirt open—sticky and wet with blood—and examined the torn flesh. It wasn't deep, but it was certainly human.
Adrenaline kicked in. He had seconds. Maybe minutes.
Edward lurched towards the bathroom, ripping open the medicine cabinet. Alcohol. Bandages. Antibacterial soap. He poured everything into the sink, slammed the door shut behind him, and leaned over, teeth clenched, pouring alcohol onto the wound. It burned like hell. He gritted his teeth against a scream, hands shaking as he washed away the blood, disinfected again, and wrapped the shoulder tightly.
He gazed in the mirror. His face was white, streaked with sweat.
The shirt—he could not keep it.
He carried it out into the yard with trembling hands, jammed it into the metal trash can behind the shed, and lit a match. The flames caught easily, orange devouring cotton, the smell pungent in the cold evening air.
He waited until it was ash.
When he went back inside, the house felt colder.
He looked toward the guest room door. There was no noise from inside now. Quietly, he made his way there and pressed his ear to the wood.
Quiet.
He opened it, just to check. Just to make certain she hadn't injured herself. The door groaned on its hinges.
Sam was in bed, rolled up in the blankets. Her eyes flickered open when he entered, glassy but no longer frantic.
"Edward?" she whispered. "What's happening?"
He tensed. "You. don't remember?"
She shook her head, dazed. "No. I was tired. I think I passed out. I feel weird. What's happening?"
He didn't respond for a moment. His shoulder hurt beneath the bandage.
"You're safe," he said finally, attempting to sound calm. "You're all right now. Just relax."
She regarded him. "Where's Kyle?"
"He's. he's on his way."
As if summoned by the words, a knock sounded at the front door. Edward halted, heart racing again. He drew away from Sam, quietly shut the guest room door behind him, and went to the front.
Kyle was standing in the doorway, face set, eyes rapidly scanning Edward's features in one swift glance.
"She all right?" he asked.
Edward nodded. "Yeah. Sleeping now. Confused, but… calm."
Kyle went inside and strode to the guest room. Sam stirred when he opened the door, sitting up slowly.
"Kyle…"
She spoke in a hushed whisper, alertness in her tone.
He rushed into the room and sat down next to the bed. "Hey. You gave us a half-heart attack. You know that?"
"I don't remember anything," she conceded. "I feel. hollow. Like I've been asleep."
Kyle looked at Edward, his tone low. "She's not immune," he told him. "There is a difference. One percent of individuals—her, maybe one or two others—they get infected, but it doesn't come out the same. The virus doesn't win out. But it's present, struggling."
Edward didn't respond. His shoulder ached beneath the bandage. He shifted slightly.
"Does she know?" he whispered.
Kyle shook his head. "Not yet. Let's keep it that way, at least. Until we can get her to a safe place."
Edward nodded stiffly. "Understood."
Kyle glanced again at Sam, who now seemed smaller under the blanket—weak, lost. "We'll get her fixed up. But this—" he turned his gaze back to Edward, his face tensing up—"this is only the beginning."
Edward watched as Kyle walked Sam out of the house. He waited for the rumble of the car to fade down the street.
And then shut the door.
And leaned against it, pounding heart, the bite aching against his skin.
He had no clue what was going to happen to him.
But he did know one thing:
He couldn't tell anyone.
Not yet.