Twilight: Immortal Dusk

Philadelphia, 1948

The rain had teeth that night—cold, stinging things that bit through Jasper's coat like he wasn't even there. But hell, maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was just a ghost with a heartbeat that forgot how to beat. He stood still in the alley, boots planted in a puddle, hat pulled low like it could hide the hunger burning behind his bood-red-gone-black eyes.

He hadn't fed in four days.

Four days was a stretch, even on a good week. And this week? This week had been hell in a pressed suit.

Jasper ran his tongue along his teeth. They hadn't dropped yet, but he could feel the edge of them, like a storm waiting behind his gums.

Every passerby outside the alley—their scents, their feelings—wrapped around him like smoke. They didn't see him, of course. To them, he was just another man in a long coat, sheltering from the storm. But he felt them.

God help him, he felt them.

A waitress coming off the night shift, shoes soaked through, thinking about the whiskey bottle she'd hidden behind the sugar tins. A Navy vet limping home with a medal in his pocket and no family left to show it to. A girl too young for the lipstick she wore, chasing the wrong kind of attention. And beneath all that?

Blood. Sweet, hot, alive.

Jasper clenched his jaw.

"You ain't hungry. You're just bored," he told himself out loud, the drawl thick like molasses. "You're gonna walk it off. Just like last time. Ain't no reason to go makin' a mess."

His stomach curled up like a fist, disagreeing.

He stepped deeper into the alley, boots clacking against the wet bricks. Every step sounded too loud, too sharp. Like the whole city could hear him stalking. But he needed the dark. Needed to get out of range of the people—their hearts, their fear.

He leaned against the wall, water dripping from his hat brim, and tried to breathe.

Didn't help. Never did.

"Ain't real breathin', anyhow."

So, he did what he always did when the thirst clawed its way up his throat like a wildcat.

He remembered.

—

Houston, 1844.

Born in a two-story house with whitewashed columns and too many expectations. His daddy had wanted a banker. His mama had prayed for a preacher. What they got was a boy who could charm the feathers off a crow and talk his way into a war at seventeen.

He lied his way into the Confederate Army, wore that uniform like a second skin, and rose faster than a fever in summer. Major at nineteen. Should've made history.

Didn't matter. He made something worse instead.

Only after Maria turned him—after the fire in his veins lit up every nerve like God was striking him down—did he realize why the men had followed him. Why they'd died for him.

It wasn't his smile. It wasn't his speeches.

It was him.

Pathokinesis. Fancy word he learned up North. Back home, they just would've called it witchcraft.

—

Back to the Present

He blinked. The alley came back into focus.

But he wasn't alone.

There was someone else breathing his air now.

A kid, maybe seventeen. Wet jacket. Threadbare scarf. Street rat, no doubt. The boy leaned on the edge of the alley like he thought he could blend in with the brick.

Didn't know he'd just stepped into a lion's den.

"Y'know," Jasper drawled, not turning his head. "You walk like a man got somethin' to prove. That means you either got a switchblade in your boot or a death wish in your pocket."

The kid froze. "Just lookin' for a place outta the rain."

Jasper finally turned. Let the kid see the blood red in his eyes gone charcoal dark. "Son, you're a little too fresh-faced to be sniffin' around in alleys that stink of regret and piss. Find another street."

The kid blinked, then puffed up like a stray cat. "You ain't the law."

"No," Jasper said, stepping forward just enough to make the boy feel it. "But I ain't hungry for conversation either."

The fear hit like perfume in a powder room—sudden and cloying. Sharp. Sweet.

Jasper felt it crawl over his skin like heat lightning.

The boy bolted.

Smart kid.

—

He leaned back against the bricks again, rolling his shoulders, jaw clenched tight.

"Damn it, Whitlock," he muttered. "Get a grip. You let one more punk see the beast in you and you'll be swingin' from a lamppost by mornin'."

He needed to feed. Soon. But not here. Not like this.

He wasn't a monster, not entirely.

At least, that's what he told himself on the good nights.

Rain kept falling. Somewhere in the distance, jazz floated out of a bar door cracked open for a breath of air. It was soft, slow—saxophone blues, the kind that reminded him of Charlotte and Peter, and the night they danced under a sky so clear you could see forever.

He missed that. The quiet. The peace.

But peace didn't live in Philadelphia.

What lived here was neon. Asphalt. Cops with twitchy fingers and bootleggers who smelled like bourbon and brimstone. It was no place for a starving man.

And he was starving.

He stepped out from under the awning, boots splashing into the curb. The glow of a flickering sign above him sputtered once, then died.

A diner down the block was still open. Two people inside. Waitress and a drunk in a porkpie hat.

Jasper stared at the glass.

"Just one," he whispered. "One and done. No mess. No screams. Quick as a prayer."

He adjusted his hat.

Then walked.

Into the dark.

Into the hunger.

Into himself.

—

The bus groaned into the station like it had a bad hip and a longer story. Steam hissed from the undercarriage. Rain tapped against the roof like it was trying to get in and ask for a light.

Alice sat in the third row from the back, legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded neatly in her lap like a well-behaved ghost. Nobody noticed her. That was the trick.

People don't notice things that aren't supposed to be there.

She wore a sky-blue coat, missing three buttons and optimism. The gloves were black, borrowed (read: stolen) and two sizes too big. She'd rolled them up at the cuffs and tied a pink ribbon on the left one, just because it made her smile. No luggage. No money. No name on any ledger. Just her and her visions—dancing ahead of her like stage lights, whispering secrets about tomorrow in the voice of a jazz singer with a broken heart.

Alice slid off the bus with the grace of someone who never really walked—more like drifted. She landed on the platform like a punctuation mark in someone else's sentence.

Philadelphia.

It smelled like wet newspapers, diesel, and regret.

"I've smelled worse," she muttered under her breath, brushing damp hair from her forehead. The wind blew her coat open, flashing the borrowed dress underneath—cream lace, just a little too long for her frame. "And I've definitely seen worse. Looking at you, Memphis. 1923. Blegh."

She turned up the collar of her coat and stepped out onto the street.

The rain was fine and slick, making everything look like it was underwater. Neon signs flickered like lies: COFFEE • CIGARETTES • ROOMS BY THE HOUR. The city had lipstick on its teeth and blood on its boots.

Alice moved through it like smoke. Like an echo looking for its source.

He was here. Jasper Whitlock.

She'd seen him in her very first clear vision. Before she even had a name for herself. Before she knew what she was. Just a pair of haunted eyes in a Confederate uniform, drenched in guilt and moonlight. His voice had been soft as a lullaby and sharp as a bullet. And for all the visions that came after—wars, lovers, strange faces, fire and teeth and prophecy—he never changed.

He was the constant.

The gravity.

Her star.

She stopped beneath the awning of a diner that smelled like coffee and bad decisions and peered through the rain-slicked glass. A flash—a flicker—vision surged behind her eyes. Not just a future, the one. Like someone pressed play on a reel of film just behind her eyelids.

And there he was.

Standing across the street, under a flickering lamppost like he belonged in a different kind of story.

Long coat. Wide-brim hat. Face carved from shadow and sorrow. The kind of man noir writers scribbled about after one too many bourbons. The kind who never smiled unless it hurt. His eyes scanned the street with the slow, lethal awareness of a predator trying to pretend he wasn't hunting.

Alice's breath caught.

Not because she was nervous.

Because it was real now.

And because he didn't see her.

Not yet.

But he felt her.

She could tell. His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. He didn't turn, but the weight of her presence—it brushed against the edge of his awareness like static on a radio dial. Vampire senses were sharp like that. He just didn't know what he was sensing. Yet.

Not yet, she reminded herself. The vision said not yet.

She smiled.

Not a sweet smile. Not a debutante smile.

A fate's-smile.

A "you have no idea what's coming for you" kind of smile.

She ducked into the diner. Took the booth in the back. Ordered a coffee she wouldn't drink from a waitress who looked like she could punch a bear. The woman slapped down a chipped mug and lit a cigarette with the same match she used to light the sugar burner behind the counter.

"You eat?" the waitress asked, dragging smoke from her lips.

"No," Alice said cheerfully. "But I dream about pie sometimes."

The waitress grunted and wandered off.

Alice sat back in the booth, tugged off her gloves, and traced invisible lines on the fogged-up window. Her gaze never left the figure across the street. Jasper had moved slightly—just a twitch of the hand to adjust his coat, a shift of his stance. His energy coiled like a storm inside him.

Alice tilted her head, studying him.

"Still hasn't forgiven himself for Texas, huh?" she murmured. "That's okay. We'll work on it. You're a fixer-upper, cowboy. But I like a project."

She crossed one ankle over the other and smiled wider.

This moment? This non-moment? The near-miss of it all?

It was perfect.

Because if she said hello now—too soon—it'd throw the whole thing off. The threads of the future were delicate. She knew the right moment. The one she'd seen. He'd be walking into a bookstore. She'd be in a yellow dress. He'd say "pardon me, ma'am," like she was made of glass and tragedy.

And that would be it.

The spark. The ignition.

So for now?

She watched.

Waited.

Listened to the drip of the rain and the hiss of the stove. Watched his silhouette like a girl watching a movie she already knew the ending to—but still couldn't take her eyes off of.

Somewhere in the future, they'd fight wars together. Laugh until their ribs hurt. Dance on rooftops in Paris and kill monsters in Venice. They'd meet a boy with magic in his blood and a girl with dragons in her eyes. They'd find a family.

But today?

Today she was just a girl in a too-big coat, sipping cold coffee she didn't need, waiting for her moment.

And across the street?

Her future shifted his weight, looked up at the diner.

And for a second—just a flicker—his gaze brushed the window.

Not seeing her.

Just feeling her.

And that was enough.

Alice grinned and blew him a kiss he'd never see.

Yet.

—

The Next Day

Rain again.

Of course it was raining.

The city had the soul of a wet cigarette—half-smoked and still burning at the edge, smoldering in a gutter that forgot what warmth ever felt like. Rain pooled in gutters like spilled gin, and every shadow had teeth. Jasper Whitlock's coat was soaked through, clinging to him like second skin, his wide-brimmed hat pulled low, hiding the sharp cut of his jaw and the hollows beneath his eyes. He pushed open the diner door, the bell above giving a tired jangle like a piano key hit too many times.

Warmth hit him first—greasy heat from the fryers, human breath and sweat and clinking cutlery—but beneath it all, blood.

Too much of it.

Every pulse was a drumbeat in his skull.

He hadn't fed. Not properly. Not in weeks. The thirst clawed behind his ribs, a dry whisper against bone, begging. And the Pittsburgh incident still hung on him like a bad suit. One second of weakness, one alley, one mistake—and he'd tasted regret for days.

He sat in a booth with his back to the wall, always. A soldier's instinct. Eyes on the exits, hands loose in his lap but ready. Outside, the rain dragged its fingers down the glass like it was trying to scrape the memory off the world.

He didn't notice her until she spoke.

"I was beginning to think you'd never show."

The voice wasn't just musical. It danced. Like a jazz riff played only for him—sweet, strange, and entirely out of place. He turned, slowly, every movement deliberate.

She was standing behind him, arms folded, one brow arched like she'd just caught him sneaking in after curfew. She was small—barely five feet—but she had presence. That kind of confidence that didn't ask permission. Pixie-cut dark hair curled neatly around a face sharp as a jazz hook and twice as memorable, her golden eyes bright like sunlight hitting whiskey.

Jasper blinked.

"I... beg your pardon, ma'am?" he said, the drawl as thick as bourbon.

She tilted her head, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Took you long enough. I was starting to think you got lost."

"I ain't used to bein' followed," Jasper replied, cautious but not cold. He stood slowly, towering over her, his coat dripping water onto the cracked linoleum floor. "And I sure as hell ain't used to bein'... expected."

Alice stepped closer, unfazed. "Oh, honey. I've been expecting you since 1920."

His eyes narrowed. "That some kinda code?"

"Nope. Just the truth." She leaned forward, whispering like they were old friends sharing secrets. "You've been in my head for a long time, Jasper Whitlock. And let me tell you—it's real crowded in there. Lots of sequins. Occasionally murder. You'd like it."

He studied her. She wasn't lying. At least, not in the usual ways. He didn't know whether to be flattered or worried.

She held out her hand, clad in a worn black glove, the seam fraying at the wrist. Jasper hesitated, then, drawn by something quieter than instinct and louder than fear, took it.

Their fingers met.

Stillness.

It was like the air took a breath—and held it.

The hunger inside him went quiet, just for a second. Like a snarling dog soothed by a touch. Her emotions washed over him—vibrant, buzzing, unapologetically alive.

He exhaled slow. "I reckon I should be askin' your name."

She beamed, as if she'd been waiting for that line all morning.

"Alice," she said simply.

He nodded once. "Jasper. Jasper Whitlock."

"I know," she replied, with the smirk of a girl who'd already peeked at the last page of the book.

There was a beat.

He should have pulled away. Should have asked more questions. But the thing in his chest—whatever passed for a heart these days—was still.

Instead, he smiled. Just a flicker. But it was real.

"You always talk to strangers like this?"

Alice shrugged. "Only the ones who haunt my dreams, look like fallen angels, and carry a hundred years' worth of emotional baggage."

"Well," he drawled, "I'd hate to be predictable."

"Oh, you're anything but."

He chuckled, low and warm, something rusty shaking loose in his chest.

"Care to sit, Miss Alice?"

"I thought you'd never ask," she said, and slid into the booth across from him like she belonged there.

The waitress came by and gave them both a skeptical glance. "You two want coffee?"

Alice nodded brightly. "Black. And keep it coming."

Jasper just tipped his hat and muttered, "Same."

As the waitress left, Alice rested her chin on her hand, studying him.

"You've got scars," she murmured, like she was reading poetry. "So many. Bite marks too. You've been through hell."

"Still in it, darlin'," he replied, voice soft.

"You'll get out," she said simply. "You've got me now."

He arched a brow. "That so?"

Alice nodded, pretending to sip her coffee as if they were discussing the weather.

"Darlin'," he said, with a slow grin. "You might just be the strangest thing I've ever met."

"And you're definitely the most stubborn," she fired back. "But don't worry. I'm very persuasive."

Outside, the rain kept falling.

But inside, something had changed.

The soldier had found his compass. And for the first time in too many lifetimes, north pointed somewhere warm.

—

One Hour and Five Refills Later – 1948

The coffee in Jasper's chipped porcelain cup hadn't moved in an hour. Not really. He swirled it every so often like he was contemplating the secrets of the universe in the swirl of fake steam. The lie played well, especially under the low amber glow of the diner's flickering overheads. No one noticed him pour half of it into a potted fern that now looked like it was dying of heartbreak and French roast.

Alice, by contrast, was the picture of mid-century mischief: perched upright, hands folded daintily around a cup she didn't drink from, eyes bright beneath the shadow of her short, choppy pixie cut. She looked like she belonged on a record cover—mischievous smirk and all.

"You gonna nurse that coffee till it files for social security?" she asked, tilting her head, the soft light catching the silver pin in her hair.

Jasper didn't look up. Just raised a brow like a man who'd been waiting decades for someone to test his patience. "I'm givin' it time. Sometimes things need to steep."

"Mm." She tapped her spoon against the rim of her cup, a light, deliberate clink. "You look like a man who's been steeping for a while."

That finally earned her a glance. Just a flick of his storm-gray eyes beneath the brim of his weather-beaten hat. "And you look like trouble dressed up in Sunday best."

She grinned. "Compliment accepted."

He leaned back, arm draped over the cracked leather of the booth, his coat still damp from the rain that hadn't stopped in three days. The kind of rain that felt more like an omen than weather.

"You said…" he began slowly, voice smooth as molasses, "you saw me. Before."

Alice's smile faded into something more reverent. "Mm-hmm."

"The first what?"

"You were the first vision I ever had." Her fingers toyed with the handle of her untouched coffee cup. "Didn't even know what it was at the time. Just a flicker in the dark. A man with sad eyes, dressed like a ghost, walking out of a storm and into a diner."

He blinked. Long and slow. "You woke up one day and started seein' visions like that?"

"Not exactly." She glanced out the rain-streaked window. "It was... gradual. Like hearing a song before it's been written. Blurry, but insistent."

"That sounds downright unpleasant."

"If vampires could get migraines," she muttered with mock exasperation, rubbing her temples, "I'd be sittin' in a dark room humming Sinatra and cryin' into a bucket of aspirin."

Jasper cracked a smile. Small. Barely there. "You don't strike me as the cryin' type."

"Only at sad movies. And whenever I think about the price of nylons these days."

He gave a soft huff of laughter. Still didn't touch the coffee.

"What about before?" he asked, tone dipping serious. "Before all this?"

Alice grew quiet. Eyes flickering, shadows dancing in them. "I woke up in a forest outside Biloxi," she said softly. "Didn't remember a damn thing. Only one word. Alice. I was wearin' a threadbare and dirty hospital gown. Something told me not to wait around for answers."

"You ran."

"Like the devil himself was on my heels."

"That's a hell of a way to be born."

"Reborn," she corrected gently. "But yeah. Not exactly the fairy tale. No glass slipper. Just glass in my feet."

He paused. "I'm sorry."

She waved it off. "Led me to you. So how bad could it really be?"

That stopped him. Cold. Like someone reached into his chest and flicked the switch back on.

"You knew we'd meet here?"

Alice gave him a sly nod. "Saw it years ago. You. Soaked, scowling, southern. Me. Dry, dazzling, and dressed like I stepped out of Vogue."

"You've got a high opinion of yourself."

"Someone has to."

He snorted. "You're somethin' else, Miss Alice."

"I've been told."

A beat passed. Her eyes narrowed, tilted head turning calculating. "You've got black eyes."

"I'm aware."

"You haven't fed."

"No."

"When was the last time?"

"Pittsburgh."

That name carried weight. It hung in the air between them like smoke from a cheap cigarette.

"Was it bad?"

Jasper stared into the cup. "One man. Shoulda walked away. Thought I could. But I didn't. Not fast enough." His voice cracked—just a hair. "He screamed. And I liked it. That's what I can't forget. I liked it."

Silence again.

Alice reached out slowly, carefully, and placed a hand over his. Cold touching cold. "You're not a monster, Jasper."

He didn't look up.

"I drink animal blood," she said.

That got his attention. "You what?"

"Animal blood. Deer mostly. Rabbits if I'm desperate. Once tried raccoon—never again. Gamey little creeps."

He stared like she'd said she drank motor oil. "You mean to tell me I've spent a century thinkin' this curse was one road to damnation, and you're sittin' there sippin' Bambi like it's some kind of diet cola?"

She grinned. "It's not glamorous. Not exactly high society. But it works. Keeps me from ripping out anyone's throat at the grocery store."

He exhaled, a strange sound halfway between a laugh and something darker.

"I didn't know," he whispered. "All this time, and I didn't know."

"Well, you do now." Her grip tightened just slightly. "You're not doomed. You're just... lost."

His throat bobbed. "Why're you helpin' me?"

"Because I saw you. Not just in visions." She paused. "I see you."

He looked at her then. Really looked. As if her face held answers he hadn't known he needed. The ache in his chest eased just a fraction.

"There's a forest just outside town," she said, soft but steady. "Plenty of wildlife. If you walk me there—like the Southern gentleman you pretend not to be—I'll show you how it's done."

He stood slowly, rain-dark coat slapping gently against his legs. Hat tipped low. "I ain't proper, darlin'."

"No," she said, sliding out of the booth, taking his arm like it had always been hers. "But you're still a gentleman."

Jasper held the door for her, stepping out into the downpour like he didn't even feel it. And maybe he didn't. Not tonight.

As they walked together, the rhythm of their footsteps in the puddles like a lullaby for old ghosts, something inside him settled.

Not peace. Not yet.

But the beginning of it.

And for the first time in years, maybe more...

Jasper Whitlock wanted to believe in something again.

—

The forest stretched out like a hymn held too long—deep, dark, and gasping for breath.

Thick trees huddled together like old men whispering secrets, their bare branches jittering in the breeze. Rain had come and gone, leaving behind a thin mist that curled around trunks and twined through the underbrush like ghost fingers. Damp earth sucked at the soles of boots, though Jasper's didn't make a sound. He walked like the night was part of him—his shoulders low, hands tucked in the deep pockets of a borrowed army coat, collar turned up against the cold he didn't feel.

He followed her, silent as sin.

Alice walked ahead, light on her feet, coat swinging behind her like a war nurse in a dream. The hem of her skirt brushed past brambles without catching, and even the fog seemed to part for her. Her hair was cropped short in that pixie style that made her look like she'd stepped out of some rebellious Paris salon instead of a forest. She glanced back at him every so often, sharp eyes flicking like headlights in the dark, making sure he hadn't vanished into the shadows like smoke off a cigarette.

"I know you're brooding back there," she said at last, stepping over a fallen log. "I can feel it. It's like a thundercloud grew legs."

Jasper exhaled, a breath he didn't need.

"Ain't brooding," he muttered. "Just thinkin'."

"That's what I said. Brooding."

She grinned, impish, and kept walking. He followed.

Eventually, she slowed. Her shoulders dropped into a crouch behind a mossy rock, fingers curled like a dancer's, eyes wide and gleaming.

"There," she whispered, voice reverent. "White-tailed doe. All alone."

Jasper crouched beside her, boots sinking into the wet leaf litter. He could smell it—soft and wild, sugar-sweet blood pumping through delicate veins. A glade opened up ahead, moonlight slipping through branches like light through stained glass. The deer grazed quietly in the clearing, its ears twitching, completely unaware.

"Pretty little thing," he said, his drawl thickening. "Almost feels wrong."

Alice arched a brow. "That 'almost' is important."

Jasper's eyes never left the animal. "I remember when I used to pray for meat this clean. Wasn't always a time when I had choices."

"You have one now."

He looked at her. "It ain't the same, darlin'. You know that."

Alice tilted her head, her short curls catching silver moonlight. "Of course it's not the same. You're not the same."

His throat tightened. That old war flared again in his chest—the one between what he was and what he was trying to be. He closed his eyes. The smell of blood pulled at him like a song he didn't want to dance to.

"You don't have to like it," she said, her voice soft as cotton. "You just have to choose it."

He nodded once. Just enough.

Then he moved.

One heartbeat, maybe two. That's all it took.

He was there, a ghost in a soldier's body, a blur across the glade. The deer's head snapped up, startled, eyes wide—then calm. No scream. No terror. Just stillness.

He sank his teeth in. Not deep. Just enough.

The blood was warm, rich with life but lacking the fire he hated and craved all at once. It didn't scream. It didn't beg. It didn't echo in his bones like all the others had.

It just was.

He drank until the heartbeat faded, until the animal sagged gently into his arms like a prayer answered too late. The forest was quiet again, nothing but the hum of drizzle tapping gently on leaves. He held it for a moment, like something holy and ruined, then lowered the body to the moss-soft ground with the care of a man burying a friend.

Alice didn't speak. Just stood a few paces away, hands clasped in front of her, patient and bright-eyed.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

"Still not full," he muttered.

"You're not supposed to be," she said, stepping closer. "You're not hunting to satisfy. You're hunting to survive."

"I remember what satisfaction used to taste like," he said. "It had a pulse."

Alice winced. "Well, that's morbid."

"Truth often is."

He looked down at the deer, then at his hands. They weren't trembling. His chest didn't burn with shame. And for the first time in a long while, his mind was quiet—no screams, no faces.

Just... rain.

And her.

"You didn't feel like a monster this time," she said.

"No," he admitted. "I didn't."

Alice stepped forward and slipped her hand into his. Her fingers were small, delicate, and just as cold. He looked at her, really looked. There was no judgment in her eyes—just that strange mix of mischief and grace she carried like a badge.

"You're gettin' better at this," she said.

"I feel like a wolf wearin' sheep's clothing."

"You're a wolf learnin' not to bite."

He huffed a small, almost-laugh. "You make it sound simple."

"It's not. But you've got me. And I've got a pretty decent track record when it comes to stubborn boys with fangs and guilt complexes."

"Oh yeah?" he smirked, drawl deepening. "You collect us, do you?"

She grinned. "Only the broody ones with jawlines sharp enough to cut glass."

He chuckled. First real one in days. "Lucky me."

"You are," she said, deadly serious. "And you don't even know it yet."

He didn't say anything to that. Just tightened his fingers around hers.

They turned and walked deeper into the woods, the deer left behind like a page turned. But the lesson? That stayed.

The weight on Jasper's shoulders didn't vanish. It was still there.

But now... he wasn't carrying it alone.

And that? That made all the difference.

—

The night pressed on, soft and damp, like the world had forgotten how to breathe properly. Mist still hung in the air, wrapping the trees in a low, lingering shroud. Jasper and Alice walked in silence now, the kind that didn't itch or need filling. After the second deer, something had shifted—settled, even. By the third, Jasper's throat didn't burn like it used to. His thoughts weren't a raging wildfire, just smoldering coals.

He was full.

Not sated like a man after a meal—no, nothing so human. But steady. Grounded. Like maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't break tonight.

"You're walking different," Alice said, tossing him a sidelong glance. "Less like a man dragging a ghost behind him."

Jasper snorted softly, stuffing his hands deeper into his coat pockets. "Well, I reckon three woodland critters and a few kind words from a pixie'll do that to a fella."

She flashed a smile—sharp and warm all at once. "You're getting your color back."

"I'm dead, darlin'. Color's more suggestion than fact."

"Well then," she said, eyes bright beneath the moonlight, "you're suggestin' a very handsome shade of 'not quite tragic.'"

That coaxed a chuckle from him, slow and low. "Careful, Alice. You keep talkin' like that, I might think you're sweet on me."

She gave him a little shrug. "I had a vision about you. That's practically a proposal in my line of work."

He stopped walking. Not abruptly, but enough to make her pause ahead and turn back to face him.

His head tilted slightly. "You mean like… earlier today? The one that brought you to me?"

Her smile softened, losing some of its sparkle but none of its power. "That was the first one. The start. But it wasn't the only one."

Jasper arched a brow, arms folded now. "You saw more?"

She nodded, stepping closer until the hem of her coat brushed against his. "I've been seeing flashes for years. Pieces that didn't fit until today. You and me? That was always part of it. But there's more."

She reached out and gently took his hand again, grounding him with that strange certainty she wore like perfume.

"I saw us meeting a family," she said, eyes unfocused now, as though watching the vision dance just past his shoulder. "Not a coven. A family. Different from anything I've ever seen. Not killers. Not monsters. They live like… us. Like how we're trying to."

Jasper raised a brow. "You sure this wasn't one of those nice dreams and not a vision?"

"I'm sure, Jasper Whitlock," she said firmly. "I saw the house. The trees around it. Rain on the glass. Bookshelves. Laughter." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I saw hope."

He didn't say anything at first. Just stared at her, the steady drawl of his voice slowed by something heavier. "Tell me."

Alice took a breath, though she didn't need to. Habit. Comfort.

"There's a man—Carlisle Cullen. He's their leader, but not like you'd think. He's kind. Patient. More healer than hunter. His wife, Esme, she's… warmth. A mother, in every way that matters."

Jasper listened, quiet and still. No flicker of skepticism in his eyes. Just quiet curiosity.

"There's Edward. He hears thoughts. It gets loud in his head, but he's good. Lonely, but good. Rosalie and Emmett are with them—he's a brute with a heart like a puppy, and she's fierce like a goddess carved from marble."

"Sounds like a hell of a mix," Jasper murmured.

"I'm not finished," she added, her voice lowering just a touch, like the names themselves were sacred. "There's a woman called Katherine now—used to be Caitríona. She can make things grow. Like, really grow. Trees. Flowers. Life."

"Nature powers?" Jasper's eyes widened slightly. "That's new."

Alice smiled, already knowing his next question. "And then there's Elspeth. She goes by Elizabeth now. Controls the wind. I saw her once, walking through a storm and not getting wet."

He whistled, low and impressed. "And here I was thinkin' I was special for calming people down when I want them to."

She held up a finger. "I'm not done."

He blinked. "There's more?"

"Oh yes." Her face shifted—something reverent beneath her grin. "Hadrian Peverell. They call him the Wizard King. And his wife, Daenerys. She's the Dragon Queen."

Jasper stared at her like she'd just started speaking Latin.

"Beg pardon?"

Alice tilted her head. "He's… powerful. Like, really powerful. Magic runs in his veins like venom in ours. He sees the world different. Talks like a legend, fights like a myth, walks like the universe owes him a debt and hasn't paid up yet."

"And the missus?"

"She's fire," Alice said simply. "Not just metaphor. I saw her breathing it. Like a dragon, and she has a temper to match."

Jasper let out a long, slow exhale. "And these folks all drink Bambi blood too?"

Alice grinned. "Veggie vamps, the whole lot. Like us."

"And you think we oughta find 'em?"

"I know we should," she said. "I saw it. That's our future, Jasper. With them."

He stared at the mist curling around her ankles, the faint glisten of moonlight in her short-cropped hair. Every word sounded insane. Dragons. Wizards. Wind witches and plant charmers. A mind-reader. A vampire family that didn't kill.

And yet…

He looked at her—this tiny slip of a girl with mischief in her bones and eternity in her eyes—and he knew.

"I just met you, Alice," he said slowly. "Barely know your middle name."

"I don't have one," she replied instantly. "But if I did, it'd be something dainty and tragic, like Rosemary or Temperance."

He chuckled. Then, sobered. "And yet… I trust you."

Her smile, when it came, was the kind that could start wars and end nightmares.

"Good," she said, tightening her grip on his hand. "Because we've got a long road ahead. And a family to find."

Jasper didn't speak again. Just nodded once, and fell in step beside her.

And as the mist thickened and the forest thinned, two shadows moved forward into the unknown.

Together.

Always.

---

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