Sometimes the best ideas at the time, are the worst after all.

Standing before the Cullen's house, Claire had never felt so small.
Not just because of the size, and the beauty of it, but because of who dwelled inside.

She'd never believed in vampires like this before, she was more one for the burn-up-in-sunlight ones (Not sparkling, definitely not).

Taking a deep breath, she breathed slowly. Why should she worry? No-one was in; everyone was playing baseball or something, according to Quil – And she knew she could trust him.

Opening the door warily, her eyes darted round, though thankfully seeing a sofa, a TV and a rug, not coffins and cobwebs.

Throughout the house, Claire saw pieces of everything Quil had told her. Shopping bags and designer labels thrown haphazardly onto a table; priceless antiques and decorating magazines; medical journals; mirrors, mirrors, mirrors; classical music collections and tattered Jane Austen novels. She didn't see why the wolves had such a problem with them; they were just normal people, weren't they? They had done nothing wrong.

Running up stairs and down corridors, her face peeked behind every mahogany door until she came face to face with what she wanted. A single safe (the key wasn't hard to find) swung open, lighting her face up in an eerily metallic grin.

Rows upon rows of bottles and syringes of glistening silver liquid, there for her to take.

Ripping off wrappers and coverings like a child on Christmas morning, Claire could hardly contain herself. She'd done her research, of course; she knew what to do.

Bracing herself, she felt the cool needle slide under her skin, the liquid dancing in her veins.

But, no, no, this couldn't be right! She was on fire, the heat growing, not giving up.

She shrieked, her legs disappearing beneath her leaden body. She saw pale faces frozen in horror, as her eyesight faded, the darkness consuming.

Now she would be alive with Quil forever.