Chapter 1 - Sleeping With Ghosts

The reindeer's blood was hot as it coursed down my throat but it did nothing to appease the hunger that had welled deep within me. Liquid filled my stomach so that I felt bloated and disgusting, but not satisfied. I cleaned the last traces of animal from my lips, my tongue catching the few remaining drops of blood there. Herd animals tasted muddy, like dirt and in my opinion were wholly unappetizing, though essential to survival.

The first time I visited Siberia, a dozen years ago, the animals, both predator and prey had packed the landscape so densely I wondered how so many could survive. Perhaps, I thought, they were lucky that I could cull their numbers, so to speak. This time though I followed the scent of beasts across the steadily melting permafrost and marveled at the vast emptiness. The animals were scattered far and wide across the terrain, over hunted or driven away to make grazing lands available. Many of the large predators who I had once preyed upon so greedily had seemingly vanished. I had seen only one wolf during these last few days and could not or would not take it's life. My hunger was at that time still manageable. Now what I wouldn't give to cross paths with a bear or a tiger. The ones left were probably hunkered down, sleeping their way through the never ending darkness, staying warm against the arctic chill.

At that time of year, autumn, Siberia lived under a near constant blanket of night. Five million square miles of dark solitude. I had wandered from the Arctic Circle across miles of the frozen country to see the Caspian again. There was a camp, near the sea, of nomadic people. I had smelled them, the fragrant blood that flowed through their veins was more potent than a Siberian tiger, but the risk of joining them was too great. I had abandoned myself among the mountains, pine forests, and ice damns. I did not deserve the company of human beings. That was why I had gone there, swam across the Bering Strait, and away from the meager home I had created for myself in the Yukon Territory of Canada.

Months ago I slipped. It had been so long since I had hunted, so wrapped up in learning both the Russian language while simultaneously trying to devour every notable work of fiction written there since the time of Peter the Great. Near starving and barely able to walk for the thirst burning my throat, I had crossed the scent of a man, which normally I would have passed and continued my fed elsewhere but my desperate mouth filled with venom and overwhelmed my other faculties. Unable to control myself around the tantalizing aroma I had weakly given into my cravings, tearing the man's neck away from his shoulders in my intoxicated frenzy. The guilt of that moment still ripples through me today. Months alone in self induced isolation and I wondered if I was fit enough to return to mankind. To culture and light and the happy sounds that humans make as they go about their busy, finite lives.

Prior to him, I never knew his name, I had not killed another person for eight years. His face, like that of the man before him, with their ghostly frozen eyes, will haunt me for the rest of my unending existence. This man had been dumped unceremoniously into a hole carved by my hands, six feet deep, and covered over again. I said no prayers. How could I have the right to speak them?

At the time I wondered if he still followed leads regarding strange deaths. Animal attacks, horrendous accidents, unnatural angles, and inhuman strength. The body may never be found, never reported, who could tell, but until that time, I hoped he didn't have a family waiting for him to return home.

The one before him, in the last millennium - a phrase that continues to blow my mind - was more my type. I was visiting Europe. Traversing the great continent for a second time since my change to this life. During an extended stay in Edinburgh a young man had caught my attention. Tall, lanky even, a slender build. His mussed hair poked from the corners of an old fisherman's knit cap. He wore a patched backpack and clothes from a charity shop. His face was a thing of beauty; carved from marble by the finest craftsman with soft full lips and bedroom eyes. The kind of boy I would have followed helplessly back at school and who never would have spare me a glance. It didn't take much to get him talking. He was from London originally but had never really had a home so staying on the move, going from city to city and country to country was like being able to breathe after a lifetime under water. I must have looked the part of the homeless runaway as well as he did; ratty hair, knees torn out of my jeans, dirty fingernails. But I traveled across continents on foot, my appearance was hardly a concern to me.

I kissed him, Paul, in a dank little alleyway, and he kissed me back. I had to be so careful, his fragile face in my hands. I could have crushed his skull if I stopped concentrating for just one instant. He smelled sugary, like a cupcake or vanilla, I thought as my mouth filled with venom. There was no control left. My ferocious, selfish need to consume him killed him. But I was gentle as he slipped away with his arms still folded around me. His face wasn't sad afterward, it was hopeful. Maybe he had seen something of the place he would go next. So I closed his eyes and touched my lips to his again, still sweet, before I picked up his backpack and the battered paperback beside him and reentered the world. I kept that paperback with me as a reminder of him. My first kiss. I was thirty-five years old and still eighteen.

When I arrived in Russia I was punishing myself, entering a country that had so captivated me but not allowing myself to enjoy it. I would remain secluded in Siberia until the blood-red eyes turned back to amber. And then I would stay until I could face humanity and my sins against them. I longed to be a part of the world again. I didn't know if I deserved the chance or whether I had paid my penance in full but while still unsure of my exact course I noted that my feet, bare even in this frozen place, moved me eastward, returning me to the frigid waters that would take me home or at least back to him. Where was he now? I doubted he had left; the house was his only link to the wife who had broken his heart.

- - - - -

The sea and salt air filled my senses. I was moving with incredible speed, the scenery a quiet blur fading in my wake. I pictured him, Charlie, in Forks. In his little house, waiting, watching the game, and wondering when he would hear from me next. Since the killing I had not contacted him and I hoped he wasn't too worried for me. He knew I could take care of myself. It had been fifteen years since I had seen my brother and I tried to picture him now, in his late forties. Didn't men look like their fathers as they aged?

When we were young I looked up to Charlie in an almost god-like fashion. He was five years my senior and already a decorated police officer by the time I graduated high school in our little town of Tillamook, Oregon. The sleepy seaside town had been our home all of our lives. We stayed there after our parents were killed in a car wreck the summer before my senior year. Charlie was only in his early twenties when he was made my guardian. He was busy, had a life of his own and so I was given as much freedom as I desired. The only thing I wanted was to get out of Oregon. I went to the University of California, Berkley. Charlie dropped me off on move-in day, hugged me goodbye and reminded me to call home once a week. He had a gun, he reminded me, and he was legally allowed to use it.

It was in Berkley that I became a vampire. Frozen in time before my nineteenth birthday. Now I watched as the world aged, decayed, faded around me. Everything becoming unrecognizable. The memories from my life before were unfocused. Washed out images, as if I had been watching life with a veil or a mist over my face. But I remembered Charlie; pushing me on a swing in our backyard as kids, letting me drive his car even though I was only twelve and could barely reach the peddles, and standing beside me at the funeral, stoically holding my hand.

He was the first thing I thought of when I awoke to this life. I didn't know if I was dead or alive but if I was dead then Charlie was alone. A thirst tore through my being and I thought of him. I had slept, for days or for weeks and woke in a dank basement with pale moonlight filtering down on me from the gaps between floor boards above. The room smelled of rotting earth and garbage. There was a lingering, burning sensation that reminding me dully of pain. I was not dead though. I was strong and alive. The world around me was vibrant. I could see everything, even dust swirling against the black backdrop of night. It looked like flecks of gold dancing in front of my eyes and I could not believe I had never noticed it before.

The house I was in, or under, was empty. I instinctually knew that. An odor lingered; cinnamon and something stronger that I couldn't identify, it smelled vaguely metallic. I left. Stood in one smooth motion and found myself outside with barely a thought on the where or the how. Then I was walking. The night should have been brisk even in California, it was winter and I was only wearing gray stockings on my legs and my shoes were gone. I had no jacket, only a navy sweater, which I almost remembered wearing to class on Tuesday afternoon but after that there was nothing until the basement.

Charlie could have already known I was missing. He would be worried that I hadn't called him. I found myself running, tearing through the forests of northern California without any knowledge as to how I was doing it. I had never been strong or athletic. The wind brushed my face like a caress as I watched headlights fall back behind me, leaving the road and knowing that I could outrun a moving vehicle. I felt like the Six Million Dollar Man or at least the Bionic Woman. Trees rushed past but I avoided each branch and every root; I saw things as if I were crawling at a snail's pace in broad daylight, accessing each situation and having time to react but only a second had passed. Less than one second.

That night I arrived home. It seemed impossible. Dawn was barely breaking as I peered through the kitchen window. Charlie was dressed for work, the refrigerator open, a grocery list on the table behind him. For a sixteenth of a second I pondered rapping on the glass before calculating how in fact I must look. If he demanded to know what had happened to me I didn't even have an answer to give him. I would have to wait. So I sat there beneath the window and watched the sky brighten, the sun stayed hidden as it often does along the coast during the coldest months. By afternoon I noted that I had not moved in several hours, that my body did not feel tired or sore, and that in fact my skin sparkled like a diamond when the sun showed itself. The latter was the most astonishing. Reaching blindly for the reflective foil watering can that our mother had always kept by the garden hose I was confounded when it crumpled in my grip. I refused to breathe for a full five minutes, I counted, before panicking.

Our kitchen door was unlocked. My room was untouched, the same as I had left it weeks ago when returning to school after the Christmas holidays. The vanity mirror confirmed my suspicion, I shimmered in the light, every inch of me. And my eyes had gone from a soft brown to violent red. I was a monster.

By the time Charlie came home from the station that night I had packed a duffle bag of clothing and a few small mementos, grabbed his old Ray-bans and vanished. He would have found my letter on the dining room table telling him not to worry, that I needed a break, that maybe California was not the place for me, I would contact him when I could and I was afraid that I had no forwarding information to leave him with. I begged him to understand. But how would I ever face him again? All he would see was a demon looking back at him.

I walked east, with no specific destination in mind, only to get away. The fire in my throat had reignited ten-fold without the distractions of home. In the evening, after twilight, as I marveled at my endless ability to continue moving, I spotted a small woman and realized that I was in a town. She was huddled against a wall; stockings torn and missing a shoe, mascara ran down her face. I heard the soft sound of tears dropping onto pavement. Her pulse was muted, slowed by alcohol and for the first time since I had awoken I thought about her blood. What it would taste like. The thick consistency and the sweet flavor. Fluid filled my mouth nearly spilling over my lips in the haste to know. I doubt her senses were sharp enough to even anticipate my approach. It was over in moments; her body broken, destroyed at my feet, wasted blood rolled down my chin and onto my sweater but all I could think about was more. Finding more. The thirst dulled from a burn to a simmer.

- - - - -

New York City was a place to lose yourself in. I had heard that as a child. People were afraid of the big city out east. Terrible murders happened out there. No one cared. And I couldn't stop myself from killing; each time I vowed never again, how horrible, what had those people done to me? I wanted to know why I deserved to live and they deserved to die. But I justified my actions in the end. I found the loners, the ones unwanted by the world, the people who wanted an escape from this existence. If no one missed them was my sin as great?

Charlie needed to know I was out there, alive, in one way or another.

He begged me to come home whenever I made it to a pay phone and gave him a call. I wrote him letters too, post-marked NYC.

"Is that where you're hiding?"

"Charlie, I'm not hiding," I would lie, my voice lovely, like the sound of the sweetest chiming bells. "It's just a break."

"What about Berkley?"

"College wasn't all that it was cracked up to be."

"I want you to come home."

I always wanted to cry. The tears I was no longer able to shed forcing me to close my eyes and shudder. I missed a good cry. Afterward you felt accomplished in a small way, more willing to shoulder on. When I wept it was without tears, without catharsis.

"I'll come out there and get you. Just tell me where you are."

"You can't," I told him wretchedly. The red eyes staring spitefully back at me in the phone's mirrored surface. "I'll call you again soon."

"Isabella," Charlie warned.

"I love you. I'm safe. Promise," and the call ended. I slipped the Ray-bans back over my eyes and stepped out into the neon nightlife of the city, desperate to lose myself in the hunt.

What I was. That had never really been a question. I killed people and drank their blood. Vampires did that. They were also strong, fast, hard as steel, cold as ice. The lies we were told as children were true, myths did exist, monsters were hiding under the stairs. And I had become one of them.

The questions I did have were eventually answered. There were others like me out there. Traveling in small groups; companions, mates, or trios. They drifted in and out of one another's lives like water, never permanent. Except for partners, mates, that seemed to be for life. So, in other words, forever. I preferred to travel alone, wandering with out aim up and down the east coast, sometimes as far west as Texas. The others were interested in me to a point, in sharing their information, never threatening, at least not overtly. They never asked me to join them. I was happy enough not to care. This life was not one I could image sharing; their sin reflecting mine, killing twice as many at a time. Those who were together, they were harsher, had an attitude of superiority when it came to humans. Some I met even thought of them like cattle, there for the feed. I couldn't agree but for all my guilt I kept killing to live. So I could call Charlie on his birthday, send him a Christmas card, ship something back that I had seen in a shop and thought he might like. My money was stolen but the people I had taken it from really didn't need it any longer. I did. It still sounds despicable and unfair when I actually say it.

And when I finally felt safe, two years in, I returned to Charlie in Oregon. My impulses were under control. I could go days, even a week without feeding if I focused. But I would not put my brother in danger; in fact I planned to over feed. Glut myself every night if I had to to keep him safe from my urges. Tillamook was a sleepy little place. There were no homeless, no desperate souls that went missing without a care from another person. San Francisco and Portland were perfect hunting grounds though. The only thing holding me back from my return was the fear of Charlie's reaction. I would have to tell him something. The red eyes - I was unable to hide them - dark sunglasses at night may have worked in New York City but they would have been out of place in our small Oregon town. He could hate me, turn me away, but at least he would know that I was safe and alive. Somewhere out there. And I would get my goodbye.

Before any of my plans were enacted though I was presented with something of a vampire threat, which up until that point I had not encountered. A gang, at least six or seven, young male vampires. Teenagers. The smell of them lingered in the city air, announcing their arrival. And I was afraid. As a group they tore through New York, killing savagely and without a thought to their choice of victims or dumping grounds. I wondered what they would do if they discovered me. The others had explained to me the inherent dangers of a group of fledgling beasts; they could tear me to pieces, destroy me for fun. Or bring down a holy rapture from the continent of Europe, the center of vampire lore and law, who would not stand idly by for long if the young ones risked exposure. Our kind living in the city, state, or eastern half of the United States could be punished for their actions and the judgement would be death. Swift and decisive.

In other words, I wanted nothing to do with their gang. And needed to extricate myself from my home of the past two years post-haste. They however had other plans for me. I had been naive enough to assume that their youth, barely different from my own, and bloodlust would distract them from my being there. With so many males I was both an easy target and an object of interest. It was embarrassingly simple to trap me. Fear radiated off my being, exciting them further. I wanted to get away from that place, another moldering basement, my meager belongings in the ruck sack I clutched to my chest. I snarled at them. And then I was gone.

Imagining myself disappearing had triggered some sort of reaction. As far as they were concerned I must have winked out of existence. In reality I was still crouched directly in the middle of them, wondering what the hell was happening. And how had I done it? I was invisible. With no time to ponder the issue I fled, a soft breeze the only sign of my passing. I ran, faster than I had imagined possible even for a creature like myself. The need to escape fueling me. I sped past a train, it's windows glorious beacons of light in the darkness, jumped rivers, swam when the distance was too far, scaled mountains and ignored the odd feeling of being studied, followed, as I reached my home state. I was a horribly inadequate tracker. Those I had left being me would likely be worse, if they had even figured out my disappearing act.

And that was exactly what it was. I learned later that I was not so much invisible. A shield of some sort would slip over me as I thought of it, causing me to wink out of existence. Undetectable by the senses but still there. I left foot prints, could knock over a chair and make a racket, or blow up a breeze as I passed. In fact I would argue that the trick only worked if the person I hid from had no clue as to how to follow a trail, other than marked by scent or sight. As far as abilities went mine was the least interesting I had heard of. Others could control nature, cause pain with a look. I could, sort of, disappear as long as you weren't really looking for me. A better trick when dealing with humans than vampires.

By Oregon I had lost some steam. I had no idea what I should tell my brother. If I was honest he would think I needed to be in an institution but what was the alternative? To tell him I had contracted a strange disease? That it caused my irises to turn blood-red. It forced me to stay inside on sunny days. And made me stronger and faster than I had ever been before. I would have been at the doctor's just as quickly. In the end I opted for evasion.

"Isabella!" His expression one of complete shock.

"Hi, Charlie."

"You're home."

"Yeah," I squirmed, hedging. A shrug. He was wary; not getting close, no hugging. "I missed you," I told him, leaning in, placing my arms around his breakable human shoulders. His smell was too much though, forcing me to jump back and away from him.

From the look of things, for the first time in a long while my brother could not get his mind around me. "Are you going to let me in?" I asked. With a sigh he stepped out of the door frame and waved me inside. Our parent's house remained unchanged. Charlie never was one to face his feelings and find closure.

The intensity of being there, home, nearly knocked me down. My memories of the place were foggy outside of my brief, private visit here a couple of years ago. I perched on the familiar, scratchy, yellow couch, unsure of what to say and how to proceed. What was the precedence for explaining to a loved one that you were a living, not-breathing monster?

Charlie cleared his throat, standing as far from me as the room would allow. Most humans kept a natural distance from those of my kind, a sort of instinct for preservation. "You do know that it's dark out, right? Why are you wearing sunglasses?" he paused, examining me with the eye of a police officer then demanded, "Are you high, Isabella?"

I laughed, the sound of chiming, tinkling bells, which surprised him. "No, Charlie," he did not believe me, "I promise." He moved forward, finally taking a seat in the chair opposite, and facing me. My clothes were torn, dirty; those things no longer held meaning to me, I had not noticed until my brother did. Examining each inch of me, calculating the changes made since we last saw one another, Charlie looked the longest at my face. The chalk white skin, smooth like marble, unearthly in it's beauty. I don't know what he saw, but it was not his younger sister. After a few minutes of his silent perusal I reminded him, "It's not polite to stare, you know," but attempted to smile.

Trying to see myself through his eyes I wandered over to the mounted mirror beside the front door. Our mother had always snuck a glance before going out; a final check to be sure she was perfect. She always was. I looked like her but she had been prettier. I could see it now in the reflective surface; her hair and her eyes. The same nose but there was too much of our father in me. My dark hair was matted in places, leaves poking out from the underneath. Sunglasses perched on my nose. Smudge of dirt across my right cheek. Tight washed out jeans that met acceptable fashion requirements. A wide, oversized and stripped shirt. It was torn at the neck, holes forming at the seams, one pocket had fallen off. I rarely washed clothes. I wore them and threw them away. Being fashionable or flashy would have made me stand out in the neighborhoods where I hunted among the vagrants and drug addicts. I wore a jacket more out of habit then necessity; I did not feel the cold. I smiled at the reflection, she smiled back, her teeth glinting and dangerous. I saw Charlie glance away from me. At least, I had found shoes for the occasion. While passing across the mountains I had fed from a young hitchhiker who I had found walking down the highway. The shoes were formerly hers. Dirty, black sneakers but better than arriving at the door barefoot.

Later, when I explained myself, Charlie was unflappable. Just sat there silently, nodding his head with wide confused eyes. I wished he would yell or laugh. Do something, but he didn't.

"I'm not crazy," I told him.

"But you're a vampire?" he questioned with a lifeless voice. I nodded. "And you drink blood?"

"Yes. I need to in order to survive."

"Are you going to," he paused, searching for the right words, "bite me," he finished uncomfortably.

I wanted to giggle at the absurdity of that statement but it seemed inappropriate, so I simply said, "No."

It was his turn to nod, "Are you moving home?"

I sighed. Only Charlie would dismiss my being a monster if it meant I was coming back. "I don't think I can." No response so I continued, "I might kill someone we know. I could hurt you," he bobbed his head up and down, looking lost, "and I wouldn't be able to stand it if I did something to you."

My brother stood, took a deep breath, and sat back down. "Do you want a drink?" I guessed. He waved me toward the liquor cabinet. I poured him a whiskey then made it a double. It was gone in one swallow. I sat the bottle within his reach and he refilled the glass.

The second one stuck in his throat and made him cough. He sputtered out, "Isabella, you're killing people?"

I couldn't face him so I turned away, focusing instead on an old family portrait. I removed my sunglasses and confirmed his suspicion sadly. "I have to."

"Now," he was back on his feet, "That I can not abide." I loved Charlie's voice when he was being the policeman. He sounded like our father.

"I need their blood, Charlie." No conversation in history had been as strange and unexpected as this one.

"Have you tried not drinking it?" I fixed him with a glare, the red eyes burning through him, and he winced away before shrugging.

"It's too painful. I try but then I can't stop myself and I'll drink from anyone, anywhere. I can control myself, hunt, find victims that wont be missed, not draw attention to myself. But not if I'm starving."

Charlie was pained by my explanation. His face twisted with anguish knowing what I had been doing. "I can't even get my thoughts straight right now," he yanked at his hair. "I just need to think."

I nodded pathetically. "I can leave."

"No!" he commanded. "You are to stay right here. Do you understand?" I agreed. He couldn't keep me here against my will but I could give him that. I wouldn't hurt him by leaving when he wanted me to stay. "But don't leave the house tonight. No killing," he added distastefully. "No blood drinking. Please."

I sighed. "Alright, Charlie. For you. But it's a risky game."

"Just give me a night to think of something, okay?" With my reluctant consent he added, " Your room is just how you left it."

"Oh," I replied. "I don't sleep."

Charlie just shook his head and climbed the first few steps. "Of course not," he offered, carried away on a fog. The gravity of the situation, whatever he believed it to be, sinking into his consciousness. "Well," he went on, "then feel free to shower and get cleaned up."

I took that as a hint, offered a tight-lipped smile and a wave. Charlie slipped into his old room. I heard him go about his nightly routine, settle into bed, and then toss and turn. He did not sleep for another two hours and when he finally did I began to reexamine our childhood home.

It was the next morning when he suggested to me that I might be able to survive on the blood of animals. He also told me about his promotion and future relocation. My brother was leaving the family home, Tillamook, even the state of Oregon. There was a job waiting for him in the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, in a small town named Forks. There were even less people there than in our hometown but the pay was better and Charlie would get more respect from guys who hadn't know him his entire life.

"It's a rainy place but you know a little wet has never bothered me."

"Kind of sounds gloomy to me," I told him.

"Omnipresent cloud cover and every shade of green you can imagine."

"I like green." At least I would be able to venture out in the daylight if I ever got a chance to visit.

"And I want you to come with me, Isabella."

"Oh, Charlie," I breathed, unable to answer, tears I was unable to shed clogging my throat. "If I'm going to try this animal thing, well, I really can't be around people until I've figured it out."

He nodded, "Like an alcoholic avoiding a bar."

An odd analogy, but that was my brother, so I just said, "Sure."

"But you'll keep in touch?"

"Always."

And I did. Hiding out in the northern territories of Canada, avoiding people, except to drop off a letter in each tiny town I stumbled across. It was harder to quell the urge then, for human blood, I made more frequent mistakes. But the changes were immediate; my eyes burned amber rather than red, I could greet another person on the street and for all intense and purposes look like a young woman, not a monster. My appearance remained unerringly beautiful but I was not immediately feared. That made the dirty, bland blood of animals all the more tolerable.

* * * * *

A/N - Thank you for reading!

Disclaimer - Twilight does not belong to me.