Chapter one; Dead Girl Walking
Coriander's POV
I sat there on a log in the middle of a forest with the vampire named Jasper. I was a vampire too now, and I wasn't so sure how I felt about it. But it was real, I knew. I had felt the warm gush of the stag's blood down my throat, repellent but soothing, in a way that I could only compare to fake cherry flavored medicine.
I looked at him and asked, "What do I do now?"
"You stay with us. You live what might be a normal life. And later you rejoin the world." He answered with only a few moment thought
"Later?" I raised one eyebrow.
"In a year or two, when you're better in control."
"You've got my whole afterlife figured out, don't you?"
"We've all done it, even Carlisle." His southern drawl, even repressed by years of living in the north, drew out the au sound in all.
"All of you?" and on a whim I added, "Must I stay?"
"Yes, we've all done it. And No, you can leave, become a loner, or a traditionalist. But if you do, I steer clear of here. The wolves don't take kindly to loners."
"The wolves? Traditionalists?" I said, razing one eyebrow again in my favorite expression.
He rolled his eyes at himself and said, "Really, I should stop just saying things and assuming you know it, when you've just arrived."
"Why don't you tell me the whole damn story, then? All of it."
"What about your story, you haven't told us any of it? How about an exchange then, a story for a story?"
We shook hands.
And so he told me of Carlisle's life. Of his death. Of his suicide attempts, which made me cringe with sympathy. Of his long human life full of self-sacrifice. Of Edward's death. Then of Esme's resurrection, and her and Carlisle's love. He told of, Rosalie, Emmet, Alice, and himself. Then of Edward and Bella's impossible love story. The truce with the wolves. He told of how Jacob, pushed to the limit, had found peace in Lizzie, a girl he met in a park. Then the birth of Renesme, her astonishing life, and finally of me.
"I was hunting alone," he started then paused, took a deep breath, and continued, "I was running not paying attention, and I hit it, a wall of smell. You were my singer and I couldn't resist."
"What is a singer?" I asked wanting to know what role this fact had played in my changing.
"A singer is a person whose blood smells so good to one person; it's like a personal crack. You were mine and I hit you when I wasn't prepared. The blood lust hit me so fast I had no chance to stop, I went to you and sunk my teeth in."
"But you didn't drink me dry." I whispered into the stillness.
"No I didn't." was his flat reply.