Diamonds and Ice

by KrisBCullen

Entry for Gangsterward/Roaring Twenties One-Shot Contest: Edward is changed by Carlisle in 1917. He is appalled by what he has become, and finds his way as a hitman for hire. His encounter with Bella Swan puts him in the unfamiliar role of guardian.

A/N: This story was originally written for the Roaring Twenties/GangsterWard contest. Since then, it has been rather quietly and unassumingly minded its own business here on FFn, but lately it seems to have come back to life. Much like its lead character, I guess it just can't die!

Disclaimer: Twilight characters belong to Stephenie Meyer; I've just put them in a time machine and let them explore other options for a bit. All By Myself was first performed in 1921 in a musical review of Irving Berlin songs, released and copyrighted in 1924 by Irving Berlin.

March 1923

I could tell from the way they were huddled against the wind that it was another bitter cold night in Chicago. In general, people didn't make eye contact with me, but on nights like tonight, nobody looked up from the sidewalk for anyone. Scarves were wrapped tightly, collars were turned up against the wind, gloved hands were shoved deep in pockets to guard against the cold. I never noticed the temperature.

I am the Iceman.

Not long after I chose this life, one of Capone's lieutenants gave me the name, and it stuck. It was much better than the name I'd started with, the one that I'd had before I'd amassed enough hits to develop a reputation: the Kid. That name reminded me far too much of the life that had been taken from me. The life that I should have lived, far from this part of town, before the sickness… and before him.

Carlisle. Doctor Cullen. Mother had whispered to me that he was such a good man, a compassionate man. That he was a healer. Even through the haze caused by my fever, I could tell she was getting sicker. She told me Father was in another ward, but I knew: he was gone. I was seventeen, but she still treated me like a child sometimes, as if reality would somehow overwhelm me. So she never told me that Father had died, and then she became too sick to care for me. I could hear the rattle in her lungs as she breathed. I heard it all around me, but as her breaths became shallower, I knew it was only a matter of time. The doctor had come to check on her, as he did every night just after the sun set. I guessed he was the night shift doctor, because he would come just as twilight began, and he would visit regularly to check on Mother, and on me, until just before dawn. We never saw him during the day.

The death rattle from Mother's bed had managed to penetrate the fog that had surrounded me. Mother and the doctor had been talking during the night. They didn't think I was awake, but I heard them. She was begging him to save me. I knew that meant she was giving up. A silent tear rolled down my cheek. Even if it was only for a few hours or a few days, I didn't want to be an orphan. I didn't have the strength to wipe the tears away, and then I didn't have the capacity to cry any longer. I drifted off, and was pulled back by the gurgle coming from Mother's bed, the horrible sound that signified I was alone. The doctor came to check on Mother, and I could hear him pull the sheet over her head. He seemed full of sorrow, but also afraid. I could usually sense what people were thinking and feeling, and he'd been saddened all the time. Being in this ward day in and day out, fighting the influenza for as long as it had gripped Chicago, was enough to make anyone sad. His fear was a new emotion. The fear confused me.

The doctor returned to my bed and felt my forehead. His hands always seemed so cold. My fever must have been raging badly; there was almost a sting when he touched me because of the coldness of his fingers. He checked me more thoroughly than he had in days, listening to my chest and feeling my joints. Before I could summon the strength to open my eyes to see what he was doing, I felt myself being lifted. The illness must have really caused me to waste away, because he carried me as if I were a small child.

He took me down the stairs of the hospital, and I was confused. Soon I felt the cool dampness of the city air on my face. I opened my eyes because I couldn't understand what was happening. It looked as if we were flying, crossing rooftops and leaping across alleys that should have caused us to plummet to our deaths.

Death.

While he rushed me across the city, my mind shut down. I couldn't imagine any purpose for what he was doing, and I was too tired to try. It wasn't until I felt what I thought were cool lips on my neck that my eyes flashed open again, and before I could register anything further, I felt a sharp slicing pain. That pain was followed by other sharp cuts, and then the fire began. Compared to this, the fever was nothing: a warm breeze. I burned from the inside for eons, it seemed. I wished for death, prayed for it. It was during that time that I realized God had forsaken me, because the burning only grew worse. Eventually, when I was certain that I would go mad and burst into all-consuming flames, I heard my heart beat for the last time. In the silence that followed, I heard a voice of concern, similar to the one that had spoken to Mother and me in the hospital, but richer, with more timbre. I also heard murmurs all around. Those voices were further away and harder to distinguish, but the voice of concern was close by.

I opened my eyes, and there was the doctor. The look of concern on his face matched the words I had been hearing. He was anxious. I had heard him say I hope he can forgive me so many times. I could see no logic to that statement, because I thought I was cured. For the first time in so long, no fever raged and addled my thoughts, no crushing pain gripped my chest, no ache permeated my joints. There was a burning in my throat, though; a thirst that became all consuming. I needed water.

"Water? May I have some water?" The sound of my own voice was unfamiliar. Had it been so long since I'd heard it? It was similar to my voice, but with a velvet smoothness. My father's voice had been like that, but it was not the deepening of a voice that comes with age. Rather it was almost a melodic tonal change, as if my voice before had been a single note, and now it was a complex chord.

The doctor held his hands up between us. "You think that, but you don't need water. We need to wait until dark. It won't be long now. Then you can satisfy your thirst."

His response puzzled me. That moment was the beginning of a period of confusion that had lasted years: confusion at what I'd become, what I wanted to do to live, what I was forced to do to survive. The doctor, the healer, had destroyed me as he had created me.

I had dreamed of joining the cavalry. I wanted to be a soldier. Well, I was a soldier now, although not in any army I had imagined. I had but one allegiance, and that was to myself. My personal code had evolved in the almost six years since the end of my world. I was a monster. I wasn't the worst monster by any means, but I knew what I was. My only chance of redemption would be to rid the world of those who were worse than me. My only prayer for absolution was that a monster who was better than I would rid the world of me. Until then, I existed.

I maintained my family home on the north side of the city, although I could not bring myself to live there. With the connections I'd developed, it was easy to transfer ownership of the home and to arrange for all the Masen family holdings to be left to a long-lost cousin who lived out of state. Anthony Cullen was now a very wealthy man, albeit a fictional one. He was current on his assessments, and even if he only occasionally appeared to occupy the home, he was a good neighbor who never caused anyone any trouble.

Befitting my true status as a member of the vermin class, I maintained a single room cold-water apartment on the South Side of Chicago, which was the only place I was known by any of my new associates to frequent. It was there that I would receive notice when a job had to be done. When I received an invitation to visit the pier, it was time to go to work. It was a lucrative business, but I only accepted the money because it took it out of the hands of the criminals for a short while. I left it, anonymously of course, at the orphanage that was overflowing with children who'd suffered a slightly different fate than I had from the epidemic.

Except for the time I spent with the criminals, I tried to stay away from people. Their thoughts were too difficult to bear. One of the first discoveries I'd made was that people didn't need to speak to me for me to hear them. I had always had a knack for sensing what people felt or were thinking, but this was different. They would not move their lips, but I could hear their voices in my head. Their most private thoughts were revealed to me. I had learned that almost everyone was a monster of some sort. Early on, I had tried to visit a Church in the city - whether I was seeking absolution or damnation to this day I couldn't say - and the thoughts I heard in the mind of the priest sent me from the sanctuary before I could open a dialogue with God. Monsters existed even there.

The ability to read minds, though, was a valuable skill in my line of work. I could tell before entering a room if there was anyone present besides my target. All my senses were heightened, which was also beneficial, but when you didn't have anything to go on but a name, an address, and a physical description, every sensory input was helpful. I was the best, and that was because I was careful, I was quick, and I was ruthless.

My parent's home held two attractions for me that I could not deny for long. My mother's prized grand piano, which she had begun teaching me to play as soon as I was tall enough to climb up on the bench, and my father's study, which housed an incredible library of classics and reference books. My love for reading and music had helped me through the darkest of times since my change. I always retreated to the piano after a job was done. My music then was always mournful and tragic. It helped dampen the feelings of self-loathing that washed over me. I could never completely banish them, but they were no longer crippling if I escaped quickly into my music. I had received notice of another job, so I knew that I would be visiting the estate soon, to clean up and to subdue my inner demons.

My walk to the pier on this bitter cold night was no different than all the walks of the preceding years. There was nothing about this night to lead me to believe that my world was about to be inexorably changed.

The job was a simple one. It was to be a messy hit, designed to send a message. It was to happen in the mark's home, so that his family would understand that they were vulnerable anywhere, and that they should seriously reconsider their business expansion plans. Of course, they never told me why, but they were always thinking about it, so I knew. My strange moral code made this knowledge critical. I would never take a job that involved an innocent; they knew not to bring me women, children, or requests for random acts that could hurt anyone but the intended victim. I specialized in precision hits. In fact, this job was really one of my specialties. Killing someone in his home required skill, and delivered a message. Sometimes I would be instructed to leave a calling card of sorts for the organization that requested the job, and other times it was just my methods that served as my own personal calling card. This particular job was commissioned by Capone himself, which was of course not information that the lackey who delivered it intended to share with me, and no calling card would be necessary. The only instructions I was given were to make it messy and make sure there were no witnesses.

I looked at the paper I had been given. The background I had gleaned from my contractor's mind was that this man was young, and his family had a retail chain in the Midwest, with stores in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Illinois. They sold supplies to outdoorsmen: hunting, fishing, army-navy surplus things. Some of it was truly surplus, and some of it was diverted from the military. It seemed that the father was happy to stick with black market and grey market military supplies, but the son had decided to take advantage of the proximity to Canada that their warehouses and delivery routes offered, and had made the mistake of moving liquor across the Canadian border. If there was one thing that Mr. Capone was going to protect, it was his bootlegging operation. It seemed that the gracious invitation to become a small part of the distribution network, rather than an independent as he had been operating, had been declined by the young man. For that, he needed to die. His family needed to understand that their new business model was a very bad idea.

Michael Newton.

The family lived north of the city, not very far from Wrigley Field. Their home on Lake Shore Drive was large and ostentatious. It wasn't all that far from my family home, but it was huge, and, as members of my parents' social circle would have said, it belonged to new money. There was always a look of disdain on their faces when they'd make that pronouncement, which my father found entertaining. Although they had both grown up in well-to-do circumstances, my father had still believed one should work for a living. He would often take me aside at functions where the old money people were mocking the new money people and tell me that he'd never understood why it was more noble to make your money through someone's death than through your own hard work. Isn't it ironic that I make money through hard work that leads to someone's death? The Newtons, though, had engaged in some rather shady hard work. Michael Newton had chosen to cross the wrong man in the process.

As was my custom, once I accepted a job, I watched the target to determine his patterns. Newton struck me as a squirrely character. He frequented one speakeasy in particular, La Bella Cigno. I knew this was somewhat bastardized because I'd been teaching myself Italian; it was helpful given that some of the men I interacted with still thought in Italian, as it was their native tongue. Technically, il bello cigno would translate to the beautiful swan, but it appeared that was the intent of this particular gin joint, poor translation aside. It had a small swan etched in the glass of the transom over the door. I'd passed the exterior of this speakeasy before; they had a very talented chanteuse who sang there nightly, but her accompanist was dreadful, and as a pianist, I could never linger for long because of him.

For five straight nights, Newton ate dinner with his family, presumably his mother and father. I sensed others in the house, who seemed to be servants. I couldn't hear or see any other family members, and when I was able to get close enough to hear voices, I never heard anyone outside of their immediate family referenced by the Newtons that attended dinner. After dinner, Newton and his father would retire to a room near the back of the house. I could hear their discussions. Newton's father worried about their new line of business, but the son was blinded by the large sums of cash that it generated. I almost felt sorry for Mr. Newton, the father. He was going to have his fears confirmed in the most horrible way possible. After finishing with the books, the father would retire to bed, and the son would leave for La Bella Cigno. He would stay there until closing and leave alone, having tried unsuccessfully to convince one of the flappers to take a ride with him in his ostentatious car. This man had a routine that was easy to follow, and because he always returned home long after his family had retired, it would be extremely easy to complete the job as required. He would be drunk and his family would be completely unaware of my presence while he drew his last breath.

Once I felt I had his routine, I took one night to prepare for my own. Jobs like this usually ended up soiling my clothes. I scouted the area near his home for a place to leave a change of outerwear. Normally, I would hide my things up in a tree, but the home's proximity to the lake made that difficult. There was very little in the way of cover nearby. There was a carriage house separate from the main house, though, which appeared to have an attic. After checking carefully, it appeared that the building was generally unoccupied and had been for some time. There was no scent of a human having been there recently that I could detect. I returned with shoes, pants, an overcoat, and some towels in a satchel. I stored them in the attic of the carriage house. I would change afterward and then burn the defiled clothing in the fireplace at the estate. Then I would play my music and attempt to dispel my demons, as was my routine.

The night of the hit, I followed him from his family home to La Bella Cigno. Everything proceeded according to plan. The weather had started to turn and it appeared the air no longer held the biting sting that it had just a week before. More people were out, and I didn't want to be noticed by anyone. Most people naturally avoided me, but just to be safe, I went for a long walk and planned to come back at closing.

Newton had parked his ostentatious Duesenberg in an alley behind the speakeasy, and when I returned, it was gone. His scent was still fresh in the spot, as were many others. Sifting through the thoughts of the people still in the area, it appeared that there had been a report of a raid, and they had cleared the joint early to avoid trouble.

I raced to Newton's house, hoping I could still beat him there. He had to contend with traffic lights and pedestrians. I took to the rooftops and got out of the city quickly. Once I reached Lake Shore Drive, I was able to race through the yards because of the hour. Unfortunately, when I arrived, he had already arrived home. I should have waited. I was impatient to get this job over with, although I didn't know why. I think it was out of sympathy for his father. He seemed to be doing his best to please his son, who was greedy and foolish and naïve. I had always believed someday I would end up practicing law with my father. Perhaps this job made me question whether or not I would have been the son I'd hoped to be, given the monster that I'd so easily become.

I stood at the servant's entrance to the Newton home and listened carefully. The only occupant in the house that was awake was Newton himself. All other thoughts in the house were dream-thoughts, except Newton's. He must have been unsuccessful again with attracting a girl for the evening, because he seemed to be reliving the evening's rejection in his mind. Jumping to the second story, I quietly opened a window in a back bedroom. This part of the house appeared to be reserved for guests. The staff lived on the third floor in the rear of the house, directly above me, so I was extremely careful to be silent. His parents were in the south wing on this level, and Newton was in the north wing. When I reached the center stairs, I turned left and began to make my way to Newton's bedroom suite.

I stood quietly outside the door to be certain he was alone. There were a myriad of scents in the hallway and around the doorframe. One was distinctly Newton's; I had been following him long enough to be able to identify it easily. One was familiar from the speakeasy; perhaps he had gotten lucky after all? The other scents appeared to be from the household staff, as I had first detected them around the servant's entrance and the guest rooms. I listened again to be sure that he was alone. He was drunk, which made it easier to hear him, but more difficult to understand what I was hearing. He seemed to be very angry, and as he remembered snippets of his rejection for the evening, it seemed that he had finally attempted to gain the affections of the singer from the club. In his mind, she had led him on, and only at the end of the evening, when he'd bought her drinks and lost his chance to make a play for any other girl did she reject his advances. It seemed he was angry that the evening had been cut short by the threat of a raid, and he was sitting in his room, imagining the girl in his bed, where I assumed he'd hoped she would be right now.

While he wallowed in his rejection, I quietly opened the door to the suite. My ability to move faster than human eyes could follow was an asset. By the time he'd turned his head to look at the door, it was closed and I was standing on the other side of him. I reached down and grabbed his head, and in seeing his thoughts, I knew that, in the instant before I twisted, he had seen me. Realization of what was happening to him had not had time to form before it was over. I was merciful and quick. Unfortunately, I had to make it messy. I quickly crushed his hands, broke both of his arms and slit his throat. The thirst at that point would normally be almost impossible to ignore, but for some reason, this time, the lure was not there. There was another scent that was far more attractive to me in the room, and I realized in that moment that I wasn't alone.

Lying on the bed, eyes wide, was a woman. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her heart was pounding. How did I not hear that before? I had been sloppy. I had gotten so accustomed to listening for thoughts that I'd ignored the subtlety of a heartbeat. Newton's drunken mental rage had been so loud and all-consuming for me that I'd completely missed the sounds this beautiful woman was making.

Why can't I hear her thoughts?

I looked right at her. He had gagged her, which explained why she hadn't been making any noise, but she was not restrained. I could lightly smell alcohol on her, mixed with an intoxicatingly beautiful scent: floral but not sweet, with a hint of citrus and strawberry. The smell of her blood, though, was so much stronger than anything else in the room. It was the smell I'd noticed in the hallway. It called to me. In an instant, I imagined draining her of every drop of blood in her body. It had been years since I'd had human blood – the thought of taking inside me any part of the lowlifes I killed repulsed me – but I craved this woman's blood more than I craved absolution.

Leave no witnesses.

Those were my instructions. This woman was clearly a witness. She was staring right at me, her espresso eyes locked in on my own. I had to kill her. The venom pooling in my mouth was like an elixir. The thirst felt like scorching heat, tearing my throat as if I were swallowing shards of glass. I slowly moved toward her, looking to her, I was certain, like the predator that I was. As I drew closer, she began to pull herself up on the bed, as if keeping the bed between us would somehow protect her. She reached up and untied the gag. She was far more in possession of her faculties than I would have expected from someone who'd just seen what she'd seen. I placed my finger to my lips to shush her; I couldn't have her waking anyone in the house.

Get her out of the house.

I needed to convince her I was there to help. I reached my hand out toward her, and circled around the bed. I had to gain her trust before she felt trapped. The fact that I couldn't hear her mind was exasperating. I needed to talk to her, try to find out why I couldn't hear her, or even read her feelings. I'd occasionally encountered people whose voices were not clear to me, but I always had a general idea of a mood or an emotion. With this girl, I sensed nothing.

"It's okay," I whispered. "I'm here to rescue you." That seemed like the most plausible excuse for why I'd just brutally executed her abductor. "Come with me before anyone hears us. You don't want to have to explain this to the police, do you? His family is very powerful. We should leave." While I was speaking, I continued to move closer and closer to her, eventually close enough that she would have been able to take my outstretched hand.

"What's your name?" I asked quietly.

Her voice was barely an exhaled breath. "Bella."

Well, that explained the bastardized Italian used in the speakeasy's name. "Bella, you have to trust me. I can get you out of here, but I have to pick you up and carry you. I need you to be very quiet. Can you do that?"

She nodded her head slowly, barely breathing. In spite of her shallow breaths, her heart was racing and I was worried that she might pass out. I reached for her and scooped her up. I was reminded of the ease with which Carlisle had carried me all those years ago, and realized how difficult it must have been for him, knowing what he was going to do when he got me back to his home. I slowly carried her back the way I'd entered. She lost consciousness when I jumped off the roof. That was a blessing, because I was afraid that she would have instead let out a shriek. I had to put her down for a minute while I retrieved my things from the carriage house, but she was still unconscious when I returned. I thought she might be going into shock. She wasn't dressed for the night air, and I wrapped her in the overcoat that I'd put in the satchel before picking her up again. I ran like the wind back to the estate; while I was running. I tried to ignore the irony of putting a coat on her to ward off shock when I intended to drain all of her blood once I had her alone.

In the course of the trip to my house, I went from considering the irony of the situation to being repulsed by my nature. I remembered my hatred for Carlisle, who had similarly targeted me, although for a fate worse than death. If I did this thing, I would become a greater monster than I'd ever been. This would be the premeditated murder of an innocent, something to which my moral code was squarely opposed. Worse yet, it would be murder for my pleasure… my enjoyment. This woman's blood called to me, and I was going to take it because I was entitled to it. If I did this thing, I would have become what I held in such contempt. I would be worse than the criminals I considered beneath me. I had to find the will to stop.

Leave no witnesses.

She was a witness. Who knew that she had left with Newton? Everyone left the club at the same time. Someone was certain to have seen her get into his car, and that would mean she'd be a liability to Capone's gang. I would have to hide her for a while, but if I did that, then her absence would have to be explained.

I took her to my old bedroom and took off the overcoat I'd dressed her in. Her clothes reeked of bad gin and stale smoke, but the floral and citrus scent that was her still pushed through all of that. I covered her with a quilt and went into my closet for a change of clothes for myself. I still needed to destroy what I'd worn that night. Once I had everything I needed, I went to the guest room to change. I carried the clothes I'd worn for the hit down to the fireplace. They smelled like her and the scorching thirst ripped down my throat again. I had barely begun to notice its absence and it was back. I piled the clothes in the fireplace, added some newspapers and some kindling, and struck a match. Flames licked through the pile, and in a short time, there was nothing remaining but ashes.

Turning to my piano, I began to play. I moved from one tortured dirge to the next, my normal repertoire after I'd unleashed the inner monster. I imagined myself something of a lion-tamer, trying to lure the beast back to its cage. Slowly the music moved on to more melancholy sounds, pieces that I'd created myself. I remembered each murder that had occurred as I played each song. This was my penance. It was likely, given the caliber of some of the people that I'd killed, that I'd paid more homage to their memories during these interludes than their own families had done. I began to add a new piece to the litany, inspired by tonight's work. Unlike the other pieces, this one was laced with some familiar tunes. It wasn't until I played the piece through a second time that I recognized that I'd included snippets of some of the songs I'd heard Bella singing from outside the club. This piece had an element of hope, perhaps even joy, that none of the others possessed. When that thought resonated in my mind, I abruptly stopped playing.

"Don't stop," a small voice said from the steps. I was going to have to pay much more attention when she was around. Nobody had been able to sneak up on me in almost six years and she'd done it twice in one night.

"What would you like me to play?" I asked her.

"Do you know All By Myself?" she asked. I knew it from an Irving Berlin review, but as far as I knew it hadn't been widely played. I was surprised that she knew it at all. She started to walk toward the piano.

"Bella, can you stay on the stairs, please?" If she got any closer I was going to have trouble resisting the call of her blood. Because I'd been busy preparing for the Newton job, I had not hunted in a while. I would have to get out of the city soon. Being near this woman was threatening my control in ways I hadn't experienced since the time immediately following my change. I began to play. I heard her melancholy voice coming from the foyer, and it was beautiful. It was an unusual song, because the music sounded so cheerful but the lyrics were sad and haunting. She poured such emotion into it that I wondered what had happened in this woman's life to help her bring that depth of feeling to the song.

I'm so unhappy

What'll I do?

I long for somebody who

Will sympathize with me

I'm growing so tired of living alone

I lie awake all night and cry

Nobody loves me

That's why

All by myself in the morning

All by myself in the night

I sit alone with a table and a chair

So unhappy there

Playing solitaire

All by myself I get lonely

Watching the clock on the shelf

I'd love to rest my weary head on somebody's shoulder

I hate to grow older

All by myself

I could hear her shift from her seat on the steps, and I called to her again.

"Bella, can you please stay upstairs or on the steps? I really think it's best that you not see my face, at least until we figure out what we're going to do next." How could I explain that she needed to stay away from me for her own safety? That if she got any closer I would have to kill her? "We need to talk about that. Newton will be found in the morning. If you disappear, who will be looking for you?"

She let out a rueful laugh. "Well, Marcus will miss me when we open. He owns the club, and he'll be very upset if I'm not in my dressing room when he comes to prepare for the night. Aro will miss slobbering on me while he plays. I won't miss him. He's very handsy, if you know what I mean." She let out a sigh. She didn't seem particularly happy with her life.

"Aro is a terrible piano player," I blurted out. I couldn't help myself. "But we have to worry more about what they'll do if they don't find you. Who knows you left with Newton?"

"I didn't leave with him! I mean, I left with him, but I didn't want to leave with him. It was crazy, and usually Marcus herds Aro and me and the rest of the staff upstairs to the apartments. For some reason, though, I got swept up with the crowd and Mr. Newton took my arm. He said he was going to help me, but I hadn't liked the way he'd been looking at me all night. Marcus kept bringing me drinks that he said Mr. Newton had bought, but they weren't really liquor. I'm sure he charged Mr. Newton for liquor though." She giggled. I was amazed anyone who'd had the night she'd had could giggle, but she did. "Finally, he told me I had to go over and talk to Mr. Newton, which I didn't want to do. Just when I was telling Mr. Newton that I had to get ready for my last set, they sounded the alarm about the raid. Since I was at a table instead of at the piano, I ended up going out the door with him. He had me by the elbow, and the next thing I knew, I was in his car. I kept yelling at him to let me go, that Marcus would be mad, but he finally shoved that cloth in my mouth and he hit me. He told me if I made another sound he was going to beat me up. I knew what I was supposed to do but I didn't want to do it anymore."

Her voice started to break as she told that part of the story. Her heart was racing again, and I could tell that she was reliving the experience. She took a deep breath. "He brought me up to his room and threw me on the bed. He told me not to move. I don't think he knew what to do at that point, and then you came in…"

I certainly knew the story from there, and I didn't need her to tell me any more than that. "Bella, if you tell anyone that story, do you know what will happen to you?"

She swallowed. "I think so."

"What do you think will happen? I need to hear you say it so I know you understand it's real."

"You'll have to kill me," she whispered.

"Bella, even if I don't kill you, other people will. Someone was bound to have seen you leave with him. If you go back to your life, you're a witness who can talk, and the police are going to want to know what you saw. I can't have that, and neither can the people I work for. If you don't go back, people who are angry about Newton's death will think you had something to do with it. Either way, someone is going to want you dead."

She began to cry softly. "I don't want to die, mister. I just wanted to sing. That's all I ever wanted to do."

"I believe you, Bella. I need to think. You need to get some sleep. There are some women's clothes in the master bedroom upstairs. Help yourself to whatever you need and get some rest. Do you believe that as long as I know you haven't gone to the police that I'll let you live?"

She hesitated. Smart girl. "Maybe."

"Well, as long as you're here, with me, I'll know I'm safe. And if I'm safe, you're safe. Let me figure this thing out. You stay put upstairs, and I'll stay put downstairs." He hesitated, and then remembered that it was winter and the house must have been extremely cold. "Are you warm enough? I could light a fire for you in the bedroom you're using, if you like."

"That would be nice. I'm always cold." As if to underscore the point, she shivered.

"You go up to the master bedroom and close the door. I'll build the fire while you're in there. Don't come out until I call to you, okay?"

"Okay, mister," she answered.

"And Bella? You can call me Edward."

I heard the click of the door to the master suite, my parents' old bedroom. I left the piano and moved up the stairs silently, overwhelmed by the potency of her scent as it lingered in the entry. The irony of the situation was not lost on me: my compulsion to save this girl started with controlling myself, for I was clearly her greatest threat. The venom pooled in my mouth as the fire scorched my throat. I hadn't felt a thirst this overwhelming since I had first been turned. Of course, then, every human caused this level of distress. It was a mystery to me that this woman's blood called to me when I had learned to silence all other bloodlust, just as it was a mystery that her mind was silent when all other voices called to me incessantly. Part of my desire to keep her alive was wrapped up in my need to unravel this mystery; perhaps she held the secret to silence. I had all but given up hope of attaining that particular pleasure.

Entering my bedchamber, I made quick work of building a roaring fire, and ensured she would have plenty of firewood to last her until well past morning. As I was re-entering with the second load of firewood, I realized that I had not breathed since before I built the fire. It seemed to help control the thirst, although it would make speaking to her for more than a word or two quite impossible. Of course, I didn't need to breathe, although out on the street I considered my sense of smell to be critical. I was going to need to learn to control this problem without leaving myself, or the girl, vulnerable.

"Bella," I called to her softly, standing outside the door to my parents' suite, "you should be warm enough. I've left you enough wood for the night. Do you want me to wake you to keep feeding it, or would you prefer to let the cold do that?"

I had heard her startled gasp when I said her name so close to the door, but she did not answer right away. I was about to inquire again, when she quietly responded. "I'll be okay. I can take care of myself."

I doubt that sincerely, little one. "Very well. Call to me if you need anything. I will hear you. Don't leave this room without asking me first, Bella."

"Yes, sir. I mean, Edward."

I moved with lightning speed to the bottom of the steps. "You may go to your room now, Bella. Sleep well."

She let out a wry and quiet laugh. "I doubt that," I heard her mutter. At least she's not falling apart, I thought. I'm not sure how many grown men in her situation would have the calm demeanor she possessed at that moment, never mind appreciate the ridiculousness of the invitation to sleep well. I knew I needed to consider my options – our options – before daybreak, as forces outside this house would be considering theirs as well.

Rarely affected as I was by a moral code that called for the protection of innocent lives, I was certain that if Capone's gang thought for a moment that she was a witness, they would want her dead or me dead. Of course, first preference would be to kill the girl, since I had proven quite useful over the years. It was possible, particularly if I insisted on leaving this loose end untied, I would prove to be a liability to them. They would question my judgment in leaving the girl alive, and would worry about her influence on me. Newton's family, should they look for revenge, would see her as an accomplice at worst and a possible pawn and source of information at best. The wild card, for me, was this Marcus, the owner of La Bella Cigno. He was most likely involved with Capone; every speakeasy operator was beholden to Capone's gang in some way, and as the raids and crackdowns increased, the need for protection increased with it, as did the need for a reliable and steady supply of booze. Since protection and booze were two of Capone's most plentiful commodities, there was no doubt that Marcus would turn her over to Capone, if asked. He was also likely to spread the word that she was missing through channels either maintained or monitored by Capone's gang. At this point, since she hadn't returned yet, he was likely to be harsh with her for disappearing for so long. He would want to know where she'd been and what she'd seen. I couldn't take a chance that her ability to lie was good enough for that.

The girl needed to disappear. There was no other way. It was likely that, at least for a short time, they would continue to look for her. I needed to convince them that she would not be found. I needed to convince them that I'd killed her because she'd seen too much, but that her body would not be found. The added advantage was that I'd know what they knew, or didn't know, about her. I might have to pay a visit to the club, as well.

Can you trust her to stay here if you leave? Another mystery.

Her stomach started to growl and grumble shortly after nine in the morning. She didn't call to me, and I could hear her shifting uncomfortably under the covers. She had risen periodically through the night to add logs to the fire; the last time she'd done that, after sunrise, she'd also taken some time to explore the room she occupied. She had clearly needed to relieve herself, which she did, but I also heard her tiny footsteps enter the dressing area, her hands moving slowly through the clothes that still hung in the closet. Although she was clearly trying to remain quiet, my hearing could discern virtually every move she made. Drawers opened and closed, their contents visually inspected but not rifled through or even touched. I couldn't discern panic in her movements, just curiosity. The girl intrigued me. Not being able to hear her thoughts was exasperating, and her reactions were so far outside of what I would expect that I craved the insight reading her mind would have provided.

Shortly after she put another log on the fire, and well after her stomach had begun to grumble in earnest, I rapped lightly on her door. She let out a little shriek, most likely because she had not heard me approach. There was an experiment in trust I was willing to try with her, and it was time to begin.

"Bella, you must be hungry. I'm going to get something to eat, but I have to leave the house. Stay where you are until I return. Do you need anything at all before I go?"

She was fairly quick to answer. "May I have a glass of water, sir? There's none in here."

I mentally cursed myself. Of course, I should have thought to give her a pitcher of water the night before, but human needs were a distant memory for me. "I'll place a pitcher outside your door before I leave. Give me five minutes and you may open your door to get it."

"Yes, sir."

In the kitchen were pitchers and wash basins. I ran the water briefly, having used it the night before to wash some of the blood from my hands, and filled the pitcher. I quickly placed a tray with the pitcher, a glass, and a washbasin and washcloth outside her door. Leaving through the back door, I quietly slipped outside, thankful for the overcast day. Bella had no way of knowing that there was a greengrocer extremely close to the estate. I would only be gone moments, but given the potent nature of her scent, I would know if she had strayed beyond the doorway of my bedchamber. I had locked all the doors, which would certainly delay her escape, but if she really wanted to get out, she would have. I would be close enough to quickly track her before she could completely get away, but at least then I would know her nature.

It took less than ten minutes for me to purchase milk, bread, cheese, and tea, and return to the estate. Upon entering and placing the food in the kitchen, I silently climbed the steps. There was no sign of her having left the room. The tray I had placed outside her room was gone, and I could hear water splashing from inside.

Good girl.

I had feared that her composure would inspire boldness. I was relieved that she had followed instructions so well. When I heard a pause in the splashing of water, I rapped lightly on the door again.

"Bella, I'm going to put water on for tea. When you are ready, come down the steps and go to the kitchen. I've gotten some food for you. We should talk."

"Yes, sir… er, where is the kitchen?" she asked, hesitating before asking the last but, I think, more fearful of going to the wrong room.

"It's in the back of the house. Almost directly behind the stairs. You'll see it when you get to the bottom of the staircase and look to the back of the house. I'll see you there."

She gasped at my last statement.

"Bella, I promise not to hurt you." Her heart had begun pounding wildly, and seemed to calm somewhat with my reassurance, but it was a barely perceptible change. The girl was clearly afraid of the change in proximity that was about to take place.

I stood in the dining room, separated from the kitchen by a swinging door. I heard her enter the kitchen and steeled myself for her assault on my senses. I had to face her and we had to speak, which was going to be a challenge to my control. I slowly opened the door and slipped into the room. I remained there, my back to the wall next to the doorway, and took the shallowest of breaths. The thirst was still there, but having been exposed to it through the night, it seemed to be slightly more bearable.

She was brewing tea and had some bread and cheese on a plate. The milk sat unopened on the table.

"Sorry about the prison rations. I didn't want to be gone that long. This was all I could come up with that was close by."

She looked up at me through her eyelashes, her hair removed from the clips that had held it up last night and framing her face; she seemed reluctant to make eye contact with me. "This is fine. I'm not really that hungry. It's fine."

"I think I heard your stomach rumbling from the hallway, Bella. You don't need to lie. I'll get you something more substantial later. In the meantime, we have to talk about what comes next. Bear in mind, I just said there would be a later so I need you to stay focused and not panic. Understood?"

"Yes, sir… Edward."

"There's no easy way to say this, Bella. I think you need to disappear. But I'm afraid that there is a chance they may come looking for you. We can't take a chance that they'll find you, so I think you may need my protection."

"That's not necessary. Just let me go and I'll disappear. I promise. Nobody will know where I went."

"How do you plan to do that, Bella? Where would you go? What would you do? How would you survive?" I had weighed all of these things in my mind during the night, and it was clear that she needed me. Part of me was so drawn to her that the idea of her needing me was thrilling; there was another part of me that wondered if I didn't want to keep her close because I wanted to drink from her, to satisfy the thirst I had suppressed for so long. That smaller part seemed to be willing to wait for a moment of weakness. The internal battle had raged through the night, and as yet there was still no clear victor, only the crushing reality that I had the means and the motive to protect this woman, and she would not survive without me.

She sat up a little straighter, a look of defiance crossing her face. "I took care of myself here. I made my way. I'll do it again somewhere else." This girl had a quiet strength about her that I hadn't fully appreciated. Perhaps that was how she had endured all that she'd been through in the preceding twelve hours. Regardless, I knew how dangerous confidence could be when it was misplaced. I'd watched many men die believing that they were invincible. They had died at my hand, and I knew their thoughts at the moments of their deaths. Invariably, they shared a single final thought: surprise. Virtually all of them were convinced, up until the moment they had drawn their final breath, that they would die with valor, engaged in a battle they had willingly entered. I had thought that myself, once. Regardless of whose flag you were defending, the life of a soldier held some aspect of predictability. These street warriors expected to die in battle, not in their bathtubs, or the beds of their mistresses, or their home offices. It never occurred to any of them that they were vulnerable in these places. I taught them that lesson. It was a lesson I did not want Bella to learn.

"I know you think so, Bella. You don't know what you're saying. This is different, because this time, there will be people trying to find you, trying to kill you. This isn't about providing yourself with food, clothing, and shelter. This will be about keeping you alive. To stay in Chicago, you stay here, in this house, all the time. At least until I can be sure that they aren't looking for you anymore."

Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. Desperately, I wished I could tell what was going through her mind, but her face was not hard to read. She was defiant. "I won't be your prisoner. If that's how you intend to protect me, then kill me yourself. You don't own me. I belong to nobody but me."

Something told me she'd once said these words to someone else. "Bella, don't tempt me, please. I just want to keep you safe. I need to see what's going on, see what people know. Will you please just stay here until I get back? As my guest, not my prisoner?" I tried to charm her. I gave her the smile that normally dazzled others. It appeared to be working, and I tilted my head slightly. "Please?"

She slowly nodded. "I'll stay until you get back. But I need some more firewood. Where is it?"

I waved her off and told her I'd get it for her. I encouraged her to explore the rest of the house, and restocked her supply of firewood before leaving for the city. Trust was going to be important if we were both going to survive this; starting here seemed to make sense.

My trip to the South Side was uneventful. The ability to be unseen was one that I had cultivated well. Very quickly, I was in tune with the underground of Chicago, standing outside what appeared to be warehouses and abandoned, shuttered storefronts, listening to the conversations taking place in their interiors. Unfortunately, my particular gift (as the good doctor would often refer to it) meant that I could only hear current thoughts. I would need to show myself to ensure a reaction that would tell me what I needed to know. Since I had done my job, I knew I'd have one perfect opportunity: collecting payment from the lackey who'd commissioned the hit. The method used to set up the meeting was always the same. There was a flower shop across from Old St. Patrick's Church, and I would order a condolence arrangement for the deceased. The note would be signed "With regret – Mr. Carlisle." The Outfit owned the flower shop, I assumed. The same day I ordered the floral arrangement, I'd return to our meeting place at the pier at nine o'clock and collect my fee. I could only assume they didn't actually send the flowers to the family, although with Capone's gang, one could never be sure.

My floral arrangement ordered, I went back to patrolling the speakeasies. It was still early, but, fortunately, vice had no sense of time. Outside La Bella Cigno, I could hear Marcus and Aro discussing Bella's absence. Marcus was suspicious of what could have happened to her, as he knew she'd been with Newton right before they emptied the place. Aro had some suggestions regarding possible replacements for the evening's performances, but he was thinking about one girl in particular who would grant him a favor or two for a good word with Marcus. Clearly, he knew nothing. Marcus, on the other hand, had done just what I'd suspected; he'd asked his connections on the street to find out what they could about Bella and Newton. It was only a matter of time before he found out what had happened.

Bella was going to need food soon, so I reluctantly left Marcus to his thoughts and began the journey back to Lincoln Park. Walking along North Clark, I stepped into a diner and asked to purchase a meal to take with me. The waitress tried to convince me to stay and eat it at the counter, and her flirtation was obvious. My explanation that it was for my pregnant wife and me, because she was too uncomfortable to cook, put a quick end to her persuasion, and she reluctantly agreed to package it up for me. Not sure what Bella would want, I went with the Blue Plate special: pot roast and mashed potatoes. It smelled revolting to me, but the people at the counter seemed to be enjoying it.

Hurrying home, I suddenly felt anxious as I approached the house. What if the mysterious girl had decided to flee? I circled the house quickly, detecting none of the ambrosia-like scent that had been so tempting the night before at any of the possible exits. Using the entrance closest to the kitchen, I was assaulted by her scent the moment I entered the house. Being away from her for several hours had exacerbated my bloodlust, and the venom pooled quickly in my mouth. I set the food on the table and entered the front hallway. I could hear her on the second floor, past the master bedroom suite. As I grew closer, her scent grew stronger and it became increasingly difficult to control my desire to take her. She was in the Library: my father's study and my mother's favorite room. Standing in the doorway, I saw her curled up under a blanket, reading Jane Austen, one of my mother's favorites.

I cleared my throat to get her attention.

She shrieked, dropping the book, then apologizing profusely for her clumsiness. She blushed deeply, and it took all of my strength not to close the distance between us and sample the blood that pooled so easily just beneath her skin.

"I brought you some food. It's in the kitchen. You should eat it while it's still hot." I turned quickly on my heel and retreated to the opposite end of the house, my mother's sewing room. I'd never had need to visit there, and hadn't been to this end of the estate in many years. Listening to Bella's footfalls as they retreated to the kitchen, I could hear her quietly crying. If I was going to speak with her again, I would need to acclimate myself better to her scent. Returning to the library, I held the blanket she'd had wrapped around her up to my nose, inhaling deeply. Every fiber of my being longed for her, but this wasn't just bloodlust. There was another feeling lurking underneath, the feeling that was fueling my need to protect this girl. I'd never experienced an attraction like this before, and wasn't sure what it was. Dismissing such thoughts from my conscious mind, I followed Bella to the kitchen.

"Are you okay, Bella?" She was eating, although she didn't seem nearly as enthusiastic about the meal as the diners at the restaurant had been. "Is the food acceptable?"

"Sorry… Edward. It's fine, really. I guess I'm just not that hungry."

"I'm sure you're frightened. I'm afraid that I'm not going to give you any better news. Marcus has let it be known you disappeared last night, and that the last person he saw you with was Newton. It's unfolding exactly as I'd feared. I have a meeting tonight that I'll need to leave soon to attend, and that will let me know what the Outfit may know about you. It will also tell me what they may suspect of me. I'm going to have to tell them that you needed to be eliminated. Are you prepared for that?"

Silent tears began to fall. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, and it was obvious that she'd been crying off and on all day. She simply nodded.

"Bella, will you let me protect you?"

"How can you? You'll only get killed, too." She sniffed. I ran upstairs and was back almost instantly, handing her a handkerchief. She looked at me with a puzzled expression. "Where…? Never mind." She wiped her tears and dabbed her nose. She was so delicate.

"I can promise you that the people who are after you won't harm me. I can't say the same for you, though. Perhaps you should start over somewhere else. Is there any place you've ever dreamed of going?"

She chuckled wryly. "Is that how this will work? I'll pretend we're going someplace amazing so it's not so scary when you kill me?"

I could not control the anger in my voice. "Bella, if I wanted you dead you would already be dead. The fact that I am willing to kill to keep you alive is as big a shock to me as it is to you, I assure you. I haven't felt this way about a human, ever. Do not mock my sincerity."

Her eyes widened as I spoke, and she stopped breathing. I could hear her heart beating wildly in her chest. After several seconds, she seemed to shake loose of the terror my outburst had caused, and she inhaled deeply. Softly, almost imperceptibly, she said, "I'm sorry, mister."

Back to "mister." Very smooth, Masen. "No, Bella, I'm sorry for snapping at you that way. I meant what I said, but I shouldn't have been so harsh. I know this has been very hard on you. None of this is fair to you. I've been thinking about leaving anyway, so why don't we do that? I'll get you set up somewhere else, and you can start over."

She started to object again, but I cut her off. "Think about it. I have to go to the pier. I'll be back as quickly as I can. We'll know how much time we have to consider our options when this meeting is over. Finish your dinner, though. It may be the last good meal you have for a while if things go badly."

I left her pushing the food around on her plate. I fervently hoped she would eat well; my meeting at the pier would determine how dire our circumstances were. Of course, I wasn't concerned about my own safety. There was no question in my mind that I could defend myself against any threat. I was more concerned about what came next. With or without my strength, speed, and special gifts, she would be vulnerable and very difficult for me to defend against the combined forces of Capone's organization. Besides, although I had never seen any myself, it would be naïve of me to think that there weren't others like me out there, and if even one of them was engaged in my line of work, it would be reasonable to think a hit on me would eventually fall to one of them for completion.

I'd left Bella early, because I, too, needed to satisfy my hunger. My thirst, to be more precise. Traveling northwest from the estate, I quickly left the confines of the city and slowed to assess the hunting possibilities. Due north, there was a herd of deer. Not my favorite, but tonight was not about preferences, it was about sustenance. I felt almost gluttonous from the amount of blood I consumed; my intuition told me that we'd be leaving very soon, and that it would be a good idea if I was sated when that moment came. Reaching a level of discomfort, I lifted my head from the buck I'd brought down last. He'd have been a fine specimen for some hunter's lodge wall, but I quickly took to hiding the evidence of my activities. Leaving three deer lifeless and bloodless in the forest was not a good way to keep a low profile. The good doctor had taught me that much. I made quick work of the task and headed back for the city at a run.

I approached the designated meeting place fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. I could sense that there were three men already in the area, none of whom were making their presence known from a human perspective. Of course, I was aware of not just their locations but of the thoughts running through their minds. It's good that you're scared. You should be terrified. They had been instructed to take out the Iceman, and they were not looking forward to it. I caught a flash of one man kissing his wife and infant son goodbye as he left for the evening, and again felt the stir of humanity bubble up and consume me.

I had planned to use this meeting as a means to get information. Three assassins was enough information for me; when I'd set out for the evening, I had decided that any overt action like this would be met with deadly force. Now that the situation had presented itself, though, I could anticipate Bella's anguish at leaving that woman widowed, her son fatherless, regardless of the path in life chosen by the husband and father. For the first time in my existence as a monster, I chose flight over fight.

As I raced to the estate, I planned our escape. Bella would have to go along, because there wasn't time to review everything with her until we boarded the train at the Chicago and North Western Terminal on West Madison. We would need to pack for the trip and catch the first available train east. My pace didn't slow until I approached the rear entrance.

"Bella?" I called. I didn't want to frighten her, so I kept my voice calm and even.

"Yes, mister?" she responded. I didn't have time to argue with her, and I knew we'd have more time together than I could handle once we'd boarded the train.

"We need to pack. I'm afraid that they're not interested in asking any questions right now, so rather than stick around to see what they'll do next, I think we should just go. You can pack from the things in the master suite. You may want to take some sewing supplies, since you're a bit smaller than… You can sew, can't you?"

"Sure, mister. I had to take care of my own wardrobe at the club. But why - "

"We don't have time for that now. Just get packed and I'll explain everything once we're gone." I could tell from the set of her brow that she was about to choose entirely the wrong time to be assertive. "If you want to live, you'll listen to me. Just start pulling things out of the closet and I'll bring you some bags. Please." I knew the words themselves were polite but my tone was anything but.

I took her arm and guided her firmly up the stairs, cognizant of the palpable hum coursing from her arm to my hand where we were touching. Again, I was not breathing, but the desire to destroy her was still foremost in my mind. This girl will destroy my resolve before this trip is over, I'm certain of it.

Pushing her toward the master suite, I turned into my bedchamber and quickly pulled clothing from the closet and chesterfield. Moving to the sewing room, I gathered the bags from the closet there, and tossed one in my room before bringing two to Bella. She was standing, seemingly paralyzed, in the closet, staring at my mother's things.

"Bella, we really need to move. There is a train at midnight and we need to be there to catch it." Her eyes widened at the word train. I must have failed to mention our means of transportation.

"We're leaving town?" she asked, hesitantly. "You're really rescuing me?"

"For Heaven's sake, Bella, we don't have time for this. Do as I say, please. Go down the hall and gather what you'll need to make clothing alterations. I'll take care of the rest. Can you do that?"

She simply nodded slowly and began to move. Before she was gone, I was moving a lightning speed, pulling items together for her, trying to ensure she'd have sufficient clothing for the journey and to make do in New York. By the time she'd returned, I had packed clothing for her, toiletries, and a spare coat. I took the sewing kit from her hands and placed it inside the open valise on the bench at the foot of the bed. I lifted my mother's fur coat to help Bella into it, and her eyes opened widely and she subtly shook her head as if to say no.

"Put the coat on, Bella. It will help you look like… well, not you. And it's cold out."

"I'm not stealing her coat, mister," she said, firmly but quietly.

This girl never ceased to amaze me. "It's not stealing, Bella. Everything in this house belongs to me. This coat was… it was my mother's." My voice thickened; I might be incapable of tears, but I could still succumb to emotion. "All of these things were my mother's. Now can you please put this on so we can go?"

She hesitated a moment before stepping forward, and she allowed me to help her into the coat. It was a little too large, but still looked luxurious. I realized that she was going to become even more suspicious of me if I carried all the bags to the train station. I couldn't risk taking a cab, though, so I'd have to take the chance. She followed me down the stairs to the front door, where I put down all the bags for a moment and quickly closed up the house. Before closing the doors to the library, I took several books off the shelf. Her scent on them was strong; she had either handled them or run her fingers on the bindings, so I thought they might interest her. It would be a long journey, and they would give us something to talk about.

Rejoining her in the foyer, I added the books to the valise and picked up the bags.

"Ready?" I asked.

"What should I carry?" She honestly looked surprised that I hadn't handed her a bag.

"Please, Bella. I know you'll find this hard to believe, but I'm a gentleman. These are lighter than they appear. Don't worry about it. We need to get moving if we're going to make that train." I gave her the crooked grin that always seemed to charm girls and women alike, but she just cocked her head and walked out the door. Closing it and locking up behind us, I looked with quiet despair on my boyhood home, wondering if I'd ever be able to return. Enough, Masen. You have to move.

We were fortunate to catch a cable car once we reached Clark, and from there we only had to change cars at the Loop to get to the train station. I was focused on those around us, listening for anyone who might be taking special note of our presence, or even our faces. When we finally reached the train station, I realized that the latter part of the trip, I had actually been focused and distracted enough not to be overwhelmed by my bloodlust. There was hope for the journey.

The train station was largely deserted, only a few exhausted travelers mingling in the great hall at the center of the station. I was certain that there would be more waiting at the track, but with almost thirty minutes before the train was due to arrive, I was still anxious about who might arrive to look for us. Between the two of us, Bella was the less recognizable, so I pulled her aside as we neared the ticket counter.

"You need to buy our tickets. You look different, and hopefully they won't recognize you. Can you do that?"

She looked dejected. "I don't have any money…"

I laughed. It felt good to laugh with all the tension in the air. "Bella, I've got plenty of money. But I'm kind of memorable with my hair and my pale skin. Can you put your hair up under your hat and act snobby? Just buy us a couple of sleeper cars to New York, and we'll be all set. Got it?"

"We're going to New York?" She actually looked excited at the prospect. Maybe I should have just told her everything at the beginning. It would have been a hell of a lot easier than prodding her every step of the way. Not being able to read her mind had been pleasant with regard to her company, but it had been nothing but frustrating when trying to manage this situation.

"Not if you don't buy us the tickets," I joked. I handed her a pile of cash and pushed her toward the ticket counter, pretending to rearrange the baggage as she walked.

I took my focus off her to scan the thoughts of the people in the train station. I studied the movements of the other passengers in the waiting area, and didn't see anything suspicious. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bella returning with our tickets in hand. Picking up the bags, I stepped alongside her to continue toward the track. I glanced at the tickets to see what platform we would board from, and saw that she'd only bought a single sleeper car.

Trying to remain casual, I asked, "How come you only got one car?"

"Well, they were a lot of money and I didn't think… you said you were a gentleman, so I just…" She was blushing furiously and not making eye contact with me. "It's not that I'm that kind of girl, but it seemed like a waste. And I'm…" Her voice trailed off, but I noticed it was breaking as it did.

"Are you scared, Bella?"

Tears pooled in her eyes. She nodded silently.

This confusing, beguiling, unexpected girl saw me as her guardian. My heart, which hadn't beaten in almost six years, felt like it skipped. I simply smiled at her. In that moment, I knew I would find a way to kill myself before I could harm her.

"I'll take care of you, little Bella. Don't you worry."

There was a bench on the platform and we sat together. I put my arm around her shoulder and she rested her head on my chest. She was clearly exhausted, and her breathing had just become light and even when I heard the train approaching. I gently shook her.

"Bella, the train's coming." She shook her head as if to shake loose the cobwebs and looked around. Nobody else on the platform had moved or reacted in any way, and she looked at me, puzzled.

I gave her my half-smirk and began gathering up our things. "Trust me, it's coming."

Just then, the whistle sounded from some distance away and the platform attendants began scurrying in anticipation of the train's arrival. She gave me another confused look, but stood and stretched lightly. We looked like a young married couple about to embark on our life together. I smiled at the thought, and then thought sadly of all the things that had been taken from me that fateful day in Carlisle's apartment.

My heart had been set on glory and bravery, but this was what my mother had always wanted for me. A happy life, with a good woman and lots of adorable grandchildren for her to spoil, was all she'd dreamed of for me. Did she know when she'd asked Carlisle to save me that she'd be taking those dreams away from me forever? I doubted she had; she'd been as sick as I'd been, and couldn't have grasped the magnitude of the favor that she'd asked. Standing here with Bella on the platform, I longed for the life that had ended, but I also vowed to do more with the one that I had. I had to be more than a killer. I didn't know what, but I decided that I could start over as much as Bella could, and do something different. If I was to live forever, then I would make a worthwhile contribution.

Stowing our bags on the baggage shelves, I closed the door to our sleeper car and offered the bottom berth to Bella. She didn't need to know that I never slept, but I told her that I'd keep watch while she slept to ease her mind. She somehow drifted off almost immediately, and I waited for the conductor to claim our tickets before beginning my mental scan of the passengers on the train.

Satisfied that we'd made our escape unnoticed, I studied the enigma of a girl in front of me. She was beautiful, in a classic way. Porcelain skin, beautiful, wavy chestnut hair, eyes the color of espresso… she was captivating. It was obvious that she didn't see it, which was charming in and of itself. Her voice was equally beautiful, and I was hopeful that she'd find a way back to singing before long. It would be a crime to keep that voice hidden away.

I remained lost in my thoughts as the train raced east. We made very few stops, and I was almost relaxed by the time she woke.

"Would you like me to get you something from the dining car? You can freshen up while I'm gone."

She nodded. "Thank you, mister."

"Bella, please. At least until we decide on some new names, can you please call me Edward? I feel like a heel having you call me mister all the time."

"Sorry… Edward. Thanks. Which bag has… the clothes you brought for me?" She seemed to want to avoid reminding me that these clothes had belonged to my mother. I pulled out the case that had the majority of my mother's things and excused myself.

When I returned, she had brushed her hair and washed up, and had changed into fresh clothes. She was reading one of the books I'd taken from the library, and was smiling to herself as she read. In her hands wasWuthering Heights, and I was surprised that she was smiling. Honestly, I'd never found anything amusing or entertaining about that particular book.

I placed the tray on the table she'd pulled down from the wall. On it was a small tea kettle and a cup and saucer, brown bread, and oatmeal. She slowly began to eat. Looking up at me, she asked, "Aren't you having anything?"

"I already ate, thanks," I answered. "Go ahead. You must be hungry."

I asked her about the book, and she became more animated than I'd ever seen her. She had read Wuthering Heights many times, she said, and it was one of her favorites. The surprise on her face was noticeable when I started asking her questions and it became obvious to her that I'd read it myself. She didn't need to know that never sleeping left me with plenty of time to read, but I did tell her that it was one of my mother's favorite books, which was why it was in the Library.

As the hours passed, I grew more and more enchanted by the innocence and enthusiasm of this young girl. Even more intriguing, though, was her fierceness. Underneath her seemingly vulnerable appearance was a fighter, someone who'd clearly faced adversity in her life and had become almost resigned to it, like Prometheus. She told me of her childhood. Her mother was a city girl who had fallen in love with a simple man who was traveling through Chicago on his way to take a post as sheriff in the far reaches of Iowa; impulsively, her parents had married quickly and continued the journey west, but her mother had been miserable and had left shortly after her first birthday. Her father had done his best to raise her, as had the women of the town, but she'd never really fit in. She'd come to Chicago looking for her mother, only to find that she'd apparently lived recklessly and died after being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bella had no memory of her at all, and was devastated at the loss.

She considered herself lucky to meet Marcus during her search for her mother, because he had offered her a place to stay and a job when she had virtually nothing. Shortly after they met, he opened the speakeasy, and she discovered that she was the headlining act. Her heart was never in it, but she quickly found that Marcus had been running a tab on all he'd done for her, and she'd amassed quite a bit of debt to him without knowing it. She was essentially his indentured servant, continuing to owe him for room and board and watching her debt grow faster than she could earn money singing. It was then that Marcus explained that she could earn more money if she would just be nicer to the customers. She had steadfastly refused, hoping against hope that she would find some way out of her situation. The night that she'd ended up with Newton she had finally given up. She was going to do what she'd sworn she'd never do, only as a means of escaping Marcus eventually.

Sobbing, Bella explained why she saw me as her guardian angel. She truly believed I'd been sent to save her that fateful night. I finally understood how she'd been so calm in her reactions; what she saw was probably nothing compared with what she thought was going to happen to her that night. When I reached over to hand her my handkerchief, she clutched at my hand and kissed it. Her eyes widened in surprise.

I tried to pull it away, but she clung to it tightly. "Your hand is so cold," she said. "You were cold that night, too. But you don't get cold. You hear things you shouldn't hear, like the train coming. You see things you shouldn't be able to see, like the tickets."

She gazed into my eyes. "Your eyes are like honey, but they were black before." She swallowed, but maintained eye contact. She sat up straighter. "What are you, Edward. I know you're my guardian angel, but what are you?"

Looking out at the scenery, I was glad that we had a long train ride in a private car. This was going to be a long discussion.

New Year's Eve, 1925

The marquee shone brightly to announce the appearance, for one night only, of Diamond "Belle" Cullen. The restaurant business in New York might be suffering under the Volstead Act, but the lights of Broadway still shone brightly. After a great deal of negotiating, The Lyceum Theatre producers had managed to convince Diamond Belle that she should grace their stage with her presence.

She had made a name for herself playing the greatest speakeasies of the city: The Furnace, The Hi-Hat, The Red Room… everywhere but The Cotton Club, where she knew all the performers and sang with them for fun offstage. Everyone wanted to hear Isabel sing; why wouldn't they? Her voice was perfection, tinkling and chilling, able to shatter glass, bring you to tears, and make you wish she was yours. As her piano player, I was close enough to make sure anyone who made the mistake of trying to make that last wish come true was convinced otherwise in a hurry.

It had been almost three years since our arrival at Grand Central Terminal after that fateful New York Central rail trip. She'd listened to my story with the same intensity that I'd listened to hers, and told me that she wasn't afraid of me. If I had had the capacity to weep, I would have. We had both unburdened our souls and told our stories, and we committed to make a fresh start when the train reached its destination. I fully expected us to part company when we arrived, but as we approached New York and I began separating our belongings and putting together a stockpile of cash for her, she raised her eyebrow.

"What are you doing, Edward?"

"We're almost there, Bella. I've got to get our things in order for when we arrive," I answered.

"But why does it seem like you're getting ready to say goodbye to me?"

My movement stilled. Looking up at her in shock, I said, "Don't you want me to go? I just assumed you would - "

"I told you I'm not afraid of you, Edward. But what I am afraid of… is that you'll disappear. You can't leave me. You're all I have."

I shook my head. "I'm a monster. You deserve better than me. And we're different."

"We don't have to be."

That was almost three years ago. We had assumed our new identities and our new lives, and we were happy. Jazz in New York was exploding, and it was an exciting time to be a performer. Diamond Belle was the queen of the night life, and her accompanist, Tony Cullen, was always by her side. It wasn't the life that my mother had dreamed about all those years ago, but it worked for us.

I'd sold the Chicago estate and bought something for us up in Westchester County, where we could get back to nature when we had the urge. We had changed our identities slightly, but we weren't as concerned as we might have been; I wasn't that well known by face, and Bella had changed… quite a bit.

The nighttime was better for us anyway.

My baby deserved to shine, but nobody would see her sparkle but me.

End Notes: Please review and let me know what you think. I'm humbled that this story has been nominated for a Single Shot Award in the category Best Overall. If you like what you just read, I'd really appreciate your vote: thesingleshotawards [dot] blogspot [dot] com [slash] p [slash] voting [dot] html (you know the rules – replace the [dot]s with actual dots, throw an http up in front, and there you go!). Voting is open until August 30th, but reviews are appreciated year-round!