1. Pain

Pain. At first, all I am aware of is pain. There has been betrayal, too, but it is a vague notion, masked by the pain. Somebody has done this to me but I can't remember who or why. All I know is the pain, which is white-hot and consumes every molecule of my being in its fiery grip. And despite the pain, I am aware that I am paralysed – I can not move my limbs, or feel my lungs, or draw breath to scream or beg for death. I am also blind, my vision filled with the whiteness of the pain. But I can hear, and after a period of time – is it hours? - weeks? - millennia? - I become aware of voices. Two voices, one male, one female, and both of them clearly vampiric; even through the wall of agony, I can tell from the timbre.

"Oh, my God," whispers the female, close by to my left. "Is it – is she – alive, Edward?"

"Yes." This voice, the male, is much further away. He sounds pained.

"How has this happened? What do we do?"

"I've no idea, Bella. I think we'll have to take her to Carlisle. If anything can be done, he'll know."

There is a rustling near me – the female is doing something, but I can't see or move or communicate in any way. "They built a pyre, Edward. They were about to burn her."

"I know. But they heard us approach, they're gone now. I think we need to move quickly in case they come back."

There is a pause. The female seems to be waiting for something.

"Bella?" the male calls. "I can't get any closer – you have to shield her from me, so I can't hear her pain. It's – exquisite…"

Before I can ponder the meaning of those words, a pair of cool, marble hands is caressing my face, and the male speaks gently into my ear.

"I'm so sorry for what's happened to you, sweetie. We're going to take you to someone who can help. Please trust that we're acting in your best interest. But I think moving you is going to be very painful, and I'm really sorry. You're going to have to be brave – can you do that?"

I am incapable of answering, or even giving any indication that I have understood. Otherwise I would tell him to light the pyre and end the suffering now. The pain is already beyond all endurance.

"Bella, have you got all the pieces? You're sure? Okay, help me lift – and whatever you do, don't lower your shield."

"Edward, I feel sick," she whispers.

"It's alright. You won't be sick. Lift on three."

I want to ask, what pieces? But suddenly, impossibly, the pain increases ten-fold, and for a long time I am aware of nothing else. I have no coherent thought other than a silent, internal scream.

I begin to realise that the pain is not always constant. For most of the time, I burn white-hot, unaware of anything outside the pain, but sometimes it will abate marginally, and for a while, my hearing and my ability to hold on to conscious thought return to me. So occasionally, I am aware of a clock ticking, a rustle of papers, footsteps and quiet voices. I realise I must be in a house, but I can make no more of this information before the next wave of pain hits me and I'm lost to the whiteness again.

Through the pain, I become aware of hands stroking my face, and a male, different to the other one, cheerfully asks me how I feel. Then something is pressed against my mouth – some sort of pouch – which my teeth instinctively puncture, and I find myself drawing blood, cold and stale. It smells unpleasant, tastes wrong, but I drink deeply, and find it is gone all too soon. As soon I have drunk, a fresh wave of pain hits; incredibly it is even more intense than I have experienced yet. I try to writhe, try to scream, but my body is simply not responding to me.

Then I hear the male call to others for help, and three more pairs of feet approach.

"The spine isn't knitting together properly," he says. "We're going to have to straighten it. Bella, shield her so that you and Edward can hold her legs down – Esme, take her arms. Keep her steady."

And suddenly, I feel his hands, which have been so gentle and caressing until now, clamp themselves hard onto the sides of my head. Shocked, my eyes fly open, and I find myself staring up into the strangest, amber-eyed face. The eyes are kind, and full of pity, but the jaw has a hard set to it. I try to beg him to leave me alone, but I have no voice. Why would they bring me here, speak to me in kind voices, only to try to pull my head from my shoulders?

I hear a loud cracking noise, then with a strange flowing sensation, feeling returns to my limbs and chest, and my lungs draw in a huge breath. Before I can use the air to fuel another scream, the pain intensifies yet again, and for an age, it is my only concern – the amber eyes, the voices, even awareness of my own self, are lost to this new, infinitely more excruciating pain.

After an eternity, some of my senses return once more. The same hands are holding me, the same voices talking, and I realise that almost no time at all has passed.

"She won't stop kicking," the voice called Bella is complaining.

"We have to keep her still," the man whose name I don't know replies. "Her spine won't mend like this."

"I can do it," another female voice interrupts.

"Esme, you won't be able to move once you're there. You might have to stay with her for days. I can't predict how long this will take."

"I can do it," she repeats, quietly. There is a short pause.

"Alright. Help me get her on her side, then you can lie behind her and hold her still."

The hands begin to move me, and the pain reaches a new spike, rendering me insensible yet again. For a long time, I continue to move between different states of consciousness. I never become unconscious – such a mercy is unavailable to my kind – but there are timeless periods of white-hot pain where I am aware of nothing else, and other periods where the pain is merely unbearable and I am aware of the room outside of my body, and the people who move in and out of it.

Esme becomes a constant amongst the disjointed moments of awareness. Her body is pressed against my back, one arm under my head to support my neck, the other around my torso gripping me firmly. One of her legs also rests over mine, and I find myself completely immobilised. But her embrace is comforting, and I can often hear her humming soothingly in my ear. Being held in this way somehow makes me feel safer, cocooned and protected. I discover I have my sense of smell now; Esme's own sweet, vampire scent mingles with floral soap and contrasts against the sharp, disinfectant tang of the rubber sheet on which we lie.

After Esme, my most regular visitor is the man, who I learn is called Carlisle. His arrival is generally followed by gentle probing – along my spine, my arms and my shoulders. Sometimes he gently pulls my eyelids open, and I see his own amber eyes peering into mine, creased with concern. Occasionally, another strange pouch is pressed to my mouth, and I feed hungrily, instinct taking over, although I know another spike in the pain will follow.

I find myself unable to open my own eyes, or lift my arms or speak or give any indication that I am alert. I am trapped, and very afraid.

Time passes sporadically. One time, after a seemingly short period of extreme pain, I come to myself and find that day has changed to night, but far more often, I come round from an apparent eternity to find that only seconds could have passed; Carlisle or Esme are still mid-sentence, still finishing whatever they were saying before the white-hot infinity took me. Esme and Carlisle often converse quietly together. His voice is tender when he speaks to her, loving in fact, and I realise Esme must be his mate.

At some point, the others return with Carlisle to turn me onto my other side and I am plunged into another white-hot hell until Esme resumes her strange embrace. Another pouch is offered and consumed. More probing. Another attempt to look into my eyes; another frown of concern at whatever is seen there. The pain waxes and wanes. Aeons pass, or maybe hours, I don't know which, and I begin to find that each waxing of the pain reaches a negligibly lesser peak, each waning brings microscopically more relief.

During one lull, I realise that I have been laid on my back and Esme is no longer holding me, but I can hear her nearby, still humming. I try to open my eyes; nothing. I try to move my hand; nothing. But when I try to move my foot, I feel it twitch. Esme must have noticed; the humming stops, something creaks – has her weight shifted in a chair? – and she calls out softly for Carlisle, who is here in a heartbeat.

"Her foot, Carlisle, she was moving."

"Another spasm."

"No. It looked deliberate."

There is a long pause. Are they watching to see if I could do it again? I try, but this time my legs let me down and I can't manage another twitch.

"She moved before," Esme insists quietly.

"Alright. Edward?"

There is the unmistakeable sound of footsteps on stairs, then Edward's voice comes from what I assume is the direction of the doorway.

"I can't, Carlisle."

"Please. Just for a few moments. We need to know. Can she hear us?"

A pause.

"Yes."

"And the pain?"

"Lessening."

"Does she understand us? Is she aware?"

"I don't know. Ask her something."

Another pause, then Esme's voice murmurs in my ear.

"Tell us your name, darling. Think it, as hard as you can."

"It's Grace," Edward announces, to my absolute astonishment. It's like he can pluck thoughts straight from my head!

"That's exactly what I am doing," Edward says – in response to my thoughts?

"I'm so pleased to meet you, Grace," Esme says, "I'm Esme, this is my husband Carlisle, and our adopted son, Edward."

"She knows. Grace, I can hear most things that you think of. If you need me, think of my name, I will come to you. If you need one of the others, think of them, and I will send them to you. Anything else you need, just picture it, and we'll do our best for you. Do you understand?"

I promptly reward him by remembering the sensation of teeth puncturing plastic and cold, stale blood flowing. I'm thirsty.

"We're out of supplies at the moment. It might take a while," he explains.

I picture instead a live human, soft and yielding, the hot, nourishing blood flowing. My throat bursts into flames at the thought. Edward groans, and I hear him stagger back slightly.

"We'll have a conversation about diet at some point," he promises, sounding strained.

"Thank you, Edward," Carlisle says. "Do you need to leave now? Off you go, then."

I hear Edward's footsteps moving away and Carlisle's approaching. Edward was right about the pain. It is lessening. And my hearing is becoming more acute, my ability to stay in the present rather than be carried on the white waves improving. I feel Carlisle's hands on me again, and realise the probing is some sort of medical examination. He opens my eyes in turn again. I can see his kind, concerned expression, I want to respond to him somehow, but when he releases my eyelid, it falls shut again.

"Her pupils are reacting now, that's progress," he tells his wife. "You know, I've seen something like this in humans. They call it locked-in syndrome. The person gives the appearance of being in a coma, but actually his mind is conscious, perfectly aware but unable to respond."

"That's horrible! What do we do?" Esme asks him. He has moved away now, but Esme stays close, stroking a hand gently down my cheek, along my arm and onto my hand. I concentrate hard, trying to move my fingers. I must have managed something, because Esme exclaims.

"I saw it that time," Carlisle confirms. "She's making a real effort to communicate. When Edward's had a rest, we'll get him back."

But now, I'm exhausted and the pain begins to crest a fresh wave, so I allow myself to drift. Their voices continue, but fade away behind me.

I continue to drift in and out of awareness. During the lengthening periods of awareness, I often find that Esme or Carlisle are manipulating my limbs; bending and straightening my joints, massaging muscles, gently curling and uncurling my fingers. Sometimes, Edward comes into the room, and the questions begin, but beyond my name, and questions about my immediate environment – do I know who is in the room with me? Am I in pain? Where is the pain? Am I thirsty? – I'm not able to help much. He wants to know who my assailants are, why they attacked me, whether I have a coven who are missing me, but I'm unwilling to share. The memories are too painful, and I am afraid that if this strange, gentle family knew what the others knew, they would finish the job themselves. I quickly learn that if I think about my pain, Edward backs off hurriedly and the questioning ceases.

Outside, the birds are singing. Their trill notes encroach on my awareness only slowly, so that by the time I realise I am listening to them, it seems they have always been there. To my right, I can hear gentle breathing and the quiet turning of pages. I try to turn toward the sound, and to my surprise, my head complies. I open my eyes to find myself staring at the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She is still reading, apparently unaware of my movement, so I observe unseen her soft tresses and pale skin. She shares the kind amber eyes of her husband, and her heart-shaped face tapers into a delicate chin and a small but sensual cupid's bow for a mouth. The sun is shining through the window, lighting her skin in a billion diamond facets which reflect all around the room. Before I know what I am doing, I reach out a hand and lay it against her arm. Her breath catches, but she remains motionless. Our eyes meet briefly over her book, then I glance down at our arms, and her eyes follow. My own arm is dark mahogany against her alabaster, and it glitters with gold in the sunlight. I raise my eyes to the ceiling, where the reflection of my gold intermingles with the reflection of her diamonds in a dancing pattern of light.

"Carlisle," Esme calls quietly, and the spell is broken. I clamp my arm back to my side and close my eyes tightly, becoming still once more, not daring even to breathe.

Two pairs of feet approach.

"She's much more alert," Edward breathes.

"Hello, Grace." Carlisle is already fussing over me, lifting my hand and gently pinching a finger. I am careful to remain limp, but he is not fooled. He tries to open my eye, but I squeeze hard, and he lets go.

"Grace, you're quite safe," he says, sternly. "We are not going to harm you. We want to help you. Please, open your eyes and look at me."

Reluctantly, I find myself doing as I am bidden. My eyes open, and I stare up into his. Having gained at least some cooperation from me, his expression softens, becomes kind once more. He lifts my hand again.

"That's better. Can you squeeze my fingers, please?"

Puzzled, I do as he asks. A flicker of concern crosses his face, almost too fast for me to see, then his calm manner resumes. He does the same with the other hand, then moves down to my legs. He bends each knee in turn, placing my foot against his chest and asking me to push. His face remains carefully expressionless as I do so. He returns to stand beside my head, feeling around my neck. The pressure of his fingers hurts and I wince.

"That's painful?" he asks.

I try to say "Yes," but to my horror, nothing comes out, not even a whisper. I clutch my throat, aghast. Esme moves closer and begins to stroke my face.

"Don't worry, darling. It'll get better, I'm sure," she soothes.

"Do you know what happened to you?" Carlisle asks.

I watch his face carefully, unsure whether I should trust him. We size each other up for a long moment, then I shake my head slowly, once to the left then back to facing upwards. As I do, I catch sight of Edward out of the corner of my eye. He is watching me shrewdly, his lips pursed.

"Well, no matter. It's early days yet. You were in a shocking state when Bella and Edward found you – it appears some other vampires tried to destroy you. They had built a pyre before they were disturbed. Any ideas about that?"

I shake my head again.

"They were her coven," Edward interjects. "But she doesn't want to discuss them until she's ready."

I glower at him, and he returns my stare with careful indifference. Carlisle pretends not to notice our exchange.

"You suffered extensive injuries," he goes on. "Should I tell you?"

I nod once.

"Very well. They had tried to dismember you. Your limbs had been pulled apart, and they had tried to remove your head. The spine was snapped and you were hanging on by the tendons. But you're healing well. You are quite weak still, and it seems your vocal chords haven't recovered yet, but I'm optimistic that you'll make a full recovery."

A memory occurs, through the fog of pain, of Edward asking Bella if she got all the pieces. Alarmed, I hold my hands up in front of my face, looking for missing fingers. There is a lot of scarring around my left wrist, and on two fingers of my right hand.

"It's okay," Edward assures me, "we were very thorough. You're quite whole."

I know I should thank them for all they have been doing for me, but right now I just feel overwhelmed. I have seen vampires destroyed before, heard the shocking screech of vampire limbs torn from the body and witnessed the horror in the eyes of the victim, always conscious to the very end, until the flames consumed all. To picture myself in such a state is too much – I drop my hands to my face, roll to my side and pull my knees up into the foetal position. With no tears to cry, and no voice to scream, I am racked instead with violent shudders, and I begin to hyperventilate.

Immediately, Esme's arms enclose me in a tight embrace and Carlisle's hands begin stroking my back, both of them making soothing noises. Behind me, Edward makes a gagging noise, and I hear his footsteps leave the room, the door closing firmly behind him.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, later. There is still no voice, but the others seem perfectly able to lip read. My bed, which appears to be an old hospital gurney, has been raised so that I'm nearly in a sitting position. Edward has returned to the room with Bella, and they stand by the bed, their arms around each other. Esme is in her chair beside me, holding my hand, while Carlisle stands by the foot of the bed.

I look at Bella properly for the first time, and realise she is a much younger vampire than the others – surely no more than a decade. Edward and Esme seem to be around the century mark, but Carlisle is much older – possibly double my own two centuries.

"You're curious about us," Edward observes. I nod, warily. Curious is as good a word as any. And it might stop them asking questions for a while, if they're going to tell me their own history.