An English Vampire in John Piper's Bar

by SqueakyZorro

for The Canon Tour

Pre-Twilight stage

A/N: Quick note about the repost. I realized putting all the Canon Tour entries under one heading didn't really work when they had virtually nothing to do with each other besides being canon twifics. I've reposted this as a complete oneshot under its own title, and my other entries will be individually posted. If you alerted this to see when I posted my other entries, put me on author alert and you'll get a notice.

A million thanks to TwiLoverSue, who beta'd this at light speed so that it could make the contest deadline—exchanging frantic emails until it was submitted with three minutes to go. Love you, sweetie!

Disclaimer: Of course, Stephenie owns all. She just left a lot of Carlisle's long life unaccounted for—how could I resist wondering where he might have spent part of it?

Near the Civil War's end, Carlisle decides to go West. Crossing the country was easy, but a rock slide, a hostile miner, a sardonic journalist, and a surprising vampire proved...diverting. M for lemon and attempted assault reference.

~EVJPB~

As the rockfall came tumbling down on me, I wondered why I had chosen to make this journey overland rather than by sea. Oh, yes. My last sea voyage was...less than successful, albeit my only option for getting to the New World. But...goats. Drinking ONLY goats. For six weeks. Trying to do so in a way that preserved the needed meat for the human passengers but did not give away my secret. A mode of travel that called for running across prairies and deserts for about a week, drinking game along the way, seemed a much better way to travel. At least at the time...

My thoughts retraced my steps to this point.

Sea vessels had progressed and voyages had become shorter since the 1720's when I made my transatlantic journey from England to the New World. But stories of the ample wildlife to supply me with blood and miles and miles of land with no humans to be seen had intrigued me enough to want to cross the nation myself.

It also offered me an opportunity to escape the social pressure to serve in this time of war. After Gettysburg, Union victory seemed plain eventually, but that battle had been staggeringly costly to both sides, and the war was still hard-fought. While I was able to legally escape conscription by paying a fee, an easy task with my doctor's salary and minimal expenses, I was looked at askance for doing so when I appeared a young, healthy man with no family to suffer hardship by my service. Society did not look kindly on a fit man of soldiering age who chose not to fight for any but the most serious of reasons, and I could hardly disclose mine.

Of course, I could have simply moved on to another state, but the war was unavoidable in the east. I felt...tainted somehow...I needed to be somewhere removed from it—somewhere clean. Although I had not volunteered to fight in the war, I had treated the soldiers, and if I happened to be near a battle site, I always offered whatever aid I could provide. The technological innovations in warfare made the fighting more deadly, and untold thousands had been cut down in their prime by the advanced weapons and, even more, by the continued use of outdated tactics that allowed those weapons free rein.

This was hardly my first war. The ongoing battles between Catholics and Protestants in my youth, the regional territorial disputes across Europe as I had wandered it, the War for Independence only a few decades after I'd arrived in the New World, shortly followed by the War of 1812, had, I would have thought, rendered me immune to the slaughter. But something about this one felt...different. I abhorred the waste of life: an entire generation decimated, and grievous wounds on the nation's psyche that would likely take a century or more to heal. A nation fighting against itself, brother against brother, seemed worse somehow than other wars. The two sides couldn't even agree on why they were fighting! The North believed it was fighting to preserve the Union and end slavery, while the South believed it was fighting for states' rights—the right not to be told by the federal government what to do.

It was time for me to move on, anyway. I had been in New York for six years, as long as I'd stayed in any one place, and the hospital staff had started to comment on my perpetually youthful features. The west beckoned to me, as it did to so many others. The gold that had been discovered a few years ago, followed by silver in the Comstock, had gilded an already attractive lure. While I had no interest in the fortunes that could supposedly be made, the idea of going somewhere...fresh...was irresistible. Perhaps I was experiencing spring fever for the first time, as May was fast approaching.

I took stock of my traveling options. No sea voyage—I refused to put myself through that again, and it was much faster to go overland. Wagon train? No, that would require me to keep in extremely close contact with humans for weeks, if not months; moreover, I would be in close contact with the livestock, which I wouldn't mind terribly much but the animals would. Ride a trail with a small group of men? Again, close contact with horses—who could not stand to be near me—and very close contact with a group of humans: not a good choice. That left running by myself, hunting wildlife along the way, and somehow setting things up so that when I was in a city setting, I could fit myself back into human society.

As fast as I could read and plan, it took me only three days to make arrangements—an unheard of length of time to prepare for such a journey in 1864. I spent almost two hours at my bank, arranging a wire transfer of my account to a bank in San Francisco, as well as withdrawing enough cash to see me through any emergencies along the way. I planned the route I wanted to follow—the Oregon Trail from Missouri to Fort Bridger, Wyoming, branching off on the Mormon Trail to Salt Lake City, then following the Overland Route through Utah Territory and the soon-to-be-admitted state of Nevada.

The Route followed what had been the Pony Express Route for a few years, winding its way through the prairie, desert, and obscure mountain passes. It was the shortest overall distance, and with my speed, I could run it in about 25 hours. But I couldn't count on running undetected in daylight hours, and I decided I may as well spend some time enjoying the journey. Keeping my schedule flexible, I figured on taking between five and seven days for the trip.

Next, I made feeding plans; I knew much of the way was desert, and I wasn't sure I could stand living off prairie dogs and coyotes. I had heard, though, that buffalo roamed the prairies, and mountain lions and bears were in the mountainous parts, and the Overland Route included more mountains than any other. Running as much as I would be, I would need more frequent feeding, so I would simply have to be sure that I drank my fill before crossing flatland desert areas.

The night of my mishap, I had spent the daylight hours in the shade of a rocky overhang, reluctant to find myself trapped by sunlight should I travel in the daylight and be spotted by the few humans that might be about. My journey thus far had shown me that my decision to take a recognized route west meant that humans, while not plentiful, were more likely to be here than places off the trail.

The instant the sun sank behind the mountains in the distance, I got to my feet. Emerging from beneath the overhang, I jumped to the top of it, thinking to survey my night's run. Unfortunately, the overhang was not solid, or even stable. As soon as my weight landed on the top, it instantly crumbled, sending me crashing back to the ground and pelting me with stones and dust.

Muttering to myself, I got to my feet. I was, of course, unhurt. It would take much more than a rock slide to injure a vampire. My clothes, however, were not so fortunate. The shirt and pants were so ripped as to be unpresentable in polite company, and there was not enough polish in London to restore my boots to their former shine.

I sighed and considered my choices. One, I could go on. I knew that there were a few small mining towns along my route; perhaps I would be able to procure clothing there. The other option, waiting until I reached San Francisco to remedy the problem, was swiftly discounted. I could approach a frontier town in my current state and no one would blink an eye. A larger city, however, even in such an undeveloped, uncivilized area, would surely have higher standards. I would have to take my chances with the mining towns.

So I ran to the next range of mountains, quickly found a mountain lion and drained it, washed up in a stream, and then ran. As I ran, I mentally consulted the map I had memorized. I had passed most of the towns in the central part of the state and was swiftly approaching the California border. Tales of the Virginia City saloons where the Comstock miners came together to spend their ore on drinks, gambling, and women had reached me, and I thought it was likely that if I could not find a clothier who was still open for business, I could likely find one in a saloon and persuade him to open the shop for me. I had more than enough gold with me to ensure that it would be worth any shopkeeper's time to outfit me. In the early hours of the morning, I reached signs indicating a turnoff to the mountain town. While I might be able to find a shopkeeper at this hour, I would cause much less comment if I did so early the following evening. I found a shady, secluded spot to spend the day, which I occupied by mentally going over recent medical journals. As appalling as the human waste associated with war was, numerous medical advances had been made as a result, and I wanted to be fully aware of each one.

Fortune smiled on me when an afternoon thunderstorm came in. I took immediate advantage and began to run west, welcoming the rain as it fell and was swiftly, almost eerily absorbed into the ground and air. I recalled passages from the Bible and how the desert was so frequently a place of spiritual birth and renewal. Jesus, John the Baptist, Moses, the Israelites, many of the prophets, all had spent time in the desert at key points in their faith journeys. After making my own journey through this often-desolate place, I thought I understood why. Anything frivolous was stripped away. Only things that mattered, things that were truly a part of you, could withstand the extremes. If a person had any faith at all, it would be found in a desert.

Reaching a point where more humans appeared, I blended with them as several different groups came together to head up the mountain road to Virginia City. Once there, I began to look for my object: a saloon that looked like it did not cater solely to miners. Hoping to find somewhere that the local businesspeople gathered, I eventually found what I wanted with a place bearing the unlikely name of "John Piper's Old Corner Bar." I snorted. What could possibly be old in this town that had sprouted up in less than five years? But looking in, I saw men in fairly well-tailored suits and clean trousers and dress shirts. While some patrons wore the boots, denims, and flannel shirts common for miners, this saloon seemed the most likely to have what I needed. If it please God, I won't have to drink anything in there. I hated to have to regurgitate human food and drink.

I entered the establishment and approached the bar. The bartender, likely the owner, stood behind it, chatting with a man at the bar who appeared to be in his late twenties. Several other men were gathered at a scattering of gaming tables.

Slipping without thinking into human behavior, I sauntered to the bar, removed my hat, and greeted the bartender and patron. "Good evening. I'm Carlisle Cullen, just arrived off the trail."

Both men leaned back and seemed to evaluate him. "Pretty rough trail," the patron commented, letting his eyes wander over my torn clothes. "Looks like it threw you."

The bartender snorted but otherwise ignored the other man. Turning to me, he asked, "Need a drink?"

I offered a small smile, careful not to show too many teeth. "Thank you, no. I'm afraid your other customer is correct—I'm badly in need of some clothes. I was hoping to find a shopkeeper who might be persuaded to open for me. I'd be grateful...and happy to compensate him for his time. Is that something you might be able to assist me with?"

Upon hearing my speech, both men looked even more curiously at me, as did some of the men at the closest table. After a moment, I realized why. My more than a century in America had softened my English accent enough that it was not frequently noticed in the East. Here, though, it made quite an impression...and possibly not a good one.

Taking his time, the bartender tilted his head to the side, then seemed to come to a decision and nodded. "I might, at that. Joshua Baker, playing poker over there, owns a mercantile with some ready-made clothes. Has a seamstress that works nights on anything that needs tailoring. Could be he'll take you over to his shop."

He had started around the bar when a rough-looking, bearded man in denim pants and a flannel shirt stood and approached me. "You don't look like you're from around here, mister. Pretty fancy talk you got there."

The bartender intervened. "Pete, you settle down now or I'll kick you out."

Pete narrowed his eyes. In a high-pitched voice, he mocked, "Is that something you might assist me with? Dammit, no one talks like that, less'n they're putting on airs."

I turned and faced the man squarely. Reluctant predator though I was, I knew how to handle inferior ones. "I'm a peaceful man, friend. I'm not looking for trouble. But don't think I don't know how to handle it when it finds me." Staring into Pete's eyes, I loosened the grip on my hunting instinct just enough to get my point across.

Without quite knowing why, I was sure, Pete nevertheless took a step back. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he turned away without looking back at me and rejoined his table but not the game. I suspected he was beginning to think of how good it would feel to pound the yellow-haired easterner into the dust.

The bartender took me to another table. "Baker, you got a minute?"

A coatless but otherwise well-dressed man looked up at his name. His eyes quickly identified the bartender then passed to me, the newcomer. "I suppose," he answered, throwing down his cards. "I'm sure not doing any good here tonight. Lost half of what I came in with."

"This gentleman has had some trouble with his clothes. Think you can help him out?"

Baker guffawed. "Some trouble! Hell, looks like a cougar got him." He chuckled. "Sure, I can help you out." Standing, he gathered his money and his coat, bid farewell to the bartender, and then led me out of the bar.

Baker turned out to be a chatty sort, and he filled the short walk with trivial conversation. "It's just a block over. I have some ready-made clothes that may fit. If not, I have a gal who comes in at night to sew. Fastest seamstress I ever had, and does a right-nice job. War widow, poor thing. Came west to get away from the memories, she said. Still wears mourning, though she's been here nigh on three years. Even a veil!"

He stopped at a shop with a variety of goods in the window. A light glowed from a back room as Baker unlocked the door and ushered me in. "Hmm, the light's on. Abigail must be here. Good—if you need anything fitted, she'll take care of it for you."

He didn't appear to notice that I had stopped short one step inside the shop, for I was frozen in place by the scent I had detected. Vampire. I inhaled again, expecting to scent blood and a dead human—likely the seamstress. But there was no other human smell. Puzzled, I followed Baker to the back room.

"Abigail, is that you? Found a customer over at Piper's, needs to get suited up in the worst way. Can you take care of it if he needs something fitted?"

I heard a quiet gasp, inaudible to Baker, and knew that she had sensed my presence. Entering the room behind Baker, I saw a woman seated in a wooden chair, her lap full of sewing. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun, and her black dress covered everything but her face and hands. The little bit of visible skin was inhumanly pale, and she kept her eyes lowered. For all that, though, she was lovely. Dark hair glossy in the lamplight, lashes making dark shadows on her cheeks, and full lips pursed, she was a vision as she seemingly focused on her sewing.

Baker's voice unconsciously softened. Laughably, I could tell that he felt protective of his vampire employee. "Abigail, this is Mr. Cullen. He's going to pick out a couple of outfits. He hoped you could take care of any little adjustments that might be needed. Mr. Cullen, this is Mrs. Drake."

"Good evening, Mrs. Drake. I'm most grateful for your help at this hour." I found myself curious to hear her voice. Would it match the beauty I could see in her face?

"Evening. Ain't no trouble; I'm here sewing anyway. Just let me know what needs doing." Her eyes stayed lowered as she spoke in a voice that did not disappoint: it chimed like bells.

My mind was racing as Baker took me to the front and let me quickly search through the available clothes. Who was this vampire? She lived among humans, as I did—could she also be an animal-drinker? My excitement grew as I pondered the possibility. Except for my brief decades with the Volturi, I had been alone ever since my change, and the time with them...I had been a curiosity, nothing more...they had found it an amusing game to see what might make me drink from a human. After meeting nomads in my travels who thought of nothing but the next kill and who would never consider living alongside humans, I had begun to think my wish for companionship was wholly futile. But this vampire—she lived as I did! Could I have found a kindred spirit?

After I found a few serviceable ensembles, Baker took me to a small chamber off the back room where I could try them on for size. After I donned the first outfit, Abigail came in with a pincushion and began marking where she would adjust the fit. When she stood in front of me, with Baker looking away out into the shop, I seized my opportunity and whispered, "Mrs. Drake."

She looked up quickly—too quickly—and met my eyes. To my intense disappointment, hers were a dark red. She feeds on humans...

She in turn seemed confused by my eye color. "Gold? I've never heard of such a thing!" she whispered, much too low and fast for Baker to hear. "How can that be?"

She circled slowly around me, continuing to take measurements, and I was struck my how gracefully she moved, her skirt swishing softly. "I drink from animals, not humans. But you, how can you live so closely with them if you feed on them?"

She frowned darkly and muttered only, "I feed on animals, too."

Confused, I wished to question her further, but I realized that I would risk discovery if I attempted to continue the conversation as Baker turned back to us.

"All set?"

"Yes, sir," Abigail replied. "I've got his measure, and I'll get this done tonight. Mr. Cullen, if you want to stop by first thing in the morning, it'll be ready."

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Drake. I'm supposed to meet with my traveling companions tomorrow morning at dawn. Will it be too early to meet before daybreak?"

She almost glanced up at me, but Baker was still watching us. "No, not at all. I'll be here."

She sat down and picked up her sewing. Her entire manner suggested dismissal. I found myself torn between wanting to leave as soon as possible and wishing to know more of this curious creature—the first vampire I had met in America who did not appear to be a barbarous, voracious killer.

I sighed as I turned to follow Baker, unable to think of a suitable excuse to stay. My attention was caught by the sound of footsteps coming to a halt outside the building. Inhaling, I smelled an odor that make me curse silently. Why couldn't the silly man simply get drunk and pass out?

I could see no other way around it, though; I would have to confront him.

Baker emerged before me, and in the darkness, he did not notice Pete standing under the building's overhang. My attempt to exit the mercantile was barred by Pete's large form. I registered a vague admiration that he had moved so swiftly for a human—a rather intoxicated human, at that—but my primary emotion was irritation. I had sworn to protect human life, but this particular human was making me wish I had left a loophole in my oath that would permit me to horsewhip the most bothersome of the species. He clearly sensed enough of me to identify me as a threat—why could he not restrain himself from provoking me?

"Mr.—Pete, I'm sorry, I don't know your surname. I wish that you will let me pass. I have no quarrel with you, but I have my own business to be about tonight."

He swayed on his feet and appeared to have difficulty focusing on me. "Nothing doing. You made me look bad in front of my friends—you don't do that to Pete Milton. You wanna get by me? You gotta knock me out of your way."

Bracing himself, he prepared for my expected attack.

I exhaled impatiently. "Mr. Milton. I do not want to hurt you, but I will not permit you to keep me from my business. If you do not cease your interference at once, I'm afraid you will regret your actions. I will not issue another warning."

Milton guffawed. The stench of his breath in my face seemed to sear my nasal passages, and I grimaced. He stopped laughing long enough to choke out, "I ain't gonna regret nothing. Time someone taught you a lesson."

I sighed. "Very well. I have no more time to waste on this discussion." Mindful of my audience of one and anxious not to make Baker suspicious, I was careful not to move faster than a very swift human as I reached out and grasped Milton's neck in one hand. Calling on my doctor's knowledge and my vampire precision, I placed my thumb on his carotid artery, just enough to render him unconscious within seconds. In the meantime, I used my other hand to bat down his attempts to pull my hand away from his neck and then to catch him as he started to fall. I lowered him to the wooden sidewalk and checked his pulse. It was steady. He would regain consciousness soon, and I did not want to be close by when he did. Of course, I could easily incapacitate him, but I did not want to draw any more inquiry than necessary. Avoidance was my best option.

Turning to Baker, I said, "Sorry about that. Is there anyone we should call to see him home?"

Baker looked from me to Milton then back to me in astonishment. "Pshaw! Just leave him there! You've done this town a favor. You—he—how did you do that? I've seen him half-kill men twice your size, and you barely touched him!"

"Ah, well, you see, I'm a doctor. I'm aware of the human body's vulnerabilities, and I simply exploited one. I do not care for pugilism."

Two voices exploded in laughter: Baker and the sardonic patron who must have followed Milton as he left the bar to follow me.

"Well, that was sure something to see! And it couldn't have happened to a nicer fellow. Come on back to Piper's and tell me a little more about yourself. Name's Sam Clemens."

Back at the bar, Mr. Clemens refreshed his drink and told me that he wrote for the local paper, the Territorial Enterprise. I was immediately uneasy about this story finding its way into a published medium until he mentioned how he performed his "investigations."

"Now, a town like this, something's almost always happening. Hardly have to look far to put something on the front page, between fights, competing mining claims, statehood, news of the war...and every once in a while, if it gets a mite dry, well, I just get a little creative." His wink confirmed his implication, and I decided I had no need to be concerned about the Volturi finding out anything that might...inconvenience me.

I mixed truth—I was a doctor on my way to San Francisco—with fiction—the reasons for my journey and precisely how I was traveling, and he appeared to have no doubt as to my veracity. He took a few notes and invited me to join him in another round. Unable to think of an excuse, I agreed and immediately looked at the floor. Is it dirty enough to hide a few drops of whisky?

The bartender placed two glasses before us, paused for a moment before Mr. Clemens, and then went to a chalkboard behind the bar. "Mark Twain!" he said as he made two strokes on the board, and those close enough to hear erupted in laughter.

I raised my eyebrow at my companion, silently inquiring as to the reason. "My pen name. Adopted it last year. Nautical term, but Piper there insists on saying that every time I buy someone a drink on my tab—claims he gave me the name."

I enjoyed a pleasant hour with Mr. Clemens—or Mr. Twain, as he became much better known within a few short years, and I then rose and thanked him for the drink and conversation, saying that I needed to pick up my clothes and rejoin my traveling companions. I left him there, once again talking to the bartender.

I retraced my steps to the mercantile. Now that I was alert for it, I could pick up traces of Abigail's scent almost immediately after leaving the bar. It grew stronger as I approached, and sure enough, she was there waiting for me.

"Mr. Cullen, I have your clothes ready."

I was reluctant to say farewell so quickly. "Mrs. Drake, do you not have a moment? I find it so rare to discover another one like us, living so closely with humans. Would you mind some company for a while?"

She hesitated, and her eyes roamed over me before stopping at my eyes, which seemed to fascinate her. "Animals, you said? You don't drink...people?"

"No. I honor human life. Animal blood suffices."

"How old are you?" she asked.

"I just passed my two-hundredth year in this life."

Her crimson eyes widened, and she repeated, "Two hundred? My!" She paused a moment, then continued. "I have rooms nearby. We can talk there. The sun's about to come up—you won't be able to travel now, anyway. And you're right, it gets mighty lonely sometimes."

"I would like that very much. And please, call me Carlisle."

She smiled a little and extended the same courtesy. "Abigail, then."

Along the way to her rooms, she told me that she was 25 when she was changed during the War of 1812. She had followed her new husband to the battlefield and saw him fall. Grieving over his body after everyone else had left, she was discovered by a vampire who thought she would make a suitable companion—pretty, with newborn strength. He told her that she could choose.

"I could let him kill me, or I could let him change me." She gave a dry sob, and I wondered if she had ever told anyone else this story. Moved, I took her hand in both of mine and stroked it as she continued. "I wanted to be with my husband. I told him to kill me and be done with it. But he lied."

He had changed her.

By this time, we were in her rooms, and she gestured to a small couch where we could sit. Our hands remained joined as we sat, and she continued her tale.

Upon waking, she had realized that she had no choice any more—she was immortal. "Even during the war that killed my husband, I had not learned to hate as much as I hated him," she whispered despairingly. "But I could not survive on my own at first—I knew I needed help." So she bided her time, learning as much as she could from him for the first several years.

"I was tired of being a nomad. I wanted a more settled life. He wouldn't listen—wouldn't even attempt to live differently. I told him to go on then; I would make my own way. He tried to...make me stay with him. My newborn strength was gone, and he was more powerful than I. I waited for my chance." As soon as he loosened his hold, she killed him. Shocked for a brief moment, I then felt a surge of gratitude for her cunning. While she did not describe the scene fully, I thought I perceived the truth of the events, and she was entitled to use any force necessary to protect herself. Not wanting to interrupt, I didn't speak, but I gripped her hands more tightly in a gesture of support.

Once she was rid of her sire, she made it a habit to live for about five years in a place before moving on. By pretending to be a widow, a facade that was particularly easy to maintain in wartime, she could dress and behave in a way that avoided virtually all questions.

Later, she asked more about my feeding. "I don't know as I could do that," she admitted.

"You said earlier that you fed from animals, too. What did you mean?"

She laughed humorlessly. "A man can be just as much an animal as any cougar, Mr. Cullen. You want to know how I choose my meal?" She continued without waiting for an answer. "You walked with me just now, from the mercantile to my rooms here. I make that trip every evening and every morning. And not a week goes by that some drunk miner doesn't try to attack me. That's what I feed on. The longest I've ever had to go between meals is eleven days. No one notices—too much killing and dying already."

I was appalled...at the sheer number of despicable men in one town, at the numbers that must be dying in fights over mining claims, accidents in the mines or mishaps trying to build a town on the steep hillsides of the Comstock. But mostly, I was enraged at the thought of so many targeting her—a woman alone, as she appeared to be. Despite my convictions, I could not prevent a slightly dark satisfaction at the thought of their surprise when their prey turned predator, and my hands tightened on hers. "I can certainly see why you don't have any remorse for their blood."

She snorted. "None." She sighed and turned melancholy. "Human memories fade so much. I remember that I loved my husband—so much I was willing to follow him from battle to battle. Sometimes I think I remember more, but then it seems to be gone." Her head tilted until it rested on my shoulder. "Do you remember your human life?"

I could smell her wonderful scent rising from her hair and struggled to resist the urge to bury my face in it. "Very little. I remember a little of my father, and I remember that my mother died at my birth. I remember how I came to be changed."

"You weren't married?"

"No, I was a poor minister's son. I helped him in his ministry when he grew ill, but I could not have kept a wife."

"Have you found any companionship in this life?"

"From time to time. A few weeks here and there. The longest time was with the Volturi in Italy; I spent a few decades there, learning and enjoying their...civility, the art, the literature, the history. But they persisted in trying to make me change my...diet, and I asked permission to come to the New World. Once here, I completed my doctor's training, and now that is how I live."

Daring greatly, I placed one arm around her shoulders, holding her to me. Far from exhibiting any reluctance, she snuggled into me, resting her cheek against my chest. "But it is a solitary life. I cannot mix too closely with the humans, but I am so different from other vampires that, once the novelty of my ways has passed, they want little to do with me. And like you, I do not wish to live the life of a nomad."

Raising her head and looking up at me, she asked softly, "Do you sometimes long for closeness?"

Our eyes met, gold to scarlet, and I murmured, "Yes. Sometimes the loneliness seems almost a physical pain, does it not?"

She nodded. I lifted the hand I held and brushed my lips across her knuckles. She turned her palm to cup my cheek and brought her lips to mine. For several seconds, we simply let our lips play together, feather-light touches that enticed and then sparked. "It's been so long..." she whispered at one point, and I could only agree.

Then, as if a long fuse had finally reached dynamite, we exploded more violently than any mine excavation. Her lips slanted across my own, her tongue thrusting inside to coax mine into a vigorous dance. A part of me was shocked by the sudden passion that had taken hold of me, but the larger part was determined to give in to it.

I wrapped my arms around her and held her tightly, feeling every inch of her against every inch of me. It wasn't enough! Too many clothes, too much distance between our flesh. Muttering, "I'll repay you for the clothes," I ripped the dress and undergarments from her in a matter of seconds, swiftly followed by my own clothes. Pulling her back into my arms, I kissed her fervently, my tongue thrusting rhythmically between her lips. She lightly closed her teeth on my tongue, not enough to hurt but adding an edge to our embrace that drove me wild with excitement. Her hands buried themselves in my hair as mine fell and cupped her backside, holding her hips against my arousal. She moaned and pressed herself closer.

My lips abandoned hers to seek out other skin, other places on her body. Nipping at her ear, lapping the scar on her neck with my tongue, stroking and sucking her breasts...nothing had ever tasted so sweet. Unwilling to wait any longer, I moved one hand to the apex of her legs and was welcomed by a heat that vied with the burn of my change. Placing myself at her entrance, I lifted her with my other hand and swiftly penetrated her in one thrust.

We both groaned loudly, Her legs twined themselves around my waist, and her arms held my shoulders. Never had I been so grateful for my vampire strength as it allowed me to lift her easily and drop her back upon me, faster, ever faster. Wanting to prolong the ecstasy but unable to delay the culmination any longer, I slid my thumb between our bodies to stimulate her further. She threw her head back and whimpered, and I knew she was approaching her climax.

As I stroked her within and without, she came, clenching around me and wailing her pleasure. The feel of her coming apart around me ignited my own orgasm. I kept pumping myself into her as powerfully as I could, wanting it never to end. Slowly, we drifted back to earth, and I sank to my knees, holding her on my lap.

After a few moments, I nuzzled her hair. "Abigail, you are an amazing woman."

She laughed for the first time since I had met her, and her beauty was breathtaking. "Carlisle, you are a wonderful man." She sighed and rested her head against the curve between my neck and shoulder. "Hmm, it's still early in the morning, and you're stuck here all day." Lifting her head suddenly, she grinned at me. "It's a good thing vampires don't really need recovery time. We're doing this some more."

And we did. We spent the day exploring each other's bodies, as well as some time spent in congenial conversation. As the afternoon slipped by, I asked her to think about coming with me to San Francisco.

"Do you really want to stay here alone, preying on the men who try to prey on you? Could you perhaps try to live as I do? Or maybe we could find some other compromise."

Shaking her head, she smiled. It wasn't the grin she had gifted me with earlier, but it lacked the sorrow that her expression had held last night. Soft and tender, it made my silent heart clench, because I knew what was coming.

"Carlisle, in all your travels, have you come across some mated couples—vampires that are well and truly mated?"

I sighed and nodded. "Yes, several, as it happens." This was exactly as I had thought.

"Then you know...that we're not."

I hesitated, but denying the truth would accomplish nothing. Ducking my head, I admitted, "Yes, I know."

She cupped my face in her hands and lifted my eyes to her. "Just because we're not mates doesn't mean that this was nothing. You gave me a perfect gift today, and I can't thank you enough."

I returned her smile. "No thanks are necessary; you must know that. Today was...as you say, a perfect gift. I can't remember ever enjoying myself so much."

She laughed. "Me neither."

We rose, and I donned one of my new outfits as she put on a nightdress and robe. Gathering the remaining clothes in a satchel, I slung it over my back and turned to her. Pulling me to her for a warm hug and a brief but passionate kiss, she murmured, "Good luck, Carlisle. Keep faith—you'll find the family you long for. I'm sure of it."

I was struck by her use of "family." It was not a word commonly used by vampires, who referred to their groups as "covens." Turning it over in my mind, I discovered that it described perfectly what I wished for. "Good luck to you, too, Abigail. I will think of you often. Perhaps we may meet again—we have a long time."

She giggled, and the sound was so joyful that I chuckled along with her.

"Farewell, my dear."

"And you," I said, and I left.

Night had fallen, but a full moon was bright in the sky. With its illumination, I maintained top speed. Swiftly descending the hills from Virginia City, I skirted Carson City and began to climb the mountains that stood between me and my destination.

As I crested a summit where snow still rested, I could see flashes of light reflecting in the distance. I ran closer, and the most beautiful lake I had ever seen appeared before me. Washed in the moonlight, surrounded by evergreens, it was a perfect jewel—a truly heavenly place. Seeing if after the many miles of desert that had preceded it only made its impact more momentous.

My soul stirred as I stood on the shore, as if it was reacting to a soothing stroke—a balm. At this moment, the world was untouched by darkness, and I was as my Father had made me, perfectly formed for loving Him and my fellow creatures. I committed everything to my perfect memory; I would use this instant as a talisman at times I grew disappointed or disillusioned. With a wonder such as this, the world must hold still more to be discovered. I would go forth and seek it.

~EVJPB~

A/N: Piper's Old Corner Bar in Virginia City, Nevada, was established in 1863 and later expanded to include Piper's Opera House, which hosted concerts, plays, and other public events. It burned down in the Great Fire of 1875, but then was rebuilt and is in use today.

Mark Twain, aka Samuel Langhorne Clemens, worked at the Virginia City newspaper from 1862-64, and he wrote correspondence pieces for them until 1868, after moving to California in 1864. He was known to take a drink at Piper's bar after putting the paper to bed, and the story of the chalkboard behind the bar was common in the region at the time. Twain maintained, however, that this story was not the source of his famous pen name.

The story of how he filled the pages of the newspaper is paraphrased from his own recount of those days:

"To find a petrified man, or break a stranger's leg, or cave an imaginary mine, or discover some dead Indians in a Gold Hill tunnel, or massacre a family at Dutch Nick's, were feats and calamities that we never hesitated about devising when the public needed matters of thrilling interest for breakfast. The seemingly tranquil ENTERPRISE office was a ghastly factory of slaughter, mutilation and general destruction in those days."

Mark Twain's Letter from Washington, Number IX, Territorial Enterprise, March 7, 1868

Last Mark Twain note: the title of this little one-shot is a tribute to Twain's satire, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.

The perfect jewel of a lake was, of course, Lake Tahoe. A must-see if you're ever in the area.

As for the plot? Well, Carlisle's curious. How could he resist exploring the West? And he was alone for a long time before he changed Edward and Esme. I think he would have treasured an encounter with a sympathetic soul.