My sincere thanks to those who reviewed.
Nothing in the Twilight world belongs to me. I'm only borrowing them.
Two
BITTEN
I remember that night as clearly as if it were yesterday. There had been a steady mist falling most of the day, and the night that followed was starless and black with lingering clouds, the perfect environment for a vampire hunt.
It was the dawn of an era known to history as "the Age of Enlightenment", when mankind sought rationality in their intellect, leading the world toward progress and away from superstition. Others call those early years of that era "the Age of Reason", although in many ways I'm uncertain that either truly applied. There were still many superstitions, and many unjust acts and irrational judgments were committed without thoughtful deliberation or truth-seeking. The Salem Witch Trials, for example, occurred well into this era of so-call enlightenment, and it's doubtful that any of the women killed were actually witches. But I digress . . .
My father, as you know, was an Anglican minister in London with a faithful congregation of like-minded men. He preached not only the Gospel, but also the condemnation of the evil creatures that roamed the country, showing themselves only at night. For almost as long as I could remember, he had been leading night raids on suspected covens of vampires and witches. He was adamant in his convictions, but I often wondered how many innocent lives had fallen victim to those raids.
Eventually, age and ill health brought about a cessation of his participation in these raids, but not to the raids themselves, for there were many men still willing to carry out what they believed was a just cause. It was to me that he turned for leadership in continuing the practice.
It was with less enthusiasm and far greater caution that I took up the mantle of vampire slayer, and I dare say I was a disappointment to my father in my lack of resolve and apparent inability to locate an destroy the creatures he so despised. My weakness, he said, was my boundless compassion for others, and that compassion translated into caution, but I was determined that I would not take the life of those who were unjustly accused.
On that particular night, we met at my father's church in preparation for the hunt. To light our way, we carried torches in one hand and the tools of the trade in the other, including pitchforks and axes to disable and dismember. There were a dozen of us in all, all of them were determined to rid the world of the terrible scourge of vampirism and approached our task with what some called a commendable zeal, and what I called reckless enthusiasm.
How very foolish we were, perhaps even arrogant, to think ourselves capable of going against such creatures. We had no idea, no idea at all, just how truly unique and powerful they were, or how useless our tools were against them. The real ones, that is.
It goes without saying that my heart was not in the task which my father had placed in my hands. My greatest fear was that his detection methods were inferior, and those he had tracked down and slaughtered were, in fact, human. I know now that that was the case, and it would have grieved him terribly to know this, for he truly believed his chosen path was the right one for humanity. Had he gone up against a real vampire, the end result of the hunts would have been very different, as I was to discover that night.
But I was clever and my patience and caution paid off. On that dark night in the mid-sixteen-sixties, I and my fellow hunters routed out a vampire that had been living the dank, dark sewers beneath the streets of London. Armed with our ineffective tools, we charged toward him. I was 23 years old, young and agile, and I sprinted ahead of the others, down the alley where fate would transform my life forever.
The vampire we had found was ancient, perhaps weak from hunger. I believe he must have known of the vampire hunters who roamed the streets looking for his kind, and had chosen to remain hidden until driven by hunger from his hiding place to feed.
To my great surprise, instead of fleeing as I had expected, he turned and attacked, and being the unlucky one in the lead, it I who reached him first. Even as he grasped me in an impossibly strong grip, I was struck by his remarkable physical beauty, and I stared into that ancient face, a face I will never forget. I would later understand that this anomaly, this disarming beauty, was unique among vampires, but in that moment, I was paralyzed with a sense of wonder and amazement.
Until that very instant when he turned on me and I saw those ebony eyes boring into my very soul, there had been lingering doubt in my belief of these creatures. In my natural caution and compassion, I had come to believe that my father was wrong, that vampires did not truly exist. In a matter of seconds, I had been shown the truth in the most terrifying way possible.
I felt his teeth sink into the flesh of my throat, tearing through the skin and drawing out the life-giving blood in great gulps, but he was unable to drain my body, for the other hunters were fast approaching, screaming and shouting in their excitement and fury. As they neared, he released me and seized one of the others. There were several moments of terrible confusion, and when the creature finally fled into the night, he was dragging one of my comrades with him. Two others were lying dead on the street, and I was bleeding from the wound in my throat.
The burning, searing pain from the venom was excruciating, sending me to my knees as the others rushed past me, their attention focused upon that creature of the night as it ran with unbelievable speed into the darkness. I would wonder later what they would tell my poor aging father, but at the moment, I could think of nothing but the pain. It filled me with white-hot agony, radiating outward from the location of the bite until it consumed me completely, and I pressed my fist hard against my mouth to keep from screaming.
I knew little of vampires and how they became what they were. Oh, I was familiar with the legends, but I was soon to realize that legends, though based on fact, were seldom 100% accurate. I did not know if those who lay dead nearby would become vampires, or if it was me, the one who lived, who would suffer that fate. I was uncertain precisely what this bite would mean to me, but I did know one thing: something terrible was happening inside me.
Through the haze of my agony, my mind contemplated what had just happened. The vampire hunters had disappeared down the alley to the street beyond, still chasing the ancient creature who had carried off his victim, but I knew they would be back to deal with the bodies and then deal with me, and I realized my life was in immediate danger, not only from the bite but from my fellow hunters and possibly even from the bodies lying nearby, who might at any moment resurrect in the form of vampires!
As I stated before, we were woefully ignorant of true vampires, and I was uncertain at that moment if the conditions of my situation were the components necessary to turn me into one of those vile, blood thirsty killers that roamed the darkened streets, or if I had merely been poisoned by the venom that had been released into my bloodstream by his teeth. I had been heretofore unaware that vampires' teeth carried venom, but I clung to a ray of hope that perhaps I had not been delivered a fatal dose. Perhaps my strong young body would be able to fight off the effects of the venom if given the time. But time was something I might not have if the others found me like that. They had witnessed the attack on me, and in my present condition, I knew I would be regarded with fear and suspicion.
In spite of the terrible pain, I turned my pain-glazed eyes to view my surroundings. I was on the cobblestone path at the head of the alley between the dark buildings, and I knew I must get out of there before the others returned, but I quickly realized that I was unable to stand. The pain continued to spread through my body, far worse than any pain I could have ever imagined, and I collapsed onto the cobblestones. Fighting the urge to scream, I began to drag myself out of the alley, hoping I might find a hiding place. The stones must have skinned and bruised my body as I half crawled, half dragged myself along the hard surface, but that pain was insignificant compared to the molten venom that was coursing through my veins.
Once out of the alley, I paused to rest, gasping for breath. My heart thudded loudly in my chest, as if struggling to fight off the effects of the poison in my system. With every breath, with every inch I crawled, the pain only worsened. Tears of agony burned in my eyes, and I briefly shut them tight against the pain, but nothing could ease my suffering. I wanted to scream in my agony, but I did not dare.
Lifting my head again, looking at the world through eyes that were blurred from the intensity of the pain, I noticed the slanted door of a cellar lying against a nearby rise of ground.
Instantly, I started toward it, hoping for a place of refuge until I could make some sense of what had happened to me. Slowly, determinedly, I dragged myself inch by inch, foot by foot, toward that cellar, my place of refuge until I could determine whether I would live or die.
It is impossible to determine how long it took me to reach the cellar door. It was not distant to the alley, but my progress was painfully slow, and I marvel even today that I reached it without discovery. Fear was a powerful driving force, and I knew the others would not be as cautious as I would have been to someone else in my current position.
Behind me, down the long alley from which I had just emerged, I heard the others returning, and I knew from the panic in their voices that they were examining the bodies of the dead, making plans for their disposal to prevent them from being cursed to the same fate as their attacker.
But I was as-yet unconvinced that it was the existence that awaited me, and I was determined that my life would not be terminated prematurely.
When I reached the cellar door, I rose up and seized the large door ring in my hands, but it took every ounce of strength and determination I could muster to tug it open wide enough to slip through it.
I knew there would be steps leading down, but I was unable to easily manage them, and as the heavy wooden door slammed above me, I felt the sharp edge of each wooden step slam into my back, my shoulders, and my hips as I tumbled down the stairs into the inky blackness below.
The fall must surely have injured me, but I was already in so much pain that I did not notice whether I might have broken or bruised anything. I lay there at the bottom of the steps for some time, my cheek pressed against the cool earthen floor, and all the while my blood seemed to be on fire and my head pounded in rhythm to the panicked throbbing of my heart.
The air around me was chilled, and I knew from the odors that this was a storage cellar, a cool environment for storing and preserving vegetables and other perishables. In those days before grocery stores and refrigeration, we relied on our naturally cool basements and cellars to extend the freshness of the food we raised in our pastures and grew in our gardens. In spite of the relentless pain that kept me pinned to the floor, I could smell the onions that I knew were hanging from the ceiling, their papery tops braided together, and the earthy scent of the soil that clung to the root crops.
I could not see my hand in front of my face in the darkness, but as I felt my way along the floor, I knew there would be other vegetables and herbs stored there. My groping, exploring hands found carrots and parsnips, beans and sage, and finally near the far wall, an enormous pile of potatoes, and it seemed sensible that I should hide among them until this process, whatever it was, was complete.
The potatoes nearest the far wall were the oldest, the fresh having been dumped atop and in front of the rotting, which was odd in itself in that day an age, when such careless waste was rare, even foolish. The old were typically either consumed or removed prior to storing the most recent harvest, for rotting vegetables had a contagious effect on the fresh. From the time I was a child, I had helped tend my father's garden, so my hands could easily feel the difference of quality, the wrinkled loose skins of the old a stark contrast to the firm smooth skins of the fresh.
"Willful waste makes woeful want" was an old proverb favored by my father, but the waste of the cellar's owner would be advantageous to me, for it provided a good hiding place. I knew that those who came to the cellar to replenish their kitchen would choose the fresher potatoes at the front of the pile, so I crawled against the wall and dug my way to the bottom of the mound, allowing the rotting potatoes to cover my body, concealing myself from anyone who might venture into the cellar.
My decision proved prudent almost immediately, for I soon heard my comrades calling my name outside the cellar, and I knew they were searching for me. Their voices were muffled, but my hearing seemed unnaturally strong, even deep beneath the ground. I could hear the fear and concern in their voices, and perhaps even a trace of regret at what they knew would happen if they found me, so I remained silent, shivering and writhing in excruciating agony beneath the pile of rotting potatoes.
They called my name as they searched the alley and the nearby streets, and finally I heard the cellar door pulled open, and I saw the glow of light as one of them stepped inside with a lantern. I heard the steps creak beneath his weight as he moved halfway down, where he stopped, and I knew his eyes were searching for me in the dim light.
"Carlisle?" he called, hopefully. "Are you down here, lad?"
I pressed my teeth into my knuckles, my eyes shut tight against my agony, and I willed myself to remain silent.
He waited briefly for an answer that did not come, then he went back up and I heard the door close once again, leaving me alone in the darkness.