Disclaimer: Twilight belong to the S Meyer.
So, this chapter is darker.
Thanks again to Thallium81, super beta and also, notably, valiant survivor of evil raccoon attacks.
Chapter Two: Perhaps the Box Is Better Left Closed
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February 1, 1927
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Edward stalked into the library in a tempest of disgust and outrage. That savage animal had done it again. He had approached the landlady, smile sweet as a pie, dulcet tones in perfect clarity, and worn Bible pressed against his chest. He'd asked for a room, "nothing big—just a simple space for a 'simple man.'" Taken in, the woman had given a discount—a DISCOUNT—to a damned fiend.
"He's murdered again!" Edward started to slam his fist onto the heavy oak desk—but stopped at the last second. He punched the air instead.
Edward was losing a battle against the visions in his head—clammy hands on a pale neck—eyes wide, too much of the whites showing—a face so pallid and lips an ashen blue—a silvery scar across the jaw seeming to stretch—and then there was the joy—lunatic and disgusting and black. The joy snaked through the brute, adrenaline and ecstasy and fervor. When he had… finished with the corpse, he'd stowed her underneath the bed and carefully smoothed out the wrinkles in the cornflower blue quilt. Then, he'd buckled his pants, combed his hair in the mirror, and swiped the jewelry box on the way out.
Edward thought, were he human, he would have upchucked.
In front of him, Carlisle exhaled long and slow, before steeling himself. "You're right, Edward. We should stop him from doing further harm." They should never have released him from the asylum. He strangled that girl before he had even reached his majority. I'll never understand—
"He's a MONSTER, Carlisle! He's not human! He doesn't think like a human," Edward spat.
Carlisle frowned at Edward but his thoughts remained clear and calm. You would know, Edward, but that doesn't justify going after him. We should stop any further deaths—
"We can't stop him if he does it during the daytime. The woman's house sat isolated in the middle of a field. Don't you think I would have stopped it if I could have? But we, vampires, we do 'sparkle,' you know," he muttered, scoffing as he gritted his teeth.
Carlisle did not like the way Edward had emphasized "vampires"—it brought up an old argument, and he did not want to go there with Edward today. "You're right. We should come up with a plan to turn him over to the authorities."
Carlisle's desire to placate him only angered him further. "No evidence, Carlisle. They'll just set him free. It's not like I can march into the police station to declare my undead, mind-reading self to be a witness."
"Edward—you're being unreasonable. You—"
Edward cut him off.
"I want to kill him."
Carlisle closed his eyes and shook his head.
No.
"Esme killed a human."
"An accident Edward—my fault, she never chose to—"
"She killed a human. This man is not a human."
Carlisle did a rare thing. He raised his voice at his son. "Human! He is a human! He might be ill in the head—but he is a human."
"He's evil—and I'm going to—"
"NO. You won't. You know better. You—"
Edward cut him off. "—you say that! You always say that, and I know that's what you want to believe, but maybe, Carlisle, God forbid," he mocked, "maybe, I'm just a v-a-m-p-i-r-e."
"You're more than that."
"Just swell, Carlisle. I'm a 'good vampire.'" Edward rolled his eyes and turned his back to Carlisle.
"You are."
Edward looked back around, staring at his father for a long minute, and then he spun on his heel, flinging open the door and disappearing out and into the night. Carlisle's thoughts followed him, calling him back, but Edward disregarded them, running into the black.
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It didn't take long for Edward to find him.
He caught the scent at the victim's small home. He did not linger—the thoughts in the house were too much.
Agony.
The woman's husband had found her. After discovering his wife missing, he contacted the police. While waiting for them to arrive, he had knelt down at his bedside to say a prayer for his wife of twenty years. He was devout. Both he and Anne had been. It was while he was praying that the husband saw the lock of hair trailing out from under the bed.
His daughter-in-law and the police were still trying to calm him.
Edward followed the trail from the house to a back alley gin mill's porch to a double dime barber to the corner trolley stop and from the trolley stop to the eastern bus depot. Fortunately, only one bus had left in the past two hours, so Edward kept the trail.
Edward found him an hour later. The fiend was holed up in a roadside inn just out of town. He lay on brown bed sheet, staring unseeing at the ceiling while masturbating to the images in his head—the same images that had made Edward want to wipe his brain clear.
Edward thought about smashing through the window in that instant—but he stopped himself.
He had never killed a human before.
As a human, he had wanted to kill. He had romanticized it—being a soldier, a dashing fly boy like in the pictures. "Die for your country!" Edward sniffed. Bushwa. Human minds were futzing buckets of petty, scummy murk, and those at the top of the food chain—those in power—had the foulest concoctions swirling between their ears. The whole idea of war disgusted Edward now, for he had seen the minds of the boys returned from the trenches, innocence replaced with darkness and trust replaced with permanent suspicion. Not to mention the severed limbs and lost brothers. A waste. A gross waste. War. Nothing more than self-important pin heads at the top pushing their pawns across the chess board, lines of blood in the wakes of their moves.
And yet, Edward envied the soldiers.
At the same time that his schoolmates were shipping overseas and fighting the Central powers, Edward was hunting mangy deer and the occasional mountain lion in the remote Rocky Mountain wilderness. A newborn vampire, raging at the smell of human blood—and Carlisle had kept him bound by guilt.
At the time he had been grateful. He had learned to appreciate "good" minds, those minds unadulterated by greed, power, or deceit. Carlisle had a pure mind—pure but deep. His thoughts ran in complex and random patterns and yet stayed in a constant orbit—wise but loving, always compassionate. Compassion. The thrust behind Carlisle's every thought.
But Carlisle wasn't always right.
He made mistakes. Edward knew this, and he was certain that Carlisle stood incorrect in the matter of the bastard on the hotel bed. That animal was not merely off his nuts or some screwy palooka misunderstood—he was evil. Evil.
Edward felt an obligation to do something about it.
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He knocked at the hotel room door. Inside, the man sat up, listening, curious as to why anyone would be knocking on his door. He'd already left a cash deposit at the front desk. He called aloud, "Who is it?"
Edward answered in a higher voice than usual. "I have towels from the front desk. Housekeeping forgot to deliver them."
The man had been wondering about the towels—these road side joints were always finicky about the towels—and it was a regular crap-shoot as to whether or not you would get one.
Thus, he had a smile on his face when he opened the door.
The muscles in his face had not even had the time to retract the smile when Edward smashed him into the mattress.
"Murderer," Edward hissed.
What shocked Edward was his calm. His mind went blank and continued forward in kicks and starts before falling into rote repetition. Bible verses, one after the next. The people answered and said 'Thou hast a devil: who goeth about to kill thee?' —Then went the devils out of the man, and entered into the swine: and the herd ran violently down a steep place into the lake, and were choked... —And the rest of the men which were not killed by these plagues yet repented not of the works of their hands, that they should not worship devils—
Edward could look at his crazed eyes no longer. He broke his neck with a quick snap.
And then he tried to back away.
But he smelled it:
Like sweet brandy or smoky scotch or buttery malt.
Seeping out just beneath the surface of the skin.
A waste.
Waste, another evil.
Edward's teeth cut through the soft flesh on the neck, finding the artery with mad instinct.
And the taste…
His body trembled as he sucked. The warm liquid spilled down his parched throat, slicking down and smothering the searing burn completely. A burn that had never gone away before.
Never extinguished. Always there.
Even when he had hunted the animals.
But now it was gone.
Relief.
Just delirious warmth and hearty sweetness and mind-boggling pleasure.
When he had suckled the last drop, he collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily, licking his lips, and basking in the delicious high. He had never felt so—alive. Even when he had been alive.
This made him laugh senselessly.
Edward realized that he'd felt… unmoved since being a vampire. Vampires, as immortal creatures, changed so little, and yet the blood—vital and virile—he could feel it binding with the venom in every niche and cranny of his body, even down…
Edward looked down and realized he had another problem, and it was threatening to counteract his relaxed state. He went into the bathroom, closed the door, and took care of it. When he was finished, he washed his hands in the bathroom sink. He had been messy, a rarity for him. He even had a spot of blood on his collar.
He paused when he looked in the mirror.
His eyes were fresh red.
He stood for a moment longer, deciding.
He decided that he did not care.
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When Edward stepped into the room, Esme and Carlisle greeted him with silence and disappointment.
Esme fled the room. Upstairs her thoughts were in upheaval, so Edward focused on Carlisle. Carlisle stared at him, hurt and angry as well. "You've adhered to this for a decade—why now?"
Edward laughed. At least Carlisle didn't want to beat around the bush.
"Because you wanted me to. Because you believed in it. Not because of me."
"But Edward, the bonds of love in our family, they're based on the goodness that comes from—"
"I promise you. I won't kill the good ones."
Carlisle stared at his son in shock.
Don't say that.
No.
You're staying here.
You're my son.
Think about Esme.
We love you, Edward.
"If I stayed here, I would have to quit."
Carlisle didn't dispute that. "It's still taking lives," he argued.
"Some lives deserve to be taken."
"It's playing God, Edward."
Edward laughed. He laughed long and hard and with a touch of hysteria. Carlisle stared at him in disbelief and confusion.
"Says the one who made me what I am? Says the one who made me a… a monster! You have the nerve to tell me that I'm the one who is playing God?!"
"—Edward, please," Carlisle begged.
"Farewell, my creator," Edward spat.
Carlisle flinched but then reached out to him.
Edward pushed Carlisle's hand away.
And then Edward ran out the door.
He heard Carlisle chasing him. Esme joined in the pursuit.
But they couldn't catch him. They wouldn't.
He was faster than them as a rule, but now, with the human blood pumping wild through his veins, he was flying more rapidly than ever—soaring—each step seeming to leap off the ground, to explode and burst. Buildings turned into blurs as he swept past them. Everything disappeared, and Edward rocketed forward—a meteor, a comet, an otherworldly force.
He stopped when he reached Pittsburg before daybreak. He bought a wide brimmed hat and a pair of glasses there to hide the red. He caught a train an hour later. At Philadelphia he changed lines. In Baltimore, he changed again. In Chicago, he rented an apartment. He had a piano installed. He collected a few choice books. Then, he rested for a few days, not caring to do anything else.
On the following Monday, he began his hunt.
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January 25, 2005 - Forks, Washington
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Edward had visited Bella's house every day for the past week, and each time, the sanguine scent painted his eyes black, kindled the fire in his throat, and coaxed a glutinous swell of venom to coat his teeth, but day by day, the struggle had diminished—if only in minute amounts.
And Edward learned more about Bella. She stumbled a lot. Edward had to quiet his laughs every time. She never went out with friends, although she talked to a few girls (Angela, Jessica, Lauren) about schoolwork on the phone. They even invited her out sometimes, but she always said "no, thanks." She cooked dinner every night, always pasta or "meat and potatoes" type of meals—unless she made something Southwestern. She and her father continued to say next to nothing to each other, even at dinner. Bella spent most of her free time listening to music and reading. Edward recognized a great deal of the music, rock and some indie but nothing too obscure—and also some sappy love songs. Those made him grin, and then there were her books.
The books drove him crazy.
He couldn't distinguish the books from the forest hideaway.
When Alice had come with him on Tuesday, she had ended the torturous curiosity. Bella, as it turned out, was reading the classics: the Greeks, some Austen, and the Brontes. His initial satisfaction lasted a minute before new questions arose. Why not something of modern taste? When he heard a light laugh from her room, he wondered why she was laughing. The classics weren't funny. Were they?
Alice put up with his questions but told him he was going to have to wait for his appointment with her. When he had frowned at her comment, she had burst into laughter. She did continue to accompany him, though. Emmett and Esme occasionally came along, too.
Edward would never have asked Rosalie.
Jasper had refused to come again. He thought Edward should just drop Bella as a patient.
Or bite her.
"Ain't a doubt she's tasty—sometimes it's just better to git these thangs over with."
Alice had hit him and threatened to incinerate his cowboy hats.
"This is what I git for hoppin' the twig with a Biloxi sibyl." Jasper pursed in his lips and shook his head, even as his eyes smiled at his wife.
"Woe is ye," Alice teased with an exaggerated Southern Belle intonation. "And how is it that a girl with a proper sense of hauteur ended up with Texas Jack instead of Rhett Butler?" She plopped in Jasper's lap and popped a finger on his chin.
Jasper snorted. "Sir Rhett can kiss my Texan jackass."
Normally Edward would have laughed at this, but instead he groaned. His "siblings" were already in full lip lock, and the inevitable tongue slip was a second away—not to mention that Jasper's "emotion" had filtered throughout the room.
Esme saved Edward by bringing in the mail—except that as soon as Esme handed him a parcel, Alice broke from Jasper and burst into delighted laughter, looking at Edward.
"What?" he'd asked. He'd missed the reason for her laugh—he'd been trying to block her thoughts…
But Alice shook her head. "You'll see," she'd said, and then she'd pulled Jasper by the hand toward the stairs, a quintessentially "Alice" glint in her golden eyes.
The parcel was from Denali—from Tanya. Edward tucked it under his arm and started to run up the steps. Esme's thoughts stopped him.
If only he could have been happy with her…
"You both said the same thing about Rosalie," Edward said in a flat tone, not turning around.
"I can't help it, Edward. I just want to see you happy."
He turned at human speed. "I am content," he insisted.
"You are a marvelous liar," Esme replied, shaking her head.
Edward gave her a weak smirk in return.
She gave him a hug. She always hugged him, and he always hugged back, but he never initiated the embraces. She rubbed his back as they stepped away from each other. "Well, I hope Tanya sent you something nice," she wished, holding his hand for longer than necessary.
Edward furrowed his brow.
She laughed.
He gave her a final smile before zipping up to his room. He popped open the parcel, dumping the contents onto his desk. A silver DVD, unlabeled, unmarked, and with no explanation, but Edward knew what it was. He sat down onto his desk chair, holding the silver circle, frowning, and seeing his frown reflected back at him. He turned the volume off on his laptop before he let it auto-play.
And there it was.
Tanya—flawless and golden-haired—wrapped in a tiger print trench coat on his screen. She stood in the library of the Denali house, standing stock still. The light from the lone window filtered in, causing her skin to sparkle when she took steps forward. She took the steps, long and languorous and undeniably feline. She sat down with dainty self-awareness on the green pouf stool, knees spread wide beneath the trench as her fingers moved to the top button of the coat.
Then she looked at the screen—amber cat eyes staring down the camera. She opened her mouth, lips curling.
She fucking meowed.
Edward groaned, pulling his hair down over eyes.
He shut his laptop.
Down the hall, he could hear the distinct sounds of Jasper and Alice's lovemaking—and Jasper's inevitable projection. None of which served to help Edward in this moment. Edward stood. It was time to see his first patient, so Edward grabbed his bag and moved toward the door. But then he stopped.
He turned and sighed.
Defeated.
He picked up the laptop and tucked it under his arm before heading out.
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It was a frozen morning. The streets had iced over the night before, and the drive from Forks to the clinic had required an additional three minutes and fourteen seconds due to the inclement weather. The Neurology and Psychiatry Clinic of Port Angeles sat on East Third Avenue—a good location. The large window behind Edward's desk faced the ocean with a pleasant vista of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
Edward had only managed to set his bag down and browse a single file before he heard the screech of wheels from outside his window. Only a minute later, Alice pranced into the room with a small box, singing, "This is for that end table," before plopping down into the chaise and beginning to unwrap the box's contents. "It just arrived yesterday—but was supposed to arrive last week. You can never trust these agents, really they have no sense of a deadline," she prattled on as she removed a large amount of cushioning and insulation from the encased object.
Edward eyed Alice in alarm. She was avoiding something. Not only had she obviously cut short her "time" with Jasper, but there was the simple fact that deadlines meant nothing to Alice. She knew when packages would arrive often even before the sender did. And finally the packaged content was revealed. A small statuette with two interlocked figures.
Cupid and Psyche.
"Love and soul," Alice sighed dreamily, and then she looked up at Edward. "I thought it was appropriate."
Edward gave Alice a long stare. "Whatever you're concocting—cease and desist—preferably immediately. And where did you get that piece? Isn't it supposed to be in the Getty?" Edward picked the piece up by the base and examined it.
Alice grin turned mischievous as Edward read her thoughts. An original—stolen and obtained through a "special" dealer, Alice's thoughts revealed. "Alice!" Edward yelled, but she was already talking over him.
"No one was paying the slightest bit of attention to it. In fact it was sitting in overstock, but now that it's been stolen—which they won't notice for at least a year by the way—when we do finally return it, it will receive the attention it deserves."
Edward gave his sister a level stare.
She ignored him. "Everyone always focuses on the Canova piece, but the detail in this one is just remarkable…"
Thankfully, a knock on the door interrupted Alice, who didn't look at all surprised, but before Edward could answer the door, she shoved the square frames onto the bridge of his nose. "Don't forget," she threatened with a rather tiny index finger.
And then she opened the door to admit John, six minutes late for his 8:00 AM appointment.
Lively pleasantries were exchanged.
"I'm John!" John announced with ebullient wave. Holy hell in Havana! No way in… Hot-fuck is my therapist? But married already… He was already shaking his head as he scrutinized Alice warily. Bit creepy for such a waifish woman…
With perfect timing, Alice introduced herself next. "I'm Dr. Cullen's sister. I'm Alice." She kept her expression polite, glancing back and forth between Edward and John.
"I'm Dr. Edward Cullen." Edward stepped back as he introduced himself, gesturing for John to take a seat, and suavely avoiding the customary handshake. Alice gave a quick wink and headed out the door.
"My appointment is free," John announced brassily as he sat himself down, immediately falling back into the pillows and running his fingers along the throw blanket resting along arm of the chaise. Here I am, expecting the usual low-level 'it's what your insurance can afford' crap and lo and behold—what do I get? A cushy couch, sexual healing in a suit, and sateen pillows!
"Your work is footing the bill."
John leaned back in his chair and shrugged. If he wanted to keep his job, he had to come here. They both knew it. One must fulfill ones duties—and it's a whole boatload easier when your therapist looks so super duper spankable…
"So, what would be on the agenda, Doc?" John asked.
And so they began the discussion.
Edward had no problems getting John to talk. John talked. He talked all the time. It was getting him to talk about what needed to be talked about—that was the problem. Edward had to steer the conversation back to John's problems at work. First on the agenda were John's issues with technology. For example, he got frustrated by the "ding" sound for when he received new email. Yet, John refused anyone who tried to help him adjust his settings.
When Edward pressed him on why he didn't turn off the sound alert function, John responded with "But then I wouldn't KNOW if I got email!" He proceeded to recount an "unfortunate" incident, in which one of his underlings emailed him during an important phone call, causing the "ding" to go off. John told Edward that he asked her not to do that anymore. But Edward knew he lectured her for at least five minutes afterward in a voice loud enough that most of the office could hear.
So, Edward asked the John the usual question, "How do you think the yelling made her feel?"
John gave him a blank stare, before answering. "Bad enough not to ding me again."
They discussed measured reactions and not yelling at people who couldn't yell back.
"It would have been fine if she yelled," John offered. He pondered what Karen was like when she yelled.
"What if yelling made her uncomfortable?"
John frowned. "She needs to grow some balls."
"Right…" Edward sighed.
They continued.
John was also concerned with his weight. "I'm too fat for an old, single gay man," he acknowledged with a sweep of a hand and a pat on the belly.
"Define fat."
It was time to work on realistic expectations.
"I look like a hideous ole bitch."
Edward laughed. He laughed because John was hoping he would, and because it would help with their rapport. "That's not the clinical definition of fat, John. Technically, your body mass index is what defines…"
What John didn't tell Edward, but what Edward knew was that John wasn't eating regular meals. He would pack tiny lunches, believing he only needed "a little bit." But John's "little bits" had led to a nasty habit of stealing lunches from the staff fridge. John often ate the "borrowed" lunches in front of the victim. While this infuriated any number of people, John's guilelessness had a way of disarming strong reproves.
"Do you think stealing other people's lunches is fair?"
"I only took one cookie—nobody needs three cookies." Maybe two and a quarter.
John's bizarre diet also had quite the effect on his gastronomic system.
He farted.
At least five times in the course of an hour.
John didn't think Edward noticed, because they were quietly released—but Edward heard every last symphonic squirt. Between the farts and John's analysis of what lay under Edward's suit, Edward thought the appointment something of an ordeal. Jasper's regular ruminations comparing humans to overexcited livestock were starting to gain weight with him…
Edward also discussed John's medication. John didn't think it made a difference. Edward knew it did, but he also knew that John wouldn't continue taking it unless Edward insisted.
So Edward insisted.
John left the office thinking his therapist was a pushy motherfucker—and also and most importantly, that his therapist would look good with a whip. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen a finer looking shrink—even in the movies.
John swiveled his head and chuckled, Analyze THIS.
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After John left, Edward opened a window to allow the ocean breeze to clear out the scents in the room, the lingering scent of human blood as well as the lingering scent of...
John was down the hall taking care of that.
And then Edward plopped in his desk chair.
His laptop seemed to stare at him.
He stared back.
A test of wills.
The laptop won. Edward flipped it open, executed the file, and leaned back in his office chair. The video started up, the same sequence as before: Tanya in the cat print coat on the green pouf—and then the music started playing, and Edward jerked forward in his chair.
The piano, the horn, the strings, and then the roll of Fats Domino's "Ain't That a Shame" filled the room, causing Edward to cough a laugh in surprise. Tanya knew he liked Fats.
The music picking up, Tanya sat on the pouf a second longer, and then lifted a leg—flashing a long lace stocking and showing a single garter strap before snapping the hem of the coat back down. She rose with feline grace, and began swaying and singing along to "You made me cry, when you said goodbye," running a finger down her cheek to mime a non-existent tear.
But she was still smiling: a sinful, impious smile.
And then she spun out at toe-point, wheeling across the room in delicate arcs and axles and pirouettes, while her free hand popped open the buttons down her trench.
Edward took off his glasses.
Tanya took off her coat.
Her red-blond hair clashed against the emerald lingerie. Her skin glittered underneath.
And then she sat down on the green pouf again, her mostly bare back facing the camera, and then she leaned back all the way, so that she faced the camera, hair skimming the floor, and the tops of her breasts on display as they flooded out the top of the corset.
"It's been a few years since I said, 'hi,' in-person, Edward, and while I know you said you weren't interested, I just had to say…" she trailed off, pausing and bringing a single finger to her pouted lips as if to look thoughtful, and then... "Ain't that a shame," she crooned along with Fats.
And then the music stopped.
Tanya paused, flashing a seductive glare at the camera. "It's just that I do not believe you, Edward."
And then she winked.
And spread her legs.
And her crotchless panties were on display.
And Edward's right hand found its way into his pants, though his eyes stayed focused on the screen.
Because Tanya's head was flung back and her finger had slid from her breast to her navel to down and in between…
A few rather short minutes later, Edward came before she did.
He slapped the laptop shut, even though the video continued. He was taking heavy breaths, his head resting on the top of his desk. He let out a long groan, because he wanted to smack himself for his own weakness.
If only she weren't such a hard-boiled Slav.
But she was.
She didn't love Edward—nor did Edward love her. Tanya saw it logically. There weren't droves of vegetarian, single, male vampires from which to choose, and she found his looks and his talent desirable.
Regrettably, Edward saw no reason to join her tool box. He liked her well enough, and when her plots weren't focused in his direction, Tanya possessed a somewhat tolerable mind. She was noble, a leader. She had taken many human lovers over the centuries, and yet she had never changed any, never created a companion—Edward had always admired that.
Tanya understood the precious nature of humanity.
And yet, she failed to understand him. She didn't comprehend why he said no. She knew he was physically attracted to her—her various "accidental" brushes and coquettish slips of fabric obviously affected him. But it was her thoughts—her comparisons and worries and memories and future plans—no erection could ever outlast three sentences. He couldn't even bear to kiss her.
And still he felt bad, because, like him, Tanya was lonely—they both shared that, and she had been alone longer, longer than Carlisle had lived.
But you can't force stone to be wax, Edward lectured himself.
Edward shoved his glasses back on to the bridge of his nose and gazed out at the gulls flying over the Strait.
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Bella sat with a stiff back on the chaise.
She had entered the room, head ducked low in a shy fashion and slipping her headphones off and tucking them with the CD player into her purse. She had been listening to "Bubble Toes" by Jack Johnson—that alone had made Edward smile. Then, she had asked where to sit, before settling onto the chaise, glancing about and taking in the room.
Edward had given her the canned introduction, explaining the purpose of the clinic and the goals of her therapy.
Bella had sat silent through his small speech, nodding when politeness required it. Now, she was gazing at Edward with an expectant expression, and Edward was looking back somewhat at a loss—because he had no idea what she was thinking.
Blank.
He felt defenseless, a master swordsman facing his opponent with only his fists—and yet, he also felt like the worst sort of predator.
Bella smelled incredible. Intense, mouthwatering freesia. Blushing cheeks. Ivory skin with pale, blue blood vessels on dazzling display. The lub-dub-lub-dub-lub-dub gushing of warm fluid as the valves in her heart pumped open and closed. Even with his chair close to the window and the briny ocean breeze fluttering across his face, the burn in his throat was maddening. The weeks of preparation had done little except to guarantee Bella's immediate safety.
"So why did you choose to come to therapy, Bella?"
An obvious question.
She frowned, giving one of the chaise pillows an assessing press, as she asked, "Wasn't that in my file?"
Edward nodded. "I wanted to hear your thoughts."
She blushed again—and the rush of blood in her cheeks pulled a new wash of venom into his mouth. Bella explained, "My mom is on a Humanist kick. She read an article or two on Maslow—and now she's convinced that I've gone astray on the path to self-actualization and that therapy is essential for me to 'ascend the pyramid.'" Her eyes narrowed as she spoke, bemused yet fond.
"But your mom isn't the only reason you're here," Edward suggested.
Bella seemed to flatten. She looked down at her hands. "Charlie thought it might be a good idea, too."
Edward nodded. Considering that Bella's father said next to nothing, when he did speak, he imagined it carried a great deal of weight with Bella.
"But what do you think?"
Bella looked directly at him for the first time. "They wanted me to come." She looked confused.
"But you think it's unnecessary," he concluded.
She shrugged, the blush subtly heightened in her cheeks. "No… it's complicated."
"You miss your mom?" he asked, even though Edward already knew. Every evening after nine, Bella curled up on her bed and spent two hours talking to Renee.
She nodded.
"You could go back," Edward offered—but he already knew what she would say. It was what she said to Renee every night.
"No." She shook her head, dismissing his suggestion.
"Why not?"
"Things are settled here now."
She was a poor liar, obviously uncomfortable. She bit her bottom lip and scratched along the crown of her hair. A tiny pucker formed between her brows. All easy tells. The observation made him smile, and Edward realized that if he focused, he could read her at least in part. Now, if only he could connect all the pieces in the puzzle…
"You're not happy, are you, Bella?"
Bella stared back into his eyes longer than most humans could bear. She blinked a few times, and then inexplicably muttered, "It's cold and wet here."
Edward laughed at both the randomness of her words and her befuddled countenance.
She frowned in response, and the tiny pucker was back between her brows.
"I ask because your file indicates that you seem to have isolated yourself. Why haven't you tried to make any friends, Bella?"
Bella sighed, but not with the normal embarrassment that the question would garner from most teenagers; Bella sighed like she realized she still had another chore to finish up, or like she'd been disappointed with an A- instead of an A. "I talk to people," she insisted.
"But they're not your friends?"
"Angela's okay," she offered.
"But you're not close."
"I'm new."
"But other students have tried to be your friend."
Her brow pinched again. "I'm planning on hanging out with them at some point."
Edward gave a single nod. "What do you do in the spare time?" Edward asked next, although once again, he already knew the answer.
"I read."
"What do you read?"
She looked down at her hands again, the blush was back. "Different books, but mostly classics, I guess," she murmured.
"What's your favorite?"
"I like Austen."
"Romance then?"
She looked sheepish. "Sorry."
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Austen isn't exactly macho material."
"Ah, see, now you're insulting me."
Bella glanced up in surprise. "You've read Austen?"
"I have."
Her brows shot up. "I didn't mean to imply—sorry that I—"
"Once again, why are you apologizing?" Edward chuckled.
Bella stared back, lips pursed, and if Edward didn't know better, he would have said his question irritated her… Bella turned away from him. "Who are the figures in the statue?" she asked gesturing to the statuette on the end table. She had been flicking glances at it on and off through the conversation, so he wasn't surprised that she used it as a change of subject.
"Cupid and Psyche."
She smiled knowingly at the statue and inched closer across the chaise to get a better view. "The detail is lovely," she murmured, "and the story is really wonderful."
"Another romance," Edward teased, but his purpose was to bring the conversation back.
She turned back to him. "You admitted to reading Austen."
"I did."
"Were you forced by an overzealous English teacher?"
"No, I read them on my own."
"Them? Plural? Which ones?" she asked with evident curiosity, her head tilted to the side.
"Most, I believe." Edward laughed again as he watched her delighted expression.
"That's impressive," she complimented, but then her face turned suspicious. "You're not lying to me are you? You didn't just say that because you read in my file that I liked books?"
"Would you like me to quote lines to you?"
Bella raised an eyebrow.
Edward began to recite, "Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."
Bella gaped. Her breathing had slowed, and yet he could hear her heart thumping a mile a minute.
Edward chuckled in response. Her expression, mouth gaping and brown eyes bright and big, was definitively adorable. Unable to stop himself, he quoted again. "If any one faculty of our nature may be called more wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out."
"Mansfield Park!" she exclaimed. "I love Fanny Price—she saw to the heart of matters, despite the fact that she sat in the drawing room shadow with a book."
"You prefer books to people, don't you?" Edward teased.
Bella rolled her eyes. "But of course, I do." She smiled at him.
So they talked about books for the rest of the hour, the world of classical literature seeming to open a door into Bella's mind. Edward learned she'd always wanted a sibling—but preferably an older one. Bella didn't miss her old school in Phoenix. She wasn't wealthy enough to matter there. She said, "No one noticed me."
Edward had a hard time believing that.
Looking at her, Edward realized that it had been a long time—ages—since he'd really looked at a face, human or vampire. He was so accustomed to hearing the thoughts, intentions, and emotions of others, even knowing their own pre-cognitive movements before they made them—sigh, pout, snort, scowl, wink, closed eyes, grin, chuckle—that sometimes he didn't even bother to look at his family when he talked to them. He looked at humans even less.
Watching Bella, he found himself lost over and over again in her expressions. He normally considered brown eyes to be boring—a genetic default, but Bella's had an unusual amount of depth, gentle and mysteriously soft, like chocolate milk. She also frequently bit her lip while she talked. Full lips. Slightly uneven.
Exquisite—and mouthwatering. Freesia.
The burn in his throat.
Edward needed to stay focused.
And then Bella did an unconscious thing. She was excited, animatedly discussing the opposing views of Maryanne and Elinor in Sense and Sensibility on relationships, and she scooted forward, spreading her legs wide while her hands gestured with the flow of her conversation. Her right hand rested on her inner thigh for a half-second.
And Edward's wayward brain opened the curtain on a reenactment of Tanya's tawdry stage show.
But without Tanya.
With Bella.
No.
He was forced to envisage Emmett wearing a teddy bear bib to make it go away, and then, with the visions gone, Edward mentally flagellated himself—sickened with himself beyond all compare. No matter what Alice's visions might say—he would never put Bella in that level of danger. If he got too close to her, the smell of her skin, the rushing lines of red… there could be no recourse—she was human, and he would kill her.
Luckily, Bella noticed nothing of Edward's mental tempest.
And then it was time to go.
Bella stood, blushing as she picked up her bag and headed for the door.
Edward stood as well and smiled. "I'll see you next week. Travel carefully. Mind the ice," he urged.
"My dad put chains on my tires. I'll be fine…" Bella trailed off, looking down at her feet, before flicking her gaze up. "How old are you?" she asked.
Internally, he flipped at her question. He'd been unprepared. Externally, Edward replied calmly, "My birth certificate says I was born on June 20, 1977."
"Oh," she replied simply. She was biting her bottom lip.
And once again, he desperately wanted to know what she was thinking.
"Next week, then." She gave a final wave and exited the room.
The door swung shut behind her, her hellishly heavenly scent already fading and leaving Edward's throat angry and parched. Needing a distraction, Edward flipped open his laptop.
Tanya would do.
He would not think about Bella.
Chapter End notes:
1. The serial killer is based on the "Gorilla killer" AKA Earle Leonard Nelson. He was executed in 1928.
2. 1920's era slang:
Gin mill – backyard distillery during the Prohibition era
Fly boy – Term for WWI pilot
Bushwa – you say this instead of "bullshit."
Palooka – idiot, fool
3. Bible Verses:
John 7:20: "The people answered and said 'Thou hast a devil: who goeth about to kill thee?'"
Luke 8:33: "Then went the devils out of the man and entered into the swine: and the herd ran violently down a steep place into the lake, and were choked…"
Revelation 9:20: "And the rest of the men which were not killed by these plagues yet repented not of the works of their hands, that they should not worship devils…"
4. Hoppin' the twig: Getting married (civil war slang, again)
5. Texas Jack: John Wilson Vermillion (1842-1911), alias "Texas Jack," and later as "Shoot-Your-Eye-Out" Vermillion, was a gunfighter of the Old West known for his participation in the Earp vendetta ride and his later association with Soapy Smith.
6. Cupid and Psyche, from second century A.D. by Lucius Apuleius's The Golden Ass, see: www(dot)pitt(dot)edu/~dash/cupid(dot)html. Multiple tales derive influence from this, notably Beauty & the Beast, the Polar Bear King, and you might say, Twilight… (Pastiche gives a mighty wink.)
7. Canova: Refers to Antonio Canova's statue "Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss," first commissioned in 1787, exemplifies the Neoclassical obsession with love and emotion. It represents the god Cupid in the height of love and tenderness, right after awakening the lifeless Psyche with a kiss, a scene excerpted from Lucius Apuleius' The Golden Ass. A masterpiece of its period, it appeals to the senses of sight and touch, yet simultaneously alludes to the Romantic interest in emotion co-existing with Neoclassicism.
8. So, I read a bunch of articles on various counseling methods for the story. Studies show that the one consistent factor is really the relationship between the therapist and the patient. Interesting stuff. The arbitrary nature of counseling. See Sexton, Thomas L., "Evidence-Based Counseling: Implications for Counseling Practice, Preparation, and Professionalism," ERIC Clearinghouse on Counseling and Student Services Greensboro NC.
9. Fats Domino: Charts-topping musician during the 50's and 60's. Domino first attracted national attention with "The Fat Man" in 1949 on Imperial Records. This song is an early rock and roll record, featuring a rolling piano and Domino doing "wah-wah" vocalizing over a fat back beat. It sold over a million copies and is widely regarded as the first rock and roll record to do so.
10. Mansfield Park and Fanny Price: If you want to understand Bella Swan, read Jane Austen's Mansfield Park. Read for free on Gutenberg(dot)org. Bella is in NO WAY Lizzie Bennet; rather she is every ounce a modern day Fanny. I like the movie, too.