[2]

Virgin.

Say it aloud if you must. There's something distasteful about the way it sounds. The word has the foul timbre of a disease or a transgression. I think that's why we find so many euphemisms for the condition. Innocent. Pure. Maiden.

Now try applying any of those adjectives to me. I had killed plenty of people by 1933—a fact which precludes the distinction of "pure" or "innocent." So I guess you might've called me Edward: the vampire maiden.

You're laughing. Perhaps that's the best attitude for the matter. But at the time, I can assure you, I didn't find it funny at all.

It… unsettled me to think about sex. Unfortunately, few other men seemed to share my reluctance. It's especially difficult to ignore a man's thoughts when they're saturated by groans and thrusts and a naked woman. And even more difficult when that naked woman is Rosalie Hale.

I had spent scarcely a week in Rochester before I saw someone's imagination thoroughly fucking Miss Hale. And that was hardly the last time. In that city, she was the queen of socialites. The Paris Hilton of yesteryear. Though far from a loose woman, she was the star of many fantasies. Back then, her admirers were plentiful, her suitors indulgent.

My repressed streak of vulgarity had yearned to see this celebrity beyond men's lurid minds. I wanted to witness Rosalie Hale in the flesh. I was curious, you might say. Curious to unlock the mystery of this woman, curious to observe the commander of so many minds.

I still remember the first time I saw her. When she appeared, it was hard not to see her, for she possessed the sort of rare beauty that holds a special magnetism for stares. Even vampire eyes found it a great challenge to look away. She was stunning even then. Her human softness and imperfection seemed more boon than pitfall.

But she didn't tempt me.

When I finally laid eyes upon the human Rosalie, I wanted to laugh. This woman was not transcendent, I thought, shaking my head with bemusement. There was nothing inspiring about her. She reminded me of a Christmas tree, so overburdened by ornaments and gifts that one could scarcely see the evergreen beneath. I had a suspicion that I wouldn't find robust boughs behind Rosalie's glitter.

Sure enough, when I reached into her mind, I felt only excess and self-indulgence. Her brain was a shallow pool, and if I was to dive, I wanted it to be into deep water.

I had always craved a different sort of beauty. A woman who stirred something pure and profound in me, or unlocked a mythical feeling I had hitherto never felt. Simple men pined for Rosalie Hale. Simple, crass, human men.

You know this was all an excuse. I aimed for the intangible, because I was afraid of anything I could actually touch.

Yes, women frightened me. Sex frightened me. Even now, this admission is embarrassing to me.

But I couldn't stay away from Rosalie forever. Now she was a Cullen, a sorry member of our accidental family. I left the care and explanations to Carlisle and Esme. Of course, as soon as Rosalie woke, they fed her pleasant lies.

"You were on the brink of death," whispered my father. "Far too young to face the end."

Esme joined the Pollyanna choir. "We're here for you now. Forever."

I listened to this twaddle from my room, restraining myself. "Carlisle kept your corpse fresh so I could use it to satisfy my lust," I wanted to say. "Welcome to the family."

Thankfully, I governed my impulses and kept to myself in those first days. I stayed away while they took her hunting. I played record upon record of loud jazz as the pleasantries and euphemisms spewed from my parents' mouths.

But for some reason, I wanted to listen. Rosalie hardly said a thing. She followed Carlisle's instructions without protest. She stayed away from her family and friends. She hunted only animals. Yet she rarely spoke. The more infrequent her words, the more I looked for answers within her brain.

I found a void. In the hours of her transformation, I had watched a horrifying maelstrom of pain claw through her synapses. I had listened ceaselessly, obsessively, to her mind. I followed each of her thoughts until the blizzard had calmed.

Now, I saw a desert. Emptiness was interrupted by fleeting beats of pretty things—she likes the honey color of Esme's hair. She admires our Persian carpet. She misses her collection of dresses.

I couldn't explain my disappointment. Did I want her to live in torment forever? Did I expect abuse to add complexity to this woman? Any answer was perverse.

Eventually, I concluded that my initial assessment had been correct—that despite trauma and transformation, she would always be a shallow creature. In this, I convinced myself that she was no danger to me. I could defy Carlisle's intentions and treat her as a lost child, not a as potential lover. So I decided to meet her at last.

I found her alone one day, more than a week after her transformation. Carlisle and Esme had gone away for the morning, leaving her by the fireplace. I descended a few steps and looked down upon her from above.

She sat on the couch, fiddling with a swatch of ornate fabric—Esme planned to have new frocks made to replace her former wardrobe. Rosalie tossed the current piece aside and plucked a new one from the pile.

I took another step, and her attention flitted to me. Her movements were still sharp and sudden. It would take decades of practice for her to move slowly again.

"Miss Hale," I said, bowing my head slightly. "I apologize for my discourteous behavior. I should have introduced myself earlier."

"You're Edward," she said stonily, shattering my attempted decorousness.

"Yes." Discomfort overtook me. I yearned for a hat to wring between my hands.

Satisfied, she merely averted her eyes and picked up another swatch.

I hovered awkwardly behind the couch for a few moments, feeling oddly unbalanced. Gently, I probed her mind—my habit when someone's behavior confuses me. But I saw only imaginary dresses made from the fabric samples, each ostentatious enough to seem at home in Versailles.

I grew suddenly and inexplicable aggravated. Before I knew where I was going, I found myself next to Rosalie on the couch. She seemed to shrink away from me, yet only dresses touched her thoughts.

"You're a vampire now," I blurted.

"Yes. I'm aware." More dresses danced in her thoughts. Some jewelry. A pair of high-heeled shoes.

"And— And you feel all right?"

Her eyes darted to mine, and she seemed to examine me deeply. In her mind, she wore one of her new dresses, swaying slightly to the melody of low music. Then a sudden flash, and ice seared through my brain. It was just a singular thought in Rosalie's mind—a quick and monstrous flicker. It was crimson. Hot. Clawing. Shrieking. Her voice laughing. Snapping bones. And it was over almost instantly. Again, I saw the image of her swaying to low music.

So brief was this spasm of her mind that I wasn't sure it had happened at all. Yet there I was on the couch beside her, completely frozen, eyes wide.

"What's the matter?" she asked me, her voice frosty.

"N—nothing." I leapt to my feet. "Nothing."

I abandoned any notion of politeness and fled. Whatever I had seen in Rosalie Hale's mind went beyond my fascination. It had hurt me—physically—just to sense that thought. For the first time in a decade I felt something… it took me hours to identify the sensation. Panic. I felt panic.

This had never happened to me before—that I could read a mind and not understand what I was seeing. What was that ephemeral, frightening thought? Hatred? Hunger? I still don't understand what drove me to find the answer. But I wanted to know, needed to know.

Carlisle and Esme returned. They chatted pleasantly with Rosalie. Well, to Rosalie, really, since she had so little to say. And all the while, I paced in my room, agitated.

In some way, I felt responsible for Rosalie. If not for my existence, Carlisle might not have changed her. This notion was a trick of my ego, of course, for to accept blame is to affirm power. For some unenlightened reason, I thought I could use my power to help her.

I felt that I needed to speak with Rosalie, only I didn't know how. Truthfully, I've never had a talent for conversation. You might view me as charming, but it's merely the allure of vampirism. As a human, I had been awkward and quiet, and as a vampire, mind-reading had become my crutch.

Eventually, I found the courage to confront Rosalie again, this time with a plan.

"Walk with me?" I proposed one evening, while the other two sat quietly together.

Rosalie hesitated. "Where?"

"Just along the river."

A long pause. I searched her mind, which yielded nothing enlightening.

"I'm no danger to you, Miss Hale," I said impulsively. "You're a newborn. You could subdue me with a flick of your finger."

Something changed in her expression. Her mind warmed slightly. "Very well."

I offered my arm. She didn't take it. Yet she followed me out of the house, and with our speed, we were miles along the Genesee within minutes.

For a long time, we just ran. That hadn't been my plan, but it just felt surprisingly good. Maybe it was the sudden ease in Rosalie's thoughts, the faint tickling of liberation. I watched as the rushing air whipped her hair free of its pins. The golden strands trailed wildly behind her, so much like the luminous tail of a falling star. She ran with her eyes closed, relying entirely on instinct to guide her.

She was beautiful. And everything about her in that moment made me sad.

At last, we stopped, somewhere far from Rochester, beside some distant tendril of the river. For a time, we both remained silent and still, staring at the rushing water.

"You can tell me, Rosalie," I said, my eyes still on the river. "If you're unhappy, you can tell me."

It was a long while before she replied. "Unhappy?" She spit the word like poison. "That's delightfully mild."

After the freedom of our run, her vehemence caught me off guard. My response was brash and candid. "I'm sorry Carlisle changed you. I—I'm sorry those men—"

"What do you know about it?" Her voice was low and barbed. "What do you know about suffering, Edward Cullen? Getting sick from the flu? Running out of songs to play on your shiny piano?"

"I just—"

"Save your chivalry and consolations. At least Esme and Carlisle have enough sense to feign ignorance."

I tried to hold the calmness in my tone."With time, it's possible to let go of the past."

Her mind tore apart a pretty dress. Her eyes tore me apart. "Let it go?"

I nodded.

"Those men," she snapped, "shouldn't be let go."

I detected a stifling darkness rising in her mind. "Rosalie…," I said, feeling panic rise in me again. "Anger is dangerous for a vampire. It can overpower you—"

"Who cares if I get angry? Who cares if I lose control! There's not a god who'd give me mercy now, no matter what I do."

My words flew out urgently, pleadingly. "No. No. If you want mercy, be merciful."

I found myself reaching for her shoulder, to do what, I'm not sure. Perhaps comfort her, perhaps hold her still.

"They don't deserve mercy. They deserve death."

"We can help you—"

She threw my arm off so roughly that I thought she broke a bone. "I don't need your help. I know how to help myself."

Her mind suddenly assaulted me. I saw images of her killing men. Lots of men. I recognized Royce King among them. She was brutal, merciless. And worst of all, her brain was set on doing it. It was as if she'd only been waiting for someone to tell her 'no.' She was only waiting for her act of defiance.

"Contemplate that, mind-reader," she hissed, delivering me one last image of Royce King's dead body.

So Carlisle must have told her about my ability.

"No!" I cried, trying once again to hold her back, to no avail. "That's not the answer, Rosalie. I know it's not. You can't turn back from killing. Trust me."

Her hands were suddenly on either side of my face, grasping me half in headlock, half in condescending sympathy. "I've had enough of trusting men."

And without flinching, she threw me, end over end, into the river.

By the time I resurfaced, she was gone.