Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own my simmering jealousy.
Thanks again to PTB and ChloeCougar, remylebeauishot, and StoryPainter for working on this chapter.
My permanent betas, darcysmom and Marlena516, are the cream in my coffee, the cinnamon in my sugar. Thank you, ladies!
Suggested listening:
"No Sunlight" by Death Cab for Cutie
"Head On" by The Jesus and Mary Chain
"Fire Escape" by Civil Twilight
Chapter 1 - No Sunlight
Edward
Rain. At last.
I scan the swollen skies for some sign of a break, but the clouds are low and pregnant, promising at least a few hours of freedom outdoors. Windowpanes shudder as a violent crack echoes in the sky, and I ready myself for my escape.
Two weeks. It's been two weeks since the sky has shown a hint of sagging cloud; bright July sun, instead, blasting through my window—my self-imposed cell.
I've used the time to unpack, which didn't take nearly as long as I'd hoped. Even moving at an excruciatingly slow human speed couldn't draw the task out for more than a day. I'd shipped a few boxes from Alaska and stuffed a few more into the Volvo for the drive here, leaving most of my possessions in the care of my family. Music, books, and clothes (a fraction of what I left behind) fill a portion of my compact studio apartment. The utilitarian furniture—bureau, couch, and desk—I had delivered upon my arrival takes up the rest of the available space. I have no need for a bed, and TV doesn't interest me. The uncooperative weather has me longing for my piano—now sitting in Esme's parlor—but I know once school starts this fall I can visit the music rooms at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology whenever I like.
It isn't a surprise to me that Cambridge weather has proven difficult; over the decades, I've navigated sunny days through half a dozen university programs here in New England. But I've been spoiled—first by Forks, then Denali—and I sorely miss the freedom afforded by isolation and cloudy skies.
I gather some human props on my way out the door, my feet gliding down a flight of stairs and onto the unusually quiet sidewalk of Inman Square. I don't need the coat or umbrella for protection from the elements; rather, they are useful as protection from unwanted attention. My kind are exceedingly private.
I glance into the vintage boutique directly under my apartment and nod to the owner, my landlady, as I pass. Her eyes are appraising, and she wonders longingly if I would ever be desperate enough to pay for rent "in trade." I grimace, knowing I'll have to discourage any future advances. My feet guide me west on Cambridge Street, no destination in mind, and I'm relieved to be out of my little cell.
Just ahead, a young couple dodges puddles, attempting in vain to keep their toddler dry. The mother thinks despairingly of the little girl's ruined dress and the laundry she'll have to do later that night, the father imagines in detail what he might do with an evening alone with his wife, and the child sings a made-up tune about lemons and llamas to herself.
A perfect little bubble of humanity.
I watch them with envy, thinking if I just ignore everything I know to be true about myself, I can almost believe I belong in their world.
Almost.
My nose wrinkles at the smell of curry and coconut wafting from the Indian takeout place on the corner just as I register a buzzing in my pocket. I know who it will be before I hear the tinkling voice on the other end of the phone. The rest of my family respects my need for time away and will wait for me to call them.
"Hi, Alice." My voice sounds dull and scratchy, and I realize I haven't actually used it in two weeks.
"The little girl's adorable, Edward. I want to take her home and dress her up!"
"I don't think her mother would appreciate that," I reply dryly. I have to smile at my sister's lack of preamble. And I can't fault her for watching me; she can't turn her power off any easier than I. "How's everyone?"
"The same." Funny. Vampire humor. "Emmett took down a Kodiak yesterday. And Esme's working on a new cabin in the south field; it could be ready for you this winter—if you decide to come home." Subtle. She doesn't have to be psychic to know that won't be happening.
I try to let her down gently, regardless. "I only just got here, Alice."
"I know, but we miss you."
The silent implication is, of course, "I miss you," but she doesn't say that. Rejection is a bitter cocktail easier shared with others. We're silent for a moment, things unsaid weighing heavily on us both. I continue down the block, watching the raindrops fall in a rapid staccato.
"I'm glad you've gotten out of the house, Edward. You've been so gloomy cooped up inside."
"Thank you for the insight, Alice," I reply tersely. I know where this is going.
"Oh, don't be such a poop!" I hear a low snort in the background and assume my brother, Jasper, is listening in. "You know, you are a 'creature of the night'; you could just go out when the sun goes down."
I have no interest in continuing this conversation and absolutely no interest in going out at night. I want to explore my new city without being confronted by intoxicated, hormone-fueled humans at every turn. It's hard enough to block out their unwanted thoughts within the confines of my apartment. On the street, the soundtrack of evening is amplified, a painful reminder of what I will never have.
Nighttime, as they say, is for lovers.
"I'm perfectly happy waiting for a good storm." Before the words are out of my mouth I regret them.
Alice pounces. "You just like looking all broody and romantic in the rain. You're worse than Heathcliff. Or Angel!"
I chuff through a clenched jaw. Wuthering Heights is bad enough; is it necessary to bring Buffy into this?
"Alice, does this conversation have a point?" I don't intend to be short with my sister; I'm simply not in the mood to do this now. I know she's worried about me; my whole family is worried about me. In many ways, their worry precipitated this break from them. I'd rather face a barrage of mind-numbing calculus exams and chemistry labs than watch my family try to hide their pity from me for another second.
"The point is"—her voice is uncharacteristically low, sage-like—"you are only as lonely as you want to be. Make an effort. Or you might as well have stayed in that disgusting little shack."
Easy words from someone sharing her life with her soul mate, I think bitterly. I immediately regret my hostility. I can't begrudge Alice and Jasper their happiness. I can't begrudge any of them. But I couldn't stay and watch it, either.
I extract myself from the conversation as quickly (if not as politely) as possible, and while I know it hurts my sister—my best friend—to dismiss her like that, I can't bring myself to continue our talk with any semblance of honesty. Because if I were honest with her, I would say it's about so much more than being lonely. Lonely I have done—for nearly ninety years, in fact. In spite of the family surrounding me, sometimes because of the family surrounding me, lonely is second nature at this point. But empty? That's something new. Being empty makes this charade pointless. Being empty makes this century on earth feel like enough, perhaps too much, already.
And sharing that would shatter my dear sister, which I'm not ready to do.
Not just yet.
Bella
Rain. Freaking great.
Turning off the steam wand with a twist, I pour the hot container of milk into a waiting cup of espresso just as the skies open with a thunderous roar. The walkway outside is already drenched, and a gaggle of teenage girls duck into the shop to escape the downpour.
The past two weeks have lulled me into a false sense of security. Summer in Boston won't be nearly as bad as winter, I thought, one particularly perfect afternoon. I'd been enjoying a rare day off from work at my favorite spot on the banks of the Charles River, a new novel sitting mostly-ignored in my lap as I soaked in the sun. I can do this—only three more years to finish school, then back to sunny Florida . . . or Arizona. I'm not sure where I might go after graduation, but I'm resolute it be warm and dry.
I glance out the large windows next to me, and my hopeful mood trickles out with each miserable drop on the pavement. Setting the cup on the bar to my left, I call out, "Large triple cap!" and move onto the next drink in my line with a sigh.
I know I'm being melodramatic about the whole thing, but I really wasn't prepared for the way the cold and rain would affect me here. I haven't been cooped up under gray skies since my last summer trip to Charlie's nearly ten years ago. After that, Dad and I met up in California for our two weeks together, and neither of us had to endure the dark shift of my mood under the clouds of Forks.
It doesn't help that this past winter was the worst New England has seen in years. I remember walking down narrow, icy Cambridge sidewalks on my way to the Red Line and into Boston and marveling at how I'd navigated the slippery death traps through Harvard Square without breaking an ankle. I'm not graceful on the best of days. Snow storm after snow storm hit the city for weeks on end, until finally, there was just nowhere left to put it all. I laugh, thinking of six-foot-tall drifts abutting the streets—clean white canvases for the local taggers. I've never seen anyone graffiti snow before, but in a college town like this, I guess even the hooligans have avant-garde sensibilities.
"Something funny?"
The tall brunette at the cash register to my right pulls me out of my reverie. Her probing eyes are shaded by cat-eye glasses, but I can see the smile in them.
I pump some chocolate into a cup and set it under the espresso machine, dark liquid flowing into it.
"I was just thinking about snow art."
Angela lets out a soft chuckle before turning to the next person in line and taking his order. Returning to the task at hand, I finish up the mocha and set it on the bar for the middle-aged woman in tweed checking her watch. I appreciate the shorthand Angela and I have developed in less than a year; it's such a relief to have someone who knows what I'm thinking without a whole bunch of extraneous . . . words.
Angela became my roommate during our freshman year at Emerson through coincidence and luck. When Charlie had heard "the Weber girl" was going to the same college as me, he put us in touch with each other the summer before school started. It was an uncharacteristically outgoing move for my stoic dad, but it made me smile to think he wanted me to have a friend in my new home.
We decided to opt out of the freshman dorms in Boston and moved into a place Angela's uncle owned across the river, in Cambridge. Thank goodness for family discounts.
I've never made friends easily, but things with Angela were simple from the start, partly because of our shared Forks history—minimal though mine is—but mostly because we just click. Angela is quiet and kind. She leaves me alone when I need it, and she encourages me to have fun when I need that, too.
And now we go to school together and live together and work here, at Black Ground, together . . . and yeah, we should probably think about getting some other friends.
As I set down another drink, our manager, Spencer, slides up to Angela with an awkward nonchalance and taps his fingers on the counter next to her. He's significantly older than me, but I feel oddly protective of Spencer, like the little brother I've never had. Short brown hair, dark glasses, and a long, reedy body, there's a nerd-chic thing about him—minus the chic. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of coffee, a penchant for ukulele music and all things sci-fi, and an enormous crush on Angela, which he doesn't make any attempt to hide. I pause at the espresso machine as he beats a disjointed rhythm on the wood and wonder when his inelegant methods of seduction might finally break through.
Ang is still getting over her high school sweetheart, Ben, their long-distance relationship having fallen apart this spring. I think she should give Spencer a chance—I can see how they'd be good together—and from the way she blushes at his proximity, it looks like she might do just that before too long.
"Hi, Spencer." Angela adjusts the credit card receipts impaled on a short metal spike and glances his way.
"Hi."
He stares at her, his smile open—dopey like a puppy—while his fingers continue their nervous tapping. A loud cackle issues from one of the high school girls huddled together across the room, punctuating the silence. Angela's eyes are wide and expectant as she traces the keys of her register, and Spencer just stares, lost somewhere in his own world.
For the love of God, somebody talk!
Finally, Angela breaks the unbearable silence, tilting her face toward his. "Spencer? Do you need something?"
"What?" He gathers himself from his daydream and meets her eyes. "Oh, yeah. Bella, the rain's going to make it really slow this afternoon. So, um . . ."
The sentence hangs like one of Charlie's silent farts. His gaze never leaves Angela, and if he hadn't used my name, I wouldn't have known he was talking to me.
"Spence? Is there more to that thought?" I coax.
Finally, he tears his eyes from Angela, who bites her lips together, trying to stifle a grin.
"I'm sorry, yeah. I hate to ask, but we don't really need three people here . . . "
Sometimes it's like pulling teeth with him. ". . . So you want me to clock out?"
He smiles at Angela, lost once again. "Yeah."
I can't really afford to lose the hours, but I don't protest. Maybe having some alone time until closing will help push them along. At least I won't be around to interrupt their strange mating dance.
"All right." I'm already thinking of a free afternoon curled up with a cup of tea and a book. "Hey, do you know if the rain is supposed to keep up for long?"
Please, please be a quick storm.
"Swackett has us dressed like sailors for the next three days."
Is that even English?
"Swackett?"
I'm surprised when Angela answers instead of Spencer. "It's a weather app."
"Dressed like sailors . . . So, lots of rain?" I confirm.
"Yeah," they answer in unison. Okay, this is getting creepy.
I groan, and Angela spares me a compassionate glance.
"Bella, you can just finish up your drinks and head out. Angela, do you want a break from the register? Want to take over on bar?"
Angela smiles her answer. "Yeah, that would be good."
She's already buzzing, and Spencer can't keep the silly grin from his face. I feel a pang of jealousy at the promise of their budding relationship, but I can't begrudge them an opportunity for happiness. I can enjoy their romance vicariously, if nothing else. At this point 'vicarious' is pretty much the only living I do.
I wrap up my line of drinks, which dwindles as Spencer predicted, and soon I'm pulling my black hoodie over my head and waving goodbye to Angela, shooting her a conspiratorial grin as I step into the pounding rain. Thankfully, my walk home won't take too long; I live a few blocks north of the shop in the converted attic of an old, three-story Victorian.
I hunch my shoulders against the rain and set a brisk pace down Cambridge Street, knowing I'll wind up drenched by the end of it anyway.
Edward
By the time I pass the hospital and adjacent clinic on my meandering walk, the sodden streets are pretty well deserted. I decide to abandon the umbrella and tuck it into the oversized pocket of my charcoal trench coat. I look up to the sky; I like the feel of rain on my face.
Small pleasures.
As I cross a narrow side street, I notice the shop window of the local apothecary on the corner. I stand for a moment, amused at their antiquated word choice, wondering what the owners of this bright, modern pharmacy would think if they were somehow transported into an apothecary of my day. Over the gleaming displays and fluorescent lights, I picture a dim room, jars and vials of exotic herbs and liquids lining the walls, counters covered in iron scales and stone pestles and mortars. No doubt, it would appear barbaric pseudo-medicine to the starched pharmacists inside.
I sense a movement from the corner of my eye. A small figure is exiting the coffee shop a few doors down, turning away from me as she proceeds down the sidewalk. As I inhale her faint scent, my head snaps up, and I'm suddenly thankful we're separated by twenty feet rather than two. Even obscured by coffee and rain, her smell—her essence—is so enticing that if fate had positioned us that much closer, I'm not sure she would have survived even a few seconds.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and in less than one of the girl's thudding heartbeats, I've silenced it. I don't want to talk. I want to smell that glorious scent: earthy and sweet and . . . perfect. I want it in my mouth, all around me. I want to bathe in it.
Of their own accord, my feet follow the girl's petite form. A black hood covers her head, her chin tucked, face hidden. Her clothes are soaked in moments, and still the scent trails behind her like a spell. Knives slice down my throat as I inhale deeply, and I swallow down the resulting venom in gulps.
The girl turns the corner at the end of the block, making her way down a quiet residential street canopied with towering oaks and maples. I round the corner a minute later, staying as far back as I dare, not willing to lose her trace. The rain obscures my presence. Good. I don't want to startle her until I have a firm plan in place. She trips on an errant root forcing its way through the sidewalk, and I'm both hopeful and afraid that she'll tumble, perhaps draw blood. Somehow, she stays upright.
I fist my hands and will my legs to keep their maddeningly slow pace, the urge to run and take her overwhelming. My throat burns with thirst, and my stomach twists in pain as my mind flips through a dozen scenarios of what I might do next. Should it be quick, painless? Can I find a way to confine her and make it last longer? I really like the sound of that. I'll need someplace quiet, someplace private, where we won't be disturbed.
In the back of my mind, a muted voice shouts at me to stop, to turn around and run as far and as fast as I can.
I ignore it.
I scan the homes around me for occupants, listening to their thoughts, where inhabited. Most are silent, and I wonder which deserted house I might use for my purposes. A thought pricks at me, forcing its way through the bloodlust. I've been following this girl for minutes now, all attention focused on her, and I have yet to hear a single thought from her mind.
I focus harder, willing her mind to open to me. Nothing. Even the dullest human has something occupying their thoughts at most times. Whether listening to her own footfalls or watching the steady pattern of rain, this girl's mind should not be silent.
I waver, disoriented and uncertain.
What am I doing?
But all it takes is a gust of wind blowing her scent in my direction, and I'm hooked to the invisible tether again. The mystery of her mind will be solved, perhaps. Or not. I don't really care, as long as I solve the mystery of her taste.
I tense as I feel a presence behind me—another girl. Her thoughts are chanting, Shit! Shit! Shit! as her feet pound a matching rhythm on the pavement. A growl slips involuntarily from my throat, too low for the intruder to hear. I steady myself and wait for her to pass.
The girl runs by me, something familiar about her tall, thin frame and dark hair. She carries an umbrella above her head and a messenger bag over her shoulder.
"Bella!" she yells, and my Siren pauses, turning to face her friend. "You forgot your bag—your keys!" She lets out a relieved huff as she catches up to the soaking, hooded girl.
The girl, my girl—Bella—scrunches her brows in embarrassment and thanks her friend. As I take in her face for the first time, I feel a stutter in my steps. I've seen lovely women over the decades: fantasies, goddesses even. In many ways, she doesn't compare to the known beauties of the world. Yet, all of her amazing parts—the thick, chestnut hair peeking out of her hood; the pale, heart-shaped face; the full, pink lips (her bottom just slightly larger than her top); the scattering of near-invisible, sun-kissed freckles on her nose; the wide, brown, knowing eyes—combine to make the most stunning creature I've ever seen.
My legs carry me forward, and I notice my hands reaching out to her. I wrangle them to my sides, realizing I'll soon have to pass the couple or face the possibly disastrous consequences. As I near them, I don't know which way I'll go. But the decision is made for me, and I hear my name.
"Edward? Edward Cullen?"
I tear my eyes from Bella to the friend who is staring at me in shock and delight. And then I recognize her. A girl from Forks High: mousy, shy, smart. What's her name?
"Angela?" I hear myself ask.
Right. Angela Weber.
Suddenly, the fog that has descended these past few minutes lifts, and the world wavers into focus. With horror, I realize how close I've come to destroying a stranger, destroying myself. A cavern of guilt opens up in my chest as I imagine my father's disappointed face.
What would Carlisle think of my slip? If I hadn't stopped, could he have ever forgiven me?
I know the answer is yes; he has forgiven such transgressions in the past, but I know just as well that I would never have forgiven myself. To take the life of an innocent is a crime of unimaginable depravity. My psyche could not recover from that. I shake my head in a desperate attempt to clear it, the monster inside crying out against these newly-sober thoughts.
As I glance at Angela, I remember her previous kindness to me. She was one of the few people in Forks who had never shown cruelty of any kind toward my odd family. It's harsh of me to think her "mousy"; she might be a wallflower, but she has a warm heart which gives her a unique kind of beauty.
Only a moment has passed, yet the clarity brought in that moment makes it feel like ages. Angela is excited as she speaks again.
"Wow, you haven't changed at all. What are you doing here? I heard you were in Alaska." She leans forward as though to make contact with me, then thinks better of it. She's kind—not stupid. I glance at Bella, now huddled under the umbrella with her friend, her eyes wide and focused on me.
I inhale unthinkingly, and flames chart a burning path down my throat. Bella's scent is overpowering—too close, too enticing. I stop breathing and search desperately for an escape. The girls stare expectantly, and Angela's increasingly curious thoughts remind me they're waiting for an answer.
"College," I mutter. "MIT."
Can I just run away? I try to lift a foot but find myself rooted inexplicably to the ground.
"That's wonderful! Bella and I go to Emerson. Oh, this is my friend, Bella," she says with a broad smile.
Angela looks at Bella and motions to me. "This is Edward. We graduated from Forks together."
Bella reaches out a tentative hand toward me, and I stare at it blankly. It looks soft. I want to take it—I want to take her. Can I really just shake her hand? Can I pretend I'm a normal boy meeting a normal girl? I guess we'll see.
Still holding my breath, I reach out . . . and I touch her. I feel a jolt go through my palm and up my arm. There's an explosion of warmth running through me, and my body stills as the aftershocks tingle throughout. Her eyes grow impossibly wider, and I can see she feels it, too.
With a shaky breath, I murmur, "A pleasure to meet you, Bella."
She tries to speak, choking on the words a bit. "You too, Edward." The corners of her mouth rise into a hesitant smile, and I realize I haven't released her hand.
I snap.
It's too much. The dark, murderous voice inside me that wants her blood more than anything is howling, Take her! Kill! Drink! But under that is another, more confusing voice—growing insistently louder—that wants something very different, something I'm too scared to think about. It's screaming at me to get out of here as it wrestles the monster into a cage—urging me to run. Run!
I make an excuse, unable to meet their confused eyes, and turn back the way I came. I run faster than my carefully crafted facade should allow, not stopping until my apartment door slams behind me, the back of my head banging against it with a resounding crack.
Thanks for finding your way here! I hope you're enjoying it so far.
Story recommendations:
"Rm w/a Vu" by AngelGoddess1981 - Edward and Bella shack up. Wild hi-jinx ensue.
"Olly Olly Oxen Free" by Dandelion Mind - Moody Bella, hilarious snarky Edward, murder mystery, and beautiful high school noir.
