Author's Note: I don't own Twilight or New Moon, especially since I'm not Stephanie Meyer.
A few of you might be a little discontented about the last chapter, thinking to yourself that it wasn't 'unique.' But the difference between this story and other stories is that Bella can have a baby, which makes her invaluable to the Volturi, rather than she will have a baby (which she probably won't). The difference will seem clearer to you after this chapter.
As always… Read and Review!
Freesia Juliet
Part Two: The Queen
Chapter Thirteen: Dynasty
(Bella's Point of View)
"What is this place?" I said, my voice ringing with awe.
"The Hall of Queens," responded Aro with equal reverence. It was a wide hall with a vaulted ceiling of black marble. There were four filled alcoves- the fifth one was conspicuously empty.
Aro wandered to the first alcove, his eyes hypnotized by the statue that stood smugly within. It was life-size, made of purest white marble. It was a woman, who looked surprisingly familiar to me. Dressed in a knee length, gauzy looking dress, the woman pouted seductively, leaning forward enticingly. Her perfectly carved hair curled life-like just below her ears. There was a large, fantastically detailed painting of the same woman behind the statue. It revealed that she was white-blonde, wearing a gossamer Roman tunic-dress.
"Who is she?" I asked, feeling like I already knew.
"Elixa," said Aro fondly, "my baby sister." What had been vaguely pressing my mind hit me with full force. This was Octavia's mother. And if Elixa was Aro's sister, then Octavia was his niece. No wonder she stayed with the Volturi. She was a Volturi.
The next alcove had an equally impressive statue of a Middle Eastern looking woman in a strange robe of gold. "Rebekkah," explained Aro, "Caius's mother. Her father was an Ethiopian slave trader, who sold his own daughter to a vampire who recognized her potential." I cringed slightly, unable to comprehend that kind of travesty. Then it hit me, like a cold slap in the face.
Aro, Marcus, Caius, and Octavia had been born vampires. No wonder they felt no remorse when they slaughtered visitors on St. Marcus Day. They had never known the kind of life Edward had wanted me to keep.
The third alcove was an Italian woman with "doe eyes" and a loving smile. I liked her the best immediately, because she looked almost human. I reached out and touched the marble that composed her silky black locks. "Genevieve, Marcus's mother," said Aro in a voice that rang with pity. "She was the last Etruscan princess before their capital city, Rome, fell to the Latins."
I could only imagine that we were coming to Aro's mother. For some reason, I anticipated her face the most. After all, I knew now the appearances of both her offspring, Aro and Elixa.
I was not disappointed.
The placard at the base of the painting read simply, "Claire." She was not impressively tall, or shockingly exotic. In fact, I recognized that she was Greek, with silvery-blond hair piled up in curls in the true Hellenic fashion. The thing that struck me the most was that her eyes in the painting were the same crimson of a fresh vampire.
"She was too young," said Aro sadly, "and she had the fiercest temper a woman ever had. She never could control herself." Beneath the sadness, there was an intense love. I guess even a being like Aro could love his mother.
"What happened to her?" I couldn't help but ask.
He sighed. "She and Elixa were both killed when coven of Gaul vampires raided Rome in 1011. Caius, Marcus, Jane and I were off on business in China, and Octavia wasn't strong enough to help them. That's why they let her live."
"And Rebekkah and Genevieve? What happened to them?"
"Rebekkah runs a school for girls in Egypt. Genevieve owns a castle in Switzerland."
I pictured myself, just for the briefest moment, as one of these immortalized women, a marble statue in an ethereal hall. Something nagged at the back of my mind, and I knew that I needed to ask it before I got too deeply involved in this fantasy. "What's the catch?"
"Catch?" repeated Aro, his ruby eyes narrowing to pinpoints of light. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, my dear."
I had a pretty good feeling that he did. "You said there were 'conditions' that I would have to face, Aro." My voice tightened, and it was deadly serious.
He sighed. "Very astute of you, Isabella." My whole body stiffened with anticipation. "It's a trivial thing, really."
"Tell me." My voice hardened.
"The number of children you can produce depends on the number of times you feed."
"On humans?" I couldn't believe my ears. This was the worse case scenario doubled over.
"On humans," Aro agreed, saying it as though it was normalcy, "within your first year as a vampire."
A mixture of rage, fear, horror, and disgust slammed through my entire system. I have to get out of here. There's no way they can make me attack a human! my whole being screamed.
I tried my best not to reveal my horror, but I found this nearly impossible. "Isabella, are you alright?" said Aro with calculated concern.
Distraction. I needed a distraction. "Who made these sculptures?" I asked.
Aro looked surprised, and then relieved. I guess he had been expecting a fight or something. "He did," he said strangely, pointing back to the empty hallway.
"Who?"
"I did," said a handsome baritone voice. A man appeared out of nowhere. I jumped. You would have thought that I was used to surprise entrances by now, but apparently I wasn't.
The man was tall and muscular, with a longish gray beard and a black business suit. The lines around his mouth creased when he smiled, and his burgundy eyes glittered with good humor. This was the first vampire I had ever seen who didn't look frighteningly perfect. "Isabella, allow me to introduce to you, Signore Michelangelo."
"How pleasant to finally speak with you, Signora Cullen," said the man in deeply accented English. "I see you admire my work."
"Michelangelo?" I hissed at Aro. "The one in all the art history books? As in the Sistine Chapel's Michelangelo?"
"The same," laughed Aro. "He's worked for our family for quite some time. State paintings, 'lost' sculptures for the Volterra Museum of Art, that sort of thing. But he specializes in immortalizing our beloved Volturi Queens."
"How?" I said softly. "You weren't even born yet when Claire and Elixa died."
The mysterious sculptor gave a small, patronizing smile. "You see, signora, that is my gift. I can see memories like they are photographs. From them, I can create any time, any place, anyone for my patrons."
Something Edward had once told me popped unbidden into my head. He had once called the Volturi the "Nighttime Patrons of the Arts."
There was something in the face of the ancient artist that made me think I could trust him. "You're going to sculpt me?" I asked innocently, focusing memories of Edward into the forefront of my mind. Perhaps the signore would see them.
"That's a good possibility, Signora Cullen," he said slowly. I actually saw my Edward reflected in his red eyes. "Shall we go and talk about it?"
"Aro?" I asked politely.
"Certainly my dear," said the Volturi, sounding pleased.
Signore Michelangelo respectfully opened the door for me and escorted me back out into the hall. Immediately his face was serious and worried. I explained hastily, "I must get out of here."
"I know, signora."
"Please, call me Bella."
"Fine then," he said quickly, as we both walked quickly down the marble hallway, trying to make our footsteps absolutely silent. "Bella, I will help you."
I blinked. "They'll kill you."
"I doubt they'll kill me. I'm too valuable to them. You're valuable to them too, Bella."
"I know, they want a new Volturi Prince. But I won't give them one."
"Then we must hurry," he said as we slipped down a corridor I was not familiar with. "This is my private wing," he explained.
"Aro can read minds. He'll know where I am from you."
"Only if he comes in close contact with me, Bella."
"Then what will you do?"
"I'll pretend I've secluded myself with you to do some form studies," decided Signore Michelangelo.
"Form studies?"
"Examining every detail of someone so that you get the purist interpretation of their being. I've perfected my methods over the years," he boasted.
"How much time will that give me?"
"A few days to a week, maybe, depending on whether or not they get suspicious." Octavia appeared out of nowhere.
"Oh!" I gasped.
"Sorry to startle you, Signora Cullen. Signore asked me to bring your purse from your car. He said you needed something from it."
"Thank you, Octavia," said Michelangelo graciously. The half-vampire vanished again.
"I wish everyone would stop doing that," I grumbled, eagerly taking the purse from the artist.
"I hope you have everything you need in there," said the sculptor.
"What will I need?"
"Sunglasses, to cover your eyes (they're very red, my dear), a credit card for fast travel, your car keys, and a cell phone."
"A cell phone?" I asked, drawing my phone out of my purse. Its blinking lights told me I had new messages. Probably a lot of new messages.
"I want you to call your husband."
"Call Edward?"
"When you get to France," he amended.
"France?"
"Did I make a poor assumption when I thought you wanted to escape in one piece? Listen, and listen good, Bella," he said with aggravation, "because both our lives depend on this. In Paris the Rensard Coven will take you in. They're strong enough to keep the Volturi off your back, and they owe me a favor."
"Who are they?"
"Let's see. There's Vincent and his mate Helene, and Henri and his mate Colette. They run l'Hôtel d'Or just outside downtown Paris. And you're in luck. The Rensard Paris coven is the third largest "vegetarian" coven outside of Forks and Denali."
I looked surprised. "You know about Forks and Denali?"
"Oh, Bella, you've really not been paying attention. I've seen Tanya's coven in your memories. And as for Carlisle… we go way back." I remembered the painting on the wall in Carlisle's office, and its magnificent detail. Had Michelangelo painted it?
"I…" I started and stopped. "Thank you signore, for all your help."
"You're welcome, Bella. Now get the hell out of here."
Escaping from the Volturi compound, even as a vampire, was not easy. There seemed to be those infuriating Volturi guards at every turn. I kept my eyes straight forward as I marched firmly past them. Sensing my importance, they dipped their heads in respect.
I didn't want their respect.
I wanted the hell out of here.
Funny that it was so much easier to get into than to get out of.
When I was sure that I was lost, I stumbled on a pair of unusual doors. Unlike the heavy wooden doors of every other room, these ones were steel. The feeding room, I thought with disgust, nearly tripping in my heels. Sure, I was much more graceful now as a vampire, but every now and then my old clumsiness would catch up to me.
If they were lured into this room… then there has to be a set of doors leading back outside through the feeding room, I reasoned, reluctantly opening the steel death trap.
I had heard some poor soul once describe the room as 'Medieval.' As the hairs stood up on the back of my neck, I had to agree. "Sorry, gentlemen," I whispered so no one could hear me but myself, "but I have other appointments to keep. Thank you for your hospitality." I plunked the sunhat Michelangelo had given me on my head and crossed the threshold to freedom.
It was a good thing that this lonely Italian highway was deserted on this Sunday morning. I shifted my Lamborghini into a higher gear and increased my speed to a comfy 125 kilometers per hour, or about 200 mph. One, they probably would have been mowed off the road. Two, I had abandoned my stupid hat to enjoy the sunlight, and I was sparkling like you wouldn't believe.
I crossed the French border by noon, and downshifted to slow my speed as I passed through a little French village that looked remarkably like a little Italian village. The only one I saw outside was extremely cross little boy who was fighting with a puppy that had stolen his baseball.
As my now-stolen car moved through the French countryside into a more populated area, clouds abruptly blotted out the intense August sun and threatened to rain. Luck, apparently, is finally on my side, I thought as I hit the mechanism to raise the roof of the convertible.
It was pouring rain by the time I got into Paris that night, and I had had a hell of a time finding the l'Hôtel d'Or. "Je déteste la circulation," I growled to the stiffly-smiling woman behind the desk. I hate traffic.
She nodded sympathetically and asked, "Peux-je aider toi?" May I help you?
"Peut-être," I said with a nod. "L'appartement, s'il vous plait." The suite, please.
"Bien sur, madame. Ta carte de crédit, s'il vous plait," she said as I handed my credit card over. She ran it, and handed me a slip to sign. "L'appartement 617, Madame Cullen."
"Bon," I said nervously, glad that I had spent the entire ride through France flipping through a 'tourist's guide to important phrases' book. Clutching my bag tightly, I struggled to ignore the burning, scratchy feeling at the back of my throat.
I would have to deal with that soon.
But first things first. I found Suite 617 with minor trouble and unlocked the door. The large, lavish room smelled strongly of dust and soap. It was gold, from ceiling to floor. Well, they don't call it the Gold Hotel for nothing, I thought with a smile.
I flopped down on the bed and turned on my phone. YOUR INBOX IS FULL. PLEASE CONSIDER DELETING YOUR MESSAGES flashed the screen. Then, YOU HAVE 55 NEW MESSAGES. YOU HAVE 211 MISSED CALLS.
"Oh, for God's sake," I growled, deleting the contents of my voice mail with one push of a button. However, I did flip through the missed calls. To my relief, none were from Michelangelo or the Volturi. Yet. The last call had been from Alice's cell, about three hours ago.
"I love you Edward," I whispered to the phone as I hit speed dial number one and listened to it ring.
P.S. Author's Note: You asked for it, you got it. Next chapter is all Edward!