April 13, 2009
9:12 pm
Just outside of the Cullen family home, eight miles north of Forks, Washington
The smells of the forest washed over him, wet earth mixed with laurel and pine. In the distance, he could smell the tang of deer. It was peppery and entirely unappetizing. How they could drink that, he could not fathom.
With the daily rains, the ground was wet and soggy, black with decomposing leaves and debris. Fallen logs in varying stages of rot decorated the landscape, and low-lying bushes and brambles carpeted the forest floor. All around him, it was quiet. Instinctively, birds ceased chirping and furred creatures hid away, sensing his danger. The only discernable sounds came from within the house.
Through the large plate-glass windows he watched them. He watched their idiot smiles, the way they indulged and catered to the pathetic human girl, the way they interacted with each other. They were not vampires, he decided. They were a lesser species, something in between prey and predator. They are just like him. Cullen, he thought. Edward's name was spat, as if a curse.
Before, he had not believed that he could despise his former coven member more than he already had; he'd spent the last eight decades fostering and nurturing the animosity between them. No, he'd not thought it possible to revile that hypocrite any more thoroughly. That was, however, until he saw her running into the alleyway behind the store. At that moment, frustration mounted, and his hatred soared to new heights.
He had been deceived for all of this time. Fight after fight, stupid human after stupid human, he was the one who had been played. That weakling hadn't drunk her as he'd assumed; he had turned her. Cullen had betrayed his coven, stolen his singer, and then he had hidden her away, entrenching her in his life of inane human coddling. A waste and an insult of the highest order. Any 'fun' or entertainment in their games had long since passed; this was pure, black vengeance.
Cloaked by the darkened sky and the thick trees and overgrown bush, James was silent. A coiled viper, poised to strike, he waited and watched. He had smartly positioned himself such that his scent was carried away by the prevailing winds. And carefully, he masked his thoughts, a skill he had mastered years ago. His time was limited, however. This time, he did not want Cullen detecting his presence; the purpose for this trip was reconnaissance.
But it was difficult. Oh, so difficult. Inside, he was a caged and unhinged beast, begging to roar and to snap. His vision was blurred from his fury, tinged bright red. Were it not for centuries of forced control, he would be bodily shaking from the intensity of his rage. More than anything, he wanted to rush the house and take down his enemy.
"Alice, where are you going? Please don't leave," the one called Esme asked, her voice choked with sorrow.
His breath caught in his throat as she came into sight, haloed by the soft light from the overhead chandelier. She was precisely as she'd been years ago, only her slender, dark features had smoothed and perfected during her transformation. It was as though time had not passed, and instead of the well-groomed creature of the present, he saw her as she had been then: filthy and grimy, clothed in a thin and dingy hospital gown. Despite so many decades, the smell of her perfect human blood boiled up in his memory, and the remembered sound of her rasping and gurgling heartbeat rumbled in his ears.
Cullen will pay for this, he seethed.
Vivid and graphic images of the tortures he had planned for Cullen's singer almost overwhelmed him. Quickly, however, he quashed those too-loud thoughts, knowing that he would be discovered if he could not control his mind.
Small and light, she bounded down the stairs, her steps echoing the anger she'd unleashed against her maker. The discussion with Cullen had not gone well for him. Hearing his suffering and pleading and remorse had been the singular bright spot of the past few days.
Alice did not answer the beseeching query of her mothering coven member. Instead, she pointedly eyed her mate, the male they called Jasper, and they left the house. Fortunately, they took to the forest opposite him and sped away without so much as a look backward.
Jasper was clearly a fighter; he was lean and muscled and had the easy yet alert stance of a seasoned vampire warlord. Since he'd been observing, James noted that Jasper was constantly watching, assessing, and cataloguing his surroundings. And more telling were the crescent shaped scars littering his flesh, glittering in the light, indicating that he had fought his own kind many times over and had been victorious.
Despite his few words, his still-lingering drawl had placed him a Southerner, and then, Esme had all but confirmed James's conclusions with her reminiscing. Considering all of the evidence, everything pointed to Jasper as being one of the few survivors of the Newborn Wars of the South. A formidable foe, indeed, James pondered.
Add this Jasper to the other two younger males, lightning-fast Cullen and the large, heavily built one named Emmett, and the risk was high. These three were worthy and potentially lethal opponents. And as much as he hated to admit his own weakness, were it not for Laurent's intervention, Cullen might have proven triumphant during their last skirmish. While James had anticipated Cullen being hot, he had not been prepared for the level of speed, strength, and rage which he had exhibited while protecting that fragrant girl.
James noted that having Victoria fetch the two newest members of their coven was a wise move. They would be five strong, and the two add-ons were easily expendable. At the very least, they could provide distraction while he executed his plan.
He smiled and only just contained a laugh.
Moments before Alice had departed, a shrill, irritating buzz had floated on the breeze, immediately focusing his attention.
"Hello?" the girl had chirped. "Dad, hey."
Pause.
"No, no. I'm fine," she rushed.
Even from his distant vantage, he could see the blood pool beneath the thin veil of skin covering her cheeks. With gale-force effort, he fought imagining his teeth piercing her pink flesh. That would grab Cullen's attention instantly.
She was quiet, listening to her father. Her shoulders were taut, her stress evident. The girl isn't quite as naïve as I thought, he realized with satisfaction. Her anxiety was an added bonus.
Quietly, she answered, "He's fine, too."
Pause.
As she glanced around the room, her lips turned up into a thin smile. "I'm really okay here. The Cullens are wonderful. I really love them. It's… it's easier for me to be with people instead of being alone at the house."
James chuckled silently, shaking his head at her absurd chatter.
"Dad, really. I'm just so… so worried about you. You aren't sleeping, and you are out searching for a-" she whispered.
Such a weak girl, he grated. Other than her scent, little could redeem her. Cullen's fascination with her was perplexing; why he didn't just drink her and be done with it, James could not comprehend. The girl was good for her blood, and her blood only. Leaving her breathing and alive was a waste.
"I know it's your job. But Da-"
Pause.
The girl sighed and wrung her hands nervously. Her dark eyes clenched shut, and James could see her chest rising and falling with fast, shallow breaths.
"Okay, I know. Please, please be careful."
Her eyes opened, glassy and wet, and a lone fat tear fell down her cheek. Her voice shook as she spoke. "I love you, too. I'll see you in a couple of days."
As he raced away from the too-white and too-bright house, violent images of pale flesh and dark hair mangled and bloody rose to the surface, and he laughed, We'll see about that, my dearest Isabella. Cullen won't recognize you when I'm through with you.
April 16, 2009
2:18 pm
The Cullen family home, eight miles north of Forks, Washington
"They've been gone for so long, Carlisle," Esme whispered, as she rearranged the contents of the kitchen cabinets yet again. It was mindless activity, something that she'd hoped would distract her from her grief.
But her efforts were unsuccessful. Edward could hear her thoughts; she feared the worst, that Alice and Jasper were truly gone and were not returning. She felt as though her family had been fractured, split in two, never to be reconciled. Through Carlisle's eyes, he could see his mother double over with silent, dry shudders, her arms wrapped around her chest, fists gripping the thin dark cotton of her blouse.
Pain and worry radiated from behind the closed kitchen door, only partly subsiding when Carlisle pulled her into his steady embrace.
"It's only been a few days. You know Alice. She's rightfully hurt and angry. She just needs a little bit of time. But she won't be gone forever. She loves you too much, loves us all, even Edward," he whispered soothingly, gently rubbing slow circles along her lower back.
Her voice was muffled against stiffly starched fabric, but her words were perfectly clear, ringing in Edward's ears. "I'm so worried about him," she returned. "He shoulders so much. Have you seen him lately? Was he really so wrong in hiding her horrid past? I- I don't know if I can blame him, Carlisle. You know him, better than any of us. You understand him. Was he really so wrong?"
Edward's eyes snapped shut, and his body tensed, pressing deeply into the cream-colored cushion at his back. Thus far, he'd yet to receive the condemnation from his family that he'd expected. They all seemed torn, half agreeing with him, half wanting to strangle him. Carlisle had been the most guarded in his judgment; as of yet, his thoughts had given no indication of his stance. His thoughts remained in the present, worrying over James and what it would take to keep the family intact and safe.
Bella was seated on the plush rug beneath him, situated between his legs with her head lolled back and leaning against the inside of his knee. As soon as he shifted and stiffened, he felt her respond in kind. Yet she said nothing, intuitively understanding that he was hearing some difficult exchange. Instead of questioning, she merely wrapped an arm around his calf and hugged him close, offering him warmth and some measure of solace.
"I'm not sure what I'd have done, to be honest," Carlisle said finally. "I understand his motivations, I truly do. And a large part of me respects him for wanting to keep all of us safe, especially considering the peril at which he has placed his own life. And I understand the fear of being turned away because of your past. Edward's soul is good; I can't ever deny that. I know where his heart was.
"Though out of all of us, Alice needed the truth the most. She was in the dark for so long, never recalling a single image from her human life. The rest of us had something at least, something to hold on to; she's had nothing. I must admit, however…I-, I'm not sure that she's any better off knowing the horrors her human self bore. I can't imagine the pain and abuse she endured.
"I just don't know. But right or wrong, it doesn't change anything. And Edward has suffered enough, been punished enough for his wrongs. Physically, mentally, emotionally, he's more than paid for those years."
Carlisle sighed, and Edward heard a soft rustling of fabric. With unexpected conviction, he continued, "He deserves happiness. I've watched him through the years and never have I seen a light in his eyes as I'm seeing now. Our son deserves her."
The moment the words were said, Edward felt as though some weight, a weight that he'd not even realized he carried, lifted. He exhaled the deep breath he didn't recall holding, and his face tilted to the ceiling. For a long moment, he stared upward, still and silent, considering his maker's declaration.
Flickering light and images bounced off the pale ceiling, reflections from the television program no one was really watching. The actors' stilted dialogue barely touched his awareness. Instead, he focused on the warmth resting against him, and he replayed the words over and over.
Always, she had whispered.
Our son deserves her.
Since the night Alice had left, he and Bella had not spoken of their brief yet potentially existence-altering conversation. Her reply had been the last word uttered that evening, with the remainder of her conscious hours having been consumed by their urgent embraces and fervent, unspoken communication.
Touching her and kissing her hot, perfumed skin had been something akin to religion; he'd wanted nothing more than to worship her body with his own. Point in fact, since that night, he found himself regularly pondering such an event. His body was certainly willing, as was his heart. But can I? Do I have that level of restraint? he wondered. She's so very fragile. Were she a vampire, the question would be completely irrelevant.
At that thought, a dozen more questions sparked and filtered through his mind. But does she really want that? Were her words merely spoken out of raw emotion? Does she truly understand? Would she be willing to leave her life and all she knows? Could she really want me as I want her? Can I ask that of her?
"Edward?" she asked quietly, pulling him out of his abstraction. Her grip tightened around his denim-covered calf, and he sighed at the feel of her soft and pliable body wrapping around his.
His hand drifted down his thigh to where she was leaned against him. Tenderly, he wound his fingers through her dark hair and found the pale, smooth skin of her neck. Humming his response, he lightly ran his thumb down her throat, pausing over her pulse point. At his touch, her heartbeat jolted to life, drawing his eyes down to her small form curled up beneath him.
"Is everything okay?" she asked, staring out the window. "Have you heard anything from Alice or Jasper?"
"No," he replied. "Don't worry. Everyone thinks she will be back. Including me. We just have to be patient and give her time."
Without speaking, Bella turned her body around such that she was sitting facing him. She looked up at him, and her brows knitted together as if in apprehension, as if she feared her own next words. Her lips pursed in a hard, straight line, refusing to part.
Alarmed by her unease, he rushed, "What is it? Why do you look so troubled, Bella? Please don't worry about Alice. We will figure all this out."
As he spoke, he recognized that he meant every word. At some point, they would reconcile. Alice might not forgive him entirely, but she would not cause Esme or Carlisle pain; Carlisle was right about that. Years upon years of perfectly stored memories raced through his mind.
"I-, it's not that, really," she answered nervously.
He was puzzled, and for what had to have been the thousandth time, Edward wished he were privy to her thoughts. Gently, he tucked a stray curl behind her ear.
"Tell me, please, Bella. Why are you anxious? Tell me what to do," he murmured, as he traced the delicate line of her jaw.
He watched warily as she sucked in a deep breath, as if to steady or prepare herself.
"Was it difficult? Turning Alice, I mean," she whispered, as her eyes flitted from his to her hands and then back up again.
Every voice in the house silenced, and every thought turned to their conversation. The atmosphere in the room suddenly changed and warped, and it felt as though his limbs were wading through water.
He swallowed thickly as he considered her question. Long since, he'd vowed to be honest with her, no matter the consequence. He decided that this would be no different. He had to be honest with her, about this topic especially.
In a voice barely above a whisper, he replied truthfully, "Yes. Very much so."
Her eyes locked to his, and she nodded in understanding. "You wanted to drink her?"
"No and yes," he said softly. "I didn't want to drink her, but my body did. Instinctively, the smell of human blood does that to us. It was a battle of willpower, you might say."
Her eyes narrowed as she absorbed his response. Her head tilted slightly, and a finger drummed against his leg.
"Would it be worse for you if it were me?" she mouthed. Even with his acute hearing, he only just understood her words.
His breath caught in his throat. As evidence of his discomfort, his palm shot up and roughly dry washed his face.
Yes! he wanted to scream. While his body no longer wished to devour her, he could not guarantee how it would respond were he to taste her again. That particular memory, the sweet perfection of her blood, was one that he purposefully avoided at all costs. And now, it returned and attacked with frightening vengeance. The low burn in his throat flared to life.
Shaking his head, he whispered against his palm, "Yes, Bella. It would be far worse for me."
"But could you?" she pressed immediately, not pausing for a second. Her expression altered inexplicably. She looked… determined.
His breath came out in sharp, labored pants, as though his chest were being compressed. It was not unlike the feel of his sternum collapsing beneath James's pummeling fists. Sudden images of her body, blanched white, prone and comatose and slick with bright red blood, rattled through his mind. He remembered in startling detail the mind-shattering terror of her scream, the bare whisper of her heartbeat, and the pure, unbridled agony of thinking her dead. His muscles seized as he launched into near panic. He felt physically ill, and his stomach involuntarily rolled and heaved. The room spun dizzyingly, a whirl of beiges and whites and browns.
No! he nearly shrieked, anguished and enraged over the idea of her no longer existing. He shook his head, desperately trying to clear his thoughts of such horror before it claimed his sanity.
Drinking her would be an impossibility, he realized. That demon had truly been exorcised. His mind and body violently rejected just the mention of it, despite her blood's allure.
"Yes," he stuttered.
A small and knowing smile crept across her face, and she hugged her arms tightly around his legs. He could feel the slight trembles rippling through her body, and her heart raced at an unprecedented pace. Her dark eyes were wide and open, deep and clear; there was no misconception or confusion in her reaction.
"Okay," she answered simply.
"You realize what it means, right?" he breathed. "You can't go back. You'd leave everything behind."
Her gaze dropped to the rug, studying the intricate patterns and swirls. Her thumbs slid up and down, her nails roughly scraping the denim. It sounded like thunder to his ears.
"I know, Edward. I need to see my dad first."
Edward immediately leaned forward to the edge of the couch, and he grasped her by the tops of her arms. He bent down, pressing his forehead to hers, rolling back in forth in disbelief.
"Are you certain?" he asked, his voice shaking. His eyes shut, unable to meet hers with the emotion coursing though him.
"Without question," she said before pressing her lips to his.
April 16, 2009
7:12 pm
Six miles Northeast of Kalaloch, Washington
The small hunting party decided to split up, each man following the traces that Laurent and Victoria had planted at James's direction. A footprint here, a torn piece of fabric there, these men were so easy to lure. They were naïve and juvenile. Most had never before been involved in a murder case, let alone murders involving a serial killer.
James supposed 'serial killer' was quite the apropos title. He'd certainly killed more than any human murderer had ever even dreamt. He was as lethal as any predator living. Or dead, he corrected with a sneer and chuckle.
Through the darkened forest he traveled, lightly and silently floating from branch to branch, always staying above his intended prey. Never once had any of them looked upward. They all believed that they were dealing with a mortal, another human, one who was limited as they were limited.
They each held their rifles and pistols with white-knuckled grips, ready to act, ready to shoot on sight. The sharp, spicy cloy of adrenaline wafted up and swirled in the breeze. They were fearful but excited. They were hunting. Little did they realize that they were the prey, the hunted.
James watched the bobble of one particular flashlight. It was dark for them, he realized. The thickness of the virgin forest shut out the remaining light from the setting sun, leaving a gray and shadowy landscape. Sparsely scattered shards of golden light pierced the darkness, creating, for the humans, a surreal and frightening scene.
Carefully, he followed his mark. The clop and squish of his boots was loud, resonating in the closed space. As he ventured away from his fellow hunters, his footsteps marched in time to the thud of his heart and to the intake of his breath.
Just a touch farther, James thought, silently coaxing his prey. I need you alone. Interferences would be… an irritation.
Within twenty minutes, the man had trekked a solid mile and a half from the others in his small party. James appraised the man's woodsman skills and decided that he was almost competent. He'd anticipated having to wait longer, especially considering the terrain. The man knew the area and he knew himself in a forest.
The man stopped to consult a small electronic mapping device in a clearing, a space no more than ten feet in diameter, relatively flat and with light growth. Years ago, the clearing had been a hunting and camping stopover; the charred ground and ring of rocks from years of campfires showed as evidence. But this place had not been used in at least two years; the ground and foliage was completely untouched. James's acute senses picked up nothing of the acrid odor of burned cellulose.
"What the hell are we doing?" the man huffed, talking to himself. "There's no one in these woods. It's like we're on a wild goose chase."
Soundlessly, James dropped to the ground behind the man, gracefully landing on the balls of his feet. He stood upright in an easy, relaxed stance. There was nothing to fear for James; this would be enjoyable.
"I wouldn't say 'no one'," he purred. "In fact, I'd say that I'm just the 'one' you are looking for."
A shudder rolled down the man's back, and he stiffened. Quickly, he spun on his heel and met James with a stunned and startled expression. His brows climbed nearly to his hairline, and his lips dropped open.
"Who the hell are you? Where did you come from?" the man sputtered, raising his weapon.
The cock of a pistol hammer popped in the stillness. The man's feet shuffled into a ready position.
"Oh, Chief Swan! Does it really matter who I am? I don't think it does," James answered cheerfully.
A bead of sweat rolled down the man's face as he steadied his aim with his free hand.
"Mister, you better get on your knees right now. I will shoot you," he ordered.
James threw back his head with a loud laugh. Delightful! he thought. He has a backbone.
"By all means, shoot away!" he said with a smirk and nonchalant wave of his hand. Not waiting, he took an evenly measured step toward the man. No need to rush this, he reminded himself.
"Stop! You stop right where you are! You put your hands in the air and drop," the man shouted. He jerked away his support arm and fumbled with radio clip on his dark green collar.
In a blur, James was inches from the man's face with one hand gripping the barrel of the service revolver. His other hand wrapped around the man's hand and radio. Flexing his fingers, he crumpled both the man's bones and the radio. A sharp, satisfying exhalation and cry of pain resounded in his ears. The smell of terror radiated from the man's flesh.
"Tsk, tsk, Chief Swan. This is just between us. No interferences," he hissed as he released his hand.
The man tugged on the revolver, trying to pull it away. Unsuccessful, he relented control of the weapon and backed away. Step by step, he retreated until his spine bumped into a wide, burly tree trunk.
Frantically, he reached around to his back to locate his back-up weapon. Wincing, he pulled his now-mangled hand up against his chest, protecting it from further damage. It was already swelling and darkening to purplish-black.
"It's you, isn't it? You are the one, the one who killed Jacob and the others," he accused as he found his second weapon. A sliver of sunlight penetrated the green blanket overhead and glinted off the black steel of the semi-automatic.
James smiled and returned, "How I wish it were so, my dear Chief. But alas, Mr. Black's death was not by my hand. However, it was at my behest. My wife is quite skilled, you see. She enjoyed hearing your daughter's scream when she found her friend."
At the mention of his daughter, the blood drained from the man's face and his heartbeat stampeded in his chest. For a moment, James feared the man would die from cardiac arrest before he had his chance.
"Ah, I hit a nerve, I see. Your daughter? Our dearest Isabella? She is such a lovely girl. So fragrant and soft."
"What did you do to her?" the man screamed, his eyes wild and twitching. "You leave her alone!"
"How endearing! A father's love!" James sighed, clasping his hands together in mockery.
"Rest assured, Chief, Isabella is safe. For now. She's being guarded by those pesky Cullens. No doubt, have no fear, I'll have her, too. Soon enough," he said with a knowing wink.
A boom of gunfire exploded and echoed. Instantly, James felt the tickle of steel against the flesh where his heart would be, were he to have one.
"Splendid! Chief Swan! Your aim is quite good," he laughed wickedly. "But I fear your piddling weapon will do little against me."
Three more shots rang out, and three more bullets bounced off his chest.
"What did I just tell you? Did you not hear me say that your gun is useless?"
James waited patiently as the man unloaded the remainder of the clip in rapid succession, each round to no avail, each bullet recoiling innocently off his vampire flesh. When the last shot fired, followed by the empty 'click', the man cowered against the tree trunk in sheer dread.
"Wha-what are you?" he stuttered in a wheezy and breathless voice. The man's fear was truly palpable, and for a few seconds, James reveled in it.
A moment later, James was in his face again, pressing him into the wood. The man's chest constricted, and his lungs gasped for air. His arms flailed uselessly, his remaining intact hand trying to push him away. James's hand darted up and gripped the man by the chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. He felt the flinch when the man saw his scarlet irises.
"Vampire," he whispered, enunciating each syllable.
"Know this, Chief Swan, your daughter will be mine. I will drink every last drop of her precious blood. Cullen will not stop me."
The man's eyes rolled back in both pain and fear. With what little force he could muster, he pushed against James's advance. Quickly, however, he realized that he stood no chance. There was nothing he could do.
"Ple-please! Leave her alone. Leave my little girl alone!" he begged. "What have we done to you? Why?"
James sneered and chuckled, "Oh, it's nothing you've done. Let's just say that she had the wrong blood type. You can blame her boyfriend if you'd like."
A second later, his teeth pierced the tender flesh of the man's throat, slicing through skin, tissue, muscle and vein. His luscious and thick, hot blood flowed freely, coating James's tongue and throat. With strong, suctioning pulls, he drained him completely in a matter of minutes.
Satisfied, he tossed the body aside, not bothering to hide the evidence. They'd find him soon enough. And he was so looking forward to the girl's agony.