Chapter 25

The Last Supper

At around 11:30, with the wind now blowing the icy rain almost horizontally through the canyons, a car pulled up near the Weiss's building. The passenger door opened, and an umbrella bloomed as its owner got out and shut the door.

It was hard to tell much about the lone figure, except that I was certain it wasn't Evelyn. This person – man or woman – had none of her proud carriage, walking slightly bent over with no help of a cane, another tenant of her building perhaps.

The car slipped away, and the umbrella bobbed up the stoop. At the same moment, a second figure, separated itself from the shadows and rushed toward the steps. The umbrella flew to the pavement, something arced through the air and one of the figures crumpled to the ground. I closed the distance in seconds, as a shadow flitted into the alley beyond the brownstone, and sank to one knee on the wet sidewalk.

My hand went instinctively to the victim's throat, searching for a pulse. Already, there was none. The man's eyes were wide with shock, his mouth hanging open. His face was careworn with the lines that come with illness more than old age. Rain and blood were quickly darkening the fine white hair that must have made him handsome in life.

In that instant, I knew this had to be Evelyn's father.

I sprang for the alley. My quarry was running, nearing the next block. I took him down from the air and in the same movement swung him up by his coat collar and slammed him into the solid wall of the brownstone. Something broke with a cracking sound. It was not something of mine.

He shrieked with pain. The iron monkey wrench he'd been gripping dropped to the pavement with a loud clang. I pushed him farther up the wall, one hand pinning his throat, while with the other I ripped away the heavy scarf wrapped around his face.

There were the eyes I knew, so much like all the other prey I'd ever cornered – wide with the horror, not just of imminent death, but of the unimagined thing delivering it. And they were set in the face I'd expected to see from the moment I'd realized the identity of his victim.

"She trusted you," I hissed, nearly choking on my own rage.

He was making small desperate sounds, blood and saliva escaping his clinched teeth. "Who –"

I was too far gone to focus on his thoughts. He might have been trying to say "Who are you?" or only "Who?" in response to my accusation; perhaps he'd betrayed too many women to be certain who I meant. I didn't care either way.

My teeth fastened with unerring precision around a carotid artery, my tongue pressed against hot yielding flesh, and I pulled the life force from him with a passion born of conviction, the conviction that this was the most righteous kill I'd ever made.

That, coupled with the fact that I hadn't fed for an unusually long time, quickly disconnected me from any thought whatsoever. I might have stayed lost in the ecstasy of it for a longer time, deaf to the screams pealing down the alleyway, if I hadn't been so attuned to that particular voice.

Evelyn.

My struggle to regain myself lasted only seconds. Blinking, I wiped my mouth on the remnants of his scarf and tossed the body onto the piles of refuse already filling the shadows with their stench. I sped to the end of the alley and slowed to a human run till I reached Evelyn. She was kneeling over her father, face whiter than mine, her hands fumbling at his chest.

"Don't," I said softly, gently taking her wrists. With my other hand, I closed the old man's eyes and pushed his mouth closed before she could explore his face. "He's gone, Evelyn."

"But what happened? I don't understand?" Her voice was edging toward hysteria. I looked up to see the housekeeper standing in the doorway, rigid with shock.

"Mrs. Dawes, could you please telephone Dr. Hargrave?"

"But he's dead, isn't he," she said shakily. "I mean, so much blood. Oh, sweet Jesus!"

"Yes. There's nothing to be done, but Miss Weiss could use his help. Please."

She recovered herself and hurried inside. I put my arm around Evelyn, who was tracing her fingers over the dead man's face. "Papa insisted on going alone to Mr. Bishop's tonight. I was waiting for him to return when I . . . I heard something and came outside, but there was no one, and then I tripped over . . . over his body." She began to shiver uncontrollably and I forced her to her feet, putting my other arm around her as well. "Who would strike down an old man like that? Why?"

"Shh," I whispered. "I doubt that he felt a thing. It must have been very quick. His last thoughts were undoubtedly comforting ones of coming home to you."

I was lying, of course. The look of terror frozen on her father's face told me he'd known at least for an instant what was happening, but she didn't need to think about that. Hopefully, she'd assume his heart had given out when he was first surprised.

"You need to get inside," I told her, guiding her toward the steps. "The rain can't harm your father now, but you're going to need your strength."

I helped her up the stairs. Mrs. Dawes was just returning and seemed to be over her shock. "Thank you, sir, for your assistance. The doctor's coming right away. Would you come in and have something hot to drink? You're completely drenched."

"If you can prepare a suitable place, I'd like to bring Mr. Weiss inside," I answered, ignoring her invitation.

"Oh, yes, of course. Very kind of you, I'm sure."

She hustled back inside and I led Evelyn through the doorway. It didn't feel right being in her home like this. I couldn't remember when I'd actually entered the dwelling place of a human family, but there was no one else to help.

I set Evelyn in a chair near the hearth, as Mrs. Dawes returned with an old quilt. "Perhaps the oilcloth from the table," I suggested quietly, my eyes flicking toward the kitchen.

Whatever nurses' training she had seemed to surface. She nodded and went to fetch the tablecloth, along with some clean towels which she positioned on the parlour sofa.

I went back outside and picked up the body, carrying it into the house and depositing it gently on the makeshift bier.

"Thank you, Edward," Evelyn said, her voice barely audible. It was the first sign I'd had that she even recognized me.

Mrs. Dawes returned and pressed a cup of hot tea into her shaking hands.

I knelt by her chair. "You're going to be all right," I told her in my most persuasive voice. "You have everything you need to survive this. Your father would want you to go on with the same strength you've lent to him and make a good life for yourself."

She nodded, mechanically. "I have to telephone my aunt and uncle. They'll want to come down."

"That's good. Will you go back to Danbury with them?"

"That's always been the plan. Only I didn't . . . I didn't expect it to be like this." She began to weep, and I moved to the arm of the chair, holding her through the worst of it.

"I have some things I have to take care of," I said when the doorbell announced Dr. Hargrave's arrival. "I suggest he get in touch with the police and Mr. Bishop as well."

Again she nodded, mutely. I rose, inclined my head respectfully to Mrs. Dawes, who was just ushering the new arrival into the parlour, and made my escape from the house.

The authorities needed to be notified, but there was one thing it was important for them not to find – the manner of death. The rain had slowed to a pelting rhythm. When I turned into the alley, there was a clear view of a police paddy wagon sitting at the other end.

Arriving or leaving?

I hurried to the sodden lumps of garbage, kicking them aside, shoving them into new formations before facing the truth.

The body was gone.

I whirled to see that the Black Maria had disappeared as well. Damn the miserable luck! Should I follow it, hope to get a crack at the corpse before it was examined in the light?

Risky.

Instead I concentrated on finding the wrench. When it became obvious that it was gone as well, my tension eased. With a body and a murder weapon, plus the report of the victim nearby, the police would likely concentrate on connecting the two, relieved to have one of the dozens of crimes committed every night neatly solved. Pressure from the public would revolve around a respectable citizen attacked in front of his home – not the vigilante who had rid the city of a monster.

That's what I hoped and as the days went on, I became convinced that's what had happened. Still I stayed far from the neighborhood in case some budding Sherlock Holmes became obsessed with the peculiar condition of the body and began to investigate.

I worried about Evelyn, thinking how rude she must consider me for not paying a condolence call. It was rude, but then I'd never intended to become involved in her personal life or even go to her home. I'd done that, though. I'd been there when it happened, and there was no pretending I hadn't any involvement. Finally, I concentrated on making myself presentable to decent society, added the sunglasses and went to her home.

There was a mourning wreath on the door when I finally got up the courage to ring the bell. I expected it to be answered by Mrs. Dawes, who had some reason to think kindly of me, but instead I was facing a stranger, a dark, pretty woman of about forty with laugh lines at the corner of her eyes. She wasn't laughing now and offered only a terse, "Yes, what is it?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you. I was hoping to offer my condolences to Miss Weiss if she's accepting visitors."

"You're a friend of hers?" she asked with a bit less chill in her voice.

"We've known each other for some months now. My name is Edward Masen." I could only hope Evelyn had mentioned me, but why should she? Her father had gone to his grave not suspecting my existence.

"You're Edward who's been helping her with her piano practice?" She looked perplexed. "But I thought . . . I mean, Evelyn said . . ."

I saw it then in her mind. The expectation that I would be somehow misshapen or scarred and her own rather extravagant opinion that I was "gloriously handsome."

"If she's indisposed, I understand. I'd appreciate your conveying my sympathy and – "

"Oh, forgive me, Mr. Masen. My brother-in-law's passing has not left any of us at our best. I'm Evelyn's aunt, Fiona Teasdale. She's spoken so highly of you these last days. As a matter of fact, she is napping just now, but please, won't you come in."

"Thank you, no. I don't want to intrude."

"Nonsense. I'm really so glad to meet you. I'd like to talk to you a bit, if I may."

There were things I'd like to find out as well, so I followed her into the parlour. The sofa had regained its status as an ordinary piece of furniture. No reminders that it had been the temporary resting place of a murdered man. Most of the walls were bare now, and several packing cases were scattered around the room.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked, "Coffee or tea, sherry perhaps?"

"No, nothing." We sat down in the chairs before the hearth. I felt more the intruder here than I had the night of Mr. Weiss's death. Then I had a purpose. Now I felt the fragility of my façade.

"I want to thank you, Mr. Masen, for befriending my niece. The circumstances were terrible, necessitating us leaving her alone with a man who clearly had such a short time to live, but we had her little brother, Laurie, to care for. It must have been a great comfort to her, finding someone here who would encourage her music."

"She has a genuine feel for it," I said.

"Yes, and I want you to know, my husband and I intend to support her in anything she wants to pursue. Charles–her father–was understandably protective after my sister's death, but I hope to see her out in society, if that's what she wants, and there's a baby grand piano waiting for her."

"She'll like that," I said. "How is she bearing up under all this?"

Mrs. Teasdale smiled a little. "She is such an extraordinary young woman. Of course, she was distraught those first few days, but we've always been close, and once she'd cried herself out, she wanted to talk – about so many things. That's how I learned about you and your friendship. She told you about her . . . suitor?"

"The artist, yes."

Her kindly expression grew grim. "That man was up to no good, I'm convinced of it. The minute Evelyn hinted there were suspicions about him, he vanished. Why would he do that unless he knew there was substance to the rumors? He hasn't so much as written her a note about her father's passing."

"Did that upset her," I asked.

"In a way. She's romantic like most girls her age, but she's nobody's fool. I think she's annoyed with herself for succumbing to his flattery, when he could so blithely let her go. If he turns up here now, I'm quite sure she'll send him packing." Her mouth twitched in an almost smile that brought a dimple to her cheek.

"Speaking of which, I should apologize for the state of things around here. My husband's coming down to take us back to Danbury on Saturday, so I've been packing what I could. I don't mind telling you, I'm anxious to get away from this place, where innocent people can be murdered on their own doorsteps."

"Do the police have any leads," I asked, grateful for the opening.

"Not that I know of. They seem to regard such incidents as the price one pays for living in a large city." She shuddered briefly. "I used to quite enjoy coming to New York, but not now, not with Central Park filled with the homeless and people building fires on street corners just to stay warm. I want to get my niece away from here as soon as possible."

"If I may," I said," starting to rise, "I'd like to stop by before you leave. I have something of Evelyn's that I need to return, and I hoped to tell her goodbye."

"Oh, please do, Mr. Masen," she said, eyes wide with sincerity. "It would mean so much to her."

She saw me to the door and smiled up at me as I prepared to take my leave.
"Evelyn told me how you happened to come by . . . that night. I do believe you're her knight in shining armor."

I managed a smile in return, while silently despairing of human beings' chronic short-sightedness. It was a wonder we hadn't wiped them off the face of the earth. "Goodbye, Mrs. Teasdale. It was a pleasure meeting you."

So it was that on Friday, I was back on that doorstep, ringing the bell for the second and last time. The door was opened – not by Mrs. Dawes or even Mrs. Teasdale – but Evelyn herself.

"Edward, is that you?" she greeted me excitedly. Her face was pale and noticeably thinner, but genuine enthusiasm filled her voice.

"It is. I come bearing gifts."

"Are they what I hope they are?" Her hands shot out to touch the anonymous package I held in my arms.

"I packed everything as well as I could. The records are in there too, but I wouldn't recommend tossing the box around."

"It will sit beside me on the seat of the automobile all the way back to Danbury, I promise. Please, come in. You can put it right here in the hallway."

I did as she asked, but declined when she invited me into the parlour. "I can only stay a minute. I have an appointment." Just who I could possibly have an appointment with did not figure into my lie. I only knew I wanted this farewell to be as brief as possible.

"Are you sure? I have so much to say to you, although I don't honestly know how. I haven't had the chance to thank you for being here the night Papa died. It all seems like a horrible nightmare that I never would have gotten through if you hadn't come to help."

"I'm so sorry, Evelyn."

She nodded, tight-lipped. "My aunt and uncle are anxious to get me away from here. I must say I feel the same way. For the first time I'm frightened to go out. It's an awful feeling, and the memories . . ." She wrapped her arms around herself, protectively.

"Did Aunt Fiona tell you that Rupert seems to have vanished? Good riddance, I say. He must indeed have some guilty secret to be scared off so easily. Perhaps he was married. I don't know, and I don't want to know any more about him. If he should seek to renew his attentions, I'd just as soon be somewhere far away."

"You deserve better," I said.

She smiled. "You always make me feel so much more hopeful about everything, even myself. I don't know what I'm going to do without you. Aunt Fiona was quite taken with you as well. Please say you'll come to visit us in Danbury."

This part was the hardest. "I don't think so," I said, as gently as possible.

"Oh, but you must! Or perhaps when things are a bit more settled, I can come down on the train. I've never gotten about much in the city, you know, and I have a feeling you'd be the perfect guide."

I hesitated. Still amazed at the words I was about to speak, but knowing they were true. "I won't be staying in New York much longer. I need . . . I want . . . to go back." Not back home, because I wasn't sure there was such a place waiting for me, but just back.

"Oh." She seemed to find the statement almost as surprising as I did. "You've never talked about what you wanted. If that's it, then I'm happy for you. It's just that I should hate to think we might never meet again."

I took her hand in my gloved ones and squeezed it briefly. "That's what memories are for," I said in the tone that always soothed skittish humans.

"Oh, but Edward, I've never properly thanked you for what you did. You helped me to find my music again."

"I believe you have that backwards," I said, hoping she could hear the smile in my voice, "and I am grateful. Be happy, Evelyn."

I walked away then at a brisk, human pace, her rather plaintive "goodbye" echoing after me. In the state she was in even a small loss like that of our companionship could ignite the deeper grief again, and I had no wish to prolong that.

The sense of purpose I felt was so alien, after all these years, that I wondered if it could hold. I know my emotions tend to be volatile. Would they swing back at the first burning thirst or the next despicable excuse for a human being that crossed my path?

I honestly didn't know.

As a child, I'd balked at my parents' occasional references to my stubbornness, but I could see they'd been right. I'd stubbornly resisted Carlisle's efforts to guide me and just as stubbornly ceded all my power to the predatory side of my nature, as the only possible path to fulfillment.

All the violence and blood and death I'd reveled in were nothing but the path of least resistance, a weak man's choice.

Perhaps I could be just as stubborn in rejecting that way of life. I'd have to do it alone this time, which would make it that much harder. Even if I succeeded for weeks, months, years, the struggle would never end.

Decades from now temptation could cross my path in some particularly potent and unexpected way, and all my efforts would be for nothing, every hard-fought victory along the way cancelled out by my basic weakness.

Well, I'd have plenty of time for self-loathing if that happened. For now, I was tired of it. I headed back to 33rd street, waiting for darkness to fall. When it did, I made my way up the indomitable skyscraper, which had grown to an unbelievable 96 stories high, dwarfing even the exquisite Chrysler building. The view was exponentially wider and more far-reaching than it had been on my most recent visit.

It was a good place to contemplate changing perspectives and try to put a name to the ideas roiling in my subconscious that had ended with that startling pronouncement.

Yes, I was sick to death of what I'd become, but it was more than that. There were things I didn't want to let go of, things I'd fight to get back. Although memories of my parents had faded, I had no right to act as if they'd never lived and loved me and set me a good example. If there was an afterlife, did I want their souls looking down on a son who didn't put up a fight against his worst impulses?

I would always be alone, but it didn't mean I had to impact everyone I encountered for the worse. Evelyn had shown me that. I was never again going to be human, but it didn't follow that I should turn my back on the human qualities still left in me. Most of all I needed to regain a modicum of self-respect. Without it I was suffocating.

I had no idea how or whether I could make the necessary changes. I did know it had to start with controlling the monster, and I'd taken a few encouraging steps in that direction. Getting away from the places that had become part of a destructive routine had to be my next priority, followed closely by finding Carlisle.

I needed to apologize to him – not just for the way I'd left, but for how I'd shamelessly used him in my one contact since. And it had to be in person. A letter or telephone call would be the coward's way out – again.

The next day I sent a letter to the hospital where Carlisle had been practicing when I left. I pretended to be an administrator at Mt. Sinai, looking for a consult and inquiring if he was still on the staff. Of course, I was lying, but I had no illusions that I could reform everything about me that needed it.

To my surprise, a reply came back a week later informing me that Dr. Cullen was living in Rochester and working in a hospital there. I withdrew the money from my safety deposit box and gave away most of my clothes to people who looked like they could use them. As with the coffee and doughnuts, there was an ulterior motive. I wanted to travel light on my journey upstate.

I left in the middle of the night. It seemed easier to look back and see only dark shapes studded with light, nothing specific to remind me of things I'd done there, nothing except the spectacular tower that rose above the rest, now with its own colorful beacons to warn approaching aircraft.

As a last sight of New York City, it couldn't have been better. I harbored no bad associations with that building at all, and that couldn't be said of many places in Manhattan. Perhaps it was a good omen.

I headed due north toward the Catskills and the next task I'd set myself in an effort to put distance between the beast within and the part of me that had decided to fight for survival. This would be the hardest challenge yet and one I secretly felt was destined to fail, but I had to give it a try.

To go from an environment defined by crowds and traffic and buildings to a wilderness that had remained essentially unchanged for centuries was a surreal experience. I'd forgotten the silence, the softness, the green.

There were real trees to leap for instead of the metaphorical ones of my imagination. I could have enjoyed just roaming this different landscape, taking in the smells and sounds, if not for the thirst.

I'd pushed it to the limit this time. Part of me reveled in knowing my last meal was provided by that murderous impostor, French. His was the one death that would never bring me the slightest twinge of regret.

My other rationalization for letting the thirst build so long concerned what I was about to do next. I had my doubts that anything short of desperation could persuade me of its appeal.

A brief search revealed a little brook, running fast with spring rain. I took a seat in the branches above and waited. The scent came first and then the rustling of new foliage, followed by the appearance of a Whitetail buck.

It was a beautiful creature, powerfully muscled but delicate in its movements as it approached its goal. I bided my time, allowing him to drink. I know what it's like to be thirsty.

Out of nowhere, something flew across my vision landing solidly on the deer's back with a primal snarl. Antlers twisted, slender legs flailed briefly, and it was all over. I watched stunned as the big cat tore into its prey. So intent had I been on my own personal challenge, I hadn't sensed its presence at all.

For four years I had only to be wary of one animal; now I was reminded there were many. The one before me was magnificent, lethal and beautiful in its ferocity, supple muscles rippling as it devoured its meal. Like me, the mountain lion had been so focused on his prey that it hadn't noticed there was another predator nearby.

I let it finish. No reason the food chain couldn't be orderly. After the meal, it went to the brook to drink and sat washing its face like a giant house cat.

I stood up on the branch and hissed. The big head swung up, zeroing in on me immediately, teeth bared. I hissed again, and it lunged for the tree just as I pushed off and swung myself into another one, then dropped to the ground in a crouch staring into its amber eyes.

The game was on. I'm not sure how long it lasted, I was so fascinated by the way the animal moved, by turns slinking and leaping in response to my taunts, always instinctively opting for the higher ground.

Only my supernatural speed kept it from catching me; only my indestructibility prevented the incredibly powerful swipe it finally landed – the only one any of my victims had ever completed – from tearing my head off.

Finally, I stood perfectly still, fixing it with a stare designed to bring out the worst in any species. The lion's body retracted slowly into a crouch, the great haunches tensed with power, and it launched itself at me with a momentum that would have brought down anything living.

Fortunately, I'm made of sterner stuff. Its body thudded against mine, the huge forepaws landing on my shoulders. My hands shot forward and broke its neck.

As the creature collapsed, I fell to me knees and sank my teeth into its still-pulsing throat. Time slowed. There was no need for hurry in this secluded place. When at last I rocked back, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth, it took a moment for my brain to regain control of my over-stimulated senses.

Bland. Decidedly bland – not all that much different than the deer I'd hunted with Carlisle. As the wine connoisseurs might say, missing some je ne sais quoi. The frenzy was there, the rush of well-being that accompanied an influx of hot blood, but not the all-out ecstasy that accompanied a human kill.

Not the complications either, I reminded myself, determined to make the best of this experiment. The thirst was gone. I felt satiated. It was only the prospect of feeling nothing more than this forever that threatened my resolve.

I absolutely couldn't let myself think that way or the vanishing of my resolve would be followed in short order by the loss of my sanity. Best to worry about it one feeding cycle at a time.

On the plus side, I had enjoyed this particular animal hunt more than any in the past. I suspected it was less the meal itself, than the presentation. More challenging, more sporting, more . . . fun. A good point to keep in mind for the future.

As darkness closed in, I resumed my journey, leaving the forest behind. I tried to stick to the countryside, out of temptation's way, but as I drew closer to my destination, another big city, the nerves kicked in. I had no idea what to expect when I saw Carlisle and no right to expect anything but a door slammed in my treacherous face.

If that's what happened, I'd have to accept it, but I was going to do everything I could to get an apology in first. None of my hopes to improve myself would stand a chance if I didn't step up and take responsibility for the mess I'd made.

The address I'd been given was not in the city, but in an outlying wooded area. No surprise there. But the house? That was a surprise. I'd expected an old Victorian like the one he'd lived in before.

The gleaming cube that winked at me from among the trees was pure Bauhaus, with glass brick in place of windows on the street side. It must be bright inside, where no one could see. Cheerful.

And here I came like Banquo's ghost to spoil the atmosphere. I knocked on the door, and the moments before it was opened stretched out like images in a funhouse mirror. Plenty of time to bolt, but I didn't.

The door swung open, and I found myself looking into the eyes of my creator. His clothing, impeccable as usual, was light in color, like the house, the smile that spread slowly across his face, just as bright as I remembered.

"Edward," he said simply.

"Hello, Carlisle." I searched his mind for the kind of who-do-you-think-you-are response I deserved, but found only a profound sense of relief. "I apologize for coming here– unannounced, but I wasn't sure you'd agree to see me. The house," I went on, before he could say anything else, "this house is incredible. How did you find it?"

"We didn't. Esme designed it."

"Esme?" My mission was momentarily forgotten as I tried to process that. When I'd left, Esme had made it through the newborn phase, but she was very quiet and content to concentrate on Carlisle, who obviously adored her.

I did remember her making sketches now and then – of houses, artfully decorated rooms – but I'd never realized she was capable of this. I could feel the pride in Carlisle's thoughts as he watched my reaction.

"She's amazingly talented," he said. "And she's going to be so happy to see you." Before I could stop him, he'd turned his head, calling her name. "Come, see who's here!"

She was there in a flash, clapping her hands to her face and letting out a little cry when she saw me. Her eyes looked huge, and I was sure if she had still been human, there would have been tears in them. "Oh, Edward! I can't believe it." She threw her arms around me. "I've hoped for this every single day since you left!"

Her cheek was against my chest, my nose in her hair. It smelled soft and innocent and loving, like her. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had put their arms around me, and for a moment I relaxed into it, hugging her back.

If only I deserved this kind of reception. It must feel wonderful to be welcomed home by people who loved you. But she had no idea what I'd become. I straightened again. "You're very gifted, Esme," I said. "The house is exquisite."

"Do you really like it?" She beamed up at me. "Most of the people around here think it's a little weird."

"It will grow on them," I assured her. "Truly, it's a work of art."

"I hope you feel the same about the inside," she said sliding her hand down my arm to pull me toward the doorway. "I want your honest opinion now. It's still a work in progress."

I resisted her tugging. "I can't stay. I'm here because I owe you both an apology. The way I acted when I left, not contacting you except to demand money. It was unforgiveable, and I sincerely regret everything I did that hurt you."

"It was your money, Edward," Carlisle said. "You had every right to ask for it, and I knew you'd have to come back eventually."

"You did?"

"Have you forgotten the rest of your legacy – the mementoes your parents left, your mother's jewelry. They're still here waiting for you."

I had forgotten. The little ebony chest that held all that was left of my human existence. Looking at its contents had been too painful after their deaths, but how could I leave them behind as if they'd never mattered?

"Please, come in," Carlisle said, opening the door wider.

Esme must have seen the coming refusal in my face. "I'm just finishing up with something," she said hurriedly. "It will only take a little while, meantime I'll leave you two to talk."

She was lying, of course. "I really can't stay," I repeated, suddenly desperate not to infect them with what I'd become.

"Edward Cullen, don't you dare leave again without saying goodbye. I'll only be a few minutes."

She was gone before I could protest, the name I hadn't used in four years still ringing in my ears.

"I accept your apology, by the way," Carlisle said. "Surely, you can come in long enough to see what she's done with the interior. Esme's always valued your opinion."

"She shouldn't. She doesn't . . . you don't know what I've been doing. If you did, you wouldn't – "

"Wouldn't what?" Carlisle's voice sounded angry, but his thoughts were more complicated than that. "Have you forgotten that I'm the one who put you in this situation? I've been there myself, and I doubt that anything you've done could shock me. Now, please."

There was no way to refuse without adding more insult to injury. I stepped inside. The house had the peculiar quality of seeming larger on the inside, partly, I decided, because of the high ceilings and the tall windows that dominated the far side.

The walls were white, the floors gleaming black linoleum, interrupted by only a few pieces of simple, but comfortable looking furniture. Two steel columns bisected the room. "Plumbing?" I guessed, looking to Carlisle for confirmation.

He nodded. "Form follows function. There's a heating system too – under the floor. She designed it with resale value in mind, for when it's time to move on."

I walked to the back wall which looked out on nothing but woods. Sunlight streamed through the trees. At certain times of day, it would even shine into this room, I thought. Carlisle had come to stand beside me.

"You're wondering if I spent the entire four years in New York."

"Yes." I didn't turn to look at him, but I could hear the smile in his voice. "I'm wondering, but that doesn't mean you have to tell me. Curiosity – the bane of cats and people who used to be human."

"I really don't want to talk about it," I said quietly.

"I wouldn't ask you to."

We were silent for several minutes. This was an incredibly peaceful space. Simple. Tranquil.

"You know, Edward, I've thought a lot about what I did wrong when you were here."

"Don't," I said. "You tried. I wouldn't listen."

"It was naïve, thinking I could spare you the pain by simply telling you how to cope. We each have to take on the worst that's in us and fight for what's worth keeping."

"I can't imagine Esme fighting the desire to kill people," I said, unable to keep the acidity out of my voice, "not after the newborn period."

"Esme's very gentle by nature. She accepts what comes and makes the best of it. Your personality is more . . . complicated."

Well, there was a euphemism, if ever I'd heard one. I rummaged shamelessly through Carlisle's mind to see what ugly truths the word was hiding. I found "headstrong," "analytical," "passionate." I was still searching for "stubborn," but the closest I found was "determined."

"It's a volatile mix to have to deal with when you're struggling to survive. I don't need to know how you did it. What I care about is that you're here right now and you're all right."

"I'm not," I said, shaking my head. "I'm not all right. Things went . . . I went too far, and I've been trying to get back again, but I honestly don't know if I can fix it."

His expression remained neutral, but I could sense the sympathy in his thoughts – sympathy – not pity. "Don't you think that's a good reason to be around people who will love you regardless of whether or not you succeed?"

Was that even possible? Could someone still love a person who failed them so flagrantly?

Carlisle could. I could see it in his mind. It was one of his many gifts. Esme's too, I suspected. Perhaps it was a talent peculiar to immortals – some of them anyway. I suddenly couldn't say a word.

"Do you know what's above this room?" Carlisle asked rhetorically. "A studio. It runs the entire length of the house. Esme uses part of it when she's working on a design, but the other half contains a rather spectacularly useless piece of furniture."

My mind was so muddled with unfamiliar emotions that I only now managed to read his. "A piano?" I said. Unless one of them had taken up a new hobby in my absence, neither he nor Esme played. "Why?"

Carlisle frowned thoughtfully, "I believe the appropriate word is 'bait.'"

"We didn't think home-cooking had much of a chance at luring you." Esme added with an impish smile, as she entered the room. "It's not easy catching a vampire."

"That's because you can never trust what they're going to do," I pointed out, only half joking. "And I don't . . . I haven't played the piano for a long time. I don't even know if I can."

"It's an option, not a requirement," Carlisle teased gently, "but I wouldn't discount the possibility, if I were you, given the unreliability of vampires. Will you stay? Just a day or two if that's all you can stand or as long as you like. Your choice. No questions asked."

Put like that, it was hard to refuse what I suddenly wanted very much to do anyway, but the more I felt the pull of emotional attachments – of hope – the more it seemed inevitable that I would find a way to destroy it, hurting them all over again.

Carlisle appeared to be the one reading my mind now. "Just a day. No strings attached."

Small steps. That's all I could trust myself to do. I looked from one to the other and saw nothing but acceptance, a gift I'd never been able to grant myself.

"Yes," I said, and it was almost a whisper. "Yes, I'd like to try."

As you know, that one day is now almost 80 years in length, for which I'm eternally (and I don't use the term lightly) grateful. Perhaps by the time you've read this, I'll have more information, but I need to know what you think.

Am I right?

A/N: I just wanted to wish a wonderful holiday season to everyone who's stuck with this story and especially those who've encouraged its continuation. All the best in 2011!