Chapter 29:

How Lovely the Scarlet Path


It was the most beautiful piece of art she had ever laid eyes on.

The paint glowed and the half-dry oils shone, making the scene itself ethereal in a way she hadn't dreamed she could reproduce on canvas.

Esme knew her skills as an artist were finer for her breed, but this was not what made that painting of several autumn trees so entrancing.

It was that top left corner – the brilliant seduction of crisp apple red, brightened by a blushing orange beneath. The sprinkling of colors, each placed so carefully, with such purpose, such certain precision by the hand of her doctor.

She could not take her eyes away from it.

She could be those colors. He could stroke her, and be so precise with her, and make her come to life in a way she had never imagined possible.

Esme sunk onto the blank canvas of her bed and watched the painting from a distance. Those trees seemed to move within the frame, their leaves seemed to glitter in the oncoming dawn from her bedroom windows. The painting changed in the light, as all paintings did, but this one held a certain magic.

The moment the sun rose that morning, Esme knew something was stirring. Something in the balance of nature was askew; the hue of the sun itself was too red, too dim. The sky was hazy, and before it had begun, she sensed the storm in the distance. Even as a human, Esme had been able to sense a storm. They were palpable to those who paid attention to the changing expressions of the atmosphere.

It had begun normally enough for a Sunday. Carlisle stayed home, and though he was not working, he graciously answered the occasional telephone call for recommendations on various prescriptions. Esme listened with one ear to his calming lilt as he recited to his patients the names of drugs that had become all too familiar to her while eavesdropping on his conversations from down the hall.

Meanwhile, Edward had been thoroughly rapt with his project of creating a rather impressive tower out of two decks of playing cards on the dining room table.

"Listen to him," he groaned with a soft laugh, nudging his head in the direction of the doctor's study. "He doesn't stop. It's like the medical marathon."

Esme sniffed with laughter, hoping Carlisle was too distracted to hear her.

"He knows I'm talking about him," Edward confirmed with a smirk. "He doesn't care. He likes the attention."

Esme's brows scrunched together. "Alright, then."

"I asked him to come in after he's finished."

Her stomach tingled pleasantly. "Oh?"

Edward smiled gently in understanding. "We're trying to spend more time together. You know, like you suggested?"

Esme was slightly confused. "I did?"

He gave her a significant look, and she realized she had suggested that Edward spend more time with his father. Through her thoughts.

"Come here."

She sighed and rose from her chair to join Edward on the other end of the table. He handed her a Jack of Spades.

"Steady hands," he reminded as she carefully slid the card into place.

"Oh."

"Hah! You did it." He patted her arm proudly.

Esme beamed bashfully. "Well, there's no way I'm going to do the next tier."

"You give up too easily," he whispered with a note of challenge.

"No, I'm just smart enough to know when something won't turn out well."

"How do you know if you don't take the risk?" he asked, the innocent edge to his voice very disconcerting.

"Must we talk about 'risks,' dear Edward?"

He didn't respond, but his mouth had formed an impressively thin line as he concentrated on the placement of the next card to his tower.

After several attempts to complete a fifth tier, the stack finally slipped apart, and Edward's mood went from relatively pleasant to grouchy in a matter of seconds.

In hindsight, she probably should have taken the time to run off hunting with Edward that morning before the storm hit, but they had been rather lenient lately, as Esme proved she could better handle her thirst every day. Edward's eyes had been charred for several days already, and if that had not been the case, perhaps the edges of his normally admirable control would have been smoother. Yes, in hindsight, they should have hunted when they had the chance.

Esme left him to his brooding and painted for a while, despairing once again over her shortage of blue pigments. Interestingly enough, many of her whites were now missing, as well as a jar of linseed oil. Her paintings were dismal to put it conservatively – whether it was from lack of interest due to her melancholy mood or the fact that she was running low on her favorite colors, she couldn't quite tell. Some part of her supposed her muse was useless without Carlisle's lingering presence behind her. Regardless, no canvas she had produced that morning was particularly frame-worthy.

Sighing, she cleaned her brushes off and covered the canvas she had been working on before returning to her room.

There was one spot of paint on her thumb. That was all. Just one spot of pale pink pigment on the pad of her finger. But she decided it was enough of a reason to bathe.

It was strange the way she had never really felt the need to wash, the only exception being after a messy hunt. The vampire's body emitted no toxins or fluids, no sweat or odors of any sort. The venom was a sort of purifying substance that cleared over anything that could have soiled their flesh.

Yet, they still bathed. Carlisle did it every morning – she guessed because he wanted to feel human. At least, that was why she did it.

She wondered if he heard the sounds of her clothes falling softly upon the floor as she undressed. She wondered if his arms tightened when he heard her gasp at the first hot droplet of water from the faucet. She wondered if he listened as aptly to her delicate ambiance as she did with his.

At one point, he placed the telephone into the cradle and exhaled into silence. She chose this moment to set her foot into the water.

There was no discreet motive in the back of her mind, no reason behind the first liquid tickle of her toe on the surface of the bath. She heard the wonderful sound of his breath catching… but it was only in her mind.

She let the water consume her body, the most intimate of all nature's embraces. It touched every part of her, leaving not a speck of space between the water and her body. It was everywhere. Over and under. Outside and inside.

How she wished Carlisle was the water.

She inhaled, and he exhaled.

Through the empty hallways, down the stairs, through three pairs of heavy wooden doors.

He whimpered so softly she had to assume the sound was her imagination.

Of course it was.

She shouldn't have let her eyes slip closed as she rested her head against the rim of the bathtub. She shouldn't have rubbed her ankle over the length of her calf or let her fingers trail carelessly over the scars on her neck.

All she saw was him. All she felt was his hand sliding down her leg, and his fingers creeping behind her neck…

The textured rush of his clothing collapsed onto the floor beside hers.

He set his foot into the water, and she tucked her legs back to make room for the rest of him.

His strong legs dipped down below the surface, bending at the knees, sloshing the water about so that the small waves splashed gently against her shoulders.

The water lapped lovingly at his waist as he settled into the chill. His arms shivered, and she curled her hands around each of his elbows, tugging him closer.

Then his fingers were twisting in her curls, and his breath was slipping through her open lips.

"Please, Esme…" he whispered, his words like warm sugar, melting on the tip of her tongue.

He introduced her to the tender touch of his lips, and this introduction was not as chaste as she had thought it would be. It was a bold introduction, one that did not fear consequences; one that assumed the willingness of its recipient.

"Please," he said the word once more. And she almost thought the word was real. She almost thought she felt the waves of its sound pulse against her cheek...

But when she opened her eyes, no ivory torso blocked her view, no chiseled arms locked her in place. His breath was too far away to feather across her face. Only the water spoke to her. He said nothing.

Disgraced by her terrible fantasies, Esme purified herself by sinking into her icy bath. She refused to resurface until the images fled her mind completely.

How wretched it was that she could not even bathe without falling victim to this curse.

She should have never set foot in the water.

All because of that pale pink thumb.

The color was gone by the time she stepped out of the bath. Her fingers were clean, but her heart was not. Her heart was soiled and mottled, filled with festering colors, and ripe with passions both pure and lush.

Whatever was she going to do with her heart?

Pondering the way she might go about properly punishing herself for such thoughts, Esme sulked through her empty bedroom, trying to ignore the angry twisting in the pit of her stomach.

Her eyes watered at the bitter unfairness of it all as she swiftly shrugged a light bathrobe around her body, about to walk back to her wardrobe.

At the shock of an intrusive scent, Esme froze into stillness by the window.

She caught the twinge of a most familiar aroma lingering in the air. It danced tauntingly around her nose, not really tangible at all. Just a tiny whiff of insignificant particles floating by.

Her eyes crinkled innocently as she struggled with the recollection, unable to put a name to this peculiar scent. It must have been so far away, for every time she tried to drink it in, it only skittered away, lost upon the air.

Esme stood before her vanity mirror, staring at her beautiful reflection.

Everything was foggy, and slowly turning pink…

A stampede of pounding footsteps charged up the stairs, and before she could react, Edward was in her room, panting heavily, eyes wide like saucers full of liquid soot. She whimpered in shock as he placed both hands on her shoulders, towering above her, and pushed her back into the wall.

"Don't move."

His voice would not have been heard if she'd been even a hair's breadth further from his face as he locked her in place, eyes unmoving as he stared down at her, but they were not focused on her gaze.

The terror did not seize her in one swoop, but instead it trickled down her back slowly, silently screeching against her spinal cord.

It was that scent. It was back again.

"Carlisle." Edward whispered the name against her forehead, and a flash of movement followed immediately, between her bedroom doors.

Suddenly he was there beside them in all of his blond authority, and his hand was like iron where it suddenly bruised her arm through the thin fabric of her robe.

"How many? Edward, how many?" he hissed urgently.

Humans, she thought, in a dizzy panic. They were approaching the house.

The youth bowed his neck so that his forehead brushed against Esme's, struggling as though his lips had been sewn shut. He shook his head, indicating that he could not speak, and Esme tried to inhale the suddenly bewitching fragrance.

Carlisle's hand crushed her nose and mouth, shutting the temptation out, and a familiar whine of protest broke through her withering throat.

"Dear Lord," he whispered, and suddenly he was behind her, his hand still covering her nose, his arm braced around her middle.

He was her own private prison again. Her freedom was gone.

Edward cowered against the glass door to her balcony, clutching his throat, still rolling his head back and forth vehemently as though trying to shake the voices of demons from his mind.

"I can't stand it!" he choked out and pressed himself against the windows like a lanky doll.

Esme's vision had just begun to redden when she felt her feet lift from the floor, and as the doctor moved with her between his arms, she watched as she approached the place where Edward stood with his hands over his ears, chin against his chest.

In one elegantly violent sweep of his arm, Carlisle tore the balcony door from its frame, hinges shrieking in protest and the glass shattering resonantly as they made their grand exit. He twisted Esme around in his arms so her face was smothered against his neck, seized her by the waist and jumped from the railing to the hard ground below. He ran the length of the yard in half a second, Edward rocketing ahead of them as they reached the dark fence of towering firs.

"Don't breathe. Don't breathe. Don't breathe," Carlisle repeated the mantra into Esme's ear as he carried her through cold, rushing darkness.

Having no access to air was not an impediment to her, but the temptation to breathe was so repulsively tantalizing because she knew one little sniff would fill her with that unmatchable tonic.

She would have sold her soul twice over, just to have a taste of that scent. She had been so close to it, but now she was being transported faster and faster away from it. She struggled in agony as the injustice permeated her senseless mind, her limp arms flailing against the pressure of the wind, her legs kicking against his side in attempt to slow him to a halt.

He did not stop for her. He did not even slow down. In her anger, Esme took deep swallows of the sweet air around her, gathering up the stray morsels of her siren, even as Carlisle begged her not to breathe. The soft strains of his beautiful voice made him sound even more barbaric in her warped state of psyche. She only breathed deeper to spite him.

She snapped her sharp teeth against his neck in warning when he tried to increase the speed of his run. Her fingers clawed at his skin, and her throat throttled with the sounds of a demonic animal. Her venom was like thick, sweet foam, clotting between her sharp teeth.

Carlisle's words were like soft white mud, pushing into her ears that simply refused to make sense of what he tried to say.

"Sweet Esme… Please… You cannot do this to me… God… Esme… Find yourself… Remember… I am still here with you… Esme…"

She still kicked. She still shrieked. She still fought against him because he was nothing more than a man who wanted to destroy her only reason for living.

The thumping rhythm of something stronger than a heartbeat drummed against her chest. She was pressed so tightly to him, she could barely feel the friction between their bodies while he ran with her. It was like he had welded them together somehow. Like his hands were bolted to her back, and her chin was chained to his shoulder.

Slowly, his words began to sing their sense.

"Hold on, dear Esme. We're nearly away… We're almost there. Don't leave me, Bright Eyes. I have you… Oh, I have you."

The whirlpool of formidable scents began to change, mollify, and she cried out with the loss of the one stimulating aroma that was now miles behind her.

Even as Esme thought for certain the torture would never release her, it somehow did, always, in that same frantic threshold when her consciousness hit her like a slab of granite.

The scent was gone. The need was gone. She was back.

Esme wept apologetically against the fading teeth marks in Carlisle's lovely neck, and he recognized her sanity, finally slowing to rest in a clearing so dim she feared they had been running all night.

He let her cry senselessly for a good minute, walking slowly with her in his arms, as if he were patiently trying to lull a child to sleep. He searched for a safe place to put her down, eventually settling into a rough bed of leaves on one knee. He opened his arms to lay her gently against the wide base of a tree whose gnarly roots framed her protectively from the rest of the forest.

Though the canopy of leaves above them must have been several feet in thickness, a few sneaky raindrops made their way through the foliage to prickle cold and unwelcome on their shoulders.

Esme looked up at Carlisle where he hovered above her, and in his eyes she saw neither pity nor fear. Not even disapproval. Nothing with a name. He only looked down at her, his face almost dumbstruck, and his eyes just the same. His gaze was devoid of any recognizable emotion, but full of strange, tender fire. It killed her.

He was at a loss for words.

When she could no longer take the strength of his gaze, she bowed her head and stared wistfully at the patch of clover underneath her. She would have given anything to shrink down and live there in peace – in that tiny solar system of round crystal dewdrops clinging to the fragile webs on green leaves. It looked so tranquil down there, so insignificant, such a beautiful little place to escape.

"Will I never have control?" she whimpered hopelessly, tucking her bare, earth-stained legs against her chest to cover herself in her flimsy attire.

He did not nod or shake his head. His lips moved but his eyes did not deviate from their fixed point on her face as he spoke quietly, "You will if you have faith."

She sobbed dryly, letting her neck fall loosely back against the tree. She closed her eyes and tried to wish it all away, but something stung her deep inside, telling her the mess had not even begun.

"Faith, Carlisle?" She shivered as his name worked loose from her lips. "Faith in what?" She met his eyes, and found his face suddenly filled with wisdom and sympathy.

"Yourself," he answered, and it was a careful answer – one he knew she wanted to hear. There would have been a far more fitting reply to this question, but it was too sensitive to mention. He knew this.

Esme saw that alternate answer wavering behind Carlisle's eyes.

"I don't understand..." She bit her tongue in frustration, hands tangling in her hair. "What am I doing wrong?"

"Nothing," he interjected with haste, his voice strong. "You have done no wrong thus far, Esme. This is how you must cope. Resistance will not always be within your immediate control. You have..."

She stared at him with begging eyes, and he closed his lips, unable to continue the words she knew he wanted to say.

You have me to keep you in your place.

But that would not always be the case. Even he must have known that.

Then how in the world did he manage to defeat the desire all on his own? She needed to know.

"You did it," she said, unaware of how harsh and accusatory her tone was.

He breathed in a dark, deep breath and swallowed hard. She saw it in his eyes – his natural defense, his misunderstood revulsion with himself. People used this against him because he was an exception to every rule of control. He was an anomaly who had to be accepted by everyone. Even her.

"How did you manage?" she demanded in a passionless voice. "You had no one."

The reminder stung him, and she pitied him for a moment as he winced and pulled his eyes away, his profile sharp.

"That isn't true," he whispered vaguely, wisps of words so hurt that she flinched.

There was always One Other with Carlisle. She should have remembered this.

It wasn't fair that Carlisle should have God's mercy while the rest of them were somehow deemed unworthy subordinates, trailing along behind to pick up the dust of every trial in their eyes. And even while in the back of her heart she knew this was untrue, there was always a deepening doubt that such holy presence was promised to her as well.

"I…I'm so…so lost," she stammered unthinkingly, thrashing one fist against the tree's root in a puerile temper.

She listened as Carlisle moved closer to her, and she breathed him in heavily, the rich cleanliness of his scent anointing her lungs.

She did not dare open her eyes, but waited with bated breath until he finally made contact, and his hand captured hers, firm and warm.

Esme sighed, her lungs sinking in as profuse relief poured forth from her dry lips. The lush warmth from his grasp crept like hot liquid up her arm and settled inside her chest, loosening the ugly little knots of every sin.

This was not the end of the world. She would pull through this.

Not one of his fingers moved as he held her still – each one was locked soundly in place, fastening her hand inside of his with a determined security that was utterly thrilling. He held her so tightly, for such a long time that an impossible pulse had birthed between their hands.

"You are not lost," his voice whispered soundly from above her. "I'm here, Esme." His words sounded vaguely like something God might have said, but she could hear clearly the accent that distinguished her childhood doctor.

At long last her eyelids fluttered open to find his vigilant gaze fixed upon her still, only now he was closer, and perhaps a bit more handsome.

"You're here, and I'm here," he said, and his pale pink lips gently quirked into what was just nearly a smile. "And we're going to be fine."

His fingers tightened reassuringly around her hand for a second, and the quivering in her chest seemed to settle reluctantly with each passing second.

They were going to be fine...

But then her brow furrowed. There was still a missing piece.

"Edward," she stated in a weak, scratchy voice.

"He's gone further north," Carlisle informed her with a slight tilt of his head in the direction. "He'll find us on his way back."

His eyes fell onto her face. And in this strange, strangled moment, it was like every spark of emotion he had tried to keep trapped inside came pouring through in a vast disarray of colors in his gaze.

Esme's heart seized up within her chest as Carlisle reached down and took her chin into his hand. Harsh was the motive, but gentle was the action.

His eyes were positively leaking hidden feelings – forces of midnight and starlit gold, and deep drops of tender bronze. His breath was heavy, but his hand remained still, like a cup of warm, smooth stone beneath her jaw.

He swallowed. He spoke.

"You worry for him so much, Esme."

"So do you," she whispered, simply confirming what she saw so clearly in his fatherly eyes.

Carlisle looked as if he were being burned slowly from the inside out. He bowed his head in one long nod and let his hand slip away from her chin.

A tiny bit of the fire that burned him must have worked its way into her veins.

Esme jolted as an agitated crackle of thunder sounded overhead, and the rain began to fall more steadily through the leaves above them.

Carlisle's eyes closed softly as the clear droplets began to land one by one in his hair. Esme at once rose anxiously off her back to squint at the sparse window of sky above them, still clutching his hand possessively where he held her.

"The clouds are moving in that direction," she pointed with her free hand. "If we move in the opposite way we can avoid the rain."

She started to rise to her feet but he kept her firmly in place with that single hand.

"We'll be safest here. The air is clear here, and the rain will help it stay that way. We don't know what's out there, Esme," he whispered, his eyes sparkling with warning.

"But Edward..."

"He'll come to us." But the way Carlisle said this was not completely certain. Esme heard the hint of doubt, and it made her tremble. "Please." He pulled on her hand. "I don't want to us to lose each other."

Good Lord, he was practically pleading with her.

Esme settled obediently back into her place, imperceptibly touched by his words.

I don't want us to lose each other.

Carlisle's eyes fell downcast once again as the rain began to fall in misty sheets, and Esme shivered in dread, knowing their situation was sealed as inescapable.

As with any perfect storm, there came a definitive moment when the clouds ceased their teasing and the rain finally poured down around them in a furious monsoon that would have been more appropriate for an Amazonian summer. Carlisle appeared all too unaffected by the sudden downpour, even as his hair was soaked to a melancholy brass, and the perfect Chartres-blue linen of his vest was drenched to a somber midnight, over which his face was the shining white moon.

He shook his head sullenly and absently loosened the necktie from around his collar with one hand to toss it lazily aside. The fairest bit of impatience that colored his demeanor with the gesture shocked her a bit. He was in rare form when he made that expression, and although it did not frighten her, Esme found herself mildly bothered by it.

He could have been upset with Edward, or he could have been upset with her. He most likely would never admit to being upset with either of them if he was, and this made her more nervous.

But then… he could have simply been upset with himself.

Willing to bring him back, she pulled on Carlisle's hand with a needy sigh, and his free palm indulgently smothered her hand between both of his. Her heart swelled with the suddenly generous propinquity of their bodies as he settled as close as possible without touching any more than her hand.

It was lucky that no drop in temperature could have harmed her body, but the invasive chill of the heavy rain was still vastly uncomfortable. The indecent manner in which the fine fabric of her robe clung to her body while wet only added to her discomfort, leaving no guesses as to the glaring lack of coverage she wore underneath.

Had the circumstances been normal, Esme would have been rightly embarrassed by her immodesty, most especially because she was sitting beside the very man she desired. Thank heavens he was a doctor who was no doubt quite familiar with the female body in every variety by now. She had reasonably nothing to be ashamed of. Nevertheless, she would have preferred not to have been several thin steps above nude in the middle of the forest in a thunderstorm with Doctor Cullen staring down at her.

Fate certainly had a sick sense of humor.

As if her thoughts had somehow broadcasted her concern, she felt his hands tense considerably around hers, and he smoothly averted his eyes. The devious path of the raindrops down her front spurred her to shift awkwardly, in attempt to keep one sleeve of her robe from inevitably slipping past her shoulder.

Carlisle took notice to her delicate struggle and gently released her hand with a faint noise of apology before she could discourage the loss of contact. Carefully keeping his eyes away, he swiftly plucked the buttons of his sweater vest and offered her the soaked article of slightly over-sized clothing to cover herself with something more substantial.

She accepted it, and with a cognitive blush, fitted the thick blue fabric snugly about her chest, not bothering to button it back up. Her skin seemed to tingle beneath the twill, still charged with his subtle body heat. Esme shyly murmured her thanks, to which Carlisle nodded once and turned partly away. She looked curiously up into his face and found his brow furrowed in distress, as though the rain that now assailed his shoulders caused him splitting pain.

Rather guiltily, she allowed her eyes to travel the appealing contours of his torso, admiring how the powder blue cotton of his shirt sleeves appeared pasted to his arms, to his sides, to his stomach. Her heart was smeared with velvet as her gaze wonderingly scrutinized the vulgar appeal of every artful definition of lean muscle that rested beneath the wilted fabric. His lungs forced a lovely rise and fall to his chest, cause and effect to the placid flex of yielding flesh. And she could so clearly see the subtleties in the structure of his torso, the strange sort of poise to the way he held himself upright, calm but prepared, ready for anything...

A rushing stream of intense heat stroked a warm line straight down the center of her body, in a ruthless course toward her lap. She caught her gasp before it flittered off her lips, at once aware that the flooding beneath her folded legs was not only composed of rainwater.

She promptly drew her knees together as if to protect herself against the turbulent sensation, desperately hoping that she had not given herself away by her sweetening scent.

In a stifling moment of horror, she watched as his hand slowly rose to his lips, covering his nose and mouth in scandalized disbelief. Esme gave a soft whimper of mortification and tried to cower out of view, utterly and dismally and irreversibly humiliated by her atrocious reaction.

Something had to happen to her. Now. Anything.

As if this day could not get any more unpredictable, Carlisle promptly hoisted her from her place in the marshy ground and cradled her tightly in his arms as he began a brisk stride in the opposite direction of the storm.

"The scent of blood lingers," he informed her hastily, and her lips fell open in surprise. "I can't tell if it's human or not. It's still very far away, but we should move on," he added warily.

Esme took a deep inhale of the air around them and, sure enough, found the faintest aromas of sweet, unmistakable human blood.

Her body stiffened then melted in hearty relief. "The scent of...blood…" she repeated dimly for confirmation. She breathed out raggedly as Carlisle increased his pace, dodging fallen branches and hurdling over raised roots.

He stared down at her quickly in concern and she flinched. "I should have known better than to stop so soon," he muttered to himself, his eyes devoted to the path ahead. "We need to find something to feed on out here…"

She gulped at the strange dimension his behavior had taken and clung tightly to his shoulders while he rushed forward, the rain slowly tapering the further along he went.

It occurred to her then that he had not needed to carry her anywhere. She was in no position to be offered assistance, especially the kind that suggested she was unable to walk on her own two feet, which would never again be the case. Yet he made it a recent habit to bear her aloft for even the littlest distance, as if she were some small but important possession he must carry upon his person everywhere he went. Perhaps he was still concerned that she may suddenly run off should the scent return…

If he was hoping to minimize her discomfort in having to walk about in a flimsy robe in the rain, he was gravely mistaken that carrying her was a more suitable alternative.

But Esme could not find it in her to be offended in the slightest when she was so damnably thrilled. Mixed with her utter terror that something horrible might soon be bound to happen, it was twice as intense.

She was in his arms.

For once, entirely awake and alive, in his arms.

Her fingers curled ever so gingerly around the back of his neck, daring herself to touch the damp golden curls of his hair without him noticing. She took in generous breaths of his peppermint and cider fragrance, willing her natural reactions to cooperate more cautiously for her given position. The lightness of her body against his, the weightless vulnerability was only heightened by the few thin layers of drenched fabric separating their flesh. It was with immense willpower that she wrestled the unforgiving claws of arousal there in his arms. She did spare herself to shiver, but it was subtle enough that he did not realize. At least she thought he did not.

Her nostrils tingled slightly with another familiar scent whose source was unmistakable, and somewhere in the relative vicinity.

Perhaps with a small motivation to impress the doctor, she whispered eagerly, "Edward is close by."

She should not have said anything.

Carlisle smiled faintly in anxious relief as he caught the scent and hurried ahead.

"I told you we would find him." Despite the sureness of his tone, Esme could not help but think Carlisle was trying to convince himself of something he did not truly believe. But he was smiling, softly but beautifully down at her, his gaze shining with tentative hope.

She stared up at him, unable to mask the longing in her eyes. Her breath was shallow through her parted lips, and his lungs were a force to be reckoned with against her side.

He had stopped running. He had stopped walking. In fact, she noticed, he was completely still.

"I suppose I can...put you down now..." he spoke, more to himself than to her, his voice raspy.

But he still did not move.

Esme didn't dare fidget for fear that Carlisle would be awakened from his reverie. God forbid he should actually carry out what he had so softly intended to do.

Still, he did not move.

For that moment, she did not blame him. Esme was hard-pressed to recall anything that could rival the exquisiteness of the damp fabric and hard flesh confinement offered by this proximity.

The awkward balance between a gentle warmth and a startling chill, droplets of rain crawling seductively down their arms, between their bodies, the moisture caught in the spaces between their fingers and in the corners of their lips…

Five fingers, filled with instinct, clutched at his collar. His entire body tightened.

Then he caved.

"Oh..." Esme uttered a petite gasp at the delightful drop in gravity as his arms finally gave way beneath her.

Her fingers brushed along the back of his neck as she brought her arm around, being lowered slowly to the ground. Carlisle's eyes fluttered strangely as her hand passed innocently over his damp chest, their fierce golden tone set askew by a fleeting splash of darkness.

"We should circle the area to alert Edward to our presence," he proposed without so much as a glance away from her face. He was still so unsettlingly close to her.

"Will he hear our thoughts?" she whispered, even though it was foolish to be keeping secrets from the trees.

"Either that or he'll catch our scents. He can't be far." Finally tearing his eyes away, Carlisle swallowed heavily and looked around. "Let's start in this direction." He took one step away from her, then paused as if someone had shot an arrow straight into his back.

He turned around, eyes wide. "Stay close to me."

It was an order, chilling but faint. Esme obeyed with a single step forward, leaving no more than a handful of inches between them.

"Here..." He took her hand and pressed it against his side. "Don't let go."

It was the most beautiful command he had ever given her.

She nodded with wide eyes, clutching the fabric of his shirt tightly to confirm her devotion to that spot. He eased somewhat and took a tentative step away from her. She kept her hold on him, passing the test.

He walked onward, and Esme clung faithfully, grateful for the contact.

"I'm thirsty." The words spilled from her lips without her mind's consent. She hadn't even been aware of her need to share this with him.

The muscles beneath her hand grew tense at her sudden confession, and Carlisle shot her a worried glance.

"We'll hunt properly as soon as we're reunited with Edward. I promise."

She sighed, falling into a comfortable pace with his stride, curling her free fingers absently around the soft ends of his vest she still wore. It had started to dry a bit, regaining some of its rich cerulean color as she circled each small button with her fingertip.

As Carlisle dragged her along with him, the fabric would sometimes slip over her shoulders, and she would have to quickly clutch it together again.

It was somewhat disconcerting to realize just how much larger his chest was in comparison with hers…

Her stomach twisted, and she felt dreadfully ill.

"Carlisle…" Again, his name seemed to come straight from her lips, but not from her mind.

He halted and faced her, grasping her elbow. "You need blood now?"

She nodded hastily, and another whine broke free from her throat.

"Alright," he gave in, tugging her along with him in the other direction. "We'll find something. Just hold on. Don't let go of me."

The fire building in her throat felt all but unquenchable. He didn't realize how strong it was while he was in control. He didn't realize that some of this fire was dripping down her throat and settling in the pit of her stomach, every time he pulled her closer.

His breath was hot on her forehead and his scent was impossible. His hands felt so large and so wonderful and at the same time they were like shackles… and she didn't know why.

She wanted this, didn't she? She wanted to be close to Carlisle. To be safe in the fortress his presence provided, to be linked to him, to be connected to him.

Yet, she was itching to go so much faster, knowing her own two legs bore better blessing than his at this time. But she couldn't. She couldn't leave him.

Carlisle had promised her blood, and she only needed to wait a little longer – just a minute until they found something. She trusted him, just as he trusted her to stay by his side.

But there was a way to break this trust. Only a vampire could fall victim to the graceful plummet of such reason.

Up to this point, they had not truly been vampires.

The one thing that made them monsters had never been reconciled.

It was not quite clear to Esme when the smooth course of events had shifted. But they had, somehow, and they changed so erratically that she hadn't remembered the moments between the time she held Carlisle's arm and the next instant she was rushing into the woods, away from him...

She could not have him anyway. But she could have her real reason for existing.

A tiny voice deep inside begged her to throw herself after him, to never let him leave her sight. Something weak and pitiful was warning her that even a minute apart from him could ruin her. But as fate often fails, she ignored the distant sting.

It wouldn't have been entirely accurate to say that she was scared, but there was some element akin to fear in the recesses of her gut as she inhaled the bouquet of bountiful aromas that wafted her way. Continuously, the scent blasted her in waves, more and more enticing, and less and less logical the nearer it came to her dwelling place.

The sounds of distant male voices arguing not so far away penetrated her reeling mind. They were familiar, but somehow just as foreign. She did not care to look back and see whose they were.

She thought vaguely of that blond doctor who had tried to protect her. She remembered that he had told her to stay with him, no matter what might happen, but she couldn't remember why. Then she couldn't remember why she was out in the middle of the wet forest to begin with...

Her lungs sucked in that heavenly scent, and an appetite that had forever been dormant awoke in her throat with an untouchable vengeance. Her stream of thoughts curdled like sour milk, and nothing really made much sense other than that single scent.

His arms faithfully clamped her from behind.

They were strong and impenetrable, steeling her against his chest. She broke away from them so easily.

His frantic voice was a watery drone, barely touching her ears. She ignored it just as easily.

Esme shook the weightless shackles of her faithful prison and pranced away from those arms with a gleeful giggle, elated that her powers would lead her straight to the source of that spellbinding entity.

An enchanting sparkle of red tainted her vision as she sped off through the forest in ecstasy, and every tree bore the fruit of ripe red apples, every pebble under her feet was a precious ruby. Her path had been paved for her with painted red arrows, a whimsical splash of pink lightning to light her way. She scampered with ease over every obstacle in her path, cavorting about like a scarlet-winged angel in search of her lover's song.

And she found it, sooner than she'd expected, waiting for her in the form of a cherub-faced child with bright rosy cheeks full of the fresh, blazing blood of youth.


A/N: To read this entire chapter from Carlisle's perspective, you can visit "Chapter 11: If Only," in Behind Stained Glass.