Chapter Eight
Troublesome
Alistair leaned against the doorframe of the upstairs bathroom. It was a large space, but it felt empty. Lena didn't like the Cullens' preference for modern design. The bathtub was too large, and there were never any inexplicably cold bouts of water from the shower head. The sink was deep, spotless. Hair tools and products she might have expected to be strewn over the counter were hidden behind cabinet doors.
Everything functioned perfectly. Everything had a place here.
Lena blinked at her reflection. She was the exception.
Blood was smeared over her chin. Her hair was a mess, undoubtedly from the girl's constant pulling. She reached up to smooth down the matted locks, but paused. Even her hands were covered in blood. She lowered them, and looked at herself. Two ruby red eyes stared back at her.
"How old are you?"
Lena glanced over at Alistair. "Twenty-two."
The corner of his mouth pulled up in a mocking smile. "I mean, how long have you been dead?"
She paused and looked back at the mirror. She didn't really know, for certain. Days melted together. A month, maybe? Two?
"A newborn," he said, and nodded. "They should have expected this."
He misunderstood her, it seemed. Mistook her quiet glaring at her reflection as remorse or self-hatred. She didn't feel bad about what she did. She knew it was natural. She just didn't like that she was so messy about it.
He moved, and her eyes snapped over to him in an instant. Alistair was like a cat. His movements were fluid, but he was always on edge, always ready to spring either away or toward.
He opened the cupboard and retrieved a white face towel from its depths. It smelt musty, like it had been sitting there untouched for some time. He offered it to her.
She looked at him blankly.
Again, he tipped his head, tutted. A little furrow appeared between his brows. "Carlisle will be upset to see you like this when he returns."
Would he? Lena didn't really understand the Cullens. Carlisle, especially, seemed to have some human compassion she at first thought he merely emulated. It didn't matter if it was real or fake. She knew it didn't serve her. He would banish her the moment he saw her. He wouldn't stop to check her face was clean first.
The thought of being discarded didn't frighten her. It was only Forks. Some tiny little blip on the map. She could find another place just as dark and dreary. She'd always liked the idea of Canada…
Water hit the bottom of the sink. Alistair's hand was on the faucet, the other holding the cloth under the stream of water. Steam rose, fogged up the mirror.
"Troublesome girl," he muttered, and wrenched off the tap.
He was stronger than he looked. His frame didn't imply strength, but agility. He was slender and tall. His grip was firm, though, when he took Lena's face in his hands. She knew she could escape him of course, but it would not be without difficulty.
He tipped her head towards him, and swiped at the blood on her face. The towel was much warmer than her chilled skin. It felt nice. For a moment, she could convince herself that she was home again, a child. Her mother was there, wiping at a bit of jam on her lip, tsking.
Impossible, of course. Her mother was dead.
"Why?"
He paused. Burgundy eyes shifted from her chin to meet her gaze. "Why, what?"
She looked to the cloth in his right hand - white, with splotches of red - then back to him.
He stood very still and said nothing. It was as if the question broke him. Slowly, a frown formed on his face. He dropped his hands, and took half a step back. Still said nothing.
His confusion slowly morphed into a muted kind of panic. Lena watched as his expression shifted, as his eyes darted about. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Ran a hand over his face. A scratching sound filled the room as he passed his hand over his stubble.
Lena watched with interest. He was not so different from a human. Flighty. Her comparison to a cat had been far more accurate than she first thought. Skittish. Alistair would make a fine name for a kitten, she thought.
He composed himself. He did it without air, unlike the Cullens. Just straightened up and met her eyes.
"Here." He took her hand, and set the damp cloth in her hands. "Fond as he is of strays, Carlisle doesn't like the ill-mannered." He turned her towards the mirror.
Blood stained the cracks of her lips, small remnants of her misdeed Alistair had missed. She smiled to stretch her mouth, and scrubbed forcefully at the skin.
Alistair's eyes followed her movements. She felt his gaze on her. It wasn't uncomfortable. It didn't make her nervous. Lena was a predator in her own right. She no longer shivered at the thought of being watched.
"Is he very angry?" she asked.
He didn't mince his words. "Yes."
"What will he do?"
"I don't know," he said.
Lena set the towel on the edge of the sink. Her face was clean, and her eyes a swirling orangish-red mess. She glanced down at her hands, dry blood smeared across them. She turned on the tap and scrubbed at her skin and under her nails. Blood dyed the water that rushed down the drain.
"You eat humans," she said.
"Of course."
"Why does he let you and not me?"
"Eating a stranger is a bit different than eating his granddaughter."
They shouldn't have been. All humans were fair game. Prey.
"Will he make me leave?"
"I don't know," he said.
She figured that if she didn't leave, Edward and his family would.
If she were a human, if she had pesky human emotions, she might have felt bad thinking about that. She might have felt guilt or shame. She didn't, though. She felt nothing. Sometimes, there were just too many birds in a nest. One would fall in the end.
That didn't mean it was over. She had wings.
She was fast, and strong, and could not be killed.
She had gotten what she wanted from the Cullens. A taste of that girl, that strange squealing creature. Her blood was all she had really wanted, after all. A shame, then, that she wasn't able to take all of it. It was her only regret.
But she would try her best. She would not bother her again.