Chapter 2
The journey to the house was loud.
Driving along the familiar roads in Carlisle's black Mercedes, Emmett stared, stone-faced, through the windshield as the town of Forks was brought to life. The day was overcast, but the sun crept ever higher behind the bank of clouds to cast away the shadows of the night, bringing the town back to life. There were bodies, now, emerging from doorways and homes. Cars started. Horns honked. Kids, walking in packs to the schools at the center of town, crowed and shouted with their backpacks and their books. Emmett was often amused by the antics of little ones— he liked their disinhibition, their social ineptitude. He liked their freedom, and their gall.
But today, the sight did nothing for him.
Stopping at the only streetlight in the center of town, he felt a roiling, terrible impatience well up in his gut. His whole body was tense, as tight as a bowstring, and he tapped his foot against the floor of the car. The sound seemed thunderous— a frenetic, irritated tap tap tap that sounded like raindrops on the windshield. When the light finally flickered from red to green, he accelerated so quickly through the intersection that the children on the corner paused to stare.
He paid them no mind, speeding recklessly through the sparsity of downtown.
In the hollow pit of his stomach, where worry festered like a sickness, Emmett felt the egregious, terrible shock of the past twenty four hours. He was not easily startled— not like Esme, or like Alice, whose spirits rose and fell like the evening tide on their endless journey through time. He was not so easily rattled or disturbed— not when there was so much of life to love, so many discoveries to be made. So many stones unturned, so many places unexplored…
And so, in the darkest hours of morning before they had left their home in Stroudsburg, his thoughts had wandered recklessly to that one, nagging discomfort. This mental wandering, so innocent and common, had put in motion a sequence of events that had shocked even unshockable Emmett. His inner musings had somehow thrown them into such chaos that he could hardly make sense of how it had played out, much less why.
What he did know is that it had started with the girl.
In the span of a single year, the winds of change had blown his entire family out of order. It had come for Edward first— Edward, whom he loved more than any friend, as much as any brother he'd ever had. Edward, who lived among them, but who was so completely alone that Emmett often wondered how he could bear it. Edward had been alone since before Emmett was even born. Alone, and lonely, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
So when the girl had come to give him peace, and calm, and love, Emmett had vowed that he would try, if not for her sake, then at least for his brother's.
He could not have anticipated how quickly she would come to matter.
That was the nature of the beast, Emmett knew, when it came to the bonds of family. Bonds formed were bonds preserved, no matter how they came to be. Even his own mate, the one person in the world he cared for most above all others, belonged as much to them as she did to him. She was a daughter, a sister, a friend, and a lover, and so strong were those first three that it made the last one all the sweeter, when he had her all to himself. He had loved her from the moment he'd awoken to his new life, fresh-faced and red-eyed, and over their years together that love had strengthened like steel in the sinews of his heart.
Rosalie grieved for the life she'd stolen from him— a life of change, a life in time. She grieved for the choices he would never make, for the children he would never have. She had stolen from him, she would say. She had stolen everything.
But Emmett, no matter how many years had passed between the onset of his new life and the present, could not bring himself to see it as anything other than an absolute treasure. This life was not a product of theft— was not a reminder of something lost, of something mourned. It was an unbelievable and extraordinary gift that had replaced any feeble loss from his human life with something ten times stronger— something as unyielding and lasting as stone.
Something that meant more to him than anything he might have left behind.
Rose had given him a proper family. She had given him a mother and a father, whose unconditional love for their children spanned across time and space. She'd given him his siblings. She'd given him her, without whom there could be no life, and she'd given him love, which his heart had craved like a drowning man craved air.
And now, as he drove down the muddy, rainy road, he felt a throb of sorrow deep in his chest that left him breathless. He thought of her— that sweet, hilarious, clumsy little mortal who had wiggled her way so effectively into the vast expanse of his heart. He had frightened her when they'd first met— he had seen it on her face as if it were written there in ink. She had shied away from him whenever he came near. Her heartbeat, so clear and soft in their quiet, peaceful home, had accelerated with almost comical expedience whenever he entered a room she was in. He had laughed at her blush, intrigued by this curious vulnerability that belied her frequent worry and embarrassment. Emmett had played on that blush— had coaxed it out of her as often as he could— and she had slowly grown used to him before she had grown fond.
That fondness had been the final nail in the proverbial coffin— it had cemented her place in the structure of his family and had fuelled his wife's irritation so strongly that Emmett wondered at the absurdity of it all. Rosalie had fought him over his musings— had demanded to know why he was so invested in the girl, the child, they'd left behind— and their discussion had ended in such a spectacular display of temper that Rose, riled beyond fury, had escaped to the reprieve of the forest. She was angry still— she had not come with them to Washington, though her family had asked for her aid.
She would not come with them, she said, to grieve a life she hardly knew. She would not mourn the woman who had stolen from her— her family, her brother, and her peace. She would not cry for the creature who had taken her mate— who had captured his interest with such inexplicable strength that she felt forced to fight for what she saw as her rightful place in the hierarchy of his love. Rosalie did not understand the two, distinct versions of love in Emmett's heart— one, a lasting, sensual love for a wife, the other a pure and joyful love of a sister. She did not see the differences between them, and did not take care to examine the distinctions between herself and Edward's mate.
One experienced, the other unforgivably young. One strong, the other fragile. One safe, the other vulnerable, and one confident, the other uncertain…
One unmistakably, irrevocably his, and the other, who'd slipped away when he wasn't looking.
This little human— Edward's young, impressionable mate— had somehow wormed her way into the warm confines of his heart, and there she would remain, no matter what Alice's vision had revealed.
He had fought for her, this fragile little creature who held his brother in such thrall. He'd killed for her, finding great pleasure in tearing up the beast who'd sought to take her from them. The thrill of victory, the way the tracker's head had felt between his hands as it was wrenched from his pitiful, craning neck… the memories made his mouth flood with venom, a deep, sonorous growl rising in his chest. He remembered the infuriating scent of her spilled blood, so tempting to his baser urges, yet positively repulsive when he recalled its source. And finally, he remembered the long, tense days of waiting back in Forks while she convalesced, listening to Edward make promises he wouldn't keep.
"I'll never leave you," he'd said. "Not now, not ever." The memory made Emmett scowl.
In his mind, he saw her in that studio, bleeding and broken in a cascade of mirrored glass. He saw the pallor of her face, each sluggish heartbeat sending more of her vital life essence from the terrible wound on her leg. He saw her writhing, her hand ablaze with the threat of transformation, and then he saw red as the offending creature came apart in his able, willing hands.
Edward might have claimed her as a mate, Emmett knew, but in so doing, he had given her to him as a sister.
Without his consent, the image of her pained, terrified face warped, and he saw an entirely different fantasy emerging from his psyche. The studio vanished, falling away like dust to be replaced by wind and rain. He saw a rock face with churning water at its base, and he saw her tears, streaming from swollen, terrified eyes. He saw her crouch, pebbles skittering dangerously to the edge of the cliff, and he saw her leap, more graceful than she had any right to be.
And then he saw her fall, her body tumbling like a leaf thrown by a breeze, only to be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. In his imagining, the water flowed red and whatever bits of her were left were pulled away by the current.
The thought made him sick, and he pushed the car a little faster.
He did not know, though his speculation ran wild, just what he might find when he reached that little house on the edge of the forest. He had never been inside before, and only knew the exterior from his careful patrols around the perimeter when his brother would leave to hunt. Often, Bella had come to them when Edward was away. He had bought a bed for her, erected like a monument in his room, though Emmett wasn't sure she'd ever slept a night on it. He recalled her scowl— her annoyance spurring her kitten temper at the sight of Edward's extravagance— and despite his persistent worry, he couldn't help his chuckle. He'd heard them arguing over it in hushed, yet still audible whispers, and he'd sensed his brother's irritation when she'd pulled herself from the mattress with the golden covers to curl up on his leather sofa instead.
Emmett knew the house by sight as it came up in the clearing between the trees. Whitewashed and bright against the gloom of the forest, he saw the darkened windows, the wet, creaking wood of the front porch. He pulled onto the gravel driveway with quiet trepidation, coming to a slow stop just shy of the rusted garage door. He waited, his breath held in his chest, as he watched for any signs of life inside the little house. Any sign of movement. Any sign of hope.
When he stepped outside, he felt a sudden, heavy fear.
There were no indications of human life inside the unassuming little house. There was no motion, no brilliance behind those dull, darkened windows. The porch light was not lit, the overgrown flower beds brown and dead. The upstairs front window, which Emmett knew to be Bella's own, sat blank and still, the curtains drawn tight.
The police cruiser was not here, and he heard no noise behind the quiet, wooden door. The truck, too, was gone. When he breathed, deep and careful, he could taste a dull, sweet tang, ripe with the scent of her. Her house. Her soap. Her bedroom, and her things, and her life… so many memories, in so little time.
Emmett made his way through the locked door without a hitch. His skill for lock-picking had been carried over from his brief human life, and though Charles Swan was the chief of police and, in theory, wiser than most to the dangers of unlawful entry, the flimsy doorknob lock was not enough to keep him out. He entered the house as swiftly as he could— nosy neighbours, spying through cracked blinds, would only frustrate things further, and he didn't need any added complications. He slipped inside under the shadow of the eaves, moving just a little too quickly for sleepy, human eyes to track.
It was only once he was through the door, closing it behind him with a quiet, muffled click, that he felt the thrill of pain down the back of his throat, his nostrils flaring with a sudden, terrible hiss.
He was in the kitchen— a place he had never been before, but which he had seen through the brilliantly lit windows under the cover of night the summer before. Back then, when his nose had carried him through the open window, the house had been full of the smell of cooking. Emmett could not appreciate food— not its smell, and certainly not its taste— but he was sharp enough to recognize proper skill when he saw it. Bella had always insisted that Charlie might starve if she didn't take it upon herself to feed him, and Emmett had started to believe her, once he saw the dishes she could make.
But this time, there was no smell of cooking to drive his curious observations of his human sister. There was no smell of dish soap, cloying and sharp. He could not smell the fibres of her clothing, or the old, dry rot along the western wall, and certainly not the subtle leather of the sofa, the metallic flavour of the tool shed in the yard.
This time, as he inhaled the stagnant, stale air, it was saturated with the tantalizing reek of blood.
It took him a moment— just a short, fleeting second as he fought for control of the monster within— before he realized where the smell had come from.
In the kitchen, where he stood, he saw the evidence of a house unused. There were books on the old, wooden table that he recognized— an old math textbook, like the one he'd been assigned last year, and a worn, battered copy of Orwell's Animal Farm. There were pencils, a calculator, and a familiar orange backpack, upended on the floor to spill its contents onto the old, white linoleum. On the counter, in the dish rack, there was a pile of clean plates, but Emmett could see the layer of dust that coated them, settling like velvet on the rounded edges. The counters were clean, but likewise dusty, and there were shoes piled haphazardly by the door, but all of this was irrelevant as he took in the brilliant stain in the middle of the floor, its highest concentration focused just below the dented refrigerator, which was unplugged, and silent.
Someone had tried to clean it up— that much, he could tell. The pool was brownish-black and sticky with age, having seeped under the loosened tiles in the center of the floor. After the first, initial sting of thirst, it became clear to him that the spill was not fresh. It was not new blood— not warm, or even red— and when he knelt, bringing his nose as close to the pungent stain as he could stand, he understood at once why the dishes were dusty, and why the air had grown so stale.
He did not know the scent well, having never been inside her house. He didn't even know the man well, for all his wanderings around the small, quiet town. What he did know, from his twilight patrols around the house last summer, was that the blood that drenched the floor belonged not to Bella, but to Charlie, and he knew, even without Carlisle's trained eye, that there was too much of it staining the tile. Too much lost. Entirely too much, and it made Emmett feel sick.
He stood with a sigh, his eyes raking over the house again.
"What in the hell did we do to you, Bella?"
