A/N: Please see the end for a little explanation. Also: VIOLENCE WARNING AHEAD!
Chapter 16
In the darkness of the house, Esme watched with muted urgency as Edward disappeared into the trees on the north side of the yard. Like a ghost in the cold he moved in silence, leaving nothing behind but footprints in the snow. He was a silhouette in the storm, a beacon in the dark, and though Bella stood with her palm pressed to the icy glass, he looked back for only the sparest moment before he vanished like mist between the trees.
Bella stood by the window like a statue of marbled stone, her face unreadable and her eyes full of words that had gone unsaid. She did not want to move— indeed, when Esme reached to pull her back, there was ample resistance and a little hiccup of protest. When he did not reappear and the wind began to howl, she turned, blinking back her worry as Esme pulled her carefully from the glass. In the moments it took for her to urge the girl away, those footprints were buried by the angry, pelting storm, and when she saw the last glint of that bronze hair between the dark, shaded trees, she knew they had to move.
"Come, Bella," she said, and together, they took a step back. The metal panels over each window slid down with an ominous, rhythmic clicking, and Bella watched until the yard was obscured, the faint light of the overcast night blotted out. The wind was deadened, its howling reduced to cracking rushes against the house, and though she could hear the creaking of joists and the threatening patter of ice on the shingles, Esme could hear nothing of fighting or of violence.
Together they moved, as slow as molasses when Bella hedged, until Esme had backed them both into the ensuite bathroom on the far side of the room. There were no windows here— no outside access to pose a threat in the event of chaos— and Esme closed the door behind her as she urged the girl down on the edge of the tub.
"Esme?"
"It's alright, Bella," she said, and at once, she heard the girl's sniffle. She reached out her hand to brush her fingers over the apple of her cheek, but when Bella flinched, she withdrew.
"I can't see you…"
"I know."
"Can we turn on the light?"
"Not quite yet."
"Why not?"
Esme sighed, reaching out a little more cautiously this time, and when her touch was not rejected, she began to speak.
"Darkness is best, for now," she said. "Just until the others return."
"When?"
"I don't know."
"But you said…"
Esme waited, her ears trained for any hint of a disturbance.
"You said that… it's started."
"Yes."
"Already?"
"It would appear so," she sighed and when Bella leaned her head on Esme's shoulder, Esme did not urge her away. "We knew they would come with the snow."
"But Alice…"
"Alice saw what little she could," said Esme kindly, and she saw Bella's frown even in the dark. "She's been flying blind, so to speak, and we only know as much as she does."
"She said it would be later."
"The snows came early."
"But she saw."
"Alice is not infallible," said Esme, and this time, she felt the warmth of a blush against her arm. "She only sees what is decided. If those choices change, then there's no accounting for what might happen."
"I know, but…"
"And she's had a hard time with you," Esme said, and this time, the girl sat up. "You're difficult for her to see, darling, and we're all still learning the limitations of her gift."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault."
The girl fell silent. For a long moment they stayed like that— Bella leaning, and Esme listening— before another question was voiced and Esme pursed her lips.
"What happened, Esme?" she asked, and her voice was so small, so careful, that it broke Esme's heart. "What happened out there tonight?"
"We were sparring and they came upon us," said Esme, deciding that the truth, no matter how difficult, was better than a lie. "They must have heard us. The others sent me away at once to fetch Edward."
"Why?"
"Because he is the stronger of the two of us," said Esme, and this time, she saw the quick, unhappy frown. "He is the better fighter."
The girl bit her lip.
"He's better suited to it, that's all."
"But you're strong…"
"To you, yes," laughed Esme, grinning when she felt the feeble squeeze of those tender human arms around her middle. "To you, every single one of us is absolutely lethal. But against my own kind? Not, perhaps, as skilled as I might like."
Bella shivered.
"And Carlisle?"
"Quite able, when he needs to be."
"But…"
"But what?"
"Is he…"
Esme waited, her brow furrowed.
"Is he… alright?" The word was awkward and uncomfortable. "I mean…"
"I know what you mean," soothed Esme. "Carlisle is compassionate and he will do everything in his power to preserve life whenever he can, but that does not make him weak, Bella. He will do what needs to be done. If it comes to a choice between a stranger and his family, Carlisle will always choose his family."
"Sorry."
"Hush." The word fell like a rebuke and she smoothed her fingers over that flushed cheek again to soothe its sting. "Don't worry yourself about him, Bella. Carlisle will be fine."
"Can we turn on a light, Esme?"
"Not yet."
"Okay." Esme heard her thick swallow, the quickening of her heart. "Okay…"
"I know you're not a fan of the dark," she soothed, "and I'm sorry, but it's a necessary precaution."
"Why?"
"It would give us away," explained Esme and when the girl began to shiver, Esme pulled her close again. "Every second counts when the family is on its way. A door won't do much to deter her, if she comes upon us, but it will be better than nothing at all…"
"Deter her?"
"A bright room is a giveaway," said Esme, and this time, she heard the quickening of breath. "This is the safest place in the house for you, except perhaps Carlisle's workshop, but this will do just as well."
"Are we in danger, Esme?"
Esme did not respond.
"Is she…"
"More than likely dead, along with all of her creations," she replied, though this did little to pacify the girl's sudden worry. "Should she evade death, she would have a tough time getting through the others, which she would need to do before she could get to us."
"But she could?"
Again, Esme was silent.
"Oh god…"
Panic, Esme knew, was not Bella's way, and so when she heard the sudden, frantic heartbeat and the terrible, shaking gasp, she glanced sharply at the huddled figure beside her. Her face had gone pale now, losing much of its flush and colour, and her pallor reminded Esme too much of the sickbed.
"You will be perfectly safe," said Esme. "I won't let anything through that door. So long as I am here, all will be well."
"But you don't know."
"Yes, I do."
"No…"
"We will not lose," she said, and there was such confidence, such assurance, that the girl did not argue back. "We will not fail you again, Bella."
"But if you do," began Bella, but Esme shook her head.
"We won't."
"But if you do…"
"We won't, darling. Not tonight."
And that was the simple truth of it— the only outcome that Esme would tolerate, the only outcome that would leave her family whole and intact. They would not fail, because such failure would be their ruin. They could not fail because the consequences of that failure were simply too egregious to contemplate. She would not do it again— would not disappoint this girl the way she had before, would not leave her alone in the great, wide world where she could not be cherished and loved. She would not abandon her, would not leave her to the wolves who would devour and consume her the instant they laid eyes on her. Esme had always wanted to be a mother and when nature had taken her baby from her, she had fulfilled that dream in other ways. She would never again have a child of her own— would never feel those little feet inside her or the exhausted triumph of a new life delivered— but that did not mean that she did not have a family.
She had been a mother since the day that baby had been born, and she had continued that legacy with all of the children who had made their homes with her. Esme was many things— she was a wife, she was a lover, she was an artist, and a builder— but she was a mother most of all, and the girl that trembled with cold and fright on the edge of the empty bathtub was as much her own as any of the others. Isabella Swan was not a child of her body, as her baby son had been, but instead a child of her heart, and the roots she had laid down were embedded so deep that to tear them out now would be to bleed her own self dry on the shining marble floor.
Esme knew what it was to love and she knew what it was to lose, and it was the threat of that loss that drove her now and made terror well up in her so sharply that she thought it might choke her. She knew that terror like an old friend— oily, slick, and altogether pressing, like a strangling hand at her throat or a terrible squeeze of her heart. Had she been human, she would have felt it in the quickening of her pulse and the flush of her cheeks. She would have trembled with the force of it, struggling to hold her hands steady as she wrapped her fingers around the warm, thin ones at her side, but she was not, and so the girl could not see it.
Never had she been called to serve any of her children as she'd been called to this one, and never had she been more frightened, more terrified, of what the future might hold.
"All will be well, Bella," she said, though she could not justify it any further than that. "Don't fret, darling… all will be well."
Beyond the bathroom where they were hidden in the dark, Esme saw Bella's eyes flash up towards the door that she could not see. Esme knew it must have been worrisome— it was a great trial to go without sight— but Esme had no such restrictions and she could see the room in perfect clarity. There was no light above the threshold and though Bella blinked in an effort to see, her eyes did not linger on any one spot for long. Esme could hear the rapid heartbeat that thrummed in her throat, could smell the adrenaline that spoke of fear and of upset, and though she wrapped her arm around the thin, warm shoulders, there was nothing in the world for them to do but wait.
Waiting, Esme knew, was a worse trial than the fight. The fight brought danger and it brought violence, but it did not bring uncertainty. Her family was ready— she did not doubt their prowess or their ability to eliminate the threat— and that any of them would be harmed was almost unbelievable. They were strong and they were skilled, as Jasper had trained them well, but there was always a chance, always a doubt.
It felt wrong, to her, to sit idle in the house while her family battled in the snow. It felt wrong to leave her children and it felt wrong to leave her mate, though she understood the reasons why and wholly agreed that they were necessary. Esme was the weakest link— she was not a fighter, nor was she as vicious as any of the others— and when the choice had been between herself and Edward, it had only made sense to send him in her stead. Edward was fast. Edward was strong. And Edward had such a powerful motivation to win that there could be no better choice, no stronger fighter than one who was defending his mate.
In the silence and the stillness, Esme ruminated over her own misgivings and focused her attention on the world beyond, where the storm still raged and the snow fell in a wild rush. It was harder to hear, now— she could make out nothing from the clearing just two miles on, though in summer she would have been able to hear everything— and as snow caked the windows and buffeted against the house, it deadened the noise. She did not like it— she wished she could make out just a little of what was happening in the clearing— and so when she moved closer to the door, she was surprised by Bella's sharp and noisy gasp. Cold fingers scrabbled anxiously and caught at her shirt, and Esme was stilled in an instant.
"I'm right here, sweetheart."
"Don't go."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Where are you?"
"Here, Bella." She took the girl's hand in hers. "I'm right here."
"Please don't leave me, Esme."
"I'm not leaving you."
"I'm sorry."
"There's nothing to be sorry for."
"Yes, there is."
"No…"
"Yes."
Esme pursed her lips until the silence grew long again, and just as she was about to interject, the girl spoke again.
"I never meant for any of this."
"You didn't cause this, Bella."
"I know."
"So you have nothing to apologize for. If anything, we should be the ones to say we're sorry. Were it not for us, you would have never been exposed to such a danger in the first place. Had we not left, the danger would not have grown so dire."
"You couldn't have anticipated this."
"Oh, Bella." Esme turned away, her shame hot and ferocious. It was a shame that would live with her always— a scar that might heal, if given the proper time and care, but one that would smart for years to come if it was prodded the wrong way. Those words, so kindly meant, were sharp, like blades against her impenetrable skin, and even worse, they were false.
They most definitely could have anticipated such a danger, and moreover, they should have. They had known the risks. Esme herself had encouraged it, had encouraged Edward's attachment to this wayward slip of a girl who, for reasons known only to God himself, had managed to do what none of her other children had. From the very first, Esme had seen this child as a gift, as a treasure to be guarded and loved, for Bella alone had been able to bring her son to life. She had brought him love and she had brought him purpose, but never, in all their time together, had Esme stopped to think just what this bond would do to her.
"You didn't bring her here, Esme," said Bella, and Esme was at once angry with herself and terribly, dreadfully sad. "You didn't… cause her."
"Neither did you."
"I know."
"So why are you sorry, then?" Esme asked. "What could you have possibly done that would warrant my forgiveness?"
There was silence again for only a moment before she spoke.
"I'm sorry for what I did. For what I made all of you do."
"You haven't made us do anything."
"I've made you fight," she argued. "I've risked your family, Esme, and if something goes wrong…"
"Nothing will go wrong."
"But if it does," she begged. "If if does, Esme… I never wanted it. Please. You need to know that I never meant for any of this."
"It's what's needed."
"I never wanted anyone to die for me…"
"No one is dying. Not tonight."
"Your family deserves better, Esme," she said, and when she hung her head, Esme saw a tear on the end of her nose. "They deserve so much better than this… so much better than me. I'm not worth it, Esme… I'm not worth any of this."
And that, Esme knew, was the ugly truth of it— the terrible, skulking beast of Bella's fear, and the deep and buried root of her shame. They deserved better, she said— better than her, and more than she could give.
"Now you listen to me," Esme said, and she knelt close enough so Bella could see her in the dark, those eyes fixed on hers with a frantic ferocity that seemed to beg, to plead. Esme held those wrists in her hands, letting her fingers curl over the thrum of the pulse that came with each heartbeat, and when she spoke she knew that Bella was listening and that her words would be really, truly heard.
"Listen to me, sweetheart, and hear me well. You are worth it, because you are loved, Bella, and at the end of it all, that is the only thing in the world that we really have. Love makes you worth it— love in all its forms— and no matter where you go, or which path you choose, ours will go with you. There is not a soul in this world that can stand alone forever, and you never will again. You're worth it to us because you're ours, Bella, and whether you believe it or not, you're family. We stand by our family, darling, no matter the cost, and we love you. If it takes an hour, a day, a year, or twenty, I will tell it to you as many times as you need to hear it until you finally believe me. You are worth it, honey… you've always been worth it."
And when she pulled her in, taking the trembling, crying girl into her heart and her soul, Esme felt such a rush of terrible, wrenching love that it pulled like a loose thread. It was the fabric of everything she was and everything she would ever be, that love for her family, and though it hurt her to feel it so recklessly unravelled, she relished the sting. She would give whatever she could, whatever she had if it would keep her family safe, and she would do it gladly if meant that they would be happy.
"You did your part, sweetheart," Esme said, and she pressed a kiss to that soft, warm hair. "You did your bit. You survived, Bella… against all hopes and all odds, you survived. Let us do the rest."
"You've done so much already."
"Not nearly as much as we should have," Esme replied. "Not half as much."
"You kept me alive."
"Only just."
"And under great duress." Her words were clipped now, and full of awkward tension. "I know I've made it difficult for all of you, and I'm sorry for that, too."
And though she wanted to, Esme did not answer back as those words hung between them. That apology so swiftly spoken and the heavy subtext made her pause. She heard the meaning of it as surely as she could hear her own thoughts— the apology for her crisis, the plea for forgiveness for the worry she'd caused. Esme would not deny it— there had been worry, even fear, but she would not give absolution for that which could not be helped. Some would call it a choice, a decision made against all rational thought, but Esme was not so readily convinced.
"Everything we do, Bella, we do out of love." She chose her words carefully, and with great trepidation. "And I think you do, too."
Bella only frowned.
"Others might call it something else…"
"Charlie called it stupidity." Her face was wet, now, and she wiped it angrily with the sleeve of her top. "He always said that it was one of the worst and most selfish things a person could do."
"Ah…"
"He would have hated me for even thinking it." Her laugh was short and hollow. "He would have pulled me out of that water just to kill me himself, Esme, if he'd known what I did. He would have hated the act and he would have hated me for doing it, and even though I knew that, I did it anyways. Sometimes, when things are bad, I feel like I still might… and I hate that, too."
"Your father could never hate you."
"Oh yes he could…"
"I don't think so."
Bella shook her head.
"A father's love is not conditional, Bella," said Esme. "No matter what he said or how he felt, he would have loved you until the end of time, if he could have. It wouldn't have mattered to him what you said or what you did— you were his baby, sweetheart, and you always will be. No matter how old you are or how tough things get, you were his baby and he would have loved you no matter what."
"Would he, though?"
"Your father was a good man, Bella," said Esme and though her words hurt the girl, she knew that it was a welcome pain. "He was kind, he was generous, and he loved you as deeply as any father could love his child. Don't ever doubt that… but I don't know that Charlie ever found himself in the same places as you have. I don't know if he's ever been there, in that hole, where the world is so dark that you can hardly see the light."
"It makes me feel weak."
"You're not weak."
"There's no strength in giving up."
"You haven't given up, Bella," said Esme. "You're here, in this place. In the dark with me, hiding from yet another danger. Your heart is beating and your soul is living, and if that's not strength, then I don't know what is."
"Anyone can live, Esme…"
"Not everyone," she replied. "You're not the first to try and escape it. Carlisle tried, in his early days, though it did absolutely nothing to destroy him. He so hated what he'd become that he tried to rid the world of himself before he got the chance to thrive. I tried it too, after I lost my baby, and I would have succeeded had Carlisle not found me in time. But even so, sweetheart, I stand by what I said before. Everything we do, we do for love, and that includes you."
When those brown eyes fell shut, Esme pulled her girl close and once again relished the feel of that warm, hot cheek on her shoulder. Bella's arms had gone slack around her waist, her skin pebbled with goosebumps, but she did not argue back and Esme knew that she was listening.
"You're grieving," said Esme gently, and there was a small, shaky sigh. "You're grieving for the life you lost and the people that went with it. I'm sorry for that loss, darling— more sorry than you can know just now, I think— but it is that very grief that proves I'm right."
"Grief isn't love."
"Grief is only love," returned Esme at once. "It's all the love we have leftover when the object of that love is gone. There can be no grief without love, just as there can be no love without a little grief. You miss your father because you loved him, just as you loved your mother and my son. To have that wrenched away was a cruel trick, I'll admit, but I hope that, with time, you'll come to see that there are more people in this world that can help to bridge the gap. I can never replace your mother, just as Carlisle cannot replace your father, but still I love you like my own, Bella, and perhaps, in time, you might feel the same."
"I do love you."
"I know you do…"
"I just don't always show it."
"You do the best you can."
"I'm sorry if I've hurt you."
"You haven't."
"I think I have…"
"Never with malice," Esme said. "Never with anger."
"No…"
"No," agreed Esme. "Don't worry about me, Bella. Before dawn, the world will be right again, and once it is, we can begin to make our plans."
"Plans?"
"We have much to do, and there is so much still to say," said Esme. "After all of this is settled, we can decide what comes next. We can plan our next move, decide on our next house, and then we can start fresh and figure this out together. We just have to get through this night first, and once we know where we stand we'll be able to move forward."
"Move forward?"
"Together, Bella," Esme said, and in her arms Bella shivered. "As a family, darling. Always as a family."
"Okay."
"Don't worry about it now," she advised. "Don't worry about anything else just now. I know it's cold, and I know it's dark, but if you just sit here with me and let me be with you, it won't be long before the world is right again."
And so they sat together, Esme and her girl, in the darkness of that bathroom as the night grew long around them and the storm dragged on outside. This was the way it should be, Esme knew— calm, and serene— and though their troubles were not even remotely sorted, there was a sense of purpose and a powerful determination that held within it all the promises of a life yet to be lived. This was not the end for them— there would be other days, and better ones— and as the quiet dragged and they listened to the silence, Esme relished every second of it and did not let go.
But even here, in the quiet safety of her home, this ease could not last forever. Esme drew her strength from the feel of that figure in her arms— that warm, living, breathing girl who had come to mean so much— and the instant she heard the sound from the edge of the yard outside, she felt her body stiffen. Bella felt it too, though she did not know the reason why, and Esme felt the stuttering breath against her shoulder, the sudden reflexive squeeze of those arms.
"Esme?"
"Shhh…"
"What's wrong?"
"Quiet for just a moment, darling…"
The girl obeyed, and Esme strained herself to listen.
In the yard, in the northeast corner that led into the deepest recess of woods, Esme heard the sound again like crunching snow. The sound was wet and cold, like cracking ice and dirty slush, and when it came another time, and then again, she knew at once that something had changed.
"What, Esme?"
"Footsteps," she whispered, and when the girl tried to speak again Esme put a finger to her lips to stop her. "Quiet now. I don't want to be heard."
"It might be…"
"Hush. It might be any of our own, or someone else entirely. There is no way to know, just yet."
Not without opening the door, and that was the very last thing that Esme wanted to do.
"Shhh…"
There was a tap, and then a knock, and then an almighty bang on the metal panels of the house, and the noise resonated so forcefully that it made Bella jump.
"It's alright…"
Another bang, this time with a little squeak and an angry hiss from the snowy yard.
"What…?"
"I'm not sure."
"Esme?"
"Shush, Bella."
"I…"
"Quiet!"
In an instant the girl fell still, and Esme could feel the tension rolling off of her in waves. The chin pressed to her shoulder was quivering, the sudden force of her arms crushing, and so when Esme craned her neck to hear, she waited only a moment for the sound to repeat.
Those footsteps in the snow started up again and it was a distinct noise that she knew well, and they ran at such an alarming pace before there was another knock, and a hiss.
"Shhh." Esme pressed her finger to the girl's lips again and at once, she pursed them shut. Her voice made no sound— she did not call or cry out— but there was nothing that Esme could do to stop the pounding of her heart. Instead Esme listened— for a voice or a call that might reveal the source of the sound— and when none came, she felt her hackles rise.
From downstairs at the barricaded front entrance, Esme heard the footsteps approach again. The panels were strong— they had been installed, after all, with a threat like this in mind— but they had never been so sorely tested. She listened in tense silence as those footsteps moved around the perimeter of the house once more, moving slowly clockwise to find a weak spot, and when they found none, this careful circling was followed by another echoing, clamorous bang.
Bella's yelp was only just stifled and at once, Esme was on her.
"Shhh…"
The sound rang out again, and this time, Esme let out a hiss.
It wasn't going to hold.
In the instant that the next noise came this thought seemed to hit her with a sudden blinding force, and she felt that old terror welling up in her again, though she tried to tamp it down. The girl was paralyzed with fear, her wide eyes glassy and panicked, and though Esme kept herself as calm and collected as she could, she knew that whatever was on the other end of that noise would be upon them just as soon as that metal grate failed.
There was a another bang then, and then a another still, and then they came in such quick succession that it seemed to shake the whole house. She could hear the metal squeaking, slowly buckling under the force of those violent, inhuman blows, and with each new noise came a rising, searing dread. The sound echoed like a gong, filling the house with its noise, and when the metal splintered with a screech and a crack, Esme heard the dreadful overflow of terror from the girl in her arms. There was no hope for it— even muffled by her shirt, the sound of tears was abundant in the quiet room, and Esme knew that the enemy downstairs could hear them too. There was no hiding it— Bella could not stop them any better than Esme could— and Esme knew that they would be discovered, that they would be found…
From downstairs there was another crash— this time of breaking glass and splintering wood— and it was loud enough that Bella started and Esme smelled the salty brine of tears increase. She could hear the hiss of triumph, gloating and proud, and there were footsteps on the floor before there was a deep inhale and a giggle, and Esme took a step forward.
"Esme?"
The whisper, so tearful and confused, made Esme's heart constrict as she heard the rush of feet on the stairs. She could smell the enemy now— that familiar sickly sweetness and an acrid stench of burning— and then the bedroom door was flung open, banging noisily against the wall.
When Bella's fingers scrabbled, grabbing clumsily at Esme's sleeve in the darkness, Esme pressed a kiss to those trembling, cold knuckles.
"All will be well, darling," she said again, and then she turned, pushing the girl back into the corner by the tub. She went without complaint, curling in on herself to hide. "I promise, honey. Everything will be fine."
From the bedroom just beyond the feeble wooden door, there was a peal of wild, savage laughter.
The world was burning. He could feel it on his face, taste it in the air. His hands were black with the ash of the dead. His face, bone-white and furious, was scarred by the slash of violence. Men were screaming. Trees were crashing. Pyres were crackling, and wind was howling, but all the while, the world was burning.
The flames roared like bellows and the frantic screams of the enemy echoed between the trees in the hazy, stormy night. Splintering bone came like cracking gunfire and all around him, the world seemed to rumble with the noise of it. The din was outrageous, made up of howling wind and the sound of violence, and as Jasper stood atop a boulder in the center of the field, he took stock of what they had done.
All around him, Jasper saw carnage. The field, green with new growth just last week, was a boggy mire of snow and soot. The earth beneath was churned to a muddy pulp— there would be nothing living here by the time the snow melted, and after the fires had burned down to smoky grey ash, the ground would be ruined. Already the air was choked— he could taste the flames with every breath he drew— and the wintry night had grown too hot with the raging infernos that burned in sporadic heaps throughout the clearing. He could see nothing through the fog, could feel nothing but the juxtaposition of that blistering heat and the nipping, icy cold of the wind, both so strong that they stung. Behind him, he could hear Alice's victory in the rending of flesh and the terrible, echoing crack of a severed neck. Before him, shouting in the din and lost in the fog, he could hear his brother's failure and at once, Jasper was on the move.
He ran like a mad thing, single-minded in his determination as he followed the sound of that struggle, and he leapt like a cat through the smoke and the fog. All around him came the hissing threat of the enemy, the snapping jowls and rolling eyes of the abominations the woman had created. They were drawn to the flames like moths and at the same time repulsed by the heat, but beyond that, they knew nothing but violence and devastation.
In the instant that he saw her, Jasper threw the newborn from Emmett's back with a ferocious leap that sent them tumbling through the muck and the filth. He grappled with her for only a moment, feeling her sharp fingers on his face, her teeth in his arm, but in the next instant he had prevailed, and he threw a mass of shimmering, granite-hard flesh into the fire to the west. She screamed before she burned, and with his gift that was all too telling Jasper felt her terror, but it did not last long before it was blotted out by fire, burning away to float far above him to the clouded, wintry sky.
Hell. If Jasper had ever wondered what it would be like, he knew now that it would look like this. Like pages of Dante brought to life in this terrible final act, it was fire and brimstone in a drama that he had not wanted, a play that he had not written. It was like a scene from the Inferno, or a reckless, hateful war, and he was at once repulsed by the violence of it, and altogether proud of the work that they had done.
The enemy had come with numbers— numbers that his family did not have— but they had not come with discipline or determination. They had come with savage need— a bloodlust so long denied that it had driven them all mad— and with no memories but those of hatred and of pain. There were no bonds of family here— not even the communal, beneficial bond of coven— and it showed in their assault, their technique. Jasper had spent most of his life training newborns just like these for jobs just as ugly and cruel. He had trained them for violence. He had trained them to consume. He had trained them to seek, and claim, and destroy, because that's what he was good at, and that was what had been needed.
He knew shoddy training when he saw it, and for all their juvenile ferocity, Jasper knew that this would be a fight that his family would win. They would not fall to the likes of this— would not succumb to this ragtag team of misplaced souls— and he would not let his human sister fall to them, either. These newborns were strong but they had no finesse, and as Jasper turned to watch his family's fight, he knew that he had done right by them. His training had done exactly what he had hoped— they knew how to move, and they knew how to grapple, and as he watched their opponents dwindle, he knew that they would triumph before the end.
There was shouting. There was kicking. There was biting, and slapping, and tearing, and though Jasper felt it, the terror and the pain, he was numb, and he worked with a methodical calculation that served him well. He sought, he hunted, he leapt, and he bit, just as he'd taught his family to do, and when he felt those bodies crumble beneath his capable and unyielding hands, there was only the grimmest satisfaction. It had been so long since he had killed— so long since had faced off with any of his own kind in such a violent display of temper and outrage— but it was not a skill that was soon forgotten. His muscles knew what to do almost without thought, and by the time they had only one fighting fiend left, his face was bright with a righteous, burning anger.
The creature watched him, black eyes rolling as he scrambled back on hands and knees towards the trees, where he would find no reprieve and no consolation. Jasper smelled the fear as strongly as he felt it— it was bitter, and it was cold— and when he caught the boy, no older than twenty, he felt a prickle of conscience.
"Jasper…"
Edward's call went unanswered and without so much as a word Jasper had tossed the flailing pieces of that final beast into the fire, where they popped, and sizzled, and cracked. He felt it the moment that life was snuffed, and once he could no longer sense the agonized terror or the brilliant, scarlet rage, he let his shoulders sink as he took stock again of the damage they had done.
Filthy but triumphant, his family stood scattered around the clearing in a loose and shaky circle. Rosalie was gleaming, lovely even now, and she watched the brilliant violet flames with a peculiar brightness that made Jasper frown. Emmett stood beside her nursing a deep and seeping bite on his forearm he'd gained when he lost his focus for the barest of moments. Carlisle was the furthest away, hovering near the edge of the trees with a face like thunder, and Alice, sunk to her ankles in mud, only had eyes for him. Edward was nearer still, his gaze gleaming with a mingling delight and concern, but Jasper refused to acknowledge that worry for what it really was, and he looked away.
Of all his family, Jasper knew that it was Edward who came the closest to understanding what it was like for him to live in his own skin. It was Edward who understood the finer details of Jasper's gift, and Edward who knew the horror of the kill when your prey was pleading, begging for life.
"How many?" he asked, and at once, the tallies came in. Twenty two, per his count, and there was enough smoke still choking the air to prove it.
"And the woman?" Edward's voice rang sharp and clear. "Who got the woman?"
There was silence.
Like children in a classroom who were asked a question that none of them could answer, Jasper watched with mounting fury as heads swivelled from side to side. Rosalie was scowling, her eyes locked accusingly on Emmett, but Emmett hardly noticed her at all as he stared askance at Jasper. On the far side of the clearing Carlisle froze, his eyes roaming sadly over the smouldering piles of ash, and most menacing of all was Edward, his eyes locked on Jasper with such a malignant ferocity that Jasper felt his own temper piqued. Edward watched him for the barest of moments, his black eyes furious, and when Jasper gave no answer he snarled, turning his back on all of them.
"She can't be far…" Emmett's tone was reasonable, almost pleading.
"She'll be halfway to Canada," snapped Edward. "If she's got any sense at all, she'll be long gone by now."
"She was here," said Rosalie with uncharacteristic bite. "You can still smell her, even now. She was here, Edward…"
"That does not serve us now."
"We might be able to…"
"We won't."
It was Alice who shot him a glare.
"I'll go," she said. "Jasper too. We'll track her as far as we can…"
"The snow will make it difficult."
"But not impossible," said Alice and there was a finality, a decisiveness, that made him nod. "Never impossible. We'll find her, or at least we'll find where she might be hiding."
"Yes…"
"We'll need to travel," said Carlisle, and at once, all attention was on him. "Once we're back at the house, we'll need to make our plans."
There was no argument.
"Where?"
"I don't know… we have friends up north and across the pond. I don't doubt that any of them would rise to our aid if we ask for it."
"They won't agree to fight."
"They won't have to," said Carlisle. "I think we've proven ourselves more than capable here. The most we might ask is their attention, and their care."
"Will they give it?" asked Edward. "Will they give you their words, Carlisle?"
"I think they will…"
"You need to know."
"Mind yourself," said Emmett sharply and at once, Edward's ferocious gaze had shifted. Jasper could taste the tension in every breath. "It will do you no good to antagonize…"
Edward hissed, turning his back on them again.
"We should—"
But neither then, nor any time thereafter, would they find out just what it was that Edward thought that they should do. Edward's words were cut short, his thought lost as they wheeled around as one, ears trained for the source of that strange and eerie sound.
In the distance beyond the trees to the north, close enough to hear now that the wind had died down, Jasper heard the odd metallic crunching that rang through the trees. It came upon them slowly, at first low and quiet, and then altogether noisy and obtrusive, and as Jasper craned his neck to hear, he became aware of two things at once.
The first was that the sound, whatever it was, was coming from the direction of the house where his mother and his sister were hiding, alone. The second made his nostrils flare, his eyes blackening with fury in hardly a second, and the moment he made sense of it, Edward did too.
On the cold, wintry air, carrying in on the breeze, was the sickly scent of the enemy mingled with the poignant, potent smell of blood.
That laugh made Esme's heart grow cold.
In the darkness of the washroom, with the trembling girl huddled at her back, Esme listened again to the riotous, raucous laughter and felt her jaw clench, her body poised to strike.
"I can hear you in there…" taunted Victoria, and behind her, Esme heard Bella's quiet panic. "I can hear you, darling, hiding in there…"
There was a bang on the door, so noisy this time that it made Bella yelp, and though it shook on its hinges, it did not fall. Esme watched it rattle, holding out her hand to keep it closed, and all at once there came a thunderous, deafening crash. In a shower of wood, Esme saw that door dissolve into a riot of splinters like toothpicks. Her hand did nothing to stop it and as the pieces hit the floor, the walls, the tub, and the girl, Esme felt her body tense and she sprung herself forward to strike.
Her target was clear, her fiery red hair shining like a beacon in the dark. In an instant, the pair were away, tumbling head over heels through the bedroom like cats, and though they hit the wall and shattered a window, Esme latched her fingers to that cold, hard flesh, and she did not let go. She had one goal, and one goal only— and that was to keep this creature away from Bella.
Esme was not a fighter. She was not inclined towards violence nor did she default to aggression, but there was something in her that awoke at the sight of that smug and hateful face. Above her, the enemy loomed, her fingers grabbing, snatching, gouging, and gripping, and Esme watched the frantic glee in her eye, the savage pleasure of the hunt. Her face was alight with the glow of anticipation, her teeth bared in a terrible display of dominance, and her eyes, rimmed by a deep, blood-red ring, were as black as pitch so that the pupils were nearly indistinguishable from the irises. She looked deranged, like a madman on the prowl, and as Esme fought viciously for the upper hand, she managed to flip herself over.
Straddling the woman was a feat in itself, and though Esme was bigger, the enemy was stronger. Victoria had the benefit of time on her side, and a wily, unruly lust for blood, and both of these combined made Esme the weaker fighter. She could feel it in the muscle— could feel the incredible strength and stamina of the creature beneath her— and when Victoria freed one of her slender, white arms, Esme felt the blow like the crack of a whip. Victoria's fist connected with her face, sending her hurtling to the other end of the room. Pain bloomed down her face from her temple to her neck, and though she could feel the broken skin on the apple of her cheek, in the next instant, it was knitted. The sting of it shocked her— never before had she felt anything to rival it— but when she saw Victoria take first one step, and then another, towards that ruined bathroom door, Esme knew she had to act.
She sprinted like a mad thing, hurtling recklessly towards that desperate assailant. She could hear Bella's weeping from inside the bathroom but she could hardly pause to listen, and when she once again tackled the woman to the ground, Esme saw the flicker of anger on that pretty, vivacious face.
There was a second blow, and then a third before Esme brought her own hand up to strike. Her arm landed hard enough to throw the woman off of her again, and when she kicked out her foot, instead, she sent her opponent through a wall to careen down the stairs. Esme followed like a ghost, landing on the balls of her feet at the base of the staircase, and when she was rushed they tumbled again, this time destroying the piano, the kitchen island, and the tall, french doors that led to the back yard.
"She is mine!" snarled Victoria, and Esme felt the shocking sting of teeth on her arm. She slapped and kicked to get away. "She is mine!"
In an instant, the woman was away up the stairs.
With her heart in her throat, nursing that dreadful, venomous sting in her arm, Esme scrambled up the stairs in a fraction of a second. She could hear the screams— one of triumph, and one of terror— and when she yanked the creature back from where she skulked by that broken bathroom door, the pair of them tumbled again until they fell into the middle of the hard, wooden floor. Esme felt the weight of her, so heavy and so strong, and when that desperate hand came up to wrap around her own, white throat, she knew then that she would lose.
She kicked. She screamed. She punched, and scratched, and writhed, but nothing she did, and nothing she said would dislodge the enemy from her throat. She could see that wild face alight with the glow of impending victory, and she could hear the gloating hiss that escaped through her teeth. The hand squeezed tighter and tighter, cutting off her air and cracking the delicate skin at the base of her throat, and then she felt it, like a thousand cutting knives, as her neck began to give way.
"I win," hissed Victoria, and over the rushing anger in her heart and her soul, Esme heard her delight. "I've won, you stupid cow… she is mine!"
This would be the end for her— and it would be the end for Bella. It would be the last of them— dying together, in the home they both had loved. Her child, succumbing to the threat from which Esme had failed to protect her, and she, herself, lost in the struggle to keep the girl safe. She thought of Carlisle, then, and the grief that he would feel, and of Edward, whose rage would be incandescent when he found out what this woman had done...
The hand bore down harder and Esme scrabbled, gouging that hard, smooth skin so forcefully that she felt her own fingernails snap under the pressure. She felt the divots in the skin, heard the angry, hissing titter of protest, and she waited for it, the slight release of that pressure, before she made her final, desperate move.
Her fingernails sunk deep and she bent her head to bite the hand that held her. She felt the flesh part between her teeth, tasted the odd sweetness of venom on her tongue, and in that instant the fingers loosened, though only just, and Esme used her feet to kick herself up. In a clatter of metal and a shattering of glass, she felt herself propelled through the broken bedroom window with a sound like a cannon, and then she was flying, headlong, through the snow-covered yard.
She came to rest in the trees, in a long, deep trench that her body had carved in the frozen earth. Her head was ringing from the force of the blow, her arm stinging from the oozing, cloying bite, but she was back on her feet in an instant, her heart in her throat. Her body would heal— even the deepest bites, with time, would disappear— and it was not for herself that she feared, not for herself that she felt such terrible, agonizing worry.
For up in the house, away from all the windows, Esme heard the briefest sound of a struggle before there was a loud and piercing scream.
"No!"
Running up as fast as her legs could carry her, Esme vaulted up the stairs in record time. In the ruined bedroom, with furniture upended and walls and doors destroyed, she launched herself into that bathroom where she saw, with a terrible, sinking dread, the very sight that she had been so desperate to prevent, the sight that they had all fought so hard to avoid.
They were there together, Victoria and the girl, and one was laughing as the other screamed. Victoria held Bella by the hair, her head snapped back at a terrible angle, and from the place where her teeth had sunk into the girl's soft, white throat, she laughed. Esme could see the sickening bob of her throat, the smallest trickle of sweet, fragrant blood that escaped the demon's lips, and she hardly had time at all to process what she saw before Bella let out another shriek and her feet began to kick.
Esme saw red.
In half a second, Victoria was tossed away, a spray of blood spattering the broken mirror as she was shoved back. Her laughter was gleeful— Esme could see the delighted victory in her gaze, the gloating, taunting joy at her success, and she hated her for it. Her hate made her angry, and her anger made her strong, and with a snarl of furious, tangible rage, she was running again.
Esme grabbed the creature by the throat and she gouged her fingers in its eyes, and with a wild shout and an angry cry, they were gone. They tumbled headlong across the bedroom and propelled through that open window, landing with a terrible crash in the yard outside/
Esme could feel the biting teeth at her throat and her neck, but somehow, with that child's blood on her face and her hands, she could hardly bring herself to notice. The sting was fierce, and it was cold, but as she slammed her fist over and over into that smug, laughing face, she relished the feel of release, the crumbling of bone. She knew it would not be enough— it would never be enough, unless she ended it outright— and so when she managed to dive and sink her teeth deep into that long, slender neck, she did not hesitate.
She had never done it before, had never severed a head from its body, and as she pressed her jaws together and felt the parting of flesh, she seemed to know instinctively what to do. First, there was the sweetness, and then came the bitter, and though weakening hands slammed fists against her back to haul her off, she would not be moved. In an instant she had achieved her goal, and with a terrible roar of savage grief, she felt the separation of the flesh and the enemy's head came away in her hand like a grotesque and hateful trophy.
On the ground the body writhed, twitching and scrambling to reassemble itself. There could be no voice— not without a mouth— and Esme hardly spared any of a glance before she threw the pieces far enough away and reached into her pocket for the small gas lighter Jasper had pressed on her before the fight. Esme had thought it silly before but she was grateful for it now, and when the aggressor went up in flames, Esme watched the acrid smoke with relish.
The whole ordeal— her success, the burning, and the smoke— took hardly a minute, and once the fire had billowed into a vivid purple haze, there was another scream from the upper floor of the house.
Like a scene from a disaster reel, the room was in ruins. Glass littered the floor, the bed had been thrown partway through the far wall, and the wood of the floor, so pristinely polished, had been torn up in a great, long strip where Esme had been thrown to the floor. There were no lights left to use— the lamp had been twisted beyond recognition and the bulbs on the ceiling had been smashed to bits, and though the window was open there was no sun or moon to help her see. Esme did not need a light of course— she could see perfectly well without it— and from the darkness of the bathroom Esme could hear the frantic, racing heartbeat, and the piercing, agonized scream from the girl.
At once, Esme was kneeling beside her.
"Oh Bella…"
On the floor atop the broken tile she lay, her face upturned towards the ceiling and her body curled into a heap on the cracked marble floor. Her eyes were wide and staring, fixed on some vision that Esme could not see, and as her fingers scrabbled clumsily at her throat, Esme saw the odd set of her arm and the rapid swelling of her left ankle. There was a cut on her cheek— it looked like the skin had been torn— and already there was a swollen, ugly bruise around it— but of all these hurts, Esme honed in on the one that mattered most. Her arm was certainly broken, and her leg perhaps the same, but on her throat, bloody and raw, was an oblong wound with teeth marks embossed so deeply that Esme could make out each and every tooth, down to the molars. It leaked blood onto the floor— Esme could feel it soaking through her pants and sticking to her skin— but already the edges had begun to knit. Below her, the girl whimpered, and when Esme pressed her hand over the wound to stop the bleeding, she screeched.
Already the skin was cold, and Esme felt the sinking in her belly like a stone in a river. She had seen the change twice before— once for Rosalie, and the other for Emmett— and each time it started the same. The wound would sting, just like this one, and then the sting would spread, and by the time you figured out just what was happening it was too late, and then your body was on fire. Bella was writhing now, straining viciously against Esme's hold, and when the next scream came it was a desperate, horrid keening that shook her to her core.
"I'm sorry, Bella… I'm so, so sorry…"
"Esme…"
"I'm right here, darling. I'm so sorry…"
"No. No, no, no… Esme!"
"I know…"
She shrieked again.
A/N: Okay. Two things.
First, thank you for all your patience. For those of you who follow me on Twitter, you know all about the drawn out ordeal this chapter became. Shortly after I published Chapter 15, just as I was going to get started on THIS chapter, the keyboard on my laptop crapped out. Naturally, I was annoyed, and promptly brought it to the local repair shop to see what could be done. Because I live in Northern Ontario, Canada, we don't have an Apple Store to service Macbooks on site, so the repair guy tells me that the computer has to be sent away for new keyboard parts. As of this chapter, I STILL don't have my laptop back. It's my birthday this Friday, so I've got my fingers crossed that I'll have it back by then.
Second thing (and slightly related): This chapter is one of the longest and most intense yet, and it was written entirely on my cell phone using Google Docs (hence the delay). If you find any typos, errors, or anything else that looks odd, please know that as soon as I get my computer back from the magical Apple headquarters down south, I'll be doing a more thorough edit and read through. You don't know how many times I almost chucked my phone in the garbage over the past three weeks (you can thank autocorrect for that particular violent urge), but it's here, it's finished (mostly), and it's out. I would consider this version a late-stage draft (not 100% ready for publication), but I got sick of waiting, which means that I know you're all sick of waiting.
Lots of love for all of you, and I hope you're all having a happy holiday season!
