*****
A/N: Ok, we're finally getting to the present day. Hope you're enjoying it so far. Any and all reviews are cool as lemonade on a hot summer night!
We've been nominated! Commission has been nominated for "Favorite Darkward" at the Bellie Awards (.), and "Best Alternate Universe, WIP" category at the Indie TwiFic Awards ().
With each award, Commission will only get on the ballot if it's one of the top 4 or 5 to be nominated in that category. So, if you like what you've read, please take a minute to nominate the story for either or both awards. (Or some other award, if you're so inclined :) )
Disclaimer: SM owns all things Twilight, but this plot is mine. Also, the smokes.
*****
August 2005
Had it been possible for the vampire to maintain a human-free diet, redemption would have been a far less convoluted affair. However, biology proved neither sympathetic nor lenient - he quickly found that, although certain rules could be bent, they could never be broken. He was created a killer of men, and so he would remain.
Roger's Park had proved to be the site of his last careless murder, but in many ways, that night was the beginning of his struggle rather than the end. Empathy was now as much a part of his experience as bloodlust, but the two combined no better than raw sodium and water. Still, he was determined to find some middle ground, some way to reconcile the needs of his body with those of his burgeoning conscience. Surely, he reasoned, the lives of some were worth more than others; all he had to do was become a more judicious executioner.
Now, nearly one decade later, as the girl walked slowly down the hall and into his living room, he knew right away that the meeting would only waste his time.
He had still been in the shower when the buzzer rang nearly half an hour before it was expected, and he was almost irritated enough to ignore it. It had been a frustrating and fruitless night of hunting and an equally uncomfortable day trying to keep his mind off the particular type of thirst that had been nagging at him for over a week. The shower was refreshing, and he could have stood under the cool stream of water for another ten minutes. Instead, he clumsily bounded out of the bathroom, spraying water on the dark walnut floors, and after buzzing his visitor in, rushed back into the bedroom to dress.
He heard her steps up the stairs, and then the shuffling of her shoes outside of his door before she got close enough to knock. Form the bedroom, he called for her to come in as soon as her fist had touched the door frame. The front door was already ajar, and creaked lightly as she entered. She walked down the hall slowly, cautiously, he supposed. He stepped out of the bedroom just as she entered the living room. Water was still dripping off of the dark mess that was his hair, and he flicked a stray lock out of his eyes. The girl stood in the middle of the room with one hand jammed into a pocket, and the other on a large bulky bag that hung from her shoulder. Her face was a mix of displeasure and wariness, eyebrows drawn together and lips pressed into a tense frown.
He looked her over. No, this would not work out. He could smell nervousness rolling off of her in waves and didn't buy the bravado her clothes and posture were trying to project. He didn't need to talk to her to know that she was too damn nice to do him any good. He had spent enough time dealing with amoral and selfish people to know that she was quite short of the mark, whether or not she knew it herself.
He nearly dismissed her right then, but hesitated when his stomach rolled over in another pang of hunger. Well, it was vaguely possible that he was mistaken. She might have enough of a mean streak in her after all, or perhaps she could actually serve the purpose that he had originally sought when he began taking such visitors.
She shifted the bag on her shoulder, looking more and more uncertain as they stood in front of each other in silence. All right, he would hear her out.
"You're Bella Swan," he said.
"I..yes. And you are?"
"My name is Edward. How did you hear about me?"
"I was given your number by one of your colleagues." she said after a slight pause.
He frowned at this. "I don't have any colleagues."
"Well, that's what he called himself," she replied tersely. "Look, does it really matter?"
"Yes, it certainly does. On the phone, you claimed that we had mutual acquaintance. I need his or her name, or you'll have to leave."
"You didn't ask for any names when I called." Despite her nerves, the girl seemed annoyed at his insistence, and her willingness to show it surprised him.
"I don't discuss sensitive information over the phone," he replied coldly, and reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one, walking across the room to one of the two recliners that occupied the middle of the room, facing each other. Lowering himself onto the plush leather, he continued to watch her. The girl had turned, following him with her suspicious eyes. The smoke began to swirl between them, and her next breath was slightly deeper as she inhaled the rich scent of tobacco and cloves.
"His name is Mike," she said finally, crossing her arms. "Friend of a friend. He lives in Chinatown, drives a delivery truck..." she trailed off and raised her eyebrows at him in expectation.
He knew who she was talking about, but her hostility made him reluctant to say so. Instead, he met her eyes steadily and blew several smoke rings. She shifted her weight and looked away.
"Mike Newton?" he asked, satisfied.
She nodded.
"I know Mike Newton."
Another silence stretched between them as Edward waited for her to elaborate and say something about why she had sought him out. Instead, she cast a longer glance around the room, this time avoiding eye contact, and fingered a buckle on her bag. He, in turn, took a moment to study her more closely. She was fairly ordinary in appearance – average height, shoulder-length brown hair, unremarkable face - perhaps with the exception of being too thin. Though her clothing hung loosely, he could tell by the bone structure of her slim wrists and prominent cheekbones that she wasn't eating properly. Familiar enough with cyclical weight loss by then, he wondered if she also had problems with nutrition, or merely chose to be so thin by adhering to some over-regimented diet. She wore no jewelery or make up, and her large hazel eyes were not flattered by the purple circles that underlined them. She was very pale, and when she blinked, he saw that tiny veins were visible through the thin skin of her eyelids. In fact, now that he looked more closely, he could just make out other delicate blood vessels in her cheeks and along her jaw. She had been chewing on her lower lip, and as she released it, he heard the faint thud of a tiny artery pulsing softly along its inner surface.
He shook his head, blinking furiously. The girl was examining the black and white photography that hung on the walls. If she was aware of his gaze, she was trying very hard not to show it.
"Sit down," he said, somewhat more forcefully than he intended. Her face snapped to his and she gave him a long and uncertain look before stepping to the other recliner. Sitting down, she put her bag on the floor and pulled an unopened pack of Marlboro's out the front pocket. Reaching back in, she continued to fumble through its unseen and numerous contents, but her hand came back empty.
She zipped the pocked shut with a jerk. "Can I have a light?" she asked, tugging impatiently at the plastic wrap of the red and white carton.
He frowned, then reached out to place the lighter and a cigarette on the glass coffee table between them. "If you're going to smoke, I'd rather you have one of mine." She looked at him quizzically, so he added "I can't stand the smell of cheap cigarettes."
"Fuck," she muttered, shaking her head, but took the cigarette anyway. As she began to smoke, he had the distinct impression that he was watching someone drown. She clutched the cigarette tightly between two fingers, its end flaring red with each greedy breath. When she opened her mouth to blow thick streams of smoke into the room, he could still hear the blood vessel in her lip.
He cleared his throat and asked "Why exactly did Mike Newton recommend me to you?"
"I need.. certain services," she replied, taking a long drag. "Ones that you provide, apparently. I've, uh, looked around a bit and.. you seem to have a reputation for being cheap and efficient."
"I see," he said and stood up. Ignoring her perplexed expression, he walked back into his bedroom and emerged moments later with a small digital voice recorder. When he turned it on and put it on the table between them, the girl pulled the cigarette out of her mouth and jerked forward.
"What the fuck is that for?" she demanded.
Ignoring the outburst, he replied "Before you say anything else, I want you to know that I will be recording this and all subsequent conversations you and I have. Should you change your mind or decide to renege on the terms of any agreement we come to, I will always have evidence of your involvement. If the police become aware of my activities, you would be implicated as well. If this doesn't suit you," he added after a pause, "then you should leave."
For a moment, he thought that she would. As he spoke, her eyebrows furrowed and she pressed her mouth into a tight angry line. He felt a flicker of disappointment at the thought of her departure, and then surprise as she slowly leaned back in her seat.
"Alright," she muttered. "But I want a copy."
He nodded, and waited again for her to speak. There was another long silence, and he wondered if she was deliberately trying to say as little as possible. "If you could repeat what you just told me," he prompted, "for the recording."
"Which part?"
"Your name and why you're here."
"Bella Swan." Another pause. The cigarette in her hand shook lightly, ash drifting to the floor with each twitch of the wrist. Suddenly, she leaned forward again and pulled two photographs out of her bag, laying them side by side on the coffee table. Each movement was sharp, forceful. "I want to hire you to kill two men. This one is Pat Taylor, and that's James Pelzer." She punctuated each name by stabbing a finger at the corresponding picture. Her eyes lingered on the photos briefly before she looked back at him.
"Who are they?"
"What do you mean?"
"Who are they?" he repeated, gesturing vaguely. "Where do they live, where to they work, how would I find them?"
"Oh." She pulled out a notebook and tore off a sheet of paper. "They're roommates in some dump in Uptown. Here's the address," she said, tossing the paper on top of the pictures. "Taylor's a cashier at a convenience store there, and Pelzer is a security guard at Loyola. Both work the night shift, get stoned on the weekends." She shrugged. "Shouldn't be too hard to find."
He moved the sheet of paper off the photos and leaned over the table for a closer look. One was taken at a party, and Pat Taylor looked drunk and rowdy. He was young, in his mid 20s, with a thick goatee and long black hair that hung around his face in matted cords. The logo on his shirt was the cover of a heavy metal album that had been popular over a decade prior. Beer raised in one hand, he looked past the camera with an open mouth, caught in the middle of some exclamation. Edward did not feel the least bit of interest in him at all.
The other photograph was a still shot, and had been ripped nearly in half, cutting off a shoulder of the man pictured. This one was older, with very short blond hair and dark, angular features. He looked directly into the camera, and his half-hearted smile did not reach his eyes. Though he was handsome, his face was not pleasant - despite the smile, his expression was cold and hard, as though chiseled out of rock. Edward lingered over James Pelzer for a long moment, studying the face closely.
The girl said they smoked marijuana, and judging from the look of the first one, that was probably just scratching the surface. Unfortunate. Polluted blood was hardly desirable, and had made him sick in the past. Still, it was better than- abruptly, he caught himself. Why was he about killing these men? Given how such meetings had unraveled in the past, that outcome was highly unlikely. And yet.. somehow, this meeting felt different.
He pushed the photographs away. What the men looked like and where they lived was largely irrelevant - there was a far more pressing point to clarify.
"Why do you want me to kill them?" he asked, watching closely for her response.
She ground the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray with superfluous force. "It doesn't matter."
"It does," he said with emphasis.
Her eyes snapped back to his, and the harshness of her expression caught him off guard. "I'm not here to tell you my fucking life story. Do you want the money or not?"
He didn't bother keeping the scowl off his face as he withdrew another cigarette from his pack and lit it, deliberately drawing out each motion. "I suspect," he said finally "that my services mean far more to you than your money does to me. If I'm wrong, then by all means, stop wasting my time and go. But I don't believe that I am, and if so, you should understand that my actions are not frivolous. When I ask you why you want these men killed, it is not to make small talk. If you want to secure my employment, then you should provide me with the information that I request."
She didn't reply. Edward let several more seconds drift by, then stood up, grabbing the voice recorder from the table. "Let yourself out," he said over his shoulder, turning to the bedroom.
He had crossed the living room before he heard the rustle of clothing against leather as the girl stood up.
"Wait," she said stiffly.
He paused, hand on the doorknob to his bedroom.
"My sister Alice died two years ago. Pat Taylor and James Pelzer were charged, but the trial was dismissed for lack of evidence. I know they killed her, but the police won't listen to me."
He turned. She stood with arms crossed tightly across her chest. "You're right," she said simply, "I need them to die." Her face was hard, vacant.
He took several steps back toward her. "What happened to your sister?"
The girl drew back from the question, but did not object again. She sat down and studied her long fingers, curled into fists on her lap. "She was raped and killed."
Edward sat down as well, putting the digital recorder between them again. "How do you know that? And how can you be sure that these two are the ones who did it?"
She looked up, lips curling bitterly. "She died at their apartment. Pelzer was the one who actually called 911. They used to live together. He said she'd shown up drunk that night and came onto both of them. Said they were all going at it when she passed out. They did an autopsy and found enough heroin in her system to kill an elephant. Since the cops didn't find any drugs at the apartment, they dropped all charges and called it an overdose."
"But you don't believe that."
"It's fucking bullshit," she spat out. Her leg had begun to bounce against the floor as she spoke, and the motion intensified now, though she didn't seem aware of it. She didn't say anything else, jaw clenched and eyes glued to a patch of flooring.
Edward waited a moment, then asked "What do you mean?"
She startled and glanced back at him vaguely.
"Why do you say it's bullshit?" he clarified.
Her eyes narrowed. "Why do you keep asking me these questions?" she countered, shaking off whatever had silenced her.
Edward felt his impatience flare. " I told you. There are certain things I need to know, and I don't find that necessary justify."
"Fine. Whatever," she muttered before continuing. "It's bullshit because that bastard Pelzer beat her up for to two years before she finally left him. The only reason she went back that night was to pick up her things. She didn't even think he'd be there. I never would have let her go alone if... It's bullshit because she wouldn't have gone near him, either one of them." She stopped again, then added "I know my own sister."
"But she was intoxicated. People often make poor choices - "
"It's wasn't a choice! She didn't get drunk or high that night. My father died an alcoholic, and my mother's been addicted to painkillers for nearly a decade. Believe me, that takes all the romance out of it for you. Alice had never even been drunk in her life, and especially not since - " she broke off, shaking her head vehemently. There was a heavy pause between each of her next words: "She didn't do heroin."
Edward met her heavy gaze and realized that a part of him had been ready to believe her from the start.
Still, he was determined to act rationally. Taking a moment to mull over what she had told him, he said "I find it difficult to believe that they did not have to stand trial, given the circumstances."
She scratched the inside of one wrist through a cotton sleeve. "Pelzer was a cop, and he had plenty of people to cover for him. He quit right after it happened, though, probably forced out to avoid embarrassment for the department." She shook her head again, one hand still fidgeting with the other. "Cops don't give a shit about one dead girl, just as long as a story like that never makes it to the papers. Fuckers, all of them."
"Why didn't you go to the press?"
She laughed once, a choked and biting sound. "That only works in the movies. Who's going to take my word over the entire police department's? I haven't exactly been a law abiding citizen, either. They'd just arrest me to shut me up."
"So you don't want to speak to the press because you fear being arrested, but you're willing to come to me?"
"Hey, fuck you," she shot back, and was on her feet again. "Don't judge me, you don't know shit about my life!" She bent down to pick up her back. "Look, I've told you what you wanted to know. Are you going to do it or not?"
"I don't know," he replied, casting another glance at the photographs on the coffee table.
"What?" she sputtered.
"I don't know," he repeated, punctuating each word. "I need to look into this, clarify a few things." Before she could object further, he picked up James Pelzer's photograph. "His previous line of work complicates things considerably."
"So how long will it take?" she demanded.
"Leave the photos and address with me, and come back in three days. I should know by then."
"Wait a minute," she protested, scratching at her wrist again. "Can't you just call me?"
"No," he said. "I don't discuss business over the phone."
She opened her mouth to say something else, but then, the old cut that she'd been nagging reopened. Edward jerked back just as she glanced down, rubbing her arm in surprise.
"Get out!" he growled, stumbling backwards.
"What? Wait-"
"Three days! " he repeated, slamming the door of the bedroom shut between them.
Bella Swan stood in the empty room for several moments, entirely uncertain of what had just transpired or how she should react. Then, she picked her bag off the floor and quickly left the apartment.
*****
A/N: If you're confused about Edward's behavior or motivation in this chapter, fear not. It is intentional. Several years have passed since we last saw him wrestling with his conscience, and the solutions he has come to are meant to be mysterious for now. But all will be revealed in due time.
On a related note, this is my very first public display of writing, and to be honest, I don't know what to make of it. I'm tickled pink to see that people are reading this story, and even getting as far as this chapter (the clever visitor statistics page told me so), so I can only assume that some of you like it. Still, feedback to a writer is like cud to a cow. We would ruminate on it all day long if we could.
So, if you're enjoying this story and would like to see more, please let me know. If people aren't into it, I'll just keep it on my hard-drive and pretend this experiment never happened :)
Chapter 4: What's the deal with Bella?
