7.
That afternoon while Edward was slouching his way through a horridly dry article on Milton's use of sin, he noticed the man (seated at a table three over from his own).
He rested an elbow gracefully on the tabletop; he was seemingly engrossed in a rather musty and considerably dull looking tome. But Edward suddenly (and with an uncomfortable degree of certainty) knew that the man wasn't actually reading.
He took a deep breath, hating the sliver of fear that slid down his spine.
He was simultaneously annoyed and quite a bit indignant that he was being followed, watched. But still the man's presence unnerved him distinctly.
Edward closed his notebook, folded his arms across his chest, and looked directly at the older man.
The man smiled and seemed to give up all pretense of reading. He closed the book, pushed it away, and crossed his arms (in what Edward was sure was a mimicry of his own position).
Edward found he quite liked the smirk that curled the edges of Carlisle's lovely mouth (fear laced with the hint of desire), and the realization irritated him immensely.
He looked down at his article again but couldn't focus on the printed text. Simmering just beneath the surface of his irritation, attraction, fear, Edward noted an undercurrent of something very different. It flickered and flared along the edges of his consciousness and then faded out again (tempered once more by anger).
But the feeling was still there, and Edward (reluctantly, begrudgingly) had to acknowledge what it was.
Comfort.
He wanted to shake his head. No. That couldn't be right. He didn't want that to be right. Regardless, though, of what he wanted, he couldn't deny that it was true.
There, twining between fear and annoyance and discomfort, seeping through the pores of his indignation was a rather disconcerting degree of comfort.
Comfort that the man was clearly concerned with his well-being.
At the thought, his anger sparked once more. He wasn't a child; he didn't need to be looked after, watched.
But Edward could still remember the attack with vivid clarity. He remembered the chill of the man's skin, his arm around his chest, the metallic tang of his breath.
And he realized with a dreadful, sickening clarity (icy fingers clenching at his ribs) that Carlisle wouldn't be there, wouldn't be watching him unless the danger was real. And that understanding cemented the fear that had been oozing between the cracks of his mind.
You're scared.
Yes.
You should be.
8.
The following afternoon, Edward had barely located the reference text he needed (a tedious examination of the distinction between justice and retribution in Dante) when the man appeared again. He sat down two tables from Edward and leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee; he hadn't even bothered to select a book from the shelf.
Edward closed his eyes and took a not-entirely-calming breath. Then he stood, gathered his things, and walked to the man's table. Carlisle regarded him for a long moment before raising a rather elegant eyebrow (lips curving into a wry smile).
Edward sat down opposite him.
Carlisle's gaze never slipped from his face. The scrutiny was unsettling; Edward felt very much on display. But he was careful not to let his discomfort, his unease show. He stared calmly at the man and leaned back, rocking his chair onto two legs.
Still, he couldn't help the slow seep of dread that slid down his spine and knotted in his stomach.
He knew Carlisle was dangerous (unthinkably so). As dangerous, perhaps, as the man called Aro. And while his instincts told him that he should get as far away from him as possible, he didn't think the man would actually hurt him. Not then. Not in public.
But Edward was also quite sure he was going mad (why else would he voluntarily sit next to this man, why else did a trickle of excitement twine with the fear that flooded his veins?).
Carlisle was beautiful, inhumanly lovely in his perfection. And that…unnaturalness only served to heighten Edward's discomfort. But it also intrigued him, and he found he couldn't pull his eyes away.
Carlisle noticed him watching and smiled; his teeth were very straight and very white.
Edward shivered. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, folding his arms across his chest. He was pleased that his voice remained level.
The man pursed his lips. "Surely you realize."
He did, but he wanted the man to say it, wanted him to admit that he was following him, watching him.
"You're not safe." Carlisle said after a few moments. "Now that Aro has decided he wants you, he will not stop until he has you."
And though Edward had somehow known that was the case, hearing the words aloud sent a new rush of panic spiraling through his veins. He suddenly was very cold.
Everything felt shaky and out of focus, nightmarish, surreal. The man's words burned, almost as if they'd been seared into his flesh. He took a deep breath, but his lungs ached and he felt dizzy. Everything was rapidly spiraling out of his control.
"Why? What does he want with me?"
Carlisle cocked his head, regarded Edward curiously. "Can't you hear me at all?"
He frowned, confused. "Of course I can hear you."
"No, that's not what I—" the man stopped, shook his head. "Never mind," he finished. "It's nothing."
Edward regarded him suspiciously, quite certain there was a great deal he wasn't being told. And, of course that only heightened his unease, his irritation, his ever-present fear.
"Come home with me," the man said suddenly, decisively.
Edward bit back a laugh. "I don't think so."
"I can protect you. He will come after you again."
"And you're one of them."
Carlisle nodded. "Yes. But I won't hurt you."
"And I'm not crazy."
"No," the man said seriously. "I don't think you are."
He'd had enough. Nothing made sense anymore, but his every rational thought was screaming at him to stand up and walk away. He needed to have a drink, get a full night sleep, and get back to his life.
After all, he wasn't crazy (he wasn't), and nothing he'd experienced in the past forty-eight hours could change what he knew to be true: monsters weren't real, and vampires simply didn't exist.
Resolved, Edward stood. "I have to go," he said, shoving his notebook into his bag.
The man was on his feet in an instant. "Edward," he said, one hand on his arm. "Wait."
He shook the hand away, hugged his bag to his chest. "I'm sorry. I have to go," he said again. "I'm meeting someone."
"The girl."
Edward nodded and took a step backward, panic welling up inside of him again. It felt like a stone had dropped into his stomach "How did you know that?" Fear bled into his voice, and his hand trembled slightly; he closed his fist (felt nails bite into his palm).
The man said nothing.
"How did you know?" he asked again slowly.
"She is your best friend," the man said, ignoring his question. "But it is not romantic."
"I…no. It's not like that," Edward found himself saying before the implication of the man's comment set in.
Carlisle knew where he lived. He knew where he worked. He knew what he did in his spare time. He knew whom he hung out with.
Edward inhaled sharply; he suddenly realized (with sickening clarity) exactly how much danger he was in. Only now, he wasn't even sure who to fear more: Carlisle or the man who'd attacked him that night on the street.
You are in danger, but I won't hurt you. You must believe me.
"How can I possibly believe you?" Edward asked, in a voice that wasn't his voice (it was too breathless, too high).
But Carlisle only smiled (a maddening curve of pink lips). "You can hear me."
"Of course I can hear you!" Edward was practically yelling; other students were glaring at him from across the stacks, but he didn't care. "And I need you to tell me why I should believe you."
"Because I am the only one who can help you."
Edward could hear his heart thudding in his ears, a rush of blood so loud it threatened to drown everything else out. He took a deep breath. "You know where I live. You know where I study. You know my schedule. You know who my friends are and what I do every evening."
The man nodded.
Edward's entire body was tense, wire-taut, but he knew he could not run.
You can't get away. There's nowhere for you to go.
"How long have you been watching me?"
"A while."
"Why?"
"Because I need you as much as you need me."
9.
Bella was late.
He was halfway through his third pint of Newcastle when she sat down beside him with an over-dramatic sigh.
"Your day couldn't have been worse than mine," he informed, cutting off whatever complaint she no doubt had.
She rolled her eyes then shrugged. "Nothing a beer can't fix, I suppose." She signaled for the bartender.
He took a long sip of his drink; the glass was cold against his palm.
"So, what happened to you today?" she asked after several long moments, thumbnail scraping the green and gold label on her beer bottle.
He set his glass down; it left a slick watery ring on the tabletop. Vampires, stalkers, death threats, vampires…
"I asked Pearson for another extension."
"And?"
"He said he'd think about it."
"Well that sounds less than promising"
Edward nodded, and unfolded the newspaper he'd taken from the stack at the end of the bar.
She leaned over his shoulder. "Anything today?"
"No." It seemed odd, now that he knew whom…what was responsible for the attacks, now that he knew how dangerous the man truly was, he had expected more violence. But no. There had been no other disappearances, no new victims. "Nothing."
"That's good."
"Yes." But Edward wasn't so sure.
They drank in silence for a while. Bella's knee bounced up and down; her barstool rattled. Edward glared. Bella bounced her leg faster.
"He's back," she said suddenly, squeezing another lime into her bottle.
"Who?"
"The man who was watching us."
Edward felt something twist in his stomach. Of course Carlisle had followed him to the bar. He turned to see him seated in a corner booth, a glass of red wine on the table in front of him.
"Give me a minute," he told Bella, standing.
She nodded and flashed him a rather wicked smile. "He's rather attractive."
He rolled his eyes. "Trust me, whatever it is you're thinking, it's not like that."
"Sure, sure," she said as he walked away, a teasing lilt to her voice.
Edward sat down across from the man. He could see Bella watching them from her perch at the bar. "Do I even need to tell you how inappropriate it is that you've followed me here?"
Carlisle shrugged, ran a fingertip along the lip of his wine glass. "As loathe you are to accept it, Edward, you are in danger. And I do not wish to see Aro get to you again."
"I… No—" his voice cracked and he swallowed thickly. Then he scowled. "And yet, you've refused to tell me why I'm in such danger. Why does this man wish to hurt me? What does any of this have to do with me?"
The man regarded him steadily for a few long moments. Then asked, "what do you know about your parents?"
"My parents?" Edward was taken aback by the man's personal question. "What on earth do my parents have to do with any of this?"
"Quite a bit, really," he said, turning his wine glass around once more. "Tell me, Edward," he started again, "what do you know about your parents?"
Edward frowned but answered truthfully. "My father left my mother shortly after she became pregnant."
The man nodded as if he expected as much but said nothing.
"And my mother…" he paused, eyes darkening slightly. "My mother died when I was still very small."
"She was murdered, Edward," the man said softly. "Murdered by the very same creature that is trying to kill you."
"I…I don't understand."
Carlisle pursed his lips together before continuing. "And your maternal grandparents, do you know anything about them?"
As far as he knew, his mother's parents had died while she was still in school. She had no other family. "I... No. I know nothing." He hated how his voice shook, but he had to understand.
The man nodded again but didn't respond. Then he reached out, trailed a fingertip along the back of Edward's hand.
He shuddered at the shivery contact.
"You wouldn't, Edward."
He bit on his lip until he tasted blood. "Carlisle. What happened to my mother? What killed her?" He wanted to sound indifferent, unconcerned but failed miserably.
"A vampire," he said simply. "But you already knew that."
"It's absurd."
"Is it?"
Edward wanted to scream that of course it was, but his mouth wouldn't form the words.
"You felt his strength," Carlisle continued softly, and his cool composure made Edward's stomach twist.
"You know what he wanted."
Edward shook his head but looked at the man steadily. "Your skin?"
The man nodded but otherwise sat perfectly still; Edward found his complete lack of movement rather unnerving.
"Yes."
Edward took a deep breath. He hated how absolutely helpless he felt, as though his entire world was rapidly splitting apart at the seams.
When he said nothing, the man spoke again. "You're not safe, Edward. He will come back. You should come with me."
"Right…" He might be losing his mind, but he wasn't mad yet.
"I won't hurt you."
"You're…you're one of them."
"Yes," the man said again, his voice low.
Edward wanted to run, wanted to disappear into the floor, wanted to stand up and go back to Bella (find that this had all be one horrifying nightmare). But instead he took a small sip of his drink, twisted the glass between his palms.
"I won't hurt you."
Edward closed his eyes, shook his head. "You've lost your mind if you think I'm going to—"
The man cut him off. "If I were going to hurt you, I would have done so already."
"That's hardly reassuring."
"No." The man smiled, eyes never leaving Edward's. "But it's true, and you can't face him alone. You will need my help." Carlisle paused, a peculiar expression on his face. Then he shook his head, said nothing.
Edward sighed. He felt stretched thin. Pulled between fear and confusion. Indecision and frustration. "Why does Aro want me?"
The man set his glass down, laced his fingers together.
Edward ran a nervous hand through his hair. "Please tell me. I have to know."
"You have something he wants desperately."
Edward narrowed his eyes. The cryptic responses were beyond infuriating. "I own nothing of value," he said, cradling his glass between his palms. "And until two nights ago, I had never even seen that man. There is nothing I have that he could possibly want."
Carlisle shook his head. "Unfortunately, you are quite wrong about that." He lifted the wine to his lips, but Edward noticed that he did not drink. "You have a gift, Edward, an incredible talent. Something that Aro wants desperately. And he is accustomed to getting what he wants."
Edward took a large gulp of his beer; the man watched his mouth, his throat as he swallowed. "And what gift," he asked, not bothering to mask the sarcasm in his voice, "do I have that is of such interest to your friend?"
Something flashed in Carlisle's eyes at the comment. "Aro is not my friend. And he is incredibly dangerous. You must understand that."
Edward nodded, slightly startled by the ferocity in the man's tone.
"And, as to your ability, Edward, I do not believe now is the best time to discuss it."
He wanted to scream his frustration. Instead he scrubbed a hand over his face. "And when might be a good time?" Edward asked through gritted teeth.
The man spun his wine glass between pale hands, watching the black red liquid slide up the sides. "Soon. I believe you will understand everything soon enough."
"Carlisle," Edward took a deep breath. "I understand that you believe this man is after me, and I know he is dangerous, but there is absolutely nothing remarkable about me." He drained his pint and then frowned at the empty glass. "I am a grad student. I study Milton and Dante. I spend my free time researching sin, guilt, and punishment. Unless Aro is interested in my ability to interpret literature, I have no talents to offer."
Carlisle regarded Edward intently, a sad smile playing at his lips. "You really have no idea how special you are?"
Edward shook his head, unsettled by the man's words. "I don't understand."
"Come home with me. Tonight. I will explain everything."
"I…I can't."
10.
In the middle of the night, Edward woke suddenly (the feeling of falling, jerking him out of sleep).
It was only a dream, he repeated to himself. It was only a dream.
Still, he could hear them, the voices pressing, pushing at the corners of his mind. Louder and louder still, slipping through the cracks (sand through a sieve, a river damned with broken glass).
No, no, no…
But he knew she was cheating on him (filthy slut), and he was certain he'd never finish the presentation on time (he would have to go back to the boss for more time), and the baby, the baby did need to see the doctor (a temperature of 101 was far too high).
He pressed his hands to his ears, buried his head under his pillow, and wanted to cry. It wasn't happening; it couldn't be. But there was no other explanation, and suddenly with sickening clarity, Edward knew.
This was what it felt like to go crazy.
It was as though the edges had dissolved completely, and he wasn't sure where he ended and the others began.
He sat up, forced himself to focus on his breathing (in, out, in again).
Then he called Bella.
"Edward, what's wrong?" the girl asked, voice drowsy with sleep.
"I need you, love. I need you."
She must have heard the desperate edge to his voice because she didn't question the late hour (that it was half past three in the morning). She just took a deep breath and told him she'd be there in ten minutes.
But he could hear her mumbling (words like rapid thoughts), as she hung up the phone.
Oh God Edward, what's happened? I'm coming, I'm coming. Please, just be all right.
But he wasn't all right.
Bella found him on the bed, knees pulled to his chest, rocking forward and back.
He had no idea how his head could possibly contain so much chatter. Static in clips and fragments. Wild foreign sounds, boiling bubbling in his mind. Distorted ideas and images, swirling, frothing, threatening to strip away everything he thought he knew.
"None of it's mine," he whispered. "I can hear it all, but none of it's mine."
"I know, love. I know."
She gave him a shot of whisky (warmed like her grandfather used to drink) and procured two small pills from her bag.
"Here, take these," she instructed. "I usually reserve them for airplanes or especially dire circumstances, but I think this constitutes an emergency." She smiled sadly and brushed the hair back from Edward's face. "God knows, you need them." She held the water glass to his lips, and he swallowed.
Edward thought he heard what she said, but the words were muddled with the other voices, and he simply couldn't think straight at all.
"Bells, love," he murmured, leaning into her embrace, pressing his mouth to her hair (the drugs were beginning to take effect). "I think I'm going crazy."
"No, love, no. You're not." Because what would I do without you?
But again the words joined a stream of a thousand other thoughts, running like rain through his mind.
Things were better in the morning. Everything was muted and dull (as though he were listening from underwater). But the thoughts at the forefront of his mind were his again (mirror sharp, crystal clear).
He could hear Bella in the kitchen (talking to herself, apparently), and he dressed quickly, listening as she mumbled something about cheese for the eggs.
"Bottom drawer, right side of fridge," he called.
"What?" she said, as he emerged from the bathroom, tugging a tee-shirt over his head.
"The cheese."
She looked at him peculiarly, the oddest expression on her face.
"For the eggs," he explained quickly. "You were looking for cheese."
Bella nodded then, brow crinkling slightly; Edward still couldn't decipher the look in her eye.
"I've made you an appointment, Ed," she said suddenly. "This afternoon with the uni doctor." Last night scared me.
Edward frowned but managed to bite back a rather caustic remark before it slipped off his tongue. "I don't need to see a doctor, Bella. I've told you that." His voice was clipped, harsher than he intended.
But I need you to be okay, she whispered, concern clearly etched on her pale face.
"I know, and I appreciate that, but—"
"It's just to talk, Ed." She put a hand on his arm. Her fingers were warm, soft. "Do it for me. Please." Please.
She bit her lip; it looked as though she was fighting back tears.
"What time?"
"Two-thirty. I'll tell Dr. Pearson you're not feeling well."
Edward closed his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temples. "Okay."
Bella exhaled audibly. Oh thank God. She looked at him and forced a smile. "Come on," she said, taking two plates from the cupboard. "Let's eat."
11.
"What you are describing, Mr. Masen, sounds like textbook Schizophrenia."
Edward clenched his hands into fists and took a steadying breath. His fingernails bit into his palms. "I…no… It's not. I'm not…"
Voices that come and go. Fragmented thoughts. Difficulty distinguishing oneself from others.
"I'm sorry," Edward looked at the doctor. "What did you say?"
"Schizophrenia. The symptoms you've described indicate Schizophrenia."
"No. Not that." Edward shook his head, closed his eyes. "Never mind."
Nothing was as it should be.
He needed to be in class; Pearson was discussing Faustus that day, a lecture Edward had actually been looking forward to.
Instead, he was sitting on an examination table trying (unsuccessfully it seemed) to convince the university shrink that he wasn't losing his mind.
Edward took another deep breath.
"Are you hearing them now?" The woman leaned forward, clasping her hands together in her lap.
"What?"
"That voices, dear."
"No," Edward said, crossing an ankle over his knee in feigned nonchalance. "I'm only hearing you."
"And when did you first notice the…sounds?"
He sighed loudly (the exercise was getting rather tiresome). "Oh, I don't know. Six, eight months ago. I've been rather stressed."
She nodded and jotted something down on her notepad.
"I'm always rather stressed," he amended. "I've an upcoming dissertation deadline, and I'm not sure I'll be granted an extension."
The woman said nothing; she simply regarded him calmly, waiting for him to continue.
"I'm overworked," Edward said. "And I haven't been sleeping well. That must be it."
He positively refused to admit the previous night's fiasco. (Thoughts, rapidfire, skipping across his mind like stones).
She nodded and hmmed (scratched another note on her pad).
"I'm not going crazy," he added almost defiantly (as if saying aloud it would make it so).
"Of course not, dear," the woman said softly. "Schizophrenia is a treatable and manageable condition. With the proper medication…" she trailed off, writing something on her tablet (Chlorpromazine…Thorazine) "you'll be able to function quite normally."
"What is Chlorproma...?" he began then stopped. "No. It doesn't matter. I'm not—"
"Mr. Masen," she said, cutting him off. "It is clear that you are not well. It is my recommendation that you try the medication. I believe you have a medical condition that can be treated."
He shook his head. "No. You don't understand. I don't need medicine. I don't have Schizophrenia. I'm just stressed, tired…"
She stopped him again, placing a hand on his knee. "I understand this is a lot to take in. I am just the university psychologist. Why don't I refer you to a specialist? They can run a few tests, perhaps provide you with additional information, some other options." She wrote another note on her tablet. Dr. Charles Davis, Laurelwood Clinic, extension 7274.
She tore off a sheet of paper and handed it to him, then smiled softly. "You might very well be right, Edward."
He knew the use of his given name was meant to be reassuring.
"Perhaps these…incidents are merely the result of severe stress and fatigue. Clearly, you are overworked. A few good nights of rest would be very advisable."
He nodded, hoping that would be the end of it.
But she continued, voice kind but firm. "However, in all my years of professional experience, I can tell you that hearing voices and experiencing hallucinations are not symptoms of mere stress or lack of sleep."
Edward left her office with a prescription for Thorazine, the name of a neurological specialist, and every intention of throwing both into the nearest rubbish bin.
12.
The man was waiting for him when he emerged from the clinic. Edward rolled his eyes and turned to walk in the opposite direction.
Carlisle caught up momentarily, falling into step beside him.
Edward shoved his hands in his pockets and refused to look at his companion.
"Isn't the English Department that way?" the man asked after a few paces.
He glanced to the side; Carlisle smiled benevolently and gestured behind them.
Edward looked down again. "Yes."
The man checked his watch. "You're not attending your seminar?"
He shook his head slightly. "No." Of course, it shouldn't have surprised him that the man knew his specific schedule, but Edward couldn't suppress that (now all too familiar) trickle of dread that slipped across his skin at the realization.
You've never missed.
Edward glared, irritation building. "No. I haven't," he snapped. "So one day won't matter."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Hearing voices again?"
He stopped and swallowed thickly (cold fingers tightening around his lungs). "What do you mean?"
Carlisle didn't answer. Instead he asked benignly, "Have you eaten?"
"What do you mean?" Edward repeated, voice low, intense.
"I know why you were at the clinic." The man spoke softly, "and you are right."
Edward found himself holding his breath.
"You are not crazy. Medication will not help."
He suddenly felt very ill. "Then what will?"
"Come with me."
His immediate impulse was to refuse, to get as far away from the man as possible. But Carlisle knew something, and he was beyond desperate for information.
So he didn't turn and run. Instead he glanced up at the man; his eyes (a deep brown) were warm and nearly soothing. Edward tensed and looked away again.
"Let's get something to eat. I'll tell you what I know."
By the time they reached the small café three blocks from campus, Edward's chest didn't feel so tight. But his hands were shaking and there were echoes flickering along the edges of his mind again.
They sat at a corner table. The afternoon sun filtered the window (yellow, gold, and orange). It felt warm on Edward's back.
He pressed his fingers to his temples (the outline of a headache threatened like the murmurs, the voices in his head).
A waiter appeared and set two glasses of water down with a couple of menus.
Edward ran a fingertip down the side of his glass; cool condensation slid under his finger, dripped onto the table.
He looked up at the man, who was watching him calmly. He was dressed simply (long-sleeved button-down and pressed khakis), and Edward was once again slightly startled by how beautiful he was.
But it was an unnatural beauty. Inhuman. (Because he was, his mind supplied helpfully). Edward took a sip of water, forced the thought away. Strange, though, how the warm sunlight slanting through the glass only made his too pale skin seem paler. And it was flawless, ageless, white, brilliant…
Realizing he was staring, Edward looked down again, but not before he saw the hint of a smile slip across the man's face.
It was difficult to unravel the conflicting feelings of fear and intrigue, irritation and interest he experienced every time he was near Carlisle.
The waiter appeared again.
"You should eat," the man prompted.
He wasn't hungry.
Pick something.
Edward glared but chose the chicken salad.
The waiter nodded and walked away.
"But yet," he said after a moment, "you're not eating." His voice was accusatory; he didn't like being told what to do.
Carlisle actually laughed before quickly smoothing his expression again. "I'm afraid that would be highly inappropriate."
Edward took a shaky breath, tried to ignore the chill that twisted around his ribs (but it choked his lungs, tugged at his spine).
You know what I am.
He pressed his palms flat to the cool surface of the tabletop. His heart was pounding painfully against his chest, and he felt flushed, dizzy.
The man sat perfectly still, watching him intently. "You know, that…reaction, if anything, only puts you in greater danger." Makes me want you more.
Edward paled, but his heart (if possible) beat faster.
"You're lovely, Edward." Intoxicating.
"I'm losing my mind."
"No. You're not."
"You can hear my heartbeat."
"Yes." Carlisle hadn't moved, but he took a slow breath and seemed to shudder slightly. "And I can feel it, taste it on my tongue."
Edward tensed, wet his lips.
The man closed his eyes. Exquisite.
Edward had never felt more frightened, but yet he sat transfixed. He couldn't move (could barely breathe). "What's wrong with me?"
"Nothing."
"But my world doesn't make sense anymore." He shook his head, felt like his was in a trance. "And I hear things, Carlisle. I hear things, and I can't ignore it anymore."
The man didn't react as Edward expected him to. He didn't appear horrified or incredulous or shocked. Instead, he merely nodded, eyes fixed on Edward. Of course you do. He rested a cheek on his palm, regarded the boy calmly. "Don't you understand? That is why he wants you."
Edward twisted his napkin between his hands, didn't understand (couldn't). "What do you mean? I feel like I'm losing my mind."
No.
"What do you know?" He was leaning forward in his chair, searching the man's face for something, anything. "What's wrong with me?"
The man's lips parted slightly. "You really haven't figured it out…" he mused, almost to himself.
Edward shook his head, held his breath.
"You hear voices, Edward because you can hear thoughts."
He opened his mouth, closed it again. The idea was beyond absurd.
Think about it.
The man's lips hadn't moved. Edward's heart was racing again, but it was no longer from fear. (Adrenaline rushing through his veins.)
"You can read minds, Edward."