19.

Edward looked down, scuffed his toe against the sidewalk, fingers twisting in the strap of his messenger bag. "Bells," he said after a few moments. "Why don't you go down to Jacksonville for a few days. Visit your mom."

She frowned, clearly confused.

"You can use that ticket I gave you for your birthday."

Bella opened her mouth as if to say something (offer one of a half a dozen protests). But she must have seen something in his eyes, some hint of the desperation he was trying to hide. She closed her mouth (lips pressed into a thin line) and nodded. "Okay."

The girl narrowed her eyes then, brushed her palm against his cheek. "But you're going to tell me what this is all about someday."

He smiled tightly and covered her hand with his. "I will."

She nodded again, expression troubled. "Yeah. Okay," she repeated. "I'll finish that paper for Martin. Book a flight for tomorrow evening or Wednesday morning."

Edward's relief was clear. "Good. That's good."

She looked at him for a long moment, lip caught between her teeth, eyes appraising, as if trying to determine what he was hiding simply by looking. Finally she sighed. "I've got to get to class."

He nodded.

"I won't see you tonight."

It was a statement, not a question, but he responded anyway. "No. I…" He trailed off; there was nothing he could say.

"It's okay, Ed," she paused, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "I understand that you can't tell me, yet."

He couldn't help but smile as she emphasized the last word.

"I have to go." She reached out, slid her hand down his arm.

"I know. I'll call you."

She nodded and turned away. He watched as she walked back toward the English building.

Carlisle was at his side in an instant; he said nothing, but his presence was soothing nonetheless. They walked together away from campus. When Carlisle's fingertips brushed his, Edward looked up at the other man, but he still said nothing.

Carlisle's phone rang. Edward watched as he held it to his ear, spoke quickly to whomever was on the other end. Suddenly the man stilled, his expression registering concern then…fear.

Something was wrong; he could feel it in his bones.

Carlisle did not look at Edward. But he picked him up and, without a word, ran.

The sensation was not unlike falling or flying or drowning. And before he hardly knew what to think, to feel, it was over.

Rosalie was seated on the sofa, rocking slightly back and forth. She looked calm, beautiful, but her posture was immediately unnerving - head slightly bowed, blonde hair obscuring part of her lovely face. And her hands were clenched together so fiercely, her knuckles were nearly white.

Carlisle stepped forward cautiously, and she looked up, face pale and rather drawn. Her lips (painted red) posed stark contrast to the unnatural pallor of her flawless skin.

"Rosalie?" Carlisle asked, voice soft. "What happened?"

She looked at him and furrowed her brow before looking down at her lap.

"Rosalie," he repeated, and her head shot up again; her gold eyes were dark.

"There was nothing I could do," she murmured, as if to herself. She shook her head, teeth catching her bottom lip, pressing hard enough to leave a mark.

"Rose," Carlisle prompted once more. "Tell me what happened."

She turned around slowly (glanced at the back window), revealing the curve of her neck, her shoulder.

Edward gasped.

A huge gash sliced the surface of her skin, cutting from the blade of her shoulder to the center of her back, where it disappeared under the fabric of her shirt. And the surrounding skin was marred by vicious punctures, pink and angry and raw.

Bite marks, Edward realized. He swallowed thickly.

Carlisle was at her side instantly. "You're hurt."

Rosalie looked confused. "No…no." She brought a hand up to her shoulder, slipped her fingers tentatively over the wound. "Oh, well," she mused, a hint of understanding in her voice. "It's nothing. Nothing compared to…" she stopped abruptly (one pale hand flew to her mouth). "Oh God, Carlisle," she gasped, really looking at him for the first time. "She's gone."

"What happened?" His voice was still soft but laced with a firmness that chilled Edward to the bone.

Rosalie had wrapped her arms around her chest; she was shaking again. "There were so many of them…too many," she murmured. Her eyes were still fixed on Carlisle's, but she wasn't looking at him. Her expression was strangely vacant, blank.

Edward tasted blood and realized he'd been chewing on an already ragged thumbnail. He dropped his hand to his lap; he was trembling. Something was very wrong.

He closed his eyes and took a shaky breath and tried to focus on the jumble of thoughts pounding at his peripheral vision. But there was nothing but flashes and fragments, sharp and jagged; they made his eyes sting.

Disbelief, confusion, fear, anger, panic, shock, anguish.

He rubbed at his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear his head, but the sounds clung (like cobwebs) to the corners of his mind.

"Where's Esme?" Carlisle asked softly.

The girl's eyes went rather wide. This time when she bit her lip, her teeth pierced the skin. "Outside," she said, voice barely a whisper.

Carlisle stilled and went very pale. "No."

"I tried. I promise I tried." Rosalie tugged her knees up to her chest. She was still rocking.

"I tried," she said again. "There were just too many of them."

"What happened?" Carlisle said again, but Edward was sure he already knew the answer.

Rosalie stopped moving. "I killed one, you know. Made a separate fire. I couldn't stand…couldn't—" She made a rather strangled noise and squeezed her arms more tightly to her chest.

"No," Carlisle said again. He was already moving toward the back door.

Edward followed.

He found the man on the porch, staring into the back yard. There were two smoldering mounds of ash marring the otherwise pristine lawn. He stood very still, and Edward remained in the doorway, held his breath.

He could hear the flashes of shock, desperation, pain that flamed across his mind, but Edward could not make sense of his jumbled thoughts. He wanted to move, knew he shouldn't be there, that the man deserved some privacy, but he was rooted to the spot.

And then Carlisle turned to face him (eyes cold, lips thin). "Come. We must speak with the others." With that, he stepped past Edward and disappeared inside.

Edward entered the living room just as Emmett, Jasper and Alice burst through the front door. He could see the looks of concern, confusion, fear flash across their faces as they took in Rosalie, despondent on the couch, Carlisle standing a few feet in front of her, a disconcertingly stoic expression on his lovely face.

"Oh my God! Rose," Alice gasped, darting toward her sister, but then she stopped (on small hand flying to her mouth). "Carlisle, I…no. No." She shook her head, but her entire body seemed to be trembling.

"What happened?" Jasper asked, hand on Alice's shoulder.

Emmett immediately sat down beside Rose, pulled her into his arms.

"They were here," Carlisle said simply.

"No," Alice repeated. "I saw, Carlisle. I saw. Aro returned to Italy. I know he did." She sounded rather frantic.

Carlisle said nothing. He didn't even blink.

"It's true, you know," Rosalie said suddenly, her voice strangely calm. "Aro wasn't here. I thought he was coming. I was ready to die." She paused, cocked her head to the side. "But he never came."

"Who was here, Rose?" Jasper asked.

She looked up at him suddenly, as if noticing him for the first time. "The young boy…Alec," she said, voice small (as if far away). "And his twin. So much pain." She looked at Carlisle then. "It hurt."

"I know, love. I know," Emmett said gently, hand stroking her hair.

"And the bodyguards. Felix," she said, emphasizing each syllable (shards of glass on her tongue). "I don't know the other's name. But strong. They were strong." She stopped, lip caught between white teeth. "Stronger than you," she finally finished, looking at Emmett. He held her close.

Edward heard him whisper, "It's okay now, I'm here."

But she pulled away again. "There was no Aro, though. No Aro. I am absolutely sure."

Carlisle nodded and moved a step to stand beside Alice. "You would have seen it."

She looked up at him, eyes bright.

He smoothed a hand over her cheek. "He wasn't here. There was nothing you could do."

She nodded but didn't look convinced.

"I killed one," Rose spoke again, her voice strangely soft, nearly peaceful.

Emmett glanced up, looked at her with concern.

She huffed. "I did. It wasn't easy, but I got him. The one that—" killed Esme. She stopped short, face painfully pale again. Then she took a deep breath. "I did. Not Felix…the other one."

20.

The Cullens kept silent vigil that night. Edward sat beside Carlisle on the sofa, legs tucked beneath him. He wanted to touch the other man, pull him into his arms, offer some comfort, but he wasn't sure of his welcome.

He must have fallen asleep.

Edward awoke with a start, embarrassed to find himself curled against Carlisle's side. The man's hand rested on his arm; cool fingertips traced the curve of his bicep. He moved to sit up, but Carlisle tightened his grasp, held him against him.

"Stay," he whispered, leaning down so that Edward felt his breath cool against his hair. It was incredibly intimate, and he allowed himself to relax against Carlisle's side once more.

When he woke up again, it was nearly dawn. Purple gray light filtered through the windows to cast pale shadows on the floor. He shifted against the man's chest and felt cold fingers brush along his shoulder.

Edward sat up and groaned (stiff from sleeping against the man's unyielding body).

"I'm sorry," Carlisle said, voice barely a whisper. "I am not the most comfortable pillow."

"No. You're fine," Edward lied, but his neck twinged as he twisted to sit up; he couldn't help but groan again.

The man chuckled softly, and Edward felt strong hands kneading sore muscles, sliding along his shoulder to press tendon and tissue. Carlisle's cold fingers slipped under the neck of his tee shirt, tracing the ridges of his vertebrae.

Edward breathed out, air leaving his lungs in a sudden rush.

The man tensed, a dozen conflicting thoughts flashing across his mind. "I…"

"No. Please," Edward whispered, not entirely sure what he was asking for.

Carlisle's fingers resumed their teasing trail along his spine. You have…lovely skin.

Edward turned his head; the man's expression was calm, but his eyes were sad. Edward took a deep breath. "Are you okay?"

Carlisle's fingers stilled. "Can't you hear me?"

He shook his head. "No. Not everything."

The man frowned.

"I don't think it works that way," Edward said. "Sometimes I hear things clearly. Sometimes I only hear bits and pieces. Sometimes I can't hear anything at all." He looked away again. "I heard what you thought, though, about…my skin."

Carlisle went very still but didn't respond.

"But I wasn't listening."

The man's fingers swept along the curve where his shoulder met his neck, then fell away.

He turned toward the man again; Carlisle's eyes were clear and gold. "And now when I try to listen, I hear nothing."

Carlisle frowned again. "Perhaps you are tired."

Edward wanted to disagree, but he yawned and had to nod.

"Come. I'll go with you upstairs."

The man brushed his fingers against Alice's dark hair as he walked past. She looked up and smiled sadly but said nothing. No one did.

Once upstairs, Carlisle followed him into the bedroom without a thought but then stood awkwardly, clearly unsure of what to do.

"I, er, need to use the restroom," Edward said finally when the man didn't speak. "Clean up a bit."

"Oh, yes, of course. I'll just leave you then." But he didn't make any move to go. I'd rather stay with you.

"No. Don't," Edward said before he could stop himself. "I'll only be a minute."

The man nodded.

Edward left the door to the adjoining bathroom slightly ajar as he brushed his teeth, washed his face. When he returned, Carlisle was seated on the bed, his back stiff, his hands folded in his lap.

Edward found he quite liked the sight of the man there, but Carlisle's eyes were blank (thoughts laced with hurt), and he immediately felt horrible for thinking about him in that way.

"Come here," he said suddenly, not looking at Edward. "You need rest." I'd like to hold you again.

"All right."

He glanced up at that. "You heard that?"

Edward shrugged, feeling a bit guilty. "I wasn't trying to." He toed off his trainers. "Frankly, I'm not sure why I can hear some things and not others."

"It is important that you listen. That you try to hear whatever you can."

That startled Edward. "I do not wish to intrude." Surely the man understood that. "Thoughts are private. I've no right—"

Carlisle held up a hand, cutting him off. "And you will learn what not to listen to. But first, you must learn to hear everything." He took a deep breath. Edward couldn't quite read his expression. "Believe me, Edward," he said after a long moment, speaking slowly. "This is important, especially now…"

Esme.

Another wave of grief washed over the man. It clung to the air, heavy and cloying. Edward thought he might choke on it.

"I am sorry about Esme," he said softly.

Carlisle nodded.

"You were very close." It wasn't a question, but he couldn't mask his curiosity about the nature of their relationship.

"Not in the manner I'm certain you're thinking." We were not lovers.

It was inappropriate to ask; Edward knew that. But he had to know. "Not ever?"

The man scrubbed a hand over his face. He suddenly looked very tired. "Yes. Once. But it was a very long time ago."

"How long ago?" The answer was suddenly very important.

"Almost ninety years." He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, looking at Edward. "We were not meant to be together. She had married in her human life. She wouldn't again."

"You loved her."

"Very much. As a sister and a dear, dear friend. She was the first family I had in my new life." He ran a hand through his hair; Edward thought he saw it shake. "I loved her more than I have ever loved anyone. But it was not a love that lovers share."

"I am sorry," Edward said again, and the man's eyes flashed with something that sent a shiver of dread along his spine.

Sadness, grief, anguish.

Carlisle pressed his knuckles to his mouth; it looked as though he were forcing himself to breathe.

Suddenly something terrible occurred to Edward. "It was my fault," his voice was barely audible, but even as he said it, he knew it was completely and horrifyingly true. "They were after me, and they got…oh God…" a pale hand flew to his mouth, and he shook his head. "It should have been me."

"Stop right now," Carlisle said fiercely. He was on his feet in an instant, hands gripping Edward's arms so tightly they would leave bruises (marks like crescents, the press of his fingertips).

"But it was—"

The man stopped him with a kiss, brutal and hard.

Edward knew Carlisle didn't want to think, didn't want to feel. Those thoughts rang loud and clear. But he also knew he'd been thinking about kissing him for days (feeling the boy's lips on his, tasting him on his tongue…)

Edward breathed out (a soft huff of air) and kissed him back, hands catching Carlisle's face, fingers slipping over too smooth skin.

They stumbled back a few steps (Edward clutching at his shoulders), and then the man's legs hit the bed. Carlisle's teeth scraped along Edward's lip, and he hissed. But the man's tongue soothed the sting (icy, slick, smooth and numb).

And Edward knew Carlisle could feel the stutter of his heartbeat, and he knew it was driving him mad.

His mouth slid along Edward's jaw, and he shook at the sensations (the exquisite taste, the press of his chest and push of his hips). Edward shivered again and could not remember wanting someone so badly.

God, oh God… I shouldn't. We shouldn't…

"Yes," he said into the man's mouth, "we should. Now, kiss me."

But Carlisle pulled away, his eyes dark and wild. Edward's fingers clung at his shoulders, refused to let go. "I'll hurt you."

"No. You won't." Edward slid his hands down, splayed them against the man's back, and repeated: "Kiss me."

When Carlisle did, they both groaned.

Edward rocked against him (he was getting hard with each press of his hips); the man swore softly as their cocks brushed together for the first time and opened his mouth against Edward's again (he'd never been kissed so fiercely before).

Carlisle's fingers dug into his shoulder blades, pulled them even closer together, and one hand cupped the back of his head.

I want you. We mustn't. God, I want…

"Yes," he gasped into a kiss. "I've wanted this…I've wanted you for days and days." And Edward's fingers twisted into the cotton of his shirt. "Don't stop," he breathed, turning his face, pressing his lips to the smooth curve of Carlisle's throat. His tongue licked at the man's skin, and he felt him shudder against him.

I can't stop…

"Don't. Don't stop."

Carlisle came to a decision then, pulling Edward on top of him as they fell onto the bed (legs twining together, fingers tugging at shirts and pants).

And when his tongue slipped inside Edward's mouth, Edward couldn't help but moan (surprised he hadn't fallen to pieces yet).

Edward's hips were already moving, pressing down against cold hardness. His heart was pounding so fast he was dizzy (oh, oh God), and he was shaking and he parted his legs, felt the lines of Carlisle's body in between them.

The man's hands slid down his back, pulling him closer, and Edward was so hard he thought he saw stars (fiery hot behind his eyes).

Carlisle's hands found their way under Edward's tee shirt to trace icy lines along his ribs.

Your skin is so warm.

Edward closed his eyes, clutched at the man's shoulders, splayed his knees wide.

You are devastating.

And he wanted to respond in kind. To tell the man he was breathtaking and beautiful and everything he'd ever wanted, but Carlisle's hands were at his belt, tugging and pulling, and when cold fingers undid his button and zip, Edward was lost (lost, lost…).

"I want you," he breathed, as those cold fingers slipped inside his pants to curl around his cock.

Carlisle moaned, as Edward thrust into his palm, and then the man's mouth was at his throat (his pulse was a rapid stutter against shivery lips).

Oh God, oh God…

It was impossible to tell whose thoughts were whose, but as he held his breath and tried not to come, he knew the man wanted to bite him. His lust for his blood twined with his want for his body, and that thought was so enticing, so intoxicating that Edward was coming over Carlisle's hand, his clothes, his own stomach.

But then he was gone, across the room in an instant (back against the wall, chest heaving), leaving Edward cold and damp and exposed and breathless.

Oh God, no… What have I done?

Edward took a deep breath and found his courage. "Don't you want me?" He tried not to flinch, tried not to frown, though his entire world was unraveling into pale threads.

Carlisle took a deep breath (back still against the wall), closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

The slight motion felt like a blade (sliced just below his collarbone), and suddenly he couldn't breathe.

"Oh." At least his voice didn't crack. His eyes stung, and he hoped the man would leave before he started to cry.

But Carlisle wasn't moving. "I didn't mean it like that," he whispered after a few painful moments.

"There are only so many ways one can say no."

"What I meant," voice soft, barely a murmur, "was that I shouldn't…I can't want you." I want you too much.

"I don't understand."

"It is too dangerous. I could hurt you."

"I'll talk that chance."

"I won't."

Edward felt as though all the air had been forced from his lungs. He opened his mouth but couldn't form the words.

It didn't matter, though. The man was gone.

21.

Edward stayed in bed the next morning. He hadn't slept well. He knew part of him was hoping Carlisle would come back, tell him it was a mistake, tell him he wanted him. But, of course, he hadn't.

As the sunlight crept across the floor (slats of yellow bright against the wood), Edward wondered if perhaps he could lie there forever. Or maybe he should simply leave, go home to his apartment, to Aro, and to whatever else awaited him there.

Surely that would be better than seeing Carlisle again, hearing his thoughts and knowing he did not want him.

A soft knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts. He ignored it, rolled over, and pretended to sleep. But Alice was already at his bedside. And though he refused to open his eyes, he could hear her thoughts clearly.

I know you're not asleep. You've been awake for hours.

He groaned and opened one eye. She cocked her head to the side, put one hand on a hip. "I know you're upset. We all are."

A wave of guilt washed over him. Esme had been murdered. They were in mourning. And he was hiding in bed like a selfish child. Edward sat up, nodding.

"Get dressed and come downstairs," she said. "We have a lot to do."

She turned to walk away but stopped again in the doorway and looked back over her shoulder. "It will be all right, you know. Everything will be all right."

22.

The next day, they flew to Italy.

Edward wasn't certain he understood, but then, he tried not to ask questions.

According to the Cullens' sources, Aro was no longer in the states. He had returned to Volterra shortly before ordering the attack that killed Esme. Carlisle visibly shook as he listened to Alice and Jasper piece together all the information they'd managed to ascertain.

"Of course not," the man muttered. "He'd never involve himself in something as plebian as an assassination."

Though they sat apart from Edward (across the room, huddled over a mass of papers and notes), he was certainly he heard Carlisle's words clearly.

"What does he intend?"

"That his guard return. Pick us off one by one until they capture the boy."

Carlisle nodded, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. "And he is that confident in their abilities? That he has gone back to Italy and left them to do his dirty work?"

Jasper inclined his head. "Yes."

The man was silent for a while after that, but Edward could hear his thoughts. Some were capitalized in his mind, distinct and polished. Others were pale (stretched thin like blown glass), as his plan unraveled dangerous, deliberate and clear.

Edward's heart was pounding in his chest at the mere thought of what Carlisle intended. But never once did the man's thoughts stray to him…to what they'd done the night before. It was as though that corner of his mind was strangely blank.

Once, though, Edward caught him looking, and though his stomach knotted with anger (and something else entirely), he couldn't help but blush and look away.

23.

The man sat next to him on the plane; Edward hated that he couldn't help but thrill at his very closeness, of the feel of his body next to his own.

His thoughts were quiet.

It was nearly an hour into the flight when the man spoke. "Do you know why we are going to Italy?"

Edward nodded. "You intend to kill Aro."

"Yes," Carlisle said, crossing his legs. "And do you know why you are accompanying us?"

Edward wasn't sure why he was going, and he shook his head, "no."

The man sighed. He sounded tired, though Edward knew that wasn't the case.

"Regardless of what you may believe, you have a gift." The man held up a hand as he started to protest. "And we will not be able to defeat the Volturi without you," Carlisle continued. Edward could hear clear conviction in his tone, but he wasn't reassured.

Edward knew Carlisle was disappointed with his inability to hear things more clearly. He could feel his disapproval and reproof through layers of cloudy thoughts (whispy blues and muddy grays.

"What can I do? How will I possibly be able to help?" It was quite incomprehensible, really. After all, he'd seen how powerful vampires could be, and he was…not. "I cannot fight them. You said so yourself." He sounded desperate, even to his own ears, but the thought of facing Aro again (and others like him) was beyond terrifying.

"No," the man said gravely. "You cannot."

Edward watched as he tapped pale fingers against his thigh.

"You will require all of our protection."

"Then why bring me?" Edward's voice was embarrassingly high, but he couldn't help it. Panic was (once again) rising in his chest. It bled out of his lungs, ran like ink across his skin "Why?" he asked again, almost surprised that his voice didn't crack.

"Because we need you."

Edward wanted to cry out in frustration; Carlisle's cryptic non-answers were infuriating. But instead, he closed his eyes, and rummaged through the man's thoughts. It wasn't precise or graceful, but Edward could still hear (memories stored away, folded in the corners of Carlisle's mind). Other ideas skittered across the surface, swelled to the forefront, then glided past before fading again to shadowy depths.

Other thoughts jostled against each other.

An even thrust of hips, a brush of lips, the snap of teeth…

Alice, cheek resting on a gloved hand. 'He's the one. I've seen it.'

And the man's fear desire lust curiosity disbelief as he looked across a library at a beautiful boy bent over a stack of books…

"What did Alice see?" Edward asked, pulling back to the present, disentangling himself from the man's mind.

And Carlisle smiled (a quick twist of lips that Edward would have missed had he not known the man was smiling).

"You hear more than you think," he said simply.

"What did Alice see?"

"Too much," Carlisle said softly, looking past Edward to the window. The sun was low in the sky. The man's too pale complexion was warm in the rose gold light.

"Please, Carlisle," he pleaded. "I need to know."

The man seemed to snap out of his reverie. His eyes focused on Edward's again. "Yes. I suppose you do."

The stewardess stopped at their row then, and Carlisle didn't continue. Edward ordered a coffee. Carlisle (of course) shook his head, declining.

The flight attendant moved on.

Edward opened a packet of cream and poured it into his cup, watching as the warm brown liquid turned a milky tan.

"Alice saw us in Volterra," the man continued after a moment. "But you knew that already."

Edward nodded. "Volterra. I hadn't heard of that place before."

"It's where they live – the Volturi. They've lived there for as long as anyone remembers."

"And the Volturi?" Edward asked.

"The Volturi are very old and very powerful." Carlisle leaned back in his seat; Edward's eyes traced the pale curve of his throat. "They are as close to royalty as our world has, and they have always enforced the rules that our kind must abide by." He turned his head sideways, looked at Edward. "It is because of them, that we have been able to coexist peacefully in the human world for thousands of years."

Edward frowned. "They are peacekeepers?"

Carlisle nodded.

"I don't understand. If they desire to maintain peace, why would they attack me?" He swallowed thickly. "Esme?"

"Don't get me wrong," the man said. "They are as feared as they are respected." He inhaled softly, eyes reflecting something Edward did not understand. "They deal quickly and decisively with that which they consider a threat." He paused, sitting up again. "No one has ever challenged them and lived."

"Why me?" he asked again, though he knew that it didn't matter. They had targeted him; reasons were irrelevant.

"You, like your mother before you, are a threat. You are too knowledgeable, and that knowledge brings power."

"But I'm not… I can't be—"

Carlisle cut him off. "Perhaps not. But you will be."

Edward's heart was pounding painfully against his ribs, and he knew the man could hear it (could feel it on his lips and taste it on his tongue).

And Edward could feel the want (uncurling like slender fingers in the pit of his stomach, coiling round his hips and the base of his spine, leaving him aching and aroused, aroused…).

Edward shifted in his seat, his own erection pressing awkwardly, uncomfortably against his zip and wondering at how quickly his fear turned to desire.

"And why you?" he managed after several moments, his voice (thick and rough) cutting through the tension like a blade. "Why attack you and your family?"

Carlisle took a slow breath, eyes flashing in the honey warm light. "Because the moment we decided to protect you, we also became a threat."

The man sat very still (thoughts slipping like water through the crevasses of his mind). He was clearly deciding how much to tell Edward.

Finally he spoke, serious and low. "Second to the Volturi, we are the largest coven in the vampire world. They have always been…weary of us." He inhaled again. "However, if we were to have you…if you were to join our family, then the balance of power might shift. And Aro will not let that happen."

"If I were to join your family…" Edward said, realization slowly taking root, blooming in the very depths of his core. "You mean as a—"

He couldn't quite bring himself to say the word.

Vampire.

But the idea at once both excited and terrified him greatly. He had never feared yet wanted something so intensely.

The man appeared physically pained (face drawn, lips a thin line), but he nodded curtly. "Yes."

Edward exhaled sharply. "So you intend to change me?"

Carlisle looked positively scandalized (eyes wide, skin far too pale). God no… "I couldn't…I wouldn't…"

His mind raced. You must believe me. I will not hurt you. I will never, could never do that to you… Please do not ask me…

"Then why?" Edward asked again. "If it's not a possibility."

Carlisle closed his eyes; he was shaking. "Alice has seen…" He stopped, shook his head.

"What? Carlisle, what has she seen?" Edward put his hand on the man's arm. He did not flinch, did not pull away, but looked down at Edward's slender fingers (small hand, small wrist) as if wondering how it got there.

He circled his thumb around the man's wrist bone. "If it's not a possibility, than why? What did Alice see?"

Carlisle sucked in a rather ragged breath. "That's just it. She saw…you."

They sat silently for a long while after that, as Edward tried to digest what he had just learned. The man's thoughts were oddly quiet, and the air around them vibrated with a strange sort of tension (cloying, bright, and claustrophobic).

Edward sipped at his (now cooling) coffee and did not look at Carlisle.

Finally he spoke again. "You are exceptionally powerful." He glanced across the aisle to where Alice sat, legs curled beneath her, head bobbing in time to her iPod. "All of you."

Carlisle nodded, waiting for Edward to continue.

"How is it that Aro and the others like him are so much stronger?"

The man pursed his lips as if considering. His thoughts were filled with flickering images…testaments to the Volturi's horrifying strength. "They are very old," he finally replied.

And though Edward wasn't sure he actually wanted to know, he asked anyway. "How old?"

Carlisle actually laughed, a pleasing sound were it not for the slightly sinister undertone. "Aro would say he was turned 1,300 years before the time of Christ."

Edward nearly choked on his coffee. "That is unfathomable."

"Yes. It is, isn't it?" But the man provided no further elaboration.

"How old are you?" At that, Carlisle looked up (eyes clear and gold). "I was beginning to wonder if you would ever ask me that."

"I know you are immortal, but yet you look so young."

The man actually chuckled at that. "I am three hundred and seventy years old."

Edward took a steadying breath. "And how old were you when you were…" his voice faltered slightly, and he trailed off.

"I was twenty-three when I was turned," the man responded (a hint of bitterness coloring the words). "A part of me will always be twenty-three."

Edward frowned, a bit confused at Carlisle's clear disquiet. "We are practically the same age."

"No." He shook his head. "You do not understand. I am far older than you will ever live to be."

They were silent again. Edward stared down into the murky depths of his coffee cup but did not drink. The man's thoughts were turbulent, chaotic (a prism of refracted images, ideas, memories, and sound).

But Edward realized that he was becoming more adept at unraveling it all. Sometimes words, phrases, complete sentences were clear (scrawled across the window of Carlisle's mind as if spoken aloud). And then there were ideas, stacked one on top of another (some water smooth, others jagged, crystal sharp).

And Edward was learning to infer meaning from the impressions, to interpret mood and tone and feeling when not explicitly stated.

It made sense, of course. His own ideas were often half-formed, half-thought. He simply had to recognize what he was hearing to begin to flesh out meaning.

Carlisle was upset, mad at himself for not being stronger, for letting emotion obscure his rationale.

Edward took a sip of coffee (muddy and tepid) to hide the hint of a smile.

Part of Carlisle still wanted him (though he would continue to deny it, to hate himself for it). Edward was too young (practically an infant), and he was human. That alone made Carlisle's thoughts, his desires reprehensible.

But they were still there.

"Can we kill them?" Edward asked after another moment that had stretched and stretched.

"Pardon?"

"The Volturi. Can they be killed?"

When Carlisle said nothing, Edward continued. "I've read Bram Stoker. Are the legends true?"

The man laughed out loud. "Stoker was not completely wrong. Though, some of his more...creative ideas concerning our strengths and weaknesses are quite absurd."

Edward raised an eyebrow. "Stake through the heart?"

"Impossible."

"Crucifix?"

"Heresy."

"Aversion to garlic?"

"Not a personal favorite, but no."

Edward frowned; he could tell that Carlisle liked the way his brow furrowed when he was thinking.

"From what we can devise," the man began, "those myths were created by our kind to placate the humans, allow them to think they had some recourse, some defense against us."

Edward chewed on his lip (pink flesh caught between straight white teeth). "So you…the Volturi can't be killed?"

"We can. Just not by you."

Edward nodded, conscious again of the pounding of his heart. "You never told me," he said softly after a pause, "what exactly Alice believes I will do in Volterra."

23.

They arrived at the hotel just after midnight. The place was lovely (bordering on opulent) and far more luxurious than anywhere Edward had ever been.

And though he was exhausted, Edward sat on the sofa in their spacious suite and listened dutifully while Jasper and Carlisle mapped out their plan for the last time.

It was odd; for once, he did not feel frightened. And it was not because the situation wasn't terrifying. It was beyond so. But it was as though all the fear, panic, hysteria, despair, and disbelief had bled out of his body. Through endless exposure, Edward was now numb.

Once the meeting was complete Edward remained on the couch. Emmett had taken Rosalie by the hand, led her to their adjoining room; Alice had followed Jasper to theirs. Carlisle stood behind him silently; his thoughts were also still.

Then he ran a hand over the top of Edward's head, carding pale fingers through his hair. Edward shivered and felt something tighten in the pit of his stomach.

The man pulled his hand away.

"Do it again," he found himself saying.

"Later."