For My Own
Chapter 3
I could smell her, even now. I stood on the porch of an old house in an upper class neighborhood, and her scent lingered. How long had it been since she'd lived here? My brain automatically did the calculation in an instant. Five months since her suicide, then probably seven months before that since she'd fled this place. A year later, her scent still lingered in its wood, its fabrics. It was a little different, with a delicious human aspect to it, but it was most definitely my Esme.
I rang the bell.
The staff was gone; Edward had told me about the housekeeper and the cook, so I'd waited until they'd left for the evening. Now I could hear the uneven gait of a man with a slight limp using a cane, walking on a thick and well-made carpet in a narrow entry hall. The way the sound traveled was very telling, and of course, my ears picked up everything.
The door finally opened, and I got my first look at him, at the monster who'd tried to destroy my beloved. He was very handsome, with a Valentino mustache and his dark hair greased back. His expression was open and pleasant, his evening clothes elegant and expensive, and for an infinitesimal second I wondered if Edward had gotten the wrong man.
But I trusted Edward, who had seen the man's face for himself through Esme's memories. Besides, I knew better than anyone that a handsome face could conceal a monster.
"May I help you?" he asked.
I smiled, matching pleasantry for pleasantry. "Please forgive me for intruding on your evening, Mr. Evenson," I said, doing my best to maintain some semblance of humanity when all I wanted was to tear his throat out. My hands began a slight tremor that I struggled to keep out of my voice. "I am Dr. Carlisle Cullen of Ashland, Wisconsin—"
His eyes flickered slightly. Ah, good. He made the connection. I continued. "And I believe you have something I want."
His eyes opened wider, startled. "I don't know you, sir," he said politely. "What could I possibly have of yours?"
He was very courteous, very smooth. But so was I.
"Forgive me for inconveniencing you," I said. "Might I come in and discuss the matter with you?"
He hesitated, but opened the door wider. Foolish, foolish mortals. They never suspected the danger that stalked them.
"Of course," he said, stepping back to let me enter. "But I do have an appointment at nine o'clock, so I'm afraid I can only spare you a few minutes, Dr….Cullen, did you say?"
I could see him wracking his brain for a memory of any connection we might have. Perhaps the name was familiar to him. I let him wonder. He would know soon enough.
"Yes, that's right," I said, stepping in smoothly behind him.
He pushed the door shut behind me, and as I heard the latch catch, I smiled. He blinked, bemused by my sheer beauty. That was natural; we were attractive to our prey in a way that often had nothing to do with sexual feelings. If a human wasn't drawn to one of us as a potential lover, they were often drawn to us as a connoisseur to a work of art, entranced by our sheer physical perfection.
As he turned his back on me—another foolish move—I turned back quickly and silently locked the front door. The action was so fast he would not have seen or heard it. I resumed my place at his shoulder, making sure occasionally to scrape a toe on the rug or breathe loudly, as he guided me down the entry hall and into a large formal parlor on the right.
I could still smell traces of Esme's scent in this house, but I could see nothing of her here. The hard, factory-made modern furnishings of the parlor were no doubt the most up-to-date and fashionable items available, but they were not the worn, smooth woods and fine craftsmanship Esme favored. These items would be out of date within five years, while any house that Esme furnished would be timeless, suitable and comfortable for any era.
"May I offer you a drink?" my host said politely, gesturing to the bar along one wall.
"No, thank you," I said formally, "but please feel free to partake yourself."
"Thank you," he said, and limped over to the bar to pour himself three fingers of an expensive single-malt Scotch. A drinker. That explained much…but not enough. It was my experience that a man who was abusive when he drank used the drink as an excuse to do what he was inclined to do anyway.
Evenson took his tumbler and gestured for me to sit on one of the chairs. He himself sat facing me on a love seat, took a swig of his drink, and looked enquiringly, expectantly into my face, blinking as he met my golden eyes.
The smell of him, combined with my own searing hatred, burned me, but for once I did not suppress the vampiric violence that coursed through me. I would not feed from this monster, but he deserved to be frightened, to be terrorized as he had terrorized his—Esme.
I could not bear to think of her as his wife.
That would mean picturing her in his arms, in his bed…picturing him giving her the one thing I never could, planting his seed deeply enough within her to create a child…
I squeezed the arms of the ugly chair so tightly that the wood gave way to my fingers, crushing it into pulpy splinters beneath them. Fortunately, Evenson chose that split second to glance down at his drink, and by the time he looked up again, I had smoothed out the ridges of the gashes I had made. Nobody would ever know that human—or human-like—fingers had caused them.
The pause between us had only lasted a second or two, and Evenson broke it by saying, "Now, Dr. Cullen, how may I help you?"
"I am here with regard to your wife, Mr. Evenson," I said evenly.
His dark eyebrows lifted. "My wife died several months ago."
"I am aware of what happened," I said. "I was the attending physician when she was brought into the hospital. But you, sir? Are you aware of what happened?"
Evenson frowned, clearly annoyed at being questioned about his own wife by someone he didn't even know. "Of course," he snapped. "She was visiting a cousin in Wisconsin when she went for a walk along some cliffs, and then fell to her death. It was a tragic accident."
The last was said with a shrug, and for a moment, the red haze of rage filled my vision. I was not as calm as I had supposed. I took a deep breath, but while it helped me get myself under control, it did not lessen my anger.
"You are incorrect, sir," I growled. He gave me a nervous but skeptical look, and I continued. "She was not 'visiting' a cousin. She fled from here and took refuge with this cousin, then fled again when it seemed she would be forced to return. Do you wish to know why?"
"Now see here, sir!" Evenson stood, leaning on his cane, and I stood with him, looking down on him from my height advantage. "My wife had a good home here and everything she could want. Why would you spread stories like that?"
I stalked closer to him, and he leaned back, but he was blocked by the love seat. The fury combined with his unease made my thirst burn all the hotter, and I couldn't help but notice how his heart sped up and the vein in his neck beat a rapid rhythm against his skin.
"She had everything she wanted, did she?" I hissed, crowding him back. "She wanted you to hit her, did she, Evenson? She wanted you to leave welts on her delicate skin? She wanted you to mock and criticize her in front of your acquaintances? She wanted you to lock her in the pantry for two days with no water? She wanted to be kicked for offenses that existed only in your imagination? Is that your meaning?"
I know it had made Edward feel unchivalrous to disclose these memories, but the look on Evenson's face right now would have satisfied him deeply. Edward could be a bloodthirsty young man if the occasion called for it.
Evenson's face drained of blood until he was almost as white as me. "Those are lies!" he spat in a tense whisper. "How do you know those things? My wife never told you that, she wouldn't dare!"
"I know more than you think," I said, breathing deeply to calm myself again. I leaned away from him. "In fact, I know more than you do about your wife."
"Who the hell are you?" he bit out.
I ignored him and took a step back, thinking of my precious Esme. She was mine, and certainly not his, except for this small technicality. Perhaps the thoughts of my love softened my face, because though Evenson looked wary, he relaxed a bit. Still, he scooted to the side and made his way back to the bar, obviously less for the drink than to put some distance between us.
"I know that she likes things to be beautiful," I continued while my companion poured another three fingers of Scotch into his glass. "I know that she prefers the classic and clean lines of the old, rather than the gimmicky and cheap look of the modern." I glanced around the parlor derisively. "I know that she has an eye for color, and a heart full of love. I know that she has a fondness for—"
Evenson snorted and stepped toward me. "You keep saying 'has,' but she's dead, man."
"—children, and I know," I said, as though he hadn't spoken, "that she fled her abusive marriage so that you could not find her. And I know—" I held up my hand to forestall his interruption, "that she bore you a son five months ago."
"What?"
Evenson dropped his glass. I caught it before it could hit the carpet. I stood there holding a glass of expensive Scotch while his face grew livid, his expression grew thunderous, and his hands curled into fists.
His increasing fury provoked my own animalistic defenses. In the face of prey who was preparing to fight, my instincts went on full alert, venom flooded my mouth, and my body tensed. My knees bent instinctively, though I resisted slipping into a full crouch. I sensed that he wouldn't attack me yet. Soon, perhaps, I thought with a vindictive hope. My lip curled up, baring my teeth.
"Where is my son?" Evenson snarled. "What did she do with him? I want what belongs to me."
"Your son is dead," I said coldly. As many times as I had had to tell a parent that his son had died, I had never used that contemptuous tone of voice. I was ashamed that I was using it now; no matter how much Evenson was to blame for his own situation, nobody deserved to lose a child.
"That bitch!" he snapped. I growled and the tumbler in my hand shattered into a thousand pieces. My compassion shattered with it. "What did she do to him? She was so stupid, she could never get anything right—"
"Be quiet!" I snarled. "How dare you speak a word against Esme?"
My body was trembling. I had never killed a man on purpose, but every cell in my body clamored for his death—not for his blood, but for what he did to Esme. I bared my teeth again, letting him see me clearly, letting some of my humanity slide away to be replaced by the monster that always lurked beneath it.
"She was my wife—" he began hotly, but I couldn't stand to hear that. I could not listen to his claim that marriage gave him the right to talk about her like that. My control slipped, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. With a roar of rage, I picked up the chair I had been sitting in and tore it apart, the arms, the legs, the back, the seat, darkly enjoying the sound of the wood splintering into miniscule shards and the pieces clattering into a pile on the expensive carpet between us.
He shut his mouth with a pop of his lips, his eyes dark and wide and fearful.
My breath came fast, not because I had particularly exerted myself, but because I was struggling so hard to contain both my anger and shock.
"Sit down, Evenson," I said coldly, if less violently this time. My voice didn't reflect my distaste at my own actions; I never used violence to intimidate people. I was appalled that I had just done so. But I couldn't let my confused emotions distract me. I had something to accomplish tonight. I had to get it done.
He sat abruptly on the love seat, his eyes too bright, his face too pale. His fear smelled like ambrosia, and I shook my head.
Get yourself in hand, Carlisle, I admonished myself. You are not a violent man.
Why was it so difficult to convince myself of that?
I sauntered over to the tall windows. I'm sure the movement appeared relaxed, as though my violent mood had gone as suddenly as it had come, but the truth was every step was slow and measured and deliberate, a repetitive choosing not to cross in the other direction and destroy the creature who had so unwisely let me into his parlor.
I could hear Evenson's labored breathing, his frantic heartbeat. The venom seeped relentlessly from my gums, anticipating the attack on this weakened, frightened prey. I ignored it, swallowed it, waiting out the urges as I had done for so many years. I carefully pulled the draperies aside and looked out into the street of the Columbus neighborhood. It occurred to me that Esme's parents lived not far from here, and I briefly wondered if I should pay them a visit, as well. But in truth, though they were not innocent in the events of Esme's life, I had nothing to say to them.
"I wish to make a bargain with you, Evenson," I said, calm now. Calmer, at any rate. I wanted this business to be over.
"What?" he said. He was trying to sound belligerent, but the word came out shaky. I wondered what this combat veteran saw in me that he hadn't already faced in the theater of war.
"As I said, you have something I want." I turned slowly toward him, but didn't leave my place near the curtains. I didn't trust myself to stand any nearer to him.
"What?" he asked again, frustration overriding fear for a moment.
"Esme," I said simply.
He stared at me, his face shocked and dismayed. He raised his hands, palms open. "She's dead," he said helplessly.
I nodded. "She is, indeed, legally dead," I said. "Do you have a copy of the death certificate?"
He nodded, slid me another wary look, then stood and shuffled past the pile of splintered wood that I had left on the floor. I felt foolish for that now; I never gave into those childish urges to make sure someone knew how strong I was, how much I could hurt them if I wanted to. I never acted like I was acting tonight.
Evenson crossed to a large, elegant desk, and I knew without anyone telling me that this desk was probably the one piece of furniture that Esme liked in this whole large room. It was made of a deeply polished cherry and looked too solid ever to be moved from its place. Evenson crossed around to the desk drawers, partially blocking himself from my view.
He opened a drawer and began rummaging through papers. I could hear the soft, smooth sounds of paper rustling against paper, the well-oiled mechanisms of the drawers, and a soft metallic click that I couldn't immediately identify.
"Here it is," Evenson said, and I heard his clothes rustle before he stood, the thick piece of paper in his hand. "See, here, it's signed by—oh."
"Signed by whom?" I asked pleasantly.
"Signed by Dr. Carlisle Cullen," he said heavily, his brow drawing in anxious bewilderment.
"Esme is alive," I said softly. "But she is in no condition to be a good wife to you. You must let her go, Evenson."
"What do you mean, in no condition?" he said. "Has her brain been damaged? Is she a cripple?"
"I assure you that her body and mind work better than they ever have," I said absently. That was an understatement. I opened my jacket and pulled a thin sheaf of papers from my inside pocket. "If you will simply sign these documents, I will see to it that your marriage is dissolved in a matter of days. Of course, you will also have to promise never to marry again. I can't be responsible for putting another young woman through what you did to Esme."
"You want me to divorce my wife?" he asked incredulously. He seemed to have no reaction at all to the fact that his dead wife was alive.
I noticed that he never seemed to call her by her name.
"Yes," I said simply.
"And what is the bargain you wish to strike?" he sneered. "Do you have something I want in return, Dr. Cullen?"
"Oh, yes," I replied coolly. I could be cool again now that I had calmed down, but I do not think I was successful at hiding my contempt. "I wish to marry her myself, and I find that you are a slight impediment to my plans. I will have your marriage ended one way or another, Evenson. You may choose which method works best for you."
"Are you threatening my life, sir?" Evenson shouted indignantly. "How dare you?"
I was in front of him in a heartbeat, glaring down into his face. It was all I could do to keep my teeth clenched and my hands at my sides as I whispered, "It would be very easy."
Before he could blink again, I resumed my place in front of the window, leaning against it as though I had never moved. Only my accelerated breathing and my trembling hands betrayed my anger.
Evenson moved suddenly. At least, I'm sure he thought it was sudden. He pulled a revolver from his waistband and pointed it at me. I raised an eyebrow, but he just smirked.
"I think not," he said confidently. "Perhaps it is I who shall kill you."
I sighed. Humans were so melodramatic. Of course, I lived with Edward, so a little melodrama didn't really shake me. "Please, Evenson," I said in disgust. "You'll only hurt yourself."
He raised the revolver all the way up in front of his face and sighted me down the barrel. "No, it is only you who will get hurt. I am an excellent shot, you know."
"I'm sure you are," I said coolly. "I, however, am a very poor target."
He scowled, anger flooding into his face, leaving it warm and red. "You'll do," he snapped, and pulled the trigger.
He was a good shot, but hitting someone ten feet from you didn't strike me as particularly difficult. I wouldn't know; I had never fired a gun. The bullet seemed to move fast enough, about as fast as I did when I really ran, and I had to move quickly to raise my hand and snatch it from the air.
"You humans," I sighed, opening my fist and showing him the bullet lying in my palm. "Is this your answer to everything?"
Evenson stared, and his arm dropped slowly to his side. I waited as his hand opened limply and the revolver clattered to the floor. He stood frozen, his face rather green, and swayed on the spot.
"Do we have an agreement, then?" I asked, pressing my advantage.
His head snapped up. His eyes glared at me, full of hatred and malice alongside his terror.
"No," he said. His voice shook, but it dripped venom as surely as mine did. "No agreement. She is mine and always will be. You go get her and bring her home, and I'll teach her to leave me. I'll teach her to walk away from me, by God."
"You'll teach her, will you?" I sneered coldly. I swallowed against the venom, against the predatory growl that simmered in my chest. "You had the honor to be married to her for four years, and all you taught her was that men cannot be trusted and that love is an impossible dream. Do you know how long it will take me truly to persuade her to believe anything differently? To help her trust me enough that she can accept true happiness? You've greatly inconvenienced me, Evenson."
I thought of Esme's determination to be independent, not to be a burden on me and Edward. She gave of herself so freely, but it took me a great deal of time to understand that she never took, though Edward and I had so much to give her. She loved us, but she did not want to need us. I comprehended that so much more clearly now that I had met this monster.
"And what about my convenience, sir?" Evenson snapped, his heartbeat racing, his face turning red. "I must constantly spend evenings with insipid young women intent on marrying my father's bank, who will no doubt prove to be as useless as my first wife. I must have someone to manage my staff, to act as hostess, and to produce heirs—"
"I have told you that you will not marry again," I reminded him.
He ignored my interruption. "I am the one who is inconvenienced, Dr. Cullen. My wife may have been stupid, but at least she was--"
"I. Told. You." The words tore out of me sounding more animal than human. The power and thirst and anger coursed through me, and though I had come here with the intention of reasoning with him, I was quickly losing my grip on rationality. Every time I thought I was in control, he said something to push me to the edge again. "I told you never to speak disrespectfully of Esme again."
Evenson's eyes were dark and wild, darting around looking for escape routes, but of course there were none. I stood across the room from him, still near the window, but he could never move fast enough for it to matter.
"My wife," he muttered, backing away from me awkwardly, as though I had moved. There was no place for him to go. "My business. Nobody's business what goes on in a man's home."
"It's my business now," I growled. "Sign the papers so I can leave you to it."
He glared at me for a moment, then dropped his eyes. "There can't be a divorce."
His voice was shaking with fear, and he didn't like it. He didn't like being the powerless one, I thought with a grim satisfaction.
"Trust me, Evenson," I said, my own voice shaking slightly with the force of my anger, "you would not want Esme back now, even if you wanted to teach her one of your lessons. If she had accompanied me tonight, you would be dead by now. Nobody will ever hurt her again."
This last I said fiercely. Esme would always be able to take care of herself now, but I still vowed never to allow her to be in danger.
"I should have taken her away with me when she was sixteen," I muttered to myself.
Evenson saw my moment of distraction and ran toward the door. His progress was hindered by his wounded leg and his cane. And the fact that he was human and I was a vampire.
With a growl, I flipped easily through the air and landed in front of him. He actually collided with me and bounced backward, so intent was he on making it to the door.
He fell to the ground with a high pitched shriek and began to back away from me, pushing himself along the plush carpet with his heels. His cane lay dropped and forgotten.
"The papers, Evenson?" I bit out.
"I can't!" he wailed. "My father—the scandal! I would be ruined!"
"On the contrary," I countered, pleased at how rational I sounded. The fury was there, but banked for the moment. I sauntered forward, forcing him to retreat even more. "Your family has enough money to cover up any scandal. Besides, nobody here need know that she isn't dead. The papers will be filed in Wisconsin."
His eyes darted around as they had done before, but I didn't have to have Edward's gift to know he was now looking for an escape not from the room, but from the situation I had forced him into.
I stepped forward again and hovered over him. He looked up at me in terror, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, hair disheveled. There was nothing remotely handsome about him now.
I held his gaze for along moment. I could see him frantically seeking a solution, but I think the fear may have been distracting him.
He paused for a long moment, then his shoulders slumped. He muttered heavily, "As you wish."
I breathed out a small breath of relief. "Good," I said curtly.
I kicked his cane lightly over to him so that he could get up, and I moved past to wait for him in the parlor. I spread out the documents, laying out the top sheets of each bundle so that it was clear where he would have to sign. Four signatures from now, and Esme would be free. I would have her for my own.
Evenson was on his feet, but he still seemed to drag himself into the room. His eyes never left mine as he slowly approached the big desk. I held out my fountain pen to him; when he got close enough he took it with a shaking hand.
He leaned on his cane and bent over the first set of documents. His shaking hand didn't entirely mask his elegant script as he wrote out Captain Charles Evenson. I pursed my lips but didn't comment on his use of his military title.
"I thought I was rid of her," Evenson muttered, his eyes scanning down the second document. "It's better to be a widower than to be divorced…"
"And it's better to be a widow than a divorcee," I reminded him quietly.
"Always was more trouble than she was worth," he went on, signing his second signature. "Too damn independent and free-thinking. Not a proper wife at all."
"I'll take my chances," I murmured, satisfaction and anticipation rising in me as he progressed.
He moved on to the third set of papers. His eyes scanned up and down them. "What the hell is this?"
"That is an acknowledgement that you are the one at fault for breaking faith through acts of deliberate harm and violation of marriage vows," I explained, knowing the divorce decree by heart.
"God damn it!" he snapped. "I have to take the blame for this?"
"If you look over here on the last set," I said coolly, "you will see that she relinquishes all claims to any of your income or property. She doesn't want anything from you, Evenson."
He glanced down again and seemed to deliberate for a moment, then exhaled angrily and signed the third set of papers. His signature was less neat this time; he left the papers dented with the force.
"One more," I said, trying to contain my excitement. This chapter of Esme's life was almost closed. We could start our own chapter now.
I tapped the paper, prodding him to continue. He glared at me, and I stared back implacably. I wasn't giving any quarter, and he seemed to sense this, for he bent forward again and scrawled his name one last time.
"There!" he snarled, picking up the last set of papers and flinging them at me. I caught them, of course, and simply folded them neatly and slipped them back inside my coat pocket.
"Thank you," I said, smiling as politely as I could. Good manners could disguise many kinds of inappropriate reactions--such as rage and violence-- and never had I needed more than now to use them effectively. I still hated this man, but Esme would now be free of him, and, as I reminded myself, that was all I cared about.
Well, almost all.
"Don't forget," I said, walking slowly around the cherry desk and stopping in front of Evenson, "you are not to marry again. I will not have some other woman suffering what my Esme suffered at your hand."
My Esme! My stone heart rang with the words.
"Your Esme!" he spat furiously. "Have her, then, and good riddance to her! I don't know what you want with a stupid, incompetent, bitch like that, but she's all yours, Dr. Cullen—"
I growled quietly, my temper rising, but controlled. "Watch yourself, Evenson."
"I should have known she'd ruin my life!" he ranted. "No tenderness, no care for me or what I've been through, just up and leaves, and jumps right into your bed. The goddamn slut opens her legs for the first rich man who comes along—"
The red haze of rage clouded my vision and my mind. My fist flew beyond my control and smashed into the side of his head.
Beneath my skin I felt shards of bone implant into the soft tissue of his brain as his skull shattered. His head whipped to the side, snapping his neck, and his body flew away from me to crash into the parlor wall ten feet behind him. He fell to the floor, arms splayed, legs bent unnaturally beneath him, dark blood hemorrhaging from his ears and nose into a pool beneath his broken face.
I stood crouched, waiting for him to rise, though I knew he would not. I wanted him to. Fierce satisfaction flowed through me and I wanted to let my fist fly again and again until there was nothing left of him but the bloody pulp he deserved to be.
My breath was coming fast, but I stopped it out of habit once the scent of blood hit the air. How dare he speak of Esme like that?
I sucked in a breath between my teeth, feeling the burn in my throat as the pool of his blood spread in front of me. He was lucky it was fast, I thought regretfully. I was a doctor, I could think of many slower, more painful ways to kill him than trauma to the head. At least he was dead. I smiled at that most pleasant thought, letting several of those gruesome options dance through my imagination.
I straightened slowly, flexing my rock-hard hand, and then looked down at it.
Temper faded and realization hit. I continued to stare down at my hand and the smile faded from my face. I was a doctor. I had taken an oath to do no harm—and indeed, these hands had never been used for harm, only for good. I had made sure of that. I had spent almost three hundred years healing and helping to make up for the harm my kind caused wherever we went; I had never touched someone in selfishness or rage as I had done tonight.
I looked up at Evenson's shattered body. How many times had his fists bruised and broken Esme's delicate human body? What would Esme think of what I had done here?
The thought of Evenson using those fists on Esme sent a wave of shame through me. I swallowed hard, ignoring the burn in my throat. Was I any better than this man? Was I any less of a monster? Had I somehow deceived myself into thinking I deserved her any more than he did?
I don't know how long I stood there, but Evenson's blood was beginning to coagulate by the time I moved from my frozen stance. I gathered up the last of the documents and slid them with the others into my coat. Careful not to inhale the scent of his blood again, I stepped carefully around the body of the man I hated—even now. I walked down the elegant entry hall and out the door, shutting and locking it carefully behind me.
I walked in the direction of the train station, battered by the emotions that flooded through me. I was so ashamed that I couldn't make eye contact with anyone I passed. It was bad enough that I had broken every promise I had ever made to myself. It was worse that I had taken such vindictive delight in it. I knew that the potential for sadistic pleasure lay deep in the character of all of my kind, but I thought I had overcome it. I thought I was better than that.
I knew now that I was no better than anyone.
A few blocks away from Evenson's house, I scribbled a note and paid a boy to deliver it to the constable. I did not want the housekeeper or cook to be the ones to discover his corpse in the morning.
I bought a ticket, then sat numbly as the train took me away from my crime and ever closer to my love, and thought about what I had done.
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