Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)
Glad you're back! Let's get to it.
Chapter 2: Unwanted Guest
Edward's POV
"Anything?" she whispers.
He mimics her volume. "Not yet."
I am amused by their primitive attempts at privacy. Although converting Beethoven's Ninth into a piano solo is rather challenging, it in no way prevents me from hearing them with perfect clarity.
But I appreciate the effort. So I encourage their illusion and play with increased fervor.
Crescendo.
Bruscamente.
The change in dynamics has the desired effect.
"This is unhealthy, Carlisle," she says at normal volume.
"I know, dearest." He touches her hand with a sigh. "But I cannot force him."
Even without telepathy, I know what they want.
They want me to talk about my defection.
Why I left.
Where I went.
Who I killed.
Through his eyes, I see the wringing of her hands. "Isn't there anything we can do?"
His head says no. "We have to give him time."
She thinks, but does not say, that my silence and stillness confound her.
Frighten her, actually.
She expects tirades and irrationality, outbursts and accusations. But as I lack the wherewithal for such pitiful exertions, I cannot indulge her. Only when I play does she think she can hear my feelings. So I choose the moodiest music I can find, tossing in the occasional arietta for variety's sake.
It is cruel to toy with her this way, but I must pass the time somehow.
"It has been two years," she says aloud.
"I know." His memory flashes to my eyes when I returned, crimson irises confessing what I did not. "But he has to want to."
She sighs, and the defeatist sound hollows my triumph as their conversation leaves me behind.
My fingers ease on the keys, and an unsolicited weight settles in my chest.
I do not intend to hurt them.
I do not want to hurt them.
But I cannot discuss it.
It would be impossible.
If a demon returned to heaven, he would not debrief the angels on his erstwhile exploits. Would not his smoky robe and soot-covered skin be proof enough of his holiday in hell?
Fortissimo.
Sforzando.
The shift in dynamic alters the course of their discourse, and they return to me.
"Maybe he needs someone," my maker muses.
His wife is confused. "To drink?"
The suggestion might be humorous if a conspiring flame of desire did not singe my throat.
"No, darling." He hides his repulsion well. "To love."
Her thoughts are all lavender and freesia. "Of course."
The thirst within me yields to a blinding rage, and my fingers darken the music in reply.
She frowns when the disharmony reaches her ears, and she lowers her voice. "But who? How?"
"That is harder to say." He caresses her cheek. "Not all men can be as blessed as I."
She flutters into his hand. "It is I who has been blessed."
His other hand mirrors the first, and he leans in to sample her lips.
Affection fills their minds, relegating my misery to the background where it belongs.
I should be relieved.
I should be grateful.
But bitterness cuts the venom that fills my mouth, complicating the expected envy upon their embrace.
I spit out the offensive poison, hoping to leave a stain on her spotless floor.
Coda.
The song has left me.
-B-I-
I am in my room, reading The Iliad in the original Greek when I hear it.
The moist, dull music that tortured and tantalized me during my four-year absence.
The one sound with which Dr. Cullen promised never to surprise me.
A human heartbeat.
I suck in one last breath as I drop the heavy text and ghost to the window, the trials of the ancient world no longer of concern.
I scan the darkness for my maker, my mind racing.
It could not be a colleague or a patient.
He would have warned me.
He would have prepared the house.
And his wife would not be battling her thirst in the room below.
I consider going to her in some sensitive show of support when Dr. Cullen comes into full view.
And what I see stops me dead.
He is running with a young woman in his arms.
Blonde.
Nearly lifeless.
And bleeding.
Thank heaven I am holding my breath.
Could she in fact be a patient? An emergency case that could not wait?
A wounded nomad lost in the woods?
Panic submits to curiosity, and I decide to invade the doctor's thoughts just as something critical catches my attention.
Something about the woman that halts my eavesdropping and makes my frozen skin crawl.
This human is no stranger.
This human is Miss Rosalie Hale.
An angry hiss slips through my teeth.
Even with my cursory interactions with the nearby human population, Miss Hale's reputation long precedes her.
She is wealthy, envied, and worst of all, well-known. A day seldom passes when her name does not pass through the mind or lips of someone in town.
Rosalie Hale?
Nearly lifeless and bloody in my maker's arms?
Greta Garbo would have been less conspicuous.
I have no more need of the doctor's mind as mine has come to a decision.
Miss Hale must go.
I fly down the stairs toward the parlor where the great physician is laying Miss Hale on the settee, noting that my maker's mate is also holding her breath.
I stop at the threshold of the room. "What is she doing here?"
Dr. Cullen ignores me. "Another blanket, dear."
His wife runs to the closet and returns with three.
"Rosalie Hale?" I persist. "Are you mad?"
Esme's eyes widen at my tone, but I am unmoved. "She has no business here, and I cannot believe that you would be so obtuse as to..."
"Edward!" His rebuke is sharp. "Do you not understand what is going on here?"
I step into the room and am rendered speechless.
The stench of liquor.
A torn dress.
Dark, bloody bruises.
With superhuman senses, I should not be so blind.
What did you expect me to do? Carlisle asks with less force. I couldn't just leave her bleeding in the street.
I nod, unable to meet his eyes. His wife returns with a basin of perfumed water and begins her ministrations to the injured girl's body.
I look away.
"Do you know how to contact her parents?" She dabs a cloth on Miss Hale's forehead. "I am sure they are beside themselves with worry."
And in the half-second during which he hesitates to answer, the doctor's intentions flash across his mind.
"You cannot be serious!" I thunder. "You're going to change her?"
Mrs. Cullen pauses in her work to gape at us in turn, resting her hand against the tangled mass of blonde curls before her eyes settle on her partner. "Carlisle, do you think that's wise?"
"Her injuries are too severe." His sympathy turns clinical in an instant. "She will die if I do not intervene."
"Then let her!"
"Edward," Esme chides. "That is unkind."
"He does not have the right to decide her fate."
"I do not believe that," he says softly.
"And what of your belief in God?" I ask. "Do you dare second-guess his divine plan?"
My sarcasm hardens his golden eyes. "God is love, son." I bristle at the endearment as he knew I would. "And He would never take a beloved daughter from this world in such a wicked way."
And with the word "daughter," Esme begins selecting linens for a female bedroom, her mind overflowing with frills and fabric.
No matter.
This is not the first time I have had to stand alone.
"You cannot change Rosalie Hale, Dr. Cullen," I restate. "The risk of exposure is too great."
He opens his mouth to reply, but the sudden lurch of a human heart deters his attention. The muscle is slowing in surrender, weary of the work required to sustain her life.
"I cannot let her die." Carlisle looks at me, his eyes pleading. "Surely, you can understand that."
"I do not," I reply tightly. "And I refuse to sanction this madness with my presence."
Esme calls my name as I take my angry leave from the room, but her appeal goes unacknowledged.
"Let him go," Carlisle says. "He will change his mind."
I am halfway to the second level when his prediction assaults my ears. And when the thoughts behind it catch up to me, I nearly shatter the banister in irate astonishment.
Of all the presumptuous asininity...
"Do you think you can handle this?" he is asking his wife. "Witnessing a change is no easy thing."
She nods as her mind fills with romantic images as ridiculous as the prospects her husband is entertaining.
It is clear now.
They have taken complete leave of their mental faculties.
The very idea that I could love someone...anyone...is ludicrous.
But Rosalie Hale?
Certifiable insanity.
My anger mellows to pity, and the tightening in my chest relents. Whether Miss Hale survives the change or not-and I am stunned by my true wish in that regard-the plans being made on our behalf will quickly bear out their inherent folly, so I give the matter no further consideration as I proceed up the stairs.
"Are you ready?" I hear the doctor ask.
His wife nods again, alarm and anticipation competing for dominance in her thoughts.
Dr. Cullen bends his face to Miss Hale's, murmuring a prayer as he runs a finger down the side of her face. He cups her cheek in a gesture so tender that it makes me uncomfortable.
"Forgive me for what must happen," he whispers as he gently turns her head to one side. "But the pain will save you."
And then he clamps his mouth to her neck, his teeth puncturing the carotid artery with graceful ease. Esme caresses Miss Hale's leg and chants her own heaven-bound entreaties as her husband's venom seeps into the young woman's bloodstream, initiating the transformation. He finishes his work with a final kiss, licking the incision and sealing it shut.
Despite my repulsion, I am intensely aroused.
And aggravated.
I shake my head in double dismay, resolved to put the entire scene from my mind. But as my hand reaches for the knob of my bedroom door, the first intelligible thought from Miss Rosalie Hale assaults me.
And I am wholly unable to ignore it.
What do you think Rosalie's first thought is? Only one way to find out...
Thanks for reading! xo