Standard disclaimer: I am not Stephenie Meyer. If I was, Twilight would have centered around the angelic gorgeousness that is Carlisle Cullen. This is just for fun, folks. I make no money off of this.

As a fanfic author who likes to dabble in alternate scenarios, I feel I should remind you that some details will differ from the books or movies. Among other things, I toyed with dates again, making Rosalie and another character slightly older. There are no teenagers in this fic. As for the coven's history, you'll learn more about it here. But like I usually do when I tell a story, I reveal things a little at a time.

For those who are new to my work, I often associate a specific song to some of my chapters. Sometimes, it's because the lyrics fit. Other times, it's because the feel of the song inspired or carried me during the writing process. So with that out of the way, the song for this chapter would be "Going Home" by Ásgeir.

As always, thanks go out to my readers and reviewers: chellekathrynnn, CowgirlKelly, Goldielover, Ruiniel, Guest, leelee202, Guest, Guest, and leward1992, your comments and continued interest has meant the world to me.

CHAPTER 3

THE CULLENS

The hunt had been invigorating, his latest prey more challenging than the deer he had hunted yesterday. Indeed, the mountain lion had put up a bit of a fight. Same for the bear he had taken down shortly thereafter.

Sated and ready to head home, Carlisle ran through the night-clad woods, slowing to a sudden walk when his house finally came into view. At present, light filtered through its many windows and doors, and the outdoor lighting was on, too.

A study of modern architecture, the multi-level home had a gray and redwood exterior. Built in the same location as their former home—the one his small coven had occupied from January 1939 to March 1941—the house boasted more space than they needed. In fact, it was large enough to accommodate eight or ten vampires.

"Why such a big house?" Rosalie had asked when he had first showed her the floor plans, on a wintry afternoon, five years ago, when the two of them had lived in northern British Columbia.

"I don't know," Carlisle had answered on a shrug, unsure of why he had asked the architect to design such a large home. "Maybe we'll have guests someday."

"Guests?" Rosalie had snorted at that; he couldn't blame her for laughing. It didn't matter where they lived, they never had company. One because their lifestyle made them an oddity in the vampire world. And two, they couldn't risk forming close human friendships.

Leaning over his shoulder to stare at the plans, Rosalie had fallen silent for a moment. "It's a lovely house," she had decided at length, with a rare but genuine smile on her angelic face. "I like it."

Her approval had prompted a smile of his own. With a satisfied nod, Carlisle had rolled up the plans and risen from his chair. "That settles it, then."

And now here they were, living a quiet, if somewhat lonely life on the periphery of things, in Forks Washington.

As Carlisle made for the house at a human pace, he glanced at his watch. Three-thirty.

The air was still this night, and the stars were hidden by a thick blanket of clouds. Unlike most other backyards in and around Forks, there was no lawn to speak of. Except for one beaten path, the ground was an untamed carpet of ferns and moss and pine needles. Wild but beautiful to look upon, the terrain rose and fell beneath the lofty evergreens that wreathed his flat-roofed home.

The back of the house now loomed in front of him. With the sound of the Calawah River caressing his eardrums, Carlisle unzipped his jacket and, seeing no sign of Rosalie through the windows or on the balconies, wondered if she was even home.

With quick but silent footfalls, he scaled the steps to the veranda. Directly in front of him were two glass doors, beyond which was one of their many sitting rooms. Dominated by a large bookshelf, of the same redwood as the exterior of the house, the room was bathed in the soft glow of recessed lighting and reading lamps.

"Rose?" Carlisle said upon entering.

Met by silence, he shut the doors, and guessed she was still hunting. Though they sometimes hunted together, Rosalie often went out on her own. Assuming she would return soon, Carlisle hung his jacket on a coat rack, and proceeded further into the house.

Climbing the first of two different sets of stairs, he walked by the kitchen they never used. Then, after rounding a corner, he went up, toward the upper level of the house, where his room and private bathroom were located.

Wont to shower after a hunt, Carlisle soon found himself beneath steaming hot water. His face angled toward the spray, he swept his hair back. Hair that would never turn gray, never fall out. Hair that couldn't grow. Unchanging, that's what he was, a supernatural being frozen in time.

As clouds of steam rose around him, coating the chrome fixtures and gray tiled walls, Carlisle grabbed the shampoo and started lathering. While his body produced neither sweat nor oils, his skin could carry dirt and germs just like any other surface. And seeing as he had just wrestled a mountain lion and a bear, Carlisle would rather scrub himself clean before heading for the hospital.

Hunting twice in the span of two days…

Normally, Carlisle would feed once, maybe twice a week. But given that his singer was recuperating in his place of employment, he felt it was more prudent to have a full belly before going in. It wasn't that he feared attacking her; he had more self-control than that. But thirst associated with bloodlust could affect his mental capabilities. And as a doctor, Carlisle had to be on top of his game.

Bella Swan…

As water and soap suds sluiced down his pale skin, he found himself smiling. This being Dr. Coleman's day off, Carlisle would be doing the morning rounds for him today, meaning he would see her again. His smile broadened a little.

Snapping out of it, he wiped the expression off his face, and frowned beneath the spray. What's gotten into you? he wondered while scrubbing his chest and forearms. Of course, even without morning rounds, he had planned on checking in on her at least once. He had saved her life after all. But why the sudden fascination?

Technically he didn't know her. Oh, but he wanted to.

His frown deepened. He was being stupid, unprofessional. Bella was human. And today, she would be his patient. Damn bloodlust. It was screwing with his brain. Enough of this.

Washing as quickly as he could—at vampiric speed, it took less than four seconds—Carlisle shut off the water, stepped out of the shower, and grabbed a towel. Once his body was dry, he wrapped said towel around his hips, and proceeded to blow-dry his hair. As he stood in front of the mirror, combing his hair back, his eyes went to the ring he wore on his left hand.

Crafted in polished silver, the ring bore the Cullen crest. Despite the partial brokenness of his coven, the symbol meant a great deal to him, each element representing who they were.

Silver on black, the main element was a lion. Its front paw raised in the air, the animal represented the strength and ferocity of vampires. In contrast, the hand above the lion's head was a symbol of faith and sincerity, showing that, despite everything, the three members of his coven—correction, his family—were loyal to one another. Lastly, the trefoil at the bottom symbolized perpetuality, the vampires' inability to die naturally.

Commissioned back in 1920, the ring had adorned his finger for ninety-seven years. The other two members of his coven wore the crest as well, one on a leather cuff bracelet, the other on a pendant necklace.

Indeed, Carlisle had sired two vampires in his life, a selfish choice, if he was honest. Having lived on his own for so very long, he had entertained the hope of forming his own coven, a group of vampires living side-by-side in happiness, as a real family would. But his hopes had fallen short, for the life of a vampire was not an easy one, and those he had sired had never fully accepted their immortal existence.

"Why did you do this to me?" He could still hear the anguish in his first companion's voice.

Edward.

Now a Cullen, he had been Edward Anthony Masen junior in his former life. A short human life of twenty-one years that had ended during the influenza outbreak of 1918. "Changing me… You thought that's what my dying mother meant when she begged you to save me?" he had cried late one night, in the summer of 1941, when the stress and burden of his vampiric nature had pushed him to a tragic breaking point. Newly departed from Forks, they had resided in Mobile, Alabama at the time. "Look at what I've become! An abomination with the worst of addictions." His eyes veiled with venom tears that could not fall, Edward had hung his head, his voice broken when, at last, he had said, "You took away my soul, Carlisle."

That memory was as vivid now as it had been in the immediate aftermath, the accompanying guilt just as strong as it had been back then.

Be well, my brother. Wherever you are.

His thoughts shifting to his second companion, Carlisle was besieged by yet another wave of regret.

Rosalie Lillian Hale. Although well suited to her vegetarian lifestyle, the statuesque blond had never accepted the loss of her humanity. "I was twenty. I was beautiful. My life was perfect until that night." Those had been her words to him. To this day, she resented Carlisle for the choice he had made for her back in 1935. "You should have let me die."

It had been a cold winter night in Rochester, New York. Walking home after his shift, he had caught the smell of her blood, and stopped in his tracks. Concerned, Carlisle had followed the scent until he had found her in the street, battered and broken, an inch away from death. By the state of her clothing and the many scents around her, he had known that a group of drunken men had done this, and that beating her was not all they had done. As if that wasn't bad enough, Carlisle had later learned that one of her attackers had been none other than her fiancé. A cruel twist, with a ruthless and tragic end.

Gathering her broken body, Carlisle had carried her to his home, where he had swept her golden hair aside, exposing her bruised neck. Then, with a heartfelt apology for the burning pain he was about to cause, he had bitten and broken her skin, forever changing her.

At the time, he had thought he was doing the right thing. She being close to Edward's age, he had hoped the two might become mates one day, thus bringing a measure of happiness to his companion's existence. But Edward had been furious, and the two had never hit it off, not in that way.

Despite her initial fury and her lingering resentment, Rosalie had chosen to follow Carlisle in the end. A reluctant companion at first, she had since fallen into the rhythm of their coven life. And over the course of these long years, the two had a grown somewhat closer. Close enough that Carlisle now loved her as a sister. She, in turn, cared for him as a brother, too. Oh, she was vain and frigid most of the time, but underneath the pain she still bore, Rosalie was a good person. A woman who not only valued human life, but grieved for the loss of her own.

Never again. That was his vow. No matter how lonely he got, for as long as he "lived", Carlisle would never sire another vampire, condemning them to this difficult and lonely existence, damning their very souls. The cost was simply too high, the ensuing guilt too heavy to bear.

His dead heart going out to Rosalie, Carlisle set his comb back in a drawer, and turned his thoughts to her. May you find peace and happiness someday.

Exiting the bathroom, Carlisle made for the walk-in closet, where he chose black slacks, a pale blue shirt, and a textured navy tie. Dressed and ready to face the day, he looked at the time and saw that he still had three hours to go before the start of his shift.

That was the thing about being a vampire. Unlike humans, Carlisle couldn't sleep the hours away. It was the reason this room wasn't a typical bedroom. First of all, there was no bed in here, only a sitting area comprised of a worn leather chair, a love seat, a coffee table covered in medical journals, a reading lamp, a large area rug, and a sleek fireplace.

Built into one of the walls was yet another bookcase. Some of the shelves were lined with tomes, while others held mementos from the various places he had been to over the centuries. On a middle shelf was a vintage record player and a record collection—gifts from Edward, when he had returned to live with them in the mid 1980s. For Carlisle, it had been a happy time, the three of them living under one roof. It didn't last, though. After two and a half years, Edward had left once again, and hadn't lived with them since.

Thankfully, he called or visited sometimes. Every other month, he would send postcards or emails.

Coming to stand by the large windows lining the wall, Carlisle surveyed the vista beyond the glass. Minutes turned into an hour. An hour became two. Dawn was breaking now. Rosalie had yet to return home.

Because Forks was one of the rainiest locations in the United States, the sudden drizzle came as no surprise. But then, that was the reason he and Rosalie had chosen to return here, for sunny days and vampires made a poor combination in this day and age.

It wasn't like the movies. Vampires didn't burst into flames when exposed to sunlight. But because their cells were hard and refractive, their skin sparkled like diamonds under the sun.

Thinking he would check the forecast before heading out, Carlisle descended to the home's middle level. In the living-room nearest to the kitchen, he sought and pressed the remote. As was usually the case, the television was set to the Weather Channel.

Because he and Rosalie didn't have a crystal ball, they always kept a careful watch over the forecast—less chance of being caught out in the sun that way. In fact, when the forecast promised clear skies, Carlisle always arranged for time off. For now, though, it seemed like he would be going to work for the next few days. The meteorologists predicted rain all day today, tomorrow, then again on Tuesday and Wednesday. Of course, that could change between now and then. But so far, things looked good.

Carlisle pressed the power button on the remote. No sooner had the television gone dark, than he stood in the kitchen, where he grabbed his favourite travel mug. He never actually drank out of it, but he pretended to. It was a small detail, but like breathing and blinking, it made him appear more human.

Cup in hand, cell phone in his pocket, he descended the staircase leading to the ground floor. Passing by his father's cross, Carlisle fetched one of his dressier jackets, and headed out into the garage, where his vehicle was parked.

Like the past two cars he had owned, it was a black Mercedes. But unlike its predecessors, it was an S-Class W222. All told, it was a sleek and classy ride, powerful but quiet in the way it handled. Being fairly new, the car had less than ten thousand miles on it.

Once the garage door had opened behind him, Carlisle started the car, and put it in reverse. As he drove down the long, winding drive that bisected the forest, he turned on the radio in time to catch the tail-end of a local news segment.

"…repairs to the broken water line should be complete by the end of the day," the female newscaster said. "In the meantime, residents of Park Street are being asked to boil their water for a minimum of ten minutes before consumption. In other news, the search continues for twenty-five year old Melissa Jones, who was last seen three days ago outside her home in the town of Sappho, a small community in Clallam County. When last seen, Ms. Jones was wearing a red jacket, blue jeans, and white running shoes. Five feet two inches tall, she is one hundred and twenty pounds, has brown hair and green eyes. If anyone has any information regarding the woman's whereabouts, they are asked to contact the Sappho Police Department at—"

Eyes on the road, Carlisle frowned at the troubling news. Another one, he thought, recalling the recent disappearance of a seventy year old man, on the banks of the Calawah River. Surely, it was a coincidence. At least, he hoped it was.

Charlie was hovering.

It felt kind of strange because her father had never been one to hover. Still shaken by her recent accident and subsequent surgery, he had arrived at the hospital as soon as visiting hours had started.

Dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans, he re-entered the room for the second time in fifteen minutes. "I had to go down to the cafeteria, but I finally found a straw. Here you go, Bells." Leaning forward, he held the glass for her.

Water and ice chips. Thank God. Her throat was parched and raw.

Wincing at the pain, Bella raised her head enough to take a small sip, then one more. "Thanks, Ch… dad." Her head flopped back against the pillow.

"A habit you can't shake, huh? Calling me Charlie instead of dad." In her teen years, he had hated it. Right now, her father didn't seem to mind, though. His mouth curved in a teasing smirk, Charlie set her glass on the bedside cabinet, and sat back down.

"Sorry," was her reply, delivered on a sheepish smile.

"It's alright. I'm just happy you're okay." He meant it, too. She could see it in his eyes. "Do you need anything else?"

"I'm fine, dad." Okay, so that wasn't exactly true. She was far from fine. Despite the pain meds, her abdomen was downright sore. And because of her concussion, Bella had a nasty headache and a painful sensitivity to light. Thankfully, the curtains were closed for now, and the lights in the room weren't overly bright.

"Fine?" Charlie huffed a laugh, but then his features grew serious. "You could have died, kid. If it hadn't been for Dr. Cullen…"

Of course, her surgeon had been Luke Coleman, a long-time physician here in Forks, but the man who had found her in the woods had been one of the younger doctors here.

"My name's Carlisle. I'm a doctor. I'm here to help you." Despite being pretty out of it at the time, Bella remembered the soothing quality of his voice, his blond head of hair. His face, however, was a fuzzy image in her mind. Most of it at least. Somehow, the color of his eyes was engraved in her memory, a brown so deep and dark it bordered on black.

"A concussion, hypothermia, a liver laceration," Charlie went on, unaware of her musings. "If he hadn't found you when he did…" Clearly wanting to think of other things, he reached for his cell phone. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. Audrey texted me before I left home. She said,"—he squinted at the screen—"'Tell Bella I'm driving over today. Should be there sometime before lunch.'"

"She's coming here?" Bella perked up a little at that, but had to settle back down. God, her head was hurting.

Audrey was her best friend. The two had met five years ago, when Bella had landed a job as a proofreader for a Seattle-based home and garden magazine.

Touched by the fact that her friend was driving over, Bella lamented the loss of her cell phone. Likely, it was on that wooded slope somewhere, broken or ruined by the rain. She would have to get another one soon.

A glance at the clock told her it was just after nine.

"So where'd Evan go?" Charlie asked and threw a harsh look at the door. He had never liked Evan.

"He went to get breakfast when you stepped out to get water." Too tired to say anything else, Bella closed her eyes for a moment.

Although Charlie was not privy to all the goings-on in her life, he knew enough to gather all was not well between her and her boyfriend—actually, Evan had been her fiancé up until a few weeks ago. They had since decided to slow things down.

Quite frankly, their relationship was a confusing mess right now, had been since last Christmas. It was one of the reasons she had wanted to drive up here. A break as it were, an opportunity to re-evaluate things and hopefully catch her bearings. Plus, she liked visiting her dad.

But then, that bear had come out of nowhere, and her plan had gone to hell.

At least you're alive, she reminded herself.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew her out of her thoughts. Keeping her movements to a bare minimum, Bella opened her eyes, and pivoted her head against the pillow.

At first, all she saw was a black pair of slacks and matching leather shoes. Lifting her gaze, she saw that the man was wearing a lab coat, her chart held in his hands. He was wearing a ring, she noted. Silver and bulky, it was the kind of ring one would see on a football player. And yet, there was a different feel to it. Maybe it was the crest, but it was more elegant than a standard championship ring.

Even with a partial view, Bella could tell the man was tall and slender. He wasn't a twig, though. He was fit. Whoever this was, it wasn't Dr. Coleman. As he approached her and flipped through the pages, her vision expanded enough to see his face.

Her jaw dropped.

"Isabella," he said, smiling as he read her name. "Though if memory serves, you go by Bella." Now he lowered the chart, holding it against his abdomen as he waited for her reply.

But Bella hadn't moved. She wasn't saying anything. Her mouth was still open.

Holy mother of…

The man was beauty incarnate, a blond headed God with a kind voice and even kinder eyes.

Wait.

Was it… him? Her rescuer? Dr. Cullen?

His hair was certainly the right color. But his eyes… His eyes weren't as dark as she remembered.

Closing her mouth, she searched for something, anything, to say. "Bella or Isabella. You can call me whichever. I don't mind."

Wait, what?

Did I really just say that?

Because truth of the matter was, she usually insisted on being called Bella. Charlie and her mother, Renée, had called her Bella her whole entire life. But damn if she didn't like the way her full name sounded on this man's lips.

His smile revealing dimples in his cheeks, the doctor nodded and regarded her with caramel eyes. "Very well, then. Isabella." Her insides quivered. "I'm Dr. Cullen." His eyes flickered to her father then. "Hi, Charlie."

"Well if it isn't the man of the hour. Hey, doc." Her father had already gained his feet. Once the two had exchanged a handshake, Charlie excused himself, knowing the doctor would have to examine her.

Setting her chart aside, Dr. Cullen closed the privacy curtain, and went to wash his hands at the sink near the foot of her bed. Once he was done, he pulled some disposable gloves from a container on the wall.

"So, how are you feeling this morning?" he asked as he neared.

"Truthfully?"

"The truth is always best."

"I feel like I've been hit by a freight train. My head is pounding. I can't stand the light. And my stomach hurts like a b—" Smothering the offensive word just in time, she felt herself blush, and smiled in embarrassment.

"That's to be expected. Once we're done here, I'll ask the nurse to bring you something for the pain. May I?" Dr. Cullen was now pointing at her abdomen.

Aware that he needed to inspect the site of her incision, Bella gave a small nod. "Sure." Revealing the stitches took a bit of painful maneuvering, but with the doctor's gentle help, she managed well enough. As she breathed through her discomfort, Bella focused on the man who was now leaning over her.

His pale skin was inhumanly smooth, like he had been airbrushed. His lips were full, she noted, his lashes long and dark. The classical angles of his face were so perfect, he looked like he belonged in a religious work of art. Recalling a recent visit to one of her favourite museums, Bella found he bore a likeness to the main subject in an oil painting she had admired, one depicting a beautiful avenging angel with downcast features and a pale head of hair. Though she couldn't recall the artist's name, the piece had been titled "Gabriel".

"I see no unusual redness," Dr. Cullen declared at length. For some reason, he seemed tense compared to when he had walked in here. What's more, there seemed to be a slight strain to his voice, one that wasn't there before. "No sign of infection."

Finished with his visual examination, he helped with the lowering of her gown. When he glanced toward the monitors beside her bed, Bella thought she saw a change in his eyes. Instead of the caramel hue she had noticed earlier, his irises were a deep ocher.

But that was silly. Eyes couldn't change color. Clearly Bella was imagining or seeing things. A product of tiredness perhaps. Or maybe it was due to her concussion. Whatever the reason, she chose to let it go.

"Your vitals are all good. I believe we're all done," he declared, putting a fair bit of distance between them. "Like I said earlier, I'll have the nurse give you more pain meds." Making for a trashcan, Dr. Cullen removed and disposed of his gloves. "Your body has been through a lot. You're going to need a great deal of rest over the coming days." For a moment, Bella thought she heard a slight shift in his accent. He sounded British.

As she fought to make sense of this, half wondering if she had imagined it, Dr. Cullen loosened his collar, grabbed her chart, and cleared his throat. Then, before she knew it, he had slipped past the privacy curtain and was gone, his footsteps echoing and fading as he hurried down the corridor.