raids. At first Carlisle was a disappointment; he was not quick to
accuse, to see demons where they did not exist. But he was persistent,
and more clever than his father. He actually discovered a coven of true
vampires that lived hidden in the sewers of the city, only coming out by
night to hunt. In those days, when monsters were not just myths and
legends, that was the way many lived.
"The people gathered their pitchforks and torches, of course" — his brief
laugh was darker now — "and waited where Carlisle had seen the monsters
exit into the street. Eventually one emerged."
His voice was very quiet; I strained to catch the words.
"He must have been ancient, and weak with hunger. Carlisle heard him call
out in Latin to the others when he caught the scent of the mob. He ran
through the streets, and Carlisle — he was twenty-three and very fast —
was in the lead of the pursuit. The creature could have easily outrun
them, but Carlisle thinks he was too hungry, so he turned and attacked.
He fell on Carlisle first, but the others were close behind, and he
turned to defend himself. He killed two men, and made off with a third,
leaving Carlisle bleeding in the street."
He paused. I could sense he was editing something, keeping something from
me.
"Carlisle knew what his father would do. The bodies would be burned —
anything infected by the monster must be destroyed. Carlisle acted
instinctively to save his own life. He crawled away from the alley while
the mob followed the fiend and his victim. He hid in a cellar, buried
himself in rotting potatoes for three days. It's a miracle he was able to
keep silent, to stay undiscovered.
"It was over then, and he realized what he had become."
I'm not sure what my face was revealing, but he suddenly broke off.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I assured him. And, though I bit my lip in hesitation, he
must have seen the curiosity burning in my eyes.
He smiled. "I expect you have a few more questions for me."
"A few."
His smile widened over his brilliant teeth. He started back down the
hall, pulling me along by the hand. "Come on, then," he encouraged. "I'll
show you."
===========================================================================
16. CARLISLE
He led me back to the room that he'd pointed out as Carlisle's office. He
paused outside the door for an instant.
"Come in," Carlisle's voice invited.
Edward opened the door to a high-ceilinged room with tall, west-facing
windows. The walls were paneled again, in a darker wood — where they were
visible. Most of the wall space was taken up by towering bookshelves that
reached high above my head and held more books than I'd ever seen outside
a library.
Carlisle sat behind a huge mahogany desk in a leather chair. He was just
placing a bookmark in the pages of the thick volume he held. The room was
how I'd always imagined a college dean's would look — only Carlisle
looked too young to fit the part.
"What can I do for you?" he asked us pleasantly, rising from his seat.
"I wanted to show Bella some of our history," Edward said. "Well, your
history, actually."
"We didn't mean to disturb you," I apologized.
"Not at all. Where are you going to start?"
"The Waggoner," Edward replied, placing one hand lightly on my shoulder
and spinning me around to look back toward the door we'd just come
through. Every time he touched me, in even the most casual way, my heart
had an audible reaction. It was more embarrassing with Carlisle there.
The wall we faced now was different from the others. Instead of
bookshelves, this wall was crowded with framed pictures of all sizes,
some in vibrant colors, others dull monochromes. I searched for some
logic, some binding motif the collection had in common, but I found
nothing in my hasty examination.
Edward pulled me toward the far left side, standing me in front of a
small square oil painting in a plain wooden frame. This one did not stand
out among the bigger and brighter pieces; painted in varying tones of
sepia, it depicted a miniature city full of steeply slanted roofs, with
thin spires atop a few scattered towers. A wide river filled the
foreground, crossed by a bridge covered with structures that looked like
tiny cathedrals.
"London in the sixteen-fifties," Edward said.
"The London of my youth," Carlisle added, from a few feet behind us. I
flinched; I hadn't heard him approach. Edward squeezed my hand.
"Will you tell the story?" Edward asked. I twisted a little to see
Carlisle's reaction.
He met my glance and smiled. "I would," he replied. "But I'm actually
running a bit late. The hospital called this morning — Dr. Snow is taking
a sick day. Besides, you know the stories as well as I do," he added,
grinning at Edward now.
It was a strange combination to absorb — the everyday concerns of the
town doctor stuck in the middle of a discussion of his early days in
seventeenth-century London.
It was also unsettling to know that he spoke aloud only for my benefit.
After another warm smile for me, Carlisle left the room.
I stared at the little picture of Carlisle's hometown for a long moment.
"What happened then?" I finally asked, staring up at Edward, who was
watching me. "When he realized what had happened to him?"
He glanced back to the paintings, and I looked to see which image caught
his interest now. It was a larger landscape in dull fall colors — an
empty, shadowed meadow in a forest, with a craggy peak in the distance.
"When he knew what he had become," Edward said quietly, "he rebelled
against it. He tried to destroy himself. But that's not easily done."
"How?" I didn't mean to say it aloud, but the word broke through my shock.
"He jumped from great heights," Edward told me, his voice impassive. "He
tried to drown himself in the ocean… but he was young to the new life,
and very strong. It is amazing that he was able to resist… feeding… while
he was still so new. The instinct is more powerful then, it takes over
everything. But he was so repelled by himself that he had the strength to
try to kill himself with starvation."
"Is that possible?" My voice was faint.
"No, there are very few ways we can be killed."
I opened my mouth to ask, but he spoke before I could.
"So he grew very hungry, and eventually weak. He strayed as far as he
could from the human populace, recognizing that his willpower was
weakening, too. For months he wandered by night, seeking the loneliest
places, loathing himself.
"One night, a herd of deer passed his hiding place. He was so wild with
thirst that he attacked without a thought. His strength returned and he
realized there was an alternative to being the vile monster he feared.
Had he not eaten venison in his former life? Over the next months his new
philosophy was born. He could exist without being a demon. He found
himself again.
"He began to make better use of his time. He'd always been intelligent,
eager to learn. Now he had unlimited time before him. He studied by
night, planned by day. He swam to France and —"
"He swam to France?"
"People swim the Channel all the time, Bella," he reminded me patiently.
"That's true, I guess. It just sounded funny in that context. Go on."
"Swimming is easy for us —"
"Everything is easy for you," I griped.
He waited, his expression amused.
"I won't interrupt again, I promise."
He chuckled darkly, and finished his sentence. "Because, technically, we
don't need to breathe."
"You —"
"No, no, you promised." He laughed, putting his cold finger lightly to my
lips. "Do you want to hear the story or not?"
"You can't spring something like that on me, and then expect me not to
say anything," I mumbled against his finger.
He lifted his hand, moving it to rest against my neck. The speed of my
heart reacted to that, but I persisted.
"You don't have to breathe?" I demanded.
"No, it's not necessary. Just a habit." He shrugged.
"How long can you go… without breathing?"
"Indefinitely, I suppose; I don't know. It gets a bit uncomfortable —
being without a sense of smell."
"A bit uncomfortable," I echoed.
I wasn't paying attention to my own expression, but something in it made
him grow somber. His hand dropped to his side and he stood very still,
his eyes intent on my face. The silence lengthened. His features were
immobile as stone.
"What is it?" I whispered, touching his frozen face.
His face softened under my hand, and he sighed. "I keep waiting for it to
happen."
"For what to happen?"
"I know that at some point, something I tell you or something you see is
going to be too much. And then you'll run away from me, screaming as you
go." He smiled half a smile, but his eyes were serious. "I won't stop
you. I want this to happen, because I want you to be safe. And yet, I
want to be with you. The two desires are impossible to reconcile…" He
trailed off, staring at my face. Waiting.
"I'm not running anywhere," I promised.
"We'll see," he said, smiling again.
I frowned at him. "So, go on — Carlisle was swimming to France."
He paused, getting back into his story. Reflexively, his eyes flickered
to another picture — the most colorful of them all, the most ornately
framed, and the largest; it was twice as wide as the door it hung next
to. The canvas overflowed with bright figures in swirling robes, writhing
around long pillars and off marbled balconies. I couldn't tell if it
represented Greek mythology, or if the characters floating in the clouds
above were meant to be biblical.
"Carlisle swam to France, and continued on through Europe, to the
universities there. By night he studied music, science, medicine — and
found his calling, his penance, in that, in saving human lives." His
expression became awed, almost reverent. "I can't adequately describe the
struggle; it took Carlisle two centuries of torturous effort to perfect
his self-control. Now he is all but immune to the scent of human blood,
and he is able to do the work he loves without agony. He finds a great
deal of peace there, at the hospital…" Edward stared off into space for a
long moment. Suddenly he seemed to recall his purpose. He tapped his
finger against the huge painting in front of us.
"He was studying in Italy when he discovered the others there. They were
much more civilized and educated than the wraiths of the London sewers."
He touched a comparatively sedate quartet of figures painted on the
highest balcony, looking down calmly on the mayhem below them. I examined
the grouping carefully and realized, with a startled laugh, that I
recognized the golden-haired man.
"Solimena was greatly inspired by Carlisle's friends. He often painted
them as gods," Edward chuckled. "Aro, Marcus, Caius," he said, indicating
the other three, two black-haired, one snowy-white. "Nighttime patrons of
the arts."
"What happened to them?" I wondered aloud, my fingertip hovering a
centimeter from the figures on the canvas.
"They're still there." He shrugged. "As they have been for who knows how
many millennia. Carlisle stayed with them only for a short time, just a
few decades. He greatly admired their civility, their refinement, but
they persisted in trying to cure his aversion to 'his natural food
source,' as they called it. They tried to persuade him, and he tried to
persuade them, to no avail. At that point, Carlisle decided to try the
New World. He dreamed of finding others like himself. He was very lonely,
you see.
"He didn't find anyone for a long time. But, as monsters became the stuff
of fairy tales, he found he could interact with unsuspecting humans as if
he were one of them. He began practicing medicine. But the companionship
he craved evaded him; he couldn't risk familiarity.
"When the influenza epidemic hit, he was working nights in a hospital in
Chicago. He'd been turning over an idea in his mind for several years,
and he had almost decided to act — since he couldn't find a companion, he
would create one. He wasn't absolutely sure how his own transformation
had occurred, so he was hesitant. And he was loath to steal anyone's life
the way his had been stolen. It was in that frame of mind that he found
me. There was no hope for me; I was left in a ward with the dying. He had
nursed my parents, and knew I was alone. He decided to try…"
His voice, nearly a whisper now, trailed off. He stared unseeingly
through the west windows. I wondered which images filled his mind now,
Carlisle's memories or his own. I waited quietly.
When he turned back to me, a gentle angel's smile lit his expression.
"And so we've come full circle," he concluded.
"Have you always stayed with Carlisle, then?" I wondered.
"Almost always." He put his hand lightly on my waist and pulled me with
him as he walked through the door. I stared back at the wall of pictures,
wondering if I would ever get to hear the other stories.
Edward didn't say any more as we walked down the hall, so I asked,
"Almost?"
He sighed, seeming reluctant to answer. "Well, I had a typical bout of
