Mortality

The Calm Before

Edward and I pass the familiar first two floors quickly, chatting absently about our cover story for tomorrow in class. I spot Carlisle's cross from down the hall, slowly stopping a few feet away. My mind knows his age, and about him. But I still can't get over it. Get over how much he must have seen. I don't realize I stopped in front of Carlisle's office until Edward taps my shoulder.

"Hey, let's get to your room before it gets too late." He looks to the door for a moment, brows furrowed. He whispers under his breath and glances down at me.

"It's open," Carlisle's voice calls. Edward opens the door to a high-ceiling-ed room, with a tall, stained-glass window illuminated by fairy lights and a rather antique looking lamp on the desk. The dark wood panels give a warm feeling, though most of the space taken up by towering bookshelves that reach high above my head, and hold more books than I've ever seen outside a library. Most them look original, and they're all in mint condition.

Carlisle sits behind an enormous mahogany desk in a leather chair, placing a bookmark in a massive tome. Though Carlisle appears far too young to even be a teacher, I cannot ignore the air of authority. It's like I'm in the presence of a Harvard professor.

"I heard you two gossiping about me earlier," he says pleasantly, rising from his seat. "You realize it is rude to talk behind someone's back." The curl of his lip makes my heart calm slowly, and Edward chuckles.

"I was just showing Bella some of our history," Edward says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well ... your history."

"We didn't mean to disturb you," I apologize, looking down.

"Not at all." Carlisle waves his hand, a soft but sad smile on his face. "Though Edward got some of the details wrong. I'd be happy to correct. Where shall I start?"

"The basements," Edward says, placing one hand lightly on my shoulder. I look over at him and notice one wall out of place. I turn to the doorway and gasp. There are no shelves, but framed paintings and photographs of all shapes, sizes, and colors. I search closely for a connection between them all, and find only one. A baby-faced young man with blonde hair. Carlisle.

Edward guides me toward the far-left side, standing me in front of a small square oil painting in a plain wooden frame. This one doesn't stand out among the bigger and brighter pieces; painted in varying tones of sepia, it shows 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.

"The London of my youth," Carlisle says a few feet behind us. I flinch; I hadn't heard him approach. Edward squeezes my hand. "Azrael, the vampire who changed me, hid an entire coven within the cellars of the townsfolk." He runs his finger over the lower part of the glass cover. "When the mob responded to my cries, he let them to slaughter."

"What happened then?" I finally ask, staring up at Carlisle, his age visible in the depths of his dark eyes. "When you came to terms with ... what you became?"

He glances away from the paintings, away from Edward and I, his shoulders sagging. "I knew what I was right away. And I couldn't stand it. I did everything I could think of to destroy myself. Jumping from cliffs, drowning. And then, starving myself. I didn't drink a single ounce of blood, hoping I would wither away."

"What?" I don't mean to say it aloud, but the word breaks through my shock. "Is that even possible?"

"No. I was very weak, but I found it only a few things can kill us. Fire, or by something harder than our skin." As if to prove a point, Carlisle takes his letter opener and jams it into his hand. The metal doesn't shatter, but folds on itself, and when he pulls it back, it is utterly useless. Carlisle, all the while, smiles.