His reply was sharper than he intended, and Carlisle’s face clouded with hurt once again. Edward drew a deep breath and made eye contact. It was just after sundown, and Carlisle’s eyes shone in the waning daylight. They had been blue, Carlisle had once told him, and for a moment Edward busied himself trying to imagine them that way, instead of the saffron or obsidian that he was used to. He tried to imagine his father’s gaze looking on him with eyes looking like heaven itself—because that made sense for Carlisle—and he instantly felt ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, looking downward again. “It’s not you. I just—I’m not ready.”
Carlisle stared at him again, his expression softening. You will heal, Edward. I know you will. Give it time. His hand floated unconsciously to his own left shoulder, and Edward winced. Carlisle didn’t miss his expression.
This healed, too. He patted his shoulder. Quickly, in fact. But the heart takes longer. As does the soul.
The soul. Edward let out a frustrated growl. They weren’t supposed to have them. Vampires were damned creatures, or so the legends said. Not that very much was true about the legends, but Edward clung to this. And even if he hadn’t been damned when he’d set out running from the little house in Barre, wasn’t he undoubtedly damned now? How could one take nearly four hundred lives and still expect eternal forgiveness?
He had no soul.