Nathaniel lifted his pipe once more, the tobacco ember briefly painting his face in a faint orange glow. Smoke drifted upward in slow, contemplative curls as he regarded Michael with the same grave interest a scholar might give a rare specimen in a museum case.
"Through the many years I have wandered this world," he began, voice low and steady, "I have crossed paths with creatures, men, and things that are neither… yet even among them, your condition is most fascinating.
Truly singular."
Michael frowned slightly. "What are you trying to say?"
"You were not a vampire when I watched you dine earlier," Nathaniel said, tapping the side of his pipe. "Yet now, here you stand quite evidently transformed. And more curious still… you do not fit the mold of either path."
Michael glanced down at the open pages of the book resting in his hands. The illustrated diagrams of pale figures, fang-lined skulls, and supernatural anatomy seemed suddenly too still… too silent. The room's lamplight flickered across the yellowed pages.
"When you fought the vampire below deck," Nathaniel continued, "I assumed you belonged to one of the two established bloodlines. But when I witnessed you drinking the blood—excuse me, the venom of an Eclipsed, it became clear I was mistaken."
Michael stiffened slightly. "Then which classification do I fall under?"
Nathaniel gave a low, thoughtful hum. "That is precisely the issue: you do not fall under either of the established strains."
Nathaniel leaned forward slightly and pointed with the stem of his pipe toward the book.
"As I wrote therein," he said, "the Eclipsed do not possess blood in the common sense. Their hearts are stilled; they pump nothing. Their bodies circulate only venom clear as glass, potent as acid which serves in place of blood. Such venom grants no nourishment to those who drink it. In many cases, it induces sickness… or worse."
He studied Michael over the rim of his spectacles.
"And yet you suffer none of its effects. Remarkable."
Michael swallowed hard, unsure whether to feel relieved or alarmed.
"But what captivates me most," Nathaniel said, tapping his own chest, "is this."
Michael blinked. "What?"
"You have a pulse, professor."
For a moment, neither spoke. Michael instinctively pressed his palm to his chest. Beneath his hand, steady and unmistakable, his heart thumped alive, firm, and rhythmic.
It made no sense.
"A vampire," Nathaniel said softly, "by every biological measure, is a corpse animated by curse, venom, or hunger. Their bodies mimic life but do not carry it. Their blood, when they have any does not flow." He gestured with his pipe. "And yet you stand before me with a mortal pulse. Immune to the venom of the Eclipsed. Not wholly Sanguine, not wholly Eclipsed. Something altogether… different. Furthermore, the manner in which you fought below deck—"
Michael's brow tightened. "What about it?"
Nathaniel said slowly, "When I saw you engage that eclipsed below deck, I recognized the strength and ferocity of a fresh-born vampire. Newbloods often demonstrate uncontrolled bursts of power as the transformation preserves a measure of human blood, which in turn heightens their physical capabilities. But midway through the fight, you shifted. Your movements changed and your awareness expanded."
Michael's eyes unfocused slightly as the memory resurfaced, the sharpness of every sound, the way each footstep, each scrape of metal or shudder of air had formed an invisible map around him. As though the world had unfolded in perfect clarity.
"It was as though you perceived every intention before it occurred," Nathaniel said. "That, professor, is no ordinary instinct. That is psionic resonance a rare gift even among supernatural breeds."
"I did not think," Michael murmured, "I merely… reacted."
"As many unstable gifts manifest," Nathaniel agreed.
He paused, studying Michael in a thoughtful, almost clinical manner, though not unkind.
Then he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew an envelope. Crisp, heavy paper, sealed in dark wax. He extended it across the narrow space between them.
"I believe you should have this."
Michael hesitated before accepting it. "What is it?"
"An invitation," Nathaniel replied. "There is a gathering in the first-class saloon this evening. A formal one. Music, conversation, the usual performances of civility." He allowed himself a faint, thin smile. "A rather tedious affair under ordinary circumstances."
Michael turned the envelope. "Why give this to me?"
"Because," Nathaniel said, adjusting his spectacles, "there is someone present tonight whom I believe you ought to meet."
"Someone?" Michael echoed. "Who?"
Nathaniel shook his head lightly. "Forgive me, but I prefer not to prejudice your impression in advance. You may draw your own conclusions upon meeting them."
Michael's fingers tightened on the envelope. "You hardly know me, Professor. Why extend such assistance?"
Nathaniel took a quiet puff of his tobacco before answering.
"Because you are fascinating professor," he said with careful clarity, "whatever afflicts you, whatever you have become… it does not resemble anything catalogued by the world as it is. And I suspect you require answers every bit as urgently as I desire to understand the truth." He stood, brushing a stray bit of ash from his sleeve.
Michael slowly rose from his chair, careful not to make abrupt movements. He picked up the sealed blood bag Nathaniel had handed him earlier, tucking it discreetly inside his coat.
He held the envelope between two fingers. "Thank you for… the information," Michael said. "I should go. I still have work to finish."
Nathaniel straightened from his lounging posture, smoothing the front of his vest with a quick sweep of his hand. "Of course. One mustn't delay whatever it is a man of science is brooding over." His smile was sharp but congenial. "The gathering commences within at six in the evening. I recommend you attend, You'll find it… enlightening."
Michael gave a curt nod, clearly unwilling to linger.
He turned toward the door, hand already on the brass handle—
"Ah—wait, just a moment!" Nathaniel's voice cut in lightly, but firmly.
Michael paused.
Nathaniel stepped toward the table where Michael had been seated. With one hand, he picked up the very same book Michael had been reading earlier. He lifted it by the spine, brushing a fleck of dust from its corner.
"You might want to take this with you," Nathaniel said, offering it out. "You clearly have questions… and this will answer more of them than I could in a single conversation."
Michael looked at the book, then at Nathaniel, suspicion flickering behind his eyes. "…Why lend it to me?"
Nathaniel's smile remained courteous, but his tone shifted more academic. "Because misunderstood knowledge is dangerous. And because I'd prefer you operate with clarity rather than confusion."
He tilted his head, studying Michael with an unsettlingly perceptive gaze. "You may bring it back to me before we dock at New York. That should give you plenty of time to… absorb it."
Michael hesitated, then accepted the book by the spine carefully, cautiously, as if it might burn him.
"…Thank you," he said quietly.
"No need for gratitude," Nathaniel replied, stepping past him to open the door. "Call it academic courtesy."
The hallway outside was quiet, lit by warm lamps and the gentle rocking of the ship. Nathaniel stood by the doorway as Michael stepped out, the envelope and blood bag hidden beneath his coat, the heavy book under his arm.
"Do take care on your way," Nathaniel said, leaning casually against the frame.
Michael gave one last nod before walking down the corridor, his figure gradually swallowed by the golden light.
Nathaniel waited a few seconds, ensuring that he was truly gone, then stepped out of his cabin and gently pulled the door shut behind him. He slipped his pipe between his fingers and exhaled a thin plume of smoke into the cool hallway air.
Only then did he speak not loudly, but with enough dryness in his tone to carry.
"You know, Dr. Cullen… it is rather poor manners to spy on one's fellow passengers."
A faint rustle came from a dim alcove along the wall. No theatrics, no sudden lunging, simply the quiet shifting of a man who had been standing exceptionally still.
Carlisle Cullen stepped forward into the light of the corridor lamps.
His appearance was immaculate: a black evening coat tailored in a clean English cut, waistcoat of soft ivory, gloves crisp at the wrist. His golden hair was neatly parted, not a strand out of place. Under the warm glow, his skin held that uncanny pale luminescence, not sick, not ghostly, but refined, like a marble bust brought to life.
His eyes were unmistakable: liquid amber, calm yet intensely perceptive, the eyes of a man who had seen centuries.
Carlisle folded his hands before him, posture impeccable.
"I assure you, Mr. Faulkner," he said in a softened, polished voice, "I had no wish to intrude. I merely sought to keep watch. There are… dangers aboard this ship."
Nathaniel gave a knowing lift of his brow.
"Ah? Much like that rogue vampire skulking about in third class, I presume?"
Carlisle inclined his head with quiet gravity.
"Quite so. The very same."