Nathaniel's cabin was modest by first-class standards, but it bore the unmistakable touch of a man who read more than he slept. Books lined the shelves in uneven stacks, an atlas lay open across a side table, and the air carried the faint mix of pipe smoke and ink.
Carlisle sat with perfect posture upon the sofa, his gloved hands resting lightly upon his knees. Even in casual repose he seemed carved from restraint and discipline as his every gesture measured, every breath unhurried.
Nathaniel approached from the small galley alcove, placing a porcelain cup upon the low table before Carlisle with a quiet clink. A second cup he kept for himself, lowering into his own chair opposite the sofa.
He took a slow sip, watching Carlisle over the rim of the cup, then set it back down.
"Well then," Nathaniel said, crossing one leg over the other in a relaxed de cuatro pose. "Ask whatever questions you are itching to unburden, Doctor."
Carlisle gave a faint, humorless smile, little more than a shift at the corner of his mouth. "Straight to business, are we?"
"I find it wastes far less breath," Nathaniel replied.
Carlisle inclined his head. "Very well. The incident in the lower decks... you know something of it, do you not?"
Nathaniel's brows lifted just slightly. "What of it?"
Carlisle folded his hands, thumb brushing the seam of his glove in a small, controlled gesture. "A steward reported a man fleeing the scene shortly before the disturbance was discovered. When he arrived, he found nothing but wreckage and a mother and child left unconscious." His amber eyes fixed on Nathaniel, steady and sharp. "I must ascertain what transpired."
Nathaniel exhaled softly, settling his cup onto the table with a muted tap. "I shall be blunt, Doctor Cullen, as you seem to appreciate candor. You are already aware of the creature responsible for attacking that woman and child." He gave a dry scoff. "Third-class harbors all manner of rogues, and one such blood-drinker grew indiscreet. His feeding, in turn, attracted the attention of another."
Carlisle's gaze narrowed ever so slightly. "Another…?"
"A newly turned," Nathaniel answered, tone calm, matter of fact. "Hunger is a most dreadful tutor and the scent of blood drew him as surely as flame draws a moth. A conflict ensued, as these things invariably do, and the aftermath is what your steward stumbled upon."
Carlisle leaned back, his expression tightening with quiet concern. "I see."
He paused, the lamplight catching a faint gold in his irises. "Tell me, Mr. Faulkner… was the gentleman who departed your cabin just now the newblood in question?"
Nathaniel's smile broadened with a glint of amusement. He shifted comfortably in his seat, adjusting the drape of his coat. "Come now, Doctor. You are a man of extraordinary senses. Surely you possess your own suspicions."
Carlisle released a low sigh, rubbing a thoughtful hand along his jaw. "If he is, I should know his name. Newly turned vampires are… volatile. I already face enough complications aboard this ship."
Nathaniel clicked his tongue lightly. "A difficulty of your own making, I believe. You insist on masquerading as guardian to those nobles above. Naturally, every stray calamity lands in your lap."
Carlisle did not rise to the bait. "Nevertheless," he said evenly, "the responsibility remains mine."
Nathaniel waved a hand, dismissive but not unkind. "You shall learn his name soon enough, Doctor. Tonight, as it happens, at the gathering in the saloon."
"The gathering?" Carlisle echoed.
"Yes, yes," Nathaniel said with a faintly mischievous arch of his brow. "A tedious affair, certainly, but occasionally useful. I intend to introduce you both. I believe you will find him… quite extraordinary."
Carlisle regarded him for a moment long, silent, contemplative. "Extraordinary can mean many things, Mr. Faulkner."
Nathaniel's smile deepened. "Indeed it can, Doctor. And in his case, it means precisely what it sounds like."
_______
Michael sat upon the edge of his narrow cabin bed, the dim lantern-light throwing long, wavering shadows across the walls. In his hand, the blood bag lay cool and unsettling, its presence forcing him to revisit every strange, impossible occurrence of the day. His mind felt clouded yet painfully alert.
He exhaled, steadying himself, then reached for his phonograph recorder. He pressed the brass switch, waited for the soft clicking to begin, and spoke with the calm precision of a physician attempting to catalogue his own unraveling.
"As a result of my procedure," he said slowly, "I find myself afflicted with an overpowering urge to consume… blood. Human blood."
He paused to swallow the faint dryness in his throat.
"In certain respects, I have succeeded far beyond anything I could have foreseen. For the first time in my life, I feel… well. Better than well. Yesterday, I struggled to walk long distances. Today, I am uncertain of the full extent of my capabilities."
His gaze drifted to his hand as he clenched it, watching the tendons coil with strength he knew had never existed in him before.
"For a time after ingestion, my strength becomes extraordinary. My stamina rivals that of an Olympian. My reflexes, my very movements display a speed and precision I can only classify as superhuman. And all of this is the result of a serum. I appear to have become something altogether different."
He set the recorder aside for a moment, rising from the bed to retrieve a fresh shirt and trousers from the small cabinet. As he changed, he resumed speaking, the device capturing every word.
"Today my eyes were opened to matters I long believed to be fictions and folktales. Creatures hidden beneath the ordinary façade of the world. I have seen enough to know that answers exist, answers that must be sought out."
He buttoned his shirt carefully, though his hands moved with an unfamiliar quickness.
"Based on my symptoms, and on the text Dr. Faulkner provided, I can conclude only that I am some manner of vampire… though an unusual one. Thus, I must begin testing. I must determine the limits of this condition. Am I vulnerable to sunlight? To silver? To the traditional repellents noted in folklore? Garlic, for instance? I cannot rely on assumption."
He clicked the recorder off, its final mechanical whir sounding almost like a sigh. Taking the leather-bound Book of Outcasts under one arm and the blood bag in the other, Michael stepped out of his cabin. The hallway outside was quiet, thrumming faintly with the distant heartbeat of the great ship. He breathed in the cool air, gathered his resolve, and began making his way toward the upper deck.
____
Michael stood before the metal door leading to the open deck, his hand resting upon the handle. Through the small window, sunlight lay across the boards like a bright, impassable barrier. For several long minutes, he remained motionless, listening to his own pulse, astonishingly alive that hammer faintly in his ears.
At last he drew a steadying breath. He lifted his arm, slowly, as though performing some delicate experiment, and extended his fingertips toward the strip of sunlight cutting across the threshold.
The instant they touched the light, he froze.
It felt… warm. Ordinary. No burning of the flesh, no smoke, no searing agony of myth and legend. His skin did not blister nor darken. It simply felt like sunlight.
Huu~
He released a breath he had not realized he was holding, and with newfound resolve pushed the door open and stepped out fully onto the deck. The morning sun flooded over him, bathing his face, his clothes, his hair yet nothing in him stirred with discomfort. Not even a twitch.
A small, relieved smile touched his lips.
"So I do not burn." he murmured under his breath.
He turned his hand palm-up, watching the sunlight gleam against his skin. There was no unnatural shimmer, no crystalline brilliance like the Eclipsed described in Faulkner's notes, no gemstone glint beneath the sun.
"I do not even reflect like crystal," he added quietly, his voice a mix of confusion and faint relief. "Not like them."
The steerage deck was lively and chaotic, a world entirely unlike the polished marble and hushed manners of the upper levels. Mothers cradled infants while gossiping in half a dozen accents. Children dashed between the long benches, weaving through passengers with reckless delight. Men clustered around small tables or crates, arguing over chess moves. Elderly women wagged their fingers and raised their voices at the younger ones. Teenage girls sat sewing or reading dime novels, trying their best to appear unaffected by the surrounding noise.
Three young boys tore after a sizable rat skittering beneath the benches, brandishing a shoe as a makeshift weapon, shouting gleefully in pursuit while adults scolded them in various languages.
A lively, crowded scene—messy, human, and oddly comforting.
Michael found a vacant bench near the railing and settled in, placing Faulkner's book upon his lap. The leather cover felt reassuring in his hands. As he opened it, intending to continue where he had left off, the sunlight warmed his shoulders pleasantly.
But before he could read more than a line, a soft shadow fell across the page.
He looked up.
Standing before him was a young woman in an elegant gown improper to the deck on which she stood a striking face framed by auburn hair pinned neatly beneath a hat. Her expression held a polite smile tinged with hesitation, though her eyes were clear and intelligent.
"Pardon the intrusion," she said gently. "Might I have a word with you, Mister…?"
She trailed the question delicately, waiting for his name.
Michael blinked, surprised, recognizing her from incident the previous evening—the young woman who almost jump off the ship .
Rose DeWitt Bukater.
Michael's lips curled into a faint, knowing smirk.
"A night just past, and you don't even know my name, Miss Bukater," he said, tilting his head with measured amusement.