Chapter 3: The Hunt
Discipline, Elias knew, was a muscle. It had to be trained, stressed, and pushed to the point of failure before it could truly grow. He had applied this principle to every aspect of his human life, from his brutal workout regimens to his seventeen-hour workdays. Now, in this new, predatory existence, the principle remained the same; only the stakes were infinitely higher. The cost of failure was no longer a dip in stock value or a lost deal, but a complete surrender to the monster he had become in that blood-soaked moment with the hiker.
The fire in his throat, sharpened by his experimentation with telekinesis, was now a roaring furnace. It was a singular, all-consuming demand that screamed for the rich, intoxicating taste his body now knew was the ultimate prize: human blood. The memory of it was a phantom on his tongue, a perfect, exquisite symphony that made the thought of any other sustenance feel like an insult.
This, he recognized with the cold clarity of a strategist, was the first real test of his new vow. It would be easy to find a logging road, to wait for an isolated vehicle, to let the beast take over and find that sublime, ecstatic release once more. It would be a short-term solution to a long-term problem, a high-interest loan from his own monstrous nature that he would eventually have to repay with his soul.
No. That was the path of impulsive, undisciplined animals. He was something else. He would be something more.
He drew upon his encyclopedic knowledge of the Twilight lore. The Cullens. They were the benchmark, the gold standard for self-control in this world. They had found a way to exist, to maintain a semblance of civilization, by subsisting on animal blood. They called themselves 'vegetarians,' a term Elias found both absurd and grimly fitting. It was a choice, an act of continuous, grueling discipline. If they could do it, with all their emotional entanglements and attachments, then so could he. He would not be outdone in discipline by a family of supernatural do-gooders.
The decision was made. He would hunt. But he would not hunt man.
His senses, finely tuned and hungry, cast a net out into the sprawling forest. He ignored the faint, distant thrum of human heartbeats from the direction of Forks, consciously pushing them to the background of his awareness, treating them as corrupted data. He focused instead on the wilder sounds, the more primal scents. The forest was teeming with life, a smorgasbord of potential targets. He sifted through the sensory input, analyzing, categorizing. A cougar, its own powerful heartbeat a steady, confident rhythm, stalked the high ridges. Too dangerous for a first attempt, a predator hunting a predator could lead to unforeseen complications. A bear, snuffling through a berry patch, its scent thick and musky. Too large, potentially too much of a struggle.
Then he found it. The perfect target. A white-tailed deer, its scent clean and sharp, its heartbeat a quick, nervous patter. It was grazing in a small, moonlit meadow a mile to the north. It was prey. It was manageable. It would be his first lesson.
Elias moved, not with the frantic, instinct-driven blur of his first kill, but with a more measured speed. He was still impossibly fast, the world a flowing tapestry of green and grey, but his mind was clear, focused on the objective. This was not a surrender to hunger; it was a tactical exercise.
He reached the edge of the meadow in seconds, melting into the deep shadows of the ancient cedars that lined it. The deer was there, just as his senses had promised. A doe, her head bent to the wet grass, her large, dark eyes soft and placid. In the pale moonlight, she was a portrait of serene innocence. For a fleeting moment, a ghost of human sentiment admired her beauty. Then, the banker took over. She was the asset to be acquired.
His first instinct was to simply charge. He had the speed and strength to overwhelm her before she could even register his presence. But that was the newborn's way—brute force over strategy. It was clumsy. Inefficient. He had to be better.
He began to circle the meadow, staying within the tree line, his movements utterly silent. The doe's head shot up, her ears swiveling like radar dishes. She had sensed something, a subtle shift in the night's rhythm. She hadn't seen or heard him, but her primal instincts were screaming that a predator was near. She took a hesitant step back towards the far side of the clearing.
Elias froze, a perfect statue of marble and shadow. He cursed his own impatience. He had the tools for this. He didn't need to rely on simple physical prowess.
He extended his will, reaching for his newfound telekinetic power. He focused on a dead branch high in a tree just behind the doe. He applied a gentle, precise mental pressure. The branch snapped with a loud crack and fell to the ground.
The doe, startled by the sound, bolted—directly towards him.
It was a classic flushing maneuver, and it had worked perfectly. As she galloped across the damp grass, her powerful legs eating up the ground, Elias burst from the shadows to intercept her.
The next few moments were a chaotic explosion of clumsy, overwhelming force. He had underestimated the deer's speed and agility. She saw him, a pale phantom erupting from the darkness, and veered with a breathtaking quickness he hadn't anticipated. He was forced to change direction mid-stride, his feet tearing up great chunks of turf. He was faster in a straight line, but she was more nimble, a creature born to the evasive dance of survival.
She dodged him once, twice, her panicked bleats echoing in the night. Frustration, the familiar catalyst for his power, began to build. This was taking too long. It was an embarrassment. He was a demigod being outmaneuvered by livestock.
He gave up on finesse. As the doe darted past him one more time, he lunged, a full-body tackle that would have stopped a charging rhinoceros. He collided with the animal's flank, and the impact was brutal. There was a sickening crunch of bone as his marble-hard body met her fragile frame. They went down in a tangle of limbs, the doe shrieking in pain and terror.
Even with a broken leg, she fought, kicking with her remaining strength, her wild eyes rolling in terror. Elias held her down easily, his strength ridiculously superior, but the struggle was messy, ignoble. This was not the clean, surgical precision he aspired to. It was a brawl.
He leaned down, the fire in his throat now a raging inferno as the hot, pungent scent of the animal's blood filled his senses. He sank his teeth into her neck.
The first rush was one of relief. Hot, vital liquid flooded his mouth, dousing the worst of the fire. It was life, and his body craved it desperately. The doe's struggles ceased as her life drained away, her frantic heartbeat slowing to a final, fading pulse. Elias drank deeply, his body screaming for more, for any respite from the gnawing agony of the thirst.
But as the initial, desperate relief faded, it was replaced by a new sensation: disappointment.
The blood was hot and strong, but it was… flat. It had a gamy, wild tang, an earthy flavor that felt coarse and unrefined on his palate. It was like drinking raw, unfiltered water after a lifetime of the finest bottled spring water. The ecstasy he had experienced with the hiker—that transcendent, all-consuming bliss—was completely absent. This was sustenance, nothing more. It was fuel. It quieted the engine of his thirst but left his palate, his very soul, profoundly unsatisfied.
He released the doe and stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The fire in his throat had been reduced to a smoldering bed of coals, a dull, persistent ache rather than a sharp agony. The craving was muted, but it was still there, a hollow space that the deer's life-force could not fill.
He looked down at the lifeless animal. Another kill. This one had been a conscious choice, an act of will rather than a loss of control. Yet he felt no pride in it. The hunt had been clumsy, the kill messy, and the reward unsatisfying.
He sat on a fallen log at the edge of the meadow, the silence of the forest settling around him once more. Now came the most important part of any operation: the post-action analysis.
Assessment, his mind began, falling into its familiar, comfortable rhythm. Objective: Sate thirst without loss of control or human casualty. Result: Objective technically met. Performance: Sub-optimal.
He broke it down further. His physical advantages were immense, but he lacked skill. He had relied on brute strength when precision was required. His use of telekinesis was a step in the right direction—using his unique assets to create a tactical advantage—but it had been crude. He had caused a distraction, but he could have done more. He could have used his power to subtly trip the animal, to block its path with an invisible wall of force, to simply lift it from the ground. The possibilities were vast, and he had resorted to the equivalent of throwing a rock.
Then there was the larger strategic implication: the blood itself.
Human blood is a premium asset, he concluded, the thought cold and pragmatic. Animal blood is a low-yield, stop-gap measure. It could sustain him, but it would never truly satisfy him. The books had mentioned this, that it was a difficult path, but to experience the profound difference firsthand was sobering. Every day, every moment of his new existence would be a battle against the craving for a superior product. His choice to be a 'vegetarian' was not a one-time decision, but a constant, ongoing act of self-denial.
This realization didn't discourage him. It clarified the stakes. It made the exercise more meaningful. He wasn't just controlling his hunger; he was mastering an eternal, deep-seated craving for something he had to refuse himself. It was the ultimate test of discipline. His ruthless streak, the part of him that had once driven him to crush competitors without a second thought, was now being turned inward, a tool to temper and forge his own will. He would conquer himself with the same cold determination he had once used to conquer markets.
He looked up at the starless, overcast sky. He couldn't wander these woods forever, hunting deer like a common predator. That was survival, not living. His Wall Street instincts, the drive to build, to acquire, to establish a position of power, were stirring. He needed a base of operations. He needed resources. He needed to re-engage with the world, albeit from the shadows.
His mind turned again to the Cullens. They had integrated themselves. They had a home, wealth, a structure. They had mastered this existence. They were also the central players in the coming drama. Approaching them was a high-risk, high-reward proposition. They could be powerful allies, mentors even. Carlisle, with his centuries of experience, could offer insights that Elias could only guess at. Alice, with her precognitive gift, was an asset of incalculable value.
But they were also a risk. Edward's mind-reading was a terrifyingly invasive liability. What would he see in Elias's mind? A ruthless ex-banker, the fresh memory of a human kill, and a cold, calculating ambition that would surely alarm the compassionate Carlisle. He also had knowledge of their future, a secret that would make him an object of intense suspicion. And there was the question of his own unique powers—the telekinesis and the magic. Revealing them would make him an unknown quantity, a potential threat.
No, a direct approach was premature. He needed more data. He needed to observe.
His next move became clear. He would relocate. He would move closer to the town of Forks, the epicenter of the entire saga. He would find a secluded location, a place to establish a foothold, and he would begin surveillance. He would learn the Cullens' routines, their patterns, their vulnerabilities. He would gather intelligence before ever making contact. He would treat it like a corporate espionage mission.
The thought of being near the center of the story, of seeing these characters from his escapist reading in the flesh, sparked a flicker of something he hadn't felt in a long time: a cautious, fan-like excitement. It was a completely irrational emotion, one his banker-self would have immediately suppressed, but his new reality was nothing if not irrational.
He stood up, his body feeling stronger, the worst of the thirst's edge blunted. The hunt had been a failure in execution, but a success in education. It had taught him the limits of his power, the nature of his new hunger, and the path he needed to take. His ruthlessness was not gone; it was simply being refined, sharpened into a scalpel of disciplined strategy. He would not be a slave to his thirst. He would manage it, control it, and use the clarity it gave him to build a new life, a new empire, in the shadows of this strange, new world. The game was afoot, and he was finally ready to make his first real move.