Vs. poison

She seemed spellbound, though, as I described the attack that had infected Carlisle and killed his associates, carefully leaving out the details I'd rather she didn't dwell on. When the vampire, driven by thirst, had wheeled around and fallen on his pursuers, he'd only slashed Carlisle twice with his venom covered teeth: once across the palm of his outstretched hand, and once through his bicep. It had been a melee, the vampire struggling to quickly subdue four men before the rest of the mob got too close. After the fact, Carlisle had theorized that the vampire was hoping to drain them all, but he chose self-preservation over a more bounteous meal, grabbing the men he could carry and running, It was not self preservation of the mob, of course; those fifty men with their crude weapons were no more dangerous to him than a kaleidoscope of butterflies. However, the Volturi were less than a thousand miles away. Their laws had been established for a millennium by this point, and their demand that every immortal exercise discretion for the benefit of all was universally accepted. The story of a vampire sighting in London, attested to by fifty witnesses with drained corpses as proof, would not have gone over well in Volterra.
	The nature of Carlisle's wounds was unfortunate. The gash in his hand was far from any major vessels, the slash in his arm had missed both the brachial artery and basilic vein. This meant a much slower spread of the venom, and a longer transition period. As the conversion from mortal to immortal was the most painful thing any of us had ever experienced, an extended version was not idela, to say the last.