Author:  Ayiana

Rating:  R

Category:  Drama

Word Count:  124,000 (approximately 340 pages in MSWord)

Disclaimer:  Dancing in the Shadows is a re-imagining of the third season through the episode Invictus. It’s a hybrid, a cross between a novelization and an alternate universe reconstruction. As such, and because I wanted to stay as true to the original as possible, I borrowed many events, dialogue snippets, and even entire scenes from the source material and included them here, reworked to support the premise that Catherine survived her ordeal with Gabriel. These borrowed pieces are not my work, and credit for them belongs, in its entirety, to Ron Koslow and his writing staff.

Spoilers:  This is a third season rewrite. As such, expect spoilers for the entire series.

Author's Note 1:  We know that the events of The Watcher took place during the week of April 12, but after that, things get murky. Taking advantage of that ambiguity (Trial and The Hollow Men must each have covered a time period of at least several weeks, since both involved legal proceedings), I've set the events in The Rest is Silence in mid September, and baby Jacob's birth in early April. There are places where this appears to conflict with canon, but I believe those conflicts are minor.

Author's Note 2:  This story wouldn't have come out nearly as well without the help of my incredible beta readers. My deepest thanks go out to Rachel and Sylvia, who gave generously of their time and talent and helped to make this a much better story than it would've been without their input. My thanks, also, to my family, who suffered through countless late and burned dinners without a word of complaint.

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Part 1                              Part 2                              Part 3

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Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
~~ W. B. Yeats~~

Prologue


Some scientists believe that hurricanes can start with something as insignificant as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, but the hurricane that changed Catherine and Vincent's lives started with a little black book.

It was the little black book that first brought Catherine to Gabriel’s attention. And, as is true for hurricanes, what happened next was all about the timing. If Gabriel hadn’t learned of her pregnancy, if he hadn’t locked her in a room with exposed plumbing, if Vincent hadn’t tried to rescue her, if the video cameras hadn’t been working . . .

The series of coincidences combined with Gabriel’s immense power to create the makings of a tragedy.

What Gabriel wanted, Gabriel got.

And Gabriel wanted Catherine’s child.

Catherine became an investment—and investments were to be protected at all costs. To that end, he locked her in a barren room, a room without pictures on the walls, without books, without music—without warmth. There was only a narrow bed, a small nightstand, and a grim private-duty nurse who was more security guard than caretaker.

For six months, Catherine’s only companion was the infant that grew in her womb, the infant who was her sole remaining connection to Vincent. Their baby—living testament to the depth of their love and to Vincent’s humanity—deserved to know who his parents were.

And so she talked to him.

She told him about the extraordinary man who was his father. She told him about poetry and music and long walks in the moonlight. She told him about hopes and dreams, about nobility and honor, and about what it meant to love somebody. And during the long dark nights, when her baby’s movements pulled her from her dreams, she would lay her hands on her growing stomach and soak the pillow with her tears.

It wasn’t long before she realized that they would kill her after her baby came, and that her only purpose here was as a sort of living incubator, a vessel from which her captor’s ultimate dream was to be realized. She knew it, and she prepared for it, and yet somehow, when the moment arrived, she wasn’t ready.

Even as her newborn son was taken from her . . .

Even as the doctor filled a syringe with morphine . . .

Even at the very end . . .

She prayed for a miracle.


*******************

Chapter 1

********************


At first Catherine thought she was back in the tunnels. But she had no memory of coming here, no awareness of how she had arrived. And if she was in the tunnels, where was Vincent? Where were the ringing of the pipes, the smell of torchlight and candles?

She sensed that she was standing, but she had no awareness of her body. There was no pressure of the floor against her feet, no touch of air sliding across her skin. There was only a vast, dim, nothingness.

She was alone.

She turned, and silver mist swirled around her legs.

"Vincent?" No response. Not even the echo of her own voice. "Vincent, where are you?"

Somewhere nearby, she sensed a presence, a slight ripple in the fog.

"He can't follow you here, Cathy." It was a familiar voice, full of warmth and affection. "Not this time. You've come too far."

"Daddy?"

The mist shifted, parting to reveal him standing a few feet away. "Hello, Cathy."

She wanted to run to him, to fling herself into his arms. But something held her back.

"I can't move . . ." The fact didn't bother her as much as it should have.

He nodded. "I know."

"But why?"

"Because you haven't decided yet."

"Decided what?"

With a wave of his arm, he indicated the vast emptiness. "Do you know where you are?"

She looked around her, and then up at a sky devoid of stars, devoid of clouds, devoid even of the moon. Then she took a deep breath and inhaled nothingness that melted in her mouth like strands of spun sugar. "Am I dreaming?"

"No." He shook his head. "Not a dream."

Uneasy, and a little frightened, she smoothed her hand along the gauzy fabric of her dress, a dress she didn't remember owning. "Tell me."

"You're caught between two paths of existence." His voice had a faint echo, as though he was standing right in front of her, and at the same time, very far away.

Paths of existence? The absence of sensation was distracting her, making it hard to concentrate on what he was saying. "I don't understand."

"You're dying, sweetheart." He paused for a moment, watching her while the words sank in. "But Vincent is with you. His love is holding you back, giving you time to think. To choose."

She blinked. "But I feel fine. Only somehow I'm standing here talking to you, and I know that isn't possible because—"

"I'm dead, I know." He smiled, a little sadly. "It's only your consciousness that's here with me, Cathy. Your . . . soul, though I've never really thought that an adequate word."

"So, this is Heaven?" Somehow this vast emptiness wasn't what she would have expected.

"Not exactly." He watched her with the fatherly worry she recognized from her childhood. "Do you remember," he said finally, "when you almost drowned?"

The memory came to her with a cold shiver. "Yes." She remembered strong arms and the comforting thud of a frantically beating heart. "Vincent saved me."

Her father nodded. "He's a good man."

"Yes." Just then, she felt an odd pulling sensation—like a reminder of something she was supposed to do. But she couldn't tell where it came from. "He took such risks, made such great sacrifices, for me."

"More than once, from what I understand." Her father took a deep breath. "Cathy, what do you want?"

The question confused her. He’d said it so seriously, as though the fate of the universe depended upon her answer. "What do you mean?"

He waved a hand. "The ones who come here—they're confused. Torn. They can’t decide which way to go." His eyes were sad, as though he grieved for those lost souls. "Sometimes they stay here for eternity, caught between somewhere and everywhere." He looked around at the mist, at the nothingness. "I want so much more than that for you."

"But I'm not confused."

"Aren't you?" His eyes were gentle as he watched her. "There's a part of you, Cathy, that wants to let go, to leave the pain and the sadness of your physical being behind. A part that's tired and wants to rest. But something is holding you back."

"Vincent." There was that tug again. Like the flutter of butterfly wings in her hair.

He nodded. "Partly."

She considered his words while he waited for her in patient silence.

"My son," she said at last. She met his eyes. "Daddy, I have a son." The word felt strange in her mouth. She rolled it over her tongue again, testing its shape. "My son."

"Yes." He looked proud. "And a handsome boy he is, too."

"You've seen him?" It seemed impossible. And yet so much of what she'd once thought impossible wasn't, really.

"Of course."

"Do you know where he is? Can I see him?"

He nodded. "But not here. Not now. First, you have to choose."

"There is no choice, Dad. He's my son. I would do anything for him."

"Listen to me, Cathy. You need to understand what I'm about to say, because once you decide, once you choose, there's no changing your mind. They don’t give refunds here. The next time, if there is a next time, you may not have a choice."

"I'm listening." She bit back her impatience. Why wouldn't he hurry? Why wouldn't he take her to her son?

"There are only two ways out of this place we're in. This . . . Between. Back the way you came, or forward. If you choose to go forward, to join your mother and me, you'll be able to watch over your son, to see him grow up and become a man. And you can watch over Vincent as well. And Joe Maxwell, and Jenny Aronson, and Nancy, and all the other people you care about."

"Even the people Below?" Catherine asked.

"If you like."

He looked troubled. There was something here she wasn't seeing. Something she didn’t understand.

"There's something else, isn't there," she said.

"It's all you can do, sweetheart. If you come with me, you can only watch."

A chill shivered up Catherine's spine. "Look, but don't touch?"

"Something like that, yes."

"And if I go back?"

"It won't be easy, Cathy. Even now it's almost too late. With each passing moment, the choice is slipping away from you." He took a step toward her, opening his arms. Then he stopped. Tilted his head. Listened to something Catherine couldn’t hear. Slowly, he dropped his arms back to his side, a look of impossible sadness in his eyes.

"Cathy, I made my choice. I was old. And tired. And I had done the things I needed to do in that world. But you still have a future. And it's a future full of possibilities." He hesitated, and when he went on, it was to give her a warning. "But if you do go back, you need to understand that you may not survive the journey. And you may never see your son again."

"But wouldn't I just end up here again?"

He shook his head. "No. If you try to go back, and your physical body dies before you get there, you'll spend eternity on a path that leads nowhere."

It was a frightening thought.

"But Vincent is there." And there was that tug again. The pull was becoming almost familiar.

"Yes."

She met her father's eyes. "And I would find my son," she said. "I would find him even if it was the last thing I ever did."

He watched her, troubled. "Maybe."

In the end, it wasn't a difficult choice. She'd thought maybe it would be, that maybe staying here—where it was safe and warm and comfortable, where evil couldn't reach her, and where she could at least see her son even if she couldn't hold him—might sway her decision.

But Vincent was there. Vincent. Who loved her. Who gave her . . . everything. Who showed her what it was, what it truly was, to be beautiful.

She looked into her father's eyes and knew he understood. "I love you," she said. "And tell Mom—" Her chest ached with the pain of saying goodbye again. "Tell Mom I love her, too."

But he was fading into the mists already—or she was, she wasn't really sure. Slowly, she slipped into darkness, a darkness so deep that even Vincent couldn't reach her.


********************


Vincent carried her home.

Later, he'd have little memory of that trail of tears. Only fragments. Vague images and sensations. The weight of her in his arms, the sheen of lamplight on her hair, the muffled night sounds of the city that never slept.

He laid her on her bed, the soft mattress accepting her slight body. Welcoming her. Holding her. Her hair spread out across the pillow. She looked like she was asleep, and for a heartbeat, he almost believed that she was.

"Out, out, brief candle," he murmured, kneeling down beside her and taking her hand in his. His face was wet with tears. He had no sense of the passage of time, no concept of minutes spilling over into hours until at last some part of him, some deep, instinctive sense of self-preservation, drew his attention to the encroaching dawn.

He couldn't stay here, but his heart cried out against leaving her.

Somehow he summoned the strength to stand, to move away . . . but he had to turn back. Slowly, he bent and placed a tender kiss upon her lips. How sad it was that this simple intimacy, denied to her in life, was the only thing he had left to give to her in death.

"While I live, you live. With me. In me." His voice cracked. "Always."

He forced himself to walk away, only to stop at the open balcony doors and turn back for one last look at her beloved face, one last thought of the dream that had been, the dream that could have been.

"Always . . ."


********************

Chapter 2

********************


Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .

High-pitched and insistent, the sound pulled at her, lifting her up and out of a deep, dreamless sleep. In a distant part of her mind, she recognized the sharp smell of antiseptic, the warm, bland odors of institutional food, and something else, something unpleasant but as yet unidentifiable. She tried to swallow. Her mouth and throat felt dry and scratchy, as though desert sands and scorpions had taken up residence while she'd slept.

Beep . . . beep . . .

It was beginning to annoy her, and she thought she should reach over and hit the snooze button, but she hadn’t the strength. Why? Why was she so weak? And where was she?

Did she even want to know?

Fear washed over her, but she fought it down. She mustn’t panic, mustn't draw attention to herself. Wherever she was, whatever was going on, her best hope lay in gathering her resources, in learning as much as she could before anybody realized she was awake. So she lay quietly, and listened. And breathed. And learned.

She was in a hospital. She recognized the sounds—the steady beep of a heart monitor, the hushed professional voices, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes. But which hospital? And how had she gotten here? The last thing she remembered was the rooftop . . .

And then the memories flooded back. Pain. Loss. An all too brief glimpse of Vincent's face as he caught her in his arms. And death shall have no dominion.

Oh, God. Her baby.

She had to find him, had to protect him, had to . . . She struggled, forcing her arms to obey her commands, commanding her eyes to open. She had to go, had to . . .

"Hey, now. Easy." Joe’s voice. Joe’s hands pushing her gently back down into the pillows. "Welcome back, Radcliffe."

"Joe." Sound snagged on the dry places in her throat as the room around her swam into focus. Joe leaned over her, his hands on her shoulders, the smile on his face belied by the worry in his eyes.

"In the flesh."

"Where—?"

"Metropolitan Hospital." He straightened her covers, pulling them back up to her shoulders. "It was touch and go there for a while. Doc wasn't sure you’d make it." He turned to pour her a glass of water. "I guess somebody up there thinks you still have a few bad guys to chase."

"How long?"

"Long enough." He held up a plastic cup. "Thirsty?"

She nodded, sipping gratefully when he brought the straw to her lips. Cool water washed away the sand and the scorpions. "Joe—"

"Let's see. Today's Saturday." He glanced at his watch. "And it's just past seven. Cleaning lady found you Thursday morning, so that's . . . something like fifty-eight hours. Geez, Radcliffe. That's some nap."

He was trying to make her smile, but all she could think about was Vincent. "Found me where?"

"Your place."

"Home?"

"Yup. Looks like somebody brought you there." He tilted his head and raised a curious eyebrow. "How do you suppose they did that?"

"What?"

"Nobody saw you come in. Seventeen floors, Radcliffe. And nobody saw a thing. Wouldn’t you say that’s a little odd?"

She blinked slowly, but her thoughts were clearing now, and her mind raced with questions. How had she gotten home? Had Vincent carried her all that way? And why home? Why not here or Below?

When she didn’t answer, Joe shook his head, worry in his eyes. "Somebody wanted you dead, Cathy. They wanted it real bad. Doc tells me you had a lethal dose of morphine in your system when they brought you in. Hell, they're still trying to figure out why you're alive."

They wouldn't believe her if she told them, she thought. "Joe, I’m sorry. I don’t . . . I can’t remember."

The door opened then, and a doctor swept in. He had dark hair behind a receding hairline, and an old stethoscope that dangled from the collar of a wrinkled lab coat. Beneath the coat, he wore a dark turtleneck and khaki pants. "Ah," he said with a bright smile. "You're awake."

Joe turned. "Only just," he said.

"Right then. Let’s have a look, shall we?" He wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Cathy's arm and pumped it up, holding her wrist gently with one hand and eyeing his watch. Then, nodding, apparently satisfied, he jotted some notes in her chart and flipped it closed. "You gave us quite a scare, young lady."

"So I’ve heard," she said, her eyes still on Joe. "Do you know . . . have they found the people who—"

Joe shook his head. "We were kind of hoping you could help with that."

An image drifted through her mind. John Moreno. He’d been there when they’d taken her. The elevator doors had opened, and he'd looked at her with such cold eyes. Then he’d turned his back, and walked away. He hadn't said a word. John Moreno, a man she'd respected, had turned her over to the people who'd stolen her child and tried to kill her. Why? And what would he do when he found out she was alive?

"Joe, who knows I’m here?"

He gave her an odd look. "The cleaning service, the hospital staff, me—"

She interrupted. Impatient. Afraid. "Does Moreno know?"

"Of course he does. He sends his best wishes by the way."

Fear coursed through her as the words tumbled over and over in her mind. Moreno knows. Moreno knows. MorenoMorenoMoreno . . . She’d been here for three days already. Three days during which he could easily have arranged her death. What was he waiting for? And how much longer did she have before somebody came along to finish the job?

"I have to get out of here." She swung her legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the thin hospital gown that was her only protection against the cool hospital air. But the sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness through her and she paused, gasping, fighting down nausea.

"Now wait just a minute." In an instant, the doctor's hands were on her shoulders, and he eased her back down against the pillows. "You aren’t going anywhere." Slipping an arm behind her knees, he swung her legs back up onto the bed. "It’ll be at least another couple of days before you’re anywhere near ready to get out of this bed."

No. Not days. If Moreno knew she was still alive, she might not even have a couple of hours.

"Joe, I have to get out of here. You have to help me get out of here."

There was an edge of panic in her voice, and Joe glanced uneasily at the doctor.

"Take it easy, Radcliffe." His voice was calm, but his eyes were worried. "You’re safe here. I got a couple of guards posted at the door. Nobody’s going to hurt you."

Desperation pulsed in her blood and made her voice hoarse. "Joe, you don’t understand."

The doctor looked from her to Joe and back again. "Mr. Maxwell, would you mind giving us a minute alone?"

Joe nodded. "Sure thing." He touched her shoulder in a move that was probably meant to be reassuring but which only served to heighten her unease. "I’ll be right outside the door if you need me."

She tried to swallow her fear, tried to look grateful even as she searched for a means of escape. "Thanks, Joe."

He stepped outside, and the doctor waited for the door to close before turning back to her. "So what did you do with the baby?" he asked, and the bluntness of the question made her gasp.

"My baby?"

"You're in a hospital, Miss Chandler. We're pretty good at figuring these things out." His gaze was sympathetic. He closed her chart and set it aside. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, eying her earnestly. "I haven’t said anything to your friend out there, but I need to know what happened. If there’s a child at risk—"

"But I don’t . . . know what happened."

He shook his head. "You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?"

"No, I mean . . . I had a baby." Vincent’s baby. The miracle of it made her breath hitch in her throat. But now there was an empty place in her soul where her child had been. She looked away from the doctor’s probing gaze. "I don’t know where he is now."

"Miss Chandler, I know this isn't easy." His pager went off, and with an irritated grimace he pulled it off his belt, glanced at it, and then dropped it in his pocket. "Look. I can understand that you might not want your friends and coworkers knowing what happened to you while you were . . . away. But abandoning a baby, even under such dreadful circumstances—"

Anger stiffened her spine at the implication. "I would never abandon my baby."

He watched her, his gaze speculative. "You don't seem like the type of woman to throw a baby in a dumpster." He shook his head. "No, I'm thinking you left it somewhere. Somewhere you thought it would be safe. So I'm going to take a risk and give you a few hours to think about this before I tell the police." He glanced at his watch. It had a plain leather band and a dark face. Analog, she noticed. Not digital. "I’ll be back in the morning. Maybe you’ll remember what happened by then."

He crossed to the door, pausing to look back at her with his hand on the knob. "Please try very hard to remember, Miss Chandler, because I'm afraid things could get difficult for you if you don't."

But all she could think about was getting out of there. Getting Below. Getting to Vincent.

Joe came back in. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"Fine, Joe. But I’m a little tired. I think I’d like to sleep now."

"Oh. Of course." He hooked his thumb toward the door. "I'll just head back to the office. I've got some work to catch up on, anyway."

She smiled at him. "Thanks, Joe."

"No problem."

He left, and she dropped her head back against the pillows. She was tired. So tired. And she ached. But she didn’t mind the lingering proof of the child she’d so recently carried. She made a silent promise to him, wherever he was, that she would find him. No matter what it took, no matter the risk or the danger, she would find him. She rested her hand on her stomach, remembering the butterfly feel of her child’s first movements inside her womb.


*********************


It was raining, a cold, relentless rain that made John Moreno pull up his collar and duck his head as he hurried toward the phone booth. It seemed fitting, somehow, that the news he had to deliver should be accompanied by such grim weather. He fumbled in his pocket for a quarter. It took two tries to get it into the slot, and once he almost changed his mind entirely. He punched in the digits from memory, then turned and stared out at the rain while he waited.

The phone was answered on the first ring, but there was only silence on the other end.

He swallowed hard. "Hello? It’s John. John Moreno."

"You were instructed never to call here."

He hated that the voice on the other end of the line could make him feel like he was five years old, hated that he’d walked into this mess with his eyes wide open. "I thought you might want to hear this."

"So talk."

"Catherine Chandler is alive."

There was a long silence. "Where?"

"Metropolitan Hospital." He knew he should’ve stopped there, but his mouth kept going. "They found her in her apartment. Two days ago."

"Then why didn’t you call two days ago?" The voice was dangerously devoid of emotion.

"They didn’t think she would make it. I thought I should wait until I knew for sure."

Another long silence.

"Room number?"

He gave the information, and the line went dead. He was left standing in the darkness with the rain beating down on the glass walls around him while he wondered when exactly he’d given his soul to the devil.


********************


Despite her best intentions, Catherine dozed. When she awoke, the lights had been dimmed and it was dark outside her window. She couldn't see a clock, but she sensed that it was very late. She eased her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, holding on for a moment to get her balance. Her head felt heavy, as if it were filled with thick mud that muffled her thoughts.

The hospital gown was thin, and open at the back, so she pulled a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. She moved to the door and eased it open. Two uniformed police officers bracketed the door. One, big and bulky, nearly overwhelmed the folding metal chair he sat in. The other was skinny, with a shock of unruly dark hair.

They looked up when her door opened. "Miss Chandler. Is everything okay?"

"Fine," she said. "I just wanted to stretch my legs."

The men exchanged a glance. "We’re supposed to keep an eye on you."

Cathy drew herself up, asserting as much authority as she could in the flimsy gown. "Surely a short walk around the floor isn’t a problem. It isn’t as if I’m going to run away." She indicated the gown, drawing on what the cops likely understood of her from the society pages. "Do you really think I’d want to be seen in public in this thing?"

The bulky cop, whose brass nametag read ‘Connor,’ grinned. "No, I guess not. Still—" He gestured at his companion. "Lou will come along, just to keep an eye on things."

Catherine sighed. "If you insist."

Connor nodded. "I’d feel better, ma’am. Mr. Maxwell would have my head if anything happened to you."

Inwardly, Catherine flinched. She hated that what she was about to do would probably cost this man his job, but she had to get away before it was too late.

"All right." She nodded and stepped away, not waiting for her escort.

The hallways were quiet, with only the occasional nurse moving about on silent, rubber-soled shoes. Catherine moved slowly, leaning on the hand rail for balance, sustaining the impression that she was still weak, still incapable of sudden movement. She’d made it halfway down the corridor when a door at the other end of the hall opened. A stairwell. A lighted exit sign over the door cast a red glow over a black leather jacket, hardened, craggy features, and gloved hands. Gloves. Nobody in New York wore gloves during the muggy summer months. This was it. She had run out of time.

She didn’t have a hope of making it to the stairs. It would have to be the elevator. Where was it? She glanced around, her eyes skipping over numbered doors and past the nurses’ station. There. To the left. But could she make it?

At the end of the hall, the leather-clad man froze when he saw her. Did he recognize her as his target? She wasn't going to wait to find out. Then, as though in answer to some unspoken prayer, the elevator doors opened. A doctor stepped out, his head bent over a patient chart, oblivious to the tense scene in the hallway.

Catherine glanced behind her. The lanky cop was there, leaning casually against the wall, his eyes on the doctor. He either hadn’t seen the other man or didn’t consider him a threat. At any moment, the elevator doors would close and her chance would be gone. She took a deep breath, sucking in oxygen and trying to clear her head. Then she pushed off the wall and ran.

There was a shout behind her and the doctor’s head snapped up. He was looking in her direction. She sprinted toward him. He reached out a hand. "Hey!"

She shoved him aside and dashed into the elevator just as the doors started to close. Behind her, there was a sharp explosion, and something slammed her into the back wall. She felt a starburst of pain. Ignoring it, she spun around to punch the bottom button on the panel.

The doors closed on a cacophony of sound: shouts, running feet, some kind of alarm. Catherine bent over, trying to catch her breath. She felt dizzy again. Light-headed. And as she struggled to calm her racing heart she saw blood dripping down her arm. She shifted the blanket, trying to put pressure on the wound, but there was no time. The elevator was dropping fast.

Was there access to the tunnels from Metro?

Breathing hard, she stared at the floor indicator and tried to remember the maps.


********************


The terrible, aching loneliness had become a part of Vincent now, filling his heart and pushing all other feelings aside so that he moved through time in a kind of numbed stupor, acting more out of habit than out of any conscious thought. He had discovered that there was a measure of peace to be found in hard labor, and so he spent hour after hour deep below the community tunnels, shattering granite and limestone alike with a ferocity that kept even his closest friends at bay.

But the nights were excruciating. Exhausted by his labors, but plagued by nightmares, he passed the hours sitting at the table in his chamber with a book of poetry in his hands. He would stare dry-eyed at the words, hearing her voice in his mind and feeling anew the pain of her loss.

So it was tonight. While the community slept, Vincent read—a single candle his only source of light. Like most of his books, this one was well-worn, with tattered corners and thin, delicate pages. And as he read Wordsworth's familiar words, he pictured her sitting beside him, her hair shining in the candlelight.

But how could I forget thee?
Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour?

Closing the book with a snap, he dropped it on the table and tilted his head back against the chair. He sank into the silence without fighting it, unable to find the energy even to seek the companionship of her memory.

It was there, in the quiet, empty corners of his soul, that he first sensed . . . something.

For a moment it confused him, this conviction that he wasn't quite alone. He didn't understand it. Then he thought it might be his son, that maybe he was sensing again the faint echoes of an infant's pulse. Only that wasn't right either, though he couldn't say why. He just knew. Somehow, he knew.

He kept his eyes closed and searched, first within himself, and then in ever-widening circles. The tunnels, then the park, and then further still, into the sleepy nooks and crannies of the city Above.

There. Still distant, but growing stronger with each passing moment. A feeling of . . . fear. Why?

And then suddenly he knew.

Stunned, he jerked upright, and for an instant the shock of his discovery immobilized him. How was it possible? He'd seen her die!

And then he was on his feet and reaching for his cloak.

His sudden departure created a breeze, and on the table, the candle guttered and went out.


********************

The elevator stopped with a jarring thud and the doors slid open on a deserted corridor. Doors lined the hallway on both sides. Catherine stepped out, turned, and looked up at the floor indicator. The numbers were dropping fast. Somebody was coming after her.

She ran. A corridor opened up on her left and she dodged into it. Then another one, this time on the right, and she almost missed it, twisting at the last moment and narrowly avoiding crashing into the wall. She risked a quick glance over her shoulder. Nothing yet, but she heard the sound of running footsteps. Whoever it was wasn't trying to be stealthy. Heavy thuds echoed along the passageways.

She swerved right again when she saw a door with faded black letters. "Mechanical." Grabbing the knob, she turned, pushed . . . and blew out a breath when it gave way with a faint protesting squeal of un-oiled hinges.

Inside she found a maze of pipes and clanging machinery. Steam rose around her, gluing her gown to her legs, but she ignored it, concentrating on keeping her footing on the slippery floor.

There was a shout and then a crash. Her pursuer was closing in. Her breath was loud in her ears. Her chest ached. Blood dripped down her arm, its flow hastened by the rush of adrenalin. The edges of her vision dimmed as thick fog closed in on her from all sides.

Help me, Vincent! Please! Help me!

And then she remembered.

He wouldn't come. He couldn't come—because he didn't know she needed him.

Despair settled over her and she stumbled. It had come to this, then. Her fight to get back to him, to survive, would end here, on an unforgiving concrete floor in a dank, steam-filled basement, at the merciless hands of a stranger.

With a choked sob, she gave in to the creeping darkness and the grasping tendrils of oblivion.

And then the wall behind her shattered. She heard a familiar roar, and knew that somehow, through some miracle of time and space, he had found her.

He rushed past her, and she felt the brush of his cloak and the stir of the wind in his wake. There was a scream of pain, and another roar, and she wanted to call out to him, to tell him that she was all right, and that she loved him . . .

. . . but it was already too late. Her body gave in, gave up, and folded in on itself as the darkness finally claimed her.


********************

Chapter 3

********************


The trip passed in a blur of rock and brick and what seemed like endlessly lengthening tunnels. Vincent couldn't run fast enough. His legs, strong as they were, refused to carry him with the speed he required, and he pushed harder, faster, leaning forward, his head down as he charged through little used passageways.

Her fear fed his desperation, lending still more speed to his bounding stride, and out of the corner of his eye he saw more than one sentry blink in surprise as he passed.

And then he was there. He sensed her just beyond the wall, heard her cry out for help in his mind. With a bellow of fury, he threw himself at the concrete. It gave way in a shower of dust and flying debris and he was through, and he needed only a glance to understand what needed to be done.

The stranger's gun was raised, his narrowed gaze intent on Catherine's fallen form. Vincent leapt across the room and smashed the man back against the wall, sending the gun flying out of his hands. The man screamed in pain and surprise, and Vincent roared again before lashing out, silencing another scream with a single furious swipe of his claws.

Thick blood spilled from the man's mouth and throat, filling the air with its warm, coppery smell. There was a last, slow gurgle of escaping air, and the would-be killer slumped to the floor.

Vincent spun back to Catherine. Desperate to reassure himself that she was real, that he wasn't dreaming, he fell to his knees beside her, swept her hair aside, and searched for a pulse. Relief washed over him when he found it. Faint and thready, it beat a rapid tattoo against the sensitive tips of his fingers.

Sudden, fierce joy exploded in him, but before he could react to it, a distant sound caught his attention, and he jerked his head up to listen. He heard footsteps, and the sound of a door being opened, followed by a vicious curse. Whoever it was, they were moving fast. And they were angry.

And Catherine was badly injured, with a wound in her arm that continued to bleed despite his best efforts to staunch the flow. He tore a strip from the thin blanket and fashioned it into a makeshift bandage, tying it tightly enough to apply pressure without cutting off her circulation. Then he gathered her into his arms. She felt so light, so fragile. A wounded bird, all hollow bones and flightless wings.

He slipped back through the hole and into the tunnels. Several feet down the passage, he rounded a bend and paused to send out an emergency message on the pipes. He could feel her blood soaking into his tunic. Holding her close, he set off at a run. He wouldn’t risk losing her again.

When he arrived at the hospital chamber, Father was already there, waiting. And Mary, dear Mary, had left her bed to assist.

"Vincent. What’s happened?" Father’s voice was urgent as Vincent lay Catherine down on the bed. Unable to let her go completely, he stayed beside her, taking her hand in his.

"She’s alive, Father."

"Yes, I see that. But how?"

"Later, Father. She needs your help."

"Yes, of course." Father lifted the blanket away from Catherine’s injury, eying her pale skin and blue-tinged lips. "She’s lost a great deal of blood."

Vincent looked up. "Help her, Father. Please."

But Father was already giving urgent instructions to Mary while he chose the instruments he needed from his bag. It was slow, painstaking work. Through it all, Vincent refused to leave her side, shifting occasionally to help Father or Mary with some necessary task, but otherwise keeping his eyes on Catherine's face. Finally, Father gave her a shot of antibiotics and stepped back from the bed with a weary sigh.

"She's very lucky, Vincent. The bullet missed most of the major blood vessels, and it went all the way through. The wound itself should heal quickly enough. But she's lost a lot of blood—"

"She's strong, Father."

"She should be Above. In a proper hospital."

"No. It's not safe up there for her."

"How did it happen?"

Vincent shook his head. "There was a man chasing her. I . . . stopped him. When I returned to Catherine's side, she was already unconscious."

Father sighed and untied his apron. "You’ll need to keep a close watch, and let me know at once if her temperature rises."

"I won't leave her side."

"No," said Father, his eyes going to Vincent’s determined grip on Catherine’s hand. "No, I don’t suppose you will."

"Can she be moved?"

"Moved? Where?"

"To my chambers. I believe she will rest more comfortably there."

"Ah. Well, I suppose it'll be all right as long as you’re careful."

"Of course." Vincent lifted her into his arms once more, nestled her body close against the warmth of his own, and left the medical chamber. His entire soul, every ounce of will he possessed, was focused on Catherine, on keeping her alive. He’d thought her dead, had mourned her passing, but somehow she'd been returned to him, and he would do whatever it took to keep her safe, to help her heal.

In his chambers, he left her side only long enough to change into clean clothes, setting the blood-stained ones aside. He ran his fingers over the stiffened fabric. The man responsible for this would pay with his life.

For the first time, the thought of shedding the blood of another gave him nothing but grim satisfaction.

Mary appeared in the doorway, a bundle of clothing in her arms.

"I’ve brought her some things," Mary said. "She’ll be warmer—"

"Mary, how thoughtful of you." Vincent glanced over at Catherine. He’d helped to change her gown the first time she’d come to the tunnels. Then, it had been a simple matter of seeing to the comfort of an injured and helpless human being. But that had been before. Would it make Catherine uneasy to discover he'd performed such an intimate task now? Something told him it wouldn't.

Still, perhaps it would be better . . . He turned back to Mary. "Would you mind? I’d like to see William about some tea."

Mary nodded. "Of course."

"Can I bring you anything from the kitchen?"

"No, thank you." Mary set the bundle down on the table. "I’m meeting Father for tea as soon as I’m done here. And the children will be up soon. They’ll want company while they eat their breakfast."

"Yes." He started for the door.

"Vincent."

"Yes?" He turned back, his eyes going automatically to the still figure on the bed.

"She’s going to get well, Vincent. Father's a good doctor."

Vincent nodded and left her to her work.


********************


When he returned to his chambers, Vincent set the tea tray down on the table and crossed to the bed. Mary had changed Catherine into a soft gown and brushed the tangles out of her hair before settling her under the covers. She looked like an angel, and for several long seconds he could only stare at her, amazed by the miracle that had brought her back to him.

He bent over her, brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead, and pressed his lips against the exposed skin. He wanted to hold her in his arms, to keep her near—safe and protected from the evil that had nearly taken her from him forever. But he resisted the urge. She would heal more quickly if she rested undisturbed. He poured a cup of tea, selected a book, and pulled his chair close to the bed. He would read to her, the way he had the first time she had come to the tunnels. In time, she would awaken to the reassuring sound of his voice.

He took her hand in his, and began at the beginning.


********************


"What the hell happened?" Joe glared at the officers who stood before him like a pair of guilty kids. "You were supposed to watch her!"

"We were watching! I told you, she came out here, said something about wanting to stretch her legs, and then she just took off. How the hell was I supposed to know she could move that fast?" Defensive, Lou folded his arms across his chest.

Joe caught a fistful of Lou's shirt and twisted, pushing him up against the wall. "What about the guy who shot her? Huh? Why didn't you see him? Why didn't you stop him?"

"I did see him. I thought he was some guy coming to visit his wife. Hell, he was carrying flowers! One minute Miss Chandler was walking down the hall, kind of holding onto the railing. I figured she was still pretty weak from the drugs, you know? Then the guy comes out of the stairwell and the doc comes out of the elevator and all hell breaks loose."

"Joe." John Moreno tapped Joe on the shoulder. "Ease off."

Joe hadn't heard Moreno's approach. Startled into releasing his grip on Lou, he spun around. "These jackasses were supposed to keep Cathy safe! They screwed up. And I want to know why."

"I know you do. We all do. But you've got to get yourself under control."

Joe eyed his boss, wondering at the man's ability to keep his cool. "They find anything yet?"

Moreno nodded. "Yeah. In the basement. Doesn't look good."

The basement? Why the hell would Cathy have gone there? "What else?"

"There's a man dead. And a lot of blood. Some of it might be Cathy's."

"But not her?"

Moreno shook his head. "There's no sign of her."

"She could be alive, then."

"I don't know." He didn't look very optimistic. "There was gunfire. If she was shot—"

"You think she's dead." Joe couldn't believe that Moreno would give up so easily on one of his own, but he'd been acting strange for months. Maybe he knew something Joe didn't.

"The cops have people checking other hospitals, urgent care centers, doctors’ offices." Moreno shrugged. "But I saw the mess downstairs. Frankly, I don't think her chances are too good."

Joe turned back to the police officer. "I want your report on my desk first thing in the morning," he said. "And it'd better be the best damn report you've ever written or so help me, I'll rip you apart myself." He yanked his tie off as he turned away, heading for the elevator.

"Joe!" Moreno called after him. "Where are you going?"

"Downstairs," Joe snapped. "I've got a crime scene to investigate."


********************


Gabriel's den was small, relative to the rest of the house, and tucked away at the end of a little-used corridor. Furnished in rich fabrics and antique mahogany, and carpeted with deep, silver-gray carpet, it was where Gabriel invariably finished his day. He was alone, with only a glass of dry white wine for company, when the evening news broadcast began. There were the usual teasers, followed by a spate of commercials, and then the anchorman's face filled the screen.

"The NYPD has a mystery on its hands tonight after a bizarre incident at Metropolitan Hospital ended with one man dead and a female patient missing."

A front view of the hospital appeared on the television screen, and Gabriel leaned forward. So, the man he'd sent to finish the job on Catherine Chandler was dead, huh? How had it happened, and why was the Chandler woman missing?

"An unidentified individual made his way to the fourth floor this morning and shot a fleeing female patient. The patient, whose name has not been released, is still missing at this hour, but the shooter's body was found in the basement, dead of apparent knife wounds. Although the patient's body has not yet been found, police believe it unlikely that she could have survived her injuries without immediate medical attention."

The anchorman glanced down at the paper in front of him and then back up at the cameras. "Police also discovered that a section of wall opening into a sewer line access tunnel has been damaged. The broken wall is in a remote location, and hospital administrators say they have no idea how long it's been damaged. Repair work is scheduled to begin next week."

Gabriel ignored the rest of the report. He knew exactly what had happened in the bowels of that hospital. Somehow Vincent had found out that Catherine was still alive, and he'd tried to rescue her. It explained the hole in the wall and the assassin's undoubtedly gruesome death. Only it looked like he'd gotten off at least one shot before he died.

Gabriel took a sip of his wine and licked the tangy moisture from his upper lip with a slow smile of satisfaction.


********************


Bright lights. Harsh. Painful. Unforgiving. Her feet in the stirrups, her body exposed to people with cold, dead eyes. They move around her. Talking. Watching. Their faces expressionless as they observe her pain. No! She cries out to her child. Wait! Just a little longer! He will come!

But her child won’t wait. Can’t wait. Her body and her baby and Mother Nature are aligned against her.

The dead-eyed people move around her like vultures. Only one looks different. The doctor. Is that compassion she sees in his eyes? Or fear?

But there isn’t time to analyze it, to think about it. Pain crashes through her. Consumes her.

She struggles against her restraints. Against the pain. Against the loss she knows is coming.

Her child is ripping her apart from within. Silently, she apologizes to Vincent for her failure. She had tried to wait for him, tried to hide the evidence of their child's imminent arrival from these animals who stare at her now with ice in their eyes. Tears course down her cheeks to soak, unheeded, into the thin pillow beneath her head.

There’s one more contraction, one more cascade of pain—and then a thin cry.

They take him from her. She catches a glimpse of a tiny red face.

"Please . . . ! Just let me hold him!" She tries to lift her hands, to reach out to him, but she can't. Her wrists are bound, locked into the hateful restraints.

Frustrated, desperate, she lifts her head. Sees the macabre smile of the devil himself as he takes her child in his arms. He nods at the doctor. Says something about finishing it. Then he’s gone, and the door is closing, and she’s crying out again, tears flooding unchecked down her cheeks.

"Please . . . !" She's begging now, her voice weak as the vultures settle in for their death watch. Beside her, the doctor prepares a syringe. "Please . . . ?"

The dream fades slowly, exorcised by a soothing, familiar touch and a low rumble of comforting sound.


********************


The diner was busy. Businessmen and cab drivers crowded around the worn tables, eating a quick lunch before going back to their work. Waitresses scurried one way with arms full of loaded plates, and the other with credit cards and crumpled dollar bills. The air was thick with the smells of hamburgers, hot grease, and hot coffee. A waitress topped off Joe’s mug and moved on without waiting for his thanks.

Nick Starnes sat beside Joe at the lunch counter. He was a few years older than Joe, with the tired eyes and receding hairline of an experienced detective. The two of them had worked a lot of cases together, and Joe had come to respect Nick's skills. But something about Nick's posture this afternoon was making Joe uneasy, and when the detective finally took out his notebook and snapped it down on the counter, Joe almost spilled his coffee.

"Bruises on her wrists and at least one needle mark," Nick said, handing Joe a napkin without comment. "Left forearm."

"The morphine."

"Yeah."

"What else?"

Nick checked his notes. "One set of prints, and evidence of forced entry from the balcony, but no prints on any of the other doors."

"What does that mean?" Forced entry from the balcony? What the hell was that about?

"Means they haven't found anything on the other doors yet." Nick reached for a sugar packet.

"That's it?"

Nick nodded and sipped his coffee. "Until we hear from forensics."

"What about the prints on the balcony?"

"They're still checking."

"As soon as you hear something, I want to know about it." Joe emphasized his words with short jabs of his finger against the stained countertop.

Nick raised his eyebrow. "So you can do what?" His pager went off and he reached to turn it off. "Joe—" He hesitated. "You gotta realize. This is not your normal case. You got a woman who disappears for months and turns up at death's door. She sticks around just long enough to come out of it and then disappears again, leaving a trail of blood a blind man could follow. And that dead ends, too."

Nick was frustrated. It was there in his voice and in the tense set of his shoulders, and Joe knew he wasn't helping anything by pushing so hard.

He nodded. "Yeah. Just . . . do your best." Damn. He’d been hoping the forensics would at least give him a scent to chase. This complete lack of evidence just didn't make any sense.

"I always do my best." Nick took a sip of his coffee. Set the mug back down. "I also know my limitations." He tucked his notebook in his jacket pocket. "All I'm saying is I think you might want to check out some other alternatives." He reached for a toothpick.

"Like what?"

"Ever heard of a unit called the two-ten?"

"Yeah. Special crimes, right?"

Nick nodded. "There's a woman on it. Diana Bennett?"

Joe shook his head. He'd never heard the name before.

"Remember the Sayer case last month?"

"Yeah, sure. I remember."

"Bennett was the one that dug out Tony Hernandez."

Tony Hernandez had been the lynchpin that brought an entire drug trafficking ring down. Breaking him had made Moreno a very happy man. "I thought that was the Bureau."

Nick shook his head. "Bennett." He looked at Joe. "See . . . I gotta catch whatever they throw on my plate. But she gets to pick and choose. She's got this 'special arrangement'."

"Why, because she's two-ten?"

Nick shook his head. " 'cause she's good."

"How come I never heard of her?"

"She doesn't like her name in the papers."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Why don't you ask her?" He pushed his mug away. "I gotta go. You take care of yourself, Joe. Okay?"

"Yeah."

"And do what I told you."

He left then, and Joe twisted his coffee mug on its saucer while, around him, the everyday sounds of the city continued unabated.


********************

Chapter 4

********************


Diana Bennett's building was old and musty, with the grime of decades shoring up its walls. Joe double-checked the address against the slip of paper in his hand and hit the buzzer.

"Hello?" Her voice was cool. Professional. And vaguely annoyed.

"Hi, it's Joe Maxwell. We talked this morning?" There was no response. "Hello?"

"I told you I can't do it."

Joe thought of Cathy, missing, hurt. Maybe worse. "Look, I have no place else to go." He took a breath. "Please?" There was another long silence. "Hello?" He hit the buzzer again. "Hello!"

Finally, she answered in short, clipped words clearly meant to convey her impatience. "Fifth floor." The door lock buzzed open.

He didn't give her a chance to change her mind. She was his best hope of finding out what had happened to Cathy, and the fact that he'd had to step on a few toes and call in a few favors to get her address only made his relief that much more acute.

The elevator creaked its way up, the doors finally opening on a closed gate. On the other side, a woman watched him. Her legs were braced wide, her arms folded across her chest, and if there'd been any doubt in Joe's mind about her mood, one look at her cleared it up. She had the trim look of an athlete, but she hid it behind a bulky, shapeless sweater and faded sweatpants. Still, she was attractive in an easy, nature-girl kind of way, and younger than Joe had expected.

She looked tired. And irritated. And she made no move to open the gate.

"Where'd you get my address?"

"From your watch commander."

She raised an eyebrow. "Call in a favor?"

"A big one." Had it been a mistake? She’d been firm with him on the phone, almost rude, but he'd come anyway, hoping he could change her mind if he talked to her face to face.

"You realize this is completely unfair."

The stiff set of her shoulders and the cold wariness in her eyes did little to encourage him. He sighed. "All I'm asking you to do is take a look at something."

"You're asking me to set aside one case for another, and I can't do that."

He stepped forward, staring at her through the metal grate. "Not even for one day?"

She looked away. After a moment, she reached for the gate and slid it open. "Let me show you something."

She led him to a large desk covered with papers. A bulletin board on the wall behind it displayed an assortment of news clippings and pictures.

"This is where I've been for the last four months," she said. "Meet Sally Rogers." She pointed to one of the pictures. "Ten years old. Grabbed waiting for her mom outside the school." The little girl stood between her parents, an impish grin on her face, dark hair shining in the sun. "A hundred and seventeen days. And nothing. Not even an anonymous tip." Diana's shoulders were stiff, and her eyes, when she glanced at Joe, were dark with frustration. "Until last Sunday, when the guy started sending stuff to her parents. A lock of hair. Piece of clothing. A shoe." She took a breath. "Yesterday a package arrived with a small finger inside."

A shudder went through her, and her voice dropped. Little Sally Rogers couldn't have asked for a more passionate advocate.

"Lab says she's still alive." With a sigh, Diana turned away from the bulletin board to lean against the desk. "What can I do for you, Joe Maxwell?"

He shook his head, his eyes still on the picture. What had he been thinking? Of course this little girl’s case was a higher priority than Cathy’s. He’d let personal feelings get in the way of professional responsibility, something he’d accused Cathy herself of doing on more than one occasion. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you."

Diana sighed, and her gaze slid away, going once more to the photo-covered bulletin board. When she looked back at him, there was a silent apology in her eyes. She gave him a wan smile. "Sometimes I push too hard."

"No," Joe said. "I was wrong to come here. I'm sorry." He moved toward the elevator. He needed time to think, to try to get some perspective on the case before it destroyed him.

She followed him over, resting an arm against the doorframe. "So," she said. "This woman. Was she important to you?"

He nodded warily. "We worked together. But it was more than that."

"Romantic?"

He shook his head. Whatever he might have felt, he’d always known that Cathy only viewed their relationship one way. "Friends."

"And when she disappeared, you asked to head the investigation."

Professional suicide, he knew. He didn’t need her to remind him of it.

She shook her head, giving him a sympathetic smile. "Don't tell me. Let me guess. Trail went cold fast. You blamed yourself. Then you worked harder and harder until all your other work suffered."

Somehow, he sensed she was speaking from personal experience. "You could say that."

"And then you began to dream about her, and your mind took these illogical leaps. And you followed absurd leads and intuitions and pretty soon you couldn't think of anything else."

He didn't answer. He didn't have to. She was dead on.

Lifting her hands in a gesture of pained helplessness, she met his eyes. "That's why I only work on one case at a time."

"They're all like that for you?"

She took a breath. Blew it out on a sigh. "Yep." Turning away, she walked back across the loft.

On an impulse, Joe went after her. "Let me ask you something."

She stopped and turned, eyebrows raised.

"What do you make of this? A woman is violently kidnapped. Six months later she turns up in her own bed, a half step away from death's door. Only there's no sign of a struggle, so whatever happened didn't happen there." He shoved his hands in his pockets, a nervous habit he’d picked up years ago and had never quite been able to shake. "Somebody brought her back. Up seventeen flights with no witnesses. And now she's missing again." He glanced at the bulletin board and then back to meet her eyes. "Somebody came after her in the hospital—when only a handful of people even knew she'd been found."

Diana shook her head. "I don't know," she said softly.

"Nobody does. And in three weeks, nobody's gonna care. And that's why I came here." He tilted his head toward her work area. "I hope you find that girl." Without another word, he walked away, pulling the elevator gate closed behind him.


********************


Once again, Catherine found herself swimming up from the depths of unconsciousness. But it was different this time. This time, awareness brought with it the sweet scent of warm candle wax, the comfort of Vincent’s fingers wrapped around hers, and the flowing cadence of his familiar voice. She was alive, and safe, deep beneath the city, protected by the stony security of the hidden tunnels and the strength of Vincent's love.

She had thought she would never again hear the low, musical intonations that sounded like warm honey to her ears. He was reading Great Expectations, and as she listened, Pip came to life again in her imagination. Vincent had an almost magical ability to give every word he read a depth and color of its own, and listening to him was one of the great pleasures of her life. She recognized the passage he was reading—past the midpoint of the book—and wondered how long she had been unconscious.

"Vincent." Her voice sounded weak, even to her own ears, but he was by her side in an instant, his hair spilling forward over his shoulders, his face haggard with worry and lack of sleep.

"Catherine." He lifted their joined hands and kissed her fingers. "Catherine, I thought—" His grip tightened convulsively.

"I know." She wanted to reach up to him, to touch him, to bury her fingers in the glorious golden hair and pull him close. But she didn’t have the strength. "I know."

"I held you in my arms, Catherine. I watched you die." His voice caught on the last word, and she squeezed his hand.

"I felt you with me," she said. "I felt your love. It . . . called to me."

"Even—"

She nodded. "Even there."

He stared at her, stunned. "But how is that possible?"

She had no answer to that. Something, some miracle, had given them a second chance, and if she could bind herself to him forever and never again leave his side, she would do so in an instant.

"Catherine, had I known . . . had I realized—" He shook his head, his eyes going to her bandaged arm. "I would have brought you here."

"You couldn’t have known, Vincent." She pulled her hand from his and reached up to catch his chin, urging him to look at her. "You couldn’t have known."

He lifted his hand to lace his fingers with hers again. "I tried to find you, Catherine. I searched everywhere. I went Above every night—"

"I know." And she did know, because she knew him, knew that his love for her wouldn't let him rest until he found her.

"When I thought you had been taken from me forever—" He shook his head. "It was as though my heart had been torn away. I couldn't think, couldn't eat . . . I was lost."

"Hush," she whispered. "I'm here, now. It's over."

He nodded, and for a long moment they just looked at each other as time moved on without them.

At last, Vincent's shoulders rose as he took in a deep breath. "You’re in pain," he said. "I should call Father."

"You can feel that?" It seemed like a lifetime since she’d known the comfort that came with his sense of her.

He nodded. "And in the hospital . . . I felt your fear, Catherine. It drew me to you."

If she had thought about it, she would have realized that the bond was back. Without it, he could not have known to come to her. And yet his confirmation felt like a priceless gift. And now they were together, and she was alive, but there was something missing, something precious.

"He’s beautiful, Vincent." Her eyelids were heavy; her body was demanding sleep. But there was still so much she wanted to tell him, so much she needed him to understand. "Our son is beautiful." Her chest grew tight as she remembered the moment they'd taken him from her. "But I couldn’t protect him."

It seemed to her as if the tapping on the pipes took on a mournful tone.

"They took him away." In her mind, she saw once more the tiny pink face and the helpless, flailing little hands. "I never even got to hold him."

Vincent brushed his thumb soothingly against her wrist. "We'll find him, Catherine. I promise. "

She had spent so many terrifying months alone, isolated from everything and everyone she had ever known, so long that she had all but given up hope that she would ever see Vincent again. And now, this moment—the feel of his fingers in hers, the sight of his face, even the sound of his voice—was almost dreamlike to her, and she was afraid to close her eyes lest he disappear forever. But her body seemed determined to thwart her best efforts to stay awake.

"Will you do something for me?" She wanted to feel his arms around her, wanted to rest her head on his shoulder and listen to the reassuring beat of his heart beneath her ear.

"Anything, Catherine."

Careful not to jar her arm, she moved over on the bed, making a space for him by her side. "Will you . . . hold me?"

His hesitation lasted only a moment, a single heartbeat. Then he nodded. He rearranged the pillows and gathered her gently into his arms.

"Comfortable?" he asked, once he was settled. He rested his cheek against her hair, and she thought she'd never before experienced such a feeling of comfort.

"Yes. Thank you."

It was an intimacy he’d allowed only once before, and then with great reluctance. She had sensed his unease then, but hadn’t had the emotional strength to honor his needs. Indeed, she'd barely been able to acknowledge her own. That time, he'd held her until she'd fallen asleep, but she'd awakened alone. Now she snuggled close, certain somehow that when she woke up, he would still be by her side.

"Catherine."

His low voice rumbled through his chest beneath her ear. She was nearly asleep, drifting in a land of moonbeams and shadows, but something in his voice roused her, and she struggled to open her eyes, to focus on what he was saying. "Hmm?"

"I . . . don’t remember."

"Remember what?"

"We have a child, Catherine. A son. And I don’t remember—" Taking a long, slow breath, he asked, "Did I . . . hurt you?"

She felt the tension in him, the worry. Her arm throbbed beneath the layers of bandages, but she pushed aside the pain and shifted so that she could look into his eyes. "Don’t you know by now, Vincent? You could never hurt me."

In fact, he had been almost achingly tender, and the memory of those few hours in his arms had helped sustain her through the months of loneliness that came after.

"I’m only sorry," she said softly, "that you can’t remember."

His left arm was wrapped around her waist, and he stroked her ribs with his thumb. "Perhaps, Catherine . . . perhaps there will be another time." His voice was low, with a note of uncertainty mixed into the warm tones.

She smiled, relaxing against him. "I hope so."

His arm tightened around her, and she closed her eyes. Warm, safe, and loved.


********************


Joe stormed into his office and slammed the door. John Moreno had finally drawn his line in the sand over Cathy's case, and Joe was officially suspended. For a month. During that time, he was supposed to "get his head on straight," as Moreno had so delicately put it. Joe snorted. As far as he was concerned, Moreno was the one with the screwed up head.

He grabbed an empty box and dropped it on his desk. Reaching for the phone and tucking it into his shoulder, he dialed the lab. By the time Frank came on the line, Joe was pacing, his steps taking him to the end of the coiled cord and then back again. Each time he returned to his desk, his gaze settled on Cathy's file.

"Hello?"

"Frank. It's Joe Maxwell." Glancing at the door, Joe picked up the painfully thin file and dropped it into the box.

"Yeah," Frank sounded tense and uneasy. "What can I do for you, Joe?"

"You got any news on the Chandler case yet?" Calling in yet another favor, Joe had coerced his friend into taking one more look at the evidence in Cathy's case. His currency was running low, though. Pretty soon he wouldn't have anybody left to turn to.

"I'm afraid not."

Frank was usually a jovial guy. In fact, Joe teased him about it sometimes, wondering how somebody who dealt in the science of death could be so happy all the time. Invariably, Frank responded with some crack about not having to worry that his clients would try to shoot him. But now he sounded almost morose, and Joe paused his pacing. Something was wrong.

"What about the prints on the balcony door?"

"Well," Frank said cautiously, "those were interesting. No one seems to know what they are."

"What does that mean? Gloves?" Joe dropped a paper weight and a framed picture of his mother into the box with the file.

"We don't know. We can't tell what they are, yet."

Before Joe could respond to that, there was a sound in the background, and a brief, muttered conversation. When Frank came back on the line, he sounded nervous. "I gotta go."

Joe shoved his hand in his pocket, puzzled. "Call me back. I want to know." He waited for Frank to say something else, but there was only uneasy silence. Had Frank been ordered not to talk to Joe? Was there something more going on here, something sinister even? Joe shoved the ridiculous thought aside with a shake of his head. Maybe he really was losing it. "Frank, look, I—"

"We're even now, okay? Good luck."

There was a click as the line disconnected. Joe bit back a frustrated curse and glared at the handset. When he looked up again, Jenny Aronson was standing in his doorway.

Dropping the phone in its cradle, he went to meet her. "Hi, Jenny. Come on in." He closed the door so they could have some privacy. Then he turned back to meet the grief in her eyes.

She folded her arms across her chest. "I'm sorry I didn't call first." Her was voice tight with suppressed emotion.

Touching her shoulder, he shook his head. "It's okay."

Tears welled in her eyes and Joe reached out, taking her into his arms and holding her while she cried.

"Come and sit down," he said when the flow of tears finally slowed.

She did, laying her coat beside her on the worn wooden bench. Joe knelt beside her and took her hand, offering what comfort he could.

"I thought I would be able to handle this," she said, tears still choking her voice. She took a deep, shuddering breath and then blurted out her next words in a rush, as though hesitation might weaken her resolve. "I came because I wasn't sure who to call for the arrangements."

Joe blew out a breath, his fingers tightening around hers. "We don't know that she's dead, Jenny."

"But you haven't found her."

He shook his head. That much was true, at least. But he hadn't given up hope, and until they found a body, he wouldn't.

"And I read in the paper, about the blood." She hesitated. "And about that other man—"

"Jenny, don't do this to yourself. We'll find her." Joe wanted to reassure her, to convince her that everything would be okay. Only he wasn't entirely sure of that himself.

"And if you don't? What then?" Her voice rose, the words tumbling over each other. "Do we just wait forever? Look forever? And if we're still looking, won't they be looking too? Those men who tried to kill her?"

She stood up, pacing away from him. Then she spun back. "I don't want to believe that she's dead. I want with all my heart to believe that she's still alive out there somewhere." She pinned Joe with a pain-filled glance. "But if we have a service, if we make it look like we believe she's gone . . . maybe we can buy her safety? At least for a while?"

"Jenny—" What she was proposing was preposterous. Impossible. And yet— "I don't even know how to go about doing what you suggest."

"Don't you know anybody who might help?"

There was one possibility, though he couldn’t believe he was even considering it—a judge who owed him big for something that had happened years ago, even before Cathy's time. "Maybe."

"Please?" Jenny said. "It's the only thing I can think to do for her. The only way I know to help."

Act as if Cathy were dead. Even though there was still a chance that she wasn't. Could they pull it off? Would it work? And if they did this and she turned up alive later on? What then? With a mental shrug, he brushed aside that worry. It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing had happened. And maybe Jenny was right. If Cathy was alive out there—and God knew he hoped she was—they owed it to her to try to help. Maybe Jenny’s crazy plan would at least buy her some breathing room.

"I'll see what I can do."

Jenny nodded as her eyes welled with tears again. With a soft oath, he pulled her into a hug and let her cry in his arms.


********************

Chapter 5

********************


Catherine awoke to a small sound at the doorway.

"Vincent—" Father froze like a startled owl as he took in the sight before him. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt."

But Vincent was already helping Catherine to sit up, his arm around her shoulders as he adjusted the pillows behind her back. "I’m glad you’re here, Father. Catherine is in pain."

"Oh?" Father's eyes shifted to his patient. "Catherine? Is that so?"

Uncomfortable at being the source of so much concentrated attention, Catherine blushed. "I am a little sore."

"Well, then. Let’s have a look." Father turned to Vincent. "I believe William has prepared a tray for Catherine. Would you be so good as to retrieve it?"

Vincent nodded. "Of course, Father."

When Vincent had left, Father turned back. "I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to have you back with us," he said.

"Thank you, Father. I feel like I’ve come home." She swung her legs over the side of the bed, turning her body to give him better access to the bandages. She was feeling much better, and though her arm still ached, at least the light-headed feeling seemed to have passed.

"You have come home, Catherine." He was unwrapping the bandages, and Catherine made an involuntary sound as he eased away the last layer. "I’m sorry. I know it’s painful, but that's the worst of it."

"No. It’s okay."

He examined the wound, checking for infection. "You’re healing well," he said, pleased. After cleaning it carefully, he reached for a fresh bandage. "I’m going to give you a sling. Now that you’re awake, you should try to get some exercise. Don't overdo it, though. You lost a lot of blood. You'll be weak for a while."

"Thank you, Father."

"Catherine—" He paused in his work, his hands hesitating against her shoulder. "I don’t think you should return Above."

She thought about staying in the safety of the tunnels, with Vincent. It was a tempting offer.

"Father, there’s something you should know."

"Tell me." He'd left her side to repack his bag, but now he stopped and looked over at her, still holding a pair of scissors in his hand.

She took a deep breath. "While I was away—" She dropped her eyes to the sling, took another breath, and pushed the words out in a nervous rush. "I had a baby."

Somehow saying the words to Father made it all real in ways it hadn't been before, as though by not talking about it she had almost been able to pretend it hadn't happened. Only it had. And somewhere out there, she had a son—an extraordinary son who needed her as much as she needed him.

Father stared at her, shocked. "Dear God." He sank into a chair. "Does Vincent know?"

"I know." Vincent came into the room bearing a laden tray. "Catherine spoke of him just before—"

He didn't finish the thought, but he didn't need to. Just before she died.

There was a moment of pained silence.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Father still looked stunned, and Vincent bent to pour him a cup of tea.

"I couldn’t think of it, Father. My grief was too great, the pain too consuming. All I could think about was Catherine."

"I don't understand." Father accepted the tea from Vincent with a nod of thanks and turned to Catherine. "Where is the child now?"

Catherine shook her head. The words wouldn't come. Memories of the baby she'd carried, of his birth, of watching helplessly while that monster carried away her dreams. It all came back to her with sudden stunning ferocity.

Then Vincent's arms were around her and he pulled her close, tucking her head into his shoulder. Never before had he indulged in such a public affirmation of their relationship, and the fact that he did so now only made her sadness more acute.

"Vincent?" Father's voice. Confused and worried.

"He was taken from her," Vincent said. "Moments after his birth."

"Oh my God." Father's anger was undeniable. "Catherine, I'm so sorry."

"We're going to find him, Father." Vincent's voice was fierce. Determined. "I won't allow that man to raise my son as his own."

"Your child, Vincent? But how—? When—?"

Catherine wondered a little hysterically if it might all prove too much for Father, if he might not suddenly collapse under the weight of the accumulated shocks.

"When Vincent was sick," she said, choosing her words carefully, "and I went into that cave—" She glanced back at Vincent. She didn't want to embarrass him, or make him uneasy, and yet she needed to explain. She thought back to that day. "It was so dark," she remembered. "I've never known such complete blackness."

Vincent and Father were watching her, and suddenly their combined attention was more than she could bear. She closed her eyes, shutting them out while she let the events of that fateful day flow through her mind.

"There was this . . . long tunnel," she said. "It seemed like it went on forever." The chamber was utterly silent, and Catherine thought that if she tried, she could probably hear the flickering of the candles on the table. "Behind me was safety. And a part of me wanted to turn and run back to it. But Vincent was ahead of me, alone and in pain."

She risked a glance at him and found his eyes fixed on her face. "He needed me," she said. "And I could no more turn my back on that than cut off my own arm." She could almost hear the anguished, desolate howls even now—echoes of savage loneliness that had reverberated through the twisted tunnel until she thought she might go mad with it. "And so I kept going, because in the end, there was no other choice."

A rustle of sound brought her head around. Vincent had turned away. He was leaning against the wardrobe, head down, hair spilling forward to hide his face. She wanted to go to him, to comfort him, but she knew she couldn't. Not yet.

"He was so far away, both from me, and from the world around him, that I thought he might already be lost to me, but I couldn't stop. And then all at once the tunnel opened up and he was right there in front of me." Oddly, there'd been enough light in the cave to lighten the shadows and highlight his form. Later, during the long months of her captivity, she had wondered where that light had originated, but at the time, all she was aware of was Vincent.

"He looked so fierce. And the sounds he made . . ." She dropped her head, her eyes sliding over worn books and handmade candles before coming to rest on his fountain pen. These would always be the things that made her think of him, not the deadly claws or fierce savagery by which he too often defined himself. "Maybe I should have been afraid," she said, "but I wasn't."

Across the room, Vincent turned. Their eyes met, and she found she couldn't look away. She forgot Father's presence, speaking only to Vincent now, needing him to understand that for her, there had been no risk in what she'd done. In the end, her deepest fears had been only for him.

"I said your name." She took a step towards him. "But you acted as though you didn't hear me. So I came closer, and then . . . and then . . ." she swallowed hard. This was the hard part, the part she'd been dreading, and yet she owed him the truth, if only to prove that, despite his doubts, he could control his darker self. "You charged. Your hand was up, and you were snarling, and for a moment I was afraid you'd gotten so far away from yourself that you might actually hurt me."

He was horrified. She could see it in his eyes. She hurried on, anxious to put his fears to rest.

"I screamed your name, hoping that somehow I might reach you." The image, his lips pulled back to reveal gleaming teeth, his hand raised against her, and that instant of frozen recognition, was still there in her mind. "And you stopped. You just . . . stopped." One minute he'd been bellowing with rage, and the next—

"And then you collapsed. I tried to catch you, tried to keep you from hurting yourself, but all I could do was cushion your fall. Then you stopped breathing, and I couldn't find a heartbeat and there was this sudden, absolute stillness."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Father nod, and she blinked, somehow surprised to see him there.

"The same thing happened the last time," he said quietly. "I thought we'd lost him."

She nodded. "I was afraid of that, afraid—" But she couldn't follow the sentence to its natural conclusion. She looked back at Vincent. "I was desperate. I was crying, and holding you, and begging you not to leave me, and then, somehow, I was kissing you." Her last words trailed off to a whisper.

"It wasn't something I consciously decided to do. I only knew I had to reach you somehow, had to try to bring you back to me." She folded her arms across her stomach, aware that what she had done might be difficult for Father and Vincent to understand, that they might think she'd taken advantage of Vincent in his weakened condition. But that hadn't been the case at all. She'd only been acting on instinct, doing whatever she could think of to try to reach him.

"I don't know if it was my words or the kiss or something else." Her eyes stung, and she swallowed hard. "But suddenly you gasped, and then you reached out to me, and somehow you were kissing me back. After that—" she gestured with her hands as a blush warmed the back of her neck. "Well . . . you can guess the rest."

For several interminable seconds after she stopped speaking, Vincent and Father were silent, and Catherine began to fear that Vincent was angry with her, that he believed her acceptance of his advances when he was in such a weakened state had been a betrayal of his trust. He was still watching her, his eyes fixed on hers, but when he shook his head, it was in amazement rather than dismay.

"That you could do that for me, and at such a time—"

In three steps she was standing in front of him. "How could I have done anything else?"

He put his arms around her, holding her with tender care, and with a relieved sigh, she rested her head against his shoulder.

They stood that way, oblivious to the world around them, until Father cleared his throat.

"Your pregnancy," he said. "Was it—?"

"Normal?" Catherine lifted her head from Vincent's shoulder, taking a step back but staying within the circle of his arms.

Father nodded.

She considered the question, remembering the morning sickness, the lethargy, and the wonder. "He came early," she said at last. "I remember the doctor talking about how quickly he grew."

Father nodded. "Anything else? Unusual symptoms? Complications? Was the child healthy?"

"He's beautiful." In her mind she saw his tiny face again. "And perfect." And alone.

Father pushed his empty teacup aside and got to his feet. "Well. Of course I understand that you want to find him. But Catherine, you mustn't go Above."

"He's my son, Father. I won't abandon him." She said it fiercely, unable to believe that Father would even suggest such a thing.

"Perhaps," Vincent interjected calmly, "it would be better to have this discussion after Catherine has fully recovered."

His arms tightened at her waist. A warning? A request? Catherine looked more closely at Father, seeing all at once the dark shadows under his eyes and the exhausted droop of his shoulders.

"Maybe you're right. I am still a little tired." She tugged at the belt of her robe, trying to tighten it one-handed. Vincent moved to help, his dark fur and claws a sharp contrast against the pale fabric.

When she looked up again, Father's eyes were on them, his gaze clouded with worry. "Be careful, Catherine. Please. Vincent was . . . we were all lost without you."

She remembered the hours of lonely silence, the days spent staring at blank walls and a locked door while her baby grew inside her. She remembered all the times she had wished for Vincent and for the simple, undemanding love of her tunnel family. "So was I." She watched as Father reached for his medical bag. "I missed you too, you know," she said softly.

He set the bag back on the table and turned. "I know I didn't make things easy for you when you first came here, Catherine, but you’ve become very special to me, to . . . all of us. And when I thought we’d lost you, the pain was unbearable."

Moving to his side, she reached out to give him an awkward one-armed hug. His arms came around her and he sighed, hugging her carefully.

"Dear, dear, Catherine." His voice was soft in her ear and rough with emotion. "Welcome home."

When he pulled away, his eyes were moist. He blinked and turned to pick up his bag again. "Make sure she eats, Vincent. She’s much too thin."

"Of course, Father." Vincent’s voice was patient and respectful, but there was a hint of amusement behind the words.

"Yes. Well. I’m off, then. Samantha’s got a touch of a cold and I’d like to check on her before classes begin."

"Of course, Father. Please say hello for us."

"I’ll do that." With one more nod, Father left.

Vincent turned to Catherine. "Are you hungry?"

She shook her head. "Not really."

"Catherine. You must eat. You need your strength."

"You are my strength, Vincent. You and our son." Her heart felt torn in two. She was alive. Vincent was alive. Their bond was back, maybe stronger than ever. For these things she was unreservedly grateful.

And yet her child—their son—had been taken from her. Stolen almost before she had glimpsed his face. She'd not even been allowed to feel the slight weight of his tiny body in her arms or experience the wonder of nursing him at her breast. And this loss, this horrible, desperate loss, had left a gaping hole in her heart.

She'd failed in her most basic obligation to her child: to protect.

She moved away, stopping at the statue of Lady Justice that guarded the entrance to the chamber, running her fingers over the edge of the weighted scales. Were it her life being measured, would she be found wanting?

His arms came around her from behind, and he eased her back against the warm strength of his body.

"I feel as though I failed him." Her voice was barely a whisper in the quiet chamber.

She sensed his confusion even before he turned her in his arms so that he could look into her eyes. "How?"

"I should have told you about the pregnancy, should have stayed down here. With you. Where he could have been born in safety."

Vincent let go of her and turned away, his gaze going to the statue. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were still so weak, so lost. I knew you would worry." Her voice dropped as she remembered the sleepless nights she'd spent trying to decide what to do. "So I put it off. I thought it could wait until you were stronger." She paused as the events that came after flooded her mind. "I was wrong."

For a long time, he said nothing at all, and she waited quietly, knowing she'd hurt him by choosing to keep such important news to herself.

"Perhaps," he said at last, "you were right."

She blinked in surprise.

"Catherine, you are my life. My world. I couldn't bear it if something I did caused you pain. A pregnancy—" He turned back to her. "I would have been terrified."

She loved him so much that sometimes she wasn't sure where her soul left off and his began. "But I'm all right." She said it again, reassuring herself as much as him. "I'm all right."

His arms came around her and she felt him take a deep breath. "A truth for which I am eternally grateful."

She was home. And safe. And yet, as she relaxed against him, she knew she wouldn't find peace until they found their son. "I miss him, Vincent. I miss him so much."

"I know," he said. He lowered his head and brushed a kiss against her hair.


********************


A uniformed police officer opened the door to Catherine's apartment. He turned on a lamp and checked to make sure it was secure before waving Diana inside.

"Thanks," she said. "Can you wait outside?"

"Sure." He backed out as she closed the door. "Just let me know if you need something."

Diana leaned against the door and looked around. What happened to you? she wondered. What kind of person were you? And why would somebody want to hurt you? She turned off the light. Then she moved across the room, dropping the case file on the back of the couch and letting her bag fall to the floor. She stopped beside a spindly-legged antique desk, her hand grazing the back of its matching chair. Turning, she scanned the darkened room with curious eyes.

It felt peaceful here. Cool, and comfortable, and feminine. The furniture and other pieces had been chosen carefully, with an eye for elegance and simplicity. Obviously, Catherine Chandler had exquisite taste.

When her eyes had adjusted to the shadows, Diana crossed to the stereo, and in a moment soft music filled the empty corners. A piano sonata. She let the music play and stepped out on the balcony. The view from here was spectacular. New York City at night. The lights of a million lives standing out from the darkness like so many Earth-bound stars. She shook her head at the bit of whimsy and went back inside. What was it about this case that made her feel like she'd walked headlong into a fairy tale?

She moved around the apartment, touching Catherine's things, looking at pictures, trying to get a feel for a woman she only knew from newspaper articles and police reports. You were strong, she thought. You must have been. A vicious attack left you disfigured and afraid. And yet instead of running away, you came to work for the district attorney. Why? Where did you find the strength? Idealism maybe? Determination? You were quick to see the good in people. Joe told me that. He said you were always there when friends or loved ones needed you. And yet you were very private. You had secrets. Deep secrets. What were they? And why couldn't you share them with the people you loved?

There was a box at the bottom of the bedroom closet, and Diana dragged it out. She lifted the lid. Inside were the mementos of a lived life. A delicate feathered mask. A pair of ballet shoes. A photo album. A book of sonnets, leather-bound and worn. Obviously very old. She opened it, flipped through the pages, even held it upside down to see if anything would fall out. A picture, or maybe a letter. But nothing did. Disappointed, she turned it over again and opened the front cover. There was an inscription there: "With love's light wings did I O'er perch these walls." The rest of the line came without conscious thought. For stony limits cannot hold love out. High school English classes had been good for something, after all. But what did it mean? And who the hell was Vincent?

She closed the book and set it aside, reaching into the box again. This time she pulled out a blanket-wrapped bundle. Gently, she shifted the folds aside to reveal a worn doll, its hair and body showing all the signs of a much loved toy. Its angelic expression brought a smile to her face.

"I bet you had a name, didn't you."


********************


Vincent led Catherine through a series of familiar tunnels to a place he knew she would remember, a place where she might find the comfort and peace she needed to continue her recovery. At the threshold, he stepped aside, allowing Catherine to move ahead. He followed her, stopping to set the torch in its bracket by the door. When he turned back, Catherine was standing beside the bed.

"I remember this room," she said quietly.

It was the chamber she had stayed in after her father's death. He wasn't surprised that she recognized it.

"Yes." He nodded. "I thought you might like it here, that perhaps you might feel the comfort of your father's presence in your dreams." And perhaps her father's spirit would also help to keep the nightmares at bay.

"I'm surprised it hasn't been claimed yet. Surely there must be somebody whose need is greater than mine?"

Vincent allowed his gaze to roam the room, his eyes coming to rest on the bed with its warm blankets and soft pillows. He remembered the night he'd held her in his arms while she cried herself to sleep. The memory was bittersweet. "This chamber is yours for as long as you wish to stay," he said at last.

Her head came up, her eyes meeting and holding his. "And if I want to stay forever?"

The suggestion made his heart tremble with joy, but he merely dipped his head in a slight nod. "Then it will be yours forever," he said. As I already am.

She came to him then, her body seeming almost to glide across the stone floor. She wrapped her good arm around his waist and leaned into him, and he felt her shoulders rise and fall in a long sigh. Resting his cheek against the top of her head, he held her close.

"I love you," she said. "So much."

His arms tightened around her and he drew in a deep breath. "And I love you," he murmured. "With all that I am, all that I have been, and all that I will ever be."


********************

Chapter 6

********************


Joe hated hospitals. He'd never been in one without remembering his father, and the memories weren't exactly happy ones. He'd come to talk to a witness, but now he was in a hurry to put this godforsaken house of death, with its stale air and impersonal sterility, behind him as quickly as possible. His thoughts were on the case as he walked down the hall, and Diana had to call his name twice before he heard her. When he did, he turned around, surprised to see her there.

"I need to talk to you," she said, striding toward him with a determined look in her eyes.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm working." Her tone was matter-of-fact, almost brusque.

"What happened to Sally Rogers?"

She pushed past him into an empty exam room. "We lost her," she said as he followed her in. "And the suspect killed himself."

Damn. An image flashed through his mind of the pretty little girl smiling happily between her proud parents. "I'm sorry."

She gave him a brief nod. "Joe, sit down." She pulled over a chair, flipped it around and straddled it backwards. "I need to know some things." Resting an elbow on the back of the chair, she pushed her hair out of her eyes. "At the time Catherine Chandler disappeared, was she seeing anybody?"

"Seeing anybody?" He didn't know what he'd been expecting her to say, but this wasn't it. He perched on a tall stool and watched her uneasily.

"Dating. Involved."

"Not that I know of. We found some notes in her apartment from some guy named Vincent." He'd assumed it was an old romance, something from before she'd come to work at the D.A.'s office.

"She ever mention him to you?"

"No." He shook his head. "She was real funny about that stuff." Cathy had guarded her privacy more carefully than anybody he'd ever known. He'd wondered about it sometimes, but figured it was her business. If she'd wanted to talk about it, she would have.

"And besides this guy Vincent. Was there anybody else?"

"No."

Diana sighed and folded her arms. "Joe. I want you to clear your mind. I'm going to ask you a question and I'm interested in your very first response. No thinking, I just want you to respond."

"Okay—" What was she getting at? And why did he have this sudden urge to bolt?

"When you remember Catherine Chandler . . . who makes you jealous?"

The question shocked him. "What do you mean, who makes me jealous?"

There was sympathy in her eyes. "You were in love with her."

The words rocked him. He'd never thought, never considered— Oh, God. Had Cathy known? Had she even suspected? If it was so obvious that this stranger had noticed . . .

Diana jolted him out of his thoughts with her next words. "Now, did she ever look at anybody, mention anybody, and just for a second you were jealous?"

Joe shoved his hands in his pockets, and his voice was tight with anger when he responded. "Cathy Chandler was my friend."

"Cathy was pregnant." She paused, her sharp-eyed gaze taking in every nuance of his stunned reaction. "The doctor says she gave birth less than a week ago. Cathy wouldn't tell him what happened to the baby."

He couldn't believe it. Wouldn't believe it. He'd thought Cathy was his friend, had thought she trusted him. And yet— "She never said anything to me."

"I'm just throwing out the possibility here, but what if all this has more to do with the baby than with Cathy?"

"No." And there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that he was right about that. Whatever else might have been going on with Cathy, what had happened to her had been his fault.

"Why not?"

"Look. I gave her a piece of evidence. Asked her to keep it safe for me." His guilt over that still kept him up nights, ruined his appetite, and fueled his search for her despite John Moreno's strange insistence that he drop it. "First she turns up pumped full of morphine, then some guy shows up at the hospital with a gun and she goes missing again. Only this time, there's an eviscerated corpse and what looks like a couple of quarts of Cathy's blood." He took a breath, forcing the crime scene photos out of his mind. When he spoke again, his voice was rough with anger. "There's a connection."

"Of course there's a connection, but you have to keep your mind open to the fact of the pregnancy. What this could mean is that—"

"I don't—" He stopped. Lowered his voice. "I don't know what this could mean."

"Well, consider it, Joe. This could be the piece that makes everything fit." She stood up, pushing the chair away. "Now, I need to know. I need to know who the father of that baby is, who might have wanted that baby." She glanced toward the door and lowered her voice. "I need to know who made you jealous."

Joe felt as though everything he'd ever known about the world, about Cathy, had just been turned inside out. She'd been distracted during those last days, and he could tell she'd had something on her mind. He'd asked her about it once or twice, but beyond telling him that she had a sick friend, she hadn't wanted to talk about it, and he hadn't pushed. Now he was thinking that maybe if he had, she might not be missing.

But maybe there was something he could do to make it right again. Without looking up, he said the name that had come to mind the instant she'd asked the question. "Elliot Burch."

She blew out a breath. "Okay."

In for a penny— "He wanted to marry her."

"How long ago?"

"Right after she came to work for us." He still remembered the day Burch had shown up with lunch—complete with silver service and a bottle of champagne. The staff had been fascinated and amused. Cathy had been mortified.

"What happened?"

"She turned him down." She'd never told him the details, and he'd never asked.

"Did they stay in touch?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "But I can't believe Burch would have anything to do with this."

"You're positive."

He nodded. "Look, it's no secret that I don't like the guy, but he would never hurt Cathy." At least I don't think he would.


********************


The tunnel community had a single communal bathing chamber that was the sole province of women and children in the mornings and of men in the evenings. Fed by warm water springs, and lit by a series of torches set in brackets along the walls, it made Catherine feel a bit like a Roman princess when she used it. So when Mary came to her chamber with fresh clothes and an offer of help, Catherine accepted gratefully.

They arrived to find the chamber empty except for Lena and her little girl. Lena looked up from pulling a bulky sweater over her daughter's head and jumped to her feet.

"Catherine!"

Returning Lena's careful hug, Catherine smiled. "Hello, Lena." Then she looked over at her small namesake and tried not to feel a pang of envy that Lena's child should be here, safe and well and happy, while her own was in the care of a cold and nameless stranger Above.

"How are you feeling?" Lena asked, pulling a toy from a small mesh bag and handing it to her daughter.

"Better," Catherine said. "But it'll feel good to be clean again." She was finding it hard not to stare at the toddler, who promptly threw Lena's offering into the swirling water and then howled for its return. With a tolerant smile, Lena leaned over to fish it out again.

Lena dried the toy on a towel and handed it back to her daughter before looking over to where Mary was setting out clean clothes on a rough wooden bench. "Do you need any help?" she asked. "I don't have anything I need to do for a while, and Katy would be perfectly happy to sit here with her toys for a few more minutes."

"Katy?" Catherine looked at the little girl, who had decided that the large rubber ring made an excellent chew toy and was gnawing happily on it. One of Mouse's inventions, no doubt.

Lena shifted uncomfortably, and Catherine saw her exchange an uneasy glance with Mary.

"It just . . . seemed like a good idea," Lena said carefully. "Less confusing, you know?"

The truth lay silent and heavy between them, unspoken but not unheard. Lena had taken to calling her daughter Katy in order to protect Vincent from repeated and painful reminders of Catherine.

"Well, now," Mary said brightly. "Let's do something about that hair."

With that, the tension was broken, and Mary and Lena set about helping Catherine bathe. The warm, swirling water felt wonderful, and generous applications of soap and shampoo soon had Catherine feeling human again. Afterwards, Catherine thanked the other women and sent them on their way. Mary fussed, claiming Father would be upset with her if she let Catherine walk unescorted—not because he thought she might get lost, but rather because of her injury. But Catherine stood her ground, assuring Mary that she felt fine, and finally, reluctantly, Mary headed off to the dining hall with Lena and Katy.


********************


Vincent was sitting in a chair beside the bed when Catherine reached her chamber. He had a book in his hands, but he closed it and set it aside when she came in.

"You look . . ." He trailed off, coming across the room to meet her. His eyes held the peculiar intensity they got when something she said or did touched him deeply.

Vaguely self-conscious, she ran her fingers through her hair. "Rather like a drowned rat, I suspect." She set her things down on the bed and turned into his arms. There was a smile in his eyes when she looked up at him.

"What?" she asked.

"I was just thinking of that long ago night in the park," he said. "Do you remember the rain?"

She did. It was one of her happiest memories, one that had gotten her through many a lonely night. "You must have thought I was crazy."

"No." He shook his head. "I only thought how beautiful you were."

She blushed and dropped her head, but he caught her chin with gentle fingers, tilting her face back up until she met his eyes. He held her there for a long moment, and Catherine wondered what he was thinking that made him stare at her so intently. Then, in a move so tender and full of love that it brought tears to her eyes, he lowered his head, and kissed her.

It was a gentle kiss, over almost as soon as it had begun, and yet it made her heart stumble and then race ahead so that all she could do afterward was bury her head against his shoulder and cling to him. Such a simple thing it was. A sweet gesture that, for any ordinary couple, would have provoked no more than a passing thought. But for them it was a milestone, and Catherine knew she would treasure it always.

"Catherine." There was a hint of almost parental concern in his voice as he set her away from him. "Your hair. It's dripping."

"I know. Mary and Lena were kind enough to help me wash it."

"Here," he said. "Sit down. I'll help you dry it."

"Vincent, no. You needn't—"

"It will dry more quickly if the towel is wielded with two hands rather than one," he pointed out calmly. "Perhaps you would like to read while I attend to it."

Recognizing the stubborn set to his jaw, she sighed and sat down in the chair, reaching for the book on the little table. "300 Days," she said, looking at the title as Vincent worked with the towel. "I haven't read this since . . ."

"Nor have I," he said. "But it called to me this morning, and I thought perhaps you would like to share it with me."

"I would love to."

She read until Vincent was satisfied that most of the moisture had been removed from her hair. Then he put the towel aside and crossed to the dressing table to pick up a comb.

"Please," he said, coming back to her. "Continue."

He made efficient use of the comb, working the tangles out of her hair with practiced ease, and she wondered how often he performed this simple task for the children. The thought awakened a distant memory of her mother, humming softly while she battled Catherine's stubborn knots with tender determination.

Finished with the comb, Vincent put it away and returned to her side. "Father was concerned when he learned you didn't eat your dinner," he said. "Are you hungry now?"

Catherine nodded. "Ravenous."


********************


Elliot Burch's office was every bit as chic as Diana had expected it to be—masculine and elegant, with plenty of dark leather and bright chrome. The room was large, with the desk positioned at the far end so that visitors had to approach him like peasants seeking an audience with their king.

Elliot himself was an enigma. Fashionably attired in what was obviously a custom-tailored suit, he leaned against the window frame with the casual stance of a man who had nothing more on his mind than an enjoyable conversation with an interesting woman. And yet she'd been here for twenty minutes, and she was no closer to understanding him than she had been when she'd first walked in the door.

"You think I had something to do with Catherine's disappearance," he said now, and he looked almost amused at the suggestion.

Diana looked at him from her place in front of the desk. Her gut told her that he'd had nothing at all to do with it, and that he probably had a dozen of his own people out combing the streets for Catherine right now. And her gut was usually right about these things. "Do you know who did?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Are you going to find out?"

"I suppose." He left the window and moved past her. "If you do your job." The sound of his footsteps disappeared into the thick carpet. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you more."

"So am I." She stood and turned toward him as he opened the door. "How do you feel about Vincent?" She watched him keenly, searching for any sign that he recognized the name, but he only gave her a puzzled glance.

"Who's Vincent?"

"The man she's been seeing for the last two years." There was a flicker of something in his eyes at that, but it was gone almost as quickly as it had come, and when he spoke, his voice was still casual.

"We never discussed him."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"No." He looked pointedly at the open door. "Look, Miss Bennett, I told you everything I know."

"I don't believe you have Mr. Burch." But she wasn't going to get anything else out of him—at least not today. She handed him a business card. "But I would appreciate you telling me the truth about one thing."

"What's that?"

"I want to find him, too. So call me. At least tell me whether or not I'm looking for a dead man." She turned away. "I hate wasting my time."


********************


Vincent held Catherine's hand as they approached the dining hall. It sounded as though most of the community was in there, and knowing how reticent Vincent was in public, she expected him to release her before they reached the entrance. When he didn't, she glanced up at him in surprise, but he just shook his head and pulled her closer. And so they stepped through the doorway together.

There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by an eruption of excited voices as everybody started talking at once. Catherine struggled to make sense of it all, but it was hopeless. All she caught were snippets.

"—when did—?"

"Look everybody! It's—!"

"Father said you—!"

"Catherine!"

"Are you—?"

"—back! We missed—!"

Overwhelmed by their enthusiasm, Catherine hung back, but their love and concern flowed out to her, enveloping her in warmth and affection. The children crowded close, reaching out to touch her, to satisfy themselves that she was real. The adults too, coming up one after another to hug her, and smile, and sometimes to cry while they told her how happy they were to have her back.

Soon she realized that her own cheeks were damp, and that although she was smiling, her heart was breaking a little, too. Somehow, at some point, these people had become her family, and she would do anything for them. Go anywhere. Fight any battle.

She wanted her son to know this family, to grow up here, where he would be nurtured and loved and supported until he became a strong and honorable man, a man like his father. These humble, roughly-dressed tunnel dwellers, with little to offer but a smile, or a hug, or a story, were infinitely more valuable than palatial estates and the power to rule the world.

"Please, everyone." Vincent's distinctive voice carried easily over the excited crowd, which settled into happy silence. "I am afraid we may overwhelm Catherine in our eagerness to welcome her home." He smiled, taking any sting out of the words.

They'd been separated from each other in the rush of greetings, and now Catherine moved back to his side. When he casually put his arm around her, the public affirmation of their relationship made Catherine's heart sing with joy. Smiling, she looked at the assembled group.

"Thank you, everybody. It's wonderful to be back. Your kindness and generosity mean . . . everything to me." She glanced up at Vincent, holding his gaze as she continued. "To us."

His arm tightened around her, and for a moment, she forgot they weren't alone as she sank into the brilliant blue warmth of his gaze.

William's voice broke the silence. "You two planning on eating or are you just gonna stand there and stare at each other all day?" But he was smiling, and his eyes were suspiciously bright.

There was a burst of laughter and affectionate teasing, and people started drifting back to their meals. But there remained in the hall a spirit of celebration, and when, near the end of the meal, William appeared with a cake blazing with candles, nobody reminded him that the day had only just begun.


********************

Chapter 7

********************


The morning sun pushed its first tentative rays through the windows of Diana's loft, covering everything inside with a golden haze. She was already up; she had been for hours. It got like that sometimes, her mind so busy working over the details of a case that it refused to rest. Mark had no such problems. He was still snoring in the next room.

"Did the second set of prints match the first?" Diana held the phone tucked into her shoulder while she snipped out another newspaper photo of Catherine Chandler. "You've had that lamp for a week now."

"Yeah, it looks like it. But Diana, I don’t know what they are." Billy yawned loudly.

She suspected the yawn was intended for her benefit, but she ignored it, more interested in his comment than his lack of sleep. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I can’t identify them."

"That's what everybody keeps saying, but what does it mean?" She dropped the scissors and pinned the picture on her bulletin board. "How can they not know what they are? They're fingerprints!"

"I don’t know, yet." She heard a muffled thud followed by a clink of metal against glass. "We’re still working on it."

Diana stifled a frustrated curse. "Look Billy, just call Russ and have him take a look at them."

"Isn’t he retired?"

"Yeah, but he’ll come out for this." He'd be like a grizzly bear whose hibernation had been interrupted, but— "Just tell him I told you to call."

"Yeah, fine. Whatever. Now, what about the memorial service? You want pictures of everybody?"

"Yes, I want pictures of everybody." Stupid question of the day, she thought. Hopefully it would be the only one.

"You want the prints today, I assume?"

Or not. "Uh huh."

"Got it. Anything else?"

"No, that’s it."

"I’ll see you there, then."

She hung up the phone and took a long drink of coffee, her eyes on the picture she'd just pinned up. Where did you get those cuts? And what doctor stitched them up?

Behind her, she heard the faint sounds that meant Mark was up. A moment later, his hands settled on her shoulders and he began to knead the stress-tightened muscles. She leaned back, relaxing into him.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked quietly.

"A little."

Sighing, he dropped his hands, and a moment later she heard a faint metallic clatter in the kitchen as he prepared his own mug of coffee.

Her eyes returned to Catherine Chandler's grainy image. Tell me your story, she thought. Tell me what happened to you.


********************


After breakfast, Catherine and Vincent found Father in his study. He looked up from a small piece of paper he'd been studying, concern in his eyes.

"Catherine. Vincent. Come in."

Vincent held a chair for Catherine, but instead of taking a seat for himself, he leaned against hers. Father waited until they were settled before handing a newspaper clipping to Vincent. "This arrived a few minutes ago."

Vincent read it without comment and passed it on to Catherine.

She noticed the picture first, a grainy reprint of herself from some society function a couple of years earlier. It was accompanied by a brief article. She scanned it quickly.

"A memorial service?" She handed it back to Father as a frisson of superstitious dread tingled along her spine. "But why?"

"I thought you might know," Father said.

"No, I don’t." Her arm throbbed beneath the bandages, and she shifted it in its sling, trying to find a more comfortable position.

"You were badly injured," Vincent said. "Perhaps they just assumed—"

"Joe would never give up on me. Never. And neither would Jenny." But if they hadn't given up on her, why would they plan a funeral? And then suddenly she understood. "What if the service is a ruse? A ploy to make people think I’m dead?"

"Why would anybody do such a thing?" Father asked.

"So that whoever's after me will stop looking." But as she looked at Father, a horrible realization came to her. "But it won’t work. Damn it!"

"Why?" Vincent asked.

"John Moreno," she said. "He’s dirty."

"The District Attorney?" Father was shocked. "But you’ve always spoken highly of him."

"I respected him. I thought he was one of the good guys." There was an old-fashioned fountain pen on the table, a match for the one Vincent kept in his chamber. Catherine picked it up, turning it end over end in her hand. "He was there the day I was taken," she said quietly. She put the pen down and pushed it away. "They came after me in the parking garage," she said. "But I ran. I thought if I could get back upstairs, back to my office, I could call for help. "

She remembered her relief when the elevator doors had opened and her dismay when she'd discovered the price of her misplaced loyalty. "I made it to the elevator, and when the doors opened at my floor, he was standing there." She shook her head. "I thought it meant I was safe, but there were two men with him. They’d been hiding around the corner, so I didn't see them until it was too late." The pain of Moreno's betrayal was almost as acute now as it had been then. "And he just turned and walked away. I couldn’t believe it."

Without warning, Vincent spun away to pace the chamber with long angry strides.

"Vincent?" She stood up and stepped in front of him, putting her hand on his arm. "There was nothing you could've done."

"I should have been there, Catherine."

"You couldn't have known. The bond was closed, remember?"

"But why? Always before that we could rely on the bond, trust in it to keep you safe. And then suddenly it was gone and you were lost to me!" There was such anguish in his eyes as he covered her hand with his that she instinctively leaned closer.

"I've been thinking about that," Father said quietly. "And I believe I may know what happened."

Vincent turned without releasing Catherine's hand.

"Tell us, Father."

"Your pregnancy, Catherine."

Catherine blinked. "My pregnancy?"

"A woman’s body undergoes a great number of changes during pregnancy," Father said. "Physical and psychological. It's possible that some of those changes might have temporarily blocked your connection."

Catherine thought back to when Vincent had first commented about not being able to sense her. It had been shortly after his breakdown in the cave. Shortly after . . .

As the memories flooded her mind, Vincent tensed, his fingers tightening almost convulsively over hers. He was feeling what she was feeling, maybe even seeing flashes of the things that she had seen that day in the cave. Giving him an apologetic glance, she turned to Father.

"If it was the pregnancy," she asked, "why didn’t the bond come back after the baby was born?"

"It can take several days after a delivery for the imbalances to begin to correct themselves." He seemed quite pleased with himself, as though he had solved a great mystery. "Yes, I think that's exactly what happened."

Catherine felt a rush of relief. She'd been worried that the return of their bond might be temporary. But Father's explanation made sense. Maybe it hadn't been Vincent's illness that had caused their separation after all. At least, not exclusively.

And then, all at once, she realized what she had done.

Had the mysterious, empathic bond been a factor in any other relationship, she would have examined her own role in its existence. But because it was Vincent—because of the very differences in him that she so consistently ignored—she had arbitrarily assigned him sole responsibility for it. And when for some reason he could no longer sense her thoughts and feelings, she had assumed it was because of his illness, and therefore somehow his fault. It never even occurred to her to look for a different explanation—even when a perfectly reasonable alternative was staring her in the face.

How could she have been so self-centered?

Appalled by the injustice she had unwittingly committed against him, she dropped back into the chair, wincing when she jarred her arm.

"Catherine?" Vincent's voice came to her as though from a distance. "Tell me."

But could she tell him? And would he think less of her if she did? She was so caught up in her thoughts that she was only dimly aware of a murmured exchange between Vincent and Father, followed by Father's departure.

"All that time, Vincent. All that time I thought it was you. You couldn't remember things, and you were so weak. I just assumed—" She didn't know how to begin to explain what she had done, much less why she found it so upsetting.

She got to her feet, too restless to sit still. "I've always insisted that you were more human than most people I know, and when you tried to explain that it wasn't so, I brushed it off."

He was so beautiful, so kind and gentle, and he loved her—accepting her for who she was but always encouraging her to move beyond that, to grow and learn and experience the world in every way she could. How could she have done so much less for him?

"It was the same with our bond. I treasured it, reveled in it, sometimes even took advantage of it."

"Catherine—"

She interrupted him with a shake of her head, needing to say all of it before her courage failed her.

"But I never once wondered if there was something about me that made it work!" She shook her head in helpless frustration. "I just accepted it! As though I had some kind of right to it!"

She stopped her pacing to look over at him. "You deserve so much more than that."

He started to reach out to her, but she moved away, pacing again.

"And our bond isn't the only time it's happened," she said, quieter now as she began to understand, really understand, how hard she had made things for him. "Every time something happened that came from that other part of you, I either rationalized it, or ignored it, or took advantage of it—without admitting to myself where it came from or what part I played in it."

She looked over at him again, forcing herself to use the descriptors that gave the otherness about him rare voice. Tawny mane instead of golden hair. Leonine features instead of sculpted cheekbones. Feline grace. Fangs. Claws. Fur. These traits of his were visible, and in her eyes, beautiful. But there were other differences, too, differences she couldn't see or touch, and those were the ones she had ignored.

It was, ironically, a direct counterpoint to Father's own insistence on Vincent's otherness.

No wonder he struggled so. What chance could he possibly have to establish his own identity when he was caught between two such diametrically opposed viewpoints?

Going to him, she reached for his hand. "I once told you," she said softly, "that these were beautiful hands. That they were my hands." She examined the razor sharp claws and thickly furred fingers. "But they're not mine, they're yours. They are different, and they can be dangerous. But they're beautiful, too."

She took a deep breath and looked up to meet his eyes. "You aren't an animal, Vincent." She deliberately chose words he and Father had always avoided—clear, flat statements that didn't disguise the truth. "But you aren't entirely human, either. I know that. And I accept it as part of what makes you who you are. And however you choose to define yourself, know that I love you, all of you, and that I'll do my best to encourage you to seek your own destiny—whatever that may be."

There were tears in her eyes, and in his as well, and when he reached out to her, she allowed herself to be gathered into his arms.

"Can you ever forgive me?" she asked him.

"Catherine . . ." He sighed and rested his head against the top of hers. "You need only forgive yourself."

She leaned into him, wondering that he could dismiss such a terrible injustice so easily.

They stood together until a noise at the top of the stairs brought her head up. Father had returned. He balanced a tray with one hand while he leaned on his cane. "Vincent, would you mind—?"

But Vincent had already stepped away from Catherine to help, taking the tray from Father and setting it on the table. Father settled in his chair and set about pouring tea.

"One of our helpers sent this down," he said. "French vanilla." He handed a mug to Vincent and another to Catherine. "William assures me it tastes just like hot chocolate." His voice was light. Conversational. And Catherine was grateful to him for his tact. But before they could do more than taste the sweet-smelling beverage, there was a scamper of youthful footsteps and Kipper ran in, only to pull up short when he saw that Father had company.

"I'm sorry, Father."

"It's quite all right, Kipper. Do you have a message for me?"

"Oh. Yes." Kipper had been staring at Catherine, but at Father's words he hurried forward, coming down the steps to hand Father a slip of paper. Unfolding it, Father read the brief message.

"Yes," he said. "Please tell her I'll be there in a moment."

"Yes, Father." And with a final backward glance at Catherine, Kipper disappeared back into the tunnels.

"I don't think the children quite believe that you are real," Vincent said with tolerant amusement.

Catherine smiled. "I'm not quite sure I believe it myself."

"So," Father said. "What are we to do about the memorial service?"

Catherine had forgotten all about the service in the discussion that came after. Now her gaze slid back to the newspaper clipping.

"I think," she said, "that it might be best if we acted as though it were true."

"Yes," Father said. "That's what I thought, as well. Vincent?"

"For my part, Father, I'm only glad that she is safe."

Father nodded and pushed himself up from his chair. "All right, then. Those of us who are willing to take part in the illusion will attend the funeral. A good turnout might go far toward convincing people that you really are gone."


********************


Rain, Diana thought. There should be rain, not this bright sunshine that gleamed on the empty casket and made the mourners’ tears sparkle like shattered glass. The only good thing about it was that it gave her an excuse to hide behind the dark anonymity of her sunglasses while she observed the arriving guests.

Joe Maxwell already had a seat in the front row beside a pale, slender woman with short dark hair and red-rimmed eyes. Who was she? Friend? Relative? The two of them had their heads together, talking quietly about something while the woman dabbed at her eyes with a limp tissue. Diana made a mental note to ask Joe who she was.

More people arrived. Some came alone, others in pairs or small groups. A few cried openly, but most just stared at the casket for a while before finding seats in the rows of folding chairs. All of them looked shell-shocked. It was an expression Diana had seen before on the faces of those who mourned an unexpected loss.

Many of the mourners wore clothes from a bygone era. Faded, worn, and ill-fitting, the outfits looked like they'd been culled from garbage dumpsters and homeless shelters. Who were these people? And where did they come from? The distinguished-looking older gentleman especially, the one who stood for so long by the graveside. Was this the elusive Vincent?

Diana shook her head, discarding the idea. He didn't have the look of a bereft lover. Oh, he looked sad. And wise in the ways of the world. This probably wasn't the first time he'd been to a funeral such as this one. But he wasn't desolate, and Diana imagined that the Vincent who had written such beautiful words to his Catherine would be virtually unable to function beneath the weight of her loss.

Elliot Burch arrived, alone and late, in a chauffeured limousine. He stared at the casket for a long time, and there was something lost and broken in his eyes. He, too, had loved Catherine Chandler.

She must have been an extraordinary woman to captivate three such men—one who gave her a fulfilling career, one who gave her Shakespeare, and one who would have given her the world. Had it been difficult for her to choose among them? And what was it about Vincent that had ultimately captured her heart?

Maybe, Diana thought as the simple service got under way, Vincent hadn't been able to bring himself to come at all. A man who loved a woman as much as he seemed to have loved Catherine might find it impossible to accept her death. The thought was an interesting one, and she looked up, her eyes drifting past the mourners to the city beyond.

No, Vincent wasn't here. Vincent was out there, somewhere. Searching for his Catherine.


********************


While the rest of the community attended the service Above, Vincent and Catherine visited the Chamber of the Falls. The stone cavern with its high cliffs and tumbling waterfalls was a magical place, a safe place.

Vincent sat on the floor with his back against a granite boulder and his arm around Catherine, cushioning her from the unforgiving stone. He sensed that she was deeply content, and yet there were shadings of sadness too, like dark threads in a golden tapestry. Those dark places were with her always, now, and he knew that they would remain until their son was safely home.

He reached into his pocket and gathered her necklace in his hand. The crystal caught the torchlight, fragmenting it into a rainbow of colors as he held it out to her.

"My necklace!" She sat up and turned, cupping her hand around it. "I never thought I'd see it again."

That she placed such value in his gift warmed him. "I found it," he said, "in a cave, far beneath the catacombs."

Her eyes darkened with concern. "You went back?"

With gentle hands, he lifted the chain over her head and settled the crystal into place against her throat. "I thought perhaps I would find some sense of you there." He had hoped he might also find his memories, but instead he'd found only shadows.

"There were marks," he said, "in the dirt. Where we—" He looked away, his eyes going to the waterfall. "I found it there. And it reminded me of how your love opened the world for me." He had come dangerously close to giving in to his darker side that day, to leaving his very humanity in the ancient dust of that dark and silent cave. "Finding your necklace, and remembering all that it meant, gave me the strength to go on."

"Then I'm glad I lost it," she said softly. "Because if you hadn't found it, and I had lost you . . ." She lowered her head to his shoulder. "I can't lose you, Vincent. Not ever again."

"Never again," he agreed. His mouth brushed against her hair, and when he inhaled, her scent filled his lungs. He closed his eyes, every sense attuned to the wonder of her presence in his arms.

For a while, they listened to the underground river in silence, but there was something he needed to say to her, something he'd never said before—not because he hadn't wanted to, but because it was so important that she be free, always, to pursue her own destiny.

"Catherine," he said, and her name felt like moonbeams on his tongue. "There was a moment, when the way was still new, and I was afraid to hope. You put your hand on mine, and nothing ever felt like that to me. Like your touch."

He still felt that sense of wonder sometimes. She would touch him, or smile at him, and for an instant it would be as if he were no different from other any other man.

"I wanted to weep. But you turned. And you looked at me. Your eyes were filled with dancing light, and I was bathed in your warmth. And I believed, in that moment, that even for me all things were possible. In that moment, in your light, I felt what it means to be beautiful."

Catherine tilted her head to look up at him. "You are beautiful," she said. "And all the things you want are possible."

Her eyes were clear and bright, and as he looked into them, he thought he saw eternity in their depths. He pressed a kiss against her hairline.

"We promised always to share the truth," he said. "Always. But there is a truth beyond anything . . . beyond everything I've ever known, ever dreamed. A truth—" He lifted his gaze to the waterfalls with their shifting patterns of light and shadow. "—that I could never share with you."

"Why?" There was no accusation in her voice, only curiosity.

"Because in sharing it, I risked tying you to me forever."

"And you didn't want me?"

"No." He was quick to reassure her. "Never that." Her uncertainty disturbed him. It was unlike her to have such doubts.

"These tunnels are my home, Catherine. My destiny. I will never live beyond their boundaries. But you—" despite himself, his arms tightened around her. He knew what he was about to say was true, and yet his heart cried out against it. "You deserve to be free."

"Vincent . . ." She waited until he met her eyes. "Don't you understand yet? When I'm with you is the only time I feel free, the only time I'm truly happy."

For an instant, it was all he could do not to crush her against him. Did she know how deeply she affected him? He didn’t have the words to tell her, and yet somehow, looking into her eyes, he sensed that she understood.

"Now." She settled back against him again with a small sound of contentment. "What is this truth you've been keeping from me?"

"It is the truth," he said, drawing her close and nuzzling his face in the soft silk of her hair, "of how deeply I love you."


********************

Chapter 8

********************


Catherine had the dream again, her fear and anguish pulling Vincent from his own rest to go to her. She never remembered it in the morning, never knew that he came to her, chasing away the demons with his quiet words. But afterwards, when he was certain she was asleep, he often found himself unable to return to his own rest. He never spoke of it, and yet her unhappiness weighed on his heart. And so he would sit, thinking, until the new day began.

Tonight the nightmares had come earlier than usual and with greater force, leaving her tearful and trembling in his arms. It had been a long time before he'd been able to bring himself to leave her side, even after he was certain the nightmare had passed.

When he finally returned to his chamber, he sat in the chair, his mind still on Catherine. In many ways, she was the same woman he had met more than three years ago—strong, capable, and warm. But there were noticeable differences. She doubted herself more. And worried more. And she blamed herself for what had happened to their son. The self-confidence she had worked so hard to achieve had suffered a great blow, and though he would do everything in his power to help her find her way back, he feared it would be a difficult journey.

A sudden burst of anger brought him to his feet. Content at first to pace silently from one end of his chamber to the other, he soon found the space too confining, too restrictive. He picked up his cloak. He would go Above. Perhaps there he would find a measure of peace from the consuming fury he felt toward the man who had done this to Catherine, the man who had hurt her and stolen their son.

Leaving the tunnels behind, he walked quickly, his long strides eating away the miles. He was barely aware of his surroundings, depending on instinct to keep him hidden from those who would do him harm. As always, the city was quiet at this hour. Few people lurked in the shadows, and those who did ignored the cloaked figure that hurried past them and disappeared into the night.

And then, from somewhere deep inside his mind, Vincent sensed the steady beat of a human heart not his own. Nor was it Catherine's. He knew this, knew that she rested safely deep beneath the city. He paused, his eyes scanning the skyline even though he knew that what he sought would only be found within the confines of his own thoughts. What he was feeling, he realized after a moment, was the steady rhythm of an infant's pulse.

His son.

He followed the rhythmic beat, its faint call carrying him through the city until he found himself standing in front of a familiar building. For a long moment, he stared up at the place where Catherine had nearly been taken from him. It was a place of horrors, of almost unbearable memories. He didn't want to be here, but the demanding beat of his son’s pulse drove him to the rooftop.

In his mind's eye, he relived that night. He saw the helicopter and the dark-haired man. He felt his cloak whip against his legs. And he heard . . . Catherine's voice. Behind him. He spun, and she was there again, falling. The memory was so vivid that he moved to catch her in his arms.

But all he caught was air.

He remembered all of it—the throb of the chopper blades, the high, thin cry of his infant son, the fading light in Catherine's eyes—and the poem. Though lovers be lost, love shall not.

Staring up at the night sky, Vincent murmured the rest of the words to the stars.

"And death shall have no dominion."

And as he looked out over the city, Vincent knew what he had to do.


********************


It was nearly dawn when Vincent paused at the entrance to Catherine’s chamber. He hated to wake her, but he had an urgent need to speak with her. He stepped inside.

Two candles were still lit on the bedside table, their soft glow pooling over Catherine. A hand-sewn quilt outlined the gentle curves of her body, the faded patchwork rising and falling with the steady rhythm of her breathing.

She looked so small and delicate, almost fragile, and yet he knew how strong she was, how courageous. She had suffered such terrors, such unbearable loneliness. And she had survived all of it to bear his son. They had a son, and yet he had no memory of what it had been like to love her—of how she had felt in his arms, or the texture of her skin against his, or the womanly secrets that he'd read about but never thought to experience for himself.

He remembered the meeting in Father’s chamber and the sensation of intense pleasure that had flooded their bond when she'd remembered that night in the cave. And suddenly he wanted to experience that pleasure first hand, to take her in his arms and lose himself in her softness.

The wave of desire surprised him with its intensity, and without thinking he reached out, touching her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. The way she was lying, with her injured arm resting on a pillow, left her side exposed. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he let his fingers trail a path along the framework of her ribs and the dip of her waist before coming to rest at her hip, his hand curving itself, almost instinctively, to her shape.

There was no sound—no clatter of the subway, no music of pipe chatter, not even the hiss and splutter of burning torches—to disturb the silence and bring him back to himself. There was only Catherine, and his love for her.

And beneath his hand, her body felt like nothing he'd ever felt before.

He stared down at her. Her lips, slightly parted in sleep, were a delicate shade of pink, her eyelashes dark against her cheeks. And her hair spread out across the white pillowcase like a pool of honey in the snow. Drawn by her beauty, he bent over her with the notion that he had to kiss her—had to taste her lips, and bury his fingers in her hair, and feel the soft curves of her body against the hard planes of his own.

But before he could act on the impulse, she mumbled something unintelligible and rolled to her stomach, dislodging his hand so that it slid down against a part of her he'd never touched and never thought to touch—a soft, tender, utterly forbidden place.

For a moment he was too startled to move. Then he gasped and pulled away from her, away from the surge of passion that threatened to engulf him. Three long strides carried him to the chamber entrance, where he sagged against the wall, sucking in air and contemplating the ceiling while he struggled to bring his body back under control.

He knew what it was to desire a woman. At least, he knew as much about such things as Father's limited library and Devin's childhood forays Above would allow. And he had desired Catherine nearly from the beginning. But always in the past he'd been able to subdue those feelings beneath the weight of his fears for her safety.

Risking a glance in her direction, he allowed himself a sigh of relief when he saw that she still slept soundly, unaware of the strength of his response to her. He waited, breathing deeply, until the hunger subsided. Only then did he approach the bed once more.

"Catherine . . ." She moaned softly in her sleep, a quiet, lonely sound that made Vincent's heart turn over. He brushed the hair away from her face. "Catherine, I must speak with you."

She rolled over and opened her eyes, blinking in the dim light. "Vincent? What’s wrong?" Her fingers brushed across his chest before he caught them in his own. "You've been Above."

"I couldn't sleep." Her gown was tangled, the collar snug against her neck on one side and almost off her shoulder on the other.

"Where did you go?"

Vincent forced his eyes away from the exposed skin, but his fingers itched to touch her. "Nowhere, at first, and then . . . Catherine, I sensed a heartbeat."

Her eyes widened and she pushed herself up against the pillows. "Was it his?"

"I believe so."

"Where? Did you find him? Did you see him?" She leaned forward eagerly.

He shook his head. "No. I only sensed that he is alive. And near." He straightened her blankets, pulling the covers higher and telling himself he was just making sure she was warm. "I found myself back at the place where I first found you. The place where you—"

"The place where I died." Her voice was soft.

"Yes." Her skin glowed with reflected candlelight. Shaded in peach and gold, it called out for his touch.

He forced his mind back to their conversation. "The memory was so real. I felt your presence and his heartbeat." He hesitated. Thinking back. "And I saw the face of the man who took him."

"Dark hair? Narrow face? Thin?"

"Yes." Beside them, the candles flickered in their holders. "Catherine, there must be someone who could help us."

"Joe," Catherine said immediately. But then she shook her head. "No. He'd go straight to Moreno."

"Perhaps I could warn him."

"He’d still go to Moreno. He doesn’t know you. I don’t know how he would react—" She reached for his hand. "But he would believe me."

But Vincent couldn't take that chance. "Father is right, Catherine. The risk is too great. If they learn that you are alive, it would endanger the entire community." He was willing to risk his own life, but not the lives of the people he loved, and especially not Catherine's.

For a moment he thought she might argue with him. Then she sighed and looked away.

He rubbed his thumb along the back of her hand. "There must be somebody else."

"Maybe there is," she said. "Elliot."

"Burch?"

"I trust him," she said. "And he loves me. He would help. I'm certain of it."

"Elliot Burch is a powerful man. He could destroy us."

She shook her head. "I think he’s the only one who can help us."

"Then I will speak with him."

She was frustrated. And worried. He sensed it in her touch and through their bond. It was a feeling he knew well. But he said nothing. The risks he took now were necessary if they were ever to find their son.

"When will you go?" she asked.

"Tonight," he said. "As soon as it is safe."

"Vincent . . . be careful."

He saw hope in her eyes. But he also saw fear. And love. "How could I not?" he murmured, "when I know that you are here awaiting my return?"


********************


"Elliot Burch?" Father's dismay was almost palpable. He'd been in the midst of setting up a game of chess when Vincent had told him of his plans. Now he set the rook in its place and straightened up to stare at Vincent.

"He is our only recourse." Vincent picked up one of the knights and turned it end over end in his hands while he waited for the inevitable outburst.

"Look here, Vincent. You want to find your son. And I can understand that." Father sat down heavily. "But at what risk to yourself? What risk to this world?"

"The risk is only to myself. Our world is safe."

"That's not true." Father shifted a stack of books out of the way. "Elliot Burch almost destroyed us once. How can you be sure he won’t do it again?"

"Elliot Burch has had a thousand chances to betray our world."

"Even so, how can you possibly trust him in this?"

Vincent set the chess piece down. "The child is alone, Father. He needs me." Catherine’s face flashed through his mind, along with the sadness that seemed always to lurk in her eyes. "And he needs his mother."

"And what of us, Vincent? What of the people who need you here?"

Vincent looked up, holding Father’s gaze across the table. "I didn't come here for your counsel," he said quietly. There was steel in his tone, and Father dropped his eyes.

"Believe me, Vincent. I support your purpose."

"But you do not give me your blessing." It was a disappointment, but not a surprise. Father’s first priority was always the safety of the community.

"I think . . ." Father hesitated for a long moment. Then he took a breath. "The child may be lost to us."

"The child," Vincent said fiercely, "is my son." He turned away, ignoring Father's protest. "And now if you will excuse me, I must prepare."


********************


Diana took a fresh mug of coffee back to her desk and set it down on the stained blotter. Tugging her faded gray sweatshirt down over her hips, she stared at the bulletin board, wondering again about the people in Mark’s photos. Who were they? And what had they been to Catherine?

She picked up the book of Dylan Thomas poems and leaned against the desk. When she'd found the book in Cathy's apartment, it had opened almost of its own accord to one particular poem. Diana read it aloud, trying to divine the deeper meaning hidden behind the words.

"Though they go mad they shall be sane;
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion."

Her gaze shifted to the photo of Catherine lying as she'd been found in her apartment, her body placed with such loving care upon the soft coverlet of her own bed.

"And death shall have no dominion."

It was an interesting quote. Especially if it turned out that Cathy Chandler was still alive out there somewhere.


********************


"Then issue more partnership shares," Elliot said. He rounded the crowded conference table and stopped beside the window. It had been a long day, and it was getting late. They'd been going over figures for hours—balance sheets and income statements and profit/loss analyses. His eyes were starting to cross, and numbers were dancing around in his head like a swarm of demented dragonflies.

"It’s no good, Elliot." George Walker shook his head. "Share values are low enough as it is. You can't risk any more dilution."

"Gentlemen. Ladies." Elliot scanned the assembled group of bankers and accountants. "There are twenty-two buildings in this city with my name on them. And you're telling me now that Elliot Burch is a bad credit risk?"

"Well, no," Burton Fitch said. "But people are worried. Burch Properties Group is at a bit of a low ebb right now." Fitch, with his thinning hair and dark suit, looked apologetic.

"Elliot, is there something you're not telling us?" George asked. "Because if you're devaluing shares for a buyback—"

"What are you talking about? Burch Properties is worth what it was always worth."

Walker shook his head. "That's not true. The settlement on the casino fire will probably exceed liability coverage by a figure in the high tens of millions." It was a reminder Elliot didn't need. Even if investigators proved it was arson, his name would always be linked to the two hundred innocent people who had died that day.

"And taking everything into account," Fitch was saying, "the liquidation value today of Burch Properties is—" he paused to check the numbers again, "—about sixty percent of what it was six months ago."

"And that's not counting the cash drain with the D.A.'s restraining order on the Battery project," George said.

"I thought you said we could finesse Moreno."

"It's not just Moreno," said George. "It's coming from everywhere.

Fitch rifled through his notes. "Selling of group shares is across the board. Overseas banks, pension funds, you name it."

"Elliot," George said. "There can't be a single hand behind this. No one man has that kind of power."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, gentlemen." The voice came from a man in the back of the room who'd been silent until now.

Elliot looked up, meeting his security chief's troubled gaze. "What are you saying, Cleon?"

"I'm simply saying there is someone out there. And he's taking you apart. Piece by piece."

A chill ran up Elliot's spine, even though the news came as no real surprise. He already knew the man responsible for Cathy's death was dangerously powerful. And it was patently obvious he didn't appreciate Elliot's determination.

"Where do you hear this, Mr. Manning?" George asked. "On the street corner?"

"I hear it from people like you, Mr. Walker. People who have nice jobs in banks. Nice families in the suburbs. People so scared, they hang up the phone before we get out the question." There was a subtle warning in the security chief's voice, a reminder that there were people in the world who were even more powerful than Elliot Burch.

Burch sighed. His obsession with finding Cathy's killer was going to ruin him, but he couldn't let it go.

"I think you boys should work with Cleon on this thing." He looked around the room, making eye contact with each of the people who had spent the day trying to convince him he was asking the impossible. "There is a connection out there. Please go and find it."

He turned away to stare out over a city he had once thought he would love forever. But he couldn't live in a place where every waking moment brought with it memories of the woman he had loved and lost. After he found her killer, he would leave New York. And he would never come back.

Elliot watched his people gather their things. From across the room, Cleon stared at him. He was worried, Elliot knew. He thought Elliot was pushing too hard, taking too many risks, and that his obsession would destroy him. Burch sighed and dropped his eyes as Cleon left. He might very well be right.

Elliot stayed in his office far into the night. He was standing by the window, staring into the darkness and thinking about Cathy, when a sound in the outer office distracted him, and he turned. At this hour, he should have been alone.

He crossed to his desk and opened the top drawer. There was a handgun there, tucked away in the very back, and he pulled it out. He slid off the safety and crossed to the door, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.

The outer office was empty, but when he turned the corner, he saw one of the janitors emptying the last of the day's trash. Relieved, he nodded. "Evening, Arthur."

Arthur nodded politely and went back to his work. Elliot watched him for a moment before returning to his office. He was jumpy, and he scolded himself for his paranoia as he reached for the drawer pull. Whoever was after him wouldn't pursue him here. That person wanted him to suffer. He was about to put the gun away when something, a movement, a shadow, or maybe simple self-preservation, made him lift his head.

A tall, cloaked figure stood in the darkened doorway. It had appeared silently and unannounced, like a spectre out of a horror movie.

"Elliot Burch?"

He gripped the gun and straightened, straining to see through the shadows. "Who the hell are you?"

"No one to fear." The voice was male and cultured, without noticeable accent.

Elliot kept his gun ready as he moved across the room. Without taking his eyes off his visitor, he bent to switch on a lamp.

"Don't. Please."

Slowly, Elliot lowered his hand to his side. The darkness put him at a disadvantage, and yet for some reason he felt he had nothing to fear from this man. "How do you know me?"

"We shared something." A siren wailed in the distance, its pitch faint and distorted this many floors above the street. "A friend. Somebody very dear to us both."

"Who?"

"Catherine." The visitor paused. Then, "My name is Vincent."

"Vincent." Burch knew that name. Diana Bennett had mentioned it. "You know about me from what she told you?"

"Yes."

The answer implied intimacy between the woman he'd loved and this stranger, and Elliot swallowed against a stab of jealousy. "What do you want from me, Vincent?"

"I need your help."

"Why should I help you?" Tension knotted his shoulders and tightened his grip on the gun.

"I do not do this for myself." There was a pause. The shadowy form shifted uneasily. "I saw the man who killed her."

The news stunned Elliot. He lowered the gun to his side. "You were—"

"I was there, with her, at the . . . end." Vincent's head dropped. He looked away. "I was too late."

Like a bloodhound who'd just scented prey, Elliot forgot about everything except the chase. "Who is this man? Do you know him?"

"No. But his face is burning inside my mind." Vincent hesitated long enough that Elliot knew the next words didn't come easily. "Will you help me?"

Elliot considered the request, but he already knew what his answer would be. He would do anything to find Cathy's killer. But did Vincent know that? Tilting his head, he stared hard at the lurking shadow. "Why should I help you?"

"Because you loved her, too."


********************

Chapter 9

********************


Catherine felt oddly adrift. She wandered the passages, greeting other members of the community in an absent-minded way when she came across them, but never pausing for long. She didn’t feel much like socializing. She was too distracted. Vincent was risking his life in a search that should have been as much hers as it was his.

Eventually, she ended up in the pipe chamber. There was comfort in the maze-like tangle. Even now, late as it was, she could hear the distinctive metallic clang of a transmission in progress.

Pascal looked up when she came in and gave her a brief nod before returning to his work. Catherine listened carefully, pleased when she was able to pick out a few words—something about a donation from one of the helpers. Settling on the floor, she leaned her back against the stone wall and watched Pascal tap out messages with the practiced finesse of an orchestra conductor.

A few moments later, he signaled a final acknowledgement and set down his pipe. He crossed to where she sat and lowered himself beside her, stretching his legs out along the stone floor.

"Quiet night," he said.

She nodded.

"Where’s Vincent?"

"Above."

"Strange," Pascal said. "Him up there and you down here."

She nodded. "I feel so helpless. He’s in danger, and all I can do is sit here and wait."

"Fate has a nasty way of turning the tables on you sometimes, doesn't it."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that he’s usually the one worrying about you."

"But that's different, isn't it? I mean, he always knew."

Pascal shrugged. "He still worried. He didn't talk about it much, but I could always tell."

Vincent had never said anything, had only rarely asked her to be careful. What must that have been like for him? And where had he found the strength to let her keep going back to her world, time after time, even though he had known he could lose her in an instant?

Catherine had wondered before if she had ever subconsciously put herself in danger in order to bring Vincent to her side. Now she realized for the first time how much worry her very lifestyle must have caused him. And tonight he was endangering himself on her behalf once more, and she was feeling sorry for herself because she wasn't there in his place.

The least she could do was respect his need for her to be safe. She let out a sigh and cast a rueful glance at Pascal.

"You know," she said. "Vincent’s lucky to have you for a friend."

"No." Pascal shook his head. "It’s us who are lucky to have him."


********************


Joe was watching television when the knock came. He wore a faded sweatshirt and comfortable jeans, and the coffee table was covered in takeout containers and old newspapers. He glanced at the mess and shrugged. It was probably just a salesman anyway.

But when he opened the door, it wasn't to a magazine salesman. Instead Elliot Burch stood there, cool and elegant in his thousand dollar suit and matched set of bodyguards. Perfect.

"Elliot Burch at my doorstep?" Joe didn't even try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "I'm speechless."

"Hello, Joe."

There was something in Burch's voice, something . . . beaten. But Joe ignored it. He didn't like the guy. As far as he concerned, Burch was a slimy, power-hungry egomaniac who would climb over any and everybody to get what he wanted.

"Let me guess. You bought my building, and you're here for the rent."

Behind Burch, the bodyguards exchanged an uneasy glance, but Elliot just gave him a weak smile. "Do you think I could come in?"

Joe glanced at the mess in the living room, reluctant.

Burch took a step closer, his hands lifted in something that looked remarkably like a plea for help. "It's about Cathy."

"She's dead, Elliot." Or at least, she was as far as the general public knew. Privately, Joe was still hoping for a miracle. "Why don't you stop chasing her?"

Burch’s response was prompt. "Why don't you?"

Joe sighed as the shot hit home. "Look, what do you want?"

"I got a lead on her killer."

A lead. It was more than Joe had, even after all these months. If it panned out . . . he stepped aside. Some things were more important than pride. "Come on in."

It took twenty minutes for Burch to tell his story, twenty minutes during which Joe stared at him in growing disbelief. By the end of it, Joe was pacing the floor and thinking that when Burch showed up at his door he should've slammed it, locked it five ways to Sunday, and headed for the fire escape. Barring that option, he was about half a step away from breaking the man's nose.

"All I'm hearing are complaints about the D.A.'s office," he said. "And I don't even work there now."

"You ever ask yourself why?"

Joe turned, hands on his hips. "I never had to. My boss made it real clear. I was acting against orders."

"Do you think he was right?"

"Maybe." Joe folded his arms across his chest. "Why, what's your point?"

"Cathy worked there, too. Doesn't the D.A.'s office take care of its own?"

"What are you driving at?" Was Burch suggesting that somebody in the District Attorney’s office was dirty? It was impossible. Unthinkable.

"Six months ago, when Cathy disappeared, everybody got interested and started looking into it." Elliot leaned forward in the overstuffed chair as he made his point. "Two people looked harder than the rest. And after a while, it started looking hopeless. People lost interest. Except," he looked pointedly at Joe, "you and me." He paused for a moment, but he didn’t break eye contact. "We got warned off. But we didn't pay attention to the warnings." His gaze took on a new intensity as he continued. "And then the warnings started to hurt."

"Come on, you're giving me coincidences like they prove something." In his gut, Joe sensed the truth of what Elliot was saying, but it was a kind of truth he wasn't prepared to hear.

"They're not coincidences, Joe. It's all coming from the same man."

"Who? Moreno?" Joe couldn't believe Elliot would even suggest it.

"The man Moreno works for."

"No." Not John. Not the man who had given him his start in the legal profession, mentored him through his toughest cases, and taught him everything he knew about being a lawyer. "Not a chance."

"You can't know that."

"I'll tell you what I know." Joe tried not to let desperation creep into his voice. "I know Moreno."

"Whoever killed Cathy has a direct line into your office," Elliot pointed out reasonably. "To somebody powerful enough to suspend you, and launch a witch hunt against me."

Something occurred to Joe. It didn't have to be Moreno pulling the strings. There was another suspect. "Maybe it's this guy Vincent nobody seems to be able to find."

Elliot dropped his head back against the chair. "It's not him."

"How do you know?"

"I know."

Stated as fact. Burch knew something he wasn’t sharing.

"Maybe it's nobody." Joe eyed Elliot across the cluttered coffee table. "Let me ask you something." He picked up an empty Chinese food box and tossed it in the trash. "How much is Moreno costing you by holding up your building permit?"

Elliot shook his head. "That's not it, Joe."

"You know what else I don't like about this picture, Burch?" Another box followed the first. "Time after time I saw you put Cathy on the line when there was something in it for you." He reached for a beer bottle and dropped it on top of the boxes. "And now you're back here doing the same thing to me."

Finally moved to anger, Elliot came up out of his chair. "You've got no idea how wrong you are!"

Joe crossed the room and yanked open the door. "I think it's time for you to leave."

"Joe, listen. I'd at least like you to promise me that you'll look into it."

"I'm not promising you anything." He gestured at the open doorway. "Have a nice day."

Elliot sighed and crossed to the door, only to turn back at the last moment. "You ask Moreno what's at 1900 Sixth Avenue."


********************


Vincent was on his way to Catherine’s chamber when Father's voice made him stop and turn around.

"Vincent, did you see Elliot Burch?"

He waited for Father to catch up. "Yes."

"Is he going to help you?"

Vincent started walking again. He was still angry with Father for suggesting that he and Catherine abandon the search for their son. But now was not the time for a confrontation. "He has agreed to help."

"Does this mean that you're going to risk seeing him again?"

Stunned that Father would even ask such a question, Vincent stopped again. "Yes, I will risk seeing him." He turned and gripped Father's shoulders. "I would risk everything. Would you do any less for me?"

There was a moment of tense silence before Father looked away. Vincent left him standing there. He needed to see Catherine, needed to reassure himself that the peace he sensed in her was real.

He found her sitting beside her bed, reading a book. Her arm was still in the sling, and an array of candles glowed at her side. She looked up at his entrance, and for an instant he imagined what it might be like to come home to her every night. The thought froze him in his tracks, and for the fraction of a moment it took him to catch his breath, he allowed himself to dream.

Catherine set the book aside and stood up to meet him.

"Did you see Elliot?" she asked, as he put his arms around her and inhaled the clean scent of her hair.

"Yes."

She searched his eyes. "How did he look? Is he okay?"

How like her to think of others before herself. "He seemed troubled. There are people who are making things difficult for him."

"Because of me?"

He shook his head. "Because he searches for the truth."

"About who killed me."

"Yes."

She laid her head against his chest. He stroked her back and wished that he could spare her this sadness.

"He has agreed to help," he said after a few moments. Then he smiled against her hair. "Though I believe he found my presence . . . uncomfortable."

He sensed her quiet amusement through the bond. "Did he see you?"

"No," he murmured. "The room was dark, and I stood in the shadows."

"He's a good man, Vincent. If he said he would help, he will."

"Yes." Though, Vincent wondered, at what cost?


********************


Diana stood on Catherine Chandler's balcony again, her thoughts going in the same endless circles and running up against the same dead ends. She looked around, trying to see the balcony through Catherine's eyes. At the far end, beyond the wrought iron table and furniture, there was a bench with a potted plant on it. Diana crossed to it and knelt down for a closer look.

It was a rose bush. A bedraggled little thing, with browning leaves and two drooping buds, it looked like it was mourning the loss of its mistress. There was a plastic card stuck into the arid soil, and Diana leaned close to read the small print. A grafted bush. Red and white. Blooming, it would've been a lovely thing to see.

There was life in it yet, she realized, as she touched a barren stem, but there wouldn't be for long. She made an impulsive decision to take it back to her loft. Maybe she could revive it. For now, though, there was other work to be done.

She went back inside and crossed to Catherine's desk. There was a small picture frame near the lamp. Diana picked it up. It held a child's drawing. A violin maybe? Beneath the picture were the words, "You're invited." Curious, she turned the frame over and slid off the backing. The folded construction paper brought back memories of second grade—of crayons, and thick paste, and Jeremy Blankenship pulling her hair.

"The children are giving a concert tonight. Meet me Below at the threshold. ~Vincent."

"…the threshold Below . . ." She pondered the words. Below what?


********************


Whatever Joe’s personal feelings about Elliot Burch were, the man had made some valid points. Points Joe would have liked to discount as the desperate fabrications of a desperate man. And yet Moreno had been behaving oddly for months, and there was just enough doubt in Joe’s mind that he knew he wouldn’t be able to ignore Burch’s accusations until he asked some questions.

Which was what had brought him to Moreno's office. He took a deep breath and knocked once, then went in without waiting for an invitation.

"Hey, Boss. Burning the midnight oil?"

Moreno looked up and smiled a welcome. "You know how it is. It never stops coming down around here." He closed the folder he'd been studying and glanced at his watch. "Wait a minute. Time fly by that fast? The two months up already?"

"No." Joe shook his head and leaned against the doorframe. He wanted to look casual, as if this was a simple social call. "I just felt like dropping by for a visit."

"If you tell me you actually miss this place, I'm gonna give you another two months."

Joe grinned. "Hey, I'm guilty. What can I say? Soap operas have got nothing on this circus."

"You should relax," Moreno said, waving Joe to a chair. "Enjoy your vacation."

As Joe settled himself in the familiar chair, he tried to ignore the little voice in his head that kept accusing him of disloyalty. "What's this new mess Elliot Burch stepped in?"

"This one's no fun, Joe." John pushed aside a stack of folders. "You know I don't like to poke sticks at rich guys, I don't care what the papers may say."

"No, I know." Which wasn't entirely true, but Joe was willing to play along for the time being in order to see where the conversation would go.

Moreno shook his head in a passable imitation of regret. "Fact is, the guy's dirty."

"He keeps saying he can't defend himself because all his sources are confidential," Joe said.

"No one likes to stand in the light when they're pointing the finger at a guy like Burch."

"You think he's dangerous?"

"Anybody with that kind of power is dangerous, Joe. Believe me." There was something of personal knowledge in Moreno's eyes. "Why the interest?"

"Oh I don't know. A guy like that, spends most of his time on the front page," Joe shrugged. "After a while he seems bigger than life." He stood up and started for the door. Then, pretending he'd remembered something, he turned back. "John, the other day I was cleaning out some old files and I found something on the Chandler case that I never got a chance to look into." He watched John carefully, gauging his reaction.

"Joe," Moreno said. "You've gotta let this thing rest." He was trying for paternal patience, but Joe sensed the underlying tension in John's shoulders. He almost let it go at that, dreading what he might learn. Then he thought about Cathy.

"I know. I just wanted to run it by you to see if maybe it rang a bell."

"What is it?"

"An address someone gave me. 1900 Sixth Avenue? You know, that tower right off Fifty-Third?"

Fear flitted through Moreno's eyes so quickly that Joe would have missed it if he hadn’t been paying attention. He recognized the address and knew what it meant.

"Yeah, I know where it is, but it doesn't do anything for me. I'm sorry."

Moreno was lying. Joe was certain of it. He wouldn't meet Joe's eyes, and he started fiddling with his pen the way he always did when he was nervous.

"Think it'd be worth checking out the tenants? My tip came from a solid source."

Moreno nodded slowly. "I can put some people on it." But he didn't look very enthusiastic about the idea, and Joe figured he knew why.

"I got nothing else to do, why don't I just go down—?"

"Joe." John's voice was firm, and it carried a note of warning. "You're still on suspension."

"Yeah, right." Joe picked up his jacket and tried to pretend his world hadn't just been shaken to its foundation. "I'll see you later."


********************


Vincent had arranged with Elliot that their second meeting should take place at the carousel. As he gathered his cloak and prepared to leave, Catherine put her hand on his arm.

"Let me come with you."

"Catherine . . . no."

"You're going Above because of me, because of our son." She touched the cord of the leather pouch he wore around his neck. "You shouldn't have to bear that risk alone."

He started to shake his head, but she interrupted him.

"You’ve done so much for me, Vincent. Let me be there for you now. Let me help."

For a long moment, he stared at her in silence. Finally he nodded. "But you must not be seen."

"I'll be careful. I just need to be close."

"Perhaps I know someone who can help." He took her hand. "Come."

A few minutes later, he showed her into a long, narrow chamber lined on both sides with clothing-filled wooden racks.

"Julia?" Vincent called. "Do you have a moment?"

"Coming . . ." A woman's light voice sang out from somewhere in the darkness. "Just let me . . . there. That should do it." The voice had an accent. Irish? Scottish? It was a lovely, lilting, friendly sort of voice.

A moment later, a petite woman with a cloud of fiery red hair came around one of the racks, her arms filled with clothes. "Vincent! Hello!" She smiled at him before turning her curious gaze on Catherine. "And you must be the mysterious Catherine I've heard so much about. Welcome."

"Thank you." Catherine returned Julia's infectious grin.

"Julia is new to the tunnels," Vincent said. "And she has made it her mission to rescue us from ourselves." There was gentle humor in his eyes.

Julia laughed. "The way you tell it, you'd think I could summon the very faeries from their dance."

"You perform a vital service for our community," Vincent said, and Catherine marveled at his ability to make people feel special.

Shaking her head, Julia set down the bundle of clothing. "And you have the devil's own way with words." She turned and leaned a slim hip against an old wooden table. Folding her arms across her chest, she tilted her head. "You've come here looking for something, I'd guess. Something specific?"

Vincent nodded. "A disguise."

"What sort of disguise?"

"It's for me," Catherine said. "For when I go Above."

Julia raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?" she asked bluntly.

Vincent winced, but Catherine smiled, disarmed by Julia's frank manner. "Yes."

"I see . . ." Julia eyed Catherine up and down. "Turn," she said.

Catherine did, spinning in a slow circle while Julia watched. "Right," she said, after a moment’s consideration. "I've got just the thing."

She disappeared into the shadows, and Catherine gave Vincent a puzzled smile. But he shrugged and shook his head. As the minutes passed, Catherine began to wonder if Julia had disappeared altogether. Then they heard a shout of triumph followed by a muffled thump. Moments later, Julia reappeared.

"I knew it was back there somewhere," she said, patting the bundle of dark fabric. "Hadn't seen it in weeks, though. Been waiting for the right person for it." She eyed Catherine up and down again. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I think you'll do nicely." She thrust the bundle at Catherine. "Here," she said. "Let's see how it looks."

At first, Catherine wasn't sure what Julia had given her. And then all at once she understood, and she broke into a wide smile. "It's beautiful."

Julia nodded. "Isn't it just lovely?"

"Vincent?" Catherine asked. "Would you mind?" She still wore the sling, and the cloak was too heavy to manage one-handed.

He took it from her and laid it across her shoulders. The soft woolen fabric settled around her with a swirl. It was dark green, so dark as to be almost black, its borders embroidered in an intricate Celtic design in the same deep shade.

Vincent pulled the edges of the cloak together beneath Catherine's chin. His fingers lingered, the soft fur brushing against her skin, his eyes warm and appreciative on hers.

"Now, if we just—" Julia ducked around Vincent and reached across Catherine's shoulders to catch the wide hood. She tugged it up over Catherine's hair. "There, now. If you stay in the shadows even the leprechauns will have trouble finding you."

Catherine blinked as Vincent stepped away. Then she forced a smile and turned to Julia. "It's perfect, Julia. Thank you."

Julia cocked her head to one side, studying Catherine. "You'll be needing more than a cloak if you're to be with us for a while." She looked at Vincent. "She is staying—"

Catherine's heart stumbled as she considered his possible answers and their implications, but he merely reached for her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers as he nodded.

"Yes."

The breath Catherine hadn't realized she'd been holding escaped in a rush, drawing curious glances from both Vincent and Julia. She ducked her head, grateful for the dim lighting and the cloak, both of which helped to hide her blush.

"I tell you what," Julia said. "We're near enough the same size. How about if I collect a few things and drop them by your chamber later on?"

"That would be wonderful, Julia. Do you know where it is?"

Julia waved aside the question. "I'll find it, right enough. Now, you two had better get going. The night won't last forever, you know."


********************


Learn to be just, and not to slight the Gods. You have been warned. The line, from The Aeneid, replayed itself in Elliot's mind over and over, backed by the horrifying image of Cleon's body as they'd found it in the garage an hour earlier. Hung spread-eagled from an overhead beam, head canted at an unnatural angle, Cleon's corpse had worn an expression of stark terror, and Elliot squeezed his eyes shut against it.

The warning was intended for him.

When the car stopped, Elliot got out without waiting for his bodyguard to open the door. He tugged the edges of his jacket together, though whether to ward off the chill in the air or the one in his mind, he couldn't have said.

"Stay with the car."

"Mr. Burch . . ." The bodyguard peered into the darkness beyond his boss’s shoulder. "Are you sure?"

But Elliot was already moving away. "Ten minutes," he snapped over his shoulder.

The carousel, bright hub of the park on lazy summer afternoons, seemed almost sinister at this hour, and Elliot glanced around uneasily as he reached for the door. It was unlocked, as he’d been told it would be, and it creaked as he pulled it open. He took a breath and stepped inside. He was on his way to meet an enigma. An unknown entity, this Vincent was also the best chance he had of finding the man who'd killed Cathy.

Inside, the carved horses waited in eerie silence, their music stilled, their brightly painted forms dulled by the glowering shadows. Somewhere in the darkness a small animal skittered away from Elliot's invasion. The air was still and musty, laced with the lingering odors of axle grease and stale popcorn.

"Vincent?" Elliot called. There was no answer, and he moved further inside, peering into the hidden places and trying not to think about spiders and rodents and rabid bats. "Vincent!"

"I'm here."

The low voice came from behind him, and Elliot spun around as a hulking figure materialized from the shadows. Cloaked again, his face hidden deep within the dark hood, Vincent seemed almost a shadow himself. Elliot took a step closer.

"Come no further," Vincent said.

There was a warning in the velvet tones, and though Elliot didn't consider himself a timid man, he froze.

"You're alone?"

Elliot nodded, but Vincent looked around anyway, the hood shifting with the motion of his head. Apparently satisfied, he turned back to Elliot. "Tell me what you have found."

"What I've found," Elliot said, unable to keep the grief and anger out of his voice, "is a connection to the district attorney of Manhattan."

"What is it, Elliot?"

The concern in Vincent's tone almost undid Elliot's control. He took a steadying breath. "This man that you recognize. The man you saw in the helicopter. If he's powerful enough to control the district attorney—" He looked away, gritting his teeth against his anger. "He killed two hundred and thirteen people in a hotel fire. My hotel!" He wanted to hit something, to wreak his vengeance on the invisible enemy that was slowly destroying him. "And tonight he killed a man who worked for me. A friend."

Turning away, he rested his palms against the cool flank of one of the carousel horses and dropped his head. When he spoke again, his voice was little more than an agonized whisper.

"And they left his corpse as a warning." He shoved at the horse. It shuddered violently, the sudden friction against its steel post creating an eerily human squeal of pain. "What kind of man is this?"

"The way is dangerous, Elliot." There was sympathy in the low voice. "You are not bound to continue."

"It's not dangerous, Vincent." Elliot shook his head at the shadowy form. "It's suicide."

Vincent was silent for so long that Elliot began to wonder if the meeting was over. When Vincent finally spoke again, his voice was quiet. Tense. "There is something more that you should know."

Elliot waited, certain somehow that he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear.

"There is a child."

Air exploded from Elliot's lungs in a harsh exhalation of surprise.

"This man," Vincent went on, "is raising Catherine's child."

Cathy had had her secrets. Elliot knew that. And he had always respected her privacy. Hell, he had plenty of secrets of his own. But a child? Then, as he stared at Vincent, he suddenly understood, and shock made him stagger back a step.

"It's your child."

Vincent shook his head—a slight movement that barely shifted the folds of the dark hood. "The child is hers, Elliot."

Elliot pushed his hand through his hair and stared at Vincent, stunned by this latest bombshell. A child. A picture formed in his mind of Cathy, holding a baby in her arms and smiling softly. The image sparked an ache of longing deep in his chest.

"What do you want from me?" He clenched his teeth against the pain of loss. Cathy. Cleon. His company. What would it be next?

"Help me find him," Vincent said. "Help me find him and bring him home."

Elliot wrapped his hand around one of the cold steel poles and stared at Vincent. Help him? How did Vincent think he could help? What did he even have left to offer?

Everything he had, he'd earned through hard work and determination and a grim refusal to accept defeat. No way was he going to let some faceless stranger take it all away from him without a fight. He couldn't bring Cathy back, but he could help this man save her son.

Slowly, without taking his eyes off Vincent's shadowy form, he nodded.

"Tell me what I can do."


********************

Chapter 10

********************


Every night, before retiring to the den to watch the evening news, Gabriel toured his house. It was a ritual he undertook, not out of pride, but simply to keep a running inventory. He kept a list in his mind of all the treasures he owned, and another of all the treasures he desired, and every night he compared the two. Invariably, the second list was longer.

His past always accompanied him on these nightly tours, the spectre of Raul's ghost following him down the long hallways and through the silent rooms. Short, swarthy, and vicious, Raul had bought him and his brother Snow from their father in settlement of a five hundred dollar gambling debt. Gabriel had been five at the time, his brother seven. Days later, Gabriel had received a brutal introduction to Guatemala's back alleys.

Now, when he stopped in the formal dining room, with its two fireplaces and hand carved sideboard, he saw the moldy cardboard boxes he'd lived in as a boy. When he ran his fingers over a high-backed captain's chair, he felt the warm stickiness of his own blood—though whether from a street fight or one of Raul's beatings, he couldn't have said.

In the kitchen, he stared at the bright cookware hanging from pegs on the ceiling, and remembered eating rotten fruit and spoiled meat without bothering to pick out the maggots. On good days, when Raul had been pleased with them, he and Snow might have gotten a bit of hard cheese. But those times were few and far between.

Gabriel let his gaze drift over the room with its marble countertops and large windows. Every item was the best that money could buy, including the carbon steel knives on their magnetic strip near the stove. The knife Snow had used to kill Raul with had been similar in style to one of those, but double bladed and dull. Raul had died in excruciating agony while Snow had watched without expression and Gabriel had cried, blood and tears mixing together to stream down his face.

It was the first time Snow killed, and the last time Gabriel cried.

In the bedrooms, Gabriel stared at thick mattresses and silk sheets and remembered dirty straw and biting rats. The bathrooms, with their claw-footed tubs and gleaming fixtures, recalled the stink of raw sewage and unwashed bodies.

He moved on to his private suite. Opening the mirrored doors of his closet he saw, not hand-tailored silk or Egyptian cotton, but grimy rags. Instead of deep, lush carpets and Italian tile floors, he saw garbage-strewn alleys.

He and Snow had come a long way since those days in Guatemala City. They'd survived the slums and the beatings and the sweatshops, and built themselves an empire. But the final piece of the puzzle, the culmination of his dreams, was lying in a nursery at the end of the hall. He hurried his pace, eager to gaze upon the future.

Julian. Gabriel rolled the syllables on his tongue. The name of the last great pagan emperor was a fitting one for his son. He closed the door before crossing the thick carpet to the crib.

The baby was awake, his eyes tracking Gabriel's approach. Gabriel's ring glittered with reflected moonlight when he reached in to pull the blanket aside, and Julian grabbed at it.

"Go on," Gabriel urged, when the tiny hand released its hold. "Grasp it." His soft voice whispered through the quiet room. "Don't be afraid." Eventually, Julian would wear the ring. And he would rule the world. "The day will come when you will know the truth."

Darwin had been right when he’d written about survival of the fittest. Gabriel and Snow were living proof of evolutionary theory. They had survived, and thrived, despite their childhoods. Or possibly because of them.

And fate had rewarded Gabriel's survival by giving him a son.

Outside, one of the dogs howled. The call was answered by its mate on the other side of the compound, and Gabriel lifted his head, listening. The animals were part wolf and trained to kill.

"When the ring is on your finger," Gabriel said, looking back down at Julian, "that day your life will truly begin." The little hands were strong for one so small, but Gabriel wasn't surprised. Julian's sire also had unusual strength.

"Listen to the shadows." His thin lips turned up in a cold smile. "Nothing is impossible." He'd proven that himself, having begun life as a slum rat and risen to control the fate of nations.

"The truths are so simple." Money was power. People existed only to serve that power.

"Their fear will build your castles." Know an opponent's weakness, his fear, and you control him. "Their greed will make them slaves." Gambling, and its big brother, greed, had been his father's weaknesses, and Raul had exploited them mercilessly. It was one of Gabriel's earliest lessons, and one he'd never forgotten.

"Look when they close their eyes," he continued, drawing out the words, dreaming of the future. "Push forward whenever they pull back. Eat the meals they dare not taste."

Julian's eyes followed Gabriel's every move. They had a disturbing clarity to them, as though the baby could see into Gabriel's very soul. Gabriel looked away and pulled the blanket back into place.

"The power will come. So easy." One day, Gabriel and Julian would rule the world. It would be Earth's greatest family-owned business. "Century after century, the truths never change."

He looked up, gazing out the window. "Someday."

His low chuckle rolled through the quiet room, and Julian began to cry.


********************


Catherine and Vincent were quiet during the walk back to Vincent's chamber. When they arrived, Catherine dropped wearily onto the bed. Her thoughts had been chaotic since they'd left the carousel. She knew Vincent was aware of it, but he didn't push her. Instead, he put his cloak away and busied himself lighting candles.

She watched him, only distantly aware of the steady grace of his hands and the sudden glow of flame against his fur when he struck a match.

"It's because of me, Vincent." It was all spinning out of control, and she wanted to stop it, wanted to get off the merry-go-round and run away, only she couldn't. She couldn't do anything at all. "Those people in that hotel, Elliot's friend . . ."

Vincent blew out the match and set it aside. "It isn't because of you, Catherine. Those people were murdered by an evil man. He is the only one to blame for this."

His voice was as warm and beautiful as ever, but she found little comfort in it. "I wish I could see Elliot, tell him how sorry I am." But would it even matter anymore? Or was it already too late?

Finished with the candles, Vincent turned his chair around and sat down, leaning forward to take her hands in his. "Elliot Burch chose his path months ago, Catherine."

She looked up, meeting his eyes. "Why didn't you tell him it was our baby?"

"Because I fear," Vincent said, "that Elliot is not ready for us. For the truth of us."

"Do you really think it would shock him so much?"

Vincent sighed. "Catherine," he said. "When you look at me, you see only the man that you love. The man who loves you." His gaze dropped to their joined hands. "But when other people look at me, people who judge only on what their eyes tell them . . . These people see only a monster."

"Then they're mistaken." She touched his brow, smoothing her fingers along his hairline and down to his jaw. "And because of it, they'll never have the chance to know what a wonderful man you are." Laying her hand on top of his, she said, "But I think you misjudge Elliot."

"Perhaps. But it is a risk I'm not yet prepared to take."

He lifted his fingers and laced them through hers. Dark fur, pale skin, dark fur, pale skin. Contrast. Repeating patterns. Male and female, yin and yang, dark and light. To Catherine, the pattern was almost achingly beautiful. But would Elliot see it that way? Or would he be unable to see beyond the very differences that made Vincent who he was?


********************


Diana returned to Cathy Chandler's apartment, drawn by the mystery of the invitation she'd found on the desk. She should have taken it with her before, but somehow it had seemed wrong to take it from its place of honor. The picture, drawn with crayons on a piece of faded construction paper, was interesting enough, but the elegant script inside was what intrigued her. Now she sat on the back of the couch mulling over the cryptic words again.

". . . The threshold Below . . ." Who used words like that anymore? College professors? Shakespearean actors practicing their craft? Elegant old men with hand-carved pipes and smoking jackets? And what the hell did Below mean? Below what? With a shrug, she got to her feet. Maybe the basement would offer a clue or two. It was below something, after all.

Minutes later she was ducking under cobwebs and around dust covered boxes and discarded furniture. She poked into dark corners and tried the doors of the storage rooms, sneezing occasionally and shuddering each time she felt a spider crawl up her arm or around her collar. Finally, frustrated and grimy, she stopped in the middle of one of the largest rooms.

"Okay," she said, looking around her. "Below. The threshold Below." How much more Below could she get?

Then she saw it, a dark gap behind a stack of boxes. She moved the boxes aside and peered into the hole she'd uncovered. A ladder disappeared into the darkness. She shrugged. The invitation had clearly used the word Below. So, below she would go.

She climbed down and turned around, examining the narrow space. It was a tunnel of some kind. Dry and cool, it led off into the darkness. She'd need to come back with a flashlight. And maybe a way to mark her path so she wouldn't get lost. And she'd stop at City Hall, first. Maybe they'd have a map.

But what did she really expect to find down here? It hardly seemed plausible to expect elegant old gentlemen and child prodigies, as the invitation seemed to suggest. More likely, her wanderings down here would only afford her a deeper acquaintance with New York City's decrepit sewer system and its fabled rats.

With a shiver of distaste, she turned back to the ladder.


********************


Joe burst into Elliot Burch's office unannounced. "What's at 1900 Sixth Avenue?" he demanded. He was tired of playing games—of chasing mysteries that turned into shadows that became enigmas. He wanted answers. And he wanted them now.

Elliot looked up from his work, set down his pen, and leaned back in his chair. "You talked to Moreno," he said calmly.

"I did."

"And?"

"Why don't you tell me what 1900 Sixth Avenue is?" Putting his hands on the desk, Joe leaned forward, deliberately invading Elliot's personal space.

But he wasn't expecting the quiet answer.

"It's where Cathy died."

Joe stumbled back to sit in the closest chair, a soft leather contraption that probably cost more than his entire month's salary. "Jesus."

There was a moment of painful silence in the room. Then it occurred to Joe that Burch knew a lot more about Cathy's case than casual interest would seem to warrant, and in an instant he was on his feet again.

"How do you know?"

Elliot shook his head. "I can't tell you that."

"Why not? Are you protecting someone?" Or was Burch himself somehow connected with Cathy's disappearance? God knew the man wasn't exactly lily-pure. "How do you know so much?"

"It doesn't matter how I know," Elliot said.

"The hell it doesn't!"

And then Elliot was up too, anger propelling him across the desk. "Moreno's dirty, Joe! We both know that!"

Joe lowered his eyes, unwilling to acknowledge the truth of Burch's words.

Elliot sat down again. He'd made his point, and he knew it. "What’s important is that he may be the only link we have to whoever killed Cathy."

Defeated, Joe dropped back into the chair. "I don't believe this is happening."

Elliot shook his head. "I'm so sorry."

But Joe didn't answer. There was nothing left to say.


********************


When Kipper had first told Vincent about the red-haired stranger he'd seen in the tunnels beneath Catherine's building, Vincent had kept the news to himself, not wanting to worry Catherine or Father. In truth, he had hoped that the woman, upon finding nothing of interest Below, would never return.

But she had come back, only hours after her first visit, and Kipper had sent for him as soon as he'd seen her. He'd wanted to know what should be done, and Vincent had come to see the woman for himself.

She was slim and athletic, with thick hair held back by an elastic band, and an honest, determined look about her. But he had never seen her before, and he wondered what had led her to the tunnels. When she had gone, Vincent turned to lean against the wall.

"What shall we do now, Vincent?" Kipper was watching him, waiting for instructions.

Vincent gazed toward the ladder, remembering all the times he'd waited here for Catherine to come to him, haloed in the light from Above, their bond shimmering with her joy. He would do what must be done, but his heart ached with the knowledge that they would never share this place again.

"Tell Mouse we must seal this section of the tunnels."

"Forever?"

"Yes." Vincent looked away. "Forever."

With a sigh, he turned to go to her, to tell her of this new threat to their safety.


********************


By Monday morning, Joe’s anger and disappointment had grown to dangerous proportions. He strode through the criminal courts building, oblivious to the bustling activity, intent only on settling things with Moreno.

John was talking to one of the new attorneys when Joe walked in without knocking. "Tell him to testify," he was saying. "You can’t take the easy win. There's a principle here."

The two men turned at Joe's entrance, and John smiled an uneasy welcome. "Hey, Joe."

"Hello, John." Joe was seeing Moreno with new eyes, and his voice was tight with carefully controlled anger.

Moreno must have sensed it, because he spoke to the other attorney without taking his gaze off Joe's face. "Charlie, let's pick this up later."

Charlie nodded and left. Joe waited until the door closed before moving further into the office.

"Everything all right?" Moreno asked.

Joe gestured toward the door. "I remember when you used to give me those lectures."

"You remember wrong. You used to lecture me all the time. I never met anybody with a bigger thirst for justice." Moreno shuffled a stack of papers into a folder. "These new guys, they don't know. Today it's every man for himself."

"Is that the way you feel?" Joe asked. He needed to find out how just badly his judgment had failed him.

John glanced up from the file. "That's the way it is."

"No, I mean for you. Is that the way you feel?" There had been a time when Joe would have thought he knew what Moreno's answer would be to that question, but now he found himself doubting everything he'd ever known about the man in front of him, the man he'd once thought of as a friend.

John gave him a wary look. "What's on your mind, Joe?"

"I heard some things. Things I didn't want to hear." Things about you, John, about how you sold out one of your own.

"What things?"

"About the ones who killed Cathy."

Shaking his head, John pushed the folder aside. "You can't let that go, can you."

"About someone bought and paid for in this office."

John stiffened.

"Deny it for me," Joe said. "Please?"

In an instant, John was on his feet. "I'm going to let you apologize for that," he snarled, punctuating his words with short, hard jabs of his finger. "And then I'm going to let you leave!"

Joe leaned across the desk. He kept his voice low, but it dripped with venom. "Do you think I'd come here if I wasn't sure?"

John straightened slowly. "You don't know what you're talking about." But there was fear in his eyes.

"Cathy Chandler is dead, John, and her blood is all over you."

"You better get out of here, Joe."

"What are you doing here?" Everything Joe had ever thought, everything he'd understood about John Moreno, lay shattered at his feet. "This office stands for something!"

"Out!" John stabbed a finger toward the door.

"How many times have you told me that the only difference between us and the people we put away is what's here?" Joe slapped his palm against his own chest. He was yelling now, his temper close to the boiling point. "'It's like a religion, Joe! It's like a faith, Joe! It has to be!'"

"I also remember telling you something about loyalty!" John shouted. "Where's your loyalty?"

"Where should it be, John? With you? Or the law!" Joe turned away in disgust. "I didn't think there was a difference." He took calming breath, trying to bring his rage and disappointment back under control. "I know you didn't do it." Whatever else Moreno might have been, he wasn't a murderer. "Help me get the one who did."

"Who told you this?"

Joe looked away.

"It was Burch, wasn't it." It was a statement rather than a question. "Burch got to you."

Joe shook his head, his anger replaced by deep sadness. "No, John. The truth got to me. Just the truth." Disappointment lay heavily on his shoulders as he turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
 

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