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Part 1                              Part 2                              Part 3

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Chapter 11



Catherine loved the Great Hall, and tonight she had braved the winds and asked Cullen to help with the massive doors so that she could spend some time with the tapestries. When Vincent found her, she was running her fingers over the delicate golden threads at the edge of one of her favorites.

"Catherine."

She turned. "You found me."

"Always," he said, coming to stand beside her.

"Father finally let me give up that awful sling." Her arm was stiff and sore, but at least she could move it again, though Father had lectured her at length about the need to be careful. "It feels so good to be free of it."

"He was only doing what was best for you," Vincent said mildly. "Does the injury give you much pain?"

She shook her head. "It's getting better."

"Good." He gave her a quizzical look. "Tell me, Catherine. What brings you here?"

"I wanted to see the tapestries again. They’re so beautiful."

He gazed at them for a moment. "They are breathtaking."

"Yes." She ran her fingers over the woven figures. "There's such turbulence in them," she said, "so much life." She dropped her hand to her side. "Do you think they were happy?"

"Yes," he said, "I think they were." They were silent for a long minute, their eyes on the exuberant tapestry. When Vincent sighed she looked up, noticing the sadness in his eyes for the first time.

"What is it?"

"There is something that I must tell you."

She touched his arm, almost afraid to hear what he was about to say. "What?"

"There was an outsider in the tunnels today. A woman."

"Where?"

"Beneath your building."

Catherine's heart sank. Somehow she'd never considered the possibility that this would happen. "Did you see her?"

He nodded. "Is it possible that something she found in your home led her to seek the threshold?"

"You don’t think she stumbled upon the tunnels by accident?"

"This is the second time she has been seen."

"You didn’t tell me—"

"I didn’t wish to worry you. And I had hoped that she would not return."

A chill ran down Catherine's spine as she thought about strangers going through her things. She should have known it would happen, or guessed it at least. It was standard procedure in missing persons cases. But what had she left behind that had brought a stranger into the tunnels?

"The invitation," she said. "Damn it." She folded her arms across her stomach. "It was one the children made. I kept it on my desk because it always made me smile." She wanted to hold it in her hands again now, to run her fingers over the simple frame with its cheerful crayoned picture. The thought brought back memories of a happier, less complicated time. "What will you do now?"

"What we must." Vincent turned to gaze out across the empty chamber. "I've ordered that section of the tunnels sealed. Mouse is seeing to it now."

Sealed. Yet another piece of who she was, who she had been, gone. "They keep taking things away." She had already lost her baby and her home, her friends and her career. Now they were threatening her here. The one place she had thought she would always be safe. "Will it never end?"

"Yes," Vincent said. "It will end." There was a determination in his voice that made Catherine look at him in concern.

He seemed tired, she thought. And older somehow, as though the weight of the worries he carried was wearing him down. But what worried her most was the anger she sensed in him, the thirst for vengeance that lurked just beneath the surface of his calm demeanor.

Abruptly, she shook her head. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore. She wanted to talk about happier things, simpler times. She wanted, just for a moment, to make the outside world, with all its problems and terrors, disappear.

"I was thinking about Winterfest," she said. "Was it lovely?"

"No." There was an edge of remembered loneliness in his voice. "Because you weren't there to share it with me."

She leaned against him, and he put his arm around her waist, and for few minutes they shared the quiet solace of each other's company.

"I thought about it sometimes. I thought about the wind, and the way it blew through your hair, and I thought about how we passed the flame from candle to candle until even the darkest corners of the room glowed with their warmth. And I thought about the children. I remembered the way their eyes sparkled, the way they laughed and played, and how nobody yelled at them, nobody told them they must be quiet and well-mannered."

"Did somebody yell at you, Catherine? When you were a child?"

She shook her head against his shoulder. "When I got too excited my mother would take me aside and remind me gently that I was a young lady," she said. "And I tried, Vincent. I tried to be good, but sometimes I just couldn't help myself."

"And what did you do then?" Vincent asked with gentle humor. "When you couldn't help yourself?"

"I climbed trees." She smiled at the memory. "Or I'd get all wet and muddy playing in the creek. It made my mother shake her head and sigh a lot, but Dad just laughed."

She slipped away from him, down the rough stone steps to the wide floor. Vincent followed a few feet behind, his cloak rustling faintly. She kept going until the walls were swallowed up by shadows and all she could see was Vincent as he came toward her, his body backlit by the flickering torches.

The space around them felt huge in the darkness, as though it went on forever. And from a distance the music came to her again. "I can still hear it." Ignoring a twinge of pain, she stretched out her arms, let her head fall back, and turned in a slow circle. "Even now, I can still hear the music."

"Yes." Vincent tilted his head, listening. "A waltz, perhaps."

"It's lovely." Her body moved to the gentle tune that played in her mind as she remembered that other magical night, and the joy and hope that had resonated between them. And then Vincent was there, and he took her in his arms, and they were dancing together, just like they had on that long ago night.

He led her in a wide circle, his steps sure and graceful, and she felt like she was floating, as though his touch was the only thing keeping her from drifting up into the darkness. He swung her out, away from him, until he held her by just the tips of her fingers, and for a breathless moment she thought she might spin away from him completely. But then he caught her and pulled her back into his arms and she laughed, her voice echoing off the high stone walls as he smiled down at her.

Around and around they went, moving to music only the two of them could hear.

And then gradually the unheard melody slowed and the space between them narrowed until his arms were wrapped around her and their bodies brushed together with each step. She flattened her hands against his back, pressing in against the muscles that rippled beneath her palms, unwilling to allow even the smallest breath of air to separate them. He laid his cheek against her hair, and it was a long time before either of them realized that the music had faded away and they were standing, still and alone, in the very center of the chamber.

Catherine lifted her head, her eyes finding his in the shadows. In his gaze she saw the same warmth and love that she always had, but this time . . . this time there was something else, too. Something more. Something that made her pulse leap and her breath catch in her throat.

All at once she became aware of the intimate touch of his body against hers—the lean strength of his thighs, the press of his hips, and the solid wall of his chest. She felt the rose in its soft leather pouch, caught between them now, a tangible reminder of their love. But it was a reminder she didn't need.

He kept one arm around her waist and shifted his other hand to the nape of her neck. The pad of his thumb brushed against the sensitive skin just behind her ear, and had he not been holding her so closely, her legs might have given way, the muscles melting under the heat of his touch.

Her gaze shifted to his mouth, and she tried to remember how to breathe.

"Catherine—" His muted voice was hoarse with need.

She reached up to touch his lips with the tip of one trembling finger. "Shh—"

She wanted him to kiss her, wanted it so desperately it was all she could do to keep from pulling his head down to hers. But she wouldn't demand something for herself that he wasn't prepared to give. His fears were real, and born of his love for her, and only he could decide when he was ready to move beyond them. And so she tried desperately to suppress the heat that curled in her stomach and calm the eager pounding of her heart.

He took in a deep, shuddering breath, his chest expanding against hers, and for a single heartbreaking moment she thought he might pull away.

But he didn't.

Instead he shifted, gathering her closer still. And then he was bending over her, and the something different in his eyes resolved itself into pure male desire just . . . before . . . he kissed her.

It started out slow, with the sweet, soft touch of discovery, of newness. But as her heart surged and she tangled her fingers in his hair, no longer denying her body's demands, he explored the juncture of her lips, asking a question without words.

She welcomed him with a low moan, opening to him, captivated by him. His hair brushed across her face, and his lips teased at hers, and his hands roamed up and down her back, pressing into the hollow between her shoulder blades and then shifting low along her spine so that she couldn't fail to notice his own rising excitement.

She pushed closer, instinctively seeking to fit her body more fully against his, and he tensed in response, running his tongue across her teeth and along the soft recesses of her cheeks until she thought she might explode with need, the desire pulsing through her like a living thing—the fierce, driving, demanding force of it arcing along her spine.

Her fingers left his hair to slide across his shoulders, to stroke the warm, rough skin of his neck, to trace the strong line of his jaw, and the sound he made in response, somewhere between a purr and a growl, pulled her even deeper into his heat.

When he dragged his mouth away from hers to trail small, nibbling kisses over her cheeks and eyelids, she whispered his name, calling him back to her warmth. His breath was harsh, uneven, and his arm shifted from her waist, moving higher, until his fingers brushed against the underside of her breast and drew an urgent plea from her throat.

She wanted more, so much more, and she knew that he could sense it through their bond. She felt it in him, too, the driving need to join their bodies as their hearts were already joined. But in another instant he tore his mouth away from hers, his head dropping back as he heaved in great gulps of air. Abruptly, he spun toward the steps, his cloak brushing against her legs as he strode across the chamber.

She swayed on her feet, unsteady and bereft as she stared after him, struggling to bring her chaotic emotions under control. "Vincent?"

He didn't answer. He was leaning against the railing now, head down, shoulders heaving, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Suddenly the Great Hall felt vast and cold, and the distance separating her from him seemed like miles rather than feet, but she set out anyway, a pilgrim crossing the desert.

"Talk to me, Vincent." She spoke softly. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"I don't . . ." He shuddered when she reached his side and touched his arm. "I don't know what's happening."

"What do you mean?"

He straightened, turning to look at her, and she saw that though his breathing was already returning to normal, he was still tense. "I'm no stranger to desire, Catherine. It's been my constant companion almost since we met."

His words sent tendrils of heat curling along her spine again. She swallowed hard. "But?"

"But always in the past I could control those feelings! Now . . ." He dropped his eyes. "I fear I may not be able to protect you for much longer."

She reached out to him, laying her hand on his arm. "I don't want you to protect me from those feelings, Vincent." Beneath her fingers, his muscles tensed. "I haven't wanted it for a very long time."

His eyes came up to meet hers. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," she said, absolutely certain of it. "You can't."

He blew out a breath, shaking his head. "Catherine—"

"No." She shook her head, interrupting him. "Please, Vincent. You have to trust me." She stepped closer and lifted her hands to his face. "I know you're afraid, and I won't rush you, but I won't let you pull away from me, either. Not now. Not ever again."

She pulled his head down to hers, kissing him tenderly, showing him with her touch that he was safe with her, and she with him.

For a moment, he didn't respond. Then he groaned, and his arms came around her, and he trailed a series of kisses across her cheeks and eyes. It was a gentle caress, without the passionate overtones of their earlier encounter, and afterwards she leaned against him, resting her head on his chest.

"I love you." His voice trembled, and she tightened her arms around him.

"Hold me."

He did, cradling the back of her head with one hand and lowering his other arm to her waist. He rested his head against the top of hers, and she felt safe, and protected, and cherished.

It was a long time before he eased away from her and reached for her hand.

"It's late," he said softly. "You should rest."

She resisted the urge to tell him that she needed him more than she needed sleep. She had to let him find the way at his own pace.

"I am a little tired," she said.

He nodded. "Come. I'll walk you to your chamber."


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

Chapter 12

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

John Moreno thought of himself as an ordinary guy doing his best to survive in a crazy, mixed-up world. His parents had raised him right. They'd given him principles, and values, and a deeply grounded sense of morality. And he believed in doing the right thing. In justice. The day he'd won the election had been one of the highlights of his life.

And yet somehow tonight he found himself standing in a seedy part of town facing a man who could destroy him with a single word. How had it come to this? How had he allowed this man, this scrawny, slimy bastard, to take complete and utter control of his life? When had he become a puppet on a string?

He sighed and shook his head, giving in to the inevitable. "Burch knows the address."

"This is not a profitable situation, Mr. Moreno." The man was thin, with dark hair and dark eyes and death in his voice. And after more than a year of working for him, John still didn’t know his name. "Too many liabilities."

"I can handle it." John tried to keep the desperation out of his voice.

"Can you handle your assistant?"

"Maxwell?" How did they know about Joe?

The other man nodded.

"He's no threat. Trust me." John knew what happened to people who posed a threat, and he didn't want Joe's death on his conscience along with Cathy Chandler’s.

"I would like to trust you," the man said, but John heard the doubt in his voice.

"I can take care of this."

"Then do it."

The other man disappeared into the shadows. John watched him go and wondered how many people would have to die before the nightmare ended.


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


Elliot's third meeting with Vincent was to take place back at the carousel. As he got out of the car, he tugged his jacket into place and looked at his bodyguard.

"Ten minutes."

"Right." The guard nodded.

The car door slammed behind him, but Elliot hardly noticed. His thoughts were on Vincent. And on Cathy.

The door of the carousel building was unlocked again, and Elliot stepped inside, searching the shadows. "Vincent," he called in a low voice.

There was no sign of him, and Elliot moved around the carousel, peering into the darkness. He was so intent on his search that he jumped when a voice called out behind him.

"Hello, Mr. Burch."

He spun around. Two men had followed him into the building. He knew them both. One—short and bald, with the soft contours and constipated expression of a banker—was Arvin Cates. And the other . . .

"Moreno."

Moreno shook his head almost sadly. "You must be crazy, Burch. What could be worth all this?"

"You wouldn't understand," Elliot said.

"Probably not."

Casually, Cates pulled out a gun, and for a second Elliot couldn't move. Arvin was a businessman, not an assassin. A pencil pusher. What the hell was he doing?

There was an explosion of sound as Cates fired, but the shot went wide, and Elliot didn't wait for him to try again. He ducked and ran, keeping the carousel between himself and Cates, counting on it to give him some measure of safety.

Another shot rang out and a bright shower of sparks flew over his head as the bullet ricocheted off a metal post. Elliot cursed himself for a fool. He'd walked wide-eyed into an ambush, and now there were two armed men between himself and the only exit. But there was no time to think about that as more shots rang out and bullets dislodged a chunk of wood from the flank of a carved swan, sending deadly shrapnel flying in all directions. Elliot dropped and rolled, coming to his feet again as another bullet shattered the concrete floor near his head.

Wrapping his hand around a metal support post, Elliot used it to slingshot himself off the back edge of the carousel and around to face his attackers. Only they'd moved, and he was no longer sure where they were. He froze, listening, his eyes wide as he searched the shadows, alert for any hint of movement.

He didn't see them, but he heard their footsteps. They had separated, Moreno circling in one direction, Cates in the other. He was trapped between them, like a bull being herded to the slaughter. Damn!

He saw Cates before Cates saw him. He was passing one of the horses, gun held high, finger poised over the trigger. Elliot waited until Cates was almost upon him. Then he sprang, arms extended, fingers grasping for the gun. They struggled. There was a grunt, and then Moreno's panicked shout.

"Cates!"

Elliot seized on the momentary distraction to slam Cates's arm against an unforgiving pole. There was a snapping sound, a scream of pain, and the gun clattered to the floor. Elliot bent to pick it up. But Cates kicked him before he could close his fingers over it, sending him spinning away with a grunt of pain. In the time it took Elliot to regain his balance, Cates had scooped up the gun and brought it to bear on his heaving chest. Oh, God. Cathy I'm so sorry.

Suddenly there was a roar and a blur of motion as a giant shape launched itself from the darkness, taking Cates down and out of Elliot’s sight. A second fierce snarl was followed by dreadful silence. Elliot strained to see through the darkness. What the hell was it? And why did it seem so familiar? But there was no time to puzzle over it. Moreno was still around, somewhere.

Elliot peered into the shadows, eyes wide as he probed the menacing pools of darkness. There. Moreno was aiming his gun, his eyes full of fear. But not at him. Who, then? Elliot turned.

Vincent. Of course. He should have recognized the hulking shape at once.

Moreno fired. And then fired again. Two shots in quick succession. Elliot was certain Vincent had been hit. He must have been. But Vincent didn't even slow down, he just growled low in his throat and kept moving. Elliot turned away, unwilling to watch what happened next. But there was just a single sharp cry of fear and pain.

And then the awful silence returned.

Elliot turned back in time to see Vincent fall to his knees. He scrambled across the carousel to him, reaching out a hand to help, ignoring Moreno's sprawled and bloodied body. Vincent wrapped his hand around Elliot's arm and struggled to his feet. Then he turned, and Elliot saw his face for the first time.

The shock of it stunned him. Long tangled hair, intelligent eyes filled with pain and remorse—and features more catlike than human.

What the hell?

For a long moment, Vincent held his gaze. Then, without speaking, he turned and stumbled away.

"Vincent!" Elliot called, recovering himself. "Vincent!" He ran, cutting through the carousel in the direction Vincent had disappeared. But he was too late. Vincent had already gone.


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


Catherine had been hiding just outside the carousel, safely disguised within the folds of the dark green cloak. She and Vincent had arrived late, detained by one of the sentries for a series of questions that Vincent had answered patiently even though she’d sensed the tension in him, the need to be on his way. Afterwards, he’d taken her hand and led her quickly through the tunnels, admonishing her once again to stay hidden. He’d been about to leave her when the sound of gunshots pulled his head up and around.

"Go!" he’d ordered as he’d left her at a run. "Go!" There'd been fear in his voice. For her? For Elliot? Catherine didn't know.

But she hadn’t left. Instead she’d stood with her heart in her throat and listened to the battle being waged inside. She heard Vincent's roar, and then two more gunshots, and then a sudden burst of pain ripped through her, pain so intense her knees nearly gave way. She recognized the sensation. She'd felt it all too recently.

The gunshots were followed by eerie silence.

"Oh, God. No! Vincent!" She ran, desperate to find him, to see him. Not caring that she might be seen as well.

And then he stumbled out of the shadows, his cloak in disarray, his hair scattered wildly over his shoulders.

She ran to him, catching him in her arms as he stumbled. "Vincent!"

"Must . . . get . . . Below."

She pulled his arm across her shoulders and flung her other arm around his waist, ignoring the tug of her stitches in her desperation to help him. She felt the warm sticky dampness of his blood, saw the terrible, spreading stain on his shirt.

"I'll get you to Father, Vincent. I'll get you there, but you have to help me."

He nodded weakly and they wove an unsteady path through the shadows to the safe haven of the drainage ditch.

It seemed to Catherine as though it took hours to make the short journey. Beside her, Vincent's breath came in short, tight gasps, and his fingers tightened painfully around hers. She kept up a steady stream of quiet encouragement, and though later she’d have no recollection of the actual words, he kept moving, kept putting one foot in front of the other.

And then they were there, and Catherine yanked open the metal grate and led Vincent into the cool darkness. "Wait here," she said, helping him to lean against the wall. "I have to close the gate."

He nodded, and she hurried back. It took her only a moment to latch the steel bars and hit the switch to slide the concrete panel into place, but when she turned back Vincent had slid down to lie in the dirt, and a dark stain was spreading beneath him.

She dropped down beside him, moved his hair out of the way, and made sure he was breathing. She whispered a desperate plea for him to hang on, leapt to her feet, and ran. There was a sentry point not too far away, and she found Jamie there. The girl's eyes widened when Catherine skidded to a stop.

"Catherine, what is it? What's happened?"

"It's Vincent. He's hurt. Get Father! Hurry!"

Jamie nodded and turned to send out the emergency message on the pipes. Catherine didn't wait for her to finish. She ran back to Vincent. Kneeling by his side, she talked to him, her voice urgent with fear.

"Stay with me, Vincent. Father's coming. You're going to be all right. Please . . . hang on." Somehow she found the strength to roll him onto his back. She grabbed a handful of his cloak to hold against the wound, putting pressure behind it, trying desperately to stop the steady flow of blood.

She didn't know how long she stayed by his side, talking to him, begging him not to leave her. And then Father was there. And William. She looked up at them and realized her face was wet with tears, her vision blurred with them.

"Help him, Father."

Father dropped his cane and fell to his knees by Vincent's side. Tearing open his medical bag, he pulled out a pair of scissors and cut away Vincent's shirt, mumbling a quiet oath when he saw the wounds. Quickly, he bandaged them. Then he looked up at William.

"Help me get him to his chamber," he said urgently. "And Jamie, send out a call on the pipes. Have Mary meet us there. Make sure she brings the surgical kit."

Catherine blinked. She hadn't even been aware of Jamie's presence, so focused was she on Vincent. But before she could say anything, Jamie was off again at a run.

When they reached Vincent's chamber, Father turned to Catherine. "You should wait outside," he said quietly. "Until we finish."

"No." She shook her head once, sharply. "I need to be with him."

Father looked at her and sighed, but there was no time to argue. "All right, then. Come along."

It was a long time before Father said anything else other than quiet requests to Mary. Finally, he stood back with a sigh. "That's it," he said. "The rest is up to Vincent."

"Father—"

He looked over at her, tired and worried.

"Will he be okay?"

Father gazed at Vincent for a long time before answering. "I think so, yes."

And then somehow the world was going gray, and her head felt light, as though it might float away, and Father's arms were around her as he guided her down into a chair.

"Easy, now." He caught her shoulders, pushing her head down. "Take slow, deep breaths."

She did, and the world swam back into focus.

"You must be careful, Catherine. You still aren't fully recovered yourself." He looked concerned, and she saw his eyes go to her arm. Luckily, her own wound had not reopened with her exertions, and he nodded in satisfaction as he looked back over at Vincent. "He'll sleep for a while," he said. "You should get some rest as well."

"I will, Father. But I'm staying here."

Father didn't question her decision. "I've seen Vincent sleep in that chair on more than one occasion. I suppose it'll do for you as well."

Catherine smiled and touched his sleeve. "Thank you, Father."

He'd been busy with his medical bag, but now he looked at her, puzzled. "For what?"

"For understanding."

"Ahh . . . well, I'm not so old that I don't recognize a hopeless battle when I see one." He smiled tiredly. "I'll be back to check on him in an hour or two. Call me if there's any change in his condition."

"I will."

And then it was Catherine's turn to sit beside the bed, to hold Vincent's hand, and to read the comforting words of Great Expectations, her soft voice lingering in the darkened corners of the quiet room.


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


Cold. So cold. And wind howling through the tunnels like a living thing. He moves slowly, pushing through the icy gale. Ahead of him, a steady banging sound—the iron gate blown open and closed again by the wind. Why isn't it latched?

As he nears the gate, snow blows into his face, coating his hair and clothes. He puts up a hand to shield his eyes, and keeps moving. The wind blows harder, and icicles tremble over his head. Then he stumbles. Beneath his feet, a form. He stops. Looks down. Something is buried in the snow. Something oddly familiar. He lifts his head and scans the surface of the blowing drifts. There. Ahead. What is that? He takes another step, shivering now, forcing his feet to move.

And then he recognizes it. An arm, bent at an odd angle and raised into the air as though grasping for . . . what? Rescue? Only it's too late. There can be no rescue here . . .

"No!" Vincent sat up, breaking out of the dream. "No!"

And then Catherine was there, her hand warm and alive on his arm. "Vincent! What is it?"

He struggled to catch his breath, the fear still pulsing through his veins. "I was . . . lost. In the storm."

"You were dreaming," she said. "There is no storm. You’re safe. In your chamber."

He turned, looking around, trying to place his surroundings. "I . . . went out last night. I was Above. In the park."

"I know. With Elliot." She hesitated, and he heard the fear in her voice when she continued. "You were shot." Her hands were gentle on his shoulders. "Rest, now."

His breath was still coming in short gasps as he lay back against the pillows, and she soothed him, pushing his hair off his face and straightening the blankets. "It'll be all right," she said softly. "I'll be here."


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


Father felt very old as he faced Steven across the dimly lit chamber. It was a common issue, really. Certainly it was one he'd had to handle before. But the timing of this lapse was particularly unfortunate in light of Catherine and Vincent's dangerous search for their missing son.

William's anger cut across the heavy silence. "It's the second time you've fallen asleep on watch!" It was well-known among the tunnel-dwellers that William preferred to handle problems himself, and being forced to bring this one to Father's attention would likely leave him in a bad mood for days.

"Is this true, Steven?" Father asked.

They were in Father's chamber—Father and William and Steven and Brooke. Steven looked chastened, ashamed, his eyes not quite meeting Father's.

"I never meant to," he said. "I . . . was tired, that's all. I didn't get much sleep."

"You didn't get any sleep at all," William said.

"How long has this been going on?" asked Father. "You should have told me. Insomnia can be the first symptom of—" He trailed off as Brooke came to stand beside Steven. The two of them exchanged a glance and Father saw something pass between them. Something familiar.

He sighed. "Oh."

"It's my fault too," Brooke said quickly. "Steven was with me. It's not like there were any intruders or anything. Nobody got hurt."

"This time," Father said. "Look, I understand your wanting to be with someone you care about. But you mustn't ignore your other responsibilities."

"Maybe," said Steven, "if I do some extra turns at sentry duty—"

"Yes." Father stood up and crossed to Steven's side. "I think that would be very fair. And you can start—" He looked from Brooke to Steven and back again. "Tomorrow might be good."

Brooke broke into a wide smile. "Thank you, Father."

Father watched the two of them go and then turned to William with a chuckle. "How long has this been going on?"

William shook his head ruefully. "Last time I looked, they were still fighting over toys."

There was a sound at the chamber entrance and Father looked up to see Jamie standing there. "Catherine needs you right away," she said. "Vincent's waking up."

"Oh thank God." Father grabbed his bag and followed Jamie out of the chamber.


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


Diana swept the flashlight beam back and forth as she walked. It was cool down here in the tunnels, with a breeze that came from nowhere only to disappear somewhere else. Passageways branched off at odd angles and unpredictable intervals, as though they'd been engineered by Lewis Carroll for the white rabbit. She walked slowly, stopping to make chalk marks on the wall at each intersection. In minutes she came to the spot where she'd turned back the last time she was here.

The opening was gone.

She brought the light up, playing it over the place. There was something odd about the brick. She stepped forward and reached out to touch the wall. Her fingers came away damp. The mortar was fresh, the bricks new. That explained the difference in texture. But who had bricked it up? And why?


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


In Vincent's chamber, Father had his fingers around Vincent's wrist, his eyes on a stopwatch.

"I dreamt," Vincent said, "that there was a storm in the tunnel."

"He's still feverish." Catherine met Father's eyes. Vincent was awake, but agitated, almost delirious. And she couldn't seem to get his temperature down—no matter how often she changed the cloths on his forehead. She kept a calming hand on Vincent's shoulder as Father worked, moving close again as soon as he was finished.

"We'll get a grip on that soon enough," Father answered reassuringly. "Peter sent down some antibiotics." He turned to put his stethoscope away. "We'll have to watch out for infection, of course. But otherwise, I'd prescribe a few days bed rest."

Without warning, Vincent shoved aside his covers and struggled to his feet. "I have to go Above."

"Vincent!" Catherine reached for him, but Father was there first, catching Vincent as he stumbled.

"That's out of the question," he said as he helped Vincent back into bed. "I took two bullets out of you last night." He pulled the covers back into place. "And you've been running a fever for hours. You're in no condition to go anywhere." He turned back to his bag. "I'll get William to bring you up a light meal. If you think you can manage some food? You need your strength." He lowered his voice, turning to Catherine, who'd come to stand beside him. "Keep him in bed. And if there's any change at all in his condition, call me at once."

"He's burning up," she said. She felt so helpless.

"I know. It frightens me too. Maybe the antibiotics will help. You know how quickly he heals. But with this massive blood loss—"

"Isn't there anything else we can do?"

"No." Father shook his head. "The only cure is time. And he must not reopen those wounds. Any more blood loss, and—" He let the thought hang, touching her arm before making his way out of the chamber.

Catherine watched him go and then turned back to Vincent. She moistened a fresh cloth with cool water and laid it gently against his forehead, hoping to bring the raging fever under control. Then, instead of returning to the chair, she sat down on the bed beside him. Putting her arm around his waist, she lowered her head to rest on his stomach.

As she drifted off to sleep, she felt the touch of his hand on her hair.


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

Chapter 13

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


Gabriel kept his menagerie of big cats in a fenced and wooded enclosure behind the main mansion. Each carefully selected animal had its own cage and caretaker. The panther was both his newest, and his favorite cat. Gabriel watched it pace. Its coat gleamed in the moonlight, and when it snarled, drawing an answering snarl from the jaguar in the next cage, the sound made the hairs on the back of Gabriel's neck stand up. The panther was sleek, its muscles lean and powerful. It could kill a man in seconds. Gabriel had witnessed it himself.

"Cold night." Snow's voice came from several feet away.

"Yes." Gabriel turned away from the cage. "How long have you been there?"

"Just long enough to make sure you were alone."

The panther paced, its tail twitching, irritation rumbling in its throat like distant thunder.

"I have a job for you."

"I'm retired." Snow's white hair gleamed in the moonlight.

"Unretire"

"Why should I?"

"Because there's money in it."

Snow shook his head. "You're boring me."

"For old time's sake."

"For old time's sake—" Snow stepped closer, and the panther paused in its pacing, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "I could kill you quick."

"You could try. But then there'd be no one left to blame." Gabriel gazed at the restless cat, ignoring the threat in Snow's tone. "You'd be all alone."

Killing Raul had been the beginning of a career for Snow, and though he claimed he hated his work, Gabriel knew his brother reveled in the challenge, delighted in the taste of blood and the smell of fear. But he also knew that in those rare moments when Snow felt the small, sharp teeth of remorse, he blamed Gabriel for all of it. After all, it had been because of Gabriel that he had first learned the fierce joy and power that came from killing.

Gabriel was Snow's only weakness, his sole vulnerability. And both men knew it.

"I heard about your little war," Snow said. "It's no challenge for me to kill a guy like Elliot Burch."

"Burch is an inconvenience." Two cages away, the white tiger roared, and Gabriel waited until quiet returned before continuing. "I wouldn't dream of wasting a man of your talents on him." He turned away from the restless panther. "You've heard about our little merry-go-round murders?"

Snow's pale eyes gleamed with veiled interest. "Friends of yours?"

"I had years invested in Moreno." And until the last few months, the idiot D.A. hadn't even realized he was being manipulated. The conquest had been one of Gabriel's biggest triumphs, and his hands tightened into fists at his sides as he contemplated the loss. But Snow just shrugged.

"Too bad politicians don't come with a warranty."

"Do you?" Gabriel took a step closer to his brother. "Moreno and Cates were ripped apart—eviscerated by something with inhuman strength and speed." He pulled a video tape out of his pocket. "The police are keeping a lid on it. They seem to think the particulars might be too ugly for public consumption." He extended the tape. An offering. A challenge.

There was a long pause during which Snow stared at the tape, and Gabriel could almost hear him weighing the pros and cons of the job in his mind. He reached out, and for a brief moment their hands rested fingertip to fingertip. Matching rings gleamed in the moonlight. But an instant later, Snow turned away empty-handed.

Gabriel smiled—a slow, brittle smile that spoke more of hubris than of humor. "You might be interested in this," he said, knowing his brother wouldn't be able to resist the challenge. "The night this tape was made, eight armed men were ripped apart. Just like Moreno." He laid the tape down on a low stone wall and stepped away.

Snow's gaze settled on the tape once more. This time he reached out casually and picked it up. "Creature feature," he sneered as he walked away. "Maybe I should make popcorn."

"Snow!" Gabriel called, just loud enough for his brother to hear. "I have a child." Pride and triumph straightened his spine and lifted his chin. "A son." He loved the sound of that. A son. A successor. Source of his ultimate victory.

Snow kept walking. "I don't kill children anymore," he said over his shoulder. "Not even yours."

In the cage, the panther snarled.


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


Early morning light brightened Diana's loft as she watered her plants. In the background, a sleepy disc jockey related the news and weather to a city just reaching for its first cup of coffee.

"Authorities are still scratching their heads over the deaths of Manhattan District Attorney John Moreno and an unidentified companion at the Central Park Carousel last Wednesday night. As the investigation continues, it has become increasingly apparent that Moreno had ties to organized crime, though it is unknown if his death resulted from criminal activity. The district attorney's office and the mayor are offering no comment at this time."

Of course they weren't. The manner of Moreno's death wasn't exactly fit for public consumption. How had they managed to keep that out of the media, anyway? When Joe had told her about it, the shock and dismay in his voice had made her want to reach out to him, to offer comfort. There'd been an awkward moment before she'd dropped her hands to her side and backed away.

"The mayor announced today that he would choose an interim D.A. to serve the remainder of Moreno's term by the end of the week."

That would be interesting. Joe's office must be in an uproar. Maybe he'd be too busy to ask her about Catherine Chandler for a few days. The breathing room would be nice.

Diana turned off the radio and crossed to Cathy's bedraggled little rose bush as Mark came into the room rubbing sleep out of his eyes. The plant sat on a little table at the end of the couch, and Diana couldn't help but think it looked a little like an aged and neglected queen.

"What's that?" Mark asked, crouching beside her.

"Rose bush." She tipped a little water over it.

Mark looked doubtful. "A former rose bush, you mean."

She smiled and plucked a dead leaf out of the pot.

"Don't you usually prefer live plants?"

"It was Cathy Chandler's. I found it out on her terrace." Which didn't exactly answer his question, and yet, to her, it made perfect sense.

She talked to the plant then, a habit that always made Mark shake his head. "Come on, Baby." She tilted a little more water into the rich soil. "Have another drink. I know you're going to make it."

"I don't think so." Mark wore a look of tolerant amusement that irritated her, but she left it alone, unwilling to start her day with an argument.

"No," she said. "This one's got life in it. I can feel it."

He stood up and reached for his jacket. "Am I going to see you for dinner tonight?"

She looked up at him with a regretful half smile. "Not tonight."

"Spelunking again?"

She nodded, and he shook his head, swinging his jacket over his shoulder as he headed for the elevator. "Only in Manhattan."


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


In his chamber, Vincent leaned back in his chair, his eyes downcast, his hand wrapped around Catherine's and resting in his lap. He'd just finished telling her what had happened at the carousel. She had listened quietly, her fingers tightening around his when he described the gunmen.

"Moreno," she said. "It must've been."

He nodded. "This is what I believe, as well."

"But the other man. Who was he?"

"This I do not know." He looked at her with regret in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I know John Moreno was your friend."

Catherine shook her head. "No, he wasn't. Not really. But he was someone I looked up to. I thought he was one of the good guys."

"Perhaps something happened to him, something that made him believe he had no other choice."

"There are always choices, Vincent."

"Yes, but sometimes the choices are hidden," he said. "And we only become aware of them when it is too late."

Did he recognize the double entendre in that comment? Was he thinking of their relationship, and the fears that had nearly cost them their future? Looking into his eyes, she thought maybe he was, and she leaned toward him, her gaze intent on his.

"And sometimes," she said quietly, "life gives you a second chance."


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


City Hall, always a busy place, was a madhouse on Monday mornings, and Diana blew out an exasperated sigh as she tried to get the elderly clerk's attention. "Excuse me," she said, when the clerk finally drifted close enough to hear her raised voice. "Are these the only maps that you have of the tunnels under Central Park?"

"I'm afraid so." He leaned against the counter, checking the map legends. "What are you looking for?"

"Last night I was underneath this building on Central Park West, and there was this whole network of old brick tunnels down there."

"And you can't find them on the maps." His voice was matter-of-fact. He'd had this request before.

"No, I can't."

"That doesn't surprise me," he said. "There are hundreds of miles of old tunnels down there. Did you know that when they built the subway, they found a station from an earlier subway that had been forgotten for thirty years?"

Diana suspected she had stumbled upon his favorite topic. "No, I didn't."

"It's true!" he said. "Can you imagine? Losing a whole subway station?"

He was settling in for a cozy chat, and though his story was probably a fascinating one, Diana was in a hurry. "Yeah, well just so long as it's not Fourth Street, because that's where I've got to change trains." She collected her things and stood up. "Thank you."

She opened the door as a man was coming in. He had white hair and pale skin, and he said, "Excuse me," very politely as he passed Diana.


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


Snow surveyed his brother's palatial estate. He'd spent an hour scouting the perimeter, checking out the security arrangements. There were dogs—big wolfish creatures that growled menacingly but took the drugged steaks he offered them with wagging tails. And the guards were useless. The schedule they followed was as predictable as the watch Snow wore on his wrist. It was a simple matter to dispatch one of them and slip inside the compound.

He found Gabriel inside with his treasures. That part, too, was easy. Gabriel was as predictable as his guards, it seemed.

"Gabriel!" he called from the staircase. He held the video tape by two fingers and dangled it over the wrought-iron railing.

Gabriel turned from the statue he'd been admiring. "How did you get in here?"

Snow tossed the tape across to him and strolled down the stairs.

Gabriel caught it single-handed. "I have twenty men patrolling the grounds."

"Nineteen." Snow dropped into a five-hundred-year-old chair and draped his legs over the spindly armrest. "I watched your tape. Then I went to the carousel. Your friend Moreno wounded him. There's blood spots. Faint. NYPD missed it. I followed the trail. It dead ends at a drainage tunnel under the park."

"Sometimes a dead end is the best place to begin."

Snow crossed to where Gabriel stood beside the clay figure. "He's beautiful."

"Yes," Gabriel said. "Qin dynasty grave figure. Two thousand years old."

"I'm not talking about the stupid statue." Snow slung his arm around its shoulders and slapped it on the chest, deliberately provoking Gabriel's dismayed wince. "He's not human."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "So few of us are these days."

"What do you think he is?"

Gabriel considered the question. Then he smiled coldly. "My enemy."

Snow watched Gabriel's eyes. Words might lie, but eyes always told the truth, and Gabriel's eyes were worried. And tired. It took a lot to worry Gabriel these days, which made this entire adventure that much more fascinating. Too bad Gabe would insist he kill the beast. He would've liked to study it, learn what it was about the creature that terrified his little brother so.

"You're frightened, Gabe. You're not sleeping nights knowing that he's out there somewhere." Big brother was going to have to come to the rescue yet again. "But I'm going to fix it for you. So you can sleep like a baby." Snow started toward the stairs. Then he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Papa." He spat the last word like a curse.

"Then do it!" Gabriel taunted. "If you can."

Snow spun around, his gun already in his hand. His finger tightened on the sensitive trigger, and an instant later the statue lay in shards at Gabriel's feet.

Snow turned away, satisfied by the appalled look on his brother's face. "I can."


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


Diana knocked once before pushing open the door to the district attorney's office. The chair was turned away from her, its occupant staring out the window. Spring fever, probably. She knew the feeling.

"Excuse me," she said. "I'm Diana Bennett. I'm looking for the new acting district—" She stopped, startled, when the chair swiveled to reveal Joe Maxwell, an open file in his hands. "Joe."

He closed the folder and dropped it on the desk. "Hi."

"You?" He looked tired, and some of the eager optimism she was used to seeing in his eyes had faded.

"Until the next election anyway." He shrugged. "Weird thing is, the suspension worked out in my favor. With all the dirt turning up on Moreno, it was as good as a commendation."

"You don't look too happy about the promotion."

Joe took in a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. "I used to dream that some day I'd sit behind this desk," he said. "Only I didn't want it to happen this way." He got up and came around to her. "You see, I trusted John Moreno."

"You shouldn't trust anybody," she said, only half joking. She leaned against the edge of the desk. "Better get used to that feeling. You've got no friends in this world, Maxwell."

"I don't believe that." He folded his arms and rested his hip beside hers. Their shoulders brushed, sending an unexpected tingle through her arm.

"Good for you." She gave him a quick, approving smile. "Now. You sent for me."

"Yeah, I did. I want you on the Moreno case."

She looked away. "Does that mean you're taking me off the Cathy Chandler case?"

"It's the same case. I think we both know that."

"Yeah, I guess we do."

He walked back around the desk and picked up the folder he'd been looking at. He glared at it as though he held it personally responsible for what he was about to tell her. After a long moment, he said, "I'm calling off the search for Cathy."

Diana blinked. "Why?"

"I got people riding me." He dropped the folder back on the desk. "And other cases that need the manpower." He shook his head. "If she were alive we'd have found her by now. Besides, the coroner swears that with that kind of blood loss—"

"So it's a homicide again?"

"Yeah." He pushed the folder aside. "Her attorney's been calling me. Wants to know when he can probate her estate."

"She had an estate? I knew she came from a rich family, but—"

"She came from a very rich family. I didn't even want to give her a job here at first. Figured she'd stick around long enough to do a good deed or two and then she'd take off for a cruise around the world or something." He shook his head. "Ironic, isn't it? Moreno was the one who convinced me to give her a try. Pointed out that we were short-handed and she was a pair of legs and a brain." The telephone buzzed, and he glanced over at it. "I should get that."

"Yeah." She straightened and crossed to the door. "I'll be in touch."

"Thanks. And Diana?"

"What?" She turned back, her hand on the knob.

"Watch your back."


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


Snow drifts in the tunnels. It piles against the walls as though hiding from the bitter wind. There are icicles hanging from the tunnel ceiling, and the ironwork gate wears a thick coat of ice. Against his will, he moves toward the gate. It's swinging in the wind, clanging dully each time it slams closed. He looks down and sees the dead. There are more of them this time, and he sees several he knows. They are his friends. His family. The feeling of desperation grows as he moves among them, checking for signs of life. Surely they aren't all lost to him?

And then he sees it. His own body. It too is covered in a blanket of snow, but he can see the features clearly. He rears back, roaring his fear and anger at the raging wind.

He was shrugging into his cloak when Father rushed in.

"Vincent! Dear God, are you all right?"

"The storm. I saw it coming." He pulled his hair free of the heavy fabric. "Where is Catherine?"

"I insisted she get some sleep," Father said. "Vincent, tell me. What is it? What did you see?"

"Snow howling through the junction door. Wind, cold as death." He shivered, remembering the icy bite of it against his skin.

Father shook his head. "There is no storm, Vincent."

"I could feel it!"

"You had a dream." Father was adamant. Vincent heard the note of desperation his voice, but he didn't have the strength to offer reassurance.

"This was more than a dream." The images lingered in his mind. Ice. Snow. Death. He tugged the hood up over his head.

"Listen to yourself, Vincent! Snow? Wind? That's absurd! No storm can reach us down here. You know that! It's your fever talking."

"No." Vincent was certain he was right about this. There was danger coming to the tunnels. Terrible danger. "I saw the dead. Frozen and faceless. I saw my own death!"

"And now you seek it out? Why?"

"Because I must." Vincent met and held Father's gaze. "If my death is the price that I must pay for her safety, for our son, I will pay it gladly."

Ignoring the pain in his chest and Father's desperate, shouted plea, Vincent strode from the room.


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

Chapter 14

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

Snow dropped his pack and pulled open the iron grate. The wall behind it felt solid, held in place by some mechanism he couldn't see. No matter. A little C-4 would solve the problem. He pulled a brick of the explosive out of his pack, affixed it to the concrete panel, and backed away. A moment later the barrier shattered in an explosion of noise and dust.

Snow nodded his satisfaction and bent to rummage in his pack again. He was a hunter by trade, but his usual prey lived above ground and preferred daylight to darkness, so he would have to modify his technique a little for this job. Still, in the end, a hunt was a hunt. It was all about stealth. With that thought in mind, he adjusted the sound-amplifying headphones, donned a pair of night vision goggles, and slipped a spare ammo belt over his shoulder. He snapped a round of ammunition into his gun and reached up to turn on the goggles. Around him, the tunnels took on a green tinge, and the rock walls came into sharp focus.

Ready. With a low hum of anticipation, he stepped into the tunnels.

Let the games begin.


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


Father moved slowly down the steps and into his chamber. He felt as though he carried a great burden on his shoulders, and it was pressing down upon him, forcing him to stoop beneath its weight.

"How is he?" Mary asked.

He looked at her and sighed. "He's gone Above."

"But he can't! He's in no condition—"

Father raised his hands, stopping her in mid-protest. "I know. But he wouldn't listen."

"We ought to go after him," William said. He was leaning against Father's desk, hands shoved into the pockets of his apron. "Bring him back. For his own good."

But Father shook his head. "No!" He saw the surprise in William and Mary's eyes. They hadn't expected the vehement exclamation. But Father knew Vincent, knew how dangerous he could be at times like this. And there was also the chance that Vincent had sensed something true. "But I want you to get a message to Pascal. Tell him I want an all quiet on the pipes. And put all the sentries on full alert."

"Why?" William asked.

Father looked away. "Just . . . just in case."

William exchanged a puzzled glance with Mary, then shrugged and left just as Catherine ran in.

"Father! Vincent's not in his chamber!"

"I know." He crossed to her. "Catherine, perhaps you should sit down."

"Where is he?" She folded her arms across her chest and waited for an answer, steel in her spine and eyes.

"He's gone Above."

"Why?"

Father leaned against the railing, searching for the words that would keep both of them safe. "He had the dream again. Only this time it was worse. Much worse. Catherine," he hesitated, hating to give her more cause for worry, "he believes he saw his own death."

"Oh my God." She turned back the way she had come. "I have to go to him."

"No! You can't!"

She twisted around with a fierce expression in her eyes. "Don't try to stop me, Father."

He reached out to her. "Just listen to what I have to say. After that, if you still feel you must go, I won't stop you."

There was a heartbeat of silence, and then she gave him a single sharp nod.

"Vincent believes that he must confront this threat—whatever it is—in order to keep you safe and to protect your child. What do you think will happen if you go after him and the evil finds you instead? What then?"

"There is no evil, Father. It's just a dream, a . . . figment!"

"Are you absolutely certain of that?" Father asked. "You of all people know how sensitive Vincent is. What if the threat is real?"

She stared at him.

"No," he said. "You must stay here. It's the only way. Whatever it is Vincent's gone after, you mustn't distract him."

There were tears in her eyes as she stared at him. Finally, she nodded again. With heavy steps, she made her way down the stairs and over to a chair. She dropped into it and covered her face with her hands. "Father, what am I going to do?"

He crossed to her and squeezed her shoulder. "You'll do what I'm doing," he said. "You'll wait. And you'll pray."


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


The pipe chamber was eerily silent. It was a strange sensation for Pascal, who crossed the room quickly, coming to a stop near Zach.

"What's wrong?"

Zach looked up from his position on the floor. "An 'all quiet'."

Pascal kept his voice calm, not wanting to alarm Zach, who was already watching him with fear in his eyes. Still, an all-quiet was an extreme measure used only in the event of a serious threat to the tunnel community. "What's going on?"

"I don't know." With a shrug of his thin shoulders, Zach got to his feet. "Father put all the sentries on special alert."

"An intruder?" It was the only reason Pascal could think of for shutting down the community's communication system and alerting the sentries, but if it was an intruder, it must be a very dangerous one for this combination of steps to seem necessary.

Zach shook his head. "No one's seen anything."

Maybe Father only suspected the breach and was taking preventive measures. "Have you heard from all the outposts?"

"Yes. Except Steven. He's down by the water tunnel."

Steven wasn't exactly their most reliable sentry lately, so the fact that he hadn't reported in wasn't really cause for worry. Still . . . "He's probably asleep. Send it again. Use the emergency reply code."

Zach nodded and turned to do as he was told.

Pascal tried not to worry, but icy fingers climbed up his spine as he stared at the chamber entrance.


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


Snow pressed the earpiece tight against his ear, straining to hear any ambient sound that might drift his way in the darkness. There. A faint rustling on his right. He turned and headed toward the sound, walking slowly and stopping often to listen.

After a few cautious moments, the rustling sound resolved into two voices. They were young. One male and one female. The girl was saying something ridiculous about the boy's eyes. Snow resisted the urge to snort in disgust, instead moving closer and listening for the faintest hint that they had heard his approach.

"What's the matter?" The girl sounded frustrated and confused. The boy must have interrupted their make-out session.

"The pipes. Better go check."

The kid sounded worried. He had good reason to be, though he didn't know it yet.

There was a series of scuffling sounds followed by the brush of rubber-soled shoes on a metal ladder. The sounds were coming closer, but they were approaching from somewhere beneath Snow's feet. He shifted his gun and aimed it in the direction of the sound, turning his head from side to side, sweeping the corridor with the night vision goggles. There. Just a few feet ahead of him, a hole, low in the tunnel wall.

A panel slid aside, and Snow didn't wait for a clear target. He fired. Five shots in quick succession. He heard a body fall and then the girl screamed. Why, he wondered, did girls always scream? It was such a useless waste of energy, and it always gave away their position. He sighed. She would have to be dealt with.

But before he killed her, the girl would tell him her dead boyfriend's name.


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


The silence in the pipe chamber was deafening. Pascal wandered restlessly from pipe to pipe, taking out his stethoscope every so often and pressing it against the metal, then shaking his head and moving on again.

"Any news on Steven?" he asked Zach.

Zach shook his head. "No."

"Did you use the emergency reply code?"

"Twice. Do you think something's wrong?"

Steven was still young, a man-child who hadn't yet learned to control his passions. If Brooke was with him, he would be distracted. But he was also one of their best sentries, and he would never get so caught up in Brooke that he'd ignore an emergency signal. Something was wrong.

"Who's manning the outpost underneath Belvedere Castle?"

"Old Sam."

"He's the closest." Pascal gestured at the pipes. "Have him check on Steven. Tell him to be careful."


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


The girl was fast, he'd give her that much. But she was clumsy. Panicked. It made her easy prey. Snow caught up to her quickly, blocking her escape. She tripped and fell to the floor at his feet and he watched her scrabble in the dirt, unmoved by her fear. Pity, he thought. He'd told Gabe he didn't kill children anymore. He resented this one for turning him into a liar.

"What was his name?" he asked coldly. "The boy's name."

"Steven." There were tears in her voice. And terror. He liked the terror. Relished it. It gave him power.

"Steven." He said it slowly, savoring it. "And yours?" He nudged her with his foot. "Look at me!" Another nudge, harder this time. "Your name."

She choked it out between gasping lips. "Br . . . Brooke."

He backed away a step, almost feeling sorry for her. She was no more than a whining bundle of rags, hardly worth the cost of the bullet that would kill her. "Close your eyes, Brooke. You won't feel any pain."

"Stop!"

Snow looked up, startled and angry. He'd neglected his surroundings. It could easily have been a fatal mistake. But it was just a weak old man with a length of steel pipe in his hands. Almost casually, Snow brought up his gun. Fired once. Again. The old man went down as the girl screamed again and ran off. He was about to go after her when he heard an unholy roar rising from somewhere below.

His prey.

Ignoring Brooke's panicked flight, he turned toward the sound.


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


Vincent ran. He knew the intruder was behind him. He'd lured him here deliberately, enticing him away from the tunnel community, drawing him deeper into the dark places. Now he paused, trying to catch his breath, and looked back. The intruder had stopped for some reason. Vincent had to get his attention again. He turned back, moving slowly now. Watching. Listening.

There. He saw a gleam of red light. But from what source? And what was its purpose? Then he remembered something Mouse had told him, about magical glasses that helped a man see in the dark. Vincent realized then that this was more than a simple matter of an armed intruder. This man was a hunter. And he was hunting for Vincent. But why? And who had sent him?

He waited silently, watching the man's head tilt as he listened to the darkness. So, he thought, not just the goggles, then. Something was aiding his hearing as well. These devices must be destroyed. Vincent eased closer, biding his time, positioning himself just so . . .

There.

The man spun toward him at the same moment Vincent knocked the cap off the steam pipe. Searing steam rushed out, and the man screamed in pain. With a roar, Vincent shoved him into the billowing steam and rushed past, moving away, moving deeper, moving down. Gunshots sounded behind him, but Vincent ignored them. He'd already rounded the corner. He was safe.

For now.


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


The mood in Father's chamber was grim. Brooke sat sobbing quietly, her hands over her eyes as Mary tried to comfort her and William and Pascal looked on. Father watched Catherine. Her head was bent, her hands over her eyes. There was tension in her—as if she were strung tight and at any moment might explode into action. It was difficult to sit here and do nothing, he knew, difficult knowing that Vincent was in danger and there was nothing she could do to help. It was a feeling he had experienced himself more times than he could count. He crossed the room and rested his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently in silent comfort.

"It's my fault," Pascal said. "I should've gone myself. But Sam was the closest." He took a breath. "I sent him to be killed."

"Pascal, no," said William. "You couldn't have known."

Jamie ran in, out of breath. "Mouse heard gunfire."

Catherine's head jerked up, and she stiffened beneath Father's fingers.

"Where?" Father asked urgently.

"Down in the Serpentine, under the north well. They were headed down."

"Vincent's leading him away from us," said William.

"I'm going to go get my crossbow," Jamie said, already turning back.

"Come back!" Father called, releasing Catherine and moving toward the steps. "Jamie!"

She turned, anger in her eyes.

"For God's sake! Do you think you're going to stop this butcher with a child's toy?" He took a breath and lowered his voice. "Vincent saw his own death. He's gone up there to buy our lives with his own." He glanced at Catherine, sending her a silent apology. "'A greater love hath no man than this. That a man lay down his life for his friends.'" He looked at each of the others in turn. "Now please. Let us not throw away this gift."

Catherine's eyes were wide with fear as she held Father's gaze, her knuckles white against the arms of the chair. Father knew it took every ounce of strength she possessed not to go after Vincent.


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


Vincent was breathing hard. Weakness washed over him in great waves. And still he kept going, kept drawing the white-haired intruder farther away. Only now he had a plan, a goal. It wasn't much, and it might not work, but he had to try. He paused, leaned against the wall, and gasped for air while he fought the pain in his chest. The stitches had opened. His shirt showed two growing red stains.

There. Behind him. The man was close again. He had to keep moving.

A few minutes later he dropped down off the last ledge, and the mists rose up around him, welcoming him. The structure of this place, with its unusual formations, would bounce his voice from one end of the cavern to the other, making it impossible to trace his location. And the mists would cover his movements, hiding him from the hunter's eyes. He hid behind a stalagmite and watched the intruder arrive. The sight of him, with his weapons of death and his confident air, provoked a low growl from the back of Vincent's throat.

The man moved cautiously, his head swinging from side to side as he walked, and Vincent waited until he'd stepped all the way down to the floor before he roared. The sound bounced and echoed through the cavern, magnified by the rock formations and made more terrifying by the cold silver mists.

The man cringed and yanked the listening device out of his ears. Vincent's nostrils flared as he picked up the scent of the man's fear.

"Okay!" The man yelled. "That's one for you!" He stared into the shadows, but he no longer had the goggles, and without them, Vincent knew he couldn't be seen. Still, bravado and fear were a dangerous combination.

"I know you're out there—" The man fired wildly, emptying his gun. Then he reloaded, muttering to himself.

The hunter's white hair and pale skin stood out against the stone pillar, making him easy to see. Vincent watched him in silence.

"You can run. Hide." The man shrugged. "It doesn't matter. When you look behind you, I'll be there."

Vincent moved, slipping silently into the next cavern. Flinging off his cloak, he used it to bait his trap. The man must have heard something, because he fired, and Vincent heard stone shatter behind him. Cursing, the man tried to run after him, but blinded by the darkness and the shifting mists, he tripped, losing his gun. Vincent turned, watching in silence while the white-haired man scrabbled in the dirt. He was calm, now. This was his territory.

The hunter found his gun and scrambled to his feet. He pressed back against a tall pillar, panting, his eyes wide. Vincent observed the man's raw fear impassively. He felt no sympathy. The man had come here to kill him. To hurt his family. He would not be allowed to leave alive.

"Where are you?" the hunter asked.

"Here," Vincent replied quietly.

"I can't see you."

"I know."

"Do you have a name?"

"Yes."

The man edged around the pillar. "I always learn the names. All the names. Do you?"

"I know their faces." Every one imprinted on his mind, like so many bloodstained squares on a patchwork quilt. It was part of the price he paid for his strength—to never be allowed to forget.

"I don't suppose you want to call this a draw—"

Vincent growled a response.

"I guess that's a no."

"He sent you."

"Who? Gabriel?"

"Is that his name?" Vincent would remember it always. And one day soon, he would kill the man who bore it.

"One of them." The man blinked and opened his eyes wide again. "It's your child, isn't it. That's why he wants it."

Vincent didn't bother to answer.

The man took something from his finger and laid it on a low stalagmite. "Here," he said. "A peace offering." He backed away. "You still there? I'm tired of playing ring-around-the-rosie."

Vincent knew the moment the hunter spotted his cloak, because the tone of his voice changed, growing confident again as the smell of fear subsided.

"That game ends how?" The man shifted, balancing his body and steadying his weapon in his hands. "We all fall down?"

He fired. Five times. Ten. He kept firing until the weapon clicked on an empty chamber. Then he crossed the cavern to the large, shadowy shape at its other end.

Vincent lowered his hands from his ears and watched the hunter lift the cloak from the rock. He heard the man curse, saw him fling the cloak aside. Then there was a low rumble above the hunter's head.

The hunter screamed as the avalanche of rocks broke over him, crushing his body beneath hundreds of pounds of fallen limestone.

Vincent waited for the dust to settle, breathing shallowly against the pain in his chest. When it was safe, he crossed the chamber to see what the man had left on the stalagmite.

It was a ring. The smooth, cold surface of it burned against his palm. He dropped it in his pocket and looked over at the pile of stone. Gabriel, he thought. Gabriel was the name of the man who had sent this hunter to the tunnels—the man who had stolen his son and tried to kill Catherine.

He would send this man a message. This . . . Gabriel.

Turning, he began heaving aside the fallen rocks.


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


In Father's chambers, Catherine lifted her head. Her eyes were filled with tears, and her chest ached. Vincent was in pain, and he was exhausted. But he was alive.

"It's over," she said in a dull voice. "It's done." She stood up, shrugging off Father's hand. "Let me go."

She didn't look back as she left the chamber. She kept her head up, and her shoulders back, and she put one foot in front of the other. She wouldn't stop until she found him, until she held him in her arms and could see for herself that he was safe.


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

Vincent carried the body to the place where they had tried to kill Catherine, the place where their son had been born. He dropped it on the rooftop, careless of how it fell.

Then he spread his legs wide and lifted his hands to the sky and roared his challenge to the night.

"Gabriel!"


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

Chapter 15

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

She met him in the park. She wore the cloak, and her eyes were filled with fear, and she caught him in her arms and whispered his name in the darkness. He held her close and let out a breath of relief that she was here, that she was safe.

"How did you know?" he asked as they turned, her arm tight around his waist. His chest burned where the stitches had opened, making it hard to breathe. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I'm not sure. I just knew." She guided him toward the tunnels and safety.

He didn't speak again until they reached the tunnel entrance. It required all his strength, all his concentration, just to remain on his feet. But the name plagued him, repeating itself over and over in his mind until he felt himself in danger of shouting out another challenge.

"Catherine, I know his name."

"Whose name?"

"The man—" He stumbled and caught himself, leaning heavily on her. Where did she find the strength? "The man who took our son."

She opened the grate, helped him inside, and closed it again. Then she was back at his side, pressed close, small and soft and warm and wonderful.

"Tell me," she said.

"It's Gabriel."

"Gabriel," she echoed. "We'll find him, Vincent. Together. I know we'll find him."

"Yes."

Her presence, her love, gave him strength. Slowly, they made their way to his chambers.

Father and Mary were already there, and as Catherine guided Vincent to the bed, Father opened his medical bag.

"I was afraid of this," he said, worry in his eyes. "The stitches have reopened. I'm going to have to repair them."

Vincent nodded.

Catherine helped him with his shirt, her eyes on his, her hands gentle against his skin. For a moment, he wanted to stop her. To warn her. But he found he didn't have the strength even for that. She eased the shirt over his head, set it aside, and turned to take his hand as he lay back against the pillows. He saw no trace of fear in her eyes. No hint of distaste.

She stepped aside as Father bent over him, and he felt her reach for his boots, loosening and then removing them one at a time. Then she was back, her hand smoothing the hair away from his brow when he winced in pain.

She was still by his side when Father finished and stepped back to put his equipment away.

"Get some rest, Vincent." Father's voice was gruff as he turned back to look at the two of them. "I'll be nearby if you need me."

It was Catherine who answered. "Thank you, Father." There was a deeper meaning in her voice, and had Vincent not been so tired, he might have asked about it. Then Father left, and they were alone.

"Rest now," Catherine said, taking his hand in hers. "I'll be near."

"I need you close." His voice sounded weak to his own ears.

She pulled the blankets up, tucking them in around him. "I'm not going anywhere."

Vincent struggled against the weight of his exhaustion. "No. I meant—" He'd never found it easy to state his own needs, his own desires. "Would you . . . lie beside me?"

He sensed her surprise and then her pleasure as she bent to take off her shoes. A moment later he felt her slight weight as she curled up against him, her head on his shoulder, her arm resting across his stomach.

"Okay?" she asked softly.

"Yes," he murmured. He turned his head, buried his face in the silk of her hair, and held her close against him. "Thank you."

And then he closed his eyes and slipped into a dreamless sleep.


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


Elliot Burch had a soft spot for street musicians. He never walked past one without stopping to listen, often staying to talk for a moment before dropping a generous tip in a hat or an instrument case and then moving on, back to his life, back to his reality.

This night was no different. The musician's clothing was patched and worn, but his saxophone glowed with the warm, golden patina that bespoke a lifetime of careful treatment. He had a talent for jazz, weaving a graceful melody that warmed the chilly night and slowed the footsteps of passing pedestrians. As always, Elliot was drawn to it. He stopped to listen to the mournful lament, waving his bodyguard away.

"That's some beautiful music," he said, when the last note had faded away.

"Sweet music, Mr. Burch. Sweet, and sad."

"You know me?"

"Everyone knows Elliot Burch." The man bowed slightly. "But I'd be mighty proud to shake your hand."

"The honor is mine," Elliot said with a smile. He extended his hand, and the old man stood up to accept it. Elliot was startled by the press of paper against his palm.

"Name's Clarence," the musician said, his keen eyes on Elliot's face. "You can hear me most Wednesdays down at the mission on Delancey if you like." He released Elliot's hand, and Elliot glanced down at the folded note. Curiosity waged a silent battle with prudence as he fought the urge to open it, conscious of the silent warning in the old musician's gaze. Finally, he slipped it into his pocket unread, earning a slight nod of approval. "Donations are gratefully accepted."

Elliot dropped a fifty in the man's saxophone case and turned to follow his bodyguard to the waiting car. The paper burned in his pocket, but he resisted the urge to pull it out.

"What was that he was playing?" asked the bodyguard, as he waited for Elliot to settle himself in the car.

Distracted, Elliot shook his head. "Saxophone," he said.

Elliot waited until the car was in motion to slide the paper out of his pocket and snap on the overhead light. But the lingering sense of unreality only deepened when he read the brief message.

Pier 39—The Compass Rose. Midnight.


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


On clear nights, Diana and Mark often set up a telescope on the balcony. Tonight they wore heavy sweaters against the chilly night air, and took turns gazing up at the sky.

"Found your comet yet?" Mark asked.

She stepped away so he could look. "It's too faint."

"You're fighting New York City. All this light pollution."

"I guess we should be grateful we can still see the moon, huh?" She leaned against the stone wall, gazing up at the sky.

He left the telescope and crossed to her side. "Maybe it's a beggar's comet."

"A what?"

"You know, in Julius Caesar." He looked at her, humor glinting in his expressive dark eyes. "Come on. I know you've read Julius Caesar. Ninth grade. It's required. I just taught it last year."

She looked away with a laugh. "Oh, please. Training bra and braces. I'm still trying to forget."

He grinned, and they gazed up at the sky for a moment. Then he sighed. "I'd better be getting home. I'm subbing in the South Bronx tomorrow. I'm gonna need all the sleep I can get."

"I'll call you." At least, she would if she remembered. Her track record in that regard wasn't exactly stellar of late.

Nodding, he left her there on the roof. Alone with the night, she stared up at the stars.


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


Vincent recovered quickly from his wounds, and soon restlessness drove him from his bed. He prowled the tunnels, plagued by a deepening sense of danger and his own feelings of helplessness. Catherine often walked with him, and though he knew she was troubled by his mood, she didn't press him.

Until Samantha asked him when he would return to his nightly readings, and he snapped at her impatiently, frustrated by the trivial nature of her request at a time when all he could think about was his rising sense that time was slipping away.

Catherine had given him a sharp look and knelt to speak with Samantha, but he'd walked on, aware of the rudeness of his response and yet unable to bring himself to apologize. Catherine caught up with him a few minutes later, bringing him to a stop with a light touch on his arm and a worried look in her eyes.

"Tell me," she said.

Vincent leaned his back against the tunnel wall. Unwilling to alarm her, he cast about for a topic that would answer her concern without burdening her with additional fear.

"The carousel is no longer safe," he said, settling on a topic that would, at best, prove a temporary distraction. "A new meeting place had to be chosen."

"Where?"

"The shipyard." He took Catherine's hands in his. "You must promise me that you will stay here," he said. "The shipyard is too far, the way too dangerous."

"But why the shipyard? Surely there are other places, safer places."

He shook his head. "The Compass Rose belongs to a helper. A fisherman. The place where he keeps her is dark and little traveled by others. It's a good place."

She pulled her hands away and paced down the corridor. When she turned back, she had her arms folded across her stomach.

"I don't think I can do this, Vincent. I don't have the strength."

"You have the strength, Catherine. I know you do."

"To sit here and do nothing? While you're out there? Alone and in danger?" She shook her head. "Pascal told me," she said, "how you used to worry. How you would pace these corridors. And yet you never said anything."

"There were things you needed to do. I understood that."

"And I understand that you need to do this! But I can't just sit here and do nothing!" She turned away again. "I want to find him, Vincent. But if something happens to you . . ."

He heard the tears in her voice. "Catherine, don't do this to yourself." He reached for her, taking her by the shoulders and turning her into his arms.

"I feel so helpless!" Her words were muffled against his chest.

Her frustration was his as well. "Perhaps," he said, "there is something you could do here. Some distraction."

She looked up at him. "Like what, Vincent? I'm a lawyer. I know court cases and bail bondsmen and judges! What use are those things down here?"

"You know other things as well," he said mildly. "You need only search your heart."

"What do you think I've been doing?" She pulled away from him. "Everybody's so kind to me, but I need to feel useful. Only I can't concentrate on anything because every time you go out there all I can think about is you! About where you are and whether you're safe and what I would do if you didn't come back to me!"

It pained him to see her so unhappy, and yet he was at a loss as to how to help.

"Would you like me to speak with Father?" he asked. "Perhaps he can offer some suggestion—"

"No." She shook her head. "If I'm ever to be accepted here, truly accepted, I have to find my own way. I know that."

"Catherine, you are as much a member of this community as I am."

"Oh, Vincent, if only that were true." She reached up to trace the line of his jaw with her fingers. "But I'm still Vincent's Catherine. Not yet just Catherine."


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


Elliot walked slowly, his head tracking from side to side as he searched the boatyard. He found the Compass Rose at last—an old, battle-scarred fishing boat with peeling paint and rusty moorings.

Vincent was waiting for him.

"So," Elliot said, staring hard at the cloaked figure that stood watching him from below decks. "It begins again."

"It never ended." Vincent leaned against the railing at the bottom of the steps. His hood was back, leaving him uncovered—exposed, and Elliot finally got a good look at his face. He was extraordinary. And he knew now why Cathy had never spoken of him.

"It's like a nightmare," Elliot said. "He's killing me, Vincent. Inch by inch."

"His name is Gabriel." Vincent kept his voice low, and his eyes scanned the docks. He came up a step. "This is important to him," he said. He reached forward and dropped an object into Elliot's hand.

It was a man's ring, heavy and of an intricate design. Elliot turned it in his hand, examining the inlay, the craftsmanship. "It's gold." Closing his fingers around it, he looked up. "It's interesting. Looks old. Where did you get this?"

"From the hand of the hunter he sent to kill me." Vincent said. "But he took it off . . . in the end." There was a distant sound of metal clanging against metal—a mournful sound that made a shiver of premonition arc along Elliot's spine.

"You don't know what you ask of me. If I go on with this, I'm risking—"

"Everything."

Vincent's gaze was too intense. Elliot looked away, his gaze falling on an old net. Torn and rotting, it hung over the edge of the dock as though reaching toward the sea—and oblivion.

"I built a sand castle, once." He stared unseeing at the net. "I couldn't have been more than eight years old. It was a wonderful sand castle. Walls, and turrets . . . It must've been six feet high. Then the tide came in." Somewhere in the darkness, a boat bumped against the pier and Elliot turned back to Vincent. "Gabriel is the tide. He's washing away everything that I've built in my life. He's washing away my dreams."

"Dreams can be dreamt again. Sand castles can be rebuilt." Vincent tilted his head, eyes sharp as he stared at Elliot. "Catherine said you were a fighter."

"Catherine was wrong about many things."

Vincent lowered his gaze. Waves nudged at the pilings, wearing them away bit by bit in a process that would take many years, but that would, in the end, destroy them completely.

"Sometimes in my sleep I see another world," Vincent said softly. "I see her walking in the sunshine, laughing. I watch her grow old, reading to her children, cradling her grandchildren in her arms. A happy life. The life that she was born to live." He paused and took a deep breath, his gaze distant. "It seems so real, and if somehow I could make it so, then—" He stopped, shook his head, and met Elliot's eyes again, waiting.

Elliot sighed. There was something compelling about Vincent. Was it his voice? His face? His connection to Catherine? Elliot didn’t know. But he did know that if he dropped this now, he'd never be able to live with himself.

"It's not much to go on," he said at last. "But I'll see what I can find." He turned to go.

"Elliot."

He glanced back. Vincent was still watching him from the shadows.

"Be careful."

Elliot laughed—a quiet, bitter little laugh that echoed eerily off the water. "I think it's a little late for that."


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


Gabriel was entertaining guests when his butler approached. It was unusual to be interrupted like this during a business dinner, but he would reprimand the man later. He put down his fork and knife and listened to the whispered message. Then he wiped his face with the linen napkin and excused himself, leaving his guests looking after him with puzzled gazes.

They were wheeling the gurney out of the elevator when he approached. The guards looked somber.

"He was found on the helipad," one of them offered.

"Of course," Gabriel murmured, unsurprised. It made perfect sense. He reached out and lifted the white sheet. The pale skin was mottled gray in death, covered in dirt and blood. The white hair was gray now, like the slush kicked up by the plows in January.

"It's Snow," he said quietly, and dropped the sheet back into place. He was surprisingly unmoved by the sight of his brother's corpse. Then a thought occurred to him and he tore the sheet all the way off.

It was gone.

"His ring?"

The guard looked puzzled. "He wasn't wearing any ring."

Gabriel exploded in fury, shoving the gurney back into the elevator with enough force to send it crashing against the wall. "Get this out of my sight!" He stalked off, his mind working at a frantic pace. There were only two rings like it in existence. He could be identified now. He could be found. Had Vincent somehow known that?

"What do you want me to do?" the guard asked nervously.

"Find me the ring!" Gabriel's shout echoed off the walls and ceiling.

"I'll take care of it. Will you be rejoining your guests?"

"No." Business could wait. There were more important things to deal with right now. "Get rid of them. I'll be in the nursery."


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


Despite her conversation with Pascal, Catherine couldn't relax while Vincent was gone. She tried reading, but she couldn't concentrate. And she didn't feel like socializing. So she stayed near the tunnel entrance and paced.

"You're going to wear a hole in the floor, if you keep that up."

Startled, Catherine spun around. "Julia! You startled me!"

"Aye," Julia's eyes twinkled in the torchlight. "You were a million miles away."

"I was just thinking."

"About Vincent, I'd guess." Julia tilted her head, watching Catherine. "'Tis a bit strange, isn't it?"

"What?"

"If I understand the stories right, there was a time when he would have been the one standing there."

"So I've heard." Apparently everybody but her had known of Vincent's concern.

"Aye. When he knew you were troubled about something, or he thought you might be in danger, he'd come here and he'd pace the floor just as you're doing now." Julia sat down and leaned against the wall. "Now you're the one stuck down here, and he's the one Above. 'Tis an odd state of affairs."

"Yes," Catherine said. "It's terrible not knowing . . ."

"Love gives a person the strength to handle almost anything." Julia gave Catherine a quick, bright smile that made Catherine smile in return. "He’s a fine man, your Vincent."

Catherine nodded. "Yes, he is."

"And so much in love he hardly knows the rest of us are here."

Catherine blushed and ducked her head, letting her hair slide forward to hide her face.

Julia laughed. "Aren't you the funny one? If it were me he loved, I'd be shoutin’ it from the rooftops."

Catherine sighed. "I do love him. So much. But it's complicated."

"Love always is." Julia stretched her legs out in front of her. "Want to tell me about it?"

Catherine looked at Julia—at her warm bright eyes, and dark hair, and elfin features—and felt, somehow, that she could trust her, that they could be friends.

"I used to dream about coming down here for good," she said at last. "About a time when Vincent and I could be together. Truly together. But . . ."

"But you didn't quite picture it happening like this."

Catherine nodded. "I always thought it would be a choice, a decision Vincent and I would make together when the time came. But he didn't have a choice in this, and I worry that when it's over, when we've found our son—"

"That he'll send you away?"

She nodded slowly. "He's always said that I had a life Above, that there were things I needed to do. Whenever we spoke of it, he always insisted that it wasn't time, yet. Once, he even said that I was his window on the world."

"Was he right?"

"I guess. In a way." Catherine took a breath and let it out on a long sigh. "And maybe it was just easier. I had my career and my friends and my hobbies, but I also had this place, and Vincent."

"Aye. The best of all worlds, it was." Julia drew a pattern in the dirt. "May I ask you a personal question?"

Catherine blinked. For Julia to consider a question personal, it must be very much so. She nodded uneasily.

Julia looked up, caught the nod, and met Catherine's eyes. "Do you want to belong to him, truly belong to him, for the rest of your days?"

"Yes." She didn't even have to think about it. She wanted to be by his side. Nothing else mattered.

"Then," Julia said with another one of her quick smiles, "the hard part is done. The rest is just details."

Details that started with Catherine making a place for herself here.

"Julia," Catherine said, a sudden idea filling her with a new sense of purpose, "I don't suppose you could use any help with that storeroom of yours."

Julia looked over at her. "Oh, I don't know," she said. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "There's all those clothes to sort, and the mending to do . . . it's pretty dull work." She looked Catherine up and down. "And I don't suppose you know your way around a sewing needle—"

Catherine grinned, remembering the hours it had taken her to sew the little pouch for Vincent's rose. "I'm a fast learner."

Julia laughed. "All right then. Lord knows, I could certainly use the company." She got up. "It's getting late. I should be going. When Vincent gets back, tell him I said hello."

"You can tell me yourself."

They’d been so involved in their conversation, and Vincent's approach had been so silent, that they hadn’t noticed him until his low voice interrupted their conversation. In her rush of relief at his safe return, Catherine forgot all about Julia for an instant and flew into his arms. He caught her easily. Then she remembered their audience, and with a flush of embarrassment she tried to pull back. But his arms tightened around her, keeping her close.

"I suppose I can at that," Julia said. She looked a little wistful as she watched them together. "Hello then, Vincent. And goodnight to you both."

"Goodnight, Julia. Rest well."

Vincent released her, and Catherine turned back to Julia. "Goodnight, Julia. And thanks for the company."

"Ach. The pleasure was all mine," she said, "and I expect I'll be seein' you again, soon." She left them then, her light footsteps echoing down the corridor and away, leaving them in silence.

"Did he come?" Catherine asked when they were alone.

"He came." Vincent took her hand, and they started down the tunnel.

"How is he?"

"He's safe for now."

"Is he going to help?"

"He said he would do what he could."

She stopped suddenly, and he turned, giving her a curious look. "You're worried," she said with dawning awareness. "I can feel it."

He sighed and nodded. "He's taking a great risk, Catherine."

The reminder sobered her. "Do you think he'll be all right?"

"I don't know," he said. "Gabriel is a dangerous enemy."

"Should we tell Elliot the truth?" It was something she'd been thinking about a lot. "If he knew I was alive, would he give up the search?" And yet, how would they tell him? How would he react to having been misled for all this time? And could they trust him to keep their secret?

"I am afraid," Vincent said, interrupting her thoughts, "that it is already too late." He hesitated for a moment, and his steps slowed. "Catherine—"

Something in his voice brought her eyes up to his. "What is it?"

"On the way to the boatyard . . . I passed the cemetery."

"The one where—"

He nodded. "There’s a headstone now. I saw it."

She was quiet as the reality of it sank in. A headstone. With her name on it. A superstitious shiver raced through her. "What’s it like?"

"It’s beautiful," he said, "and sad." He pulled her close, and there was desperation in his touch, in her sense of him as he held her. "And terrifying."

"It’s all right," she said, holding him tightly. "I’m here."

"I remembered what it felt like. To lose you. The terrible emptiness." He buried his face in her hair. "I don’t think I could survive that again."

She tried to imagine how she would feel if she ever lost him, and her heart froze in her chest. It was a thought too terrible to contemplate.


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

Chapter 16

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


The interview room at Manhattan P.D. was a cold place, with barren walls, a scarred wooden table, and a single fluorescent light that cast the same harsh glare over good guys and bad alike. Detective Hughes paced the room, glancing over at Burch's bodyguard every so often with a look Joe could only describe as venomous.

The bodyguard was the only witness who could place Elliot at the scene of the crime. Joe watched the two men argue over the details of that night, and shook his head. Burch killing Moreno—that he might have understood, given what they now knew of Moreno's loyalties. But evisceration seemed out of character, even for Elliot Burch.

"Let's go over it one more time," Greg said. "What happened after you took Burch to the park?"

"He told us to wait at the car while he went on a walk."

"Burch pays you what . . . forty, fifty grand a year as a bodyguard?" Joe asked skeptically. "And you just let him go waltzing off in Central Park alone at 2 a.m.?"

"Mr. Burch pays me sixty-three five a year to do what he tells me," Pierson snapped. "And he told me to wait at the car."

Joe gave up. They were getting nowhere fast. Hughes was still firing questions when Joe left the room.

"How long did you wait?"

"I don't know. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes."

"That's when you heard the gunshots?"

"Yeah."

Joe entered the observation room, closed the door, and flipped off the audio switch. Diana was there. He'd called her, but she hadn't arrived yet when the interrogation had started. Her hair was tied back, and in her t-shirt and jeans she had a clean, fresh look that made him think more of rock climbing than police work. He had a sudden mental image of her dressed in spandex and clinging to the side of a cliff, and was startled by an unexpected flare of attraction.

"So what do you think?" He'd taken his jacket off for the interview, but now he shrugged it back on, covering his confusion.

"I just got here," she said. "Fill me in on the highlights."

"Pierson puts Burch in the park at the same time Moreno was killed." He tugged the jacket down, straightening it. "Claims he saw blood on his clothing."

"What about a motive?"

"Money. Moreno was costing Burch millions. And that's not all. Pierson claims he was paid a hundred grand to hush up what happened in the park."

"So look at his bank deposits."

"We did. It checks out."

The door opened again and Hughes came in. "I think we gotta go for a search warrant, Joe. Blood stains on Burch's clothes would nail it down."

"Then do it."

Hughes nodded, left, and Joe turned back to Diana.

"Elliot Burch. Can you believe it?"

"No."

He looked at her, surprised. They were so close to solving this thing with Moreno and she was slamming on the brakes? "Come with me." He led her to his office, pushed the door closed behind her, and walked around his desk to his chair. "Talk."

"The case is bogus, Joe." Diana dropped her bag on the couch. "Somebody set the whole thing up."

"Well then somebody did a damn good job." Joe folded his arms on the desktop. "Look, do you think I have a choice here? I've got motive. I've got opportunity. And I've got a witness."

"Look me in the eye and tell me you honestly believe Elliot Burch ripped these two guys to pieces," Diana said. She leaned forward, resting her weight on her palms. "Come on, Joe. Don't let them use you. You're better than that. Go with your instincts."

He sat back, unnerved by her proximity. "I don't like this any better than you do. But when I moved into this office, I took an oath."

She backed away a step and folded her arms. "Can you come over to my loft later on tonight?"

"Why?"

"Because I think there's some things you need to see."


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


The memorial service for Steven and Sam took place by the mirror pool. The still waters reflected the blue sky and pale, wraithlike clouds of early summer. The entire community had gathered to say their goodbyes, but Vincent and Catherine stood well back from the others, giving them priority.

Catherine was worried about Vincent. She knew he blamed himself for both deaths, and that the grief he felt was magnified by his deepening hatred of Gabriel. It was starting to frighten her, this darkness she sensed growing in his heart, but there was little she could do to help.

Father's low voice echoed through the cavern, drawing her attention back to the moment and to the overwhelming sadness of shared loss.

"As we remember Steven and Sam, we must remember more than our grief," Father said. "We must always remember their faces. The sound of their laughter. The joy they shared with us."

Catherine reached for Vincent's hand, wrapping her fingers around his and giving what little comfort she could. She wanted to offer more, wanted to lean her body more fully against him, but something about the stiff set of his shoulders told her that such an advance wouldn't be welcomed. The time had not yet come when he could share his grief, even with her.

"Sam lived a very full life," Father said, "but Steven was scarcely more than a child."

Brooke began to sob quietly, and Mary put her arms around the girl's shaking shoulders, drawing her close. But at Catherine's side, Vincent stood absolutely still, his shadowed eyes the only evidence of his feelings.

"They both died too soon, their lives cut short by a brutal intruder."

Vincent's fingers tightened almost painfully around Catherine's, and she looked over at him, but he was staring into the mirror pool, seemingly unaware of her presence.

"They were armed only with their courage. But they died as bravely as any soldier."

A young man, standing on the cusp of adulthood, and an old one, the panoply of life drifting behind him like the wake of a great ship—that men such as these should have met such brutal ends seemed profoundly unjust.

"We will always remember how much we love them," Father said. "And let us never forget how much they loved us."

As though by some silent signal, two people Catherine didn't know stepped forward, emerging from the group with simple clay urns cradled in their arms. Without speaking, they removed the tops of the urns and stepped to the water's edge. The air was cool, but there was no breeze to scatter the ashes that fell from the urns in twin streams, blackening the surface of the pool and blotting out the summer sky as Father concluded the service.

"Let these waters carry them to every part of our tunnels, and into every corner of our world. Steven . . ." Father's gaze settled first on one urn, and then on the other, and his voice trembled as he spoke a final, quiet benediction, "and Sam . . . will always be part of us."

Father dropped his head, his body seeming almost to shrink in upon itself with silent grief as the mourners filed out of the chamber, their shuffling footsteps a melancholy counterpoint to Brooke's sobs. But Vincent made no move to go, and Catherine waited, her eyes on the spreading stain of ash in the pool. She would stay with him until he was ready to leave.

"Brooke," Father said, touching her arm, "it's time to go."

"No!" She choked out the word, her voice thick with tears. "I won't leave him."

She stepped to the pool's edge, her eyes hardening with sudden purpose, but Father caught her arm and pulled her into a tight hug.

"They're gone, child."

For an instant, Brooke struggled against Father's hold, but then she buried her face in his shoulder and flung her arms around him in a desperate hug. Beside Catherine, Vincent watched without comment, his tightly controlled emotions and stiff posture giving no hint to his thoughts. Father looked up, and he and Vincent exchanged a single, pain-filled glance. Then Vincent turned, and without looking at Catherine, led her from the chamber.

They walked without speaking, but he didn't release her hand, and she knew he waged a fierce inner battle with the anger and grief that threatened to unleash that other part of him. The part that frightened him. The part that was more animal than man.

Her chamber was closest, and by tacit agreement, they went there. When they arrived, Catherine lit a candle by the bed and turned back to look at him.

"Talk to me, Vincent."

There was no response. He stood, still and silent, just inside the entry.

"Vincent—"

"My fault, Catherine." The words chilled the air and hovered accusingly in the shadows. "They died because of me." He dropped his gaze, his hands fisted so tightly that Catherine half expected to see blood dripping from them.

"No." She cupped his chin with her hand and forced him to look at her. "They died because Gabriel sent a murderer into the tunnels." Somehow she had to make him understand that the only people to blame for this tragedy were the man who'd pulled the trigger and the man who'd sent him.

"You can surround yourself—lose yourself—in if-onlies and what-ifs. But it won't change anything. Two dear friends have been taken from us forever, and that's sad, and tragic. But you can't blame yourself for it. If you do, it'll only destroy you, too."

He was silent for a long time, but he didn't move away from her. When he finally spoke, his voice was halting, and she had to lean close to hear him.

"I’m afraid," he said. "This . . . anger that grows inside of me. I fear it will consume me."

"I won't let that happen, Vincent. I'm here with you. Let me share my strength." She put her arms around his waist, held him tight, and reached out to him with her mind. It felt a little presumptuous, this conscious manipulation of a precious gift that was as magical as it was mysterious, but it was the only thing she could think to try, the only comfort she had left to offer.

For a moment, he didn't react. Then he shuddered, took in a great, trembling gulp of air, and dropped his head, holding her with near desperate strength as he gave in to the searing agony.

She'd seen him cry before, but never like this, never these horrible wracking sobs that overcame him now, and she pulled him closer, held him tighter, and wished with all her heart that she could take away his pain.

When at last he grew calm, she led him to the bed and pulled him down beside her. He was still weak from his encounter at the carousel and his subsequent battle with Gabriel's hired assassin, and the tidal wave of grief had taken his last remaining reserves. Which was probably why he didn't object when she urged him to lie down, didn't prevent her from removing his boots, or from lying down beside him, or from pulling up a blanket to cover them both. He just held her close, sighed, and closed his eyes.

He was asleep almost before the pillow settled beneath his head.


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


Elliot paced the floor of his office. He'd long since taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. Now he had his hands on his hips as he spun back to face George Walker. He couldn't believe it had come to this, to utter and complete financial ruin.

"Tap into the Cayman Islands cash reserve," he said, trying to keep his desperation out of his voice.

Walker shook his head. "We used that cash to shore up the Battery project."

"Well then sell the damn site!"

"You can't sell it, Elliot. It's already been attached. Haven't you been listening to a thing I've said?"

Elliot fought down a wave of panic as he met Walker's gaze.

"It's over," George said quietly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm going to recommend that we file for Chapter Eleven. Immediately."

Elliot stared at him, stunned and heartbroken. All his dreams, gone—turned to dust by an enemy he'd never even seen.

George looked away as he stood up. "Maybe I'll still be able to salvage something."

"He's done this." Elliot's voice was choked. He swallowed . "Gabriel—" He took a long breath, calming himself. "Okay. What we have to do is find him."

"Find him. We can't even prove that he exists!" George shook his head. "Elliot . . . you don't need an attorney. You need a shrink." Without another word, he picked up his briefcase and left the room.

Elliot sat down heavily. His dreams were gone. Cathy was gone. In a matter of weeks, he could find himself right back where he'd started all those years ago. He fought back tears as he slid open the top drawer of his desk and stared at his gun. Dropping his head back against the chair, he tried to decide, to choose. Slowly, he reached into the drawer. But instead of picking up the gun, he reached behind it to lift out the ring Vincent had given him.

When he looked up, Diana was watching him from the open doorway. She came in, closing the door behind her, and he dropped the ring on his desk as he stood up. This was exactly what he didn't need right now.

"What can I do for you?"

She folded her arms as she came to a stop in front of him. "You can start by telling me exactly what happened that night at the carousel."

"I don't know what you're talking about." No way was he going to turn Vincent over to the police. He could at least do that much for Cathy.

"I think you do. I think you saw everything that happened that night." Her eyes locked on his as she continued. "And I think you know who Vincent is."

He heard the exhaustion in his own voice when he answered her. "I'm afraid I can't help you. I'm sorry."

"You're a lousy liar, Mr. Burch."

He laughed bitterly. "You know, there are people who would say that I was a very good liar."

"Maybe at one time, but you're out of practice."

She had an honest look about her, and he almost felt like he could trust her, but he'd never been a man to give his trust easily—with one glaring exception. And she was gone forever.

"Why don't you talk to me?" she said. "Why don't you tell me what you're thinking and what you know? It's the only way you're going to save yourself."

Elliot turned back to his desk and picked up the ring. He rubbed it between his fingers. If he talked, there was still a chance he could save some small piece of his empire. Slipping the ring into his pocket, he leaned his hip against the desk and looked her straight in the eye as he hammered the final nail into his own coffin.

"I think it's time for you to go."


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


When Vincent awoke, the rest of the community was asleep, and their solitude, in this peaceful haven far beneath the city, was complete. Beside him, Catherine slept on, her head pillowed on his arm and her body curled into his. His senses were filled with her soft weight and the light, clean scent of her hair and skin, and he wished he could preserve this moment—freeze it forever in translucent golden amber and store it in the leather pouch he carried next to his heart.

He knew that he should return to his own chamber, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her. The contentment he felt in her presence weighted his body and stole his will to move. And he was weary of the constant struggle against his desires, tired of denying himself the simple pleasures that other men took for granted. He and Catherine had loved before. They had a son. Did this not count for something? Must her faith in him, in the two of them together, be denied forever?

She made a small sound and rolled over, nestling close, seeking his warmth even in her sleep. The blanket tangled at her hips, and he reached for it, pulling it over her shoulders before putting his arm around her waist—holding her close, but not so close that he couldn't study her while she slept.

There was something ethereal about her, her face relaxed in sleep and lit only by the soft glow of a handful of candles. Entranced, he lowered his head to brush a kiss against her temple, a mere whisper of contact, meant to soothe rather than wake her. And yet, when he pulled back he found her watching him.

She touched his chest, her eyes soft with sleep as they sought his. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." He slid his hand up her back to the gentle dip between her shoulders and remembered a story he'd read as a child—a fanciful tale about how shoulder blades were the earthly remnants of angel wings. "Thank you."

Unbidden, a fragment of conversation came back to him, something he'd said to Father when Lena had first come to the tunnels. He'd wondered what it might be like to be someone else's possibility. At the time, he'd considered it a fantasy, an impossible wish granted only to normal men. But he'd been wrong. He was Catherine's possibility, and she was his. It was a breathtaking revelation—as if a small stone whose form he'd admired and which he'd carried in his pocket like a talisman had suddenly revealed itself to be a flawless diamond.

He wanted to tell her what he was feeling, but he didn't have the words. And he wanted to show her how much he loved her. But he still feared that other part of himself, the dark and violent part that might yet slip free of his control and hurt the one person in the world whom he loved above all others.

And so he lay there, frozen with indecision, until she took his hand in hers, brought it to her lips, and kissed his fingers—the way she had all those months ago when he'd first told her about Lisa. Then, without taking her eyes off of his, she pressed his palm against her chest so that the steady beat of her heart pulsed against his skin. She didn't say anything, but she didn't need to. He saw the message in her eyes. Felt it in their bond.

Yours.

He drew in an uneven breath as his body came to life, nerves and muscles quivering beneath clothing that felt suddenly too tight, too restrictive. She must've known what he was feeling, must've sensed the need that rose in him like a tide, but she remained perfectly still. Through sheer force of will, she was controlling her emotions, and yet he could sense them when he tried, could feel her rising desire locked behind a carefully constructed barrier. Even now, in this deep and intimate silence, she was trying to give him what she thought he needed. It was a struggle they shared, this fierce battle against the primal force that simultaneously drew them together and threatened to destroy them.

Awed by her courage, he slid his hand up to trace her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, the graceful arch of her neck. She didn't flinch, not even when his nails grazed her throat and hovered over the delicate throb of her pulse.

"You are . . . so beautiful," he murmured, his breath stirring the hair at her temple.

She laced her fingers through his and tucked their joined hands beneath her chin, and when she looked at him, her eyes were bright. "I love you."

He gazed at her mouth as she spoke, at the subtle shadings of color—from deepest pink to palest peach—that formed the boundaries of her lips. Fascinated, he untangled his hand from hers and traced a path along that line, staring at the contrast of her skin against his. How could it be that something so fragile, so captivatingly beautiful, could withstand the brutal hazards of his clawed hands?

She lay still beneath his touch, but he felt her eyes on him, sensed her pleasure in her deeply indrawn breath, and in the way her mouth gave easily beneath the light pressure of his touch. Her tongue flicked once, and then again, at the sensitive tip of his finger—a silent invitation, one that was at once unconscious and utterly provocative.

Unable, and unwilling, to deny her slightest wish, he slid his fingers into her hair and bent to kiss her. He meant it to be brief, a tender testament to her beauty, but he had trouble ending it, and when he finally dragged himself away, she whispered a protest and reached up to tangle her fingers in his hair. The thick mass spilled forward onto her face, and he started to move back, but she stopped him, pulling him closer instead, until his mouth settled on hers once more and she hummed with pleasure, and he knew he would do anything, anything at all, if only she would make that sound again.

Her lips parted beneath his, beckoning him closer, and he leaned in, careful to keep the bulk of his weight off her slight frame. There were so many textures to explore—the smooth surfaces of her teeth, the soft inner lining of her lips, and the slow, erotic slide of her tongue against his—that he knew he would never tire of kissing her. But when she probed the edges of his lips with her tongue, he hesitated, fearing her reaction to his strangeness—only her hands were still buried in his hair, and she held him still, and in a moment he forgot his uneasiness as new sensations assailed him and he knew that here, too, she accepted him completely.

The realization touched off explosive desire, and a low growl rumbled through his chest as he bracketed her head with his arms and took control of the kiss, tangling his tongue with hers. She was his. Always. The soft curves, the sweet lips, the silken hair . . . his. He rained kisses across her face, along her jaw, down the arch of her neck and into the hollow of her throat. He paused there, nuzzling. Tasting. Drinking in her scent. And she clutched at his shoulders and pulled him closer, her body rising against his in a silent, ageless demand.

In another instant he was poised above her, her arms pinned above her head, her hair scattered across the pillow in wild disarray. She looked up at him with eyes that begged for more even as his hips pressed hers deep into the mattress.

And all at once he realized how close he was to losing control.

He rolled away, his heart pounding, his chest tight as he struggled to bring in enough of the chilled tunnel air to cool the need that threatened to overwhelm him. But when he looked at Catherine his eyes were drawn to the moist fullness of her lips and he wondered where he'd ever gotten the idea that he could protect her from this.

"Vincent?" The passion-clouded tones almost made him reach out for her again. "What is it?"

"Catherine . . ." He didn't dare meet her eyes, certain that if he did he would be lost. The words he needed to say stuck in his throat. He swallowed and forced them past reluctant lips. "The way may yet be dangerous. Are you certain?"

She cupped his chin in her hand and waited until he looked at her. "I've never been more certain of anything in all my life," she said, and there was a huskiness to her voice that stirred something deep inside him. "All that I am, all that I have, is yours."

A distant voice echoed through his mind, demanding that he accept what she was offering. Devour it. Make it part of him—and in so doing, claim her as his forever. And yet he must not frighten her, must not to allow the Other to seize control. Did he have the strength to love her safely? Did he have the courage to try? And if he turned away from her now, what would happen to them?

Still she held back, protecting him from the intensity of her emotions, so that though he could see her desire in her eyes and feel it in the way her hand trembled against his skin, the bond was almost silent. The decision was his—to retreat to the safety of distance, or to risk everything on their dream.

His pulse was calmer now, though the heat of passion still warmed his blood, and he looked into her eyes and knew, somehow, that it would be all right. He couldn't have said why he was suddenly so certain, he only knew that he had to trust her faith in him, had to believe in possibilities, if only because to do otherwise would ultimately destroy them both.

Slowly, without dropping his gaze from hers, he lowered his hand to the curve of her ribs, tracing each one through her sweater. The fabric was soft, with little nubs of yarn that tickled his palm, but the bones beneath were firm. As he explored, he kept his eyes on hers, searching for any sign of doubt in her response, but he encountered only her rising excitement. It was there in the sudden hitch in her breathing, the growing intensity in her eyes, the tightening of her fingers against his shoulders. And when at last his thumb brushed against her breast, she gasped, her body arching toward his.

He marveled at the warmth of her response even as he regretted his inexperience. There was so much he didn't know, so much he had to learn about how to give a woman pleasure. How to give Catherine pleasure. And yet he knew she enjoyed what he was doing, that rather than repulsing her, his intimate touch seemed only to heighten her desire.

When he hesitated, uncertain how to proceed, she reached for his hand, folding it so that he cupped her breast in his palm, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. She felt magical, like nothing else he'd ever touched, and she must have sensed his stunned amazement, because when he looked up, she was smiling gently at him.

She tugged at the edge of his tunic, and he sat up long enough to free himself of sweater, tunic, and vest—items designed not only to protect him, but to spare the community the strangeness of his form. Setting the clothing aside, he turned back to her, alert for any hint of unease. But he sensed only pleasure as she put her hands on his shoulders and slid them down his chest. The sensual touch of her fingers against his skin, with no fabric barrier to muffle their effect, made him gasp, and her eyes flew to his as she drew back.

"Too much?" she asked.

"No." His voice was hoarse. Ragged. "Please . . ."

She touched his shoulder, and he lay back against the pillows, putting his arm around her as she leaned over him and traced delicate patterns against his skin.

"I always wondered," she said, "what you looked like." She smiled a little, though he couldn't tell if she was amused by him or by her thoughts. "I used to think it must be pretty awful for you to be so careful all the time." Her hand came to rest against his stomach and she looked up. "But you're beautiful."

Her gaze was clear and direct, and he knew she truly meant what she was saying, and somehow, hearing it from her, he could almost believe it himself.

"Thank you," he whispered.

She lifted her head to give him a puzzled look. "For what?"

"For believing in me."

He cupped the back of her head with his hand and pulled her close, and she settled easily against him, laying her head on his chest and wrapping her arm around his waist. He stroked her hair while her breath whispered through the thick fur on his chest, and for a while, it was enough. But soon a restlessness grew inside him. He was no longer satisfied just to have her close. He wanted to feel her skin against his, and slowly, he eased his hand under the hem of her sweater.

The small sound she made startled him, and he drew back, afraid that he had offended her in some way. But she merely lifted her head and brushed a series of nuzzling kisses across his chest.

"Please." She stroked her hand down his side and across his stomach, lingering just above the button closure of his pants. "Don't stop."

Her touch sent a shiver of awareness along his spine, encouraging him to try again, and this time when she caught her breath he understood that she was only giving voice to her pleasure. Their pleasure.

"It feels—"

"—like a miracle." He finished for her.

She nodded against him. "Exactly like a miracle."

He brought his other hand up beside the first, so that he held her close, his palms flat against her back, fingers splayed across her skin and running up against the delicate edges of her spine. Catherine lifted her head to press tiny, nibbling kisses across the hollow of his throat, the juncture of his shoulder, and along the line of his jaw, and he held her against him, his hands pressing against the tender skin of her back while he sank into the exquisite pleasure of her touch and wondered where he would ever again find the strength to be apart from her.

She stretched up, reaching for his kiss, and he shifted her to a more comfortable position against his chest and slid his hands into her hair. He whispered her name against her lips, the syllables like warm honey on his tongue—sweet, rich, dark, and utterly bewitching as he took her mouth with his. His thumbs brushed against the petal-soft skin of her cheeks while the kiss went on and on until the intensity of it all nearly overwhelmed them and they separated, breathing hard. And even then he held her body tight against his, his eyes locked on hers.

He saw her love for him in the luminous depths, as well as her desire, and his body responded, calling out for completion. He pulled her back down, her weight barely noticeable, his lips meeting hers once more as he slid his hands under the edge of her sweater and massaged the delicate skin of her lower back. But even this was no longer enough. He wanted more, so much more, and he moved his hands up and around, stroking her through the thin cotton bra, pressing his fingers into the soft outer contours of her breasts.

"Vincent." She choked out his name, pulling away from his kiss, her back arching, hips pressing urgently against him so that he could barely restrain the growl that rose in his throat. There was something desperate in the way she looked at him—the way her fingers tangled in his hair, and the way her chest rose and fell with the frantic beating of her heart. "I need you."

"I know," he said, and he almost didn't recognize his own voice, so thick was it with desire. He must have her, must make her his. There was no other path for them now.

He cradled her face in his hands. "We will go together," he said, "with courage—"

"—and with care," she finished. Her eyes held his in the dancing shadows.

He nodded and pulled her in for another kiss, a final tender reminder of his love before the maelstrom he feared was coming. "Whatever happens," he said, "know that I love you."

He was still worried, but Catherine only smiled and relaxed her fierce grip on her emotions, and for a moment, it was all he could do just to breathe. And then there was no stopping, no turning back, no hesitation. There was only the urgent driving demand of their love.

Reaching for the hem of her sweater, he pulled it up and over her head, leaving only the simple cotton bra protecting her from his gaze. She reached behind her back, and an instant later that too fell away. She pulled it off and shoved it aside, and then she was kissing him again, her breasts pressed against his chest, her skin like warm silk beneath his hands.

He wrapped his arms around her and rolled, bringing her under his body and supporting himself above her as the kiss went on and on and their hands danced across each other's skin in a desperate quest for ever greater intimacy. Power surged through him. And desire. And passion so strong, so overwhelming, that he growled low in his throat. It was a predatory sound, a mating call, and she responded to it with a soft moan of her own as she pulled at his shoulders and pushed her hips against his.

They couldn't get close enough, and he felt rather than heard her murmur of impatience as she tugged at his clothes. He slipped away, and it seemed as though it took forever to free himself, but then he was back to help her with her skirt, and finally there were no more barriers between them, and he was dimly aware that he should stop, should wait, should give her one last chance to change her mind, only he couldn't stop, not now. It was far too late.

The quiet sound she made at the back of her throat called to him, and his nostrils flared with the heady scent of their shared passion, and she moved, opening to him, her hands pulling at his back and her eyes begging him for something he couldn't name. And then instinct took over and he knew only that he had to have her, had to feel what it was to be part of her. His body acted seemingly of its own accord, and he flung his head back and fought a sudden desperate need to roar his triumph when finally, blissfully, their bodies melded into a union so perfect, so incredible, that he froze, staring down at her in awed disbelief.

Her smile was bright, her gaze both tender and heated, as she lifted her hips and pulled him closer, her fingertips like individual points of fire against his sensitized skin, her body warm and soft and welcoming beneath his.

"Don't stop." Her voice was little more than a whisper, a desperate plea. "Please."

The words drifted past him to fade into the shadows, and he answered their call, moving, shifting, responding to the rising demand of a need too long denied.

And then, without warning, the Other was there.

Wild-eyed, with slavering fangs and lewd grin, the Other advanced on Catherine, cruel intent in its menacing gaze. No. This would not happen. Could not happen. Vincent snarled, a dangerous rumble that was both possessive and challenging, but the creature only leered and licked its lips as it stretched hooked claws toward the fragile rise of Catherine's breast, intent upon domination, upon possession.

"Vincent." Catherine's voice, low and urgent, reached out to him through the thick haze of confusion and anger. "You have to trust me. Believe in me. In us." She touched his face, bringing his gaze back to hers, holding him there as her faith rose toward him, radiant and true. Thwarted, the Other reared back in blind pain. It thrived on darkness and shadows, its soul nourished by nightmares. With no recourse against the shimmering tapestry of emotion that bound Vincent and Catherine so tightly together, it vanished, leaving behind only the faint echo of its frustrated howl.

After that, Vincent lost all sense of time and place, but it didn't matter because she held him in her arms, surrounding him with her love, her trust, as months of desire and self-denial coalesced in a fierce, driving rush to fulfillment. She gave him everything, answered his every demand with her own passion, her own hunger. And then, almost too late, he sensed the approach of a vast cataclysm.

For an instant, a single heartbeat, he hesitated. But she caught him, her small hands fierce at his waist, refusing to let him go, bringing him with her as they fell into a shattering release that washed away all his doubts, all his insecurities, so that it seemed to Vincent almost as though their separate souls merged into a single luminous being, complete and whole in ways neither had ever been before.

It was a long time before he became aware of himself again and found that he'd twisted away from her as he'd collapsed, so that now he lay beside her. He gathered her into his arms, tucking her in close against his warmth, and pulled a blanket up to protect her from the cool tunnel air that was already drying the sweat on their skin and raising tiny goosebumps along her arms. She was drowsy, her body utterly relaxed in his arms, and he sensed in their bond a deep, abiding peace.

She said something, but she was already half-asleep, and the words blurred together in a quiet ripple of sound that made him smile against her hair.

"Rest now," he whispered, and his heart soared with the knowledge that she had been right. Their future, no longer constrained by his fears, seemed suddenly filled with possibilities. "And know, always, that I love you."


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

Chapter 17

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


Elliot listened in stunned disbelief as the detective read him his rights. They were arresting him for murder. Him. Elliot Burch. He'd killed before, certainly, but only in self-defense, and certainly not that night at the carousel. And yet how could he tell them that? And who would believe him if he tried to explain what had really happened? He shook his head, trying to clear it enough to understand the detective's words.

"You're under arrest for the murders of John Moreno and Arvin Cates. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights that I'm reading to you?" The detective—Hughes somebody had called him—looked up, waiting for a response. Elliot could only nod.

Little of what happened next penetrated the haze of shock. There were handcuffs, the cold steel pinching his wrists, and a grimy back seat next to a door with no handle. Then ink on his hands, accusatory black stains that refused to come off no matter how hard he rubbed. Somebody took his picture—a bright flash in a dingy room with peeling white paint on the walls and numbered lines behind his head. And then more walls. Brick this time. And thick iron bars. And hovering over all of it the stink of old urine and stale vomit and unwashed bodies.

His lawyer found him there, with his legs pulled up on a narrow wooden bench and his back against the battle-scarred bricks. Richards talked for a long time, but Elliot said little. It wasn't until Richards raised his voice that Elliot even looked up.

"What the hell are you afraid of?" Richards shouted. "Everything you tell me is protected by attorney-client privilege. You know that!"

"I've told you everything I can." In contrast to Richards' strident tones, Elliot's voice was quiet, but his frustration was no less evident for being softly spoken. "Damn it, Richards. You've known me ten years. You can't seriously believe that—"

"What I believe, isn't important. It's what I can make a jury believe. If I'm going to defend you, I need to know what happened!" Richards stared at Elliot for a long, tense moment. "Whatever you say, Elliot . . . it doesn't have to leave this room."

Elliot had to resist a nearly hysterical snort of amusement when he imagined how his impeccably addressed and elegant attorney would react to the truth.

"Who are you protecting?" Richards paced the cell as he glared over at Elliot. "Tell me."

Elliot looked away. "You wouldn't believe me."

With an exasperated sigh, Richards finally gave up. "I'll try and arrange bail. You should be out of here by tomorrow at the latest. In the meantime, you'll have to do some hard thinking." He rapped sharply on the bars to get the guard's attention. "You're not gonna like it in Attica, I warn you. The food is lousy."

A moment later, Elliot was alone with his thoughts and his memories.

And his shattered dreams.


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


It didn't surprise Vincent when he woke up before Catherine again. He usually needed very little sleep, a fact he would always be grateful for if it led to moments like this one. As before, she lay curled in his arms, her back against his chest and her legs tangled with his. Only this time nothing separated him from the silken expanse of her skin, and sometime in the night his hand had found its way under her breast so that now he cupped the soft weight of it in his palm.

He focused on that single point of contact, picturing it in his mind—her smooth pale skin against his darker, rougher palm, his claws so close to her heart. She was completely open to him, completely vulnerable, and if he, even for a moment, lost control of himself…

But he wouldn't. Not with her. Never with her. And he knew that now, knew that their bond, their connection, would forever hold them safe from harm. Her strength and courage had guided them, held them, protected them on a journey he'd once thought impossible. But now he felt that the future, their future, was bright with possibility.

Whatever she needed, whatever she desired, he would give to her. Do for her.

But first he had to keep her safe. And he had to find their son. He closed his eyes and searched for a sense of him in his mind. It took a few moments, but eventually he found what he was seeking. It came to him like the faint echo of a distant drumbeat, regular and comforting. Satisfied, he opened his eyes again, deep in thought.

Gabriel would almost certainly send another hunter to the tunnels. He would know that Vincent was still alive, still searching for his infant son, and he would seek to eliminate that threat. Vincent knew this because he knew what he would do—had done—to protect the people he loved.

The search for their son would bring danger to the tunnel community again, and he couldn't allow that, couldn't allow their quest to threaten the lives of innocent people.

He realized then that he had to leave, at least for a while. He had to draw Gabriel's attention away from this place of safety, because if Catherine was discovered here, Gabriel would not stop until she was dead. Vincent closed his eyes against a vivid memory of Catherine collapsing in his arms, the light fading from her eyes. It was a memory of agony so deep, so excruciating, that his body reacted without his command, pulling her into an instinctive, protective embrace.

"Vincent?" Her soft voice carried with it a hint of dreams undreamt. "What is it?"

He took in a breath, bent, and kissed the top of her head. "It's nothing, Catherine. Rest."

She turned in his arms, soft and warm and womanly, and he felt every point of contact between them—her hips and waist and back against his arms, her legs against his, and her breasts against his chest. His body stirred in response, and though he knew she was aware of it, she only settled more closely against him.

She was watching him, still drowsy, but with concern in her eyes. "You're worried about something."

But the words he needed to say would only upset her. She would wish to come with him. And no matter how desperately he wanted her close, he knew he couldn't allow it. His only hope, his only strength, lay in the knowledge that whatever happened, she would be safe.

He smoothed his hand up her spine, its ridge firm against his palm. He was fully aroused now, his body pulsing with need. "Perhaps," he said quietly, "we could discuss it later?"

With a smile, she settled her hand against his chest and stretched, her body tensing against his, the muscles shifting along her back. He felt her strength, acknowledged it, as she pressed against him and pulled his head down for her kiss.

"I love you," she said.

He felt blessed. Complete. As though, for the first time in his life, he truly knew who he was and where he belonged.

"And I love you." His voice was low, barely more than a whisper of sound as he slid his hand down her back to the alluring curve of her hip.

He would tell her of his decision, but not yet. Not now. Right now, her hands were in his hair and her body was pressed against his, and as kissed her, the only thing he was thinking about was how to give her pleasure.


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


In the deeply shadowed nursery, Gabriel watched Julian kick at his blankets. The boy's limbs were long and well formed, with strength already developing in the infant muscles. The face was Catherine's, clear-skinned and beautiful, but the eyes had Vincent's bright blue intensity. No doubt Julian had inherited other traits from his sire as well, traits that would reveal themselves in the fullness of time. Genetics had endowed the child with great strength and beauty. But Gabriel would be the one to give him power.

"He's a beautiful boy." Jonathan Pope stood nearby, an ever-present shadow.

Gabriel nodded. "He’s strong."

In the crib, the baby whimpered and waved his arms. He wanted attention, human contact. But Gabriel did nothing. The child must learn to look to himself for comfort.

"When are you going to name him?" Pope asked.

"He has a name." God gave Adam the power to name all the creatures of the Earth. And in naming them, Adam had dominated them.

"Oh?"

"Snow always learned their names." Gabriel gazed into the distance, seeing, not his gracious estate, but the slums of his youth. "Then he killed them." Pulling his gaze away from the window, Gabriel turned to Jonathan. "When you know a man's true name, you own him." He took a long slow breath and let it out, setting the memories aside. "And how is Mr. Burch?"

Gabriel knew about the arrest, of course. Elliot Burch's downfall was the cornerstone of a plan that would free Gabriel from two annoyances at once—his son's biological father, and the one man who might have the power to discover the truth about Catherine Chandler's unfortunate demise.

"Elliot Burch is having a rather bad day, I'm afraid." Jonathan sounded distinctly satisfied.

Gabriel turned his gaze back to his son. It was time to have a chat with Elliot Burch. "Employ the jailhouse guard."


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


Vincent found Father in his chambers. He was reading, but when Vincent came in he removed his glasses and set the book aside.

"Ah, Vincent. Come in."

"Father," Vincent came slowly down the steps, shoulders bowed under the weight of the burden he carried, a burden he now had to carry alone. "I must speak with you."

Father eyed him sharply. "Is everything all right? Catherine—?"

"Is well." Vincent sat down and reached for a chess piece. He turned it end over end while he tried to bring order to his thoughts. He still hadn't spoken with Catherine about his decision to leave the community, unwilling to spoil their time together with news that he knew would upset her.

"Talk to me, Vincent. Tell me what is troubling you."

Instead of answering, Vincent asked a question of his own. "How is Brooke?"

"Grieving. Mary is with her. But she’s young, and strong. She will recover from this tragedy."

Vincent set the chess piece among its mates and reached for a candle. He stared at its flame as he spoke. "The hunter came for me," he said. "And because he did, two of my friends are dead."

"You risked your life to protect us." Father laid his hand on Vincent’s arm. "You've always kept our world safe from harm."

Vincent shook his head slowly. "I must not allow myself to endanger our world now." He looked up, meeting Father’s troubled gaze across the candle. "What happened . . . will never happen again." He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment against the words he knew he must say. "I must go, Father."

"Go? Where?"

"Away. Somewhere—" He pushed the candle away, watching as its flame flickered and danced. "—separate. And apart."

"What about Catherine?"

"She will stay here. With you. Where she will be safe."

Father's eyes widened in surprise. "She's agreed to this?"

Vincent looked away. "She doesn’t yet know of my decision."

"When will you tell her?"

"Soon."

Father shook his head. "You can’t possibly think she’ll agree—"

"She must, Father. It is the only way. I must find our son, but I refuse to endanger the community, or Catherine, any further."

"Don't do this, Vincent." Father was pleading with him now, his voice laden with worry and fear.

Vincent stood up. "This is the only home I've ever known," he said, offering his arm to Father and helping him to his feet, his heart aching with the knowledge of the pain he was causing. "But I must leave it in order to keep it safe. Please. Don't make this parting any harder—"

With tears in his eyes, Father hugged him. "I've tried to make a world free from fear and violence. A world where we could live in safety. In peace."

Vincent kissed the worn cheek. "We can't always choose the roads we walk."

Father took Vincent’s face between his palms. "Be careful, Vincent. The road you walk could cost you more than your life." He dropped his hands to Vincent’s shoulders. "It could cost you yourself."

Vincent nodded. "I know the dangers, Father. That is why I must walk this road alone." Turning, Vincent left the chamber without looking back.


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


Diana unlocked the lift gate and stalked back across her loft without waiting for Joe to follow. When she reached the couch, she spun on her heel to glare at him. "I saw the press conference on the evening news."

"That wasn't my idea." Joe dropped his jacket on a chair and followed her into the kitchen. He'd expected her to be mad, but he could tell she was beyond that and well on her way to furious. "You don't bust a guy like Elliot Burch and figure no one's gonna notice."

"Relax, Joe. I know how the game is played. You don't have to explain it to me." She opened the fridge, shoved a carton of milk inside, and slammed the door again. "Come here."

As he followed her to her desk, he tried to guess why she'd called him here. Somehow he knew it wasn't good news. He’d begun to wonder lately if they were even working the same case. Every time his people followed up a lead, she shot it down. It was frustrating as hell. "What's up?"

"Whoever killed Cathy Chandler is not the same person who brought her home."

Bingo. Right on queue, she'd thrown another wrench into the works. Joe sighed. "What makes you think that?"

"Vincent brought her home, Joe. He brought her home because he loved her."

"Oh, come on." The mysterious Vincent again. Joe was starting to hate the very sound of the name.

Diana picked up the crime scene photos and fanned them out on her desk. "Look at these pictures." She jabbed her finger at each one as she talked. "Moreno and Cates were ripped to pieces. Claw marks on the bones, torn flesh, heavy bruising, heavy bleeding."

"Yeah, I read the autopsies." Joe turned his eyes away. So much for his dinner plans.

"Coroner says it was more like an animal attack than a murder." Diana tapped the pictures back into a neat pile and put them in a folder. "I ran a computer check just to see if there were any other instances of the same M.O. in the last three years."

She was off on a tangent. A wild goose chase. "I remember those cases," he said, "but what do they have to do with ours?"

"The earliest was eight months after Cathy Chandler came to work for you."

Diana was watching him for his reaction, and Joe schooled his face into a mask of polite interest. He refused to believe that Cathy could have had anything to do with the gruesome deaths.

"And a third of them tie into cases that she was involved with."

Joe shook his head. "All circumstantial. You can't prove a damn thing." None of those cases had ever been resolved, but the cops probably hadn’t exactly busted their tails over them, either. They rarely did when the victims were hardened criminals.

Diana lifted a rough piece of concrete and dropped it heavily on top of the papers on her desk. He glanced down at it.

"Vincent." The name was carved into the concrete in crude letters. It reminded him of all the times he'd carved his name into tree trunks as a kid. He looked back up at her. "Where'd you get this?"

"Drainage tunnel under the park. Did you know there are hundreds of unmapped tunnels beneath this city?"

"So?" From animals to concrete slabs to drainage tunnels? Where was she going with this?

"So—" She lifted her hands. Dropped them again in frustration. "I don't know." She started across the room. Turned back. "What kind of roses did she like?"

Joe blinked at the abrupt change of subject. "What do I look like, her florist?"

"The only way that you can get a red and a white rose to grow off the same bush is with a special graft. Did you know that?"

Joe shrugged. "Maybe she couldn't make up her mind."

Diana shook her head. "There's a language to flowers. The red rose means passion and love, and the white rose is eternity or death. Now somehow, I don't know how, but somehow Vincent knew when she was in trouble, and he came to her. He was her protector."

Her protector? What the hell was she on? "You sound like you know this guy."

"Sometimes I feel like I do." She stood up and moved away to look out the window.

"Let's say I buy this for a second, okay?" He crossed to her side, gazing out at the dirty New York streets. "Where is he now?"

"Somewhere."

"Somewhere?" He tilted his head. Somewhere was a pretty big place.

"Somewhere close." Beyond the window, the city of New York stretched away into the hazy distance.


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


Catherine had realized Vincent had something on his mind as soon as she'd woken up, but when he'd deflected her questions, she hadn't pushed. Now they were standing by the Mirror Pool and everything inside her had just turned to ice.

"No." The single syllable, flat and uncompromising, fell between them like a stone.

"Catherine—"

"How can you even consider it?" She folded her arms across her chest and hugged herself against a wave of piercing cold that had nothing to do with temperature.

"This man," Vincent said. "This Gabriel." He hesitated. "He's dangerous, Catherine."

"Do you think I don't know that?" She heard the hysteria in her voice, but she was helpless to hold it back.

Gabriel's chiseled features rose in her mind, and for a panic-stricken instant she imagined he stood before her. She gasped as the chamber walls gave way to water-stained acoustical tiles and halogen lights, and all at once she was back on that table, begging him to let her see her baby.

He'd barely even looked at her. "Finish it," he'd said, his voice flat, and cold, and utterly devoid of humanity.

She shook her head and drew in a shuddering breath, pushing the images back by sheer force of will.

"Six months, Vincent! Can you even conceive of what it was like?" Her voice trembled, and when he took a step towards her, she backed away from him, seeking refuge in the darkest corner of the shadowed chamber.

"They kept me locked up, and there were—" She closed her eyes as the memories washed over her in great suffocating waves. In her mind, she saw again the unblinking eyes of the cameras. They'd tracked every movement, every gesture, with silent, red-eyed, menace—until by the end, she'd even begun to suspect them of tracking her thoughts.

"I was never, ever alone." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And yet I've never felt so utterly and completely alone in all my life."

She'd been staring at the water while she talked, legs braced and shoulders hunched against the deluge of painful memories, but as her last words faded into the shadows something—a sound? An instinct?—made her lift her head. Vincent was watching her, some unfathomable emotion in his eyes, but when he reached out to her she flinched away again, seeing not his hand, but the long, elegantly manicured fingers of a monster who only looked like a man.

"It's over now, Catherine." Vincent's voice barely reached her through the haze of remembered fear. "You're safe."

"No." She shook her head. "I'm not." She turned back to the water and the play of torchlight across its surface. "None of us are."

She sat down, leaning her shoulders against the reassuring solidity of the granite wall and pulling her knees up to her chest. Her voice was little more than a whisper when she continued. "I never knew whether it was day or night, sunny or rainy." Her eyes burned with tears but she blinked them away, her hands curling into fists. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't let it break her. Not now. Not ever. "There was no Thanksgiving. No Christmas or Winterfest—just the never-ending aloneness."

And the examinations. A shudder swept through her as she remembered the absolute humiliation, the degradation. No. She wouldn't talk about that. Not now. Maybe not ever. Not even to Vincent.

A whisper of sound alerted her to his movement, and she snapped her head up, wide-eyed with fear and fighting an unreasoning urge to flee as he crossed to her side. He moved slowly, as one might approach a wild bird with a broken wing, and when she flinched, he froze, sitting down an arm's length away and folding his legs beneath him. His cloak shrouded him in darkness, and though he didn't look at her, she sensed the intensity of his attention in his absolute stillness.

"The only thing I had," she said, when the fear subsided once more and her heart ceased its rapid tattoo against her ribs, "the only thing that kept me going, was our baby." She imagined she could still feel him moving inside her, his tiny feet knocking against her ribs, his hiccups making her stomach leap and dance.

"I talked to him." Her voice softened and her hand settled protectively over her stomach, soothing the infant that was no longer there. "I didn't know what was going to happen to him, and I wanted him to know who his parents were and how much we loved him. So I would lie on the bed, and curl up around him, and whisper to him for hours."

She glanced up to find Vincent watching her with a tenderness that was almost more than she could bear. Hastily, she dropped her eyes, certain that if she held his gaze for too long, she'd lose her tenuous grip on her self-control.

"I told him everything." She remembered searching her mind, reliving every moment she'd shared with Vincent so that she could pass the memories on to their child. "I told him about me, and about you—about how we met and where you lived and how much I loved you and how happy you would be when you found him."

She knew it hurt him to hear this, but she couldn't seem to make herself stop talking. "I knew they wouldn't let me live, because I'd seen them. I could identify them. And I wanted our baby to know how lucky he was to have you for a father."

"Catherine . . ." The way he said her name, his voice rough with pain, made her lift her head. For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then, moving slowly, as if he was afraid he might frighten her again, he opened his arms. At first she did nothing, too deeply enmeshed in the nightmarish memories to accept the comfort he offered.

And then something broke loose inside her, and with a wrenching sob, she fell into his arms. Immediately, he pulled her close, surrounding her in protective warmth, and finally, blessedly, she let the tears come, because here, in the safety of his arms, she didn't have to be strong, didn't have to prove herself, or protect herself, or worry that he would think less of her for giving vent to the raw pain that peopled her nightmares and made her cling to him each time he ventured Above.

The storm eased slowly, giving way to exhausted silence. Gradually, she became aware that he was rocking her back and forth, crooning meaningless words in a low voice. She rested against him, taking strength from his love and his constant, unwavering belief in her. And when, a few minutes later, she began to speak again, her voice was steadier, the fear no longer a living, howling presence in her mind.

"When I went into labor," she said, without lifting her head from his chest, "I tried to hide it because I knew what it meant. I was terrified. Not for me, but for him, for what would happen to him after he was born." The leather pouch she'd given him rested against his chest, and she laid her hand over it. It felt warm beneath her palm, almost as if it pulsed with a life of its own. "I was excited, and curious. I wanted so badly to see him, to hold him in my arms. But at the same time, I wondered if it would hurt to die."

Vincent tensed, his arm tightening around her shoulders, and she shifted her arm to his waist to give him a reassuring hug. She hadn't died. She was here, by his side, where she belonged—where she would always belong.

"By the time they realized what was going on, the contractions were already so close together that I didn't have the strength to fight when they strapped me to the delivery table." She could still feel the straps biting into her skin, and she rubbed her wrist against the soft fabric of Vincent's sweater, trying to replace one tactile memory with another.

"After the baby came, I begged them to let me hold him, but I barely got a glance at his face before Gabriel took him away." That monster had smiled at her son, a twisted, triumphant grin that didn't reach his eyes. "And then the doctor was filling the syringe, and all I could think about was you and our son and how desperately sad I was that I would never see either of you again."

She sat up and turned so that she could see Vincent's eyes. "He had this strange look on his face. Regret maybe? I don't know, but after he gave me the shot he loosened the straps on my wrists, and before he left . . . before he left, he said he was sorry."

Vincent eased the hair away from her eyes. Then he bent and pressed his lips to her forehead.

"Perhaps," he said, drawing back, "he found his conscience."

Catherine thought back, trying to pinpoint what it was about the doctor's expression that had seemed so strange. "I guess it's possible."

She told Vincent how she'd almost given up then. With her baby gone, and the morphine already making her drowsy, she hadn't thought she had the strength to fight anymore. But then she'd heard a commotion in the halls. People running. And screams. And some remnant of hope had made her struggle to her feet.

"Somehow I knew you'd come for us, and that I had to find you, had to tell you about our son before it was too late. I don't remember climbing the stairs to the roof, and I don't know why I was so certain I would find you there, but I remember hearing the helicopter and seeing you standing there with the wind whipping through your hair." She'd never seen anything so beautiful, his hair and cloak flying in the wind, his body lit by the rooftop spotlights. "I was so happy that the last thing I'd see would be your face."

Vincent closed his eyes, his head falling back against the chamber wall, and Catherine knew that he, too, was remembering those moments.

"He took our son, Vincent. And he ordered my death." She gripped the edges of his leather vest in her hands, as though she would hold him there herself, force him to see reason. "How can you ask me to let you face him alone?"

"Catherine . . ." Her name was little more than a breath, his gaze agonized as he looked into her eyes. For the space of several heartbeats, he said nothing more, and when he did go on, his voice was just a whisper. "I still have no memory of the first time we loved. But last night, when you gave yourself to me, it . . . changed me." He touched her chin, urging her to look up at him. "You became a part of me. More, even, than you were before. More than I ever dreamed possible." He took her hands in his. "Your strength and your courage live in me now. And when I go Above, I take you with me."

She started to shake her head, but he interrupted her before she could speak. "I can only imagine the pain, the horror, of what happened to you. If I could take that pain from you, I would, gladly. But I can't. And somewhere up there we have a son who needs us. Dig deep, Catherine. Find your strength. It lives in you still. I'm certain of it." He leaned in, and she closed her eyes as his lips brushed across hers in tender affirmation of his belief in her. Afterwards, he cradled her face in his hands and brushed his thumbs across her cheeks. "Please. Let me go. Let me do what must be done."

"How do I live with the knowledge that I might lose both of you?" She almost couldn't get the words out—the mere thought of it too horrible to contemplate. She hated this weakness in herself, this horrible feeling of vulnerability. Would she ever again be the strong and confident woman he'd fallen in love with?

He shook his head. "Only by knowing that there is no other choice."

He was right. She knew he was right, even as her heart cried out against it.

"And if Gabriel does send someone else?" She was stalling now, grasping at wisps of arguments like a child reaching for soap bubbles.

"I'll be near. You'll be safe."

She stared at him, and it was there in his eyes, the fierce determination to protect the ones he loved from the evil that loomed over them all. Suddenly terrified of what the coming days might bring, she flung her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, his name a desperate plea in the cool tunnel air. He answered with her own name as he held her tightly, almost desperately against him.

"I can’t lose you, Vincent."

"I know," he murmured, stroking her back. "I know."


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

Chapter 18

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

The small room was dingy—poorly lit and worn down by the passage of thousands of people through its long, weary lifetime. Elliot approached the window and tapped on the glass, leaving a faint grayish smudge in the thick film of dirt. Disgusted, he wiped his hand on his pant leg, his thoughts leaping ahead to the shower he'd take as soon as he got home. His suit was ruined, of course. What a waste.

The heavy panel snagged against its metal track as it slid open, and the resulting screech set Elliot's teeth on edge. A taciturn officer with garlic breath and sweat-stained armpits handed him a clipboard.

"Sign on the line."

With a nod, Elliot scrawled his signature and handed the clipboard back, trading it for a bulky envelope that contained his wallet and keys.

"Mr. Burch." The voice came from behind him, and Elliot turned to see a well-dressed man who smiled in a way that made him distinctly uneasy. "How nice to meet you at last." The man extended his hand in greeting. "I've heard so much about you."

Elliot ignored the hand. "Who the hell are you?"

"Jonathan Pope." Pope nodded at the empty envelope on the counter. "You're being released, Mr. Burch. Pending arraignment, of course."

Elliot looked around the deserted room. "Where's Richards? Did he set this up?"

"I'm afraid Mr. Richards has had to take himself off the case. His little girl is missing. Very sad." But Pope didn’t look sad at all. Only content—the same way a cat looked content after finishing off a fat canary.

"Who sent you?"

"A friend." Pope smiled slightly. "Just think of him as the player on the other side."

"Gabriel." The name tasted like bile in Elliot's mouth.

"He's a great admirer of yours." With a polite nod of the head, Pope gestured toward the door. "And he's very anxious to meet you. Shall we?"


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


The short ride was accomplished in silence. Elliot watched the passing traffic, refusing to meet Pope's eyes as the big car glided through the quiet streets. Ten minutes later, they pulled to a stop at a painfully familiar cemetery.

"He's waiting for you," Pope said, letting him out of the car. "I trust you know the way."

Elliot eyed the bulge of a handgun visible underneath Pope's coat. "Will I be coming back?"

"That's entirely up to you, Mr. Burch." Pope got back in the car and slammed the door. The vehicle pulled away, leaving Elliot alone to face whatever—or whoever—was waiting for him.

The cemetery was empty, peopled only by the silent voices of the dead and the cold impassivity of their headstones. Tiny shoots of grass had already begun to grow over the grave, and Elliot stopped to stare at the recently placed marker—Cathy's entire life reduced to a few chiseled words, a pair of dates, and the fading scent of wilted flowers.

"Why do people put flowers on graves?"

Elliot turned to see a slim, dark-eyed man approach. The elusive Gabriel. It had to be.

Gabriel stopped at Elliot's side, his eyes on the bedraggled bouquets. "Do they really think it makes death smell sweeter?"

Elliot drew in a slow breath. He had to keep his head, had to think clearly. The only thing he had left was his mind. Everything else had been stripped away. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" Gabriel looked as though the idea amused him.

"Only the company." Cold fury laced the quiet words.

"Elliot." Gabriel's voice dripped with amused condescension. "The war is over. In a month you'll be bankrupt. In a year you'll be in prison. Half your people are already mine."

"You're lying." Elliot struggled to keep his composure as he wondered just how far Gabriel was willing to go.

"Maybe I am." Gabriel gave him a small, tight smile. "But how will you ever be sure?" Something about the voice, its timbre maybe, or its utter lack of inflection, sent a frisson of cold fear arcing along Elliot's spine.

"Machiavelli wrote that a wise prince knows it is better to be feared than loved," Gabriel said. He gestured with a wave of his arm. "Look around you. All these tombstones. All these wasted possibilities." He met Elliot’s eyes. "There's no reason for us to be enemies, Elliot."

Elliot stabbed his finger toward the freshly planted slab of granite. "There's your reason."

"Catherine Chandler." Gabriel eyed the headstone and sighed. "You know, if I had known all the trouble it would cause, I would never have killed her." He shook his head. "But it's done. There she lies. If you want to lie down beside her, so be it." He turned back to Elliot. "But I heard that you were a more practical man."

"Maybe I was. Once." Elliot's gaze was drawn back to the headstone. "She changed me."

Gabriel shook his head. "I don't think so."

"What do you mean?"

"I know you."

"You don't know anything about me," Elliot snarled.

"I know you," Gabriel said, unmoved by Elliot's outburst. "I know who you came from. I watched you climb. I know the price you paid. Rung by rung." Elliot saw a flash of gold as Gabriel twisted a ring on his finger. "The world is not that nice."

Elliot stared at Cathy's grave, remembering the beautiful, vibrant woman she'd been—and wishing there'd been a gun in that envelope they'd given him at the police station.

"But you and I," Gabriel said. "We're different. We belong to an earlier time." He glanced around the graveyard and then back at Elliot. Over their heads, a hawk drifted on the wind.

Gabriel tilted his head, watching the bird. "Five hundred years ago," he said, "we would've been conquerors. Kings. Smaller men would shower us with titles. And after we died, they would've built us pyramids." He shook his head, bringing his gaze back to Elliot. "You've come so far. You've pulled yourself up out of the dirt. Halfway to the stars. Do you really want to throw it all away for the sake of a woman who never loved you?"

The protest rose automatically to Elliot's lips. "She—"

"She what?" Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "She told him everything about you. She told you . . .? Nothing about him."

Elliot tried to block out the words. He didn't want to hear this, couldn't bear to be reminded of Cathy's divided loyalties. But Gabriel went on, either not noticing or deliberately ignoring Elliot's discomfort.

"She kept his secrets. And your dreams?" Gabriel shook his head. "Meant nothing to her."

The words were like knives in Elliot's heart, painful, sharp-edged things that made him want to cry out. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

"She loved him," Gabriel went on. "And she bore him a child."

Gabriel was manipulating him. Elliot knew that. It was a game he had used often in his own climb to success. And yet there was enough truth in the words to send a stab of jealous anger through his heart.

"I didn't take her away from you, Elliot. He did." Gabriel waited a beat. "But I could give it all back to you. Everything you've lost. Wealth. Power. I can help you own it. Together we can build towers that will last for a thousand years." He gestured at the grave. "Or . . . you can have this."


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


Catherine hesitated at the entrance to the store room. By the end of the day, Julia might regret agreeing to let her help. But she had to find a way to distract herself from her loneliness. It had only been a day since Vincent had left her by the mirror pool, but already it felt like a lifetime.

"Julia?"

"Here," Julia's cheerful voice rang out from the other end of the room. "Is that you, Catherine?"

"Sure is."

"There’s a box there by the table. Would you mind bringing it back here?"

"No problem." Catherine found Julia surrounded by piles of clothing and discarded hangers. "Here you go."

"Great. Thanks." Julia indicated an empty spot on the floor and Catherine set down the box. "One of the helpers sent down a new shipment today. I thought I’d try to get it sorted before dinner." She picked up a handful of hangers. "You here to chat? Or to work."

"To work."

Julia nodded sympathetically. "’Tis a lonely washing that has no man’s shirt in it," she said. "Me Mum used to say that." She passed the hangers to Catherine and waved at the clothing filled box as she went on. "When I was a girl, I wondered what she meant by it. Now . . ." She sighed. There was a sadness in her eyes that made Catherine wonder what had brought her to the tunnels.

With a little shrug of her shoulders, Julia picked up a shirt, examining it in the torch-light. "What do you think?" she asked. "Pascal?"

Catherine grinned. The shirt was bright orange, with a wide black collar and cuffs. "Father, I think."

Julia laughed, and the somber moment passed as they got to work. Some of the clothes went right onto hangers. Others were sorted into piles to be remade into other items.

"Do you know how to quilt?" Julia asked at one point.

"No," Catherine said. "My mother died when I was very young, and my father wasn't exactly the crafty type."

"Mary makes lovely quilts. Have you seen them?"

Catherine nodded. "I doubt I could ever sew like that."

"Sure you can. We’ll start tonight." She began piling sorted clothing in one of the discarded boxes. "After all," she said. "Well begun is half done."

"Your mother again?"

"No." Julia tossed her an impish smile. "Aristotle."


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


The dilapidated building brought back painful childhood memories—memories Elliot tried to block out as he followed the sound of the music. Jazz again. Such beauty for such a sad place. He found Clarence's room and knocked twice on the scarred wooden door. The music stopped. The door opened. Inside, Elliot saw faded furniture, an old lamp, and a scattering of newspapers. Clarence looked at him expectantly, the golden saxophone cradled lovingly in his arms.

"Can I help you, Mr. Burch?"

Elliot tried a smile, but it felt stiff. "Do I look like I need help?"

The old man gazed shrewdly at him. "Poor men aren't the only ones who lose their way."

"I know my way." Elliot held out a piece of paper wrapped around a hundred-dollar bill.

Clarence took the folded stationary and tucked it in his pocket.

"Don't you want the money?"

Shaking his head, Clarence started to close the door. "I'll see that he gets your note. No charge."

Elliot put his foot out to stop the door from closing completely. He offered the money again. "Not for the note. For the music."

Clarence eyed him sharply for a moment, and then with a brief nod of gratitude accepted the bill. Then the door closed again, and Elliot shoved his hands deep inside his pockets as he turned away, forcing himself not to think about what Cathy would say if she knew what he'd just set in motion.


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


The absence of sound hammered at Vincent's ears—the dull thud of his own heartbeat and the faint whoosh of blood through his veins his only proof that he had not, as he almost believed, crossed over into some Dante-inspired netherworld peopled by dark and silent spirits. With a sigh, he gave up on reading and closed the book, his gaze boring into the impenetrable blackness that prowled hungrily just beyond the reach of the torch.

He missed her. The feeling was not new to him, but it had a new depth, as if his entire body yearned for her presence instead of just his heart. Every fiber of his being called out to him to go to her—to take her in his arms, bury his face in her hair and draw her scent deep into his lungs. And yet he remained convinced that the only hope he had of protecting her lay in his absence.

A scuffling sound distracted him from his thoughts, and he stiffened, sinking deeper into the shadows. As he watched and waited, he recognized the regular pattern of human footsteps. When the intruder was nearly upon him, Vincent leapt out of his hiding place with a roar that made his visitor leap back with a sudden cry of fear.

"Vincent! You scared me!"

Blowing out a breath as the adrenalin rush eased, Vincent relaxed back against the wall. "Remember that fear. It could keep you alive." He watched Mouse tug his helmet back into place. "How did you find me?"

"Can't hide from Mouse." Mouse lifted his chin, his jaw tightening stubbornly. "Want to help."

Vincent shook his head. "Nothing you can do."

"Plenty Mouse can do. Building, fixing, finding, taking . . ."

"Dying?" It was harsh, but Mouse had to be made to understand the danger. "This is something I must do alone."

"Mouse was alone once. Alone is bad. Worse than bad. Worse than worse." He thrust a crumpled piece of paper at Vincent.

Vincent unfolded it and read the short message.

Compass Rose. Meet me. Good news.

Mouse shifted restlessly, never one to stand still for long. "What was in the note?"

Vincent refolded the slip of paper and tucked it in his pocket. "Hope."

Lifting his head, he gazed into the blackness, a blackness whose edges seemed almost to glimmer with golden light. Emily Dickinson was right, he thought. Hope truly is the thing with feathers.


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


Diana stared at the wall of pictures. Catherine Chandler. Elliot Burch. Joe Maxwell. Dozens of nameless faces. She held a worn book of poetry in her hand, and now she pulled her gaze from the pictures to open it, looking for Thomas Gray’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. The line that caught and held her gaze had been repeating itself in her mind for days.

"The paths of glory lead but to the grave." She read the words aloud. Slowly. Rolling each one on her tongue while she tried to understand the message her subconscious was trying to communicate.

It hit her all at once. She snapped the book closed, wincing when a too slow fingertip got caught between the covers. That was it. "Her grave."

Of course! Vincent would visit the cemetery. He’d have to. Whatever had kept him away on the day of the funeral, he’d have to see her final resting place. His love for Catherine would demand it.

She would wait for him there.


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


Something had drawn Father to the mirror pool, some inexplicable need, and now he stared into the still waters and tried to put aside the misgivings that had plagued him ever since Vincent had told him of his decision to leave. Vincent was a man, with a man's will, and Father had no place interfering with that. Still, he wouldn't rest easily until Vincent was safely home.

There was a light footstep behind him, and he turned to see Brooke entering the small chamber. She cast a wary look at the water, as if wondering whether the spirits of Steven and Sam might yet be lurking in its depths.

"Father, I had to find you. Ask you—" She came to a stop just inside the entrance. "Was it because of me that Vincent went away?"

There was a great deal of pain in her voice. And guilt. She was too young to bear such a heavy burden, and Father's heart ached to see her suffer so.

"No, child. Come here." When she did, he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to his side, sharing what little comfort he could. Together, they looked at the reflected image of the night sky.

"Vincent left because he had to," Father said. "Because he loved us. And because his destiny lies up there, now." He cast a glance upward, to where the sky was hidden beyond the stone ceiling of the chamber. "Beneath those . . . stranger stars."


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


Vincent passed through the cemetery again, but this time he didn’t linger at the empty grave. He was in a hurry. Elliot had news. Perhaps he would finally have the information Vincent sought. The thought gave speed to his steps, and he arrived at the boatyard long before the appointed meeting time. At its boundary, he slowed to a stop and scanned for any sign that he was not alone. But all was quiet.

Staying in the shadows, he slipped into the boatyard and made his way to the furthest pier. There he hesitated again, every sense alert to the presence of others. There was nothing. He straightened his hood, hiding himself more deeply in its dark folds before moving forward once more. This time, he didn’t stop until he was safely on board the Compass Rose.

He settled down in the darkness to wait.


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


After dinner, Julia showed Catherine the way to the sewing chamber. Mary was already there, along with Lena and Sara and several other women, some of whom Catherine recognized and others who were new to her. The women welcomed her warmly, and the unfamiliar twinge of shyness that had hovered over Catherine when she'd first entered soon faded. The feeling bothered her. Ordinarily, she enjoyed meeting new people. But then, these weren't just any strangers; these women were part of Vincent's family, and for his sake, she wanted them to like her.

A quilting frame stood in one corner of the chamber, a partially finished quilt stretched across it, and a nearby loom was strung with brightly colored yarns. Somebody was weaving something. A rug, maybe? An old sewing machine rested on a table near the chamber entrance, and boxes of fabric and notions lined the walls and spilled out of two wooden cabinets. Somehow Catherine couldn't imagine immersing herself in this alien world of needles and thread on any kind of regular basis, but the work might at least provide a distraction from the fear and worry that knotted her shoulders and kept her awake at night.

"The buttons come off first," Mary was saying. "They go in there." She indicated an old cookie tin in the center of the table. "The cuffs and collars go in that box beside you. Then we take out the seams and see what we have left." She showed Catherine the shirt she was working with. "If you’re careful, you can get five good pieces of fabric out of a shirt. Sleeves, two front pieces, and a nice piece from the back."

"Pants and skirts aren’t much different," said Julia from the other side of the table. "Save the buttons, snaps, and zippers, take out the seams, sort out the rest. We don’t get too many of those, though. Most of what comes in goes back out to the community almost at once. But there are times—" She held up the pair of pants she’d been working with. Bright pink with yellow stripes. "—we get some in that even we tunnel dwellers refuse to wear." She grinned.

Catherine tried to smile back, but she was distracted. Where was Vincent now? What was he doing? Was he safe? She forced her attention back to the job at hand. She had to stay busy. Pulling a brightly flowered shirt out of the box beside her, she set to work. Be well, Vincent, she thought. Come back to me.


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


Vincent felt Elliot’s approach before he heard it. There was a slight ripple in the air, a sensation of another presence close at hand. Seconds later he heard the thud of heavy footsteps against the dock. He saw Elliot stop and peer down into the darkness.

"Elliot." Vincent kept his voice low. He was uneasy, but he didn't know why. Something was wrong.

"Vincent," Elliot said. "Come here. I’ve got something to show you."

There was tension in Elliot’s voice. And anger. Why? Vincent stepped out of the shadows, but he stayed low, every sense alert. "What's wrong?"

"You're what's wrong." Elliot said bitterly. "Look at you. I could've given Cathy the whole world. What did you give her?"

Vincent was startled by the venom in Elliot's voice, but he answered honestly. Elliot deserved that much from him.

"All I could," he said. "All I had. All I was." It was the truth, or as much of it as Vincent could give. Elliot believed that Catherine was dead, and if he blamed Vincent for that it was right that he should be angry. But why now?

Elliot stared at him, and Vincent could see him thinking, considering something he could only guess at. Then his expression hardened with determination, and he cast a hurried glance over his shoulder.

"The message was a lie." The bitterness was gone, replaced by stark fear. "Get out of here. Now! You were a fool to trust me!"

Vincent hesitated, confused. The message was a lie? How could that be? Why would Elliot lie to him?

"Go! Now!" There was terror in Elliot's voice now, and an edge of panic.

Vincent reached out to him. "Catherine trusted you," he said. "Let me help you, Elliot."

"Vincent!"

Elliot tumbled forward into Vincent's arms as a sharp crack of noise split the night air. Gunfire. Vincent lowered Elliot to the deck and felt the warm stickiness of blood against his fingers. Stunned by the unexpected turn of events, Vincent knew only that he had to act, had to get them both to safety.

Elliot fumbled in his pocket. "Take this. Go!"

The ring. Vincent dropped it in his pocket as he shook his head. "You wouldn't leave me." Could Elliot swim? Could he tow him to safety in the murky waters? A hail of bullets ricocheted off metal and thudded into soft wood. There was no time to delay.

"You're damn right I would." Elliot’s voice was tight with pain.

"You're lying again." Vincent's voice was calm, but his mind raced.

What came next happened so fast that later Vincent would have trouble piecing it together. Elliot shoved him, and the boat rocked violently beneath his feet, and then he felt himself losing his balance, the world tilting crazily as he fell. There was a shout. His? Elliot's?

And then the world exploded.


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


"No!"

Catherine saw a bright flash of light, felt a sudden, excruciating pain, and heard a sound louder and more terrifying than any she had ever heard before. She struggled against a horrible conviction that she was sinking, dragged down into utter blackness by something she couldn't see and didn't know how to fight. Mary and Julia were bending over her. They were white-faced, and they were saying something to her, but Catherine couldn’t understand the words, couldn’t bring herself to speak the fear that tore through her heart.


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


When the streak of light fell across the mirror pool, Father caught his breath. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but tonight, with so much unrest, so much fear and worry weighing on him, the falling star felt like an omen.

"Father . . ." Brooke’s voice came to him from a distance. "What's wrong?"

The quote came unbidden, the words falling from his lips of their own accord. "When beggars die," he said, "there are no comets seen." He stared at the place the flash had disappeared, his arm tightening around Brooke’s thin shoulders. "But the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes."


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


The nursery was quiet, lit only by the moonlight that streamed through the wide windows. A mobile swung gently over the ornate crib, stirred to life by the press of Gabriel's body against the narrow railing.

The child was awake. Alert. Crying in the darkness. In fact, Gabriel realized, his son almost never slept in his presence. He wondered at the meaning of that. Then he decided it was more proof of the child’s extraordinary abilities. Julian waved his arms and kicked at the light cotton blanket that covered his legs, his small face wet with tears.

Gabriel reached out and adjusted the blanket. The child must stay warm. His health was paramount.

"Don't be afraid," he said, remembering the bright flash as the Compass Rose had exploded, sending flaming debris across the boatyard. He’d solved two problems tonight, a fact that brought a smile of satisfaction to his lips. "It's over. You're safe now."

Julian's tears glistened in the moonlight.


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

Chapter 19

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



It was a chilly night, made even more so by the brooding tombstones and lifeless statuary. Diana tugged her jacket more closely about her as she waited in the darkness. Had her instincts been wrong? But they rarely were. She had a knack for this stuff. It was how she’d earned the right to pick and choose her cases, the privilege of working on only one case at a time. And yet, as the hours passed and nothing happened, she began to doubt herself. Why had she assumed that Vincent would come on her first night here? Why had she assumed he’d come at all? Maybe he'd found other ways to say goodbye to the woman he'd loved so much.

She glanced up, her eyes tracking the path of a comet across the sky. Somehow she knew that this was no beggar’s comet. Somewhere, a prince had died this night. She shuddered as a superstitious shiver straightened her spine. Then, behind her, she heard a sound. Heavy, labored breathing. The faint rustle of a footstep. And then a muffled thud.

Spinning around, Diana peered into the darkness, struggling to make out the bulky shape in the shadows.

She fumbled for her flashlight. Flicked it on. Directed its light toward Cathy’s grave. It was a man. He was big, with long, tangled hair and dark clothing covered by some kind of cloak.

Her heart caught in her throat. Was this Vincent at last? She hesitated, waiting to see what he would do, but he lay still and unmoving, his body sprawled across the grave. Something was wrong. Cautiously, she eased closer, one hand on the gun in her pocket, the other holding tightly to the flashlight. When she reached his side, she ran the beam over the unmoving figure. He still didn't stir, and she dropped to her knees. He was lying on his stomach, and it took all of her strength to roll him over.

The face that met her eyes was like nothing she'd ever seen, and she gasped as she jerked her hands away. What the hell?


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


Catherine came awake with a start. It took her a second to realize that she was still in the sewing chamber. Her head ached terribly, and she struggled to focus on the women who were crowded around her, their faces creased with worry.

"Catherine? Are you all right?" Mary rubbed her back while Julia poured her a glass of water.

"Yes." But the small nod sparked a shaft of pain, and she winced as she accepted the glass from Julia. She sipped slowly, feeling it cool her throat while she tried to think. "I . . . what happened?" And why did she have this overwhelming feeling of dread? Her thoughts were fuzzy and tangled, a mass of chaotic, shifting emotions.

Mary and Julia exchanged a look. "You fainted, dear." Mary straightened. "Julia, would you run and get Father? I believe he's at the mirror pool. I saw him headed that way earlier."

Catherine held up a hand. "No. Please don't bother him. I'm all right." Or she would be, once this horrible headache eased. But something had happened to Vincent, and she had to find him. He was Above somewhere; she was certain of it. And he was hurt.

"Are you sure?"

Standing up, Catherine backed away from the table, forcing her legs to support her weight, fighting to appear calm when inside, rising fear was urging her to run. "I'm fine. I just . . . I need to do something."

She fled the room, ignoring the voices calling out behind her. If they knew where she was going, they would try to stop her. And she didn't have time to argue with them.

Pausing at her chamber just long enough to grab her cloak, she headed Above.


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


He was unconscious and badly hurt. Diana could see blood on his face and matted in his hair. As she stared at him, at the face that looked more feline than human, snippets of conversation flashed through her mind. ". . . coroner said it looked more like an animal attack." "He's her protector." "Up seventeen flights with no witnesses." She stood. Backed away a step. Stared down at him.

"Vincent." She was barely aware that she'd spoken, the words ghosting away from her on a whisper. He wasn't safe here. If someone saw him, someone who didn't know, didn't understand . . . She needed help. But who? A pale gleam of light at the other end of the cemetery drew her attention. There.

The night watchman jumped up when she burst into his hut.

"Jesus, Lady!" He shined his flashlight in her eyes and she raised her hands against the glare.

"I need your help." Adrenalin tightened her chest and pushed the words out in a rush. Would he still be there when she got back? Or would he be gone, leaving her to wonder forever whether he'd been a figment of her imagination?

"What the hell are you doing here?" The watchman lowered the light.

"I didn't mean to scare you, but . . ." Diana searched her mind for some explanation that would make sense, some way to convince him of the urgency of her need without giving too many details. "I need your help."

"At midnight?" He had a strong accent. Hispanic, maybe. Diana's detective brain filed the detail away with millions of others. "What kind of help do you need?"

"It'll take an hour tops, I promise. I'll pay you." Just please, please come. She resisted the urge to grab his arm and pull, but she couldn't stop herself from taking a step closer.

He hesitated. "How much?"

Her wallet was in her pocket. She grabbed for it, yanked out the bills, and flipped through them before waving the jumbled wad in his direction. "Here. That's sixty-two dollars."

He took the money, glanced down at the bills and then, warily, back at her. "You still didn't tell me what for."

Jesus. Come on already! She took a deep breath, forcing herself to sound calmer than she felt. "A friend."

"A friend." He sneered. "Lady, I'm a watchman. I got work to do." But she could see he was wavering, and she waited, sending a silent prayer heavenward while he studied her in the light of the flashlight beam. Finally, he nodded. "Okay. I guess for a beautiful lady I can make an exception."

"Let's go." She led him through the graveyard at a run.

Vincent was still there. Diana blew out a sigh of relief when they reached his side. Luckily, he hadn't moved, or he might have dislodged the cloak she'd pulled over his face. The watchman stared down at him, shaking his head.

"What happened? He drink too much?"

"I don't know." Though she doubted alcohol was responsible for the condition of his face. The watchman couldn't see that, though, and she wasn't about to give a demonstration.

"You better give him some air." He reached for the corner of the cloak, but Diana pushed his hand away.

"Just give me a hand." She struggled to lift Vincent, to get him on his feet.

"Fine," the watchman said. "But don't tell me what this is about. I don't want to know." He ducked under Vincent's other arm, and with a grunt, helped her get him on his feet. Vincent's head hung down, and he made no move to help them, but his low groan told Diana that at least he was still alive.

She flung her arm around Vincent's waist and tugged his arm further over her shoulder as together, she and the watchman dragged Vincent through the cemetery and into a waiting cab.


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


Father sat alone by the waterfall. Something had drawn him here, something he didn't quite understand. And yet he felt it was the only place he could be right now. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he looked up. It was Mary, and she looked troubled as she crossed to his side.

"Hello, Mary."

"Father." She sat down beside him. "Are you okay?"

He nodded. "Just worried." His studied her expression. "Something's happened. I can see it in your face. Tell me."

"It's Catherine."

Catherine had said something to him at dinner about helping in the sewing chamber. He'd been pleased, thinking she was starting to make a place for herself. What could possibly have gone wrong? "Tell me."

"We were doing piecework. One minute everything was fine and then—" She trailed off, fear and concern filling her eyes.

"Mary?" He put his hand on her shoulder.

"She cried out, Father. It was an awful thing." Beneath his fingers, Father felt her shudder. "And then she fainted."

He started to get to his feet, but Mary caught at his arm. "No. She's okay. She was only out for a moment." She looked away, her eyes going to the chamber entrance. "She's gone, Father. Julia and I have looked everywhere for her. And she took her cloak."

"Dear God." Father sank down heavily. "What about the sentries?"

"I sent a message to Pascal. He's checking."

He sighed and dropped his head. Undoubtedly, something had happened to Vincent, and Catherine had gone after him. He could only pray she would find him in time.

"You should sleep," Mary said, her eyes on his face.

"I wish I could. But with Vincent gone, and now Catherine . . ." He shook his head. "I'm afraid, Mary. Terribly afraid."

"We all are."

"I thought, I hoped, I could shelter him from the world Above."

"Father—"

"It was an impossible hope." That he had been able to protect Vincent, even for this long, was something of a miracle, really. "It makes me question the worth of everything we've taught ourselves. Everything we've learned." He stared out at the waterfall, his gaze distant. "We've struggled so hard to maintain our isolation. Our separateness. What kind of legacy is that to leave our people?"

"It's a legacy of love," Mary said. "The capacity to love ourselves, and to love each other."

He looked to the rising mists as though seeking in them the answers to all his fears. But his mind was elsewhere. "I'm afraid love holds no sway where fate has taken Vincent and Catherine."


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


His face was badly cut and bruised. Carefully, Diana cleaned the wounds and bandaged them. A quick fumble through her collection of outdated prescription bottles netted her a handful of antibiotics and pain-killers, but were they safe to give to him? Or would they only make things worse? She didn't know, but she couldn't exactly call a doctor and ask. Besides, who would believe her if she told them she'd found a wild man-beast in the cemetery and brought him home with her like some kind of stray puppy? Resolutely, she crushed the pills, mixed them with water, and tipped them down his throat with a teaspoon.

When she'd done all she could think to do, she pushed the hair back from his face and studied him more carefully.

He was extraordinary. With trembling fingers, she traced his eyebrows and nose, his mouth, the shape of his upper lip. She touched the soft, golden fur that coated his cheeks and jaw. How had he come to be? What accident of genetics had created him? And how had he avoided detection by the scientists and doctors who would undoubtedly lock him up somewhere to be poked, prodded, and studied?

Suddenly aware of the intimacy of her touch and the invasion of his privacy, she moved away to sit in the big chair in the corner of the room. With her eyes locked on his unconscious form, she tucked her legs underneath her and began a lonely vigil.


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


At this hour, the cemetery held only the ghosts of the dead and the lingering sadness of departed mourners. Catherine moved quickly. She didn't know where the grave was, so she hurried up and down the rows, peering at headstones, her heart beating fast.

At last she saw it. The dirt hadn't yet settled, but grass had already begun to grow, tender shoots of green warming the empty coffin beneath.

There was no sign of Vincent.

Catherine circled the grave, her eyes averted from the headstone. She didn't want to see it, didn't want to see her own name and the phantom dates and the reminder that she was dead and yet not. Instead she focused on the ground as she searched for some sign of Vincent's passage.

There. A flattened patch of grass. Was it big enough? She crossed to it. Knelt down on her knees to look closer.

It was big enough. She ran her hands over the spot. It was cool and dewy with the night air. He hadn't been here recently. But he had been here. He had lain in this spot—alone, hurt, and afraid. As she smoothed her fingers over the grass, she imagined Vincent's body beneath her palms. There. A darker spot. Her fingers came away from it stained with his blood. She raised her head, her gaze going to the city skyline.

"Vincent," she whispered to the night. "Where are you?"


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


Vincent slept deeply, his big body sprawled across the too-small bed. His breaths were regular and deep, his heartbeat—as near as Diana could tell—normal. He had begun to run a fever, but all she could do was bathe him with cool cloths. She did that now, her hands gentle as she ministered to him. Would he live? Would he survive his injuries to tell her about himself? And if he didn't, what then? How would she explain him to the authorities?

Reluctantly, Diana left the room. She needed the bathroom and something to drink. While she waited for water to heat on the stove, she wandered to the bulletin board, her eyes scanning the assortment of news articles and pictures.

Many of the articles spoke of bizarre killings, the victims of which had been criminals themselves. Vincent had been responsible for all of them. She was sure of it. But did that make him a murderer? Or a man defending the woman he loved?

She needed to make sense of it all, to order her thoughts and find some perspective on the extraordinary events of the night. Sitting down at her desk, she turned on the computer and reached for the keyboard.

October 10, 1989. 3:30 AM.
Graveyard hunch paid off this morning, just after midnight. Hard to process the details. Hard enough trying to explain to myself what has happened. What I've found.

"I've found Vincent." She said it aloud. She still couldn't quite believe it—still felt as though she'd wake up to find it had all been a dream. And yet he was here, asleep in her bed in the next room.

I found him at her grave. Half dead. Don't know if he's going to make it. Can't call the doctor. I'm scared. Disoriented. Even though he's in the next room it's impossible to believe he's really there. The thought of him is too great to hold in my head.

A sudden roar brought her head up and around with a jerk. Vincent. She ran, bursting through the bedroom door to find him thrashing wildly on the bed. A terrifying roar burst from his throat as he shredded the pillow and mattress with his bare hands. She pressed back against the wall, fear making her heart race. He flailed. Kicked out. Struggled against an unseen attacker. His arm smashed the bedside table, sending its contents crashing to the floor while she cringed still further back into the corner, praying he wouldn't see her, wouldn't turn those lethal claws and teeth on her. Finally he groaned and grew still, but it was several minutes before Diana relaxed enough to move from her position in the corner.

Never trust a perp. It had been Russ's first rule of criminal investigation, a rule he'd drilled into her until she'd once caught herself dreaming about it. Diana swallowed hard and forced herself to breathe. To think. She hadn't made a mistake like this in years, and she cursed herself for it now. She'd assumed that a man who read poetry and liked kids couldn't possibly hurt her. She'd trusted Vincent without ever having met him, and even after seeing those deadly claws and gleaming fangs, she'd still believed herself safe in his presence. God, she was such an idiot.

Her handgun was in the top drawer of her desk. She took it out and checked to see that it was loaded. She would keep it with her. And she would stay in the room. Where she could watch him. And where she could do what needed to be done if it came down to a choice between her life and his.


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


Catherine stood up and looked around, still averting her gaze from the headstone that bore her name. In the distance she saw a small building with a light glowing in the window. The night watchman. For the first time since she'd met Vincent, she found herself hoping a stranger had seen him.

With a last glance down at the flattened grass and the empty grave, she moved off. He wouldn't know her face, this watchman, wouldn't know he was talking to a dead woman. And even if he did, it was a risk she had to take. She needed to know if he had seen Vincent. Nothing else mattered.

She arrived at the door and knocked once, softly. When it opened, a slim, dark-haired man faced her in the darkness.

"Well," he said, looking her over. "I never knew cemeteries were so popular with the ladies."

"Please." She kept her voice low in an effort to disguise it. "I need your help."

"Listen lady. I ain't doin' any more favors tonight. Risked my job once already. Not gonna do it again. Not even for a pretty face."

"No, you don't understand. Just . . . A question. Please."

She felt his eyes on her, but she kept her head averted, hiding her face in the deep folds of the cloak. At last, he sighed.

"What kind of question?"

"Did anything happen here tonight? Anything unusual?"

"What do you mean, unusual?"

Catherine struggled to find words that would get her meaning across without giving away too much information. "I'm looking for a man."

She felt his eyes on her again, but she didn't look up. She sensed his capitulation in his sigh.

"Big guy? Dark clothes?"

Hope surged through her. She nodded.

"Yeah. He was here. Passed out on one of the graves. Must've been some party, lady."

Not exactly. "Do you know where he went?"

He shook his head. "Some lady was here. I helped her haul him to a cab. Don't know where they went after that."

What lady? And where had she taken Vincent? Catherine remembered another time when Vincent had been taken from her. She'd almost lost him then. Was it happening all over again? Was she destined, once again, to find him locked in a cage somewhere?

"What did she look like?"

"Red hair. Tall. Seemed pretty frantic to get him out of here. He in some kind of trouble?"

"Maybe." Probably. "Did you see what direction—?"

The watchman jerked his head. "North. Coulda gone anywhere, though. Listen, lady. I'd love to stay and chit chat, but I got rounds to do."

She nodded. "Thank you for your help."

He closed the door in her face, leaving her standing in the dark. Catherine started toward the street. She would search until she found him.


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


The sound of the lift startled Diana into wakefulness. She glanced over at Vincent, but he slept on, undisturbed by the noise. She tucked the gun out of sight and went to meet the lift, knowing it was Mark, knowing she would have to send him away. He wasn't going to be happy about that.

With a glace back at the closed bedroom door, she slid open the metal gate. Please, God. Don't let him wake up now.

She was right. It was Mark.

"Hi," he said. He had a garment bag slung over his shoulder.

"You can't stay, Mark. I'm sorry."

"Can I at least come in?"

She dropped her eyes, unwilling to face the disappointment in his, but she didn't step back, didn't invite him in.

"Your work." With a frustrated sigh, he backed up to lean against the wall of the lift.

"I'll ride down with you." She tried not to think of the possibility that Vincent might wake up while she was gone. She owed Mark this much, at least.

"No." He shook his head.

"Mark . . ."

"You said Saturday." The anger and disappointment in his gaze were almost palpable.

"I know I said Saturday. Just don't be mad." And yet she wanted, desperately, for him to leave.

"I am mad, and I got a damn good reason to be mad!"

"I'm really close on this one." She didn't want to do this right now, didn't want to fight with him. She didn't have the energy.

He gazed at her with hurt eyes. Then he looked away and punched the button. "Yeah."

The doors closed, and she pulled the gate across and stood listening as the lift groaned its way back down. When it was gone and she was sure Mark wasn't going to change his mind, she hurried back to the bedroom.

Vincent was awake. He struggled to focus on her.

"Catherine?" He had a deep voice, with a rough edge that sounded oddly musical to her ear.

"No." She took a breath. "My name's Diana."

He dropped his head back to the pillow. And then he was asleep again, the effort of sustained consciousness draining what little energy he had. She went back to the chair and settled down to watch once more.

The next time he awoke, he was frightened again. Disoriented. Before she could stop him, he was up and moving across the room and she had no idea how to reach him, how to reassure him that he was safe. And so she backed away, keeping her distance, watching him while her heart pounded and her mouth went dry with fear. He roared a challenge and slammed into the wall, hands raised, claws gleaming in the dim light as he tore at it. Then, his energy expended once more, he collapsed, his body crumpling to the floor under an avalanche of wood and plaster.

She sank to the floor in the corner, the gun still gripped tightly in her hand. How much longer would this go on? Would he ever recover? Would he become again the kind and gentle man whose heart she'd seen in the poems he'd left for Cathy Chandler? Or was this what he had become since her death, this wild beast capable only of destruction?

It was several hours later when he woke again. He struggled to sit up, leaning against the wall, panting heavily with effort and pain. The harsh sound was loud in the silence of the room, but when he looked around, she could see that the delirium had passed. He was more coherent, more in control and aware of his surroundings than he had been since she'd found him.

"Where am I?"

His voice was low, but the words were clear. Cultured. He was educated. She'd guessed that already, but hearing it in his voice made it all more real somehow.

"You're in my loft. I found you in the graveyard behind Saint Clare's."

"I don't remember—" He paused. Blinked. "I must go." He tried to get to his feet, failed, and settled back against the wall. "You brought me—"

"You were hurt." She knelt on the floor beside him. Carefully. Cautiously. Ready to leap to her feet and flee at the slightest provocation from him. "You've lost a lot of blood." There was pain in his eyes. And something that looked like desperation. She tried to reassure him. "You're safe here. You need help."

He shook his head, but she knew it was a token gesture. He didn't have the strength to do anything more. In seconds, he was unconscious again. Diana went to the bed. A quick yank freed the comforter, and she spread it over him where he lay on the floor. Then she sat back down in the chair and pulled her knees up to her chest, resuming her vigil.


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


Catherine lost track of the passage of time. Her feet, blistered and raw, throbbed with pain at every step. She'd not eaten or slept. She'd hidden in the corners, and the dark places, and the alleys, all the places where lost souls disappeared in the grimy fabric of city life. The cloak was dirty now, its edges frayed and torn. Twice someone had tried to take it from her, but she'd fought with such fierce determination, such desperate strength, that they'd given up, backing away from her as though from a wild animal. Once, she'd even snarled.

She'd gained new understanding of Vincent's life, of the world he inhabited when he prowled the streets at night. It was a side of New York she'd rarely seen, and then only in terrifying glimpses. Like most New Yorkers, she'd turned away from those glimpses too often in the past, walking past the homeless and the disenfranchised without even seeing them.

Until now, she'd never truly understood what it was to be lost—alone, afraid, and invisible in a city of millions.

Her feet had carried her to all of the places she'd shared with Vincent and to all those they'd merely talked about. She'd been to the hospitals and the jails and the courthouse, to the libraries, and museums, and theaters. She'd been to the docks, too, had seen the charred remains of the Compass Rose listing sadly at its moorings. The site of the blackened skeleton had sickened her, even though she knew that Vincent wasn't there.

She'd risked her safety countless times, asking carefully worded questions of strangers, peering into windows, haunting news stands. She'd read everything, every newspaper and magazine, every tabloid, every scrap of paper stapled to light poles and bulletin boards. And she'd listened shamelessly to every conversation—passersby, families in the park, museum goers and train riders and homeless people. But there'd been nothing.

She'd even considered going to Joe, but she'd discarded that idea almost at once. Joe's honor, and his concern for her, would lead him to make decisions that could only endanger Vincent further. Besides, how would she ever explain Vincent to Joe? Maybe, if she didn't find Vincent soon, she would go to him. But not yet.

Twice she had approached the Central Park tunnel entrance, only to turn back, unable to bring herself to enter. Vincent was Above. Her son was Above. They needed her. And so she would stay Above, too. And she would search until she found them.

Her fingers closed around a crumpled bit of newspaper in her pocket. It was the article about the explosion on the Compass Rose—the explosion that had happened while she was safe and sound Below.

Lifting her eyes to the city, to its bright lights and skyscrapers and anonymity, she said another prayer for his safety. Then she returned her gaze to the stained concrete sidewalk, and started walking.


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

Chapter 20

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


Diana didn't know how long she'd slept, but when she opened her eyes, Vincent was watching her, his eyes a brilliant shade of blue that pinned her to the chair.

"I know you."

She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Yes." There was no room for doubt in his voice. He turned his head to gaze at the damaged wall, and she wondered what he was thinking. Did he remember what had happened? Did he feel remorse? Or was he merely observing?

"Vincent."

His head swiveled back to her. "You know my name."

Slowly, she rose from her chair and went to him. "Let me help you." She supported him as he got to his feet.

He struggled for balance, grunting a little with pain, and finally accepted her help. "How long have I been here?"

"Three days."

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. "You were in Catherine's apartment. And Below, in her basement." He stared at her. "Tell me why. Please."

"I'm with the police department. I was investi . . . I'm still investigating Catherine Chandler's death."

He dropped his eyes, his expression unreadable beneath the heavy brows. "Her murder."

"Yes. And I . . . I thought maybe you could help." The leather-bound book sat nearby on the righted nightstand. She picked it up and turned it in her hands. "I know your name from an inscription. I've been trying to find you." She handed it to him, watching the reverent way he handled it, the care with which he opened its cover. "I've been trying to understand this."

"These sonnets . . ." He passed his fingers over the words. "She read them to me. I see the words, but I always hear her voice. Always."

"'Though lovers be lost," Diana said, "love shall not. And death shall have no dominion.'"

Vincent dropped the book as though it had burned him. He was on his feet and across the room before she could react.

Diana blinked in surprise. "Look, I didn't mean to—"

"You could never know how those words live in my heart." He drew in a breath. "Burn in my heart." His shoulders slumped, his head falling against the shattered wall as he leaned into its support.

"You're tired," she said, half afraid he'd end up on the floor again. "You should sleep." She helped him back to the bed.

After he fell asleep, she picked up the thick white comforter and carried it over to him, making sure he was covered. Then she returned to the living room, put her gun away, and pulled the curtain across the bulletin board.


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


Brooke and Mouse had worked their way deep beneath the community tunnels. Mouse moved quickly, as sure-footed as his namesake and utterly confident. But as time went on, Brooke began to wonder if he really knew where he was going or if he was just guessing.

"How much further?" she asked finally. The bundle she carried was getting heavy. She longed to find Vincent and turn it over to him. And she hated it down here. It was dirty and cold and the darkness had an almost physical presence, with icy fingers that played against the back of her neck. She longed for the warm torchlight of the community tunnels.

"Close. Very close."

"Are you sure this is the right way?"

"Only way." Mouse cast her an impatient glance. "Hurry."

It was several more minutes more before Mouse called out in the darkness. "Vincent!" He raised the lantern, his head twisting from side to side as he peered into the shadows. "Vincent?"

A familiar bundle lay on a nearby stone. Brooke crossed to it and unfolded the edges. She stared at its contents and then at Mouse, worry tightening her voice and making her heart beat faster. "He hasn't been here for at least three days."

"Catherine's gone, too," Mouse said. "Like smoke." He lifted his hands, dropped them back to his sides. "Poof."

"Do you think they're together?" Please let them be together. Let them be safe. She didn't think she could stand it if she lost somebody else she loved.

Mouse shrugged. "Hope so."


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


The council gathered in Father's chambers to discuss Vincent's disappearance. Tension and worry joined the gathering, and fear seeped out of the dark corners and shadowy places.

"Vincent's gone off by himself before," William said. "Maybe he just wants to be alone." But he didn't sound convinced.

"Worse than alone," said Mouse. "And Catherine's gone, too. Gone Above. Gone alone."

"We help one another," Brooke said desperately, looking around. "That's what you taught me."

Mary shook her head. "We can't force them to accept help they don't want."

"Mouse can." Mouse pushed back from the table and stood up, a determined look in his eyes.

"Mouse is right."

Everybody stared at Father as silence fell over the gathering.

"Father, what are you saying?" Mary wasn't the only one surprised by the comment. The others were exchanging startled looks as well. Father's comment went against one of the prime precepts of the community—the right of each individual to choose his own path.

"The choice Vincent made, he made to keep us safe. To keep Catherine safe. Can we do any less for him? They're missing. Surely that's the only thing that's important."

"We don't know that he's in any danger!" William insisted.

"Catherine knew," Mouse said, glaring at William. "Catherine went."

"All right!" Father said before another argument could start. "So if we're wrong, we look foolish. But if we're right—" He turned to Mouse. "You say you took a note to Vincent three days ago."

Mouse nodded. "From Elliot Burch."

"What did the message say?"

Mouse shifted from foot to foot, refusing to meet Father's eyes.

"Go on, Mouse," Brooke encouraged him. "Tell him!"

Mouse fidgeted. Looked around. Looked away. "Compass Rose. Meet me. Good news." The words flew from him a rush, as if by saying them quickly, he could somehow negate the wrong he'd done by reading a message intended for somebody else.

Father reached for his cane.

"Father, what are you going to do?" There was a quaver in Mary's voice as she watched him.

"Something I should've done a long time ago."

Without another word, Father left, the sound of his cane and his slow footsteps echoing down the passageways and filtering into the library long after he'd departed.


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


Joe strode furiously down the hall of the criminal courts building. Diana almost had to run to catch up to him. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, couldn't believe she'd be so completely unprofessional.

"Joe, I'm sorry."

"I cancelled a major deposition this morning because you promised me a progress report." He stopped for a swallow of water from the fountain by the elevator, fighting to rein in his temper.

"I know. I said I was sorry."

He swung around to glare at her. "So where is it?"

"I didn't bring it."

"You didn't bring it."

"Actually . . ." She paused while a group of lawyers hurried by. "There is no progress report."

He blinked. "Wait a second. I'm confused here. You said 'Joe, I have news'."

"I'm taking myself off the case." She blurted the words in a rush, and he could only stare at her in utter disbelief.

"What are you talking about?" People were starting to cast curious glances their way. "Come in here for a second." He led her into his office and closed the door before turning to stare at her with his arms folded across his chest. "You want to tell me what the hell's going on?"

"You heard me, Joe."

She was his best hope of ever solving Cathy's case. And she'd been making progress, pulling together wisps of clues that he never would've seen himself. And now . . . "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I need some down time."

"Down time." In the middle of the most important case he'd ever worked? "Oh, that's just great."

Cathy had done this to him once before, as well. He remembered it like it was yesterday. She'd never explained it to him, and he wondered if Diana would be any different. He stalked around his desk and dropped into the chair.

"What the hell does that mean? Down time. A week ago you were telling me about tunnels and roses and this guy Vincent and how close we are, and now—"

"Now I just need to step back for a while."

He stared at her, and something in her stance, in the way she avoided meeting his eyes, made him suspicious. "You know what I think, Diana? I think you're holding something back."

"I'm not."

The words were too quick. Too definite. She knew something she wasn't telling him. But what? And why the hell wouldn't she tell him?

Joe shook his head. "I don't believe you."

For a moment, she just stared at him. Then she turned and left, slamming the door behind her. Joe cursed at the closed door. No way, he thought. No way was he going to let this happen. Cathy's murder would never end up in the cold case file. Not while he was alive. He grabbed the phone, punched out a number, and waited impatiently for the line to be answered on the other end.


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


The next time Vincent woke up, he was alone. A quick glance at the windows told him it was late afternoon or early evening. He was trapped until dark. Frustrated and impatient, he prowled the apartment eventually finding the note Diana had left for him in the kitchen. She would only be gone for an hour, but it would be longer than that before he could slip away to the tunnels and to Catherine.

Only Catherine wasn't in the tunnels. She was Above. Searching for him. He felt her worry like a living force within him, a restless, searching uneasiness that affected his own mood, making him pace the confined apartment in increasing frustration.

How long had she been out there? Did she know what had happened on the Compass Rose? Was she suffering the same agonies he'd endured when she'd been taken by Gabriel? His heart twisted at the thought, and he glanced again at the windows, willing the night to hurry.

Behind him, he heard the grind of machinery. Diana was returning from her errand. As he turned from the windows to greet her, he noticed a curtain hanging on the wall near her desk. It was an inside wall. What need was there to keep it covered? He crossed to the strip of dark fabric and pulled it aside.

And froze.

Pictures. News articles. Police reports. Catherine's face as it had looked shortly after he'd first met her. Photos of people from Below, taken . . . when? Catherine's funeral? It must have been. Shaking his head, he moved on to the crime scene photos, the mangled bodies bringing back memories best forgotten. These were people who had tried to hurt Catherine.

People who would never hurt anyone ever again.

His fingers twitched at his sides. He wanted to rip the pictures down, shred them, destroy these false images of who he was—who he and Catherine were together. Behind him, the gate slid open with a clatter, but he didn't turn around. Instead he balled his hands into fists and closed his eyes, forcing himself not to act on the destructive impulse. Breathing slowly, he concentrated on the sound of Diana's footsteps as she came toward him.

"That wall is my work." Her voice was soft. Apologetic.

He jerked the curtain closed and turned to her. "That wall is full of half-truths and shadows."

"Maybe."

"You'll discover nothing there. All you'll do is threaten the lives of those Catherine loved." The past-tense verb stuck in his throat. Lies on top of lies. Where would it end? But the falsehoods were necessary to protect Catherine, and so he forced aside the self-recrimination.

"How? How can they threaten them?" Diana lifted her hands toward him. In supplication? Explanation? He didn't know her well enough to guess. "This wall belongs to me. I don't show it to anyone." Her fingers fluttered at the curtain's edge. "I try to live inside of other people. I surround myself with them. I penetrate their minds. And sometimes, most of the time, what I see . . . it frightens me."

He gestured angrily at the hidden images. "You were trying to spare me from myself?"

She looked at him for a moment. Then she turned and pulled the curtain aside.

"All I have is a smattering of facts. A seed. Sometimes they take root in my imagination. If I'm lucky."

His voice was quiet, and some of what he felt about the things he'd done must've been in it when he responded, though he tried to keep his voice even. "But there was no imagining me."

She shook her head. "No."

They stared at each other in the deepening gloom, and Vincent wondered what she would do with the information she had. She could destroy him, and they both knew it. But would she? His instincts said that he could trust her, but only time would tell.


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

The sun was dropping below the horizon by the time Joe whistled for a cab to take him to Diana's apartment. He didn't like what he was about to do, didn't like the idea of abusing his power for personal gain, even if it was case related. But he couldn't let her walk away from this case. He owed it to Cathy to see that justice was served.

In seconds, one of New York's ubiquitous yellow cabs pulled to a stop beside him, and he climbed in, settling into the worn backseat.

"Federal courthouse building, please." When the taxi didn't move, Joe glanced at his watch. "Hey pal, I'm in a hurry. Could we move?"

The cabbie turned his head and held up a single finger. Before Joe could ask what was going on, the door on the other side of the cab opened and an old man climbed in beside him.

"Hey!"

"Do you mind if we share?" the man asked politely as the cab shifted into motion. He was wearing a thirty-year old suit and carrying a cane, which he tucked carefully against the door beside him.

"What the hell is this?" Crazy people weren't unusual on the streets of New York, but this was downright rude.

"Please," the man said. "Don't be alarmed."

Without answering, Joe leaned forward and tapped the cabbie on the shoulder. Just his luck he'd get a driver who didn't know his way around the city. "Hey, the courthouse is downtown, pal."

"Mr. Maxwell."

The old man's voice was tense, as though whatever he had to say was vitally important. Joe would've written him off as just another crazy New York street person, except for the fact that he knew Joe's name. Not too many crazy people bothered to read the papers.

Joe raised his voice, determined to get the cabbie's attention. "Stop this car right now!"

The stranger leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. Surprisingly, the cab pulled over almost at once. With a curse, Joe climbed out and headed back the way they'd come. Why did stuff like this always have to happen when he was in a hurry? Behind him, he heard the other door open, followed by the sounds of pursuit.

"Please, Mr. Maxwell! I know you to be a good man! Just listen to me! I have information concerning Elliot Burch!"

Joe froze. Slowly, he turned around. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend of Catherine Chandler's."

A friend of Cathy's? This crazy old guy who'd so cavalierly helped himself to Joe's cab? How could that be possible? And yet, he was desperate for any scrap of information, even, apparently, the kind of information you could only get from crazy street people. He folded his arms across his chest. "Okay, I'm listening."

"I know where Elliot Burch was the night he disappeared."

Burch had been missing for three days. Every cop in the city was looking for him. If this guy knew something, why hadn't he phoned in a tip? "Where?"

"He was on board a ship called the Compass Rose."

"Are you sure?" If it was true, it would explain why nobody had been able to find Burch. In fact, if it was true, they'd probably never find him.

"Oh, yes."

"The same Compass Rose that was tied up on the East river?"

"I believe so."

Joe tilted his head, staring hard at the old man. "How do you know this?"

"From Elliot Burch."

"He told you himself?" Joe's curiosity was growing by the moment. Who was this guy, and how the hell did he know Burch?

But in response to Joe's question, the stranger dropped his eyes and looked away. So he hadn't heard it from Burch. Why was he so sure, then? Was it possible he didn't know what had happened? No. The only way that'd make sense was if the guy lived in a cave somewhere. The accident was all over the news.

"The Compass Rose exploded and was burned to its waterline three nights ago."

Grief and fear flooded the man's eyes. His shoulders slumped, and somehow he seemed even older as he turned and began walking away, leaning heavily on the cane. The revelation had come as a shock, apparently, and Joe felt a little guilty for dumping it on him like that.

"Who are you?" Joe hurried after him. "Is your name Vincent?"

"No." The man stopped and turned back to him, obviously startled by the question. "My name is Jacob."

"Jacob what?"

"Mr. Maxwell." Jacob took a long slow breath. "Have they recovered any bodies?"

"No, not yet."

Hope flared in Jacob's eyes. "What do you mean not yet?"

"They have divers in the water today. Look, if there's anything you can tell me about Cathy's death, you have to."

Jacob shook his head. "Believe me. I would tell you. If I could." Once more, he started toward the car.

"Why can't you?" Jacob's appearance was the first solid clue Joe had had in days, and he wasn't about to let him get away so easily. "Are you afraid of someone? If you're afraid, I can help you."

But Jacob had the car door open now, and he was already sliding inside. "Please, Mr. Maxwell."

Joe watched him lean forward to tap the driver on the shoulder. As the cab pulled away, merging into New York's busy streets, Joe stared after it, utterly bewildered.


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


Vincent stood by the window, watching sunset fall over the city. He itched to be away, to find Catherine and bring her safely back to the tunnels. The knowledge that she was wandering the streets of New York, frightened and alone, tore at him.

Behind him, Diana stood quietly. He sensed her eyes on his back. She had helped him, bringing him to this place of safety and watching over him while he healed. He owed her much, but could he trust her with his greatest secret? He didn't know, and yet withholding the truth from her would add another layer of deception to those that already weighed so heavily on his conscience. Slowly, he began to speak, to share what he could of his love for Catherine. It was the most he could offer.

"She led me from the darkness," he said, his voice low, his gaze turned toward the skyline beyond her window, but seeing instead those fateful events on a distant rooftop. "She sacrificed everything. And I let her die." It wasn't really a lie. He'd been so certain she was gone, so guilt-ridden over his failure to save her.

"Vincent you couldn't possibly have stopped what happened."

He didn't turn around. "There was a time when I could've stopped it. There was a connection. A bond. I knew her. Her thoughts. Her fears. I could feel what she was feeling at that same moment. As if we were one."

"When Catherine was in trouble you knew?"

"Yes." As he knew it now, knew that she was weak with hunger and fatigue. Wait for me, Catherine. Just a little while longer. He sent the silent message winging over the rooftops, wishing she could hear it. Knowing she couldn't.

"What is it?" Diana's voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he turned to her.

"I couldn't save her." Instead, it had been a stranger who had found her, a stranger who saved her life, and he wished that he could find the faceless doctor, thank him for bringing her back to him.

"Vincent, what you had with Catherine . . ." Diana came around the counter, moving into his line of sight. "I can only imagine what it would be like to love someone like that. Or to be loved like that."

He didn't answer. Instead, his eyes went back to the windows, to the growing darkness beyond. "I searched for months," he said. "But it was the heartbeat that led me to her. Faint at first."

"Was it Catherine's?"

"No." He shook his head. "It belonged to her child."

"You could actually sense the baby's heartbeat?"

He nodded. "I followed it to her. To the building where the man called Gabriel kept her." Gabriel. An angel's name for the devil's servant. "But I was too late. The child was gone. My son."

His eyes went once more to the windows. Outside, night had finally fallen. There would still be people on the streets, but he knew how to evade them, how to slip through the shadows, unnoticed. It was time to go. "I've said too much."

"Vincent, you can trust me."

"No." He turned to her. She had already taken a great risk on his behalf. He wouldn't ask more of her. "You mustn't involve yourself in this."

"I'm already involved. I was involved bef—" The door buzzer sounded, interrupting her, and she sighed. She crossed to the small panel beside the gated elevator and pushed a button. "Hello."

A male voice responded. Distorted and metallic. "It's me. I have to talk to you."

Diana glanced over at Vincent, then back at the intercom. "Joe, I don't want to do this again."

"Diana, let me up, because I'm not leaving until I see you."

Vincent could see her frustration, but he made no move to reassure her. Instead, he waited for her to make the decision he knew she must. He would leave while she was gone. There would be no way for her to follow him.

"Okay," she said, with a sigh. "I'll be right down." She turned back to Vincent. "I have to do this. But I won't be long." She reached to open the gate for the elevator.

"Diana." He waited for her to turn back. "I'll never forget your kindness."

Seconds later, she was gone, and Vincent opened the window.


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


It seemed to Joe as if it took hours for the lift to make its way down to him, and longer still for Diana to step out, her face tight and irritated. He started talking before the door slid open all the way, the words tumbling out in an excited rush.

"This city is full of crazies, right? I mean we both know it."

She nodded, but she was looking back toward the lift as if she was planning her escape route.

"I was on my way here, and I whistled for a cab, right?" His excitement translated itself to nervous energy that carried him back and forth across the tiny lobby. Two steps. Turn. Two steps. Turn.

"So?" Her eyes followed him, but her arms were folded across her chest, her legs braced.

"So one of them stops right away. Pulls up right beside me. I get in and tell the cabbie I want to come here. Only he just sits there." Two steps. Turn. Two steps. "I don't get it. I'm in a hurry, you know? I figure maybe he didn't hear me get in or something. So I say something to him." Joe shook his head, remembering the cabbie's odd behavior. "He just holds up his hand, you know, as if to tell me to wait a minute."

He stopped pacing and faced her. She'd want back on the case when she heard this. She wouldn't be able to resist the adrenalin rush. Cops were like bloodhounds that way. "Then this strange old guy jumps in the back of the cab with me." He watched her eyes, looking for the excitement that would blossom when he dropped his bombshell. "And he told me Burch was on the Compass Rose the night he disappeared!"

Joe had once made his dad a paperweight out of clay. He'd spent weeks on it, and by the time Christmas finally came, he'd been beside himself with excitement waiting for his dad to open it. His dad had given him the same puzzled look then that Diana was giving him now.

"What do you want me to say, Joe?"

Utterly deflated, he stared at her. She'd been living with Cathy's case for weeks, had gone through hell trying to find answers. He finally brought her some solid information and she reacted like this?

His voice rose as anger and frustration took over. "I want you to say that's amazing news! Show some curiosity, maybe! Say, 'I was wrong to drop out'!" He glared at her. "How can you ignore something like this? I don't understand."

"You don't have to understand."

"No. You're wrong. I do." He'd hoped to entice her back to the case with the information he'd brought, but her lack of interest forced his hand. "You know, I got to thinking about our little discussion this morning. And the more I think about it, the more unacceptable it becomes."

She gazed steadily at him, apparently unmoved by his outburst. "Explain that to me."

"I'm ordering you back on the case."

In response, she backed into the elevator and pulled the gate closed. "You can't do that."

"I'm the district attorney," Joe said, grabbing the gate and yanking it open again. "And I can do a hell of a lot more than order you back on the case!" He hated this, hated using his position against her. It went against everything he believed in. But he would do anything to solve this case—even if it meant risking the nebulous friendship that had been building between them. Grimly, he shoved his guilt aside and glared at Diana.

"Are you threatening me?" Anger flashed behind her eyes, along with shock and disbelief. But he also saw a hint of disappointment. She'd thought better of him. Hell, ordinarily he expected better of himself. But he was a desperate man, and desperate men tended to do desperate things.

"Look. Something is going on right here in front of us. And I think you're the only one who knows what that is. And I'm not gonna let that go." He turned away. He would leave her to think it over.

"I'm calling the commissioner."

Damn. It would've been better for them both if she hadn't said that.

He turned around, meeting her eyes. "I spoke to him about an hour ago." He crossed back to her. "Look, lady. I don't care if you hate my guts. But you take whatever you're holding back, and you weigh that against your job and your pension. And then you call me in the morning."

He yanked the gate closed and stalked away, too angry to care about her reaction to his ultimatum. She'd either do her job, or she'd lose it. Her choice.

 

Continue to Part 3

 

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