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Part 1                              Part 2                              Part 3

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Chapter 21


It wasn't hard to find Catherine. Her anxiety was a powerful thing, drawing him to her almost without thought. She had drifted back to the park, where she wandered, waiflike, among the towering trees. Her cloak was stained, its edges torn and dirty—a bedraggled length of wilted fabric that dragged at her bent shoulders. He watched her for a moment in silence, his heart heavy. This sadness, too, could be laid at Gabriel's feet.

Softly, he called her name, the syllables floating across the distance between them on the wings of a gentle night breeze.

"Catherine."

She spun around, and he had only a moment to see the relief in her eyes before she launched herself into his arms. He caught her, lifting her off her feet as she whispered his name against his neck, her voice rough with exhaustion. He closed his eyes and held her close, desperately grateful to whatever forces had watched over her in his absence.

"I'm here," he said. "I’m here." He rubbed her back, his hand moving rhythmically up and down its slim length.

"I was so afraid."

"I know. I'm sorry."

When she pulled back, he saw the deep shadows under her eyes. Had she slept at all while he'd been gone? Had she eaten?

She touched his bruised face with a gentle fingertip. "You were on the Compass Rose, weren't you?"

He nodded. "Elliot sent me a note. He asked me to meet him."

"Elliot . . ."

"He saved my life, Catherine." He put his hand on her shoulder and wished he could spare her this fresh pain. "But it cost him his own."

"No . . ." She stared at him, her eyes wide with horror. "No . . ." He took her in his arms again, feeling her body shake beneath the weight of her grief. She had cared a great deal for Elliot, he knew, and though Vincent had sometimes envied the other man, he too felt the loss deeply.

They stood together for several minutes, hidden in the little grove of trees, far from street lamps and prying eyes. Vincent held her close, supporting her in her grief and ignoring the discomfort of his own injuries. At the moment, her needs were greater than his own.

Finally, she straightened and he let her go, his eyes searching her face as he sensed her growing weakness.

"I felt it, Vincent. I felt the explosion." She shuddered. "I came Above to find you." Her gaze drifted east, toward the river and the blackened remains of the Compass Rose. "Something drew me to the cemetery." She turned back to him, and he saw the confusion in her eyes. "Only you weren't there."

"Someone found me."

"Who?"

She swayed as the adrenalin and worry that had carried her through his absence began to ebb, and he took her hand, guiding her back toward the safety of the tunnels. "Her name is Diana. She's with the police. She's been investigating your case."

"The police . . ." Catherine stopped and turned to him. "Vincent—"

"I know." He nodded and tugged gently, starting her moving again. "I was afraid, too. But I've come to believe that we can trust her."

"You told her I'm alive?" Fresh concern in her voice, Catherine stared at him.

"No." He remembered those hours in Diana's apartment, and the difficult decision he'd made. "That's a risk I'm not yet prepared to take."

"How did she know where to find you?"

"I don't know." He thought about Diana, about what she had told him of her work. "She has an amazing mind, Catherine. In some ways, she reminds me of you."

"But if she could find you . . ." Catherine let the sentence trail off unfinished, but Vincent knew what she was thinking. If Diana could track him down, others might, too.

They had reached the tunnels, and Vincent looked around, making sure they hadn't been followed before leading her inside.

"I believe our secret is safe," he said as the barrier slid closed behind them. "And after Elliot's death … she may be our only hope."

Catherine stumbled, and he caught her, his arm going quickly around her waist. "You're tired," he said. "I'll walk you to your chamber. After you've rested and eaten, we will speak again."


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


Father couldn't bring himself to stay away from the Chamber of the Falls for very long, but even the familiar music of tumbling water gave little comfort as the hours continued to pass without news.

"Father."

At first Father thought he'd imagined the distinctive voice, but when he turned, Vincent was watching him from the chamber entrance. He looked tired, and his hair was matted and dirty, but he was alive. Ignoring his cane, Father got to his feet and pulled his son into his arms.

"Thank God you're alive." He stepped back, his arms falling to his sides. "Where have you been?"

"Healing."

The single word told Father both everything and nothing at all. "For days I've been wrestling with my worst fears. Trying to prepare myself."

Vincent bowed his head. "I'm sorry to have put you through so much worry."

"Have you seen Catherine?" Father sat back down, and Vincent settled beside him. "She left the tunnels at about the time you disappeared. I assumed she went looking for you."

"I found her in the park. She's resting now." He looked out at the waterfall, and there was sadness in his voice when he continued. "But Elliot Burch is dead."

"Yes, I know." Father said, his voice grave. "How did it happen?"

"He almost betrayed me. But in the end, he sacrificed his life for mine."

For a long moment, they were silent, lost in thought.

"There's something about the water," Father said at last. "The sound of the water. It drew me here when you were gone." He turned to Vincent, marveling at the man he'd grown into, at the difficulties he'd overcome with such nobility, such strength. "I never dreamed of you having a child. But now . . . so many things seem possible."

"One day he'll be raised here. In the world you created."

"Have you discussed it with Catherine?"

Vincent shook his head, and Father sensed his son's distance as his thoughts went elsewhere. "Not yet."

"Will you ask her to marry you?" The idea no longer unsettled Father the way it once would have.

The look Vincent gave him was thoughtful. "Perhaps."

Father suspected the idea of marriage hadn't occurred to Vincent until now, and he realized that in some ways he had himself to blame for that. He'd made mistakes with Vincent, mistakes that, if not for Catherine, might have cost his son a lifetime of happiness.

He couldn't change the past, but he could do something about the future.

"I would be honored to have Catherine for a daughter."

Vincent leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Father."

Father said nothing further on the subject. What Vincent and Catherine decided about their future was up to them.

First, though, the child must be found.

"I know I've made things difficult for you of late." He laid his hand on Vincent's arm. "But these past days I've come to understand what it is to lose a child." He shook his head, his eyes drawn once more to the water. "Let nothing interfere with your search, Vincent. Nothing."


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


Diana sat on the couch, facing Mark's anger with a steady calm that belied her churning stomach. He'd been running his hands through his hair, so that now it stood in unruly spikes, and his eyes were dark with pain and disappointment.

"I feel like I've been lied to all this time."

It was true that she'd occasionally kept things from him, but she'd never been blatantly dishonest. She forced a vivid memory of Vincent aside. There was no way she could tell Mark about him. "Lied to how?"

"Lied to. Made to believe one thing when something else was true. You used to talk about it all the time, remember? Growth? Growing together?"

"I remember." She'd been full of dreams then—naive, idealistic, girlish dreams with little basis in the harsh realities of life.

"Yeah, well I really thought you meant it. I bought it. You know, find someone. Start a life."

She cringed from the bitterness in his voice. "It is what I want." Just not on his terms.

"No you don't," he said. "Not with me, anyway."

"Mark—"

"It's okay." He gazed bitterly at her. "I'll get over it."

"You're making this more difficult than it needs to be."

"Well, I can't make it easy for you." He shook his head. "Took me this long to get the hint."

"I wasn't trying to give you a hint."

He knelt beside her. "You gave me these glimpses. Wonderful little glimpses. But you never let me come in. It was like somehow the shade always got pulled."

"I'm sorry." She really was. She'd never meant to hurt him. But no matter how hard she tried, she knew she'd never be able to be the person he needed. The person he deserved.

"You say that too often. 'Sorry' wears thin after a while."

A surge of frustration straightened her spine. "What would you like me to say?"

"Nothing. I guess I came to do all the talking." He straightened and walked over to hit the button for the elevator. Turning back, he looked at her, and she knew he was waiting for her to beg him to stay.

But she didn't say anything. There was nothing left to say.


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


The candles flickered gently in the cool tunnel air, their golden light warming Father as he turned the pages of his journal. So much had happened in the past year, so many tragedies and challenges. Would their small community ever be at peace again?

At a faint sound in the doorway, and he looked up, startled.

"Peter! What a surprise!" Father rose to meet him, but Peter waved him back down.

"Jacob, my friend. How are you?"

Peter looked tired, but so did they all, lately.

"I’m doing well, thank you. And you? How is your practice?"

"Busy." Peter sighed. "Actually, I’m thinking of retiring. I’m getting too old for this."

Father chuckled. "I’ll believe that when I see it."

Peter had brought his briefcase with him to the tunnels. He’d never done that before, and now Father watched curiously as he opened it and lifted out a slim folder.

"Is Vincent around?" Peter set the folder on the table. "I need to speak with both of you."

There was something in Peter's voice that made Father uneasy. He nodded. "I believe he’s in his chamber. I’ll call him." He rose from his chair and crossed to the steam pipe. After tapping out the brief message, he turned back. "Can I get you anything while we wait? Tea, maybe?"

"No, thank you. I can’t stay long." Peter hesitated for a moment. "How is Vincent?"

Father considered the question, wondering how much to say. "He’s . . . recovering."

"That’s a relief. I was worried—"

"Father? You wished to see me?" Vincent stood at the top of the steps. Sometimes he still surprised Father with how quickly and silently he could move.

Peter crossed to shake Vincent’s hand. "Hello, Vincent."

"Peter." Vincent shot a questioning glance at Father who shook his head. "It’s good to see you again."

"I only wish the circumstances were different," Peter said cryptically as he sat down.

"Oh?" Father asked. "What circumstances are those?"

Peter looked from one man to the other, took a deep breath, and gestured at the papers he’d set on the table. "Catherine’s will."

"Catherine’s—"

"—will. Yes." Peter nodded somberly.

Father was stunned into silence. This was a complication that had never occurred to him—to either of them, judging by Vincent's expression. Father played for time, stalling while he tried to decide what to do. "What about her will?"

"She appointed me executor," Peter said, sorrow in his eyes, "because of my connections with the world Above." He took a breath, his eyes meeting Vincent's. "But with the exception of a couple of endowments, she’s left everything to you."

"No." Vincent's soft exclamation resonated with shock. "No."

"I know this is painful for you," Peter said, "but I witnessed the signing myself."

"But . . ." Father struggled to comprehend the enormity of what he was hearing. "As far as the world Above knows, Vincent doesn’t even exist."

"Actually," Peter said, "he does."

Stunned, Father leaned forward. "How is that possible?"

Peter looked vaguely uncomfortable as he shuffled the papers in front of him without meeting Father's eyes. "When John first brought Vincent to the tunnels, everybody was so busy trying to keep him alive that there was no time to think about the future." He glanced up, looking from Father to Vincent and back again. "I filed the birth certificate myself," he said. "At the time, it was all I could think of to do to help. Then, when the papers came, I put them away. I felt a little silly, actually. I never thought he'd need them, living down here." He shook his head. "Apparently, I was wrong. I have it and his social security card right here."

He sorted through the papers in the folder and selected two, handing them to Vincent. "I'm sorry," he said, "I should have said something sooner."

Father looked at Vincent, at the shock on his face as he stared at the papers. What must he be feeling? Suddenly he wasn't just a denizen of a secret world, part man, part something else; he was a citizen of the United States.

"Anyway," Peter went on, apparently unaware of the depth of Vincent's shock, "Catherine set it up so that Vincent would never have to worry about taxes, and he can send a proxy to make withdrawals, so there shouldn't be any problems." He picked up the rest of the papers and offered them to Vincent, who backed away as though from a venomous snake. Peter gave him a sympathetic look.

"It’s quite a large estate, Vincent. Handled carefully, it should be enough to sustain the entire community for a long time." He took a pen from his pocket. "I know this is painful," he said, "so if you’ll just sign those, I’ll be on my way."

"Father, have you seen—?" Three pairs of eyes swiveled in Catherine’s direction as she froze at the top of the steps. "Peter!"

Peter’s face went white, and for an instant Father feared he might faint. "Catherine?"

She hurried down the steps. She was dressed in clean tunnel clothes, her hair shining against the collar of a thick sweater. Swiftly, she crossed to Peter's side and bent to hug him.

He was smiling when she straightened, his eyes bright. "I don’t understand," he said, "I went to your funeral!"

"I know." She knelt beside his chair and took his hand in hers. "And I’m sorry we misled you, but it was necessary."

"Why?" Peter looked from Catherine to Father and Vincent. "Somebody tell me I’m not about to see a white rabbit run through here with a pocket watch."

Vincent crossed to Catherine, taking her arm to support her as she got to her feet. "It isn’t a dream," he said. "We’ve kept Catherine hidden to protect her."

"To protect her? From what?"

Father's own shock at learning that Catherine was alive was still fresh in his mind. "I believe we'll be needing that tea after all, Vincent. Perhaps you'd better send a message to William."


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


Diana sat at her computer. Her loft was silent and deeply shadowed, lit by only a single lamp. She hesitated for a moment, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. With a deep sigh, she began to type.

A week has passed. And nothing. Still no sign. I dreamt of him again last night. A strange dream. I held his face close to mine, but he couldn't see me. I spoke to him, but he couldn't hear me. I was with him. But he was alone. Impressions. Am I finally losing my mind? Probably. But his sadness has carried over into me. In these last few days especially.

She saved the file, then turned off the computer and stood up. Her eyes were drawn to the bulletin board, and she stared at the collection of photos and articles that seemed so different now that she’d finally met Vincent. He was right. Those images and words weren't who Vincent was, they were only shadows. Phantasms and half-truths.

One by one, she took down the bits of paper—the photos, the police reports, the newspaper articles and interview notes. She placed each item in a folder on her desk. When the board was clear, she turned away from it and closed the folder, putting it away in the cabinet and weighing it down with the graffiti etched slab of concrete she’d found in the tunnels. Then, with an air of finality, she latched the cabinet door.


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


Two pots of tea later, Peter rested his clasped hands beneath his chin, his mind reeling as he tried to absorb it all.

"You’re sure Gabriel still has the baby?" He directed the question to Vincent, who was standing by the stairs, leaning against the railing.

"I’m certain of it."

"But you have no idea where?" A child. Vincent and Catherine had a child. It was unthinkable. Impossible. And miraculous.

"I only know that he is near."

"How can I help?"

Vincent shook his head. "Do not involve yourself. It’s too dangerous."

Catherine put her hand on Peter’s arm. "He’s right. Gabriel has killed before. He won’t hesitate to do it again."

"Surely you don’t expect me to just do nothing." These people were like family to him. There had to be some way he could help.

"I’m afraid it’s all we can do for now," Father said.

"What about this?" Peter tapped the estate documents. "And there’s a death certificate on file at the courthouse. Should I start the paperwork to get it reversed?"

"No," said Catherine. "Gabriel knows I can identify him. If he learns I’m alive he’ll stop at nothing to find me."

"Do you intend to stay down here permanently, then?" Peter looked from her to Vincent and back again.

"I don’t know," Catherine admitted. "We haven’t talked about it." She didn't look at Vincent as she said it, and Peter didn't envy them the complicated situation they'd found themselves in. By all accounts, Cathy's pregnancy had been a complete surprise, and events since then had been chaotic. Still, he knew how much they loved each other, and he sent up a silent prayer that everything would work out in the end. They'd been through enough.

"You're welcome here," Father said to Catherine, "for as long as you wish to stay."

She cast him a grateful smile, and Vincent crossed to stand behind her, his hands settling on her shoulders. Peter watched her reach up to wrap her fingers around his. Something had changed between the two of them, something subtle and indefinable, but significant. He wondered what it was.

"The estate sale has already been scheduled," he said, returning his attention to the issue at hand. "If I cancel it . . ."

Catherine nodded her understanding. "It’ll look suspicious. When is it?"

"Two weeks. Do you think this will all be over by then?"

"I don't know. We don't even know where he is, yet." Catherine tilted her head to look up at Vincent, who shook his head slightly.

"Well." Peter tucked the papers back in the folder and picked up his briefcase. "I’ll be in touch with you in a few days. Maybe we’ll know more by then. In the meantime, promise you’ll contact me if there’s anything I can do. Anything at all." He stood up. "Cathy, I can’t tell you how happy I am to find you alive and well."

Catherine hugged him. "Thank you, Peter. For everything. And I'm sorry we deceived you."

He waved the apology away. "I’ll expect an invitation to the naming ceremony."

"You can count on it," Catherine said, smiling.

Vincent put his arm around Catherine's waist, and she leaned into him, and Peter couldn't help thinking that they might have been any other couple—young and in love, and with a bright future ahead of them. His greatest hope was that they would finally have their dream. If anybody deserved to find happiness, they did.


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


Diana was tired of waiting for Vincent to come to her. Her dreams about him were waking her up at night, and during the day she couldn’t concentrate on anything because she kept remembering the sadness in his eyes and the way his gaze had been drawn, again and again, to the windows. She needed to see him.

As soon as it was dark she pulled on her jacket, grabbed a flashlight, and headed outside. If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain, the mountain will just have to go to Mohammed.

Central Park felt different at night, the deserted trails deeply shadowed, the outstretched branches of the trees somehow menacing. She was a trained police officer, proficient in three kinds of hand to hand combat, and yet she was still uneasy as she hurried along the familiar paths. At the tunnel entrance she looked around, checking to make sure nobody would see her slip inside.

A large figure sat huddled on the floor just beyond the bend. That so noble a man as Vincent should be reduced to living like this, dressed in rags and relying on the city's drainage system for shelter, seemed almost a crime against nature.

"Vincent?" She approached cautiously. She didn’t want to frighten him. "Vincent."

The figure moved without warning, throwing aside a ragged blanket and leaping up to face her. It wasn’t Vincent. This man was coarse and hard-edged, with cruelty in his eyes and a twisted smile on his thick lips. Before she could turn away, she heard footsteps behind her. He wasn’t alone.

"Okay, guys." She took a step backward, lifting her hands to show that she was unarmed. The stupidity of that particular fact wasn't lost on her. How could she have been so foolish as to enter the park at night without her weapon? What was it about Vincent that made her forget her customary caution? "Look. I was just down here looking for a buddy of mine."

The man she’d mistaken for Vincent only grinned more widely. She tried to make a break for it, feinting left and then dodging right, hoping to evade capture, but it didn’t work. Somebody grabbed her from behind, catching her wrists and twisting them behind her back hard enough to make her cry out in pain. A savage kick to the back of her knees knocked her legs out from under her, and she found herself on her face in the dirt with a heavy knee jammed into her back. The smell of unwashed bodies wafted over her.

"Give me the gun." The man on her back shifted, grinding his knee against her spine as he turned to one of his comrades. "Give me the gun!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Diana saw the glint of steel. She felt the barrel press against the back of her neck, heard the hammer click back. She squeezed her eyes shut, her heart beating frantically in her chest as she struggled against her attacker and tried to muster a scream from a throat clogged with fear. This wasn't how she'd pictured her death.

A sudden fierce roar startled her, and for a confused instant she thought it was the subway. But it couldn’t have been, not in a drainage tunnel. Somebody yelled, and she heard the sounds of battle, and then the weight disappeared from her back. There was one final scream, a sickening thud, and then silence. She rolled to her feet and turned to see Vincent watching her, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.

"So," he said quietly, "now you see."

She brushed the dirt from her pants, catching her breath, buying time while she tried to make sense of what had just happened. She avoided looking at her would-be attackers, pretty sure she knew what she'd see anyway. "You saved my life."

"You should have stayed away." He was angry, though whether at her or at himself, she didn't know.

"I couldn't."

He turned away, apparently prepared to leave her alone now that she was safe.

"Vincent, it's not your fault!" She hurried after him. "You can't continue alone in this!"

"I’m not alone."

She froze. "What do you mean?"

He stopped and turned, and she could tell by the look in his eyes that he hadn't meant to say it. For a long moment, he stared at her in silence.

"Vincent, you have to trust me."

"Yes," he said at last, "maybe we do."

It took a moment for the pronoun to register. "We?"

"You held my life in your hands," he said. "You could have turned me in, could have ended everything. But you didn’t." He stepped closer, watching her carefully. "Why?"

"Because you were right," she said. "Those news articles and crime reports . . . what was it you called them? Shadows of the truth?"

He nodded.

"What you did, you did out of love. There’s no crime in that."

Something of the tension in him seemed to slip away at her words. Still, it was several long seconds before he spoke again.

"Catherine is alive."

She thought at first that she’d misheard him. "What did you say?"

"Catherine is alive. And safe."

Shock reverberated through her. "But that’s not possible! The coroner said she’d lost too much blood!" But he'd qualified the statement, saying that if Catherine had received immediate medical attention she might have survived her injury. Had Vincent somehow accomplished a miracle?

"Nevertheless . . ." Vincent watched her, keen-eyed, his body poised for action, and she sensed that he was waiting to see how she would react to his astonishing news.

"So she’s been here all along?" Had they duped her, tricked her into wasting all this time chasing shadows?

"No." He shook his head. "Only since the hospital. Before that—" He paused, his eyes dropping away from hers. "Gabriel had her."

So the case was legitimate, or at least parts of it. For some reason, she was relieved. "And the baby?"

"Gabriel still has our son." Vincent turned, leaning his back against the wall. "There was a time, shortly after Catherine disappeared, when I found out where she was. I tried to go to her. To rescue her." He shook his head, his gaze distant as he remembered. "I was too late. But . . ." Taking a deep breath, he met her eyes. "Gabriel must have seen me. I believe it’s why he kept her alive until after the child was born."

"Only she didn’t die."

"No. But I didn’t know that when I carried her home." There was remembered pain in his voice.

"How did you find out?" She couldn't begin to imagine what it had been like for him, first believing that the love of his life had died in his arms, and then discovering that, through some incredible miracle, she was alive.

"When she was in the hospital, my sense of her began to return. Somebody chased her. Threatened her. And I . . . felt her fear."

"Where is she now?"

"Safe. With friends."

Somehow she knew he wouldn’t tell her more than that.

"Vincent, you have to let me help you. Both of you." She felt as though she'd slipped into some kind of alternate reality. The case had turned inside out, and she was no longer sure what was right and what was wrong. She only knew that a grievous injustice had been done.

Vincent shook his head. "No."

"Then you'll fail." She was angry again, frustrated that he insisted on pushing her away. "What chance do you have in a world where you can't even show your face? I can help you!"

"I cannot accept that responsibility."

"You're not responsible for me." She hated it when men assumed she needed protecting. It was a mindset she'd fought against all her life, especially as a cop.

"You don't understand," Vincent said, his own voice rising now. "Catherine is my world! I would give my life for her. But I could not protect her from Gabriel!" He paused, and she heard a distant clank of metal on metal. He tilted his head, listening. When he went on, his voice was softer. "How could I hope to protect you?"

"I'm not Catherine."

"Diana . . ."

"You need me." She planted her feet and glared defiantly at him.

"No!"

"Please, Vincent."

"You must forget me." He said it fiercely, almost desperately.

She shook her head. It wasn't even an option. "I can't."

"Then remember me as you would a dream."

He turned then, and left her standing there staring after him as he disappeared into the shadows.


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


Catherine waited for him just around the bend. She’d heard his conversation with Diana, and now, as Vincent approached her, she tried to decipher his thoughts.

"Maybe she could help us," she said as he reached her side and closed the barrier, shutting off the tunnel community from the outside world.

He fell into step beside her. "Perhaps."

"And yet you sent her away. Why?"

"Catherine, this battle is between Gabriel and me, now. It must be."

"No," she said. "You’re wrong." She stopped and turned, putting her hand flat against his chest and forcing him to stop, too. "It’s our battle. And Diana can help. I’m certain of it."

"You would risk her life?"

"No," she said. "But I would give her the right to choose whether she wanted to risk it."

"How can she possibly help us against a man like Gabriel?"

"She's a detective, Vincent. She has access to resources we couldn't hope to reach."

"And if something happens to her?" Vincent asked. "Could you live with that?"

We’re talking about our son," she said, glancing back the way they had come. "I'll do whatever I have to."

He reached for her hand, and they walked on in silence. They were almost back to her chamber before he sighed and nodded. The decision was made.

They would accept Diana's help.


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

Chapter 22

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


An envelope, her name scrawled across it in elegant script, lay on the balcony when Diana stepped out to check the weather the next morning. She was a light sleeper, alert to the smallest sound, yet she hadn't heard a thing. Puzzled, she tore off the end of the envelope and drew out the single folded sheet of heavy paper.

Diana -

This is all we have to point us to Gabriel. It may be our son's only hope. We give it to you with our trust.

~ Vincent

We. Our. She shook her head. It was going to take her a while to get used to the idea that Catherine was alive. Would she ever meet the woman who had such a hold on Vincent's heart? Diana turned the paper over in her hand, examining its texture while she considered its implications. When she'd seen him last, he'd been adamant that she stay away. What had changed his mind?

There was something else inside the envelope. She tilted it up, squeezing the corners to force it open.

A heavy gold ring dropped into her hand.


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


He walks alone in a land of shadows. Fog swirls around his feet, dampening the hem of his cloak. A thick canopy of leaves interrupts his view of the sky, and water drips heavily onto his head and shoulders. He's in a hurry. He pushes through the underbrush, ignoring the brambles that catch and tear at his clothes as he passes, breathing deeply of the heavy, rain-scented air. There's somewhere he needs to be. Something he must do.

A flash of color catches his eye. He's almost missed it in his rapid passage through the trees. He turns. Looks back. A scarlet flower glows in a stray moonbeam. He stares at it for a moment, puzzled by its incongruous brilliance in this dreary place.

He hears thunder and looks up to see thick, angry clouds building in the sky. Jagged lightning flashes at their edges, and all at once his throat feels dry and parched. Water trickles down a rock wall in front of him, pools for a moment, and then spills to the ground. He scoops handfuls of it to his mouth. Feels it slide, icy cold, down his throat.

In the distance, an infant cries out. He snaps his head up, listening, and then he's rushing toward the sound with long, frantic strides, his hands raised to thrust the grasping branches aside. Just ahead he sees an outline.

A human form, cloaked and faceless, watches him in silence.

"Vincent?"

Catherine's voice called him back to himself, and he shook his head, scattering the images like droplets of water. Above them, the orchestra played the final haunting notes of a Chopin nocturne.

"What is it?" she asked. She'd been curled up against him with her head resting on his shoulder while they listened, but now she had her head up, and there was concern in her gaze.

"Images. Sounds. A . . . feeling." He dropped his eyes, unwilling to let her see the fear the images had sparked. "I heard him crying."

Her grip tightened on his arm, and he looked down at her hand, only now recognizing her touch. He covered her fingers with his own.

"The baby?" There was eagerness in her voice, and a desperate need for reassurance.

"Yes."

He dropped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes as the orchestra started its next piece, but it was several long seconds before he felt Catherine relax against him.

"At least we know he's still alive," she said.

He nodded, but he didn't tell her that their son's cry had seemed weak.

Something was terribly wrong.


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


Diana knew nothing about fine jewelry, but she did know New York City, and it didn't take her long to find somebody who could tell her about the ring. It was a small shop, a family-owned business well on its way to a century of service. The owner was an elderly gentleman, but it was his son who stood before Diana now, the ring in his hands, a jeweler's loupe attached to his glasses like a third eye.

"Can you tell me anything about it?" Diana itched to grab it back. It was their only clue to the man who had Vincent and Catherine's son, and if anything should happen to it . . .

"Where'd you get this ring?" The jeweler's touch was delicate and reverent; a fact which, by itself, told Diana the ring was probably quite valuable.

"From a friend."

"Hmm . . ." He set it gently on a piece of velvet. "Let me get my father."

The man who came out to meet her had gray hair and a receding hairline. He wore dark suspenders, gray dress slacks, and a white shirt with a conservative blue tie. Jeweler's loupe in place, he picked up the ring, examining it carefully.

"What is it you want to know about this ring?" he asked. His voice was more authoritative than his son's, but his touch on the ring was no less gentle.

"Anything you can tell me."

He turned it between his fingers as he talked. "This ring is very old."

"How old?"

"Five hundred, maybe six hundred years. The metal is twenty-four carat gold. Stone is a black opal." He put it down and reached up to flip the loupe out of his way. "The craftsmanship is rare."

"Why?"

"Why?" He smiled slightly. "Because it has lasted for five centuries. What've you made today that will last for five centuries?"

"That's a very good point," she admitted, a little embarrassed. "What does the inscription say?"

Pulling the loupe back down, he examined the ring again. He shook his head. "I could read it fifty years ago maybe. Today . . . no." He glanced back up at her. "If you'd like to leave it with me—"

"No, I don't think so." She took it back. "But if you could recommend somebody that I could go to, I'd appreciate it."

He turned to his son, who'd been waiting at his side. "Mike Cullen's card. Get one for the lady." The younger man nodded respectfully and disappeared into the office. His father turned back to Diana. "Are you considering selling the ring?"

"No, I'm not." She took the card, giving it a cursory glance before tucking it in her pocket. "Thank you."

"If you do," the jeweler said, "give me a call."

Diana nodded, already halfway to the door. She knew little more now than she had before, which shouldn't have surprised her as much as it did. Why had she thought the ring was the key, the clue that would finally crack this case wide open? Only Tolkein could give a ring that much power.


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


The next time the vision came, Vincent was alone. Anxiety, formless and sinister, had made sleep impossible, so he'd resorted to reading, looking for solace in the familiar words of a favorite poet.

But then the words faded from his sight, replaced by another waking dream.

He recognizes the shadows and the fog, remembers the dampness on his cloak and face. But the place is different somehow. He looks around. The leaves are gone. Nothing green survives. And it's darker, the moonlight completely hidden behind towering clouds that flash with jagged lightning. Thunder cracks and roars over his head, and then there's another brilliant flash, the thunder following so closely it's as if the lightning itself is speaking to him. Warning him. Once again, he pushes through the underbrush, through the branches that tear at his cloak.

Urgency lends speed to his steps, and he hurries forward until once again he sees the wall. Hears the trickle of water. Feels the desperate thirst. He bends to drink, cupping his hands, but before the water reaches his lips he stops, staring in horror as the stream turns red. The color of blood.

A child cries out in the darkness—a piteous, desolate sound in the storm-tossed night. A lost sound. Vincent turns toward it, searching for its source. He's running now, the cries growing louder and more desperate with each stride. Something catches his eye, and he turns to see a shadowy figure with a crossbow. Before he can react, he feels a searing heat as an arrow pierces his chest. He yanks it out and throws it aside. Pain engulfs him, and he groans, staring at his attacker.

The archer disappears in a sweep of fabric, and the child's cries grow louder still. He searches desperately as the wails mingle with the thunder, the lightning flashes, and blood seeps from the wound in his chest. A lean figure watches him through a gap in the bushes, faceless and impassive. As he approaches, it turns, walks away. He tries to force his way through the brambles after it, but the way is blocked, and the child is crying, and the lightning flashes again . . .

Thunder explodes over his head, and he roars his frustration to the sky . . .

And found himself alone in his chamber as the single candle flickered and went out.


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


Diana was asleep when they came for her. She’d been up late studying the ring, trying to decipher its inscription. Careful examination in good light had finally revealed one of the words. Veritas. She’d looked it up in her old paperback dictionary. It meant truth.

She'd fallen asleep with the word repeating itself in her mind. Veritas. Veritas. Veritas …

When she awoke, it was dark in the room, and she lay still, wondering what had pulled her from her dreams. When something heavy clattered against the roof, she was instantly alert, and she grabbed her gun before slipping to the floor. Adrenalin rushed through her veins. Fight or flight?

She heard them come in. There were at least three of them, men who talked to each other in low voices as they searched for her. Too many to take on alone. Flight, then. Crouched in the kitchen now, shielded from them by the cabinets, she listened to their movements. There wasn’t much time. The loft wasn't very big. They’d find her in seconds. She eased the window open, thankful when it didn't squeal a protest, and climbed out onto the roof.

Keeping low, she hurried across the roof, crossed its peak and edged down the other side. In the street below, she heard voices calling out to each other. She dropped to her stomach and peered over the edge in time to see a car drive by at the end of the alley. It moved slowly. Get-away vehicle? Innocent passerby?

Or someone else looking for her.

To her left, a grappling hook clung to the edge of the building, rope dangling from it like the tail of an abandoned kite. She tucked the gun in her waistband and gathered it up, holding it in her arms while she searched for a safe place to climb down. She settled on the edge of the roof that bordered the narrow alley. It was the least exposed location.

She set the hook against the wall and risked a quick check below. All clear. She dropped the rope and slipped over the side, starting down hand over hand, the rough fibers tearing at her skin. Halfway down, she heard the low purr of a car engine. She froze, holding desperately to the rope, shoulder muscles burning with the strain. Voices called to each other from below, and above her she heard the sounds of people searching her apartment, looking for her. Who were they? What did they want?

Instinct told her they were Gabriel’s men, though she had no idea what had led them to her. None of that mattered now though, as she prayed her arms wouldn’t give way completely and drop her, broken and bleeding, to the unforgiving pavement below.

Finally, the voices moved away, the car turned the corner, and she was alone again. She slid down the rope, ignoring the pain, intent only on making it down in one piece. She hit the ground and broke into a run as voices called the alarm over her head. She’d been spotted. At the end of the alley, a cab paused under a street lamp. She sprinted toward it, not daring to look back, ducking and weaving to avoid the gunshots that rang out behind her. Scrambling into the car, she slammed the door.

"Lady, what are you doing?" The cabbie jerked around to look at her, surprise and suspicion in his face.

"Go!" she yelled. "Get the hell out of here!"

Before he could react more shots rang out, and he slumped over in his seat, blood splattering the windshield. Diana cursed. Opening the door, she leaned out, using it as a barrier while she fired back at her pursuers. They hadn't known she had a gun, and she heard them shouting warnings to each other as she shoved the dead man aside and scrambled into the driver’s seat. Throwing the car into gear, she slammed her foot on the gas.

Her pursuers started firing again, and the car swerved out of control when one of the tires blew, slamming her against a car parked at the curb and bringing her to a sudden, jarring stop. She was out and running again almost at once. Brakes squealed behind her, but she didn’t take time to glance over her shoulder.

Dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, with only a thin pair of cotton socks to protect her feet, she sprinted through the night.


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


Catherine sat on her bed, knees drawn up to her chest, deep in thought. Vincent had been distracted the night before, and she'd returned to her chamber early, knowing he was tired. But he'd still been distant at breakfast, and he'd left her shortly afterward to spend the day far below the community tunnels—though whether on legitimate business or to avoid her questions, she couldn't have guessed. Preoccupied with her concern for him, she'd been more of a hindrance than a help to Julia, who had finally accused her good-naturedly of wool-gathering and shooed her from the storeroom.

After that, she had wandered aimlessly until Rebecca had recruited her to help make candles. Catherine smiled to herself. Her clumsy attempt at hand-dipped candles had been the source of much merriment, but Rebecca had assured her that the oddly shaped results would burn just as well as any other candle, and to prove it, she'd pressed one into Catherine's hand as she'd left the chamber. Catherine glanced over at it where it flickered merrily on the night stand. Candle making was apparently a very forgiving craft.

There was a sound at the chamber entrance, and she looked over to see Vincent standing in the doorway, watching her. Her heart gave the familiar little leap it always did at the sight of him.

"You’re awake," he said, crossing the room to her side.

"I couldn’t sleep." She moved over so he could sit down.

He took her hand in his, examining it in the candlelight, his thumb brushing back and forth across her skin. His silence worried her more than his absence had.

"It happened again, didn’t it. The vision?"

His fingers stilled against hers. "Yes."

"Tell me."

"Something is very wrong," he said reluctantly. "I can feel it."

"Do you think he’s in danger?" It was bad enough that Gabriel had taken their son. If he hurt him . . .

Vincent squeezed her hand. "I don’t know."

The fear that filled her heart was reflected in Vincent’s eyes.

"We’re going to find him," she said, "I'm certain of it." She wasn't sure who she was trying to convince. She only knew that there was comfort in the familiar litany. "We'll bring him home."

He nodded, his gaze settling on the crooked little candle on the nightstand. "Catherine, after we find him . . ." He kept his eyes on the candle, but there was tension in the line of his jaw and the set of his shoulders. "What will you do then?"

Catherine took a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm a sudden attack of nerves. She'd wondered when they would have this conversation, and while she was certain of what she wanted, she was less sure of him.

She willed her voice not to tremble. "I’m not sure."

"Will you return Above?"

Why wouldn't he look at her? "Is that what you want?"

He stood and crossed to the dresser, where he picked up a small figurine. It was a dancer, a tiny ballerina in a dark blue tutu. He turned it over and over in his hands while she watched him and wondered what he was thinking.

"What I want," he said, as he set the porcelain figure back in its place, "all I’ve ever wanted, is your happiness."

Catherine pushed the covers off and crossed to his side. "I am happy, Vincent. As happy as I can be, without . . ." She let the thought trail off, but she knew he'd understood her unspoken words. Without our son.

"What happened between us in that cave . . ." His eyes were still on the little ballerina. He traced the edge of her skirt with his fingernail. "I could never regret the miracle that gave us our son, even though I have no memory of it." Dropping his hand back to his side, he turned to face her. "But I would never ask you to give up your life Above."

There was such conflict in his expression, and she knew he was waging a silent battle between what he wanted and what he thought she needed.

"Vincent, what happened between us that night was something I'd been wanting for a long time. You must know that." Their bond was too strong for him not to have known, even though he'd never mentioned it. "We loved, and our son came from that love, and I would give my life for either one of you." She reached for his hand. "But I wouldn't give up my life Above if I wasn't certain I was ready."

For two magical years, they'd lived the most fragile of dreams, a dream fraught with danger and excitement in equal measure. But now it was time to live a different dream. The city would always be there when the need for sunlight and color drew her from Vincent's side. She would always have friends there, people she loved and who loved her. But she was determined to make a life in this world, a life that included Vincent and their son and whatever triumphs and tragedies the future might bring. A life they would face together.

"Three years ago," she said, choosing her words carefully, "I was lost. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted or where I fit in the world." She touched his leather pouch with its hidden rose, remembering the love and care that had gone into creating it for him. "And then I met you."

The mirror on the dresser reflected the flickering candlelight, magnifying it so that his hair glowed with golden fire. His eyes were locked on hers, his gaze intent as he listened to her, and she knew that every word she said carried the weight of their future on its shoulders.

"You helped me find myself," she continued, "and part of that, part of discovering who I was, meant living Above." She reached for his other hand and brought their joined fingers up between them as she stepped closer. "But I know who I am now. I know what gives my life meaning. And it isn't the opera, or my job with the D.A.'s office, or even the freedom to come and go as I please."

She gazed around the chamber—at Rebecca's handmade candles, Mary's patchwork quilts, and Cullen's meticulously restored furniture—and wondered if Vincent would ever truly understand what a rare and beautiful thing the tunnel community was.

"I belong here, now." Her voice was soft as she brought her eyes back to his. "With you, and our son, and all the people who make this place possible."

His fingers tightened around hers, and for an instant she thought she had convinced him.

"You were troubled before," he said. "You feared there was no place for you here."

She remembered her comment about wanting to be Catherine and not just Vincent's Catherine. "I'm starting to find my way." She thought of Julia, and the sewing circle, and her afternoon's adventure with the candles—bits and pieces that signified the beginning of a new life. Her work, simple as it was, was important to the community, and she took pride in that, and in the dawning conviction that she belonged among these people.

"Vincent . . . being a prisoner was horrible. It was lonely, and frightening, and humiliating. But as awful as it was, Gabriel did me a favor." It sounded outrageous, even to her. That something so devastating could simultaneously be a gift seemed impossible. And yet it was true.

"He took everything away from me. Everything. And at first I missed it terribly. I missed my friends and my job and my apartment—all the things that gave my life meaning. But after a while . . ." This was the important part, and she waited for him to meet her eyes before going on. "After a while, the only thing I missed, the only thing that made my heart ache, day in and day out . . ." she pressed a kiss against his fingers, "was you."

Vincent said nothing for a long time, and she waited quietly, knowing he needed to think it through. Finally, he took a deep breath and slid his fingers into her hair. "To have you near, always . . . it’s something I never dared hope for."

"I know." She tilted her head into his touch. "Do you remember telling me that I deserved a life without limits?"

He nodded, and a faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. "You argued that there is no life without limits."

"I also said that 'if this is my fate, I accept it, gratefully'." The thought of making a new life, with him and their son as the center of her world, filled her with joy. But there was one more thing he needed to know. "Vincent, I understand now what it's like to be afraid of being seen. I know how lonely it is to be invisible." If nobody noticed a cloaked figure standing in the shadows, did it really even exist? It was a question she'd considered often during those agonizing days when he'd been missing. "You don't have to be alone anymore."

Beyond her chamber, a subway train rumbled by, and Vincent lifted his head, looking toward the sound and then up at the unseen city above. "You deserve . . . so much more than I can give." There was a hint of sadness in his voice. Regret, perhaps, for all the wishes that would remain forever unfulfilled.

"Maybe." She almost smiled at the surprise in his eyes. He hadn't expected her to say that. "But there's no such thing as a perfect life, only a happy one." She freed her fingers from his and reached up to stroke her thumb across the fullness of his lower lip, watching his eyes darken in response. "And you," she murmured, pulling his head down to hers, "make me happy."

When she kissed him, his arms came around her, pulling her close, so that she felt his body come to life, sparking an answering hunger low in her belly. There was newfound confidence in the way his lips moved against hers, the way his hands slid over her back and hips, the sound of his voice when he pulled back just enough to whisper her name before taking her lips again.

She had intended to keep it light, but his effect on her was too potent, too overwhelming, her body's memory of his too vivid. And he must have shared her need, because his kisses took on an urgent intensity, drawing her in. Holding her. Loving her.

She buried her fingers in the rich luxury of his hair, and he responded with a low rumble of sound that made her pulse leap as their tongues met, teased, and danced away, only to return almost immediately for a sensual opening bid in a mating ritual both as old as time and as new as possibility. His breath was hot against her cheek, his leg firm between hers, and when he slid his hands under her sweater and up her back, she trembled, not with cold, but with an intense awareness of the brush of his skin against hers.

Abruptly, he swept her into his arms and carried her across the room, and in another heartbeat she was lying on the bed and he was bending over her. She pulled him down beside her, desperate to be closer, to feel him against her, with her, in her—the hunger consuming her until there was nothing else but Vincent, no other sound or smell or taste but his.

His mouth was at her ear, and she heard him say her name again, his voice hoarse with desire, and she knew his need was as urgent as hers and that this time there would be no doubts, no hesitation. He reached for her sweater and she tugged at the laces of his shirt and there was a confused instant when their hands got tangled up in their frantic struggle for freedom. And then it passed and there were no more obstacles, and she whispered her pleasure when his weight settled against her.

He reached for her, but she ducked under his arm, and in another instant she was straddling his hips and smiling down at his look of surprised pleasure. She wanted to explore the thick whorls of hair and taste the warmth of his skin, but later, much later. First there were more immediate needs, needs that demanded satisfaction. She braced herself against his chest, lifted her hips, and settled against him in a slow, delicious glide that joined her body to his. Her awareness narrowed to that single exquisite point of contact, and she closed her eyes, reveling in the sense of completion as she rested against him, feeling him fill her body the way his love filled her soul.

At his low growl, her eyes flew open to lock on his passion-darkened gaze. His fingers flexed convulsively at her waist, holding her against him, his nails exerting gentle pinpricks of pressure against her sensitized skin. He kept her there, enthralled, while his eyes dropped from hers to perform a slow, deliberate inspection of her body. His heated gaze burned across her shoulders and breasts, paused at the flare of her hips, and then slid lower—making it hard to breathe, harder still to think. She curled her hands around his forearms and held on, letting him look his fill, her own eyes caressing the strong shoulders and broad chest that were, to her eyes, perfect.

When at last he moved, it was only to trail the fingers of one hand across the sensitive skin of her stomach. She shivered in response, and he rested there, his fingers tracing slow, mesmerizing circles, the dark fur and sharp claws an erotic contrast to her pale skin. When she looked up, she found him watching her, a question in his fathomless blue gaze. Whatever it was, whatever he wanted, she would give—gladly.

Apparently he saw the answer he needed, because his hand moved again, the slow circles widening until she thought anticipation alone might send her over the edge. A soft, desperate whimper reached her ears, and it took her a moment to realize that the sound had come from her own throat. She looked into his eyes and knew that he recognized his power over her, her utter vulnerability. She knew also that his vulnerabilities, though less apparent, were equally exposed, his risks as great as hers.

"Please . . ."

He held her gaze then, held it as surely as he held her body locked against his, and slowly, deliberately, let his fingers follow the curve of her body.

She bucked against him, unable to control her reaction to his touch, barely aware of the way his head jerked back against the pillow, the way his fingers tightened at her waist as her muscles clenched around him. Panicked, she froze, her heart pounding as she fought for control. Too soon! Too fast! Wait! The words hovered between them, unspoken, but Vincent only shook his head and shifted beneath her, his hips rising against her once, twice, his fingers moving in maddening, rhythmic circles, and abruptly she was lost, the world dissolving in a wash of color and feeling.

Long seconds later, she returned to awareness to find herself sprawled across his chest, his heartbeat echoing the slowing rhythm of hers. His arms were wrapped around her now, holding her close while he rubbed soothing circles against the small of her back with one hand and brushed the hair out of her eyes with the other. They were still joined, and she felt him pulse deep within her, the movement sparking an answering response in muscles still eager for his touch.

"Vincent . . ." She'd been about to apologize, but he stopped her with a finger to her lips.

His eyes shone with love as he shifted his hands back to her waist. He lifted her easily, just a little, and then eased her back down, and she sucked in a breath as he slid deep inside her, filling her. He did it again, holding her captive with his eyes, refusing to let her look away while he did it again, and again, and she blessed his extraordinary strength as she began to move with him, giving herself over to the slow, rolling motion and her body's building response.

Without warning, he caught her to him and rolled, and an instant later she was looking up at him as his head came down to hers and he took her mouth in a searing kiss. When he raised his head, his eyes were filled with so much tenderness that Catherine had to swallow past a sudden lump in her throat.

He moved with slow, almost maddening precision, and she matched his pace in an intimate dance to unheard music, their bodies responding in unison to the sensual crescendo, their bond heightening every sensation, every emotion, so that Catherine felt they must eventually merge forever in a single shattering crash of cymbals and timpani. She reached out for that moment, wanting to claim it for him, for herself, but it stayed just out of reach, so she tried harder, moving faster, pulling at his hips and whispering his name as they rose together, climbing, spiraling higher and higher. And then at last it was within her reach, and she stretched out her arms toward it, arching against him as her soul shattered into a million pieces that sparkled like diamonds in the candlelight.

When it was over, they settled easily, gently, into each other's arms, the slowing tremors washing over them like the final diminishing notes of a great symphony, and as their breathing slowed and their heartbeats returned to normal, she curled close to his warmth.

It was several minutes before she felt his kiss against her hair.

"Catherine." She would never tire of the way he said her name, each syllable enunciated with tender precision. "I love you." His voice was barely more than a whisper at her ear. "So very much."

She looked up, only to sink into the warmth in his eyes. "And I love you." She drew a pattern in his fur, fascinated by the way it tickled her palm, simultaneously soft and wiry. "Vincent . . ."

He brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes, his touch achingly gentle. "Tell me."

She hesitated, uncertain how to voice her thoughts. She didn't want to frighten him, but they needed to talk before fate took the choice out of their hands.

"What is it, Catherine?" There was concern in his voice now, and she gathered her courage, unwilling to alarm him.

"Vincent, do you . . .?" She swallowed and tried again, determined to force the words out despite the ridiculous blush she felt creeping up her neck. Lowering her eyes to the rich fur beneath her fingers, she forced the words past nervous lips. "How do you feel about birth control?"

He was quiet for so long that she chanced a glance at his face, just to make sure he'd heard her.

His stunned expression confirmed that he had.

"Forgive me, Catherine. I should have thought—"

She shook her head with a gentle smile, feeling a little silly for being so nervous about bringing it up. They were adults, after all. And somewhere out there was living proof that they needed to have this conversation. "I think maybe I'm the one who should have considered it sooner, but that doesn't matter, now. Besides . . ." She settled back against his chest and rested her arm across his waist, thrilled by the intimate brush of his body against hers. "I can't think of anything that would make me happier than to have another child with you."

Vincent's arms tightened around her. "Perhaps," he said, and she heard a hint of wonder in the quiet words as he acknowledged the possibility. "But not now. Not yet. There is much to consider, first."

He was right, of course. How could she think about bringing another child into the world when their son was still missing?

"But maybe some day?" She couldn't quite keep the hopeful tone out of her voice.

"I think . . ." he took in a deep breath, his chest expanding beneath her head, "when the time is right . . . I would like that very much."

The words were cautious, with a barely there hint of unease, but the thought of carrying another child conceived of their love, this time with Vincent by her side, sent a shiver of eager anticipation through her. "Should I speak with Father about it?"

"No." There was an edge of humor in his voice as he smoothed his hand up her back and nuzzled the top of her head. "I think, perhaps, Peter."

Despite herself, a quiet giggle escaped Catherine's throat at the thought of Father's reaction to her request for birth control.

"Peter it is," she said. She stretched up for his kiss, amused and frustrated by her body's instantaneous response to his touch. They really shouldn't take any more chances until after she'd seen Peter. "Soon."


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

Chapter 23

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


Diana hid in the shadows for almost half an hour before she approached the all-night diner. She came here often in search of a hot meal, so she wouldn't have been surprised to discover that it was being watched. But all appeared quiet, and the handful of patrons took little notice of her when she finally slipped inside.

There was a pay phone at the back, and on the scarred and stained counter, a miracle in the form of a handful of coins not yet collected by the lone waitress. Diana snagged a quarter on her way past, ignored the waitress’s indignant exclamation, and hurried to the phone booth.

"Okay." She lifted the phone out of the cradle, biting her lip while she tried to remember Joe’s number. "Okay. Just think." She dropped in the quarter, dialed three digits, hesitated, and then punched in the final four with a silent prayer that she'd gotten it right.

"Hello."

Oh, thank God. "Joe."

"Yeah."

"It's Diana. Look. I'm in a lot of trouble." Outside, a black car pulled to a stop at the curb, and panic rose in Diana's throat. She struggled to keep her voice even, but Joe would've had to be deaf not to hear her fear. "I'm down at this all-night diner at the corner of Grant and Chambers."

"Grant and Chambers. Got it."

"Could you just come and get me?" She sank to the floor of the booth as two men entered the diner. "Could you hurry?"

The newcomers looked official. They wore dark suits and flashed badges of some kind at the waitress. Diana listened to them from her place on the floor.

"NYPD. We're looking for a white female suspect. Long red hair. Wearing a t-shirt and sweat pants. Probably isn't wearing shoes."

"Yeah." The waitress sounded bored. "She was in here. She pocketed one of my tips. Then she just disappeared."

Diana allowed herself a small sigh of relief. Either the waitress hadn’t seen her go into the booth, or she hated cops. Either way, Diana was grateful. But she'd forgotten to hang up the phone, and she cursed as the handset started to squawk, the distinctive tones announcing her presence with all the subtlety of a bullhorn.

Footsteps approached at a run, and an instant later, a booted foot kicked in the door.

A heavyset man glared down at her, his arm locked around a customer's neck. "It's over!" The woman's eyes were wide with fear, her hands pulling at the man's beefy forearm as she struggled for breath. "We can leave these people alive," the man said coldly, "or we can kill them. It depends on how you walk out of here."

A string of silent curses echoed in Diana's mind. She dropped her gun and kicked it across the worn linoleum. As she stood to follow her captors, her stomach churned with sick fear, but she swore to herself that this was only a temporary defeat.

In the end, she would be the victor.


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


Vincent hurried through the deserted tunnels. It was very late. By rights he should have been asleep. But the dream had come again, darker and more frightening than ever before. It had driven him from the safe haven of Catherine's arms, and now, unwilling to cause her more worry, he turned toward Father's chamber.

He approached the bed quietly, taking a deep breath before he reached out. "Father."

"Vincent." A light sleeper, Father woke at once at Vincent's light touch on his arm. He sat up, reaching for his robe. "What is it? What’s wrong?"

Vincent moved across the room and sat down. "I need to speak with you."

"Is everything all right?" Father took a seat across from him, his brow furrowed with worry. "You still aren’t sleeping, are you." It was a statement rather than a question.

"I close my eyes, but my son . . ." Vincent shook his head. "The shadow of his image haunts my thoughts and will not let me rest."

"Like before?"

"No," Vincent said. "Not the heartbeat. Only . . ." he paused, searching for an appropriate description, "a powerful sense of foreboding."

"Well, that probably means that your empathic connection to him is growing stronger."

"Perhaps. I hope that that is so." But there was more to these waking dreams than simple empathy. "Father, there is something more that I should tell you." He looked away. "Someone has come into my life. Someone from the world Above. A woman."

Father's surprise and uneasiness were clear in his eyes. "A woman?"

"Her name is Diana," Vincent said. "She works with the police. She's been investigating Catherine's case."

"And you went to her?"

"She found me after the explosion on the Compass Rose." The details of his trip from the boatyard to the cemetery were vague—shadows and fragments of images, haunting pain. "I was near death," he said. "She brought me to her home and nursed me until I was well again."

"What do you mean she found you?"

"Over the months, she gathered the threads of my life with Catherine. Wove them together. Understood. Truly, Father. She understands. She knew that I would go to Catherine's grave." And she’d been right. Even though Catherine hadn’t been there, the place had called to him.

"So she waited."

"She saved my life."

Father's concern was almost palpable. "Vincent, if she managed to find you, surely others—"

"No." Vincent searched for words with which to explain his certainty. "This is different. The power of her mind is extraordinary. Unique. Her imagination . . ."

"Can she be trusted?"

"She would not betray me. Or Catherine." He hesitated. "Father, she knows that Catherine is alive."

"You told her?" Father’s shock showed plainly in his face.

Vincent nodded. "She had a right to the truth."

"What did she say?"

"She was angry at first, but I believe she understands why we’ve kept Catherine hidden from the world Above."

"Has she seen Catherine?"

"No." Vincent picked up a book and slid his fingers down the leather spine. "Father, you must promise me something."

Something in Vincent's voice must've alerted Father to the gravity of the promise, because he tensed, his hands curling around the arms of his chair. "What is it?"

"If something should happen to me . . ." He looked up, meeting Father’s eyes. "Promise me you’ll look after Catherine. Keep her safe. Help her contact Diana and continue the search for our son."

He’d told Catherine the truth. He was worried for their son. But his life was in danger as well. This he had not shared with her. Would not share with her.

"Vincent . . ." Father was afraid. It was there in the way the way the corners of his mouth turned down and the faint tremble in his voice. "What are you saying?"

"Please, Father. I must know Catherine will not be alone."

Father sighed. Then he nodded slowly. "You have my word."

"Thank you." Vincent felt the burden he carried lessen somewhat. There was still much that concerned him, but it helped to know that Catherine, at least, would be cared for.

Father covered Vincent's hand with his. "Are you absolutely certain Diana can be trusted?"

He wasn't certain. He wasn't certain at all. And yet . . . "She is our last hope."


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


Diana had no sense of how long they drove. There was no conversation, and she couldn't see through the woolen ski-mask they'd pulled over her head. When they finally stopped, she heard doors open and a muttered discussion. Somebody grabbed her arm and jerked her from the car, and she stumbled before finding her footing. She still wore the hood, but beyond the damp wool she thought she caught a hint of pine. The night air was cold against her skin, and she shivered, wishing for her coat.

Rough hands tugged at her elbow, guiding her up half a dozen steps and into a building. A door closed behind her, and she heard a muted click as someone locked it. Several sets of footsteps echoed against tile floors—dress shoes or boots, not sneakers—and even when they moved onto deep carpeting, the largeness of the space engulfed her. She listened and breathed and learned, stretching the senses she had remaining to her, alert to any detail that might lead her back later.

They led her up a curving staircase wide enough for at least three to walk abreast, and down a hallway that smelled of furniture polish and old wood. She counted twenty steps before the hand at her elbow pulled her to a stop and somebody knocked on a door. Wood. And thick, judging by the dull thuds. A male voice called to them to enter. It wasn't a particularly deep voice, so its owner probably wasn't a big man. A latch clicked, and the hand shoved her inside. She smelled baby powder, heard the tinkle of music. Mobile? Music box?

Somebody yanked the hat off her head, and she blinked, taking in a deep breath of blessedly cool air.

She stood in a large, high-ceilinged room with wide windows, barren white walls, and plush gray carpeting. A tall crib stood against the far wall, flanked on one side by an ornate rocking chair, and on the other by a combination changing table and dresser. The three pieces, all made from some kind of dark wood, were the only furniture in the room. A dark-haired man with deep-set eyes and a narrow face watched her from beside the crib. Gabriel. She was sure of it. But why? And what did he want with her?

Gabriel directed an abrupt dismissal to someone behind Diana's shoulder. "Thank you."

The man started to back out of the room, and Gabriel lifted a hand in lazy command. "Pope," he said. "Gently."

When they were alone, Gabriel turned his attention to Diana. "I wish you hadn't run, Miss Bennett. You've wasted precious time." His voice carried an air of authority. This was a man well-used to the trappings of power.

"What do you want?" Diana didn’t bother to hide her antipathy.

With a slight smile, he waved her over to the crib. "Please." He waited until she came to stand beside him. "This is my son, Miss Bennett. He's very beautiful. Don't you agree?"

Diana forced herself to remain expressionless as she studied the tiny infant. Vincent’s child. And Catherine’s. He was beautiful, but she’d die before she would admit it to this man.

Gabriel was watching her. He had sharp eyes, the kind of eyes that noticed details. "Look at his hands, Miss Bennett. And his face. There's nothing unusual there." He tilted his head, eyebrows raised. "Do you find it strange?"

Did he really think she was stupid enough to fall for that? "Why would I find it strange?"

"I think the resemblance is in the eyes. What do you think?"

"I don't think he looks anything like you." Actually, he looked a lot like his mother. At least, as much as any baby resembled a parent. She'd never been much good at that sort of thing.

"Precisely." Apparently satisfied with that answer, Gabriel nodded. "The trouble is, he's dying."

As if on cue, the baby whimpered, his hands flailing weakly, fingers curved into helpless fists. She wanted to sweep him up in her arms and run, but she knew she wouldn't get past the door. So she stood, helpless and frustrated, struggling to remain impassive beneath Gabriel's knowing gaze.

"Some powerful illness." Gabriel shook his head. "The doctors don't know how to help him."

It wasn't until Diana felt the bite of her own nails that she realized she'd balled her hands into fists. She made a conscious effort to relax, but her fingers felt stiff and gnarled, their natural flexibility overcome by rage.

"But I do," Gabriel said, his eyes on her hands. "And I believe you do, too."

The baby was watching her, and there was a depth to his gaze that made her wonder just how much he understood of what was going on around him. It seemed almost as if he was trying to communicate his confidence in her. She made him a silent promise. Somehow, I'll find a way to get you home.

"The child," Gabriel was saying, "needs his natural father."

And his mother. Turning away from the baby, Diana pasted on a baffled expression. "You lost me about two steps back."

Irritation flared in Gabriel's eyes. "You're fast, Miss Bennett. I'll give you that." He brushed his bent finger across the baby's cheek. "Unfortunately, I don't have time to play. Maybe a few hours."

"I still don't know what you're talking about." Her mind raced, her frustration growing as she discarded one impossible idea after another.

"The ring, Miss Bennett. He gave you the ring." Gabriel held up his hand. The familiar gold band gleamed in an oddly menacing way. It was an exact twin to the one Vincent had given her. "I believe you were curious about the inscription."

So that was how they'd found her. The jeweler. Diana couldn't decide whether to curse Fate or thank it. If Gabriel hadn't come looking for her, it was a safe bet she never would've found him. "Veritas."

"Veritas de liberat." He dropped his hand and turned back to the crib. "Find him," he said. "Find him, and tell him that Catherine Chandler's child is dying."

"What proof do I have that that's Catherine Chandler's—"

"You have no proof, Miss Bennett." The look he gave her was cold, calculating. "And the child has no time. Take that message to Vincent."

"What makes you assume that I can make contact with him?"

He gave her a thin smile. "You'll find a way."

His stride as he crossed the room to open the door made her think of a panther, or maybe a mountain lion—elegant, silent, and deadly. While he spoke with the man named Pope, she looked around once more, cataloguing everything she saw.

Everybody had an Achilles heel.

She just needed to find Gabriel's.


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


In a January blizzard, knit caps saved lives. But this was early May, and the woolen hat that covered Diana's eyes was both scratchy and suffocating. She took a shallow breath and wondered how much longer they would keep driving in aimless circles. Almost as if he'd read her mind, Pope shifted beside her, and an instant later the hat was removed.

He dropped it on the seat and handed her a pair of shoes. Her shoes.

"There you are," he said in a cheerful British accent. "You can put these on." He followed the shoes with her coat. "And you'll need this. There's money in the pocket." Finally, he gave her a folded piece of paper. "Call this number to set up the next rendezvous."

He leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder, and the car slowed to a stop. "You may go, Miss Bennett."

As soon as she was out, the car pulled away and left her standing in the darkness, staring after it.

And wondering what to do next.


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


Diana made her way to the drainage tunnels beneath Central Park. The last time she'd seen Vincent had been when he'd defended her from those vagrants. With any luck, she'd find him here again. When she was sure no one was watching, she slipped inside and came to an uncertain stop in front of a rusted metal grate. Now what?

"Vincent!" she called into the darkness, feeling a little silly as her voice echoed off the concrete walls. "Vincent!"

There was no answer.

She spotted a small, rectangular hole near the floor. With a quick glance at her watch she knelt down beside it. Gabriel had said the child was running out of time, and even to her inexperienced eye he'd looked pale and weak.

"I need to speak with Vincent!" she called. "My name is Diana. I’m a friend of his."

But the only response to her plea was a stubborn, deafening silence.

"Are you there? Please! I don’t have much time. Just tell Vincent where I am." She crossed to the opposite wall, sat down, and pulled her knees up to her chest. She would wait a while, give him time to get her message and make his way here.

Ten minutes later, when he still hadn’t appeared, she was back at the opening. "Please tell Vincent where I am! I'm a friend!"

She repeated the call every ten minutes. It was the only thing she knew to do.
Meanwhile, time continued to slip away.


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


Father wrote quickly, pouring his fears onto the blank pages of his journal in a futile attempt to find some small sense of comfort. When Rebecca said his name from the doorway, he closed the book and looked up at her with a tired smile and as much calm assurance as he could muster.

"Rebecca. Come in. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." But she twisted her hands in a nervous gesture he'd seen before.

"What is it?"

"I was on watch tonight." She came down the steps. "There's a woman on the upper level under the park. Calling out for Vincent. But she isn't a helper."

"Was her name Diana?"

"Yes." She nodded, obviously surprised that he knew the stranger's name. "I was going to tell Vincent, but I wasn't sure . . ."

"Was a message sent on the pipes?"

"Yes."

"Then Vincent will have heard it. And go himself." He rubbed his forehead, trying not to let himself worry about what the message might mean.

"Who is she?" Rebecca asked. "Is she a friend?"

"I hope so." If she wasn't . . . No. He wouldn't think about that.

Rebecca nodded and left, and Father opened his journal once more. Picking up his pen, he lowered his head and began to write.

Please, God. Keep him safe.


*******


Diana was nearly ready to give up when she saw the faint glow of approaching light. Vincent. Thank God. When he reached her, he set down an old-fashioned oil lantern and turned to her without speaking. His eyes, reflected in the lantern light, were identical to his son's.

"I saw Gabriel," she said, getting straight to the point.

Vincent stiffened. "Where is he?"

"I don't know. They took me to him in secret. I . . ." She hesitated, wondering all at once if she was doing the right thing. It was entirely possible she was sending Vincent to his own execution. And yet, what right did she have to deny him the choice? "I saw a baby."

Hope flared in his eyes. "A baby!"

She nodded. "He said it was yours and Catherine's."

"You saw my son!" Happiness lit his face.

"I don't know if it was your son, Vincent." What if it wasn't? What if Gabriel had just used her to set Vincent up? "It was a baby."

"Tell me."

"The child is very ill. Gabriel said that the doctors—"

"The child is ill." The way he said it, as though it was the answer to a puzzle of some kind, made her blink. "Then the child is mine."

How could he be so certain? "We don't know that."

Vincent waved her doubts aside. "For days now, I've sensed his pain, his strength falling away." He stared at her, the light of hope in his eyes. "The visions. The waking dreams. I know their source now. Their meaning." He paused and she sensed his distance as his thoughts turned inward. Then his expression cleared and he put his hand on her arm. "My son is dying. You must take me to him."

"That’s exactly what Gabriel wants. You can't surrender yourself to him like that."

"There is no other way."

"Then he'll kill you." Desperate now, she touched his arm. "And you know it."

Vincent looked at her, and she saw the steely determination in his eyes, felt it in the muscles that tensed beneath her fingers. "First I will save my son."

"What about Catherine?" Shouldn't he at least discuss it with her, first?

He glanced behind him, down the darkened tunnels. "This is something I must do," he said, and his voice was so low he seemed almost to be speaking to himself. "Catherine . . . will understand."


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


They found a pay phone just beyond the boundaries of the park, and Diana made the call. The conversation lasted only seconds. When it was over, she hung up the phone and returned to Vincent, who stood, cloaked and silent, in the shadows.

"The roof of the old Battery Arms building. Five minutes." She had a sick feeling that she was sending Vincent to his death, but she knew there was no stopping him. He would do whatever it took to reach his son—no matter how high the price.

Vincent nodded. "For all that you have done," he said gravely, "I cannot thank you enough."

"Vincent, when this is all over and you've found your son—"

"I will come to you."

She touched his arm. "Be careful."

He nodded once, turned, and disappeared into the shadows in a whispered swirl of heavy fabric. An instant later, it was like he'd never been there at all.

With a last, worried glance in the direction he'd gone, Diana shook her head. The future was in God's hands, now. God's . . . and Vincent's.


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

Chapter 24

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

The Battery Arms wasn't far, and it only took Vincent a couple of minutes to make his way to its roof. He was there, standing in the shadows, when the rhythmic thump of a helicopter drew his attention to the sky. The steady whump, whump, whump of the blades against the air brought back a surge of agonizing memories, memories he forced aside. Catherine was safe. It was their son who needed him now.

The helicopter rose above the level of the roof, and Vincent saw a faceless form silhouetted in its open doorway. The man had a weapon. Before Vincent could react, something sharp pierced his vest, burning into the skin beneath. He reached for the source of the pain, tugged at the object embedded there, and recognized it as a tranquilizer dart. He’d seen them before. He flung it aside with a roar of defiance. Almost at once, a second dart struck him. This time, the burning sensation spread quickly, stealing his strength and forcing him to the ground.

The helicopter settled to the roof like an ungainly dragonfly as Vincent's vision dimmed and darkness closed in. With the last of his strength, he watched three men alight to the roof and run toward him.

All three carried guns.


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


Catherine awoke with a start. She was alone in her chamber, and the world around her seemed at peace. Even the pipes were quiet. And yet something felt wrong.

She pushed back the covers, reached for her robe, and climbed from the bed. Candle in hand, she left her chamber, making her way through the still and silent tunnels. She heard no warnings, saw nobody who could explain away the unsettled feeling that had disturbed her rest.

Vincent’s chamber was empty.

She kept moving, headed for Father’s chamber now. Surely he would know what was going on.

She found him in his study, his head bent over a book, a half-burned candle at his side.

"Father?"

He looked up. "Catherine. Come in." Setting the book aside, he waved her to a chair.

"Father, Vincent isn’t in his chamber."

"No." He sighed. "I know."

His lack of surprise bothered her. Had Vincent told Father where he was going, but not her?

"Where is he?"

"That I don’t know. I can only tell you that there was a woman looking for him a few hours ago. Somebody he met Above."

"Diana?"

"Yes."

Why would Diana come looking for him? Was there news? Had she found their son?

"So he’s gone Above?"

"I can only assume so."

"But why?"

"I don’t know."

She stood up, unable to sit still, needing to think.

"I need to find her."

"How?"

She met his gaze across the dimly lit room. "Joe."


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


Gradually, Vincent became aware that he was lying on a concrete floor. Behind him, a stone wall rose to the ceiling. Steel bars surrounded him on the other three sides. Over his head, a single light bulb dangled from a frayed wire. His wrists were manacled, with long chains affixed to brackets embedded deep within the stone. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He knew this feeling, knew what it was to be caged.

Beyond the bars, the room was dark, but as his vision cleared, he could see the cameras mounted in the corners, their unblinking eyes watching his every move. He studied the room, taking in the old wooden table, the circuit box with its door hanging open, and the narrow steps leading up to a closed door. Bare light bulbs hung at intervals, long chains dangling from them like strands of abandoned spider webs.

He reached for the bars, intending to pull himself to his feet—and reeled back when fiery heat exploded up his arm, throwing him back against the stone wall. Stunned, he sank to the floor.


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


Gabriel and the doctor stood beside the crib, watching Julian. The nursery was quiet, lights dimmed so that the baby could rest. He continued to weaken, and so far the doctor had had no success in treating him. Indeed, for all his gold-plated credentials and high-priced expertise, the doctor had told Gabriel nothing he couldn’t have discovered for himself, and he was beginning to lose patience. Indeed, had it not been for Julian, Gabriel would've dealt with Jacobson as soon as his failure to dispose of Catherine Chandler had come to light. And now, with the passage of time and Julian's continued decline, Gabriel was beginning to rethink his decision to let the man live.

"Well?" Gabriel asked, as Jacobson stepped back and removed the stethoscope from his ears.

"No change."

"And the blood test?"

"I've never seen anything like it. The child's is unusual, but his . . ."

Gabriel shook his head impatiently. "Try to be more specific, doctor."

"They share certain similarities, but a transfusion is out of the question."

"Why?"

"The child would die." Jacobson's tone left no room for doubt.

"What do you suggest?" Gabriel reached into the crib and lifted out his son, looking down into the small face. "Has medical science nothing to offer?" In his mind, he saw his plans, his grand future, threatening to crumble into dust.

"There is no logical reason for the illness. We've tried every test."

Gabriel shifted the baby so that he rested against his shoulder. He splayed his hand across the tiny back. He knew why Julian was sick. And he knew how to make him well. But the prospect galled him.

"There are reasons for everything," he said, his eyes drifting to the wide windows.

Vincent would not win this war. Gabriel would see to it.

Somehow, he would find a way to save Julian's life.

And end Vincent's.


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


Vincent paced the small enclosure, careful not to touch the bars. His son was close. He could feel his presence somewhere above his head. But the child was growing weaker with each passing hour, and Vincent's inability to reach him had driven his anger and frustration to dangerous levels, so that he felt that other part of him, the part that took over and committed unspeakable crimes, might soon free itself from his tight restraint.

He looked up at the video cameras. On the other side of those unblinking eyes his tormentor was watching him. He was certain of it.

"Gabriel!" He paced to the other end of the cage and glared up at the cameras. "He's dying! I can feel him dying!"

There was no response. The door at the other end of the room remained stubbornly closed.

"Bring him to me!"


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


Catherine waited until it was very late before venturing Above. Her cloak, cleaned and patched, covered her from head to toe, and she held it tightly closed as she hurried through the quiet streets. She was excited, looking forward to seeing Joe, to letting him see that she was alive and well. And yet she worried that he would be unwilling to keep her secret; that he would call in the authorities, thus making public what by necessity must remain private.

But there were no other options. Vincent was missing. And Diana might know why.

And the only way to reach Diana was through Joe.

When she arrived at his apartment, she took a deep breath before raising her hand to knock.

"Yeah." He sounded groggy, which wasn't surprising, considering the lateness of the hour.

She didn’t dare answer for fear somebody would recognize her voice, so she knocked again.

"Keep your shorts on! I’m coming!"

There was a sharp click as he twisted the lock, and then the door opened and he stood there looking at her, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt, and suddenly she had to fight back tears and swallow the lump in her throat. She'd missed him so much.

"What the hell…?"

Slowly, she eased the hood back enough for him to see her face.

"Cathy?"

Catherine darted a glance behind her, keeping her voice low. "Please, Joe. Can I come in?"

He glanced over her shoulder, caught her arm, and pulled her inside, but she didn't relax until she heard the lock click into place.

When he turned back to her, shock and disbelief were etched on his face. "Cathy? Is it really you?"

She pushed the hood all the way off, letting it fall down her back. "Hello, Joe."

"Oh, my God! Cathy!" And then they were hugging and crying and for a while neither one of them said anything at all.

Finally he stepped back, his hands going to her shoulders. "Where have you been?"

She shook her head. "I can’t tell you that."

"We thought you were dead! There was a funeral!"

"I know."

"Why didn’t you say something? Send me a message? Anything to let me know you were okay!"

"I couldn’t."

He stared at her for a long, assessing moment. Then he turned and sat down on the couch, calmer now that the initial shock had worn off. "Moreno?"

"Partly." She hated that she had caused him so much pain and grief. "He let them take me, Joe. Back when it first happened. It was Moreno who gave me up."

"I figured as much. Is that why you’ve stayed away? Because he’s gone. Burch killed him."

"Elliot didn’t kill him."

"Then who did?"

"I can’t tell you that." Joe was her friend, and the urge to confide in him was strong. But her loyalty to Vincent and the tunnel community had to come first.

"Jesus, Cathy. What the hell is going on?"

She turned away, going to the window. "The man who took me, who tried to kill me . . . He killed Elliot Burch."

"What about Moreno? He kill him, too?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"Joe, you have to trust me. There are things I can’t tell you."

"After everything that's happened, you show up here in the middle of the night dressed like something out of Phantom of the Opera and I’m just supposed to trust you?"

She set aside her momentary surprise. Joe, the man she'd once teased about preferring Billy Joel to Franz Schubert, knew The Phantom of the Opera? "Please. I need your help."

He stared at her for a long, tense minute before finally nodding. "What do you need me to do?"

"The man . . . The one who killed Elliot. His name is Gabriel."

"Gabriel who?"

"I don’t know his last name."

Joe shook his head. "It isn’t much to go on, Cathy. There must be hundreds of Gabriels in Manhattan alone."

She sat down beside him, her body angled so that she could see his eyes. "I need to find Diana Bennett."

Confusion clouded his expression. "How do you know Diana?"

"I know she’s been working on my case."

He blew out an exasperated sigh. "Not voluntarily."

"I need to find her. I need to ask her some questions."

"About this Gabriel person?"

"Among other things."

Abruptly, Joe got to his feet and paced away from her, running his fingers through his hair. "This is nuts."

"I know. I’m sorry."

He spun back to her. "Are you? Because you aren’t doing a hell of a lot to make things better."

She lifted her hands helplessly. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to tell me what the hell's going on! You ask me to trust you, but you won’t tell me a damn thing!"

"You don’t understand."

"Why don’t you explain it to me?"

Catherine felt a wave of affection for this man who had given her his friendship when she’d been struggling to create a new life for herself. He'd done so much for her, and all she had to repay him with were mysteries and half-truths. "I’ll tell you what I can, but it isn’t much."

Crafting a version of events that would satisfy his curiosity without risking the safety of the tunnel community was a delicate, time-consuming task. She spoke slowly, thinking and rethinking each word to be sure there were no clues, that nobody but herself could be put in danger by what she was telling him. When she finished, he shook his head.

"So this guy Gabriel still has your son."

"Yes."

"And you want me to help you find him."

"I think maybe Diana already has."

He sighed and shook his head. "Diana’s missing, Cathy. She called me last night from some diner downtown. Said she was in trouble. But when I got there, she was gone."

"You don’t have any idea where she went?"

"No."

She was still alive. At least, she had been when she’d come to the tunnels to see Vincent.

"Can you tell me what she looks like?"

"I can do better than that." Joe stood up and crossed to a desk that was littered with papers and case files. He dug through the folders, selecting one and returning to her side. He handed it to her. "Her service report," he said. "Picture’s inside."

Catherine opened the folder. The photo was stapled to the top corner of the report. She stared at it, memorizing the face—the long red hair, the clean features, the intelligent green eyes. She looked back up at Joe.

"Can I take this?"

"I’ll catch hell if that file disappears. You know that."

She waited in silence, watching him.

He blew out a breath. "Give it to me for a sec."

She gave him the folder, and he tore off the picture, handing it over to her. "Need a new one anyway," he said with a crooked smile.

"Thanks, Joe."

"I don’t know how much good it’ll be. New York’s a pretty big place."

"I know some people who can help."

His gaze sharpened on her face. "Yeah," he said. "I suspect maybe you do."

"I need to ask you one more favor."

He tilted his head to one side, a lopsided grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I’m almost afraid to ask."

"Don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me, okay?"

"Not even Jenny?"

Catherine’s heart broke a little as she thought about Jenny, but she shook her head. Involving Joe had been risky enough. She wouldn't put any more of her friends in danger. "Not even her."

"Cathy . . ." He took a step toward her. "You have to let me help you."

"I know, just . . . not yet, okay?"

"You can’t just expect me to sit back and do nothing while you’re out there risking your neck!"

"I promise, Joe. Somebody will be in touch when there’s something you can do." She'd stayed too long. It would be dawn soon. She stood up and crossed to the door. "I can’t be seen," she said, as she pulled the hood back over her hair. "I need to go, before . . ." She gestured to the window.

He got to his feet and crossed to where she stood. "Cathy—" His hand settled on her shoulder, and worry clouded his expression. "Be careful out there."

"I will." She hugged him. "And thanks."

"For what?"

"For being my friend."


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

Gabriel sat alone behind the bank of video screens. There were eight of them in a single long row, each one showing the steel-barred cage, the dimly lit room, and the extraordinary creature that paced the tightly enclosed space in restless, unending circles.

He’d been staring at the display for hours. Watching. Thinking. Now he picked up the remote control, pointed it at one of the monitors, and hit a button. The video scrolled back, Vincent’s image moving in sharp jerky motions as the recording rewound. He hit another button and the image froze. Then, after a brief pause, a third button made the video play at normal speed, and Vincent’s angry voice spilled into the room, filling the dark corners and the empty places with rage and frustration.

"Gabriel! He's dying!" Vincent’s face filled the screen. "I can feel him dying!" He turned, paced to the far corner. Turned back. "Bring him to me, Gabriel! He needs more than my blood. He needs me!" He yanked at the chains that tied him to the wall, and Gabriel held his breath. "Are you listening? Go to him! Look at him! Touch him!"

Vincent glared up at the camera with bared fangs and clenched fists, and Gabriel was glad for the bars, glad he’d thought to electrify them.

"He's dying," Vincent said. "Can't you feel it?" He circled the room again, ending by coming as close to the cameras as the chains and bars would allow. "He's your son only in life. But in death he's mine." His eyes pierced Gabriel even from this distance. "If he dies, you will have lost. Bring him to me! Let him live!"


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

Chapter 25

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


Vincent sat against the wall, his eyes on the stairs and the closed door beyond. He’d given up on pacing. It was a useless waste of energy, energy he knew he must conserve. Instead he waited in silence, his muscles taut with rage and frustration as he felt his son's fragile spirit slipping away.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Vincent stood up. Four men and a single, uniformed woman came down the steps. The woman held a blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. His son? His breath caught in his throat at the thought. Jaw clenched, he forced himself to silent, impassive stillness. But his thoughts were chaotic, wonder and hope battling with cold fury as he watched one of the men cross to the box on the wall and flip a switch. A second man approached the cell door while the other two stood back, their weapons trained on Vincent, fingers hovering over the triggers.

Vincent didn’t move when the door opened to admit the woman. Her dark eyes watched him with wary distrust as she set the bundle on the floor and backed quickly away. The door closed and the lock clicked into place with metallic finality, and still Vincent waited. Inside the blanket, the baby whimpered, his voice a faint ripple of sound in the chilled silence of the room.

One of the guards flipped the switch on the wall, and Vincent heard the hum of electricity. Then the group reassembled and moved up the stairs in a precise reversal of their entrance, and only when they were gone, the door closing behind them with a quiet thud, did Vincent move from his place by the wall.

The distance separating him from his son seemed suddenly vast, the single stride required to bridge it the culmination of a lifetime of hopes and fears, dreams and possibilities. He sank to his knees, and with trembling fingers, eased the blanket aside.

The face that greeted his eyes was pale, the cheeks sunken from hunger and lack of sleep, but Vincent recognized the nose, the curve of the jaw, the shell-like ears. They were Catherine's, recreated in flawless miniature. His breath seized in his throat, and his heart beat a rapid tattoo against his ribs. This was his son. Their son. There were no doubts, no questions in his mind, as he stared down at the final, absolute proof of his humanity.

The baby squirmed, freeing a hand from the soft cotton blanket and reaching out to his father with fingers covered by skin so paper-thin, so delicate, that Vincent was almost afraid to touch them. But his son's desperate need called out to him, and he extended a finger, smiling when the baby grasped it with a strength that belied his small size. Only then did Vincent realize that his vision was blurred. He blinked, clearing the moisture from his eyes.

"He is beautiful, Catherine."

With gentle hands, he lifted his son into his arms, held him close, and settled back against the wall. He thought that his heart must surely expand beyond the bounds of his chest, so full was it with love as he pulled the blanket back into place and tucked it with infinite care beneath the tiny chin. The baby's eyes were already closing; his small body relaxing into the comfort of his father's warmth.

As Vincent kept watch over his sleeping son, he made a silent promise to protect him, always, from those who would do him harm.


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


A sudden inexplicable surge of emotion drew Catherine's attention away from Diana's picture and the crowded library. Vincent. She only sensed him this way when he experienced something particularly intense. Had he found their son? She started to move, to get up, to call out. But the wave of feeling faded as quickly as it had come, and she was left bereft, her body settling slowly back into the chair.

"Cathy?" It was Peter. He knelt beside her, concerned. Around them, tunnel dwellers and topsiders alike stood together in small, uneasy groups. "Are you okay?"

She forced a smile. "I'm fine." Nobody else seemed to have noticed her odd behavior, their conversations continuing to ebb and flow around her like the tides of a restless sea. They'd come in response to an urgent summons from Father, and now they waited to hear what he would say, their quiet voices tense as they talked among themselves.

"Any news?"

She shook her head. "Not yet."

As if on queue, Father appeared at the top of the stairs, his shoulders bowed with worry and lack of sleep. "All right everybody, if I could have your attention?"

Almost at once, the room grew silent.

"I've called you here today to ask for your help." He looked around, meeting the eyes of helpers and tunnel dwellers alike. "Vincent is missing." Concerned glances passed from person to person. Most of them already knew about Vincent's disappearance, but those who were hearing the news for the first time looked horrified. Everybody knew the dangers if Vincent was caught Above.

Father raised a hand for silence.

"Yesterday, a woman came to the tunnels looking for Vincent. Her name is Diana Bennett. Catherine," he nodded his head in her direction, "has a photograph of her. She’ll be passing it among you. We think . . . we hope that if we can find her, Miss Bennett will be able to give us some clue as to Vincent’s whereabouts."

Heads turned as dozens of pairs of eyes searched out Catherine and the photo that was already passing from hand to hand.

"Miss Bennett works with the Manhattan police department. She’s been investigating Catherine’s case. She knows Vincent, and she knows that Catherine is alive, but . . ." he paused until he was certain he had everyone’s attention, "she doesn’t know about the tunnels. And I think it best that it remain so."

A low rumble of assent swept the chamber, and once more Father had to wait for silence. "We have reason to believe that Miss Bennett is in danger, and that she is aware of this. If you see her, try not to alarm her."

Someone in the back raised a hand. "What if she’s in trouble when we find her?"

"Don’t interfere. These people are very dangerous, and we don't want any of you to get hurt." He scanned the room. "Are there any more questions?"

There were, and Father answered each one patiently. Twenty minutes later, the meeting ended, and the room slowly emptied until Father and Catherine were alone once more. He crossed the chamber to sit down beside her.

"We’ll find him, Catherine."

"It’s just so hard to sit here and do nothing."

There was no answer to that.

Across the room, the pipes clanged with the daily message traffic. And in the heavy, antique chair, Catherine sat quietly, the only sign of her mounting tension the steady tapping of her fingers against the armrest.


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


Diana knew better than to return to her apartment. Gabriel had gotten what he wanted from her, but now she could identify him. Which meant that as soon as he was sure his message had been delivered to Vincent, her life was forfeit. His people were probably looking for her now.

Which was why she’d made her way to the rooftop of the building next to hers, and why she now thanked whatever accident of genetics had deprived her of nesting instincts and led to the bare windows that afforded her a clear view of her apartment.

When nothing moved inside, she looked down, checking the street. Sure enough, a dark sedan sat parked in the tow away zone, and she could just make out the shadowy forms of two men inside. Damn.

Keeping her body low, she made her way off the roof. Somehow, she had to get Joe and tell him about the Italian tile she'd seen in the hallway of Gabriel's mansion.

It was unique.

More than that, it was a lead.

She dug deep in her pockets. Only a couple of quarters left. Not enough for the subway. She’d have to walk, then. At least until she’d put enough distance between herself and her apartment that she could safely search for a telephone.

Two hours later, satisfied that she’d lost herself in the city’s labyrinthine streets and alleys, she ducked into a phone booth. With a quick prayer, she dropped in one of the quarters and punched in Joe’s number. Then she turned her back to the street, hunched her shoulders, and prayed for a miracle.

"Office of the District Attorney."

"Yes." Did she sound nervous? She cleared her throat and tried again. "Is Joe Maxwell there?"

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"It's Diana Bennett. I'm with the police department. It's an emergency."

"Hold please."

The line clicked over to canned music, and Diana stifled a curse. Of all times to be put on hold . . .

"Miss Bennett. Where are you calling from?"

The voice was male, and professional, but it wasn't Joe’s. Diana stiffened, her fingers tightening on the handset. "Who is this? I need to speak to Joe Maxwell."

"He's tied up in court," the voice said smoothly. Too smoothly. "Tell me where you are. I'll send someone to pick you up."

Was it possible that Gabriel had men in the District Attorney’s office? Was he really that powerful, that insidious? Her stomach twisted as she remembered John Moreno. If Gabriel could control the district attorney himself . . .

She slammed the phone into its cradle and pushed out of the booth, the door bouncing back on its hinges with the force of her shove.

Outside, she glanced left and right, scanning pedestrians and vehicles alike for signs of pursuit. Her instincts told her she hadn't been spotted, but she wasn't stupid enough to stick around while they traced her call. With a quick glance behind her, she darted into the nearest alley.

It was time to get lost again.


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


Oblivious to the watching cameras, the hum of electricity, and the cold and barren cell, Vincent sat on the floor, studying his son's face and talking softly to him, his voice too low to be picked up by Gabriel's microphones. Color was already returning to the pale skin, and Vincent no longer felt the looming presence of death.

With the tip of his finger, he smoothed a frown from his son's small brow, smiling softly when the baby curled closer to him in his sleep.

"His name's Julian."

Instantly alert, Vincent looked up into a pair of dark eyes devoid of emotion.

Gabriel.

The baby began to cry, and Vincent murmured a quiet reassurance as he got to his feet and pressed his back against the rough stones. When he looked back up, a silent snarl pulled his lips back against his teeth.

"Some names have power," Gabriel said, ignoring Vincent's animosity, "but you know that, don't you." His hands hung at his sides, open and relaxed. "Vincent." A tight, thin-lipped smile twisted his angular features. "It means conqueror. But you already know that, don't you."

Gabriel leaned against the wall, tucked his hands into his pockets, and crossed his ankles as though settling in for a friendly chat. "Ordinary men write their names in water. But each generation there are a few . . ." His eyes traveled over Vincent. ". . . stronger than the rest, who write their names in blood." He indicated the baby with a quick jerk of narrow chin. "My son will be a man like that."

"Gabriel . . ." Vincent's low voice rumbled through the room like distant thunder as he enunciated each word with angry precision, his arms tightening protectively around the baby. "You have no son."

Gabriel straightened, the coldness in his eyes replaced by fury as he crossed to the opposite wall. He pressed a button, and a buzzer sounded somewhere over their heads. Immediately, the door at the top of the stairs opened. Vincent recognized the nurse and two of the men, but there were new faces, too. One man, balding and nervous, carried a medical bag.

"It's been long enough," Gabriel said. "Remove the child."

One of the guards stepped to the circuit box. An instant later, the hum of electricity ceased, and the man with the medical bag started to unlock the door. Vincent held his son close against his chest, fury rising in him like a red tide. He roared his defiance.

Gabriel’s voice exploded into the sudden startled silence. "Lucas! Reed!"

Two of the men raised their rifles, but Vincent cared not for the danger. His sole concern was the child he held in his arms, the child who, awakened by Vincent's roar, now watched him in trusting silence. Gabriel stepped closer to the bars and addressed him in low, menacing tones.

"I want the child. The doctor wants another blood sample." He gestured at the armed men. "If you resist, they'll fire." His eyes settled pointedly on the baby. "But not at you." Slowly, he raised his gaze to meet Vincent's. "Do we understand each other?"

Vincent looked from Gabriel to the two men. Their weapons weren't aimed at him. They were aimed at his son. He felt the blood thirst rising up in him, felt the beast demanding its freedom. He ached to set it free, to let it rip Gabriel’s still beating heart from his chest and grind it, bloody and warm, into the dirty concrete floor.

Gabriel's plans for his son were undoubtedly dangerous ones, plans that had no basis in love, only in power. And he was a man who would deal harshly with those who got in his way. But was he impulsive enough, and cold enough, to destroy his own dreams just to prove a point?

In his arms, the baby made a quiet sound, drawing Vincent's attention away from Gabriel. The baby was watching him calmly, but Vincent was deeply aware of how vulnerable the child was, how weak. He wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice his own life in the preservation of his son's, but dare he risk his son's? Dare he test this man whose eyes held no hint of humanity?

He would gain his freedom. Somehow he would find a way to bring his son safely home to the tunnels and to Catherine. But right now, for this moment, he knew he must entrust his child to the tall woman who watched him with terror in her dark eyes. He would do so only because there was no other choice. But as he met Gabriel’s icy gaze, he made a silent promise that it was only for a short time.

Gabriel nodded with a satisfied smile and turned to the doctor. "Do it."

Vincent watched the man fumble with the keys, waited while the door opened and the nurse edged inside. He smelled her fear, saw her tremble with it as she drew near, but he made no move to hurt her. She was not to blame for the ache in his heart. Instead he hugged his son gently, whispered a last quiet reassurance, and with a final brush of his lips against his son’s tender forehead, handed him over.

The nurse left quickly, and Vincent and Gabriel watched her climb the stairs and disappear through the door at the top.

Gabriel turned back with victory in his eyes. "Draw your blood, Doctor."


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


Sammy spotted her first. He’d set up his hot dog stand on Fourteenth Street and watched for hours, scanning every face, every passer by. Vincent was his friend. The people Below, his family. They'd rescued him from a life on the streets, giving him an education and a future when the world Above had turned its back on him. He would do anything for them. This woman, this Diana Bennett, was important to them, so he would find her.

He’d was almost ready to give up when she finally walked by. Her strides were long, her eyes skipping nervously from place to place as she moved. She had an athletic grace, and Sammy admired her easy confidence as she continued down the street and away from him.

He picked up his radio and flicked a button. "Got her," he said. "She’s traveling west along Fourteenth."


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


Gabriel leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the images displayed on the row of video screens in front of him. Vincent still sat on the floor of his prison with his knees drawn up and his back against the stone wall, his gaze fixed on the steps and the doorway beyond. As far as Gabriel could tell, he hadn't moved from that position since they'd retrieved Julian.

"Do you think he sleeps?" he asked. He had his own guess of course, but boredom and fascination led him to ask the question.

"Well, surely he must." The doctor stood just behind Gabriel’s right shoulder. Gabriel heard him shift his weight from foot to foot. How had he ever become entangled with such a nervous little man? He made a mental note to replace him at the earliest opportunity.

"Well?"

"The results are the same. The blood is not compatible." Jacobson took a half step back, as though he feared Gabriel's reaction to his words. "A transfusion would be fatal."

Not the answer Gabriel wanted, but anger would solve nothing. "Where would you suggest that we find a blood type that is compatible?"

"There isn't any. The child's blood type is unique."

"I see." Gabriel turned back to the monitors. Vincent had finally moved. He paced the cage, the long-limbed, graceful stride reminding Gabriel of the big cats in their cages outside. "I'm very disappointed, doctor."

Vincent stopped to stare up at the camera closest to his prison. His eyes were fierce, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Power rippled beneath the tense shoulders, cementing Gabriel's determination to harness that strength for his own ends.

"If my son dies . . ." Gabriel let the thought trail off, confident that his message was clear.

"He's getting stronger." Desperation laced Jacobson's voice, making it sound almost feminine. "I can't find any explanation, but the boy's fever has broken. He's taking some formula. Maybe the illness has run its course, or perhaps there could be some sort of spontaneous remission."

Gabriel didn't look away from the monitors.

"No." He touched Vincent's image with the tip of his finger. "It's him."


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


Diana glanced over her shoulder. It had been hours since the aborted telephone call, but it felt more like days. She didn’t know where to turn. She had no idea where Joe lived or she would have gone there. And she couldn’t go to the police station or the court house or her loft, because she was sure they were being watched. She was out of money, hadn’t eaten, and she was being followed.

It was a yellow cab, one of the thousands the prowled New York City’s streets twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t even have noticed it, but she was hyper-alert, sensitive to the slightest irregularity in the rhythms around her. And this particular cab been keeping pace with her for the past hour.

She had tested it—crossing streets, reversing directions, ducking into alleys—but it always turned up again, distinctive only because of its number and license plate. For the past ten minutes, she’d been trying to decide how best to elude it, and when an accident snarled traffic at the next intersection, she saw her chance. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she broke into a run, zigzagging through pedestrians and around obstacles to duck into a nearby alley.

Almost at once, she realized her mistake. The alley was a dead end, without so much as a dumpster or a fire escape to afford her either hiding place or egress. With a curse, she spun around, scanning frantically for a way out. But there was nothing.

Trapped, she braced herself for a fight as the cab swung into the alley and squealed to a stop. She was scanning the ground for something with which to defend herself when the driver’s side door opened and a white-haired cabbie climbed out.

Diana blinked, caught off guard. Gabriel had hired an old man as her assassin? It didn't make any sense.

She stared at the man in confusion, barely aware of the wiry street vendor who ran around the corner behind him and skidded to a stop.

The two men exchanged a glance and began to move in her direction.


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


Catherine’s love and concern reached out to him, even in this hellish place, and Vincent took comfort from it while he searched for some small weakness in the walls of his prison. There'd been a time when a place like this would have destroyed his soul, but now he had everything to live for, every reason to fight. He would not give up, would not succumb to despair, as long as Catherine and his son needed him.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Vincent spun around as Gabriel came down the steps. He moved casually, his shoulders relaxed and his hands in his pockets. He looked confident, even arrogant. Vincent waited in ready stillness, his eyes narrowing as he tracked his tormentor, watching him until he came to a stop just inches beyond the charged enclosure.

The two men stared at each other through the bars, neither one speaking, neither one moving, the tension that bound them even more powerful than the electricity that hummed a warning in the icy silence.

Vincent exploded into motion with a roar that reverberated through the room, his claws stretching toward Gabriel's throat faster than the other man could retreat. Gabriel leaped back, his hand going to his throat as raw electricity ripped through Vincent's arm, forcing him away from the bars, away from his prey.

Gabriel's hand came away from his neck with a thin coating of blood, and by the time Vincent picked himself up from the floor, he was straightening his tie.

"I thought you might like to know—"

"My son is recovering. I feel it." Vincent didn't bother to disguise his hatred as he gauged Gabriel's reaction to that news. "I feel him."

Frustration and fear lurked behind Gabriel's venomous glare, and Vincent felt a surge of hope. Had he been assured of victory, Gabriel would've had no reason to be afraid.

As though aware that he'd revealed too much, Gabriel spun away. He'd nearly reached the steps when he stopped and turned back as though he’d forgotten something.

"Oh," he said. "By the way . . ."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something Vincent couldn’t see. He tossed it carelessly across the room, and Vincent heard a thin clank of metal against the concrete floor. He didn’t look down, refusing to reveal any hint of curiosity.

"I thought you might want that back," Gabriel sneered, "now that the woman is dead."

Vincent waited until he was alone before bending to retrieve the ring. It was the one he'd given to Diana, the one that had led them to Gabriel. He'd warned Catherine that Diana’s life would be in danger if they accepted her help, and yet without her, he never would have found his son.

And now she was gone. More blood spilled. But whose fault this time? Gabriel's? Or his own?

Vincent looked up at the cameras and roared his fury.


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

Chapter 26

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


"Are you Diana?" the cabbie asked cautiously, "Diana Bennett?"

Tense, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet, Diana faced the men who'd chased her into the alley. "Who wants to know?"

"I'm Benjamin," he said, "and this is Sammy. We've been trying to find you."

"Why?"

"We know you're in trouble," Sammy answered, "and we know a place where you'll be safe."

The comment didn't exactly inspire confidence. After all, even the bottom of the East River was a safe place for a corpse. "Why should I trust you?"

Sammy and Benjamin exchanged a glance before Sammy offered her a wry smile. "Do we look dangerous?" He took a step closer. "Look, we don't have much time."

She hesitated, caution warring with exhaustion. Common sense told her the men didn't pose a threat. If they'd been Gabriel's, she'd be dead already. But was she desperate enough to trust a pair of strangers? And in the end, did she really have a choice? Reluctantly, she nodded.

A few minutes later, they guided her into a Byzantine network of tunnels that soon had her completely lost. As they walked, Diana found herself thinking of Alice in Wonderland. She'd never thought less of Alice for her tumble into a rabbit hole. After all, who wouldn't chase a white rabbit wearing a waistcoat and carrying a gold pocket watch? But there was no white rabbit here, and the only person she had to blame for this bizarre turn of events was herself.

Her sense of unreality grew as they moved deeper into the maze of concrete, rusty pipes, and rotting beams that led, finally, to a brick-walled section where dust swirled around her feet and thick cobwebs clung to her hair and clothes. Cool, dry air carried the stale odor of a place long undisturbed, and yet Diana heard a low rumble of excited voices just around the next bend. When a group of oddly-dressed people surged forward to greet her arrival, she shrank back against the wall, a stranger in a strange land.

An elderly man stepped forward to greet her, his broad shoulders covered by what looked like a patchwork quilt of leather and fur. "I'm sorry if we frightened you." His gray hair was disheveled, and he leaned on a sturdy wooden cane. "We never meant you harm."

"Who are you?" Maybe Lewis Carroll's rabbit hole was the wrong analogy. Judging by this guy's renaissance-style clothing, Mark Twain's Connecticut Yankee would be more apt.

"When I was part of your world," the man said, "my name was Jacob Wells." He lifted his head, and there was pride in his eyes as he continued. "Vincent is my son."

"We're his family." This was from a young girl of maybe fifteen with an air of self-assurance and wisdom that seemed out of place in someone so young. Diana's eyes settled on the crossbow the girl carried, its business end pointed carefully at the ground.

"His friends," Sammy said.

Diana blinked. "Do you all live down here?" She twitched her nose against a sneeze, and fought the impulse to run her hands through her hair in a quick check for eight-legged hitchhikers.

"Last night you came down into the tunnels," Jacob said, without answering her question. "You called for Vincent. Why?"

How much did they already know? How much had Vincent shared with them? And where was Catherine? Shouldn’t she be here? Wouldn’t she be concerned as well?

And then she was there, appearing out of the shadows as though conjured by Diana’s thoughts. The others made room for her, stepping back out of the way, and Diana read their respect for her in their eyes. But Catherine appeared not to notice, her gaze fastened on Diana as she stepped closer.

"If you know where he is . . . why he left . . . Please."

Diana heard the worry in Catherine’s voice and wished she'd come bearing better news. "I brought him a message from Gabriel. His son . . . your son . . . is sick. He may even be dying."

Catherine turned pale, but it was Jacob who spoke, his voice harsh with fear.

"Oh, dear God."

Diana looked at him, unable to face Catherine’s pain, unwilling to acknowledge the envy that curled, snake like, in her stomach. "He surrendered himself," she said, "to save the child's life."

Catherine shrank back from the words. "No . . ."

"Gabriel has men inside the police department." She wanted to help these people, but what could she do with no weapon and no way to get to Joe? "They're everywhere. I don't know who to trust. They took my gun. My badge is back at my loft . . ."

Jacob glanced a question at Catherine, who nodded slightly in response. Diana continued, wondering about the meaning of the silent exchange.

"They've completely cut me off. I have no money, no clothes . . ."

Jacob whispered something to the girl with the crossbow. The girl's eyes settled on Diana for a moment, her gaze coolly assessing. Then she turned and left at a run.

"If they find me they'll kill me," Diana said.

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" asked Jacob. "Anything at all?"

"There's this." Diana pulled a scrap of paper out of her pocket. It was a piece of a wadded up napkin she'd picked up in an alley. The figure she'd sketched on it was rough, drawn with the worn nub of a discarded pencil. "It’s from Gabriel’s mansion. A tile pattern."

The others crowded around to look.

"The pattern's very unusual," Diana said, thankful for the blue-collar father who'd spent a lifetime in the flooring business. "Very old. I think if we can find the pattern, we'll be able to find Gabriel." Diana met and held Jacob’s gaze. "I need to get this drawing to Joe Maxwell."

"No problem." Sammy looked up from the paper. "I'm in and out of there all the time, delivering sandwiches."

"No." Catherine shook her head before Diana could respond. "It's too dangerous. They'll be watching Joe."

"In that case . . ." Jacob folded the drawing and tucked it in his pocket. "I'll take it myself."

Diana didn’t object. He stood a far better chance of getting to Joe than she did. "Do you know the meaning of Veritas de liberat?"

"Veritas . . . ?" He thought about it for a moment. "Yes. The truth will set you free."

The teenager returned with a small bundle wrapped in dark fabric. She looked from Father to Catherine, a question in her eyes. Catherine took the bundle with a word of thanks and handed it to Diana.

Bewildered, Diana pulled the fabric aside. A handgun. She checked the chamber. Loaded. The weapon was clean and well-maintained. But whose was it? And what was it doing down here?

"Mine." Catherine's chin was raised, and her gaze held a mild challenge.

"She brought it to me," Jacob said, "during a time of great danger." Something passed between him and Catherine, some dark memory, and Jacob touched her arm—though whether in reassurance or in warning, Diana couldn't tell. "Now the danger is elsewhere."

Diana looked from Jacob to Catherine, her thoughts a jumble of questions. But this wasn't the time to ask. "Thank you."

Catherine took a step closer. "I can't go up there. If I did, it would endanger everything Vincent is trying to protect." Her fingertips brushed against the sleeve of Diana's jacket. "But he's my life, my world. And he’s up there someplace, alone, trying to find our son. Please . . . Bring him back to me."

For a long moment, Catherine held Diana’s gaze, and there was so much love in the gray eyes, so much fear and worry, that Diana was forced to look away.

"I’ll do my best," she said. And though she envied what Vincent and Catherine had, and doubted she would ever have such a love of her own, she determined that she would do whatever it took to bring these two back together.


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


Gabriel's fingers curled around the arms of his chair, the tips pressing deep into soft leather that already bore lasting imprints. He gazed at the monitors, watching his reluctant houseguest. Energy and tension emanated from Vincent in waves that Gabriel imagined he could almost see roiling, blood red and frothing, across the airwaves.

"I told him she was dead." He couldn't believe that Pope had failed. Pope never failed. "Are you making a liar of me?"

"No, sir." The denial came quickly. "It's only a matter of time."

"When it's over, bring her here. I want him to see her." Gabriel imagined the expression on Vincent's face when he viewed Diana’s broken body, and his grip on the armrests relaxed as a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "I want him to learn." He glanced up from the monitors, meeting Pope's gaze. "The truth will set him free."

"Gabriel!" Vincent’s voice carried clearly into the room.

"I'm here, Vincent." Gabriel's microphone was turned off, so Vincent couldn't possibly hear him. And yet he reacted as though he could.

"I can feel your eyes on me."

"Does that make you uneasy?" Gabriel wondered aloud.

"I can feel my son, too."

He sounded proud, triumphant even. Cold fury burned in Gabriel's stomach. Even caged, Vincent was a formidable enemy.

"Our bond is growing stronger, Gabriel."

"There's only one bond that counts," Gabriel said, almost to himself. He hit a button, opening the mike. "I gave this child life."

Vincent spun toward the sound, his growled response fierce. "Catherine gave him life."

"I kept her alive for months when a word would've ended it. I was there when Julian was born." Electrified steel bars gave Gabriel the confidence to goad his opponent. "The first time he opened his eyes, he looked at me." Vincent's strength and determination fascinated him. How satisfying it would be to harness that power. "He's mine."

"He'll never be yours." Vincent glared at him through the monitors, the peculiar intensity of his eyes disconcerting even from a distance. "Hour by hour. Minute by minute. Our bond grows. And nothing you do can stop it."

"Your death would stop it."

"Death," Vincent said quietly, "shall have no dominion."

And yet, there was a headstone in the graveyard that seemed to indicate otherwise. Gabriel shook his head. "Tell that to Catherine Chandler."

"She knew it. Even at the end. She knew—"

With a flick of the wrist, Gabriel turned off the monitors, cutting Vincent’s voice off mid-sentence.


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


Joe couldn’t believe what he was hearing. First Cathy and now Diana? "So what you're telling me is that there's no trace of her."

Hughes shook his head. "We'll keep looking, but I'm not holding my breath. The guys who grabbed Bennett were pros."

Joe folded his arms across his chest and eyed the detective. "And what the hell are you, the campfire girls?"

"Look, Joe."

"No, you look, Greg—"

The office door opened to admit the new assistant. She hesitated at the threshold, glancing uneasily between the two men. "Joe, there's a man out here insisting that he has to see you."

Joe cast an irritated look toward the outer office. "Tell him to come back tomorrow."

"He says it's urgent."

"Andrea, the office is closed." Impatience made the words sharper than they might ordinarily have been. "Give him an appointment."

She hesitated. "He says he has information about Vincent."

Vincent. The name was like a lightning bolt connecting the unknown visitor with Cathy and Diana. "Bring him in." He glanced at Greg. "Maybe you better stick around for a minute for this." He turned back to the door in time to see the old man from the cab step inside. "On second thought," he said, without taking his eyes off his visitor. "I think I'd like a minute alone with Mr. . . ."

"Wells. Jacob Wells."

Joe waited until the door closed behind Greg and Andrea. "You're very lucky you're not under arrest, Mr. Wells." He gestured at the chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

"There's no time for that, Mr. Maxwell." Jacob took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and held it out to Joe. "Here."

Puzzled, Joe unfolded the paper. It was a penciled drawing, some kind of abstract sketch. "What the hell is this?"

"A pattern of a floor tile. From the home of the man who tried to kill Catherine Chandler. The man who murdered Elliot Burch."

Joe sank into his chair. How the hell . . .?

"Diana Bennett said you'd know what to do with it."

"Diana—" Just how much did this guy know? "Diana Bennett's been missing since last night when she was taken out of a diner at gunpoint. If you know her whereabouts—"

Jacob lifted a hand, stopping Joe mid-sentence. "I know she's safe. I also know we're running short of time."

Joe scrubbed a hand through his hair. He was Joe Maxwell, District Attorney of Manhattan. And he was starting to think the damned sandwich guy knew more about what went on in this city than he did. "Why am I listening to you?"

Jacob stepped closer and looked Joe in the eye. "Because Catherine wants you to."


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


Vincent sat on the floor, one long leg stretched out along the concrete, the other drawn up against his chest. It was late. Beyond his cell, the world slept. Catherine slept as well. He knew it the same way he knew that somewhere over his head their infant son also slept, though neither rested easily. He rested his arm on his upraised knee and stared at the steps that led to freedom, but his thoughts weren’t on his captivity. They were on the many ways in which Catherine had changed him, bringing her warmth and tenderness into what had been a cold a lonely life.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Vincent got to his feet as Gabriel came down the stairs. He had three men with him. All of them carried weapons.

"We have so much in common," Gabriel said, his voice almost regretful as he came to a stop just beyond the bars. The guards lined up next to him, weapons raised and pointing at Vincent.

"We could've been great friends."

Vincent stared at the guns, his mind awash in thoughts of Catherine and their son. To never see his son grow to manhood, to lose what he and Catherine had so painstakingly built . . . Every fiber of his being cried out against it. A roar of denial built in his throat, bursting forth just as Gabriel turned to his men.

"Fire."

No! Vincent jerked away from the bars, covering his face as the guns erupted in an explosion of sound both louder and more terrifying than anything he'd ever heard before.

But it was only noise.

The smoke cleared slowly, leaving behind a caustic odor that burned the back of Vincent's throat.

"Leave us," Gabriel said, without taking his eyes from Vincent's

Vincent waited, chest heaving, hands curled into fists at his sides, ignoring the men who seemed only too pleased to make their escape up the creaking wooden stairs. His muscles—arms and legs, back and chest—coiled tight, ready to spring. And in his mind, the beast demanded vengeance.

Only after the door at the top of the stairs swung closed did Gabriel approach the bars.

"It doesn't have to end that way," he said quietly. "Even enemies can join hands." He looked around the room, his gaze coming to rest on the manacles that chained Vincent to the wall. "I have so much to offer you. Your life. Your freedom."

This . . . man didn't know how to give, only how to take—his son, Steven and Sam, Catherine's faith in herself, her strength . . . "Nothing you can give me can replace what you took."

Gabriel’s eyes locked on Vincent’s. "Love."

"You don't know the meaning of love." Vincent spoke through gritted teeth, his hold on the Other dangerously close to the breaking point.

"Julian needs both of us."

"My son," Vincent snarled, "needs nothing from you. You have nothing to give."

"I can protect him. I can show him the way the world works. The real world." Gabriel twisted his ring around his finger. "I can make him a king."

"I've seen your kingdom. It's a kingdom of shadows. A kingdom of death."

"It's our kingdom, Vincent." Gabriel pulled a small device from his pocket and pushed a button. Images flickered to life on the wall at Vincent’s back. "Julian will see this one day." He gave Vincent another one of his thin-lipped smiles. "It's important that a boy know who his father is."

He started up the stairs, but as he reached the top he pressed another button, and suddenly Vincent was assaulted with the sounds of his own rage. He staggered back, hands pressed against his ears while, above him, Gabriel slipped through the open door, leaving him to face his demons alone.

Horrific sounds slammed against the concrete walls and reverberated off the steel bars of Vincent's prison—the agonized screams of the dead and dying, the dull crunch of shattered skulls, the wet, sucking sounds of evisceration, and the muffled thud of crushed bodies dropped, rag-like, to the floor. All of it overlaid with furious roars and sporadic bursts of gunfire.

But the images . . . the images were worse, and Vincent closed his eyes against them, against the slavering jaws, the bodies tossed aside like discarded toys, the claws that ripped through soft bellies and vulnerable necks. A panicked guard begged for mercy while the Other bore down on him with relentless fury. Another brought up his weapon, only to have the Other rip it from his hands and use it to crush his skull.

Blood splattered against the camera lens, dripped down the walls, and pooled in the stair wells. Blood, thick and dark, oozed through the Other's fingers and stained its cloak as it ripped each victim apart with brutal efficiency, disemboweling some and throwing others to the ground with broken necks, their faces contorted in pain or frozen forever in terror.

Trapped in his cell, Vincent was helpless against the relentless onslaught, unable to avoid reliving that night in gruesome detail—the night he'd first tried to rescue Catherine from Gabriel. He remembered all of it. Every moment. Every sound. Every smell. All of it engraved on his mind for all eternity.

With a tortured roar, he charged the bars and wrapped his hands around the cold steel, desperate to bring an end to the torment. Electricity surged through him, but he just snarled again and yanked. Sparks flew, and he was thrown back against the wall, the smell of burned flesh rising from his hands. In an instant, he was back on his feet, mouth open, teeth bared. Again he approached the bars, and again he was thrown back. Beyond the steel barrier, Gabriel's recording continued to play, the terrible battle repeating itself in an endless, soul-destroying loop.

His desperation rose with each death-cry, each cracked skull and splash of blood, until finally he sank to the floor.

And did not rise again.


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


"Catherine?"

They were in Father's library. She'd been helping him assemble the maps when she'd suddenly frozen, her hand in midair, beset by a sudden, pounding headache and the conviction that Vincent was in trouble.

Father's hand on her arm brought her back to herself. "Tell me."

She met his worried gaze. "Something’s wrong."

"Vincent?"

"I don't know." Distracted, she turned away. "I’m sorry, Father. I have to go." She was barely aware of his response as she hurried from the library.

Several minutes later she found herself at the Central Park entrance. It was raining, and she'd come without her cloak, but she had no desire to venture further. Instead she stopped, her eyes on the falling rain, her thoughts and heart with the man she loved more than life.

Don't give up, Vincent. Please . . . Don't ever give up. I'm here. I'm coming.

I love you.


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


Gabriel saw Vincent's collapse, but he kept his face expressionless, unwilling to reveal his triumph. He'd had doubts, had wondered, for a time, whether he was tilting at windmills, fighting a battle when he'd already lost the war. But the recording had accomplished what mere words could not, forcing Vincent to confront his true nature.

Guilt was a weakness. Compassion a failing. Both prevented Vincent from fulfilling his destiny. A few more sessions like this one would bring him to his knees. Soon, he would beg for mercy.

And then? Then he would belong to Gabriel.

Jacobson stood at Gabriel's elbow, a nervous presence that itched at Gabriel's skin like an irritating rash. "He's going to kill himself."

"No." Gabriel didn’t turn from the monitors. "He won't die." On the screen, Vincent lay still, his head buried in his arms, apparently oblivious to the continuing parade of images and sounds. "He's not afraid of pain."

Jacobson folded his arms across his chest. "Perhaps he's not intelligent enough to comprehend his own mortality."

"He's more intelligent than you are, Doctor." Gabriel glanced at Jacobson before turning his eyes back to Vincent’s inert body. "And less mortal. No. The only thing he's afraid of is himself."

"You sound like you envy him."

Envy wasn’t precisely the word Gabriel would have chosen. "Do you feel sorry for him, Doctor?" Gabriel picked up the remote and turned up the sound, and the room filled with the sounds of Vincent's fury. "Don't."

Vincent's inert body gave no hint that he was aware of what transpired around him. Was he even conscious? Or had he finally succumbed to exhaustion and despair?

"The day will come when he'll watch himself with pleasure." Gabriel smoothed the tip of his finger across Vincent's image, the motion almost reverent. "He'll savor every murder, and polish the memories like precious gems."

Jacobson shifted from foot to foot, his hands first behind his back, then at his sides, then fiddling restlessly with his tie. Gabriel was finding the man’s squeamishness increasingly tiresome, and he made a mental note to bring an end to their relationship.

His death would be the perfect object lesson for Vincent.

"Life and death make a perfect circle," he said, imagining the scene in his mind, "like a ring that has no beginning and no end. It's a serpent eating its own tail forever. Violence feeds on violence. Murder on murder. Vengeance on vengeance. Century after century."

Gabriel laced his fingers together and rested them beneath his chin, his eyes on Vincent’s unmoving form. "Through all eternity."


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

Chapter 27

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


The copy machine was still spitting out duplicates of Diana’s drawing when Joe faced the silent group of detectives and street cops that had assembled in his office. He picked up a handful of the copies and started passing them out, moving quickly from person to person.

"I want you guys to talk to building supply retailers, importers, flooring contractors—anyone who deals with tile flooring in any way. Cover all the bases. Also real estate brokers. We're talking about a big ticket house here, so check with all the guys who pull down the million dollar commissions first. Also cleaning services. Tax appraisers. Insurance companies. Any questions?"

There were none, and with a quick jerk of his head, he sent them on their way.


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


Gabriel gripped the paper that Pope had brought him, his knuckles white with anger. They stood in the hallway just outside the nursery, and when Gabriel looked down, his eyes came to rest on an image that was a perfect match to the one he held in his hand.

"There are copies all over the city," Pope said. "Maxwell has half the NYPD out on the streets." He shook his head. "It must be that woman."

Bennett. The name tasted like bile in Gabriel’s throat. He would not allow her to ruin his carefully laid plans. "The woman who should be dead by now."

Faced with the undeniable fact of his failure, Pope's gaze slid away. "Somehow she's gotten to Maxwell."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "I thought you had Mr. Maxwell under surveillance."

"We do, but—"

With a muttered oath, Gabriel crumpled the paper into a ball and flung it away. "No more buts. Let Maxwell lead you to her. Then eliminate them both."


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


When the telephone rang, Joe snatched it up, loosening his tie with his free hand. He listened for a moment, and then cursed. "No, we can't wait for the guy to get back from his honeymoon!" Andrea gave him a questioning look from the doorway, and he waved her inside while he listened to the detective. "What, they don't have phones in Italy? Fax him the drawing! I want an answer!"

He glanced down at the paper Andrea handed him and mouthed a thank-you as she backed out and closed the door.

"I don't care what time it is there! Do it!" He slammed the phone down and dropped into his chair. Then he glanced at his watch. "Oh, man."

Jacob Wells had given him specific instructions. Joe was to meet a cab downstairs, take it to the Natural History Museum, and wait for Diana to find him. But he was supposed to have been down there five minutes ago. He grabbed his jacket and hit the intercom button. "Andrea, I’m stepping out for about an hour."

The cab was waiting for him, its driver standing beside the open door.

"Are you—?"

The cabbie nodded. "Come on, Mac. Dinosaurs don't wait for nobody."

It took them ten minutes to get to the museum, and another five for Joe to find the exhibit Mr. Wells had told him about. His eyes flitted from one sightseer to the next, searching for Diana's face. She was supposed to meet him here, but there was no sign of her. Had something gone wrong?

"Joe!" She looked exhausted and nervous as she hurried toward him from the other end of the exhibit hall. "Man, am I glad to see you."

Even in sweats, with her hair a mess and fear in her eyes, she was an arresting woman, and as she came to a stop in front of him, Joe realized with a shock that the rush of relief he felt at the sight of her stemmed from something deeper than professional concern.

He shook the feeling off. This wasn’t the time.

"So the old man was on the level," he said. "You really had me scared, Diana."

"Me, too." Her eyes skimmed the displays before meeting his again. "You got any leads on those tiles?"

A dark-haired janitor in a gray coverall pushed a bucket up against one of the exhibits and began to mop the floor. Tourists and locals parted around him in the natural and unconscious dance of crowded city life.

"No. Nothing yet."

"Talk to me, Maxwell."

An angry voice distracted him before he could speak. The janitor was glaring at a man in a business suit, a man who had his hand in his pocket as he stared at Joe.

"Hey, pal! Watch where you’re walking! I just mopped this floor."

"Pardon me." The man tried to slip around the janitor as Joe instinctively moved in front of Diana.

"Wait a minute." The janitor grabbed the man’s arm. "I'm not through talking to you yet."

There was a brief scuffle as two spectators broke away from the passing groups and trapped the man in the business suit between them. "You know what?" one of them asked as he yanked the man’s arms behind his back, "I don’t like your attitude."

"Now what?" Joe asked. He and Diana crossed the room. "What’s going on?"

Diana patted the man down and, with a glance at Joe, pulled a handgun out of his coat pocket. "You got a license for this?"

One of the museum guards approached the group as Joe stared from the gun to Diana in stunned disbelief. Obviously, he'd been followed. Or she had.

"What's the problem?" Feet braced, arms folded across his thick chest, the guard eyed the group. On his belt, a radio crackled as other guards responded to his call.

Joe pulled out his wallet. "D.A.'s office. This guy's got a gun. I want you to hold him until the cops come."

With a brusque nod, the guard handcuffed the man and led him away, ignoring a string of indignant protests. Joe turned back to his unlikely rescuers, his sense of unreality deepening. A cabbie, a street vendor, and a janitor. "Who are you guys?"

The men exchanged a look, and Joe realized they knew each other. But who the hell were they? And what did they have to do with Cathy?

It was the vendor who answered. "Um, just . . . dinosaur fans."

Before Joe could question them further, his pager went off. A quick glance at the number chased the questions from his mind. He looked up at Diana. "It's Hughes. Come on."


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


Vincent lay on the concrete floor with his face buried in his folded arms, the sounds and images of his own deadly rampage still playing on the walls over his head. He had nearly given up, nearly surrendered to the part of him that struggled for its freedom, the part that reveled in the blood and violence—the Other.

It was Catherine who saved him. Her warmth and courage flowed toward him even in this dark place, and he focused on it, on the strength that returned to him through their connection, using it to control the feral being that threatened to destroy him.

He heard the door at the top of the stairs open and then the tread of footsteps as men approached his cell. But he didn’t look up.

"You're not looking well, my friend." Gabriel said. "Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"

Abruptly, the sounds of battle stopped, replaced by the gentle murmur of a happy infant. Vincent lifted his head.

"Better?" Gabriel asked. On the wall, the baby stretched his arms out toward an unseen cameraman, a look of yearning on his small face. "See? I know how to be merciful." Gabriel handed a set of keys to the doctor but kept his eyes on Vincent. "We need more blood."

Vincent got to his feet and backed against the wall as one of the men turned off the power. Cautiously, the doctor approached the cell door. Vincent inhaled the acrid scent of the man's fear and watched the way his hands trembled as he fumbled with the keys. When he dropped them, Gabriel sighed.

"Lucas, the doctor needs help."

Lucas, wiry and sallow-skinned, nodded and bent to retrieve the keys. A moment later, the lock snapped free, the gate opened, and the doctor entered with his plastic tote. And still Vincent stood in silent watchfulness, refusing to give Gabriel the satisfaction of seeing his anger.

"If you had not come to me, Julian might have died." Gabriel's eyes settled on the doctor, watching him prepare his equipment. "I owe you a life." He turned his gaze to the video that played on the wall. "Look at him, Vincent. Isn’t he beautiful?"

Vincent didn’t bother to respond. He kept his eyes on Gabriel, ignoring the doctor and his needles, who posed no threat to him.

"Catherine thought he was beautiful, too. I let her hold him just as long as I could."

The blatant lie made Vincent's lips pull back in a low snarl.

"I'm sorry about Catherine," Gabriel said. "She must have been a very special person. Her death . . ." He shrugged. "Well, we all make mistakes."

He took a small device from his pocket and pushed a button. In the sudden silence, his next words seemed unnaturally loud.

"Of course . . . it was the doctor who killed her."

The doctor's hand slipped. The vile he'd been holding skittered across the floor, leaving a dark trail of blood in its wake.

"What was it you used, Doctor?" Gabriel asked, his voice a study in curiosity. "Morphine?" He sighed. "Well . . . at least the end was painless."

The doctor backed away from Vincent, hands raised in a pitiful and useless attempt at self-defense. "No. It wasn't me."

Amusement bubbled through Gabriel's response. "That's not very convincing, Doctor."

The doctor grabbed the bars, white-knuckled and desperate. "Please!" His voice cracked with fear.

Fierce anger threatened Vincent's self-control. He clenched his hands into fists, the nails biting into his skin as he stared at the man who, wild-eyed and desperate, clung to the bars of the cell, begging for mercy. This man had ignored Catherine's pain and fear, had taken her child and then injected her with the drug that nearly killed her. She had begged, as he was begging now, but to no avail. This . . . doctor . . . had left her to die.

The Other demanded its freedom, clamoring for the right to wreak its vengeance on the man who had nearly destroyed the one thing Vincent prized above all others.

"You told me to kill her!" The doctor yelled at Gabriel. "You told me!"

Gabriel watched impassively as the doctor twisted back to Vincent.

"I didn't want to do it." The stench of fear emanated from him in thick clouds, and the Other gloried in it, anticipating the kill. "I didn't want to do it! I swear to you!"

"A life for a life," Gabriel said quietly, his eyes meeting Vincent’s. "His life is yours."

The doctor sank to his knees. "Please . . . Please have mercy."

Gabriel shook his head in mock reproof. "Catherine begged for mercy, too."

Vincent growled low in his throat and advanced on the doctor, only dimly aware of the Other's exultation as it sensed his weakening control.

"Go on," Gabriel urged. "Do it. Do it for her. Go on, do it! Do it! Kill him!"

The doctor cowered still further into the corner, tears streaming down a face gone pasty with terror. He lifted shaking hands, palms upward and exposed—a supplicant before the altar of fury.

Vincent thought of Catherine—in pain and afraid as she watched this man prepare a lethal dose of morphine—and another snarl rumbled through his throat. His hands came up, fingers flexed and ready, their movement guided, not by Vincent, but by the beastly Other that roared its triumph in his mind.

Vincent's anger gave the Other power, and it seized control, playing with its prey. Stalking it. Relishing its fear.

And then something, some sense of Catherine—her trust in him, her sense of justice—brought Vincent up short. He stopped, his head coming up and his hands dropping to his sides as he forced the Other back and away so that he could reach out to her through their bond, seeking his humanity in her faith. Her love flowed back to him, surrounding him. Holding him. Calming him.

In the dim recesses of his mind, Vincent heard the Other howl its disappointment.

He inhaled, filling his lungs with air. Then he turned a calm gaze on Gabriel. The man's cheerful expectancy made his stomach churn. That such evil could exist in the world . . .

"No."

Gabriel stared at him in stunned disbelief. For a long second neither man moved, and then Gabriel spun toward one of his men. "Get him out of there!"

Vincent watched in silence as the door opened and the doctor rushed out, leaving his plastic tote and the spilled vial where they lay. The gate clanged shut behind him.

At the foot of the stairs, Gabriel paused.

"Vincent."

Vincent looked up, and Gabriel gestured casually to one of his men. In a single swift move, the guard lifted his gun, aimed it at the doctor, and fired.

The doctor collapsed against the bars of Vincent’s prison, and Gabriel met Vincent's eyes as the smell of death permeated the room.

"I always pay my debts."

He left, his men following silently in his wake. The doctor’s body remained where it had fallen, a silent testament to Gabriel's icy brutality.


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


Diana listened to Joe’s end of the conversation with Greg Hughes. He had a paper and pen with him, and he’d been scribbling furiously since he'd picked up the phone. Oblivious to the unfolding drama, museum visitors ebbed and flowed past the booth in an endless, immutable tide.

"All right, I got it. Good. Thanks a lot, Greg. Listen, we're gonna have to move on this. Get the commissioner on the horn. Meet me back at my office in ten minutes, all right?" There was a pause, and then Joe nodded. "Good. 'Bye."

He hung up and came out of the booth, handing Diana the paper and pen. "Bingo. Tiles are Italian-made. Turn of the century. They cost a fortune. The importer gave us a list of addresses."

Diana read through it. "Montauk Point, Staten Island, Westchester. The rest are all Manhattan."

"Yeah. So?"

"So . . ." She checked the addresses again, thinking back to her trip to Gabriel’s mansion. "The chopper flew over water. Montauk Point's too far. It's got to be Staten Island."

"Then let's move." He didn't wait for her answer, his long strides carrying him past the exhibits with distance-eating speed.

She hurried to catch up to him. "Joe . . ."

He stopped and turned, his impatience evident in his folded arms and raised eyebrows.

"This guy is going to have an army waiting for you," she said. "It's going to take you hours to get organized, and by that time he's going to know you're coming."

But there was something she could do right now, something that, if she was very lucky, might win Vincent’s freedom before he was seen by anybody else. Without offering Joe any explanations, she headed for the exit.

"What are you going do?" he called.

She turned back. "Whatever I can."


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

Something about Vincent's manner made Gabriel uneasy. There was a restless energy behind the catlike grace that hadn't there before. It reminded him of the way the jungle cats in his menagerie behaved when they sensed the approach of a summer storm. But the skies were clear, with no rain in the forecast for days. He glanced over at Jonathan Pope and found that his gaze, too, was pinned to the monitors.

"He's growing stronger," Gabriel said. But what was the source of this newfound strength? Had one of the guards slipped him extra food? Had the chef neglected to drug the water? No. It wasn't possible. His people were well aware of the price of betrayal.

"Maxwell's organizing a raid," Pope said. There was an unusual urgency in his voice. "We must evacuate. The sooner the better."

Gabriel didn’t take his eyes off the monitors, too fascinated by Vincent to heed the warning. If only he could find a way to harness that power. "You handle it, Pope."

"I've already ordered a helicopter. And your Learjet is standing by at Kennedy."

"Look at him," Gabriel said. "Those bars are tungsten steel." He glanced at Jonathan. "Order another generator in case of emergencies. If the current should fail . . ."

"Just kill him. And let's go. Before the police come."

Even Pope didn't understand Vincent's value. Disappointing. "Police don't concern me."

Pope studied Gabriel, eyebrow raised. "Forgive me, sir . . . but which of you is the captive here?"

"In ancient days," Gabriel said, ignoring the question, "men ate the hearts of fallen heroes, hoping that their power and strength would pass into them. On cold battlefields, steam would rise from their open chests. The heart would smoke in your hand. Dark with blood. Still beating. Almost as if—"

Something about the quality of the silence interrupted his train of thought, and he stopped talking to look around.

"Pope!"

There was no answer. With a final regretful glance at the monitors, Gabriel reached out and flipped a switch. Then he watched, as one by one, the screens went dark.


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


Greg Hughes stood next to Joe at the small conference table in Joe's office. They'd been poring over maps until Joe thought his eyes might cross, but they'd finally sorted out the best plan of attack. Now he jabbed his finger at the maps as he talked, firing off rapid instructions to the group of uniformed men and women who'd crowded into the room for their assignments.

"I want units here," he pointed, "here and here. Seal every road that goes near the place. And keep the civilians back. We could have heavy resistance."

One of the detectives spoke up. He was a short man with the wrinkled face and settled paunch that spoke of too many years behind a desk. "City engineers say they have a helipad behind the main house."

"Then I want choppers," Joe said. "Nobody gets out. Got it?"

He scanned the group, accepting a series of nods before turning to the chief of police.

"Your men have to get over these walls fast." Joe pointed at the razor-wire topped brick walls that surrounded the estate.

"No problem." The chief was ex-military. When he said it'd be no problem, he meant it.

"All right," Joe said. "That's it. We hit 'em as soon as it gets dark."


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


It was indicative of the strange turns Diana's life had taken that even though she had the entire New York City police department at her disposal, she turned to a rag-tag group of social misfits for help. And now she found herself speeding through the city in the company of a man time had forgotten and a woman who wore a heavy woolen cloak straight out of Camelot.

She shook off the surreality of the situation and peered at the maps Jacob had unfolded across his lap.

"What about the sewer lines?"

Jacob flipped pages, chose a different map, and rifled through that. He pointed, and Diana leaned in for a closer look.

"If you take this branch of the main off Gaston Avenue, it could get . . . no, it doesn’t. You see, it does not go right through."

"Wait a minute." Diana touched a spot just beyond the tip of his finger. "What's this? This line goes right under the wall."

Jacob shook his head. "That's just an old steam main. It's inactive of course, but it's barely even a pipe. The diameter's nothing."

"Can I fit?"

Father and Catherine studied the map for a moment, and Catherine gave Diana an assessing glance. "Barely." She turned to Father. "But I can make it."

Catherine was smaller, but the risks . . .

"If Gabriel sees you, he’ll kill you." Diana's lips quirked in a slight smile. "And then Vincent would kill me. No." She shook her head. "It has to be me."

"But you’ve already risked so much," Catherine said. "How can we ask you to do more?"

"You aren’t asking. I’m volunteering. Besides, I don't think we have a choice."

Father nodded. "She’s right, Catherine. It has to be her. What if, God forbid, Vincent doesn't make it out of there alive, but your son does?"

Catherine’s frustration was obvious in the set of her shoulders and the tight line of her mouth, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she leaned forward to speak with their driver, a man Diana recognized from her aborted escape through the city.

"Those pipes are old," Jacob said, "and most likely very rusty. Keep your head down, and be careful not to touch anything. One wrong move could bring it all down on top of you."

He rolled up the maps and tucked them back into their cardboard tube. "Do you have any idea where he might be keeping Vincent?"

Diana shook her head. She glanced at Catherine, who was still talking with the cabbie, and lowered her voice. "I only hope he hasn’t killed him already."

Catherine turned back, overhearing the comment despite Diana's attempt at circumspection.

"He’s alive," she said. "I'd know if he wasn't." She gazed out the window. "But if the police get there before we do . . ."

Vincent's life would be over. The thought made Diana shudder. If the police got there first, Gabriel would have won. She wasn't going to let that happen.

A few minutes later, the cab pulled to a stop in a deserted alley, and the three of them got out. Father hurried over to a rusty manhole cover.

"Go straight for one mile," he said, lifting it with a grunt and rolling it out of the way. "Then turn east. That’ll be your right." He helped her find her footing on the ladder that disappeared into the darkness.

"Here," Catherine said, handing her a flashlight, "you’ll need this."

Diana took it with a nod of gratitude.

"Be careful," Catherine said, "and tell Vincent . . ." She lifted her chin as though daring Diana to judge her. "Tell him I love him."

Diana smiled. "You can tell him yourself in a few minutes." She started down the ladder as Father started to replace the manhole cover.

"Godspeed," he said.

Then the heavy grate rolled into place, and Diana was alone in the darkness.


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


Catherine was close. Vincent could feel her presence. The end of his captivity was near, and he need only keep their son safe until help arrived. He looked up as the door opened to admit Gabriel, alone this time.

"The police are coming," Gabriel said, his pace and tone nonchalant as he came down the stairs.

"Let them come." It didn't matter now. Catherine would be there soon. If something happened to him, their son would still have his mother.

"If they find you, they'll kill you." Gabriel watched him, obviously puzzled by his lack of concern. "Or maybe they won't. Maybe they'll just leave the monster in his cage for the rest of his life."

Vincent shook his head. "Your words have no more power, Gabriel." He tilted his head and voiced a deeper truth. "You're the only monster here."

"Nothing happens by accident," Gabriel said in a tight, clipped voice. He stepped close to the bars. "The woman? The child? That was meant to be. Our destinies are linked. Yours. Mine. Julian's."

Once again, Gabriel had misjudged his adversary's speed and ferocity. A burst of rage propelled Vincent toward the bars, and Gabriel stumbled back, his hand going to the fresh wound at his throat. Blood oozed between his fingers, but he appeared unconcerned. He smiled, turned, and left Vincent alone.


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


Father touched the cab driver on the shoulder. "Here, please." The car pulled over, and Father and Catherine climbed out. "There’s an entrance nearby," Father said, "but we’ll have to hurry."

Catherine nodded and adjusted her hood, glancing around as they hurried across the street and into an abandoned building. Father led her down a staircase, and she helped him pull a heavy cabinet out of the way to reveal an opening in the wall. Inside there were more stairs, followed by dark tunnels filled with cobwebs, fallen concrete, and rusty pipes. They had to slow down then because the way was rough, the floor strewn with debris.

Catherine's sense of urgency grew with each passing moment. She felt a desperate need to get to Vincent and their son, to protect them. Nothing else mattered.


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


The nurse sprang to her feet when Gabriel entered the quiet room, but he ignored her and crossed to the crib.

"Do you believe in destiny?" His eyes were on Julian, but his words were meant for the uneasy nurse. "I know the power of love." He reached down, fingering the edge of a blanket while he talked.

"There was a girl. She was sixteen. Two years older than I was." He released the blanket in favor of the tiny fingers, remembering the girl's perfect almond eyes and silken skin. "So beautiful. I loved her desperately." He did glance over at the nurse then, but only for a moment. "She was the first person I ever killed." The shock in the nurse's eyes confirmed that she didn't understand, but he was used to that look. Only Snow had ever understood the truth—that by killing Mina, Gabriel had preserved her beauty forever.

The nurse backed away. Her fear was meaningless, and he ignored her, his attention already back on his son. He heard her leave the room, the door slamming in her wake, but he didn’t go after her. Instead, he reached for the small pillow that was tucked into a corner of the crib. Lifting it to his face, he drew the scents of baby shampoo and talcum powder deep into his lungs.


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


Vincent was so accustomed to his bond with Catherine that at first he thought she was in danger. Only it wasn’t her at all. She was safe. Her love surrounded him, its steady light supporting him as he paced the confines of his cell.

He stilled, reaching out to the ones he loved.

No. Not Catherine. This was different. Helpless. Innocent.

Their son.

He knew instantly that he was right, as uncomprehending terror, brilliant white and ice cold, exploded in his mind.

He roared and surged forward, pulling, rending, struggling against the bars that separated him from his son. Raw electricity coursed through him, burning his skin and hair before throwing him back into the unforgiving stone wall. The gate held, defying him, keeping him trapped and helpless while his son's life was in danger.

He would not be defeated. Could not.

He leapt to his feet and sprang back to the bars. Again he pulled, muscles straining, feet braced wide as he redoubled his attack. There was no time for thought. No time for pain. There was only the instinctive and overwhelming drive to protect his child.

The charged bars forced him back again and again, but each time he picked himself up and rushed the cell door again. He sensed the steel weakening—saw it in the showers of sparks, and heard it in their protesting screech. His hands were bloody and burned, his cloak torn, his body bruised—and still he fought.

There was no other choice.

He crashed to the floor once more, his head slamming against the wall. The force of the blow stunned him, but he was up again in an instant. He drew in a breath, his chest expanding with oxygen. With a roar, he threw himself at the bars again, rushing at them with all of his strength, his power fed by anger and fear.

At last, the bars gave way with a brilliant cascade of sparks as the entire gate came free in his hands. He threw it aside and charged across the room. Behind him, the gate crashed to the floor, announcing his freedom. Two guards appeared at the top of the stairs, guns drawn, but the threat meant nothing to Vincent. He tossed the men aside without slowing down, ignoring their screams of pain.

The door opened into a vast, gleaming kitchen, and Vincent paused, listening. Reaching out with his mind. The danger was still there, a menacing blackness that threatened his child's life. With a snarl, he spun toward the nearest doorway just as a man entered, gun raised and pointing at his head.

Vincent gave himself up entirely, let go . . . let himself become the thing inside that he had fought for so long. He might not be able to save his son. But It could.

The Other bellowed a challenge, and the man shrank back, the gun falling to the floor as he raised his hands to his ears.

Vincent might have granted the man his life.

The Other would not.

It leapt easily across the intervening distance and slashed the man's throat, loosing a spray of blood that soaked into its cloak. Uncaring, it ran on, leaving the body to slump to the floor.

There were more guards, but the Other never slowed down, never hesitated for longer than it took to dispatch the next trembling and terrified obstacle. But the danger was growing faster than the Other could move. Death was near. The Other took the stairs four at a time, hesitated for a single heartbeat, swung left, and sprinted down the hall.

A closed door loomed ahead, and the Other burst through it, hardly noticing when the thick wood shattered, sending deadly shards of wood flying in all directions.

Inside, Gabriel leaned over an antique crib, his hands busy with something the Other couldn't see. At the Other's entrance, he looked up, his eyes widening in surprise. In his hands he held a small pillow.

The Other was across the room in two long strides. It spun Gabriel away from the crib, the ferocity of its attack sending him crashing against the wall hard enough to crack the plaster, unleashing a spider web of fault lines and a fog of choking white dust. The thirst for blood sang in the Other's veins as it advanced on its prey. No longer the prisoner, the supplicant, the beggar . . . It had the power now. It was in control.

And it would have its vengeance.

It raised its hands, claws bared and ready, a snarl rumbling from its throat as it stalked the man who had thought himself the hunter—the man who had stolen the Other's child and tried to kill its mate.

On the floor, Gabriel watched, defiant and unafraid. In his eyes was a look the Other recognized. Triumph.

It was Diana who stopped it. Diana who ran into the room when it was almost too late, shouting his name, screaming for him to stop.

"Vincent!"

The Other hesitated, arrested by the urgency in the familiar voice. In an instant, she'd caught his arm, pulling it down, away from Gabriel.

"No!"

A low growl rumbled through the Other's chest as it eyed its fallen enemy. It wanted vengeance. It wanted to make Gabriel cry out for mercy. It wanted to rip Gabriel's beating heart from his chest and crush it between its fingers. But even as it advanced on its prey it sensed a growing weakness as Vincent fought to regain control of their shared consciousness.

It was a silent, solitary duel that was theirs alone to fight, theirs alone to win or lose. It was a battle they'd fought many times before, and one that Vincent had always won, though sometimes the struggle had been fierce. But never before had the Other's thirst for vengeance been this strong. In desperation, Vincent called Catherine's face to mind, her image shimmering faintly behind his closed eyelids. It worked. Faced with the depth of Vincent's love, the Other subsided, a final savage snarl drifting from its throat as it gave way.

Vincent drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to relax, aware of Diana's assessing gaze.

"The child is crying," she said, her attention shifting to Gabriel.

Vincent turned, only now becoming aware of his son’s thin, wailing cry. He crossed to the crib, reached inside, and lifted his son into his arms with a low murmur of reassurance. The baby quieted almost at once, and a tense silence fell over the room. Vincent turned back to Diana, uncertainty warring with determination. Must his son's earliest memories be tainted by murder? And yet . . . Gabriel could not be allowed to live.

"There's not a lot of time," Diana said, interrupting his thoughts with a meaningful look. She understood his dilemma, and she was offering him a solution. "Please—just hurry."

Vincent lowered his head, inhaling the sweet scent of his son's skin. What right did he have to allow her to be the one to end the nightmare? And what would happen to her when the police discovered what she'd done?

"Under the building," Diana said urgently. "Father's waiting." She touched his arm, her eyes on the baby’s face. "Catherine is with him." Vincent looked up then, his gaze locking on hers. He read the silent message in her eyes. She'd expected this moment, even planned for it. She would do what was necessary to protect Vincent and his son. Reluctantly, he gave her a small, grateful nod. He would accept this gift, but he would never forget the depth of the sacrifice she was about to make on his behalf.

As he crossed the room, Vincent spared a last glance at his adversary. Gabriel's eyes were wide with shock, his mouth open and slack. He hadn't known that Catherine was alive, and he would go to his grave with the knowledge that he had failed. There was justice in that.

Vincent left without a word, his son cradled safely in his arms.


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

Diana watched in silence as Vincent left the room. When she turned back to Gabriel, the shock was gone, hidden, along with his fear, behind dark eyes that gleamed with victory.

"Thank you," he said. He dropped his head and took a slow breath. "You know what prison is?" he asked, looking back up at her. "It’s a place to grow stronger."

She stared at him without speaking. He was handsome in his way—elegant and self-assured. But Vincent’s distinctive features were a thousand times more interesting.

Gabriel struggled to his feet. "No court will convict me," he said confidently. "Jurors have families, too." His breathing was shallow, and when he winced, Diana wondered how many ribs Vincent had broken. "And even if they did . . ." He met her gaze, and she shivered at the utter lack of warmth she saw in his eyes. "You can rule the world from a prison cell."

With studied nonchalance, Gabriel brushed himself off and straightened his shirt. "I own nations, Diana. I'll have the child back." He was insufferably smug, unbearably arrogant. "In the end, I always win."

"Not this time, Gabriel." Diana pulled the gun from her pocket, satisfaction welling inside her when his eyes grew wide. She spoke quietly, aware of the venom that laced her mild tones, but doing nothing to hold it back. "This is Catherine Chandler's gun."

She had planned carefully for this. The gloves she wore were of softest leather, the bullets in the gun were new, and she was smart enough to police her brass. When she left here, she would empty the gun, wipe it clean, and throw it in the East River. It seemed fitting, somehow, that Catherine's gun would kill Gabriel and find its final resting place in the same river that had claimed Elliot Burch.

By the time Joe arrived with his army, she would be long gone.

She saw understanding dawn in Gabriel's eyes, saw him recognize the inevitability of his own death. And then, finally, Gabriel was afraid. It was the moment she had been waiting for.

The gun leapt in her hand.

He cried out, pain and surprise mingling in a single sharp sound as the bullet pierced his heart.

Pocketing her weapon, Diana stooped to pick up the empty cartridge. Then she gave the inert form one final glance before turning, and walking away.

It was over.


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

Chapter 28

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


Catherine felt his approach before she heard it, and she was already moving when he rounded the corner. The light was behind him, casting his face in shadow, but his shoulders were back and his head was up, and in his arms . . . he carried their son.

She flew to him, tears blurring her vision, and he gathered her in, the baby snug and safe between them.

"I love you," she said, her voice cracking. "I love you so much." They were the only words she could find, and they were at the same time hopelessly inadequate and perfectly precise, summing up the wealth of emotion that swelled in her chest and clogged her throat. How could she begin to tell him how grateful she was to have him back? What words could express her happiness and wonder at their son's safe return?

In the end, she could only repeat herself. "I love you."

"Catherine." His voice, muffled against her hair, was hoarse with emotion and fatigue. "Catherine."

They held each other, their heads bent over the small, warm bundle cradled between them, until tiny fingers tangled themselves in Vincent's hair. He eased back then, and with gentle hands, extricated his son's fingers from the knotted strands before settling the baby in Catherine's arms.

Despite their long search, despite all the times she'd assured Vincent of her confidence that they would find their son, the intensity of the moment stunned Catherine. With trembling fingers, she eased the blanket away from the baby's face. His eyes were open, and he smacked his lips with a damp, cooing sound that made her smile through her tears. Vincent's head was bent over hers once more, and he was whispering her name over and over like an incantation . . . or a prayer.

They were a family—she, and Vincent, and this tiny, perfect being born of their love.

"You're safe now, little one." Catherine brushed the baby's satin-soft cheek with the back of a bent finger. "You're safe."

He blinked, and she could almost believe he understood her words. She tightened her arms around him. He felt like a piece of heaven that she would hold in her heart forever—the physical embodiment of more miracles than she could even begin to count.

Vincent twined his fingers with hers where they rested against the blanket, and for the first time, she noticed the burns on his hands.

"Vincent, you’re hurt."

He shook his head, making no move to pull away. "It’s nothing."

"Vincent, let me have a look." It was Father. They’d forgotten he was even there, and Catherine looked up apologetically as he reached for Vincent’s hands.

But Father only smiled at her, and she saw that his own eyes were damp as he examined the burns. "How did this happen?"

Vincent glanced at Catherine and closed his fingers lightly around Father’s. "It doesn’t matter. It’s over now."

"They need tending," Father said.

Vincent nodded. "We must leave this place," he said, "before we are discovered."

Catherine had momentarily forgotten the danger they were still in. Joe's men might already be searching Gabriel's estate. What would they find? What conclusions would they draw? And what would happen if they discovered the entrance to the tunnels?

She glanced at Vincent and knew he shared her concerns. He touched her elbow, and with Father leading the way, they started walking.

It was time to go home.


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


Joe raked his fingers through his hair and directed a glare at his office window. He was frustrated. And more confused than he’d been since Cathy had first disappeared all those months ago. He’d taken an army to that godforsaken mansion, but all they’d found were dead bodies and a mystery even more bizarre than any he’d dealt with yet. It could take weeks or even months to make sense of the mess, and the worldwide fallout didn't even bear thinking about.

He’d prepared his men for a war, or at the very least, a battle. But when they’d burst upon the scene, weapons drawn, Kevlar vests in place, there’d been nobody left to fight.

Eventually, they’d figured out that the trail started in the basement. There’d been three dead men there, one of a single rifle blast to the chest, one of a broken neck, and one of what looked like some kind of knife attack.

From there, they'd followed the evidence through the house, photographing and cataloguing each set of remains before moving on. Eventually, they’d arrived in an empty nursery, where they’d discovered Gabriel Konkani dead of a single gunshot wound to the chest. It looked like a small caliber handgun this time rather than a rifle, but whoever had fired it had done so with deadly accuracy.

Joe turned back to his desk. To his left, a metal cart held a television and VCR. He hit a button on the remote control, watching with morbid fascination as images paraded across the screen. They'd found the tape at the Konkani estate, and Joe still had trouble believing his eyes. It was like some kind of horror movie come to life.

"Joe."

He started. He hadn’t heard her come in. "Diana."

She closed the door and crossed the room, her gaze going from the television screen to the photos scattered on Joe's desk. "So."

"Yeah," he said. "So." He paused the tape mid-roar. "What do you know about this?"

"Only that it isn’t what it looks like."

"It looks like a dozen dead bodies and at least three different MOs. You’re telling me that isn’t what it is?"

"No." She sighed. "That much is true."

He picked up the photos, tapped them into a loose pile, and dropped them again. "Sit down, Diana."

She perched on the edge of a chair, but she didn't relax, the tension in her shoulders and spine holding her upright and stiff.

"I've got a theory. Wanna hear?"

"Joe . . ."

"No." He grinned, aware that he was dangerously close to losing it, but not caring anymore. "Listen to this. It’s a good one. You’ll like it."

"Okay." Her response was wary.

He pointed at the TV. "Vincent, right?"

She didn’t answer.

"Yeah. That’s what I thought. Okay. Here’s my theory. This Gabriel guy stumbled across Cathy because of me. And he grabbed her because she knew things, things he didn’t want her to know. Then, somehow he found out about this guy." He hooked a finger at the television screen. "Maybe he tried to rescue her or something." He shrugged. "Doesn’t really matter. Point is, Konkani finds out that Cathy’s pregnant and thinks maybe the kid is Vincent’s."

"It is Vincent’s, Joe."

"Yeah, yeah. We’ll get to that later. Anyway," Joe leaned back, putting his feet up on the desk. "Gabe wants the kid. Maybe he thinks it’ll be some kind of superman or something. Or maybe his biological clock is ticking. Hell, I don’t know. But he keeps Cathy alive until the baby comes." He flipped through the pictures, pulled one out, and tossed it to Diana. "After that, he figures he doesn’t need her anymore so he tells his goons to finish her off."

He pulled his feet off the desk and leaned forward. "Only somebody messed up big time, because Cathy didn’t die."

He eyed Diana, but she didn’t comment.

"Things get a little murky after that. Somehow Cathy got away from the hospital and went into hiding. And this guy Vincent," Joe tapped another picture, "wanted revenge. Or maybe he just wanted his kid back. And he got to you, somehow, because suddenly you went all James Bond on me. Next thing I know, you’re sending me cryptic messages about floor tiles."

Diana refused to look at him, which told him all he needed to know. "You could’ve trusted me, Diana. Cathy’s my friend, too."

She didn’t answer, and he blew out a breath. She wasn't making this any easier. "Somehow Vincent winds up in a cage, which—" He shook his head, still not quite able to believe it all, despite the evidence. "Yeah, I can see why Konkani might’ve figured that was the smart thing to do." He hit the play button, and a raging Vincent tore across the screen. "Then Elliot Burch winds up dead, you wind up with Sammy the sandwich man for a bodyguard, and suddenly some old guy with a cane knows more about this case than I do."

"They’re good people, Joe."

He waved that away. "Whatever. Point is, you could’ve been killed." He paused, waiting until she met his eyes. "All of you."

He folded his arms and leaned back, watching her. "So am I right?"

There was a long moment of silence. Finally, she nodded. "For the most part."

"Where’s Cathy now?"

"I can’t tell you that."

"Can you at least tell me if she’s okay?"

"She’s fine."

"And the baby?"

"Also fine."

"Is it . . ." Joe’s eyes went to the photos.

Diana raised an eyebrow. "Normal?"

"Yeah."

She gestured at the pictures. "You know as much as I do."

Joe turned back to the TV. "Diana, if this guy . . ."

"He isn’t dangerous, Joe. He only kills to protect her."

"So if every Tom, Dick and Harry out there starts killing people to protect their families it’d be okay with you?"

She let out an impatient sigh. "That isn’t what I’m saying."

"Then what are you saying? Because it sure looks to me like you’re condoning vigilantism here."

"He isn’t a vigilante."

"Oh yeah?" He tossed more pictures in her direction. They landed on the floor, scattering into a macabre mosaic of violence. "What do you call this?"

Diana didn't look down. "Self-defense."

"And all those other pictures you showed me? The cases you talked about? Were those self-defense too?"

She didn’t answer, and he stood up, kicking the chair away as he started to pace the floor. "I don’t know what to do here, Diana."

"Joe . . . you have to let it go."

"Let it go?" Was she serious? "Diana, I’ve got a dozen bodies in the morgue! The public’s got a right to know what happened!"

"Call it a drug deal gone wrong. It’s New York. They’ll buy it."

"You’re asking the district attorney of Manhattan to tell a bold-faced lie." He couldn’t believe it. He’d built his career on truth and justice. And now this—

"No." She was on her feet now, facing him. "I’m asking you to do the right thing." She stepped closer. "For Cathy."

"You’ve gotta be kidding me."

Slowly, Diana shook her head. "I’ve never been more serious."

"Cathy’s my friend, Diana. I’d cut off my arm if I thought it would help her. But she isn’t above the law."

"Cathy didn’t do anything wrong."

"See, that’s where you’re wrong." He paced away from her, turned, paced back. "She knows somebody who did something wrong. Worse than that, she’s protecting him. That makes her an accomplice to murder."

"Look at him, Joe." This time it was Diana who pointed at the TV. "The world doesn’t even know he exists. What’s going to happen to him if they find out?"

"That isn’t my problem." But he lowered his voice, the anger seeping away. It would be another bloodbath, but one of a much different, and more destructive, kind.

"Yes, it is. If you really are Cathy’s friend, it’s your problem as much as it is hers."

He looked up, meeting Diana’s eyes. "Does she really love this guy?"

In answer, Diana picked up the picture of the baby, turning it so that he could see the distinctive blue eyes. "What do you think?"

Joe sank into a chair and dropped his head in his hands. "I don’t know what to think anymore."

"Then don’t think. Feel. What does your gut say?"

He gave her a crooked smile. "Because your gut never steered you wrong, huh, Bennett?"

She grinned back and reached out to squeeze his arm. "It’s gotten me this far." She tilted her head toward the electronics. "Who else has seen that?"

"Nobody, yet."

"Can I have the tape?"

"Why?"

She shrugged and shook her head. "The less you know . . ."

"Plausible deniability. Yeah. I get it." He gestured at the scattered pictures. "Those are going to be a problem."

"Lab?"

"Yeah."

"Any other copies?"

"I don’t think so."

"I’ll take care of it."

He stared at her. "I don’t think I want to know how."

"It’s best if you don’t." Diana got to her feet. "What should I tell Cathy?"

"Tell her—" He hesitated. Sighed. "Tell her to take care of herself."

Diana started toward the door.

"Diana . . ."

"Yeah?"

"Konkani was into some dangerous stuff. And Cathy can identify his goons. She should think about staying out of sight. At least for a while."

"Somehow I don’t think she’ll have a problem with that."

As the door clicked quietly closed behind Diana, Joe rubbed his temples, willing away the oncoming headache. He'd just given tacit consent to an illegal act, making him an accomplice to a crime. A lot of crimes, if his suspicions were correct. And yet somehow he felt like he'd done the right thing.

Justice was one confusing lady.


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


Vincent set the bassinet down next to the bed and turned back to find Catherine watching him. She held the baby in her arms, and she was smiling, her face alight with joy. The sight took his breath away.

"Vincent?" She tilted her head. "Are you okay?"

He nodded. "It’s . . . like a dream."

She crossed to the bassinet and laid the baby gently inside. He was asleep, and Vincent wondered if he would sleep until morning, or if he would be restless in the night. Catherine straightened and turned toward him. He welcomed her into his arms, certain that he would never grow tired of having her close.

"If it is a dream," she said, "I hope we never wake up." She laid her head on his chest and he rested his cheek against her hair. Beyond her shoulder, he could see their sleeping son, and his chest grew tight with emotion. Every time he thought he couldn’t possibly feel any more deeply connected to her, something happened to prove him wrong.

He sensed the subtle change in her mood just before she lifted her head and stepped out of his arms. She crossed the room to light another candle on the dresser, keeping her back to him as she spoke.

"You took a great risk," she said in a low voice. "And you left . . . without a word."

He wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but he knew she would reject him. He had hurt her, and the wound must be opened and cleansed before it could begin to heal. So he stayed where he was, watching her carefully while he tried to help her understand.

"If I had come to you, you would have been forced to choose between my life and our son’s. How could I do that to you?"

Her eyes flashed with anger. "I could've lost both of you!" Her hands curled tight at her sides, and beneath the light shawl, her shoulders were tense. "He would have killed you! Once he got what he wanted—" She turned away, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. "And yet you went to him freely . . ."

"If Diana had come to you instead, would you have made a different choice?"

"I don’t know, but at least I would've had the choice to make." Her voice cracked and she dropped her head, her hair falling forward to hide her face.

"Catherine . . ." The tension tore at him. It was strange, and painful. But he didn't know the words that would close this dark rift between them. "I would do anything, go anywhere, to protect you. Both of you."

The baby shifted in his sleep, and she went to check on him, bending over the bassinet and adjusting the blankets. She stayed there, her hand gripping the worn wood, the skin tight across her knuckles.

"Vincent, without you . . ." She stopped. Shook her head.

The pain she felt was his as well. He remembered it, had lived through a dark time when he'd thought he would never hold her in his arms again. And it had almost destroyed him.

"Catherine—" In three strides he was by her side, and he touched her shoulder, his bandaged hands stark against the dark weave of her shawl. "I’m here now," he whispered.

With a low, shuddering sigh, she turned into his arms, and he held her tightly against him, comforting her. This storm, too, they would survive.

"I’ve never been so frightened." Her voice was choked with emotion.

He closed his eyes and lowered his head against hers. "It was your love that kept me safe," he said. "My sense of you, our connection, gave me strength in my darkest hours."

She pulled back enough to look up at him, her eyes liquid pools that shimmered in the candlelight. With his thumbs, he wiped the dampness from her cheeks. Then he bent and kissed the salt from her eyelashes.

When he lifted his head, she wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled him back down, and then she was kissing him—or he was kissing her—he didn’t really know. He knew only that a great hunger rose up in him, and as he drew her close again he sensed that she felt it as well. He wanted to be closer to her, to show her, in every way he knew how, that she was his life. His lips moved over her face, brushing across the soft skin, savoring the warm, salty taste of her tears on his tongue, and she pressed against him with a quiet, needy sound that made him hold her even tighter. He was about to lift her into his arms and carry her to the bed when something, some small sound in the tunnels beyond her chamber, drew his head up and pulled a low, frustrated growl from the back of his throat.

"Vincent . . ." Footsteps sounded in the corridor. "Vincent, are you down here?"

"Father," Catherine whispered, stepping back and dropping her head. He saw her shoulders rise as she drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and knew that she was trying to calm her racing heart, just as he was.

"Yes." Vincent crossed to the chamber entrance, giving her time and privacy in which to recover. "Here, Father."

Father came in, leaning heavily on his cane. "I thought I might find you here."

"I brought Catherine a bed for the baby." Vincent indicated the bassinet with a wave of his hand.

"Ah. Yes. Very good. How is he?"

Catherine looked up with a faint smile. "He’s perfect."

"He’s also asleep," Vincent said mildly. He struggled to keep the frustration out of his voice, but the faint blush on Catherine’s cheeks didn’t make it easy. Nor did the fact that he knew she was equally unhappy with the interruption. "Was there something you needed?"

Father’s gaze shifted between them, and a look of embarrassment flitted across his face. He coughed nervously. "No," he said. "I just wanted to make sure the baby was well."

"He is."

Father looked across at Catherine. "I believe William has some formula in the kitchen."

"You don’t think I could—"

Father looked doubtful. "A great deal of time has passed since his birth. The hormone levels you would need for successful lactation . . ." He shook his head. "I'm afraid it would be quite impossible."

"I understand." Catherine hid her feelings well, but Vincent felt her disappointment.

"What will you do now?" Father asked. "Will you return Above?"

"No." Her eyes came up to meet Vincent’s across the room. "If it’s all right with the council," she said, her head held high, "I’d like to stay."

Father looked from her to Vincent. "Are you certain it’s what you want?"

"Yes." She rested her hand on the edge of the bassinet. "We want to raise him here." The certainty in her voice left no room for doubt.

Vincent's heart stumbled and then leapt ahead as he realized all at once that he had a family, now. A real family. He hadn't had time to consider it before, so caught up was he in Catherine's return and the search for their son. The precious infant sleeping peacefully in the worn bassinet made it all real in ways it hadn't been before.

Father cleared his throat, and Vincent started, dragging his gaze away from Catherine long enough to nod his agreement. "All right, then. I’ll have a word with the council, but I’m quite certain you’ll be welcome."

"Thank you, Father."

He crossed the room to look in at the sleeping baby. "He really is a beautiful child."

"Yes," Vincent agreed. "He looks just like his mother."

Father looked up with a faint smile. "He looks like both of you." He moved to the door. "It’s been a very long day. If you will excuse me, I believe I’ll turn in."

Vincent followed him, bending to kiss the worn cheek. "Rest well, Father."

"You too, Vincent." Father glanced back. "Goodnight, Catherine."

"Goodnight, Father."

Father turned to go, paused, and glanced back at Vincent. "You might speak with Cullen tomorrow," he said. "I think he could probably manage a door . . ."

And then he was gone, leaving Vincent and Catherine to exchange bemused looks in his wake.

Vincent crossed to stand beside her at the bassinet. Together, they looked down at their sleeping son.

"I still can’t believe he’s really here," she said.

"I know."

"Do you think . . . will he remember any of it?"

"Perhaps." He put his arm around her waist.

She leaned against him. "You said once that we were something that has never been." She looked up, meeting his eyes. "So is he."

"Yes." He bent to kiss the top of her head. "And we will be there for him—to love him, and guide him, and watch him grow."

She searched his eyes, and he sensed that there was something she wanted to ask him, and yet for some reason, she hesitated.

"What is it, Catherine?"

She started to speak, closed her mouth again, and shook her head. "It's nothing."

"Tell me."

He could almost see her gathering her courage. She took a breath. "Do you remember," she said. "After my father died, I asked you a question."

They had spoken of many things during that difficult time. He searched his mind, but after a moment, he shook his head.

"I asked you," she said, "if you thought we would ever be together." She took his hand in hers. "Truly together."

"I remember."

"And you said only when we truly understood the sacrifice." She touched the leather pouch on his chest with the tip of her finger. "And the fear."

He nodded. It seemed so long ago, now. Another lifetime.

"Are you still afraid?"

He thought about all that had happened to them since they'd had that conversation. About losing her, and then finding her again, about their search for their son, about Elliot Burch and Diana Bennett and even Joe Maxwell. He thought about Gabriel, about how he looked human, but wasn't.

And he thought about his dawning understanding that the unique combination of proteins and amino acids that defined his genetic makeup did not define his humanity as well.

In the quest to find his son, he had found himself.

"No," he said, as he bent his head to kiss her. "No, I'm not afraid."

As his lips moved against hers, and the sweet, familiar scent of her skin and hair filled his senses, desire heated his blood once again. Reluctantly, he ended the kiss, resting his forehead against hers.

"Catherine . . ."

"Hmmm?" Her voice was little more than a hum of sound as she curled her hands around the edges of his tunic.

"Have you seen Peter, yet?" They couldn't risk another pregnancy. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Her regretful sigh echoed his own feelings. "Not yet."

"Then perhaps it is best that I leave you now."

With obvious reluctance, she released him and stepped back. "You're right, of course."

It required all of his will to move away from her, and yet he knew he must. He crossed to the bassinet, stopping there to look once more upon his son's face.

"Goodnight, little one," he whispered. "Be well."

Tenderly, he tucked the blankets beneath the baby's chin. Satisfied, he started toward the doorway, determined to leave before it was too late.

"Vincent?"

He stopped and turned, half hoping that despite the danger she would ask him to stay. But she merely stared mutely at him, biting her lower lip as she fought her desire.

"Sleep well."

He hesitated. Everything within him demanded that he return to her side, but in the end he nodded and left quickly, not trusting himself to linger for another moment.


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

Chapter 29

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


"Authorities are trying to unravel a mystery surrounding the death of reclusive multi-billionaire Gabriel Konkani. Konkani was found dead of a single gunshot wound when police attempted to bring him in for questioning regarding the unsolved deaths of District Attorney John Moreno and Assistant District Attorney Catherine Chandler. Authorities aren't saying how the cases are connected, but it is believed that Konkani may have been involved with organized crime."

As the television news reporter, a perky, dark-haired woman, continued her report, a picture of Gabriel's estate flashed behind her left shoulder.

"Police have learned that Konkani, who apparently had multiple aliases, was wanted in three countries on charges of arms trading, drug trafficking, and money laundering. A large cache of illegal arms has already been discovered in a buried concrete bunker on the massive estate, which is still being searched tonight."

Joe shook his head, muted the sound, and got up from the couch. He needed a beer and a vacation, though not necessarily in that order. True to her word, Diana had somehow made the evidence of Vincent's existence disappear, but Moreno's involvement with Konkani would keep the newshounds busy for days. And now, because of the international angle, the feds were nosing around as well.

The only silver lining in the whole ugly mess was that people seemed to think he was doing a decent job. So far, at least.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge, closed the door with a shove of his hip, and turned back to the living room. As he crossed the carpet, he noticed an envelope on the floor near the door. He bent to pick it up. The paper was thick and creamy white, the kind of heavyweight stationary he remembered his grandmother using, and his name was written across the front in neat, rounded script.

Puzzled, he tore a narrow strip from the top edge of the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

J ~

I need to see you. Tuesday night. And I'd love to see Jenny.

~C

Joe shook his head. Jenny would be thrilled to learn that Cathy was alive—and furious when she discovered he'd kept the information from her. He took a long drink of his beer and contemplated the telephone. Then, with a shrug, he reached for the handset. At least he'd finally have somebody he could talk to about this crazy, mixed-up case.


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


Vincent leaned against the railing, watching Catherine. She was sitting in one of Father's chairs with the baby cradled in her arms while Mary and Lena and half a dozen other women crowded around her. She looked radiant. Her eyes sparkled and her smiles came easily. He felt it in their bond, as well. She was at peace now, no longer plagued by her fears or by the terrible nightmares.

"Vincent."

He straightened and turned as Peter Alcott came down the steps.

"Peter." He shook the doctor's hand. "Welcome."

Peter looked over at Catherine. "I heard you'd found him."

Vincent nodded. "Yesterday."

"And everyone's okay?" Peter glanced pointedly at Vincent's bandaged hands.

"This—" Vincent lifted his hands for a moment and then dropped them again as his gaze went back to Catherine and the baby. "It's nothing."

"Worth it, I guess," Peter said, "to have them back."

"Yes."

Across the room, Catherine laughed at something, and Vincent thought it was easily the loveliest sound he'd ever heard. She was wearing jeans today, and a sweater the color of her eyes, and she held the baby close, as though she was still a little worried that somebody might try to take him from her. But nobody would. Vincent would make certain of that with his last breath.

"Is there someplace we can talk?" Peter asked.

The will, Vincent remembered. Peter wanted to know what to do about it. "Of course." He eased his way through the group of well-wishers gathered around Catherine and knelt by her side.

"Catherine, Peter is here. He wishes to speak with us."

Catherine looked across to where Peter still stood beside the steps. He tipped his hat in a courtly, old-style gesture, and she smiled a welcome. "Mary?" she asked, turning back. "Would you mind looking after the baby for a few minutes? There's something I need to take care of."

"Certainly, Catherine." Mary smiled warmly as she accepted him from Catherine's arms. "I'll be happy to."

They went to Vincent's chamber, and Catherine sat on the bed while Vincent lit more candles.

"I can't tell you how happy I am for you," Peter said. "For both of you."

Vincent finished with the candles and sat down beside Catherine, leaving the big chair for Peter. "A great burden has been lifted."

"Yes," said Peter. "And it's about time." The depth of feeling in his voice warmed Vincent's heart. Peter looked at Catherine. "Have you decided what you want to do?"

She stood and crossed to the sculpture that stood by the chamber entrance. "I've thought about it a lot." She spoke softly, and her fingers traced the Scales of Justice as if she sought grains of wisdom in the ancient stone balance.

They'd avoided talking about the will, but Vincent knew that whatever decision she'd made had been one she'd considered carefully. Her choice in this would be her own.

"A part of me," she said, turning away from Lady Justice, "wanted to let the world Above go on believing I was dead. I was afraid. I thought that if someone found out I was still alive, they would come looking for me."

Vincent started to speak, to remind her that she was safe, but she shook her head, and he subsided, realizing that her concerns had been less for her own safety, and more for the safety of the ones she loved.

"When Gabriel was alive, I truly believed it was too dangerous for anybody to learn the truth." She returned to Vincent's side and sat down. "But he's gone, now."

"Cathy," Peter said, "I've been listening to the news. Gabriel Konkani had a whole network of people working for him. And you can identify some of them."

Catherine nodded. "And if any of them are arrested, I'll gladly testify about what I know."

"Are you sure you understand the risk you're taking? These are powerful people—"

Vincent laid his hand on top of hers, trying to communicate his belief in her through touch alone. She rewarded him with a quick smile before turning back to Peter. "I can't let them control my decisions, Peter. I can't let them affect the way I lead my life."

"So you'll be coming back up then? Back to your work with the D.A.'s office?"

She shook her head. "This is my home, now. My family is here. My life is here."

Peter's concern was clear in his voice and in his eyes. "If you plan to stay Below anyway, wouldn't it be safer to let the rest of the world continue to think you're dead?"

"It would be dishonest," Catherine said. "And it wouldn't be fair to my friends to ask them to believe a lie."

Peter sighed. "I can respect that, even if it scares me to death."

"Please don't worry," Catherine said. "I'll be safe here."

Peter's gaze flickered between them, and he smiled. "Yes," he said, "I imagine you will."

Catherine glanced at Vincent, and then back to Peter. "I need to ask you a favor."

"Certainly. Tell me what I can do."

"I need you to set up a meeting. You, me, my lawyer, and my accountant. I need to take care of a few things."

"When?"

"As soon as possible."

Peter nodded. "I'll see what I can do. Give me a couple of days."

"Thank you." Catherine glanced at Vincent. "There's . . . one other thing."

"What's that?"

Vincent and Catherine were adults, and the forgotten baby blanket at the end of his bed was a mute reminder of the importance of the question that Catherine was about to ask. Still, Vincent had to stifle a twinge of embarrassment as he anticipated Peter's reaction.

Catherine spoke quietly, her eyes on the open chamber entrance. "Birth control."

Vincent wasn't sure what he'd expected. Shock maybe? Dismay? But Peter only nodded.

"That's a good idea," he said. "Do you have anything specific in mind?"

"No," said Catherine. "But nothing permanent."

Peter considered that, and then nodded. "I think you should consider an IUD. It's simple, effective, and we wouldn't have to worry too much about side effects. I'd need to see you a couple of times to get it fitted properly, and then again if you decide you want another child, but it's an easy procedure."

Vincent had heard of the device Peter spoke of, but he knew very little about it, never having thought he would have a use for such information. Now, he had only one concern. "Is it safe?"

"Quite safe. A few women do have trouble, but as long as Catherine comes in for regular checkups, I see no reason why there should be any problems." He looked at Catherine. "How about if we schedule an appointment for the day you come up to meet with your attorney?"

"Sounds good." Catherine stood and crossed the room to hug him. "You're a good friend, Peter."

"Take care of yourself, Cathy." He kissed the top of her head and pulled back to look down at her. "And take care of that handsome son of yours."

"I will."

"I'll expect an invitation to the naming ceremony."

"How about Sunday night?" Catherine tucked her hand into the crook of Vincent's arm—a proprietary gesture that was simultaneously both strange and miraculous. "About eight o'clock?"

"I'll be there," Peter said with a warm smile.

He left, and Catherine touched the thick bandages on Vincent's hand. "Do they hurt much?"

"No," he said, resting his other hand over hers, sandwiching her delicate fingers between the layers of gauze. "They will heal quickly."

"Good."

He brushed a kiss against her forehead, and even that slight contact was enough to stir a bright spark of desire. "Perhaps we should retrieve our son."

Catherine laughed, but he saw a hint of regret in her eyes as she stood up. "You're assuming Mary will give him up."

Amused, and a little amazed that they should be having this conversation, he guided her from the chamber. "Maybe," he suggested, "we should promise her Saturday nights?"


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


"She's alive?" Jenny asked in stunned disbelief. "Where?"

"Actually," Joe said, "I'm not really sure where she is."

"Then how do you know—?"

"She came to see me a few days ago."

She stared at him, hurt and anger in her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Jenny . . . I'm sorry. She asked me not to."

Jenny sat down heavily on the couch. "I don't believe this."

"I know. I didn't believe it either at first."

"And she's coming here?"

Joe glanced at his watch. "She should be here any minute, in fact."

As if on cue, there was a soft knock at the door. Joe gave Jenny an 'I told you so' glance and went to open it.

"Hello, Joe." She was wearing the cloak again, but she no longer had the wan, terrified look she'd had when he'd last seen her.

"Punctual as ever, I see." He let her in and checked the hallway before closing and locking the door. When he turned back, she was pushing back the hood.

"Cathy!" Jenny hurried over. "Oh my God, Cathy! We thought you were dead!" She was laughing and crying at the same time.

"Jenny!"

The two women hugged, and it was several seconds before they separated and accepted tissues from the box Joe offered.

"You two are gonna flood the joint if you don't cut that out."

Catherine gave him a watery smile. "You're such a romantic."

Jenny dropped onto the couch and patted the seat beside her. "Sit down, Cathy. Tell us everything."

"Actually," Catherine said, as she set her cloak aside, "there isn't a lot I can tell you. I just . . . wanted you to know I was all right."

"But you're coming back now, right? I mean, they said on the news that the guy who kidnapped you was dead."

"He is."

"Then it's all over, isn't it?"

"Not really."

Joe saw her glance at him, but he folded his arms and watched her without comment. He'd wait until after Jenny left to confront her with what he knew.

"Gabriel was a powerful man," Cathy said, returning her attention to Jenny. "He had a lot of people working for him—people who might get nervous if they found out I was back."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I'm going away, Jenny."

"Where?"

"I’m afraid I can't tell you that."

"Is it someplace safe?"

Catherine nodded, her gaze soft and distant. "Yes," she said, "it's safe."

With Vincent, Joe knew. But where? How was it possible for somebody like Vincent to live in New York without being seen?

Jenny's concerns were more immediate. "Will I ever see you again?"

"I hope so," Catherine said. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Anything, Cathy. You know that."

"Can you talk to Nancy for me? Let her know I'm okay?"

Jenny tilted her head, confused. "Can't you talk to her yourself?"

Cathy shook her head. "It's best if I'm not seen right now."

"I understand. Sure, I'll talk to her. Is there something specific you want me to tell her?"

"No, just give her my love."

"Cathy," Jenny glanced at Joe, whose arms were still folded as he leaned against the couch. "Are you sure everything's okay?"

"I'm sure," Catherine said, and the look on her face left no room for doubt. She wasn't just okay. She was happy.

A few minutes later Jenny left, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. Joe locked it again and turned back to Cathy.

"You've been keeping secrets," he said, not quite able to keep the hurt out of his voice. Why hadn't she trusted him?

"Joe—"

"Tell me about this guy Vincent." The words were brusque. Clipped.

Catherine looked away. "I can't."

"Can't? Or won't." Disappointment and anger combined to make his voice sharper than he'd intended.

"Both, I guess. Vincent is . . . special."

"Yeah. I gathered that." Joe crossed the room and sat down across from her. "I've seen him, Cath. This guy Konkani . . . He had video tapes."

"Oh, my God." Catherine's eyes went wide with fear, and Joe found he couldn't torment her with it. No matter how angry he was with her, he still considered her a friend. She'd been there for him, believing in him at a time when it had seemed as though the entire world had allied against him. The least he could do was return the favor.

"Don't worry," he said. "Diana took care of it."

"Diana Bennett?"

"Uh huh. And she made a mess of pictures disappear too, but don't ask me how she did it. I don't know, and I don't want to know."

"Vincent's a good man, Joe."

"A man? Are you sure about that? Because he didn't exactly look human to me."

"He was born the way he is. Nobody knows why."

"And yet you're sure he's human."

Her nod was emphatic and a little defensive. "He's more human than most people I know."

He'd known Cathy long enough to know she would never lie to him, but what he'd seen sure hadn't looked human. "How long have you been seeing this guy?"

"Remember when I was attacked a couple of years ago?"

"Just before you came to work in the D.A.'s office?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, I remember."

"It was Vincent who saved me," she said. "He found me in the park, and he took me someplace safe, and he watched over me while I healed."

"And he's been saving your life ever since."

"How do you mean?"

"Diana put it together for me. I didn't want to see it, but now that I know who he is, it's kind of hard to ignore the evidence. All those cases—"

"Joe, you have to understand. He was protecting me."

"Funny," Joe said, "that's what Diana says, too." He watched her for a long, tense moment. "I've got a dilemma here, Radcliffe. You see, technically you're an accomplice to a crime. To a lot of crimes."

"Charges weren't filed in any of those cases."

"Because we didn't know who to file them against! Now we do."

"Joe, you can't do this!" Desperation rose in her voice.

But he could, and they both knew it. In fact, he had a legal obligation to report what he knew. "There's no statute of limitations on murder," he reminded her.

"You've seen his picture." She touched his arm, waiting for him to meet her eyes. "They'll destroy him!"

"He's dangerous! Did you see what he did at the Konkani place?"

"No, he isn't. He isn't dangerous at all. He's the kindest, gentlest man I've ever known."

The irony of that remark wasn't lost on either of them, and Joe stared at her, shaking his head. "I can't let this go on, Cathy. You know that."

"It won't. It'll stop now."

Joe folded his arms, eyebrows raised. "You know that for a fact."

"Yes."

He got to his feet and crossed to the kitchen. He took two glasses out of the cabinet and turned back to her, not surprised to find that she'd followed him. He reached into the freezer for an ice tray. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I won't be in danger any more."

"And you know that because—" He added ice to the glasses, filled them with cold tap water, and offered one to her.

She accepted the drink with a nod of thanks. "Because I'll be with him."

"And that's supposed to magically make things better?" He drained his glass and set it on the counter beside him, wishing it'd held something stronger.

"You don't understand what this means to him. To us. We're a family, Joe. Vincent isn't going to do anything that would put that at risk."

"You're going to marry him?" He tried to wrap his mind around the idea, but it was all too new, too strange.

She dropped her eyes, and ice cubes clinked in her glass as she rolled it between her palms. "He hasn't asked."

"Cathy . . . You have a kid. Surely he's at least considered it."

Surprised, she looked up from her drink. "You know about my son?"

Joe shrugged that off. "Pictures, remember?"

Catherine sighed. "It's . . . complicated."

"Obviously." He took her glass and set it in the sink before leading the way back to the living room.

"Look, Joe. I can't expect you to understand. I'm not even sure I understand sometimes. But I'm asking you to believe me when I tell you the killings will end now."

He couldn't believe he was going to let her get away with this. And yet he knew that if the public ever found out about Vincent, they'd either kill him or study him to death. Besides, there was a world of difference between killing for the sake of killing, and killing to protect a loved one.

"If they don't, Cathy, I'm going to have to act. I can't let some rogue vigilante terrorize the city."

"I know." She rested her hand on the back of the couch. "We're going to disappear, Joe. You won't hear from us again."

"Cathy—" The worn cushions gave beneath Joe's weight as he sat down. She'd forced him to choose between their friendship and his job, and though he didn't regret his decision, it didn't rest easy on his conscience, either. Still . . . "I don't want that."

"It's for the best. You know it is." She sat down beside him, her voice intense. "It's my turn to keep him safe, now. And we've got a child to raise—a little boy who deserves to know both of his parents." She touched his arm. "You're right, Joe. The killings have to stop. Not just because they're wrong, or because you'd have to act, but because every time he kills . . . I think it destroys a little bit of his soul."

His soul? Joe tilted his head to one side. "You lead an interesting life, Radcliffe."

She laughed a little. "I guess I do."

"You're sure this is what you want?" He remembered what he thought when he'd first met her—that she was a flighty do-gooder who would disappear the minute things got tough. Boy, had he been wrong.

"I'm sure."

"There's nothing I can do to talk you out of it."

She looked almost amused at the prospect of his trying. "I'm afraid not."

"Where will you go?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

He sighed. "No, I imagine you can't. Is there anything you need? Anything I can help you with?"

"There is one thing."

"What?"

"The death certificate."

"You want it rescinded?"

"Can you do it?"

He nodded. "Jenny can witness, so it shouldn't be a problem."

"I can't appear."

"I know. I'm pretty sure I can take care of it without you, especially under the circumstances."

"Thanks, Joe."

"Anything else?"

"No." She glanced at her watch and got to her feet, reaching for her cloak. "I should go. Vincent's waiting."

Joe stood, too. "Tell Vincent I said he'd better treat you right."

She smiled at that. "I'll tell him, but I don't think you need to worry."

He pulled her into a tight hug. "Take care of yourself, huh?"

"I will. And Joe—" Her eyes were bright when she pulled out of his arms. "If you need me to testify, leave a message with Peter Alcott. He'll know where to find me."

"You sure? These are dangerous guys." If it were any other witness, he'd be doing everything he could to make sure she testified. But this was Cathy, and he felt honor bound to give her one more chance to change her mind.

"I know. And if I can do something to help get them off the streets, I will."

"All right, then." He reached to help her adjust the cloak across her shoulders. "I'll let you know."

She pulled the hood up over her hair, and he realized he might never see her again. For a moment, he wanted to grab her arm and keep her from leaving, force her into some kind of understanding of the insanity of it all, and yet he knew his arguments would fall on deaf ears. She'd made up her mind, and once committed to a course of action, Cathy was nothing if not single-minded.

A few seconds later the door closed behind her, and he leaned his forehead against it with a sigh.

"Take care, kiddo. Stay safe."


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


Vincent found Diana on her balcony. It was a clear and moonless evening. She had a telescope set up, and she seemed intent upon her work. He hated to disturb her, but the message he brought was an important one.

"Diana."

She straightened from the eyepiece, startled. "Vincent."

"Have you been well?"

"Fine. You?"

"I owe you my thanks." He stepped closer and reached out a hand to the gleaming black telescope. "I owe you my life."

She shook her head. "I was just doing my job."

"Catherine tells me you did more than your job."

"The pictures."

He nodded. "And the tapes."

"They would have destroyed you," Diana said. "I couldn't let that happen."

Vincent was quiet for a moment, looking out over the city. "What will you do now?"

"They've offered me other cases," Diana said, "but I turned them down."

He turned to her, surprised. "Why?"

"I'm leaving New York. I've been offered a job in Portland."

"Oregon?" A horn blared in the street below, and instinctively Vincent moved back from the wall.

Diana was shaking her head. "Maine."

He considered that for a moment. "Such a small city." Had her decision to help him hurt her career?

"Compared to New York, every city's small."

"Is this your choice?"

She nodded. "I requested it." She leaned against the railing beside him. "This job . . . it's eating me alive. I spend my life in other people's heads, watching them do terrible things to each other." She pushed to her feet and moved away. "I can't do it anymore. I need something different. And—" she looked up at the night sky. "I'd like to live someplace where I can see the stars."

Vincent watched her carefully. Diana was a good woman, and she'd been a friend to him when he'd needed one most. He would miss her. "When do you leave?"

"Next week."

There was time, then, to show her some of his world. "Before you go, there is one more thing I would ask of you."

"What's that?"

"When a child is born Below, we have a special ceremony to welcome him to our community. We give him a name, and we give him gifts. It is a special time in our world. Catherine and I would like you to join us for our son's naming."

"When is it?" she asked, and he could tell by her expression that she was flattered by his request.

"Sunday night. Eight o'clock. Afterward there will be a small celebration."

"Where should I meet you?"

"At the Central Park entrance."

Diana nodded. "Can I bring anything?"

"Just yourself."

Her eyes sought and held his, the pupils wide in the darkness. "Afterward . . . will I ever see you again?"

Vincent nodded. "You know where to find me," he said. "You will always be welcome."

Diana turned away then, her gaze going to the city skyline. "I keep thinking that it's all been some kind of bizarre dream, and pretty soon I'll wake up and find I imagined it all. You, Catherine, Gabriel . . ." She lifted her hands, shrugged, and dropped them again. "Silly, huh?"

"No," Vincent said. "Not silly. And not a dream."

Her laugh was soft. Rueful. "You're right," she said. "I never could've imagined you."

Once, such words might have caused him pain.

Now, he only smiled.


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

Chapter 30

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


Vincent was waiting at the park entrance when Catherine returned from her appointment with Peter. The meeting had run long; it was well-past nightfall by the time he sensed her approach. She paused beyond the sheltered access point, and he saw her scan the area before she turned and ducked inside. A moment later, he held her in his arms.

"It went well," he said when she pulled back.

She nodded. "Very." She looked beyond him, her eyes probing the shadows. "Where's the baby?"

"Mary is watching over him."

Catherine glanced at her watch with a grimace. "I had no idea it was so late," she said. "I'm sorry."

"You had business to attend to. There's no need to apologize."

She was quiet for a moment, her gaze sliding back toward the tunnel entrance and the city beyond. "It feels a little strange, walking away from it all."

"Are you quite certain, Catherine? There are still other choices, other possibilities."

"No." She shook her head. "It's time to move on. Time to live another life."

He still sensed no doubt in her, no questioning of her decision. Would he ever cease to be amazed by that? He lifted his hood over his head and reached for her hand. "Come," he said, "walk with me."

It was quiet in the park, as weeknights usually were, and their only company as they wandered among the trees was the occasional bat that swooped past them on silent wings.

"How is Peter?" Vincent asked at length.

"He's fine." Catherine plucked an oak leaf from an overhanging branch and twirled it in her fingers. "I don't know how he managed to arrange things so quickly."

They paused in the middle of a footbridge, and she dropped the leaf over the railing, watching as the stream carried it away.

She seemed pensive as she gazed into the swirling water, and he wondered what she was thinking. "Is it finished, then?"

"Yes." Her eyes glinted with reflected moonlight when she glanced up at him. "The paperwork will take a few days, but I think everything will work out fine."

"And the appointment with Peter? Did it go well?"

She nodded. "Just the physical today. He has to wait on some test results before he can do anything else."

"When do you see him again?"

"Tuesday."

"Good." Such a small word. How could it begin to convey his relief, his joy, in the knowledge that she would soon be protected from the one uncertainty that still troubled him? Their son was a miracle, formed more in her likeness than in his. A second child might be more like him, endangering her safety the same way he must have endangered his own mother's. The thought stirred memories of Paracelsus—memories that terrified him with their nightmarish possibilities.

Catherine was still talking, apparently unaware of his reaction to her news. "I've arranged for some of my things to be brought Below." She looked over at him. "If that's all right?"

Pushing the troublesome thoughts aside, Vincent nodded. "Of course, Catherine. The tunnels are your home, now."

"Peter's going to arrange for the sale of my apartment and most of the furniture." She turned away from the railing and they started walking again, their footfalls almost silent on the darkened path. "I would have brought it all Below, but . . ." She hesitated, and he sensed an uneasiness in her, some worry yet unresolved. When she went on, her voice was so low that he had to bend close to hear the words. "I don't want people to think I'm buying my place among you."

Surprised by the comment, Vincent stopped her with a touch at her elbow. "Nobody would think that, Catherine."

"I hope you're right." But her gaze was searching and a little doubtful, as though she wanted to believe him but couldn't quite set aside her fears.

And perhaps her concern wasn't entirely unfounded. Neither of them could know for certain how the community would react to her coming Below permanently, and though Vincent hoped for the best, he knew there were those who might resent the presence of a wealthy topsider in their midst.

"I have so much to learn." With the change of subject, enthusiasm gradually replaced the vague disquiet in Catherine's voice. "There's the security system, the pipe codes, the children's schooling . . ." Her eyes sparkled with excitement. She was so eager, so willing, and his heart swelled with pride as he watched her. "I want to learn all of it, Vincent. I want to understand, truly understand, everything."

The task she proposed would not be an easy one. Most who came Below settled quickly into one or two areas of community life, contributing to the well-being of the group in whatever manner best suited their abilities and temperament. Catherine's determination to learn all of it was impressive. "You amaze me."

"Why?"

"That you could leave everything you know behind and start over again in a strange new world . . . Such a thing takes great courage."

"No." She shook her head. "Only great love."

She held his gaze, and for a second even the wind seemed to hesitate. Then she smiled and took his hand, and they walked on. They were nearing the playground, and Vincent studied the deserted swings, thinking of the night when he would teach his son to fly.

"It's all going to be different now, isn't it," Catherine said, following his gaze.

"Yes." It would be. As a member of the community, Catherine would be expected to work as hard as any other tunnel dweller, to suffer the same hardships and share in the same triumphs. She would do well, he knew, and yet he also knew the adjustment might be more difficult than she anticipated. And they were parents now, with a son who would look to them for guidance—a son who might yet turn out to be more like his father than anybody knew.

"Vincent." She pulled him to a stop near a graceful willow tree. "We've talked about my reasons for coming Below, about whether it was the right thing for me." She touched the worn leather pouch that hung around his neck. "But we've never really talked about whether it's the right thing for you." The moonlight shone against her hair when she lifted her head to meet his eyes. "Is this what you want, too?"

He was vaguely surprised that she needed to ask. And yet, with the exception of one brief moment of unguarded honesty, he'd never put his dreams into words, unwilling to taint the choice that must be hers alone. Now such care was no longer necessary. He raised his head, listening to the night. They were alone. He was certain of it, and yet he guided her beneath the overhanging branches of the weeping willow, unwilling to risk a chance discovery. The tree welcomed them, its sheltering arms gathering them into a deeply shadowed haven, safe from prying eyes.

He leaned against the trunk and took her hands in his, rubbing the pad of his thumb across the soft skin while he considered how much to tell her.

"I was still very young when I began to understand that I was different from the other children. Father had always treated me with special care, but I was only a child; I thought nothing of it . . . until the other children my age began to explore the world Above, and I was forced to stay behind."

Her fingers pressed against his, and he glanced down at them. So delicate. So perfect. And so very, very precious.

"I soon came to hate what I was. Who I was." He lifted his eyes, his gaze slipping between the feathered branches to the playground beyond, memories of that dark time carrying him back. "When I was eight years old, I borrowed a pair of scissors from Mary's sewing box and . . ." He hesitated, searching for words that would convey the meaning of what he'd done while omitting the most graphic details. "I tried to make myself look more like other boys."

"No . . ." The shock and dismay in her voice drew his attention back to her, and he squeezed her hands reassuringly. Those days were far behind him now, the pain he'd suffered a distant memory.

"Father was very angry." It was a rather inadequate description. When Father had discovered him sitting cross-legged on the floor of an empty chamber—surrounded by mounds of hair, his fingers torn and bloody from his attempts to remove the hated claws—he'd been furious and appalled. But there was no need to burden Catherine with details that would only trouble her further.

Her voice was little more than a horrified whisper. "I imagine he was."

The way she watched him, her eyes wide and full of sympathy, sparked a rush of tenderness, and he lowered his head to place a gentle kiss against the softness of her lips. Then he tucked her close and let his gaze drift back to the abandoned playground.

"With time, I learned to accept who I was, to make peace with it and find what freedom I could in the deepest hours of the night. But I always knew that my life would never be like other men's lives." He breathed deeply, closing his eyes as he drew in her scent. "And then I found you."

She nestled against him, her arms tight around his waist.

"I never thought, never dared dream, that you might see in me a man you could love, a man you would willingly share your life with, giving up everything you'd ever known for a world without sunlight, a world of shadows and hardship."

"Thanks to you," Catherine whispered, "I've learned there can be magic in the shadows."

How like her to reassure him—even now, when such reassurance was no longer necessary.

"You gave me the courage to hope, Catherine. The courage to dream. Do not doubt, ever, that I want you by my side."

She said nothing, but he sensed an easing of some small tension within her, and a growing sense of peace. They stood quietly then, content to rest in each other's arms, with only the stars and the creatures of the night for company. A gentle breeze sighed through the willow fronds, and in the distance, Vincent heard an owl call to its mate.

"Catherine . . ." He waited until she looked up, her eyes mere shadows in the deep gloom. "I have . . . one more dream."

The look she gave him, a sort of curious, birdlike tilt of the head, almost made him set aside what he meant to say in favor of kissing her again.

"Tell me."

He was surprised to discover that he was nervous. It was an unaccustomed feeling, and he forced himself to breathe slowly in an effort to slow the disconcerting rush and flutter of his pulse.

"In my dream, you're standing beside me in front of the entire community . . ." The scene was so clear in his mind that he thought he might almost reach out and hold it in his hand, the way one might hold a butterfly. ". . . and agreeing to be my wife."

At first, Catherine was quiet. Then she lifted her hand to his face, and he closed his eyes to drink in the caress of her fingers against his skin.

"In the dream," she said, "am I happy?"

"Yes." The single word was all that he could manage.

"Good." She lowered her hand to rest against his heart. Could she feel it racing beneath her palm? Did it thunder in her ear like the beat of galloping hooves? But she said nothing more, and he'd begun to wonder if she would, when he heard her low voice whisper through the darkness. "I have a dream, too."

"Yes?"

"Mmhmm."

He felt the hum more than heard it, a faint vibration that trembled along his arm where it pressed against her back.

"Tell me." Rising hope made him smile against her hair.

"In my dream, we're surrounded by candles, and somehow I know we aren't alone, but I can't see anybody but you."

"And what am I doing?"

"You're smiling."

"I am?"

"Yes."

"And what else am I doing?"

Her fingertips flexed against his chest, and he felt her shoulders rise with her indrawn breath. "You're holding my hand in yours . . ."

She hesitated. She was nervous, too, he realized, sensing the thrumming tension in their bond. The understanding calmed his own nerves, and he wrapped his fingers around hers where they rested against his chest. How strange that they should be so uncertain. "And?"

"And you're putting a ring on my finger."

A ring. Of course she would expect a ring. His mind leapt ahead, considering possibilities, but she interrupted his thoughts.

"I've always loved my mother's wedding ring," she said, her voice still just a whisper in the darkness. "I used to hope that someday . . . I might wear it."

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss against the tender skin. "I think," he said, "your mother might like that."

He couldn't see her smile in the darkness, but he heard it in her voice. "Yes," she said, "I think she would."

"Catherine . . ." There was one more thing she must understand. "We don't have any helpers in the county clerk's office." She would know, of course, what that meant, and yet something drove him to say the words. "A formal marriage license . . . is impossible."

It might be different if New York recognized common-law marriage, or if a proxy could appear on his behalf, but such was not the case. It was, he thought a little sadly, yet another sacrifice he must ask of her. But before he could speak the apology that hovered on his lips, she pulled out of his arms and reached up to frame his face with her hands.

"I don't need a piece of paper to tell me what my heart already knows. All I need . . ." her grip on his chin eased, turning into a caress, "is you." She slid her hands around his head, tangling them in his hair and using her leverage to pull his head down to hers.

There was nothing tentative about her kiss, nothing hesitant. Her lips were firm, with little of the slow tenderness they'd shared in the past. Responsive heat rushed through him, and he pulled her into the cradle of his hips, setting his legs apart and splaying his fingers wide against the small of her back, bringing her body into tight, intimate contact with his. Her kiss tasted of sunshine, and he drank it in, its energy feeding the fire that already threatened to carry him away.

He wanted to claim her. He wanted to pillow her head with his cloak and peel away her clothes, and make love to her beneath the stars and the moon and the dancing willow fronds. He would worship every inch of her silken skin, seeking out the hidden places and enflaming her passions, until her cries mingled with the cricket song and drowned out the mournful call of the whippoorwill.

His senses, so highly attuned to hers, sang with their shared desire, her body seeming almost to pulse against his. Keeping her close with one hand, he buried the other in her hair, and strands of silk slid through his fingers like water. Their kisses grew more heated, her lips moving against his in a silent plea, and he wanted to grant her wish, wanted to share his love in all the ways he had before, and in all the ways he'd only imagined in his deepest, most private fantasies. Her tongue slid past his teeth to dance against his, and he struggled for control, holding desperately to the thin threads of sanity that still held sway over his desires.

It was Catherine who stopped it, Catherine who pulled back, gasping, her head dropping against his chest as she wrapped her arms around his waist and held on with surprising strength.

Breathing hard, Vincent let his head fall back against the tree. He stared up through the leafy branches to the star-studded sky, concentrating on the constellations, fighting the inferno that raged in his blood. How did other men live with this hunger? How did they prevent it from consuming them entirely?

Ursa Major. He stared at the pinpricks of light, just visible through the trembling branches, with single-minded intensity. Ursa Minor. Cassiopeia. Gemini . . .

"Vincent?" Her voice, heavy with humor and frustrated desire, stirred the hair at his shoulder.

He dragged his eyes away from the stars. His heart still raced, and his hands . . . gradually he became aware that he still held her body pressed tight against his own. With a conscious effort, he loosened his hold, but she made no move to step away.

"Do you think . . ." She pressed her palm flat against his chest and took a deep breath. "How long do you suppose it takes to plan a wedding Below?"

Amusement cooled the last vestiges of passion, and he smiled as he brushed a kiss against the top of her head.

"I hope," he whispered, "not more than a week."

He reached for her hand. She twined her fingers with his, and they turned toward home. Beyond the park, the world rushed on at a frenetic pace, but for now, for them, there was only the magic.

And love.


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

Chapter 31

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


Diana watched as Vincent reached up to touch a place high on the wall. With a low, grating rumble, a rough slab of concrete rolled across the opening that connected her world to this one, closing it off as though it had never existed.

"That's incredible," she said.

Vincent turned to her, his hand falling away from the hidden pressure point. "Merely an illusion." He glanced down the corridor behind him. "Come. We must hurry. The ceremony will begin soon."

She wanted to ask him how they could possibly start without him, but he was already moving, and she hurried to catch up, gazing around in fascination as they strode through the twisting corridors.

Diana didn't know much about cave systems, but she'd always thought they were damp and chilly. This place was neither of those things. It was cool, certainly, and she was glad she'd worn a jacket, but the air felt clean and dry against her skin. And though the ground beneath her feet sloped gradually downward, it was smooth and dirt-packed, not the rough, uneven surface she would've expected.

The tunnels were like underground arteries set among an intricate tangle of smaller veins and tiny capillaries that made Diana hope Vincent planned on leading her back out after the celebration. She'd never find her way on her own. And running through it all were the pipes, some shiny and new, others grayed or dull green with age, and still others that looked as if they might collapse in a pile of blood-red dust at the slightest touch; all of them echoing with an oddly musical cadence that reminded her of her mother's beloved wind chimes.

The paths they traveled were lit by torches set into iron brackets high on the granite walls. The absence of electrical lighting made Diana feel as if they were walking backward in time. Surely they must soon approach some grand, medieval castle, its entrance guarded by moat and drawbridge and fierce stone lions.

A fresh burst of metallic sound brought Vincent to an abrupt stop, his cloak swirling around his legs. He tilted his head, listening. Then he nodded and turned to her. "We're almost there now. The others are waiting."

"Others?" She remembered the odd group she'd met when she'd run from Gabriel's men. There'd been fewer than a dozen people that day, though it had seemed like more at first.

He nodded. "My family."

His family? Were there others like him after all? The thought made her stomach do an odd little flip-flop, her thoughts faltering for an instant while she considered the implications. But without further explanation, Vincent started walking again, and Diana set the question aside. She'd learn the answer soon enough.

A few seconds later they rounded another bend in the corridor, and Vincent ducked his head as he turned into a short passageway that opened up into a large, brightly-lit cavern. Diana came to an abrupt stop, startled to find herself the focus of dozens of curious stares.

She stood on a wide stone ledge. In front of her, a short flight of steps led down to a level floor, in the center of which a narrow, wrought-iron staircase wound a tight spiral up to a second level. The room was furnished with heavy, mismatched furniture that wore the patina of age with dignified grace. Books of all shapes and sizes covered every available surface, stacked so high in some cases that Diana thought they might crash to the floor at any moment. And everywhere she looked there were people looking back at her—from the children clustered in groups on the floor and dangling their legs through the staircase railings, to adults with keen-eyed suspicion in their eyes, to the elderly, gray-haired and faded, who watched her with the accumulated wisdom of decades. So many people. Did all of them live down here? Diana struggled to make sense of what her eyes were telling her. How was it possible?

"It's a bit much to take in all at once, isn't it." The cheerful voice brought Diana out of her speechless reverie, and she blinked, her gaze settling on a petite, bright-eyed woman with a riotous mass of red hair.

"I had no idea . . ."

The other woman stuck out a hand. "Aye, and you'll have a million questions, I'm sure. I'm Julia."

"Julia . . ." At the sound of Vincent's voice, both women turned. "This is Diana Bennett."

"I thought as much. She has my red hair, you know." The way she said it, as though hair color alone was enough to make them kin, brought a smile to Diana's lips, but Vincent only nodded.

"At the risk of seeming an inattentive host, may I ask you to introduce Diana to the others? I'm afraid we've arrived a little late, and I fear Father may start the ceremony without me."

Julia laughed. "He wouldn't dare."

Vincent's eyes sparkled with gentle humor. "Nevertheless, it is not a risk I wish to take lest he name my son Snarveling."

Julia shuddered in mock horror as Diana grinned.

"Go," Julia said "Catherine is tapping her foot. I shouldn't like to keep you from her any longer."

Vincent's expression softened, and he glanced toward the center of the room. Diana followed his gaze and saw Catherine watching them, the baby in her arms. Something about the way Vincent and Catherine looked at each other made Diana feel as though she'd interrupted an intensely private moment, and she dropped her eyes, her gaze skidding away as she searched for something else to focus on.

"It's lovely to see them so happy," Julia said after Vincent excused himself.

Diana watched him touch the baby's cheek, a look of deep tenderness on his face. A small hand freed itself from the blanket to wrap around his, and Diana felt a sudden ache in her chest. She pushed the feeling aside and turned her attention back to Julia.

"I'm just glad everyone's home safe," she said.

"Aye. Me, too." Julia was silent for a long, pensive moment. Then she shook her head, as though setting aside some painful memory of her own. "Come. I'll introduce you to the others."

In short order, Diana met a shy, awkward boy with the unlikely name of Mouse, a gnome-like bald man with intelligent eyes and a restless manner named Pascal, and a golden-haired beauty whose name was Lena. Lena held a baby of her own in her arms, a bright-eyed, outgoing cherub who reached out chubby arms to Diana.

"Her name's Catherine," Lena said proudly. Evidently, she saw the question in Diana's eyes, because she nodded. "She saved my life. Naming my daughter after her was my way of saying thanks."

Before Diana could question Lena further, a stir of excitement drew her attention back to the center of the chamber. Jacob Wells—Father, she corrected herself, though the name felt a little awkward—moved to stand beside a large table laden with gifts. As Diana watched, a dark-haired sprite of a girl added another package to the top of the pile, causing several packages to teeter dangerously as she danced away. Vincent stopped her with a gentle touch on the shoulder. He bent and spoke softly to her, and Diana saw the girl cast a guilty glance back toward the table. Then, with a quick, bright, smile, she skipped back to right the stack, waiting for Vincent's nod of approval before settling herself on the floor in the midst of a chattering group of children.

Vincent rested his hand against the small of Catherine's back as the two of them stepped forward to stand in front of Father. And as Diana watched, she understood for the first time why people used the word radiant to describe new mothers.

Beside Diana, an older woman sighed. "They've been through so much," she said in a low voice, echoing Diana's thoughts. "I hope they'll finally find peace, now."

Father began the ceremony then, the natural authority in his voice silencing the few remaining conversations.

"Together," he said, "we have weathered a storm. A great storm, which at times I feared might never pass. Finally, it did pass. After much sorrow and loss, the time of darkness has ended, bringing us to this day. Allowing us to find peace, and rejoice in it."

Catherine kissed the baby's forehead and handed him to Vincent, then turned to address the gathered community. She was dressed in the same type of clothing the others wore, with a long skirt that brushed against her ankles, and a cream colored sweater against which her hair fell in a soft, natural wave. She wore no makeup, but the candles gave her skin a delicate golden glow, and Diana had a fleeting wish that everyone lived their lives by candlelight.

"I can't thank you enough." Catherine's voice seemed almost to float through the chamber. "You've given me a home, and a family." Her gaze touched on Vincent and the baby, and then rose to take in the assembled group. Diana saw her swallow hard. "A new life is opening up before me, and it's full of promise, and hope. I owe that to you—to your faith in me, and in Vincent and me, together. I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to continue to deserve your trust."

Catherine looked at Vincent, and something passed between them, some fragment of silent communication. Then Vincent lifted his head.

"Holding my son in my arms," he said, "and with Catherine, safe and well beside me ... I feel as though two miracles have been given to me. There are no words to express the depths of my gratitude to each of you. To all of you. My family."

Then it was Father's turn again, his voice thick with tightly-reined emotion as he continued the ritual. "It has been said that the child is the meaning of life. The truth of that has never been more apparent to me than it is on this day, when we celebrate this new life that has come into our world."

Diana looked at the tiny bundle nestled in Vincent's arms and remembered the first time she'd seen him—in a large and airy nursery where she'd shivered from a coldness that'd had nothing to do with temperature. How different it was in this candlelit chamber far beneath the city—a place where she should've been cold, and where, instead, she felt only a deep, abiding warmth.

"We welcome a child," Father was saying, "with love, that he may be able to love."

There was no shortage of that here. The chamber fairly glowed with it, and Diana wondered what it would be like to live in a world where such love was as commonplace as the air.

"We welcome a child with gifts, that he may learn generosity."

At this, the group of children on the floor whispered excitedly among themselves, several of them pointing at the loaded table, but a stern glance from Father silenced them instantly.

"And finally," he said, peace restored, "we welcome a child with a name."

Vincent and Catherine exchanged a glance. His raised eyebrows asked a silent question, her nod answered it, and Vincent lifted his head to meet Father's gaze.

"We've named our son Jacob."

Diana understood little of the relationships and politics of the unusual community, but she shared the ripple of approval that ran through the group. The old man, patriarch of this astonishing society, seemed eminently worthy of the honor Vincent and Catherine had just bestowed.

There was a bright sheen in Father's eyes as he addressed the gathering once more, and a smile lurked at the corners of his mouth. "In honor of young Jacob, William has prepared a king's feast in the Great Hall."

The dark-haired girl Diana had noticed earlier was on her feet in an instant. "But what about the presents?"

Jacob smiled. "Ah, yes, Samantha. We mustn't forget the presents."

Diana felt a light touch at her elbow and turned to meet Julia's cheerful grin. "They'll be forever opening that lot," she said with a tilt of her head toward the overloaded table. "Wouldn't you rather come and see the Great Hall? It's truly a marvel."

Diana glanced around, uncertain of the etiquette of the situation. "What's everybody else doing?"

"The little ones will stay, of course. They'll want to help open the gifts. But most of the adults will go on ahead."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

A passing teenager gave a very unladylike snort. "There's always work to do around here."

"Jamie," Julia said, a faint note of reproof in her voice. "Is that any way to speak to our new friend?"

Jamie shrugged unrepentantly. "It's true."

"Then," Diana interrupted, unwilling to be the center of an argument, "I'd like to help."

Julia nodded, approval in her warm gaze. "This way, then. I'm sure the others will join us shortly."

The last thing Diana saw as Julia led her from the chamber was Vincent. He was showing Samantha how to hold the baby.


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


Diana stayed close to the rough stone wall. She'd never been afraid of heights, but there was no railing, and beyond the edges of the rough-hewn steps, the ground fell away into what looked like a bottomless chasm. The stairs seemed to go on forever, dropping deeper and deeper into a blackness only dimly relieved by the half-dozen torches that flickered wildly in the howling wind.

The adults hurried down the stairs, apparently oblivious to the danger, while the few children who'd accompanied them capered about like so many mountain goats. Occasionally, one of the adults admonished a youngster who ventured too close to the edge, but Diana saw that the warnings were unnecessary. The children were at home here, as comfortable and easy as she was in her own living room.

She'd long since given up counting the stairs—a habit she'd acquired during a childhood spent in four-story walk-ups—when they finally came to a stop before a pair of massive doors. It took two men to lift aside the wooden beam that barred the doors, and when they pushed them open, the darkness inside seemed to absorb all light, swallowing it deep within its monstrous maw. Even the flames of the torches strained toward the emptiness, and Diana stayed close to one of the torch-bearers, unnerved by the gaping darkness. She knew her fears were unfounded, that these people wouldn't be so cheerful and unconcerned if there was any danger, and yet she couldn't deny her racing heart and clammy palms.

When everybody was inside, the men closed and barred the doors, cutting off the roar of the wind. Then there was a brief flurry of activity as those with torches hurried around the room lighting candles and lifting huge chandeliers into place against the high ceiling. In moments, golden light pushed the shadows back, and though it was still chilly, braziers were already starting to warm the air. Diana's uneasiness disappeared, swept aside with the darkness, and she looked around, her eyes skimming across heavy wooden tables, high-backed chairs, and a series of intricate, woven tapestries that adorned the walls.

She finally spotted Julia on the other side of the room. She was talking to a big man who wore a white apron and brandished a wooden spoon at a youngster whose fingers had ventured too close to a chocolate cake. Diana headed in their direction, determined not to stand around like an awkward rookie fresh from the academy.

The next half hour passed in a blur of activity. Diana helped set out food, arrange the tables, and clear a space for dancing. She was folding napkins when a sudden hush fell over the room, and she looked up to see Vincent and Catherine standing at the top of the steps. For an instant, she forgot to breathe. Vincent looked almost regal. He held his head high, his hair falling in a great golden mass across the shoulders of his cloak. And at his side, Catherine held Jacob once again. She was smiling up at him, her eyes sparkling with laughter.

It took a moment for them to realize they'd become the center of attention, and then Catherine blushed and Vincent bent to whisper something in her ear that only served to darken the pink tinge on her cheeks. Vincent touched his forehead to the top of Catherine's head for the briefest of moments, and then turned to address the gathered crowd.

"Thank you for joining us in this very special celebration. Please, help yourselves to the food. And I believe—" he nodded toward the far corner of the chamber where a string quartet was poised and ready to play, "we will soon be treated to some wonderful music."

There was a scattering of applause and a general move in the direction of the food-laden tables, but Diana stayed where she was, watching Vincent and Catherine come down the steps. How had they entered the chamber without anybody noticing? If the main doors had been opened, surely the wind would've blown out all the candles. It was almost as if they'd appeared there by magic, transported through space and time to grace the gathering with their presence. Diana almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of that thought. Where had her pragmatism gone? Where was the fatalistic cynicism with which she usually viewed the world?

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to greet you when you first arrived," Father said, his unexpected appearance at her side distracting her from the mystery. "I want to thank you for what you did for Vincent and Catherine. What you did for all of us."

"I was just doing my job." It was her standard response to such comments, and yet it seemed out of place and insubstantial in this fairy-tale world.

"No." His vehemence took her by surprise. "Without you, we would have lost them both. And they are everything to us."

They watched together as Vincent and Catherine made their way through the crowd of well-wishers to join them.

"Father," Vincent said, amused, "are you monopolizing our guest?"

"Not at all, I was just thanking her for her help."

"And embarrassing her." Catherine smiled warmly. "But he's right, Diana. We owe you everything."

Diana changed the subject, desperate to steer the conversation away from herself. "I never would have guessed so many people could live down here. How do you all manage?"

"We help each other," Father said, "and we have friends in the world Above who do what they can."

"Yes, but where do you get food? Clothes? Medical care?"

Vincent tilted his head, humor lurking in his eyes. "So many questions."

Diana let her eyes skip away to the loaded tables. "Occupational hazard, I guess."

"Are you hungry?" Catherine asked. "There's plenty of food."

"Good food!" piped up a new voice, startling Diana. Did everybody move so stealthily down here? "Brought cake!"

Mouse, she remembered. Some day she'd love to learn his story. He seemed such an unusual boy. Diana accepted the cake even though she wasn't really hungry. He was so friendly and eager to please. She didn't have the heart to disappoint him.

"Thank you."

Mouse's answer was a wide grin and a quick, shy nod before he turned to Vincent and Catherine. "Naming today," he said brightly, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. "Wedding tomorrow?"

Diana blinked, stunned by the bluntness of the question. And yet, she couldn't deny a keen interest in the response. Luckily, Vincent and Catherine seemed amused rather than annoyed. Vincent put his arm around Catherine's waist before answering.

"We thought," he said, with a quick glance at Father, "perhaps next week?"

Mouse stared, wide-eyed, and Diana was certain he hadn't expected Vincent to take him seriously. Then he broke into a brilliant smile.

"Okay good! Okay fine!" An instant later he'd scurried away from them to climb up on one of the heavy chairs. "Everybody! Look!"

Silence fell and the clatter of forks and knives stuttered to a stop as heads turned in Mouse's direction. Catherine leaned against Vincent, a soft smile lighting her eyes when Vincent brushed a kiss against the top of her head.

"Vincent and Catherine are getting married!"

There was an instant of stunned surprise, and then everybody started talking at once. In moments, Vincent and Catherine were surrounded by well-wishers, and Diana allowed herself to be pushed back, separate from these people whose lives were so intricately intertwined.

She wandered over to one of the long wooden tables and sat down to eat her cake, but before she could put the first bite in her mouth, somebody sat down beside her.

"Hi, I'm Pascal. We met a little while ago. At the naming ceremony?"

"I remember. Hi." She put down her fork and smiled at him.

He shifted restlessly and shot a glance toward the doors. "I, um, can't stay for long, but I wanted to thank you."

More gratitude. She might drown in it before the day was over. Still, it was nice to be appreciated. "It was nothing. Really."

"I've embarrassed you." Pascal dropped his eyes and fiddled with an abandoned napkin. "I'm sorry. I just . . . I wanted you to know how much Vincent means to us. How much they both mean to us."

Diana looked toward Vincent and Catherine. She could just make out the top of Vincent's head as he bent to speak with somebody. "I can see that."

Pascal followed the direction of her gaze. "He's an amazing man."

"Yes. He is."

"If there's ever anything you need, anything we can do to help . . . just ask."

"Thank you. I appreciate that." She hardly expected to take advantage of the offer. She was moving to Portland, for God's sake. Still, it was a generous offer.

"Look." Pascal gestured with his chin, and Diana looked up to see Catherine and Vincent moving across the room. Catherine handed baby Jacob to one of the women, and then Vincent took her hand in his as he led her onto the makeshift dance floor. An instant later, the sweet, high tones of a lone violin filled the air.

Vincent stopped and turned, and Diana experienced an instant of breathless anticipation before he took Catherine in his arms and eased her into a slow waltz. The sight of the two of them, their bodies moving across the dance floor in perfect synchrony, was breathtaking, and Diana swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat. Whatever else Vincent may have been or done in his life, his presence here was right and true, and she didn't believe him capable of cold-blooded murder any more than she believed that frogs could fly.

She'd done the right thing here, and her spirits soared with the knowledge that for once, one of her cases had come with a happy ending.


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


Vincent and Catherine guided her back to the tunnel entrance sometime after midnight. At the stone portal, Diana stopped and turned to face them.

"I want to thank you," she said, "for making me feel welcome."

"You felt welcome because you are welcome," Vincent said. "If ever you need a home, or a place to rest, these tunnels and chambers will be kept warm for you by friends."

They were so generous, these people who lived, mole-like, far beneath the hustle and bustle of city life. But it was a tenuous existence at best. How long could they survive here, undiscovered? How long before the cruelties of her world invaded the peaceful tranquility of this one? She didn't know the answer, but she would do everything in her power to protect their secret.

"I have a confession to make," she said, turning to Catherine. "I took your rose bush."

"The little one on my balcony?"

Diana nodded. "I was afraid it would die if I left it there."

"I'm surprised it's still alive."

"I wasn't sure it was when I took it home. But I pruned it back and watered it, and a few days ago it bloomed."

"Both colors?" Pleased surprise brightened Catherine's eyes and brought a smile to her lips.

"Yes. It's gorgeous. You should see it."

"I have seen it," Catherine said, with a quick glance up at Vincent, "and it is beautiful." She stepped close and touched Diana's arm. "I'm glad you took it. It's right that it should find a new life with you."

Vincent pressed the hidden lever, and with a low rumble, the stone panel rolled aside, revealing the shadowed entrance to the world Above.

Diana smiled a little sadly. She hadn't known them for long, and yet they seemed like very dear friends. She would miss them. "Goodbye, Vincent. Goodbye, Catherine."

Their voices mingled and danced in the shadows, the words, "Be well," echoing in Diana's ears long after the portal closed behind her. She stood still while the magic drifted away like wisps of candle-smoke on the gentle spring breeze.

Then she tugged at her jacket, lifted her shoulders, and with her back straight and her head held high, returned to her own world.


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

Epilogue

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


Vincent stood quietly, his heartbeat slow and heavy in his chest, his eyes fixed on the stone steps. Each one bore a pair of tall candleholders, and each candleholder held a single white candle, the effect that of a golden pathway of dancing light. Behind him, dozens of well-wishers waited in expectant silence beyond the double row of candelabras that continued the pathway from where he stood to the makeshift altar at the other end of the Great Hall. The community's anticipation was almost palpable—a breathless suspense that filled the chamber with excitement—so that the air itself seemed almost to shimmer with it.

But Vincent might as well have been alone, so intent was he on Catherine and on the joy that flowed to him through their bond. She hadn't yet arrived, though he knew she was close. The wind howled outside the heavy double doors, but it could not enter here, and Vincent knew that Catherine, too, walked in peace, descending to him by candlelight through a narrow, little used passage-way that bypassed the Chamber of the Winds. In a moment, she would step through the hidden entrance at the top of the steps, delivered safely into his keeping by the same tunnels that had been his refuge all his life.

Somewhere behind him, a pair of violins eased into the first sweet notes of Vivaldi's "Spring"—one of his favorite pieces, and one that seemed eminently appropriate. For the tunnel community, a long hard winter had come to an end, a winter of the soul—brutal with pain and loss. Spring had finally arrived, bringing with it a sense of hope and of new beginnings, and Vincent felt as if he and Catherine stood together on a precipice. A new life was opening up before them, a life filled with priceless gifts.

A sound, the faintest brush of silken slipper against cold stone, drew his attention upward, and suddenly she was there. His breath caught in his throat as he recognized her dress. It was the same one she'd worn on their first anniversary; the night he'd given her the crystal that glowed with rainbow fire against her breast; the night she'd given him the ivory rose that rested against his own heart. He remembered how amazed he'd been that she'd chosen to honor the occasion of their first meeting, a time of pain and fear, with dancing light. And he remembered how she'd looked at him, her gaze filled with love and trust. That night, for the first time, he'd allowed himself to dream.

A sensation of having come full-circle washed over him as she started down the steps. That night seemed so long ago, its tender promise little more than a distant memory. They were different people now, each altered by all that had happened since and by the mysterious bond that joined them together. How strange, that one person could affect another so deeply—and how wondrous.

Her eyes found his, held, and she glided toward him as though drawn forward by the air itself. She was his everything—his past, his present, his future—his world. She was stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful, and the idea that he, of all people, should be blessed with her love was a source of unending amazement. He wanted to sprint up the steps, swing her into his arms, and carry her off someplace where he could have that beauty all to himself—his own private treasure.

He shook off the selfish thought, but it was only with the greatest effort of will that he kept his place, holding her gaze, his hand outstretched toward hers. And when, a moment later, she slipped her fingers into his, it was as though heaven itself had taken up residence against his palm. For an instant, all breath, all thought . . . left him, and he floundered, uncertain. Then she smiled, her eyes catching the flickering candlelight, and he knew that his entire life had been but a prelude to this moment.

She stepped close, the heat of her body radiating gentle warmth. The bond glowed with her happiness, and Vincent could almost imagine it lighting the air around her, enveloping them both in its brilliant, golden aura.

"Ready?" Her voice seemed to shimmer and dance, as delicate as butterfly wings.

"Yes." The single syllable couldn't possibly convey the wealth of emotion that swelled in his chest, and yet it was all he could manage. In a matter of minutes, Father would perform the simple ceremony that would bind them forever as husband and wife. It was a prospect both daunting and miraculous.

With tender care, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, folding his fingers over hers.

Then, together, they turned to face their destiny.
 

 

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