Dancing in the Shadows

Ayiana

Chapter 15

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

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

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

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

"Catherine, I know his name."

"Whose name?"

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

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

"Tell me," she said.

"It's Gabriel."

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

Vincent nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay?" she asked softly.

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

"You know me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pier 39—The Compass Rose. Midnight.

 

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

 

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

"Found your comet yet?" Mark asked.

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

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

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

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

"A what?"

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

"Tell me," she said.

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

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

"Where?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

Vincent was waiting for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Everything."

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

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

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

"Catherine was wrong about many things."

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

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

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

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

"Elliot."

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

"Be careful."

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

It was gone.

"His ring?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

"I was just thinking."

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

Catherine nodded. "Yes, he is."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That he'll send you away?"

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

"Was he right?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You can tell me yourself."

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

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

"Goodnight, Julia. Rest well."

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

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

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

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

"How is he?"

"He's safe for now."

"Is he going to help?"

"He said he would do what he could."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The one where—"

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

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

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

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

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

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