Dancing in the Shadows

Ayiana

Chapter 17

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And his shattered dreams.

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you," she said.

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

Gabriel nodded. "He’s strong."

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

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

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

"Oh?"

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

"Ah, Vincent. Come in."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go? Where?"

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

"What about Catherine?"

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

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

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

"When will you tell her?"

"Soon."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diana lifted a rough piece of concrete and dropped it heavily on top of the papers on her desk. He glanced down at it.

"Vincent." The name was carved into the concrete in crude letters. It reminded him of all the times he'd carved his name into tree trunks as a kid. He looked back up at her. "Where'd you get this?"

"Drainage tunnel under the park. Did you know there are hundreds of unmapped tunnels beneath this city?"

"So?" From animals to concrete slabs to drainage tunnels? Where was she going with this?

"So—" She lifted her hands. Dropped them again in frustration. "I don't know." She started across the room. Turned back. "What kind of roses did she like?"

Joe blinked at the abrupt change of subject. "What do I look like, her florist?"

"The only way that you can get a red and a white rose to grow off the same bush is with a special graft. Did you know that?"

Joe shrugged. "Maybe she couldn't make up her mind."

Diana shook her head. "There's a language to flowers. The red rose means passion and love, and the white rose is eternity or death. Now somehow, I don't know how, but somehow Vincent knew when she was in trouble, and he came to her. He was her protector."

Her protector? What the hell was she on? "You sound like you know this guy."

"Sometimes I feel like I do." She stood up and moved away to look out the window.

"Let's say I buy this for a second, okay?" He crossed to her side, gazing out at the dirty New York streets. "Where is he now?"

"Somewhere."

"Somewhere?" He tilted his head. Somewhere was a pretty big place.

"Somewhere close." Beyond the window, the city of New York stretched away into the hazy distance.

 

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

 

Catherine had realized Vincent had something on his mind as soon as she'd woken up, but when he'd deflected her questions, she hadn't pushed. Now they were standing by the Mirror Pool and everything inside her had just turned to ice.

"No." The single syllable, flat and uncompromising, fell between them like a stone.

"Catherine—"

"How can you even consider it?" She folded her arms across her chest and hugged herself against a wave of piercing cold that had nothing to do with temperature.

"This man," Vincent said. "This Gabriel." He hesitated. "He's dangerous, Catherine."

"Do you think I don't know that?" She heard the hysteria in her voice, but she was helpless to hold it back.

Gabriel's chiseled features rose in her mind, and for a panic-stricken instant she imagined he stood before her. She gasped as the chamber walls gave way to water-stained acoustical tiles and halogen lights, and all at once she was back on that table, begging him to let her see her baby.

He'd barely even looked at her. "Finish it," he'd said, his voice flat, and cold, and utterly devoid of humanity.

She shook her head and drew in a shuddering breath, pushing the images back by sheer force of will.

"Six months, Vincent! Can you even conceive of what it was like?" Her voice trembled, and when he took a step towards her, she backed away from him, seeking refuge in the darkest corner of the shadowed chamber.

"They kept me locked up, and there were—" She closed her eyes as the memories washed over her in great suffocating waves. In her mind, she saw again the unblinking eyes of the cameras. They'd tracked every movement, every gesture, with silent, red-eyed, menace—until by the end, she'd even begun to suspect them of tracking her thoughts.

"I was never, ever alone." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And yet I've never felt so utterly and completely alone in all my life."

She'd been staring at the water while she talked, legs braced and shoulders hunched against the deluge of painful memories, but as her last words faded into the shadows something—a sound? An instinct?—made her lift her head. Vincent was watching her, some unfathomable emotion in his eyes, but when he reached out to her she flinched away again, seeing not his hand, but the long, elegantly manicured fingers of a monster who only looked like a man.

"It's over now, Catherine." Vincent's voice barely reached her through the haze of remembered fear. "You're safe."

"No." She shook her head. "I'm not." She turned back to the water and the play of torchlight across its surface. "None of us are."

She sat down, leaning her shoulders against the reassuring solidity of the granite wall and pulling her knees up to her chest. Her voice was little more than a whisper when she continued. "I never knew whether it was day or night, sunny or rainy." Her eyes burned with tears but she blinked them away, her hands curling into fists. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't let it break her. Not now. Not ever. "There was no Thanksgiving. No Christmas or Winterfest—just the never-ending aloneness."

And the examinations. A shudder swept through her as she remembered the absolute humiliation, the degradation. No. She wouldn't talk about that. Not now. Maybe not ever. Not even to Vincent.

A whisper of sound alerted her to his movement, and she snapped her head up, wide-eyed with fear and fighting an unreasoning urge to flee as he crossed to her side. He moved slowly, as one might approach a wild bird with a broken wing, and when she flinched, he froze, sitting down an arm's length away and folding his legs beneath him. His cloak shrouded him in darkness, and though he didn't look at her, she sensed the intensity of his attention in his absolute stillness.

"The only thing I had," she said, when the fear subsided once more and her heart ceased its rapid tattoo against her ribs, "the only thing that kept me going, was our baby." She imagined she could still feel him moving inside her, his tiny feet knocking against her ribs, his hiccups making her stomach leap and dance.

"I talked to him." Her voice softened and her hand settled protectively over her stomach, soothing the infant that was no longer there. "I didn't know what was going to happen to him, and I wanted him to know who his parents were and how much we loved him. So I would lie on the bed, and curl up around him, and whisper to him for hours."

She glanced up to find Vincent watching her with a tenderness that was almost more than she could bear. Hastily, she dropped her eyes, certain that if she held his gaze for too long, she'd lose her tenuous grip on her self-control.

"I told him everything." She remembered searching her mind, reliving every moment she'd shared with Vincent so that she could pass the memories on to their child. "I told him about me, and about you—about how we met and where you lived and how much I loved you and how happy you would be when you found him."

She knew it hurt him to hear this, but she couldn't seem to make herself stop talking. "I knew they wouldn't let me live, because I'd seen them. I could identify them. And I wanted our baby to know how lucky he was to have you for a father."

"Catherine . . ." The way he said her name, his voice rough with pain, made her lift her head. For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then, moving slowly, as if he was afraid he might frighten her again, he opened his arms. At first she did nothing, too deeply enmeshed in the nightmarish memories to accept the comfort he offered.

And then something broke loose inside her, and with a wrenching sob, she fell into his arms. Immediately, he pulled her close, surrounding her in protective warmth, and finally, blessedly, she let the tears come, because here, in the safety of his arms, she didn't have to be strong, didn't have to prove herself, or protect herself, or worry that he would think less of her for giving vent to the raw pain that peopled her nightmares and made her cling to him each time he ventured Above.

The storm eased slowly, giving way to exhausted silence. Gradually, she became aware that he was rocking her back and forth, crooning meaningless words in a low voice. She rested against him, taking strength from his love and his constant, unwavering belief in her. And when, a few minutes later, she began to speak again, her voice was steadier, the fear no longer a living, howling presence in her mind.

"When I went into labor," she said, without lifting her head from his chest, "I tried to hide it because I knew what it meant. I was terrified. Not for me, but for him, for what would happen to him after he was born." The leather pouch she'd given him rested against his chest, and she laid her hand over it. It felt warm beneath her palm, almost as if it pulsed with a life of its own. "I was excited, and curious. I wanted so badly to see him, to hold him in my arms. But at the same time, I wondered if it would hurt to die."

Vincent tensed, his arm tightening around her shoulders, and she shifted her arm to his waist to give him a reassuring hug. She hadn't died. She was here, by his side, where she belonged—where she would always belong.

"By the time they realized what was going on, the contractions were already so close together that I didn't have the strength to fight when they strapped me to the delivery table." She could still feel the straps biting into her skin, and she rubbed her wrist against the soft fabric of Vincent's sweater, trying to replace one tactile memory with another.

"After the baby came, I begged them to let me hold him, but I barely got a glance at his face before Gabriel took him away." That monster had smiled at her son, a twisted, triumphant grin that didn't reach his eyes. "And then the doctor was filling the syringe, and all I could think about was you and our son and how desperately sad I was that I would never see either of you again."

She sat up and turned so that she could see Vincent's eyes. "He had this strange look on his face. Regret maybe? I don't know, but after he gave me the shot he loosened the straps on my wrists, and before he left . . . before he left, he said he was sorry."

Vincent eased the hair away from her eyes. Then he bent and pressed his lips to her forehead.

"Perhaps," he said, drawing back, "he found his conscience."

Catherine thought back, trying to pinpoint what it was about the doctor's expression that had seemed so strange. "I guess it's possible."

She told Vincent how she'd almost given up then. With her baby gone, and the morphine already making her drowsy, she hadn't thought she had the strength to fight anymore. But then she'd heard a commotion in the halls. People running. And screams. And some remnant of hope had made her struggle to her feet.

"Somehow I knew you'd come for us, and that I had to find you, had to tell you about our son before it was too late. I don't remember climbing the stairs to the roof, and I don't know why I was so certain I would find you there, but I remember hearing the helicopter and seeing you standing there with the wind whipping through your hair." She'd never seen anything so beautiful, his hair and cloak flying in the wind, his body lit by the rooftop spotlights. "I was so happy that the last thing I'd see would be your face."

Vincent closed his eyes, his head falling back against the chamber wall, and Catherine knew that he, too, was remembering those moments.

"He took our son, Vincent. And he ordered my death." She gripped the edges of his leather vest in her hands, as though she would hold him there herself, force him to see reason. "How can you ask me to let you face him alone?"

"Catherine . . ." Her name was little more than a breath, his gaze agonized as he looked into her eyes. For the space of several heartbeats, he said nothing more, and when he did go on, his voice was just a whisper. "I still have no memory of the first time we loved. But last night, when you gave yourself to me, it . . . changed me." He touched her chin, urging her to look up at him. "You became a part of me. More, even, than you were before. More than I ever dreamed possible." He took her hands in his. "Your strength and your courage live in me now. And when I go Above, I take you with me."

She started to shake her head, but he interrupted her before she could speak. "I can only imagine the pain, the horror, of what happened to you. If I could take that pain from you, I would, gladly. But I can't. And somewhere up there we have a son who needs us. Dig deep, Catherine. Find your strength. It lives in you still. I'm certain of it." He leaned in, and she closed her eyes as his lips brushed across hers in tender affirmation of his belief in her. Afterwards, he cradled her face in his hands and brushed his thumbs across her cheeks. "Please. Let me go. Let me do what must be done."

"How do I live with the knowledge that I might lose both of you?" She almost couldn't get the words out—the mere thought of it too horrible to contemplate. She hated this weakness in herself, this horrible feeling of vulnerability. Would she ever again be the strong and confident woman he'd fallen in love with?

He shook his head. "Only by knowing that there is no other choice."

He was right. She knew he was right, even as her heart cried out against it.

"And if Gabriel does send someone else?" She was stalling now, grasping at wisps of arguments like a child reaching for soap bubbles.

"I'll be near. You'll be safe."

She stared at him, and it was there in his eyes, the fierce determination to protect the ones he loved from the evil that loomed over them all. Suddenly terrified of what the coming days might bring, she flung her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, his name a desperate plea in the cool tunnel air. He answered with her own name as he held her tightly, almost desperately against him.

"I can’t lose you, Vincent."

"I know," he murmured, stroking her back. "I know."