Dancing in the Shadows

Ayiana

Chapter 18

The small room was dingy—poorly lit and worn down by the passage of thousands of people through its long, weary lifetime. Elliot approached the window and tapped on the glass, leaving a faint grayish smudge in the thick film of dirt. Disgusted, he wiped his hand on his pant leg, his thoughts leaping ahead to the shower he'd take as soon as he got home. His suit was ruined, of course. What a waste.

The heavy panel snagged against its metal track as it slid open, and the resulting screech set Elliot's teeth on edge. A taciturn officer with garlic breath and sweat-stained armpits handed him a clipboard.

"Sign on the line."

With a nod, Elliot scrawled his signature and handed the clipboard back, trading it for a bulky envelope that contained his wallet and keys.

"Mr. Burch." The voice came from behind him, and Elliot turned to see a well-dressed man who smiled in a way that made him distinctly uneasy. "How nice to meet you at last." The man extended his hand in greeting. "I've heard so much about you."

Elliot ignored the hand. "Who the hell are you?"

"Jonathan Pope." Pope nodded at the empty envelope on the counter. "You're being released, Mr. Burch. Pending arraignment, of course."

Elliot looked around the deserted room. "Where's Richards? Did he set this up?"

"I'm afraid Mr. Richards has had to take himself off the case. His little girl is missing. Very sad." But Pope didn’t look sad at all. Only content—the same way a cat looked content after finishing off a fat canary.

"Who sent you?"

"A friend." Pope smiled slightly. "Just think of him as the player on the other side."

"Gabriel." The name tasted like bile in Elliot's mouth.

"He's a great admirer of yours." With a polite nod of the head, Pope gestured toward the door. "And he's very anxious to meet you. Shall we?"

 

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

 

The short ride was accomplished in silence. Elliot watched the passing traffic, refusing to meet Pope's eyes as the big car glided through the quiet streets. Ten minutes later, they pulled to a stop at a painfully familiar cemetery.

"He's waiting for you," Pope said, letting him out of the car. "I trust you know the way."

Elliot eyed the bulge of a handgun visible underneath Pope's coat. "Will I be coming back?"

"That's entirely up to you, Mr. Burch." Pope got back in the car and slammed the door. The vehicle pulled away, leaving Elliot alone to face whatever—or whoever—was waiting for him.

The cemetery was empty, peopled only by the silent voices of the dead and the cold impassivity of their headstones. Tiny shoots of grass had already begun to grow over the grave, and Elliot stopped to stare at the recently placed marker—Cathy's entire life reduced to a few chiseled words, a pair of dates, and the fading scent of wilted flowers.

"Why do people put flowers on graves?"

Elliot turned to see a slim, dark-eyed man approach. The elusive Gabriel. It had to be.

Gabriel stopped at Elliot's side, his eyes on the bedraggled bouquets. "Do they really think it makes death smell sweeter?"

Elliot drew in a slow breath. He had to keep his head, had to think clearly. The only thing he had left was his mind. Everything else had been stripped away. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" Gabriel looked as though the idea amused him.

"Only the company." Cold fury laced the quiet words.

"Elliot." Gabriel's voice dripped with amused condescension. "The war is over. In a month you'll be bankrupt. In a year you'll be in prison. Half your people are already mine."

"You're lying." Elliot struggled to keep his composure as he wondered just how far Gabriel was willing to go.

"Maybe I am." Gabriel gave him a small, tight smile. "But how will you ever be sure?" Something about the voice, its timbre maybe, or its utter lack of inflection, sent a frisson of cold fear arcing along Elliot's spine.

"Machiavelli wrote that a wise prince knows it is better to be feared than loved," Gabriel said. He gestured with a wave of his arm. "Look around you. All these tombstones. All these wasted possibilities." He met Elliot’s eyes. "There's no reason for us to be enemies, Elliot."

Elliot stabbed his finger toward the freshly planted slab of granite. "There's your reason."

"Catherine Chandler." Gabriel eyed the headstone and sighed. "You know, if I had known all the trouble it would cause, I would never have killed her." He shook his head. "But it's done. There she lies. If you want to lie down beside her, so be it." He turned back to Elliot. "But I heard that you were a more practical man."

"Maybe I was. Once." Elliot's gaze was drawn back to the headstone. "She changed me."

Gabriel shook his head. "I don't think so."

"What do you mean?"

"I know you."

"You don't know anything about me," Elliot snarled.

"I know you," Gabriel said, unmoved by Elliot's outburst. "I know who you came from. I watched you climb. I know the price you paid. Rung by rung." Elliot saw a flash of gold as Gabriel twisted a ring on his finger. "The world is not that nice."

Elliot stared at Cathy's grave, remembering the beautiful, vibrant woman she'd been—and wishing there'd been a gun in that envelope they'd given him at the police station.

"But you and I," Gabriel said. "We're different. We belong to an earlier time." He glanced around the graveyard and then back at Elliot. Over their heads, a hawk drifted on the wind.

Gabriel tilted his head, watching the bird. "Five hundred years ago," he said, "we would've been conquerors. Kings. Smaller men would shower us with titles. And after we died, they would've built us pyramids." He shook his head, bringing his gaze back to Elliot. "You've come so far. You've pulled yourself up out of the dirt. Halfway to the stars. Do you really want to throw it all away for the sake of a woman who never loved you?"

The protest rose automatically to Elliot's lips. "She—"

"She what?" Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "She told him everything about you. She told you . . .? Nothing about him."

Elliot tried to block out the words. He didn't want to hear this, couldn't bear to be reminded of Cathy's divided loyalties. But Gabriel went on, either not noticing or deliberately ignoring Elliot's discomfort.

"She kept his secrets. And your dreams?" Gabriel shook his head. "Meant nothing to her."

The words were like knives in Elliot's heart, painful, sharp-edged things that made him want to cry out. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

"She loved him," Gabriel went on. "And she bore him a child."

Gabriel was manipulating him. Elliot knew that. It was a game he had used often in his own climb to success. And yet there was enough truth in the words to send a stab of jealous anger through his heart.

"I didn't take her away from you, Elliot. He did." Gabriel waited a beat. "But I could give it all back to you. Everything you've lost. Wealth. Power. I can help you own it. Together we can build towers that will last for a thousand years." He gestured at the grave. "Or . . . you can have this."

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

 

Catherine hesitated at the entrance to the store room. By the end of the day, Julia might regret agreeing to let her help. But she had to find a way to distract herself from her loneliness. It had only been a day since Vincent had left her by the mirror pool, but already it felt like a lifetime.

"Julia?"

"Here," Julia's cheerful voice rang out from the other end of the room. "Is that you, Catherine?"

"Sure is."

"There’s a box there by the table. Would you mind bringing it back here?"

"No problem." Catherine found Julia surrounded by piles of clothing and discarded hangers. "Here you go."

"Great. Thanks." Julia indicated an empty spot on the floor and Catherine set down the box. "One of the helpers sent down a new shipment today. I thought I’d try to get it sorted before dinner." She picked up a handful of hangers. "You here to chat? Or to work."

"To work."

Julia nodded sympathetically. "’Tis a lonely washing that has no man’s shirt in it," she said. "Me Mum used to say that." She passed the hangers to Catherine and waved at the clothing filled box as she went on. "When I was a girl, I wondered what she meant by it. Now . . ." She sighed. There was a sadness in her eyes that made Catherine wonder what had brought her to the tunnels.

With a little shrug of her shoulders, Julia picked up a shirt, examining it in the torch-light. "What do you think?" she asked. "Pascal?"

Catherine grinned. The shirt was bright orange, with a wide black collar and cuffs. "Father, I think."

Julia laughed, and the somber moment passed as they got to work. Some of the clothes went right onto hangers. Others were sorted into piles to be remade into other items.

"Do you know how to quilt?" Julia asked at one point.

"No," Catherine said. "My mother died when I was very young, and my father wasn't exactly the crafty type."

"Mary makes lovely quilts. Have you seen them?"

Catherine nodded. "I doubt I could ever sew like that."

"Sure you can. We’ll start tonight." She began piling sorted clothing in one of the discarded boxes. "After all," she said. "Well begun is half done."

"Your mother again?"

"No." Julia tossed her an impish smile. "Aristotle."

 

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

 

The dilapidated building brought back painful childhood memories—memories Elliot tried to block out as he followed the sound of the music. Jazz again. Such beauty for such a sad place. He found Clarence's room and knocked twice on the scarred wooden door. The music stopped. The door opened. Inside, Elliot saw faded furniture, an old lamp, and a scattering of newspapers. Clarence looked at him expectantly, the golden saxophone cradled lovingly in his arms.

"Can I help you, Mr. Burch?"

Elliot tried a smile, but it felt stiff. "Do I look like I need help?"

The old man gazed shrewdly at him. "Poor men aren't the only ones who lose their way."

"I know my way." Elliot held out a piece of paper wrapped around a hundred-dollar bill.

Clarence took the folded stationary and tucked it in his pocket.

"Don't you want the money?"

Shaking his head, Clarence started to close the door. "I'll see that he gets your note. No charge."

Elliot put his foot out to stop the door from closing completely. He offered the money again. "Not for the note. For the music."

Clarence eyed him sharply for a moment, and then with a brief nod of gratitude accepted the bill. Then the door closed again, and Elliot shoved his hands deep inside his pockets as he turned away, forcing himself not to think about what Cathy would say if she knew what he'd just set in motion.

 

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

 

The absence of sound hammered at Vincent's ears—the dull thud of his own heartbeat and the faint whoosh of blood through his veins his only proof that he had not, as he almost believed, crossed over into some Dante-inspired netherworld peopled by dark and silent spirits. With a sigh, he gave up on reading and closed the book, his gaze boring into the impenetrable blackness that prowled hungrily just beyond the reach of the torch.

He missed her. The feeling was not new to him, but it had a new depth, as if his entire body yearned for her presence instead of just his heart. Every fiber of his being called out to him to go to her—to take her in his arms, bury his face in her hair and draw her scent deep into his lungs. And yet he remained convinced that the only hope he had of protecting her lay in his absence.

A scuffling sound distracted him from his thoughts, and he stiffened, sinking deeper into the shadows. As he watched and waited, he recognized the regular pattern of human footsteps. When the intruder was nearly upon him, Vincent leapt out of his hiding place with a roar that made his visitor leap back with a sudden cry of fear.

"Vincent! You scared me!"

Blowing out a breath as the adrenalin rush eased, Vincent relaxed back against the wall. "Remember that fear. It could keep you alive." He watched Mouse tug his helmet back into place. "How did you find me?"

"Can't hide from Mouse." Mouse lifted his chin, his jaw tightening stubbornly. "Want to help."

Vincent shook his head. "Nothing you can do."

"Plenty Mouse can do. Building, fixing, finding, taking . . ."

"Dying?" It was harsh, but Mouse had to be made to understand the danger. "This is something I must do alone."

"Mouse was alone once. Alone is bad. Worse than bad. Worse than worse." He thrust a crumpled piece of paper at Vincent.

Vincent unfolded it and read the short message.

Compass Rose. Meet me. Good news.

Mouse shifted restlessly, never one to stand still for long. "What was in the note?"

Vincent refolded the slip of paper and tucked it in his pocket. "Hope."

Lifting his head, he gazed into the blackness, a blackness whose edges seemed almost to glimmer with golden light. Emily Dickinson was right, he thought. Hope truly is the thing with feathers.

 

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

 

Diana stared at the wall of pictures. Catherine Chandler. Elliot Burch. Joe Maxwell. Dozens of nameless faces. She held a worn book of poetry in her hand, and now she pulled her gaze from the pictures to open it, looking for Thomas Gray’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. The line that caught and held her gaze had been repeating itself in her mind for days.

"The paths of glory lead but to the grave." She read the words aloud. Slowly. Rolling each one on her tongue while she tried to understand the message her subconscious was trying to communicate.

It hit her all at once. She snapped the book closed, wincing when a too slow fingertip got caught between the covers. That was it. "Her grave."

Of course! Vincent would visit the cemetery. He’d have to. Whatever had kept him away on the day of the funeral, he’d have to see her final resting place. His love for Catherine would demand it.

She would wait for him there.

 

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

 

Something had drawn Father to the mirror pool, some inexplicable need, and now he stared into the still waters and tried to put aside the misgivings that had plagued him ever since Vincent had told him of his decision to leave. Vincent was a man, with a man's will, and Father had no place interfering with that. Still, he wouldn't rest easily until Vincent was safely home.

There was a light footstep behind him, and he turned to see Brooke entering the small chamber. She cast a wary look at the water, as if wondering whether the spirits of Steven and Sam might yet be lurking in its depths.

"Father, I had to find you. Ask you—" She came to a stop just inside the entrance. "Was it because of me that Vincent went away?"

There was a great deal of pain in her voice. And guilt. She was too young to bear such a heavy burden, and Father's heart ached to see her suffer so.

"No, child. Come here." When she did, he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to his side, sharing what little comfort he could. Together, they looked at the reflected image of the night sky.

"Vincent left because he had to," Father said. "Because he loved us. And because his destiny lies up there, now." He cast a glance upward, to where the sky was hidden beyond the stone ceiling of the chamber. "Beneath those . . . stranger stars."

 

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

 

Vincent passed through the cemetery again, but this time he didn’t linger at the empty grave. He was in a hurry. Elliot had news. Perhaps he would finally have the information Vincent sought. The thought gave speed to his steps, and he arrived at the boatyard long before the appointed meeting time. At its boundary, he slowed to a stop and scanned for any sign that he was not alone. But all was quiet.

Staying in the shadows, he slipped into the boatyard and made his way to the furthest pier. There he hesitated again, every sense alert to the presence of others. There was nothing. He straightened his hood, hiding himself more deeply in its dark folds before moving forward once more. This time, he didn’t stop until he was safely on board the Compass Rose.

He settled down in the darkness to wait.

 

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

 

After dinner, Julia showed Catherine the way to the sewing chamber. Mary was already there, along with Lena and Sara and several other women, some of whom Catherine recognized and others who were new to her. The women welcomed her warmly, and the unfamiliar twinge of shyness that had hovered over Catherine when she'd first entered soon faded. The feeling bothered her. Ordinarily, she enjoyed meeting new people. But then, these weren't just any strangers; these women were part of Vincent's family, and for his sake, she wanted them to like her.

A quilting frame stood in one corner of the chamber, a partially finished quilt stretched across it, and a nearby loom was strung with brightly colored yarns. Somebody was weaving something. A rug, maybe? An old sewing machine rested on a table near the chamber entrance, and boxes of fabric and notions lined the walls and spilled out of two wooden cabinets. Somehow Catherine couldn't imagine immersing herself in this alien world of needles and thread on any kind of regular basis, but the work might at least provide a distraction from the fear and worry that knotted her shoulders and kept her awake at night.

"The buttons come off first," Mary was saying. "They go in there." She indicated an old cookie tin in the center of the table. "The cuffs and collars go in that box beside you. Then we take out the seams and see what we have left." She showed Catherine the shirt she was working with. "If you’re careful, you can get five good pieces of fabric out of a shirt. Sleeves, two front pieces, and a nice piece from the back."

"Pants and skirts aren’t much different," said Julia from the other side of the table. "Save the buttons, snaps, and zippers, take out the seams, sort out the rest. We don’t get too many of those, though. Most of what comes in goes back out to the community almost at once. But there are times—" She held up the pair of pants she’d been working with. Bright pink with yellow stripes. "—we get some in that even we tunnel dwellers refuse to wear." She grinned.

Catherine tried to smile back, but she was distracted. Where was Vincent now? What was he doing? Was he safe? She forced her attention back to the job at hand. She had to stay busy. Pulling a brightly flowered shirt out of the box beside her, she set to work. Be well, Vincent, she thought. Come back to me.

 

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

 

Vincent felt Elliot’s approach before he heard it. There was a slight ripple in the air, a sensation of another presence close at hand. Seconds later he heard the thud of heavy footsteps against the dock. He saw Elliot stop and peer down into the darkness.

"Elliot." Vincent kept his voice low. He was uneasy, but he didn't know why. Something was wrong.

"Vincent," Elliot said. "Come here. I’ve got something to show you."

There was tension in Elliot’s voice. And anger. Why? Vincent stepped out of the shadows, but he stayed low, every sense alert. "What's wrong?"

"You're what's wrong." Elliot said bitterly. "Look at you. I could've given Cathy the whole world. What did you give her?"

Vincent was startled by the venom in Elliot's voice, but he answered honestly. Elliot deserved that much from him.

"All I could," he said. "All I had. All I was." It was the truth, or as much of it as Vincent could give. Elliot believed that Catherine was dead, and if he blamed Vincent for that it was right that he should be angry. But why now?

Elliot stared at him, and Vincent could see him thinking, considering something he could only guess at. Then his expression hardened with determination, and he cast a hurried glance over his shoulder.

"The message was a lie." The bitterness was gone, replaced by stark fear. "Get out of here. Now! You were a fool to trust me!"

Vincent hesitated, confused. The message was a lie? How could that be? Why would Elliot lie to him?

"Go! Now!" There was terror in Elliot's voice now, and an edge of panic.

Vincent reached out to him. "Catherine trusted you," he said. "Let me help you, Elliot."

"Vincent!"

Elliot tumbled forward into Vincent's arms as a sharp crack of noise split the night air. Gunfire. Vincent lowered Elliot to the deck and felt the warm stickiness of blood against his fingers. Stunned by the unexpected turn of events, Vincent knew only that he had to act, had to get them both to safety.

Elliot fumbled in his pocket. "Take this. Go!"

The ring. Vincent dropped it in his pocket as he shook his head. "You wouldn't leave me." Could Elliot swim? Could he tow him to safety in the murky waters? A hail of bullets ricocheted off metal and thudded into soft wood. There was no time to delay.

"You're damn right I would." Elliot’s voice was tight with pain.

"You're lying again." Vincent's voice was calm, but his mind raced.

What came next happened so fast that later Vincent would have trouble piecing it together. Elliot shoved him, and the boat rocked violently beneath his feet, and then he felt himself losing his balance, the world tilting crazily as he fell. There was a shout. His? Elliot's?

And then the world exploded.

 

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

 

"No!"

Catherine saw a bright flash of light, felt a sudden, excruciating pain, and heard a sound louder and more terrifying than any she had ever heard before. She struggled against a horrible conviction that she was sinking, dragged down into utter blackness by something she couldn't see and didn't know how to fight. Mary and Julia were bending over her. They were white-faced, and they were saying something to her, but Catherine couldn’t understand the words, couldn’t bring herself to speak the fear that tore through her heart.

 

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

 

When the streak of light fell across the mirror pool, Father caught his breath. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but tonight, with so much unrest, so much fear and worry weighing on him, the falling star felt like an omen.

"Father . . ." Brooke’s voice came to him from a distance. "What's wrong?"

The quote came unbidden, the words falling from his lips of their own accord. "When beggars die," he said, "there are no comets seen." He stared at the place the flash had disappeared, his arm tightening around Brooke’s thin shoulders. "But the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes."

 

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

 

The nursery was quiet, lit only by the moonlight that streamed through the wide windows. A mobile swung gently over the ornate crib, stirred to life by the press of Gabriel's body against the narrow railing.

The child was awake. Alert. Crying in the darkness. In fact, Gabriel realized, his son almost never slept in his presence. He wondered at the meaning of that. Then he decided it was more proof of the child’s extraordinary abilities. Julian waved his arms and kicked at the light cotton blanket that covered his legs, his small face wet with tears.

Gabriel reached out and adjusted the blanket. The child must stay warm. His health was paramount.

"Don't be afraid," he said, remembering the bright flash as the Compass Rose had exploded, sending flaming debris across the boatyard. He’d solved two problems tonight, a fact that brought a smile of satisfaction to his lips. "It's over. You're safe now."

Julian's tears glistened in the moonlight.