Dancing in the Shadows

Ayiana

Chapter 19

It was a chilly night, made even more so by the brooding tombstones and lifeless statuary. Diana tugged her jacket more closely about her as she waited in the darkness. Had her instincts been wrong? But they rarely were. She had a knack for this stuff. It was how she’d earned the right to pick and choose her cases, the privilege of working on only one case at a time. And yet, as the hours passed and nothing happened, she began to doubt herself. Why had she assumed that Vincent would come on her first night here? Why had she assumed he’d come at all? Maybe he'd found other ways to say goodbye to the woman he'd loved so much.

She glanced up, her eyes tracking the path of a comet across the sky. Somehow she knew that this was no beggar’s comet. Somewhere, a prince had died this night. She shuddered as a superstitious shiver straightened her spine. Then, behind her, she heard a sound. Heavy, labored breathing. The faint rustle of a footstep. And then a muffled thud.

Spinning around, Diana peered into the darkness, struggling to make out the bulky shape in the shadows.

She fumbled for her flashlight. Flicked it on. Directed its light toward Cathy’s grave. It was a man. He was big, with long, tangled hair and dark clothing covered by some kind of cloak.

Her heart caught in her throat. Was this Vincent at last? She hesitated, waiting to see what he would do, but he lay still and unmoving, his body sprawled across the grave. Something was wrong. Cautiously, she eased closer, one hand on the gun in her pocket, the other holding tightly to the flashlight. When she reached his side, she ran the beam over the unmoving figure. He still didn't stir, and she dropped to her knees. He was lying on his stomach, and it took all of her strength to roll him over.

The face that met her eyes was like nothing she'd ever seen, and she gasped as she jerked her hands away. What the hell?

 

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Catherine came awake with a start. It took her a second to realize that she was still in the sewing chamber. Her head ached terribly, and she struggled to focus on the women who were crowded around her, their faces creased with worry.

"Catherine? Are you all right?" Mary rubbed her back while Julia poured her a glass of water.

"Yes." But the small nod sparked a shaft of pain, and she winced as she accepted the glass from Julia. She sipped slowly, feeling it cool her throat while she tried to think. "I . . . what happened?" And why did she have this overwhelming feeling of dread? Her thoughts were fuzzy and tangled, a mass of chaotic, shifting emotions.

Mary and Julia exchanged a look. "You fainted, dear." Mary straightened. "Julia, would you run and get Father? I believe he's at the mirror pool. I saw him headed that way earlier."

Catherine held up a hand. "No. Please don't bother him. I'm all right." Or she would be, once this horrible headache eased. But something had happened to Vincent, and she had to find him. He was Above somewhere; she was certain of it. And he was hurt.

"Are you sure?"

Standing up, Catherine backed away from the table, forcing her legs to support her weight, fighting to appear calm when inside, rising fear was urging her to run. "I'm fine. I just . . . I need to do something."

She fled the room, ignoring the voices calling out behind her. If they knew where she was going, they would try to stop her. And she didn't have time to argue with them.

Pausing at her chamber just long enough to grab her cloak, she headed Above.

 

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He was unconscious and badly hurt. Diana could see blood on his face and matted in his hair. As she stared at him, at the face that looked more feline than human, snippets of conversation flashed through her mind. ". . . coroner said it looked more like an animal attack." "He's her protector." "Up seventeen flights with no witnesses." She stood. Backed away a step. Stared down at him.

"Vincent." She was barely aware that she'd spoken, the words ghosting away from her on a whisper. He wasn't safe here. If someone saw him, someone who didn't know, didn't understand . . . She needed help. But who? A pale gleam of light at the other end of the cemetery drew her attention. There.

The night watchman jumped up when she burst into his hut.

"Jesus, Lady!" He shined his flashlight in her eyes and she raised her hands against the glare.

"I need your help." Adrenalin tightened her chest and pushed the words out in a rush. Would he still be there when she got back? Or would he be gone, leaving her to wonder forever whether he'd been a figment of her imagination?

"What the hell are you doing here?" The watchman lowered the light.

"I didn't mean to scare you, but . . ." Diana searched her mind for some explanation that would make sense, some way to convince him of the urgency of her need without giving too many details. "I need your help."

"At midnight?" He had a strong accent. Hispanic, maybe. Diana's detective brain filed the detail away with millions of others. "What kind of help do you need?"

"It'll take an hour tops, I promise. I'll pay you." Just please, please come. She resisted the urge to grab his arm and pull, but she couldn't stop herself from taking a step closer.

He hesitated. "How much?"

Her wallet was in her pocket. She grabbed for it, yanked out the bills, and flipped through them before waving the jumbled wad in his direction. "Here. That's sixty-two dollars."

He took the money, glanced down at the bills and then, warily, back at her. "You still didn't tell me what for."

Jesus. Come on already! She took a deep breath, forcing herself to sound calmer than she felt. "A friend."

"A friend." He sneered. "Lady, I'm a watchman. I got work to do." But she could see he was wavering, and she waited, sending a silent prayer heavenward while he studied her in the light of the flashlight beam. Finally, he nodded. "Okay. I guess for a beautiful lady I can make an exception."

"Let's go." She led him through the graveyard at a run.

Vincent was still there. Diana blew out a sigh of relief when they reached his side. Luckily, he hadn't moved, or he might have dislodged the cloak she'd pulled over his face. The watchman stared down at him, shaking his head.

"What happened? He drink too much?"

"I don't know." Though she doubted alcohol was responsible for the condition of his face. The watchman couldn't see that, though, and she wasn't about to give a demonstration.

"You better give him some air." He reached for the corner of the cloak, but Diana pushed his hand away.

"Just give me a hand." She struggled to lift Vincent, to get him on his feet.

"Fine," the watchman said. "But don't tell me what this is about. I don't want to know." He ducked under Vincent's other arm, and with a grunt, helped her get him on his feet. Vincent's head hung down, and he made no move to help them, but his low groan told Diana that at least he was still alive.

She flung her arm around Vincent's waist and tugged his arm further over her shoulder as together, she and the watchman dragged Vincent through the cemetery and into a waiting cab.

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Father sat alone by the waterfall. Something had drawn him here, something he didn't quite understand. And yet he felt it was the only place he could be right now. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he looked up. It was Mary, and she looked troubled as she crossed to his side.

"Hello, Mary."

"Father." She sat down beside him. "Are you okay?"

He nodded. "Just worried." His studied her expression. "Something's happened. I can see it in your face. Tell me."

"It's Catherine."

Catherine had said something to him at dinner about helping in the sewing chamber. He'd been pleased, thinking she was starting to make a place for herself. What could possibly have gone wrong? "Tell me."

"We were doing piecework. One minute everything was fine and then—" She trailed off, fear and concern filling her eyes.

"Mary?" He put his hand on her shoulder.

"She cried out, Father. It was an awful thing." Beneath his fingers, Father felt her shudder. "And then she fainted."

He started to get to his feet, but Mary caught at his arm. "No. She's okay. She was only out for a moment." She looked away, her eyes going to the chamber entrance. "She's gone, Father. Julia and I have looked everywhere for her. And she took her cloak."

"Dear God." Father sank down heavily. "What about the sentries?"

"I sent a message to Pascal. He's checking."

He sighed and dropped his head. Undoubtedly, something had happened to Vincent, and Catherine had gone after him. He could only pray she would find him in time.

"You should sleep," Mary said, her eyes on his face.

"I wish I could. But with Vincent gone, and now Catherine . . ." He shook his head. "I'm afraid, Mary. Terribly afraid."

"We all are."

"I thought, I hoped, I could shelter him from the world Above."

"Father—"

"It was an impossible hope." That he had been able to protect Vincent, even for this long, was something of a miracle, really. "It makes me question the worth of everything we've taught ourselves. Everything we've learned." He stared out at the waterfall, his gaze distant. "We've struggled so hard to maintain our isolation. Our separateness. What kind of legacy is that to leave our people?"

"It's a legacy of love," Mary said. "The capacity to love ourselves, and to love each other."

He looked to the rising mists as though seeking in them the answers to all his fears. But his mind was elsewhere. "I'm afraid love holds no sway where fate has taken Vincent and Catherine."

 

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His face was badly cut and bruised. Carefully, Diana cleaned the wounds and bandaged them. A quick fumble through her collection of outdated prescription bottles netted her a handful of antibiotics and pain-killers, but were they safe to give to him? Or would they only make things worse? She didn't know, but she couldn't exactly call a doctor and ask. Besides, who would believe her if she told them she'd found a wild man-beast in the cemetery and brought him home with her like some kind of stray puppy? Resolutely, she crushed the pills, mixed them with water, and tipped them down his throat with a teaspoon.

When she'd done all she could think to do, she pushed the hair back from his face and studied him more carefully.

He was extraordinary. With trembling fingers, she traced his eyebrows and nose, his mouth, the shape of his upper lip. She touched the soft, golden fur that coated his cheeks and jaw. How had he come to be? What accident of genetics had created him? And how had he avoided detection by the scientists and doctors who would undoubtedly lock him up somewhere to be poked, prodded, and studied?

Suddenly aware of the intimacy of her touch and the invasion of his privacy, she moved away to sit in the big chair in the corner of the room. With her eyes locked on his unconscious form, she tucked her legs underneath her and began a lonely vigil.

 

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At this hour, the cemetery held only the ghosts of the dead and the lingering sadness of departed mourners. Catherine moved quickly. She didn't know where the grave was, so she hurried up and down the rows, peering at headstones, her heart beating fast.

At last she saw it. The dirt hadn't yet settled, but grass had already begun to grow, tender shoots of green warming the empty coffin beneath.

There was no sign of Vincent.

Catherine circled the grave, her eyes averted from the headstone. She didn't want to see it, didn't want to see her own name and the phantom dates and the reminder that she was dead and yet not. Instead she focused on the ground as she searched for some sign of Vincent's passage.

There. A flattened patch of grass. Was it big enough? She crossed to it. Knelt down on her knees to look closer.

It was big enough. She ran her hands over the spot. It was cool and dewy with the night air. He hadn't been here recently. But he had been here. He had lain in this spot—alone, hurt, and afraid. As she smoothed her fingers over the grass, she imagined Vincent's body beneath her palms. There. A darker spot. Her fingers came away from it stained with his blood. She raised her head, her gaze going to the city skyline.

"Vincent," she whispered to the night. "Where are you?"

 

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Vincent slept deeply, his big body sprawled across the too-small bed. His breaths were regular and deep, his heartbeat—as near as Diana could tell—normal. He had begun to run a fever, but all she could do was bathe him with cool cloths. She did that now, her hands gentle as she ministered to him. Would he live? Would he survive his injuries to tell her about himself? And if he didn't, what then? How would she explain him to the authorities?

Reluctantly, Diana left the room. She needed the bathroom and something to drink. While she waited for water to heat on the stove, she wandered to the bulletin board, her eyes scanning the assortment of news articles and pictures.

Many of the articles spoke of bizarre killings, the victims of which had been criminals themselves. Vincent had been responsible for all of them. She was sure of it. But did that make him a murderer? Or a man defending the woman he loved?

She needed to make sense of it all, to order her thoughts and find some perspective on the extraordinary events of the night. Sitting down at her desk, she turned on the computer and reached for the keyboard.

October 10, 1989. 3:30 AM.

Graveyard hunch paid off this morning, just after midnight. Hard to process the details. Hard enough trying to explain to myself what has happened. What I've found.

"I've found Vincent." She said it aloud. She still couldn't quite believe it—still felt as though she'd wake up to find it had all been a dream. And yet he was here, asleep in her bed in the next room.

I found him at her grave. Half dead. Don't know if he's going to make it. Can't call the doctor. I'm scared. Disoriented. Even though he's in the next room it's impossible to believe he's really there. The thought of him is too great to hold in my head.

A sudden roar brought her head up and around with a jerk. Vincent. She ran, bursting through the bedroom door to find him thrashing wildly on the bed. A terrifying roar burst from his throat as he shredded the pillow and mattress with his bare hands. She pressed back against the wall, fear making her heart race. He flailed. Kicked out. Struggled against an unseen attacker. His arm smashed the bedside table, sending its contents crashing to the floor while she cringed still further back into the corner, praying he wouldn't see her, wouldn't turn those lethal claws and teeth on her. Finally he groaned and grew still, but it was several minutes before Diana relaxed enough to move from her position in the corner.

Never trust a perp. It had been Russ's first rule of criminal investigation, a rule he'd drilled into her until she'd once caught herself dreaming about it. Diana swallowed hard and forced herself to breathe. To think. She hadn't made a mistake like this in years, and she cursed herself for it now. She'd assumed that a man who read poetry and liked kids couldn't possibly hurt her. She'd trusted Vincent without ever having met him, and even after seeing those deadly claws and gleaming fangs, she'd still believed herself safe in his presence. God, she was such an idiot.

Her handgun was in the top drawer of her desk. She took it out and checked to see that it was loaded. She would keep it with her. And she would stay in the room. Where she could watch him. And where she could do what needed to be done if it came down to a choice between her life and his.

 

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Catherine stood up and looked around, still averting her gaze from the headstone that bore her name. In the distance she saw a small building with a light glowing in the window. The night watchman. For the first time since she'd met Vincent, she found herself hoping a stranger had seen him.

With a last glance down at the flattened grass and the empty grave, she moved off. He wouldn't know her face, this watchman, wouldn't know he was talking to a dead woman. And even if he did, it was a risk she had to take. She needed to know if he had seen Vincent. Nothing else mattered.

She arrived at the door and knocked once, softly. When it opened, a slim, dark-haired man faced her in the darkness.

"Well," he said, looking her over. "I never knew cemeteries were so popular with the ladies."

"Please." She kept her voice low in an effort to disguise it. "I need your help."

"Listen lady. I ain't doin' any more favors tonight. Risked my job once already. Not gonna do it again. Not even for a pretty face."

"No, you don't understand. Just . . . A question. Please."

She felt his eyes on her, but she kept her head averted, hiding her face in the deep folds of the cloak. At last, he sighed.

"What kind of question?"

"Did anything happen here tonight? Anything unusual?"

"What do you mean, unusual?"

Catherine struggled to find words that would get her meaning across without giving away too much information. "I'm looking for a man."

She felt his eyes on her again, but she didn't look up. She sensed his capitulation in his sigh.

"Big guy? Dark clothes?"

Hope surged through her. She nodded.

"Yeah. He was here. Passed out on one of the graves. Must've been some party, lady."

Not exactly. "Do you know where he went?"

He shook his head. "Some lady was here. I helped her haul him to a cab. Don't know where they went after that."

What lady? And where had she taken Vincent? Catherine remembered another time when Vincent had been taken from her. She'd almost lost him then. Was it happening all over again? Was she destined, once again, to find him locked in a cage somewhere?

"What did she look like?"

"Red hair. Tall. Seemed pretty frantic to get him out of here. He in some kind of trouble?"

"Maybe." Probably. "Did you see what direction—?"

The watchman jerked his head. "North. Coulda gone anywhere, though. Listen, lady. I'd love to stay and chit chat, but I got rounds to do."

She nodded. "Thank you for your help."

He closed the door in her face, leaving her standing in the dark. Catherine started toward the street. She would search until she found him.

 

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The sound of the lift startled Diana into wakefulness. She glanced over at Vincent, but he slept on, undisturbed by the noise. She tucked the gun out of sight and went to meet the lift, knowing it was Mark, knowing she would have to send him away. He wasn't going to be happy about that.

With a glace back at the closed bedroom door, she slid open the metal gate. Please, God. Don't let him wake up now.

She was right. It was Mark.

"Hi," he said. He had a garment bag slung over his shoulder.

"You can't stay, Mark. I'm sorry."

"Can I at least come in?"

She dropped her eyes, unwilling to face the disappointment in his, but she didn't step back, didn't invite him in.

"Your work." With a frustrated sigh, he backed up to lean against the wall of the lift.

"I'll ride down with you." She tried not to think of the possibility that Vincent might wake up while she was gone. She owed Mark this much, at least.

"No." He shook his head.

"Mark . . ."

"You said Saturday." The anger and disappointment in his gaze were almost palpable.

"I know I said Saturday. Just don't be mad." And yet she wanted, desperately, for him to leave.

"I am mad, and I got a damn good reason to be mad!"

"I'm really close on this one." She didn't want to do this right now, didn't want to fight with him. She didn't have the energy.

He gazed at her with hurt eyes. Then he looked away and punched the button. "Yeah."

The doors closed, and she pulled the gate across and stood listening as the lift groaned its way back down. When it was gone and she was sure Mark wasn't going to change his mind, she hurried back to the bedroom.

Vincent was awake. He struggled to focus on her.

"Catherine?" He had a deep voice, with a rough edge that sounded oddly musical to her ear.

"No." She took a breath. "My name's Diana."

He dropped his head back to the pillow. And then he was asleep again, the effort of sustained consciousness draining what little energy he had. She went back to the chair and settled down to watch once more.

The next time he awoke, he was frightened again. Disoriented. Before she could stop him, he was up and moving across the room and she had no idea how to reach him, how to reassure him that he was safe. And so she backed away, keeping her distance, watching him while her heart pounded and her mouth went dry with fear. He roared a challenge and slammed into the wall, hands raised, claws gleaming in the dim light as he tore at it. Then, his energy expended once more, he collapsed, his body crumpling to the floor under an avalanche of wood and plaster.

She sank to the floor in the corner, the gun still gripped tightly in her hand. How much longer would this go on? Would he ever recover? Would he become again the kind and gentle man whose heart she'd seen in the poems he'd left for Cathy Chandler? Or was this what he had become since her death, this wild beast capable only of destruction?

It was several hours later when he woke again. He struggled to sit up, leaning against the wall, panting heavily with effort and pain. The harsh sound was loud in the silence of the room, but when he looked around, she could see that the delirium had passed. He was more coherent, more in control and aware of his surroundings than he had been since she'd found him.

"Where am I?"

His voice was low, but the words were clear. Cultured. He was educated. She'd guessed that already, but hearing it in his voice made it all more real somehow.

"You're in my loft. I found you in the graveyard behind Saint Clare's."

"I don't remember—" He paused. Blinked. "I must go." He tried to get to his feet, failed, and settled back against the wall. "You brought me—"

"You were hurt." She knelt on the floor beside him. Carefully. Cautiously. Ready to leap to her feet and flee at the slightest provocation from him. "You've lost a lot of blood." There was pain in his eyes. And something that looked like desperation. She tried to reassure him. "You're safe here. You need help."

He shook his head, but she knew it was a token gesture. He didn't have the strength to do anything more. In seconds, he was unconscious again. Diana went to the bed. A quick yank freed the comforter, and she spread it over him where he lay on the floor. Then she sat back down in the chair and pulled her knees up to her chest, resuming her vigil.

 

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Catherine lost track of the passage of time. Her feet, blistered and raw, throbbed with pain at every step. She'd not eaten or slept. She'd hidden in the corners, and the dark places, and the alleys, all the places where lost souls disappeared in the grimy fabric of city life. The cloak was dirty now, its edges frayed and torn. Twice someone had tried to take it from her, but she'd fought with such fierce determination, such desperate strength, that they'd given up, backing away from her as though from a wild animal. Once, she'd even snarled.

She'd gained new understanding of Vincent's life, of the world he inhabited when he prowled the streets at night. It was a side of New York she'd rarely seen, and then only in terrifying glimpses. Like most New Yorkers, she'd turned away from those glimpses too often in the past, walking past the homeless and the disenfranchised without even seeing them.

Until now, she'd never truly understood what it was to be lost—alone, afraid, and invisible in a city of millions.

Her feet had carried her to all of the places she'd shared with Vincent and to all those they'd merely talked about. She'd been to the hospitals and the jails and the courthouse, to the libraries, and museums, and theaters. She'd been to the docks, too, had seen the charred remains of the Compass Rose listing sadly at its moorings. The site of the blackened skeleton had sickened her, even though she knew that Vincent wasn't there.

She'd risked her safety countless times, asking carefully worded questions of strangers, peering into windows, haunting news stands. She'd read everything, every newspaper and magazine, every tabloid, every scrap of paper stapled to light poles and bulletin boards. And she'd listened shamelessly to every conversation—passersby, families in the park, museum goers and train riders and homeless people. But there'd been nothing.

She'd even considered going to Joe, but she'd discarded that idea almost at once. Joe's honor, and his concern for her, would lead him to make decisions that could only endanger Vincent further. Besides, how would she ever explain Vincent to Joe? Maybe, if she didn't find Vincent soon, she would go to him. But not yet.

Twice she had approached the Central Park tunnel entrance, only to turn back, unable to bring herself to enter. Vincent was Above. Her son was Above. They needed her. And so she would stay Above, too. And she would search until she found them.

Her fingers closed around a crumpled bit of newspaper in her pocket. It was the article about the explosion on the Compass Rose—the explosion that had happened while she was safe and sound Below.

Lifting her eyes to the city, to its bright lights and skyscrapers and anonymity, she said another prayer for his safety. Then she returned her gaze to the stained concrete sidewalk, and started walking.