Dancing in the Shadows

Ayiana

Chapter 23

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

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

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

"Hello."

Oh, thank God. "Joe."

"Yeah."

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

"Grant and Chambers. Got it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the end, she would be the victor.

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like before?"

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

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

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

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

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

"And you went to her?"

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

"What do you mean she found you?"

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

"So she waited."

"She saved my life."

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

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

"Can she be trusted?"

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

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

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

"What did she say?"

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

"Has she seen Catherine?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everybody had an Achilles heel.

She just needed to find Gabriel's.

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

And wondering what to do next.

 

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

 

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

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

There was no answer.

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

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

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

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

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

She repeated the call every ten minutes. It was the only thing she knew to do.

Meanwhile, time continued to slip away.

 

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

 

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

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

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

"What is it?"

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

"Was her name Diana?"

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

"Was a message sent on the pipes?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

Please, God. Keep him safe.

 

*******

 

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

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

Vincent stiffened. "Where is he?"

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

Hope flared in his eyes. "A baby!"

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

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

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

"Tell me."

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

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

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

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

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

"There is no other way."

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

"I will come to you."

She touched his arm. "Be careful."

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

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