Dancing in the Shadows

Ayiana

Chapter 25

Vincent sat against the wall, his eyes on the stairs and the closed door beyond. He’d given up on pacing. It was a useless waste of energy, energy he knew he must conserve. Instead he waited in silence, his muscles taut with rage and frustration as he felt his son's fragile spirit slipping away.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Vincent stood up. Four men and a single, uniformed woman came down the steps. The woman held a blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. His son? His breath caught in his throat at the thought. Jaw clenched, he forced himself to silent, impassive stillness. But his thoughts were chaotic, wonder and hope battling with cold fury as he watched one of the men cross to the box on the wall and flip a switch. A second man approached the cell door while the other two stood back, their weapons trained on Vincent, fingers hovering over the triggers.

Vincent didn’t move when the door opened to admit the woman. Her dark eyes watched him with wary distrust as she set the bundle on the floor and backed quickly away. The door closed and the lock clicked into place with metallic finality, and still Vincent waited. Inside the blanket, the baby whimpered, his voice a faint ripple of sound in the chilled silence of the room.

One of the guards flipped the switch on the wall, and Vincent heard the hum of electricity. Then the group reassembled and moved up the stairs in a precise reversal of their entrance, and only when they were gone, the door closing behind them with a quiet thud, did Vincent move from his place by the wall.

The distance separating him from his son seemed suddenly vast, the single stride required to bridge it the culmination of a lifetime of hopes and fears, dreams and possibilities. He sank to his knees, and with trembling fingers, eased the blanket aside.

The face that greeted his eyes was pale, the cheeks sunken from hunger and lack of sleep, but Vincent recognized the nose, the curve of the jaw, the shell-like ears. They were Catherine's, recreated in flawless miniature. His breath seized in his throat, and his heart beat a rapid tattoo against his ribs. This was his son. Their son. There were no doubts, no questions in his mind, as he stared down at the final, absolute proof of his humanity.

The baby squirmed, freeing a hand from the soft cotton blanket and reaching out to his father with fingers covered by skin so paper-thin, so delicate, that Vincent was almost afraid to touch them. But his son's desperate need called out to him, and he extended a finger, smiling when the baby grasped it with a strength that belied his small size. Only then did Vincent realize that his vision was blurred. He blinked, clearing the moisture from his eyes.

"He is beautiful, Catherine."

With gentle hands, he lifted his son into his arms, held him close, and settled back against the wall. He thought that his heart must surely expand beyond the bounds of his chest, so full was it with love as he pulled the blanket back into place and tucked it with infinite care beneath the tiny chin. The baby's eyes were already closing; his small body relaxing into the comfort of his father's warmth.

As Vincent kept watch over his sleeping son, he made a silent promise to protect him, always, from those who would do him harm.

 

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

 

A sudden inexplicable surge of emotion drew Catherine's attention away from Diana's picture and the crowded library. Vincent. She only sensed him this way when he experienced something particularly intense. Had he found their son? She started to move, to get up, to call out. But the wave of feeling faded as quickly as it had come, and she was left bereft, her body settling slowly back into the chair.

"Cathy?" It was Peter. He knelt beside her, concerned. Around them, tunnel dwellers and topsiders alike stood together in small, uneasy groups. "Are you okay?"

She forced a smile. "I'm fine." Nobody else seemed to have noticed her odd behavior, their conversations continuing to ebb and flow around her like the tides of a restless sea. They'd come in response to an urgent summons from Father, and now they waited to hear what he would say, their quiet voices tense as they talked among themselves.

"Any news?"

She shook her head. "Not yet."

As if on queue, Father appeared at the top of the stairs, his shoulders bowed with worry and lack of sleep. "All right everybody, if I could have your attention?"

Almost at once, the room grew silent.

"I've called you here today to ask for your help." He looked around, meeting the eyes of helpers and tunnel dwellers alike. "Vincent is missing." Concerned glances passed from person to person. Most of them already knew about Vincent's disappearance, but those who were hearing the news for the first time looked horrified. Everybody knew the dangers if Vincent was caught Above.

Father raised a hand for silence.

"Yesterday, a woman came to the tunnels looking for Vincent. Her name is Diana Bennett. Catherine," he nodded his head in her direction, "has a photograph of her. She’ll be passing it among you. We think . . . we hope that if we can find her, Miss Bennett will be able to give us some clue as to Vincent’s whereabouts."

Heads turned as dozens of pairs of eyes searched out Catherine and the photo that was already passing from hand to hand.

"Miss Bennett works with the Manhattan police department. She’s been investigating Catherine’s case. She knows Vincent, and she knows that Catherine is alive, but . . ." he paused until he was certain he had everyone’s attention, "she doesn’t know about the tunnels. And I think it best that it remain so."

A low rumble of assent swept the chamber, and once more Father had to wait for silence. "We have reason to believe that Miss Bennett is in danger, and that she is aware of this. If you see her, try not to alarm her."

Someone in the back raised a hand. "What if she’s in trouble when we find her?"

"Don’t interfere. These people are very dangerous, and we don't want any of you to get hurt." He scanned the room. "Are there any more questions?"

There were, and Father answered each one patiently. Twenty minutes later, the meeting ended, and the room slowly emptied until Father and Catherine were alone once more. He crossed the chamber to sit down beside her.

"We’ll find him, Catherine."

"It’s just so hard to sit here and do nothing."

There was no answer to that.

Across the room, the pipes clanged with the daily message traffic. And in the heavy, antique chair, Catherine sat quietly, the only sign of her mounting tension the steady tapping of her fingers against the armrest.

 

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

 

Diana knew better than to return to her apartment. Gabriel had gotten what he wanted from her, but now she could identify him. Which meant that as soon as he was sure his message had been delivered to Vincent, her life was forfeit. His people were probably looking for her now.

Which was why she’d made her way to the rooftop of the building next to hers, and why she now thanked whatever accident of genetics had deprived her of nesting instincts and led to the bare windows that afforded her a clear view of her apartment.

When nothing moved inside, she looked down, checking the street. Sure enough, a dark sedan sat parked in the tow away zone, and she could just make out the shadowy forms of two men inside. Damn.

Keeping her body low, she made her way off the roof. Somehow, she had to get Joe and tell him about the Italian tile she'd seen in the hallway of Gabriel's mansion.

It was unique.

More than that, it was a lead.

She dug deep in her pockets. Only a couple of quarters left. Not enough for the subway. She’d have to walk, then. At least until she’d put enough distance between herself and her apartment that she could safely search for a telephone.

Two hours later, satisfied that she’d lost herself in the city’s labyrinthine streets and alleys, she ducked into a phone booth. With a quick prayer, she dropped in one of the quarters and punched in Joe’s number. Then she turned her back to the street, hunched her shoulders, and prayed for a miracle.

"Office of the District Attorney."

"Yes." Did she sound nervous? She cleared her throat and tried again. "Is Joe Maxwell there?"

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"It's Diana Bennett. I'm with the police department. It's an emergency."

"Hold please."

The line clicked over to canned music, and Diana stifled a curse. Of all times to be put on hold . . .

"Miss Bennett. Where are you calling from?"

The voice was male, and professional, but it wasn't Joe’s. Diana stiffened, her fingers tightening on the handset. "Who is this? I need to speak to Joe Maxwell."

"He's tied up in court," the voice said smoothly. Too smoothly. "Tell me where you are. I'll send someone to pick you up."

Was it possible that Gabriel had men in the District Attorney’s office? Was he really that powerful, that insidious? Her stomach twisted as she remembered John Moreno. If Gabriel could control the district attorney himself . . .

She slammed the phone into its cradle and pushed out of the booth, the door bouncing back on its hinges with the force of her shove.

Outside, she glanced left and right, scanning pedestrians and vehicles alike for signs of pursuit. Her instincts told her she hadn't been spotted, but she wasn't stupid enough to stick around while they traced her call. With a quick glance behind her, she darted into the nearest alley.

It was time to get lost again.

 

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

 

Oblivious to the watching cameras, the hum of electricity, and the cold and barren cell, Vincent sat on the floor, studying his son's face and talking softly to him, his voice too low to be picked up by Gabriel's microphones. Color was already returning to the pale skin, and Vincent no longer felt the looming presence of death.

With the tip of his finger, he smoothed a frown from his son's small brow, smiling softly when the baby curled closer to him in his sleep.

"His name's Julian."

Instantly alert, Vincent looked up into a pair of dark eyes devoid of emotion.

Gabriel.

The baby began to cry, and Vincent murmured a quiet reassurance as he got to his feet and pressed his back against the rough stones. When he looked back up, a silent snarl pulled his lips back against his teeth.

"Some names have power," Gabriel said, ignoring Vincent's animosity, "but you know that, don't you." His hands hung at his sides, open and relaxed. "Vincent." A tight, thin-lipped smile twisted his angular features. "It means conqueror. But you already know that, don't you."

Gabriel leaned against the wall, tucked his hands into his pockets, and crossed his ankles as though settling in for a friendly chat. "Ordinary men write their names in water. But each generation there are a few . . ." His eyes traveled over Vincent. ". . . stronger than the rest, who write their names in blood." He indicated the baby with a quick jerk of narrow chin. "My son will be a man like that."

"Gabriel . . ." Vincent's low voice rumbled through the room like distant thunder as he enunciated each word with angry precision, his arms tightening protectively around the baby. "You have no son."

Gabriel straightened, the coldness in his eyes replaced by fury as he crossed to the opposite wall. He pressed a button, and a buzzer sounded somewhere over their heads. Immediately, the door at the top of the stairs opened. Vincent recognized the nurse and two of the men, but there were new faces, too. One man, balding and nervous, carried a medical bag.

"It's been long enough," Gabriel said. "Remove the child."

One of the guards stepped to the circuit box. An instant later, the hum of electricity ceased, and the man with the medical bag started to unlock the door. Vincent held his son close against his chest, fury rising in him like a red tide. He roared his defiance.

Gabriel’s voice exploded into the sudden startled silence. "Lucas! Reed!"

Two of the men raised their rifles, but Vincent cared not for the danger. His sole concern was the child he held in his arms, the child who, awakened by Vincent's roar, now watched him in trusting silence. Gabriel stepped closer to the bars and addressed him in low, menacing tones.

"I want the child. The doctor wants another blood sample." He gestured at the armed men. "If you resist, they'll fire." His eyes settled pointedly on the baby. "But not at you." Slowly, he raised his gaze to meet Vincent's. "Do we understand each other?"

Vincent looked from Gabriel to the two men. Their weapons weren't aimed at him. They were aimed at his son. He felt the blood thirst rising up in him, felt the beast demanding its freedom. He ached to set it free, to let it rip Gabriel’s still beating heart from his chest and grind it, bloody and warm, into the dirty concrete floor.

Gabriel's plans for his son were undoubtedly dangerous ones, plans that had no basis in love, only in power. And he was a man who would deal harshly with those who got in his way. But was he impulsive enough, and cold enough, to destroy his own dreams just to prove a point?

In his arms, the baby made a quiet sound, drawing Vincent's attention away from Gabriel. The baby was watching him calmly, but Vincent was deeply aware of how vulnerable the child was, how weak. He wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice his own life in the preservation of his son's, but dare he risk his son's? Dare he test this man whose eyes held no hint of humanity?

He would gain his freedom. Somehow he would find a way to bring his son safely home to the tunnels and to Catherine. But right now, for this moment, he knew he must entrust his child to the tall woman who watched him with terror in her dark eyes. He would do so only because there was no other choice. But as he met Gabriel’s icy gaze, he made a silent promise that it was only for a short time.

Gabriel nodded with a satisfied smile and turned to the doctor. "Do it."

Vincent watched the man fumble with the keys, waited while the door opened and the nurse edged inside. He smelled her fear, saw her tremble with it as she drew near, but he made no move to hurt her. She was not to blame for the ache in his heart. Instead he hugged his son gently, whispered a last quiet reassurance, and with a final brush of his lips against his son’s tender forehead, handed him over.

The nurse left quickly, and Vincent and Gabriel watched her climb the stairs and disappear through the door at the top.

Gabriel turned back with victory in his eyes. "Draw your blood, Doctor."

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

 

Sammy spotted her first. He’d set up his hot dog stand on Fourteenth Street and watched for hours, scanning every face, every passer by. Vincent was his friend. The people Below, his family. They'd rescued him from a life on the streets, giving him an education and a future when the world Above had turned its back on him. He would do anything for them. This woman, this Diana Bennett, was important to them, so he would find her.

He’d was almost ready to give up when she finally walked by. Her strides were long, her eyes skipping nervously from place to place as she moved. She had an athletic grace, and Sammy admired her easy confidence as she continued down the street and away from him.

He picked up his radio and flicked a button. "Got her," he said. "She’s traveling west along Fourteenth."

 

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

Gabriel leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the images displayed on the row of video screens in front of him. Vincent still sat on the floor of his prison with his knees drawn up and his back against the stone wall, his gaze fixed on the steps and the doorway beyond. As far as Gabriel could tell, he hadn't moved from that position since they'd retrieved Julian.

"Do you think he sleeps?" he asked. He had his own guess of course, but boredom and fascination led him to ask the question.

"Well, surely he must." The doctor stood just behind Gabriel’s right shoulder. Gabriel heard him shift his weight from foot to foot. How had he ever become entangled with such a nervous little man? He made a mental note to replace him at the earliest opportunity.

"Well?"

"The results are the same. The blood is not compatible." Jacobson took a half step back, as though he feared Gabriel's reaction to his words. "A transfusion would be fatal."

Not the answer Gabriel wanted, but anger would solve nothing. "Where would you suggest that we find a blood type that is compatible?"

"There isn't any. The child's blood type is unique."

"I see." Gabriel turned back to the monitors. Vincent had finally moved. He paced the cage, the long-limbed, graceful stride reminding Gabriel of the big cats in their cages outside. "I'm very disappointed, doctor."

Vincent stopped to stare up at the camera closest to his prison. His eyes were fierce, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Power rippled beneath the tense shoulders, cementing Gabriel's determination to harness that strength for his own ends.

"If my son dies . . ." Gabriel let the thought trail off, confident that his message was clear.

"He's getting stronger." Desperation laced Jacobson's voice, making it sound almost feminine. "I can't find any explanation, but the boy's fever has broken. He's taking some formula. Maybe the illness has run its course, or perhaps there could be some sort of spontaneous remission."

Gabriel didn't look away from the monitors.

"No." He touched Vincent's image with the tip of his finger. "It's him."

 

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

 

Diana glanced over her shoulder. It had been hours since the aborted telephone call, but it felt more like days. She didn’t know where to turn. She had no idea where Joe lived or she would have gone there. And she couldn’t go to the police station or the court house or her loft, because she was sure they were being watched. She was out of money, hadn’t eaten, and she was being followed.

It was a yellow cab, one of the thousands the prowled New York City’s streets twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t even have noticed it, but she was hyper-alert, sensitive to the slightest irregularity in the rhythms around her. And this particular cab been keeping pace with her for the past hour.

She had tested it—crossing streets, reversing directions, ducking into alleys—but it always turned up again, distinctive only because of its number and license plate. For the past ten minutes, she’d been trying to decide how best to elude it, and when an accident snarled traffic at the next intersection, she saw her chance. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she broke into a run, zigzagging through pedestrians and around obstacles to duck into a nearby alley.

Almost at once, she realized her mistake. The alley was a dead end, without so much as a dumpster or a fire escape to afford her either hiding place or egress. With a curse, she spun around, scanning frantically for a way out. But there was nothing.

Trapped, she braced herself for a fight as the cab swung into the alley and squealed to a stop. She was scanning the ground for something with which to defend herself when the driver’s side door opened and a white-haired cabbie climbed out.

Diana blinked, caught off guard. Gabriel had hired an old man as her assassin? It didn't make any sense.

She stared at the man in confusion, barely aware of the wiry street vendor who ran around the corner behind him and skidded to a stop.

The two men exchanged a glance and began to move in her direction.

 

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

 

Catherine’s love and concern reached out to him, even in this hellish place, and Vincent took comfort from it while he searched for some small weakness in the walls of his prison. There'd been a time when a place like this would have destroyed his soul, but now he had everything to live for, every reason to fight. He would not give up, would not succumb to despair, as long as Catherine and his son needed him.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Vincent spun around as Gabriel came down the steps. He moved casually, his shoulders relaxed and his hands in his pockets. He looked confident, even arrogant. Vincent waited in ready stillness, his eyes narrowing as he tracked his tormentor, watching him until he came to a stop just inches beyond the charged enclosure.

The two men stared at each other through the bars, neither one speaking, neither one moving, the tension that bound them even more powerful than the electricity that hummed a warning in the icy silence.

Vincent exploded into motion with a roar that reverberated through the room, his claws stretching toward Gabriel's throat faster than the other man could retreat. Gabriel leaped back, his hand going to his throat as raw electricity ripped through Vincent's arm, forcing him away from the bars, away from his prey.

Gabriel's hand came away from his neck with a thin coating of blood, and by the time Vincent picked himself up from the floor, he was straightening his tie.

"I thought you might like to know—"

"My son is recovering. I feel it." Vincent didn't bother to disguise his hatred as he gauged Gabriel's reaction to that news. "I feel him."

Frustration and fear lurked behind Gabriel's venomous glare, and Vincent felt a surge of hope. Had he been assured of victory, Gabriel would've had no reason to be afraid.

As though aware that he'd revealed too much, Gabriel spun away. He'd nearly reached the steps when he stopped and turned back as though he’d forgotten something.

"Oh," he said. "By the way . . ."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something Vincent couldn’t see. He tossed it carelessly across the room, and Vincent heard a thin clank of metal against the concrete floor. He didn’t look down, refusing to reveal any hint of curiosity.

"I thought you might want that back," Gabriel sneered, "now that the woman is dead."

Vincent waited until he was alone before bending to retrieve the ring. It was the one he'd given to Diana, the one that had led them to Gabriel. He'd warned Catherine that Diana’s life would be in danger if they accepted her help, and yet without her, he never would have found his son.

And now she was gone. More blood spilled. But whose fault this time? Gabriel's? Or his own . . .

Vincent looked up at the cameras and roared his fury.