Dancing in the Shadows

Ayiana

Chapter 27

The copy machine was still spitting out duplicates of Diana’s drawing when Joe faced the silent group of detectives and street cops that had assembled in his office. He picked up a handful of the copies and started passing them out, moving quickly from person to person.

"I want you guys to talk to building supply retailers, importers, flooring contractors—anyone who deals with tile flooring in any way. Cover all the bases. Also real estate brokers. We're talking about a big ticket house here, so check with all the guys who pull down the million dollar commissions first. Also cleaning services. Tax appraisers. Insurance companies. Any questions?"

There were none, and with a quick jerk of his head, he sent them on their way.

 

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

 

Gabriel gripped the paper that Pope had brought him, his knuckles white with anger. They stood in the hallway just outside the nursery, and when Gabriel looked down, his eyes came to rest on an image that was a perfect match to the one he held in his hand.

"There are copies all over the city," Pope said. "Maxwell has half the NYPD out on the streets." He shook his head. "It must be that woman."

Bennett. The name tasted like bile in Gabriel’s throat. He would not allow her to ruin his carefully laid plans. "The woman who should be dead by now."

Faced with the undeniable fact of his failure, Pope's gaze slid away. "Somehow she's gotten to Maxwell."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "I thought you had Mr. Maxwell under surveillance."

"We do, but—"

With a muttered oath, Gabriel crumpled the paper into a ball and flung it away. "No more buts. Let Maxwell lead you to her. Then eliminate them both."

 

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

 

When the telephone rang, Joe snatched it up, loosening his tie with his free hand. He listened for a moment, and then cursed. "No, we can't wait for the guy to get back from his honeymoon!" Andrea gave him a questioning look from the doorway, and he waved her inside while he listened to the detective. "What, they don't have phones in Italy? Fax him the drawing! I want an answer!"

He glanced down at the paper Andrea handed him and mouthed a thank-you as she backed out and closed the door.

"I don't care what time it is there! Do it!" He slammed the phone down and dropped into his chair. Then he glanced at his watch. "Oh, man."

Jacob Wells had given him specific instructions. Joe was to meet a cab downstairs, take it to the Natural History Museum, and wait for Diana to find him. But he was supposed to have been down there five minutes ago. He grabbed his jacket and hit the intercom button. "Andrea, I’m stepping out for about an hour."

The cab was waiting for him, its driver standing beside the open door.

"Are you—?"

The cabbie nodded. "Come on, Mac. Dinosaurs don't wait for nobody."

It took them ten minutes to get to the museum, and another five for Joe to find the exhibit Mr. Wells had told him about. His eyes flitted from one sightseer to the next, searching for Diana's face. She was supposed to meet him here, but there was no sign of her. Had something gone wrong?

"Joe!" She looked exhausted and nervous as she hurried toward him from the other end of the exhibit hall. "Man, am I glad to see you."

Even in sweats, with her hair a mess and fear in her eyes, she was an arresting woman, and as she came to a stop in front of him, Joe realized with a shock that the rush of relief he felt at the sight of her stemmed from something deeper than professional concern.

He shook the feeling off. This wasn’t the time.

"So the old man was on the level," he said. "You really had me scared, Diana."

"Me, too." Her eyes skimmed the displays before meeting his again. "You got any leads on those tiles?"

A dark-haired janitor in a gray coverall pushed a bucket up against one of the exhibits and began to mop the floor. Tourists and locals parted around him in the natural and unconscious dance of crowded city life.

"No. Nothing yet."

"Talk to me, Maxwell."

An angry voice distracted him before he could speak. The janitor was glaring at a man in a business suit, a man who had his hand in his pocket as he stared at Joe.

"Hey, pal! Watch where you’re walking! I just mopped this floor."

"Pardon me." The man tried to slip around the janitor as Joe instinctively moved in front of Diana.

"Wait a minute." The janitor grabbed the man’s arm. "I'm not through talking to you yet."

There was a brief scuffle as two spectators broke away from the passing groups and trapped the man in the business suit between them. "You know what?" one of them asked as he yanked the man’s arms behind his back, "I don’t like your attitude."

"Now what?" Joe asked. He and Diana crossed the room. "What’s going on?"

Diana patted the man down and, with a glance at Joe, pulled a handgun out of his coat pocket. "You got a license for this?"

One of the museum guards approached the group as Joe stared from the gun to Diana in stunned disbelief. Obviously, he'd been followed. Or she had.

"What's the problem?" Feet braced, arms folded across his thick chest, the guard eyed the group. On his belt, a radio crackled as other guards responded to his call.

Joe pulled out his wallet. "D.A.'s office. This guy's got a gun. I want you to hold him until the cops come."

With a brusque nod, the guard handcuffed the man and led him away, ignoring a string of indignant protests. Joe turned back to his unlikely rescuers, his sense of unreality deepening. A cabbie, a street vendor, and a janitor. "Who are you guys?"

The men exchanged a look, and Joe realized they knew each other. But who the hell were they? And what did they have to do with Cathy?

It was the vendor who answered. "Um, just . . . dinosaur fans."

Before Joe could question them further, his pager went off. A quick glance at the number chased the questions from his mind. He looked up at Diana. "It's Hughes. Come on."

 

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

 

Vincent lay on the concrete floor with his face buried in his folded arms, the sounds and images of his own deadly rampage still playing on the walls over his head. He had nearly given up, nearly surrendered to the part of him that struggled for its freedom, the part that reveled in the blood and violence—the Other.

It was Catherine who saved him. Her warmth and courage flowed toward him even in this dark place, and he focused on it, on the strength that returned to him through their connection, using it to control the feral being that threatened to destroy him.

He heard the door at the top of the stairs open and then the tread of footsteps as men approached his cell. But he didn’t look up.

"You're not looking well, my friend." Gabriel said. "Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"

Abruptly, the sounds of battle stopped, replaced by the gentle murmur of a happy infant. Vincent lifted his head.

"Better?" Gabriel asked. On the wall, the baby stretched his arms out toward an unseen cameraman, a look of yearning on his small face. "See? I know how to be merciful." Gabriel handed a set of keys to the doctor but kept his eyes on Vincent. "We need more blood."

Vincent got to his feet and backed against the wall as one of the men turned off the power. Cautiously, the doctor approached the cell door. Vincent inhaled the acrid scent of the man's fear and watched the way his hands trembled as he fumbled with the keys. When he dropped them, Gabriel sighed.

"Lucas, the doctor needs help."

Lucas, wiry and sallow-skinned, nodded and bent to retrieve the keys. A moment later, the lock snapped free, the gate opened, and the doctor entered with his plastic tote. And still Vincent stood in silent watchfulness, refusing to give Gabriel the satisfaction of seeing his anger.

"If you had not come to me, Julian might have died." Gabriel's eyes settled on the doctor, watching him prepare his equipment. "I owe you a life." He turned his gaze to the video that played on the wall. "Look at him, Vincent. Isn’t he beautiful?"

Vincent didn’t bother to respond. He kept his eyes on Gabriel, ignoring the doctor and his needles, who posed no threat to him.

"Catherine thought he was beautiful, too. I let her hold him just as long as I could."

The blatant lie made Vincent's lips pull back in a low snarl.

"I'm sorry about Catherine," Gabriel said. "She must have been a very special person. Her death . . ." He shrugged. "Well, we all make mistakes."

He took a small device from his pocket and pushed a button. In the sudden silence, his next words seemed unnaturally loud.

"Of course . . . it was the doctor who killed her."

The doctor's hand slipped. The vile he'd been holding skittered across the floor, leaving a dark trail of blood in its wake.

"What was it you used, Doctor?" Gabriel asked, his voice a study in curiosity. "Morphine?" He sighed. "Well . . . at least the end was painless."

The doctor backed away from Vincent, hands raised in a pitiful and useless attempt at self-defense. "No. It wasn't me."

Amusement bubbled through Gabriel's response. "That's not very convincing, Doctor."

The doctor grabbed the bars, white-knuckled and desperate. "Please!" His voice cracked with fear.

Fierce anger threatened Vincent's self-control. He clenched his hands into fists, the nails biting into his skin as he stared at the man who, wild-eyed and desperate, clung to the bars of the cell, begging for mercy. This man had ignored Catherine's pain and fear, had taken her child and then injected her with the drug that nearly killed her. She had begged, as he was begging now, but to no avail. This . . . doctor . . . had left her to die.

The Other demanded its freedom, clamoring for the right to wreak its vengeance on the man who had nearly destroyed the one thing Vincent prized above all others.

"You told me to kill her!" The doctor yelled at Gabriel. "You told me!"

Gabriel watched impassively as the doctor twisted back to Vincent.

"I didn't want to do it." The stench of fear emanated from him in thick clouds, and the Other gloried in it, anticipating the kill. "I didn't want to do it! I swear to you!"

"A life for a life," Gabriel said quietly, his eyes meeting Vincent’s. "His life is yours."

The doctor sank to his knees. "Please . . . Please have mercy."

Gabriel shook his head in mock reproof. "Catherine begged for mercy, too."

Vincent growled low in his throat and advanced on the doctor, only dimly aware of the Other's exultation as it sensed his weakening control.

"Go on," Gabriel urged. "Do it. Do it for her. Go on, do it! Do it! Kill him!"

The doctor cowered still further into the corner, tears streaming down a face gone pasty with terror. He lifted shaking hands, palms upward and exposed—a supplicant before the altar of fury.

Vincent thought of Catherine—in pain and afraid as she watched this man prepare a lethal dose of morphine—and another snarl rumbled through his throat. His hands came up, fingers flexed and ready, their movement guided, not by Vincent, but by the beastly Other that roared its triumph in his mind.

Vincent's anger gave the Other power, and it seized control, playing with its prey. Stalking it. Relishing its fear.

And then something, some sense of Catherine—her trust in him, her sense of justice—brought Vincent up short. He stopped, his head coming up and his hands dropping to his sides as he forced the Other back and away so that he could reach out to her through their bond, seeking his humanity in her faith. Her love flowed back to him, surrounding him. Holding him. Calming him.

In the dim recesses of his mind, Vincent heard the Other howl its disappointment.

He inhaled, filling his lungs with air. Then he turned a calm gaze on Gabriel. The man's cheerful expectancy made his stomach churn. That such evil could exist in the world . . .

"No."

Gabriel stared at him in stunned disbelief. For a long second neither man moved, and then Gabriel spun toward one of his men. "Get him out of there!"

Vincent watched in silence as the door opened and the doctor rushed out, leaving his plastic tote and the spilled vial where they lay. The gate clanged shut behind him.

At the foot of the stairs, Gabriel paused.

"Vincent."

Vincent looked up, and Gabriel gestured casually to one of his men. In a single swift move, the guard lifted his gun, aimed it at the doctor, and fired.

The doctor collapsed against the bars of Vincent’s prison, and Gabriel met Vincent's eyes as the smell of death permeated the room.

"I always pay my debts."

He left, his men following silently in his wake. The doctor’s body remained where it had fallen, a silent testament to Gabriel's icy brutality.

 

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

 

Diana listened to Joe’s end of the conversation with Greg Hughes. He had a paper and pen with him, and he’d been scribbling furiously since he'd picked up the phone. Oblivious to the unfolding drama, museum visitors ebbed and flowed past the booth in an endless, immutable tide.

"All right, I got it. Good. Thanks a lot, Greg. Listen, we're gonna have to move on this. Get the commissioner on the horn. Meet me back at my office in ten minutes, all right?" There was a pause, and then Joe nodded. "Good. 'Bye."

He hung up and came out of the booth, handing Diana the paper and pen. "Bingo. Tiles are Italian-made. Turn of the century. They cost a fortune. The importer gave us a list of addresses."

Diana read through it. "Montauk Point, Staten Island, Westchester. The rest are all Manhattan."

"Yeah. So?"

"So . . ." She checked the addresses again, thinking back to her trip to Gabriel’s mansion. "The chopper flew over water. Montauk Point's too far. It's got to be Staten Island."

"Then let's move." He didn't wait for her answer, his long strides carrying him past the exhibits with distance-eating speed.

She hurried to catch up to him. "Joe . . ."

He stopped and turned, his impatience evident in his folded arms and raised eyebrows.

"This guy is going to have an army waiting for you," she said. "It's going to take you hours to get organized, and by that time he's going to know you're coming."

But there was something she could do right now, something that, if she was very lucky, might win Vincent’s freedom before he was seen by anybody else. Without offering Joe any explanations, she headed for the exit.

"What are you going do?" he called.

She turned back. "Whatever I can."

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

Something about Vincent's manner made Gabriel uneasy. There was a restless energy behind the catlike grace that hadn't there before. It reminded him of the way the jungle cats in his menagerie behaved when they sensed the approach of a summer storm. But the skies were clear, with no rain in the forecast for days. He glanced over at Jonathan Pope and found that his gaze, too, was pinned to the monitors.

"He's growing stronger," Gabriel said. But what was the source of this newfound strength? Had one of the guards slipped him extra food? Had the chef neglected to drug the water? No. It wasn't possible. His people were well aware of the price of betrayal.

"Maxwell's organizing a raid," Pope said. There was an unusual urgency in his voice. "We must evacuate. The sooner the better."

Gabriel didn’t take his eyes off the monitors, too fascinated by Vincent to heed the warning. If only he could find a way to harness that power. "You handle it, Pope."

"I've already ordered a helicopter. And your Learjet is standing by at Kennedy."

"Look at him," Gabriel said. "Those bars are tungsten steel." He glanced at Jonathan. "Order another generator in case of emergencies. If the current should fail . . ."

"Just kill him. And let's go. Before the police come."

Even Pope didn't understand Vincent's value. Disappointing. "Police don't concern me."

Pope studied Gabriel, eyebrow raised. "Forgive me, sir . . . but which of you is the captive here?"

"In ancient days," Gabriel said, ignoring the question, "men ate the hearts of fallen heroes, hoping that their power and strength would pass into them. On cold battlefields, steam would rise from their open chests. The heart would smoke in your hand. Dark with blood. Still beating. Almost as if—"

Something about the quality of the silence interrupted his train of thought, and he stopped talking to look around.

"Pope!"

There was no answer. With a final regretful glance at the monitors, Gabriel reached out and flipped a switch. Then he watched, as one by one, the screens went dark.

 

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

 

Greg Hughes stood next to Joe at the small conference table in Joe's office. They'd been poring over maps until Joe thought his eyes might cross, but they'd finally sorted out the best plan of attack. Now he jabbed his finger at the maps as he talked, firing off rapid instructions to the group of uniformed men and women who'd crowded into the room for their assignments.

"I want units here," he pointed, "here and here. Seal every road that goes near the place. And keep the civilians back. We could have heavy resistance."

One of the detectives spoke up. He was a short man with the wrinkled face and settled paunch that spoke of too many years behind a desk. "City engineers say they have a helipad behind the main house."

"Then I want choppers," Joe said. "Nobody gets out. Got it?"

He scanned the group, accepting a series of nods before turning to the chief of police.

"Your men have to get over these walls fast." Joe pointed at the razor-wire topped brick walls that surrounded the estate.

"No problem." The chief was ex-military. When he said it'd be no problem, he meant it.

"All right," Joe said. "That's it. We hit 'em as soon as it gets dark."

 

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

 

It was indicative of the strange turns Diana's life had taken that even though she had the entire New York City police department at her disposal, she turned to a rag-tag group of social misfits for help. And now she found herself speeding through the city in the company of a man time had forgotten and a woman who wore a heavy woolen cloak straight out of Camelot.

She shook off the surreality of the situation and peered at the maps Jacob had unfolded across his lap.

"What about the sewer lines?"

Jacob flipped pages, chose a different map, and rifled through that. He pointed, and Diana leaned in for a closer look.

"If you take this branch of the main off Gaston Avenue, it could get . . . no, it doesn’t. You see, it does not go right through."

"Wait a minute." Diana touched a spot just beyond the tip of his finger. "What's this? This line goes right under the wall."

Jacob shook his head. "That's just an old steam main. It's inactive of course, but it's barely even a pipe. The diameter's nothing."

"Can I fit?"

Father and Catherine studied the map for a moment, and Catherine gave Diana an assessing glance. "Barely." She turned to Father. "But I can make it."

Catherine was smaller, but the risks . . .

"If Gabriel sees you, he’ll kill you." Diana's lips quirked in a slight smile. "And then Vincent would kill me. No." She shook her head. "It has to be me."

"But you’ve already risked so much," Catherine said. "How can we ask you to do more?"

"You aren’t asking. I’m volunteering. Besides, I don't think we have a choice."

Father nodded. "She’s right, Catherine. It has to be her. What if, God forbid, Vincent doesn't make it out of there alive, but your son does?"

Catherine’s frustration was obvious in the set of her shoulders and the tight line of her mouth, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she leaned forward to speak with their driver, a man Diana recognized from her aborted escape through the city.

"Those pipes are old," Jacob said, "and most likely very rusty. Keep your head down, and be careful not to touch anything. One wrong move could bring it all down on top of you."

He rolled up the maps and tucked them back into their cardboard tube. "Do you have any idea where he might be keeping Vincent?"

Diana shook her head. She glanced at Catherine, who was still talking with the cabbie, and lowered her voice. "I only hope he hasn’t killed him already."

Catherine turned back, overhearing the comment despite Diana's attempt at circumspection.

"He’s alive," she said. "I'd know if he wasn't." She gazed out the window. "But if the police get there before we do . . ."

Vincent's life would be over. The thought made Diana shudder. If the police got there first, Gabriel would have won. She wasn't going to let that happen.

A few minutes later, the cab pulled to a stop in a deserted alley, and the three of them got out. Father hurried over to a rusty manhole cover.

"Go straight for one mile," he said, lifting it with a grunt and rolling it out of the way. "Then turn east. That’ll be your right." He helped her find her footing on the ladder that disappeared into the darkness.

"Here," Catherine said, handing her a flashlight, "you’ll need this."

Diana took it with a nod of gratitude.

"Be careful," Catherine said, "and tell Vincent . . ." She lifted her chin as though daring Diana to judge her. "Tell him I love him."

Diana smiled. "You can tell him yourself in a few minutes." She started down the ladder as Father started to replace the manhole cover.

"Godspeed," he said.

Then the heavy grate rolled into place, and Diana was alone in the darkness.

 

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

 

Catherine was close. Vincent could feel her presence. The end of his captivity was near, and he need only keep their son safe until help arrived. He looked up as the door opened to admit Gabriel, alone this time.

"The police are coming," Gabriel said, his pace and tone nonchalant as he came down the stairs.

"Let them come." It didn't matter now. Catherine would be there soon. If something happened to him, their son would still have his mother.

"If they find you, they'll kill you." Gabriel watched him, obviously puzzled by his lack of concern. "Or maybe they won't. Maybe they'll just leave the monster in his cage for the rest of his life."

Vincent shook his head. "Your words have no more power, Gabriel." He tilted his head and voiced a deeper truth. "You're the only monster here."

"Nothing happens by accident," Gabriel said in a tight, clipped voice. He stepped close to the bars. "The woman? The child? That was meant to be. Our destinies are linked. Yours. Mine. Julian's."

Once again, Gabriel had misjudged his adversary's speed and ferocity. A burst of rage propelled Vincent toward the bars, and Gabriel stumbled back, his hand going to the fresh wound at his throat. Blood oozed between his fingers, but he appeared unconcerned. He smiled, turned, and left Vincent alone.

 

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

 

Father touched the cab driver on the shoulder. "Here, please." The car pulled over, and Father and Catherine climbed out. "There’s an entrance nearby," Father said, "but we’ll have to hurry."

Catherine nodded and adjusted her hood, glancing around as they hurried across the street and into an abandoned building. Father led her down a staircase, and she helped him pull a heavy cabinet out of the way to reveal an opening in the wall. Inside there were more stairs, followed by dark tunnels filled with cobwebs, fallen concrete, and rusty pipes. They had to slow down then because the way was rough, the floor strewn with debris.

Catherine's sense of urgency grew with each passing moment. She felt a desperate need to get to Vincent and their son, to protect them. Nothing else mattered.

 

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

 

The nurse sprang to her feet when Gabriel entered the quiet room, but he ignored her and crossed to the crib.

"Do you believe in destiny?" His eyes were on Julian, but his words were meant for the uneasy nurse. "I know the power of love." He reached down, fingering the edge of a blanket while he talked.

"There was a girl. She was sixteen. Two years older than I was." He released the blanket in favor of the tiny fingers, remembering the girl's perfect almond eyes and silken skin. "So beautiful. I loved her desperately." He did glance over at the nurse then, but only for a moment. "She was the first person I ever killed." The shock in the nurse's eyes confirmed that she didn't understand, but he was used to that look. Only Snow had ever understood the truth—that by killing Mina, Gabriel had preserved her beauty forever.

The nurse backed away. Her fear was meaningless, and he ignored her, his attention already back on his son. He heard her leave the room, the door slamming in her wake, but he didn’t go after her. Instead, he reached for the small pillow that was tucked into a corner of the crib. Lifting it to his face, he drew the scents of baby shampoo and talcum powder deep into his lungs.

 

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

 

Vincent was so accustomed to his bond with Catherine that at first he thought she was in danger. Only it wasn’t her at all. She was safe. Her love surrounded him, its steady light supporting him as he paced the confines of his cell.

He stilled, reaching out to the ones he loved.

No. Not Catherine. This was different. Helpless. Innocent.

Their son.

He knew instantly that he was right, as uncomprehending terror, brilliant white and ice cold, exploded in his mind.

He roared and surged forward, pulling, rending, struggling against the bars that separated him from his son. Raw electricity coursed through him, burning his skin and hair before throwing him back into the unforgiving stone wall. The gate held, defying him, keeping him trapped and helpless while his son's life was in danger.

He would not be defeated. Could not.

He leapt to his feet and sprang back to the bars. Again he pulled, muscles straining, feet braced wide as he redoubled his attack. There was no time for thought. No time for pain. There was only the instinctive and overwhelming drive to protect his child.

The charged bars forced him back again and again, but each time he picked himself up and rushed the cell door again. He sensed the steel weakening—saw it in the showers of sparks, and heard it in their protesting screech. His hands were bloody and burned, his cloak torn, his body bruised—and still he fought.

There was no other choice.

He crashed to the floor once more, his head slamming against the wall. The force of the blow stunned him, but he was up again in an instant. He drew in a breath, his chest expanding with oxygen. With a roar, he threw himself at the bars again, rushing at them with all of his strength, his power fed by anger and fear.

At last, the bars gave way with a brilliant cascade of sparks as the entire gate came free in his hands. He threw it aside and charged across the room. Behind him, the gate crashed to the floor, announcing his freedom. Two guards appeared at the top of the stairs, guns drawn, but the threat meant nothing to Vincent. He tossed the men aside without slowing down, ignoring their screams of pain.

The door opened into a vast, gleaming kitchen, and Vincent paused, listening. Reaching out with his mind. The danger was still there, a menacing blackness that threatened his child's life. With a snarl, he spun toward the nearest doorway just as a man entered, gun raised and pointing at his head.

Vincent gave himself up entirely, let go . . . let himself become the thing inside that he had fought for so long. He might not be able to save his son. But It could.

The Other bellowed a challenge, and the man shrank back, the gun falling to the floor as he raised his hands to his ears.

Vincent might have granted the man his life.

The Other would not.

It leapt easily across the intervening distance and slashed the man's throat, loosing a spray of blood that soaked into its cloak. Uncaring, it ran on, leaving the body to slump to the floor.

There were more guards, but the Other never slowed down, never hesitated for longer than it took to dispatch the next trembling and terrified obstacle. But the danger was growing faster than the Other could move. Death was near. The Other took the stairs four at a time, hesitated for a single heartbeat, swung left, and sprinted down the hall.

A closed door loomed ahead, and the Other burst through it, hardly noticing when the thick wood shattered, sending deadly shards of wood flying in all directions.

Inside, Gabriel leaned over an antique crib, his hands busy with something the Other couldn't see. At the Other's entrance, he looked up, his eyes widening in surprise. In his hands he held a small pillow.

The Other was across the room in two long strides. It spun Gabriel away from the crib, the ferocity of its attack sending him crashing against the wall hard enough to crack the plaster, unleashing a spider web of fault lines and a fog of choking white dust. The thirst for blood sang in the Other's veins as it advanced on its prey. No longer the prisoner, the supplicant, the beggar . . . It had the power now. It was in control.

And it would have its vengeance.

It raised its hands, claws bared and ready, a snarl rumbling from its throat as it stalked the man who had thought himself the hunter—the man who had stolen the Other's child and tried to kill its mate.

On the floor, Gabriel watched, defiant and unafraid. In his eyes was a look the Other recognized. Triumph.

It was Diana who stopped it. Diana who ran into the room when it was almost too late, shouting his name, screaming for him to stop.

"Vincent!"

The Other hesitated, arrested by the urgency in the familiar voice. In an instant, she'd caught his arm, pulling it down, away from Gabriel.

"No!"

A low growl rumbled through the Other's chest as it eyed its fallen enemy. It wanted vengeance. It wanted to make Gabriel cry out for mercy. It wanted to rip Gabriel's beating heart from his chest and crush it between its fingers. But even as it advanced on its prey it sensed a growing weakness as Vincent fought to regain control of their shared consciousness.

It was a silent, solitary duel that was theirs alone to fight, theirs alone to win or lose. It was a battle they'd fought many times before, and one that Vincent had always won, though sometimes the struggle had been fierce. But never before had the Other's thirst for vengeance been this strong. In desperation, Vincent called Catherine's face to mind, her image shimmering faintly behind his closed eyelids. It worked. Faced with the depth of Vincent's love, the Other subsided, a final savage snarl drifting from its throat as it gave way.

Vincent drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to relax, aware of Diana's assessing gaze.

"The child is crying," she said, her attention shifting to Gabriel.

Vincent turned, only now becoming aware of his son’s thin, wailing cry. He crossed to the crib, reached inside, and lifted his son into his arms with a low murmur of reassurance. The baby quieted almost at once, and a tense silence fell over the room. Vincent turned back to Diana, uncertainty warring with determination. Must his son's earliest memories be tainted by murder? And yet . . . Gabriel could not be allowed to live.

"There's not a lot of time," Diana said, interrupting his thoughts with a meaningful look. She understood his dilemma, and she was offering him a solution. "Please—just hurry."

Vincent lowered his head, inhaling the sweet scent of his son's skin. What right did he have to allow her to be the one to end the nightmare? And what would happen to her when the police discovered what she'd done?

"Under the building," Diana said urgently. "Father's waiting." She touched his arm, her eyes on the baby’s face. "Catherine is with him." Vincent looked up then, his gaze locking on hers. He read the silent message in her eyes. She'd expected this moment, even planned for it. She would do what was necessary to protect Vincent and his son. Reluctantly, he gave her a small, grateful nod. He would accept this gift, but he would never forget the depth of the sacrifice she was about to make on his behalf.

As he crossed the room, Vincent spared a last glance at his adversary. Gabriel's eyes were wide with shock, his mouth open and slack. He hadn't known that Catherine was alive, and he would go to his grave with the knowledge that he had failed. There was justice in that.

Vincent left without a word, his son cradled safely in his arms.

 

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

Diana watched in silence as Vincent left the room. When she turned back to Gabriel, the shock was gone, hidden, along with his fear, behind dark eyes that gleamed with victory.

"Thank you," he said. He dropped his head and took a slow breath. "You know what prison is?" he asked, looking back up at her. "It’s a place to grow stronger."

She stared at him without speaking. He was handsome in his way—elegant and self-assured. But Vincent’s distinctive features were a thousand times more interesting.

Gabriel struggled to his feet. "No court will convict me," he said confidently. "Jurors have families, too." His breathing was shallow, and when he winced, Diana wondered how many ribs Vincent had broken. "And even if they did . . ." He met her gaze, and she shivered at the utter lack of warmth she saw in his eyes. "You can rule the world from a prison cell."

With studied nonchalance, Gabriel brushed himself off and straightened his shirt. "I own nations, Diana. I'll have the child back." He was insufferably smug, unbearably arrogant. "In the end, I always win."

"Not this time, Gabriel." Diana pulled the gun from her pocket, satisfaction welling inside her when his eyes grew wide. She spoke quietly, aware of the venom that laced her mild tones, but doing nothing to hold it back. "This is Catherine Chandler's gun."

She had planned carefully for this. The gloves she wore were of softest leather, the bullets in the gun were new, and she was smart enough to police her brass. When she left here, she would empty the gun, wipe it clean, and throw it in the East River. It seemed fitting, somehow, that Catherine's gun would kill Gabriel and find its final resting place in the same river that had claimed Elliot Burch.

By the time Joe arrived with his army, she would be long gone.

She saw understanding dawn in Gabriel's eyes, saw him recognize the inevitability of his own death. And then, finally, Gabriel was afraid. It was the moment she had been waiting for.

The gun leapt in her hand.

He cried out, pain and surprise mingling in a single sharp sound as the bullet pierced his heart.

Pocketing her weapon, Diana stooped to pick up the empty cartridge. Then she gave the inert form one final glance before turning, and walking away.

It was over.