Dancing in the Shadows

Ayiana

Chapter 30

Vincent was waiting at the park entrance when Catherine returned from her appointment with Peter. The meeting had run long; it was well-past nightfall by the time he sensed her approach. She paused beyond the sheltered access point, and he saw her scan the area before she turned and ducked inside. A moment later, he held her in his arms.

"It went well," he said when she pulled back.

She nodded. "Very." She looked beyond him, her eyes probing the shadows. "Where's the baby?"

"Mary is watching over him."

Catherine glanced at her watch with a grimace. "I had no idea it was so late," she said. "I'm sorry."

"You had business to attend to. There's no need to apologize."

She was quiet for a moment, her gaze sliding back toward the tunnel entrance and the city beyond. "It feels a little strange, walking away from it all."

"Are you quite certain, Catherine? There are still other choices, other possibilities."

"No." She shook her head. "It's time to move on. Time to live another life."

He still sensed no doubt in her, no questioning of her decision. Would he ever cease to be amazed by that? He lifted his hood over his head and reached for her hand. "Come," he said, "walk with me."

It was quiet in the park, as weeknights usually were, and their only company as they wandered among the trees was the occasional bat that swooped past them on silent wings.

"How is Peter?" Vincent asked at length.

"He's fine." Catherine plucked an oak leaf from an overhanging branch and twirled it in her fingers. "I don't know how he managed to arrange things so quickly."

They paused in the middle of a footbridge, and she dropped the leaf over the railing, watching as the stream carried it away.

She seemed pensive as she gazed into the swirling water, and he wondered what she was thinking. "Is it finished, then?"

"Yes." Her eyes glinted with reflected moonlight when she glanced up at him. "The paperwork will take a few days, but I think everything will work out fine."

"And the appointment with Peter? Did it go well?"

She nodded. "Just the physical today. He has to wait on some test results before he can do anything else."

"When do you see him again?"

"Tuesday."

"Good." Such a small word. How could it begin to convey his relief, his joy, in the knowledge that she would soon be protected from the one uncertainty that still troubled him? Their son was a miracle, formed more in her likeness than in his. A second child might be more like him, endangering her safety the same way he must have endangered his own mother's. The thought stirred memories of Paracelsus—memories that terrified him with their nightmarish possibilities.

Catherine was still talking, apparently unaware of his reaction to her news. "I've arranged for some of my things to be brought Below." She looked over at him. "If that's all right?"

Pushing the troublesome thoughts aside, Vincent nodded. "Of course, Catherine. The tunnels are your home, now."

"Peter's going to arrange for the sale of my apartment and most of the furniture." She turned away from the railing and they started walking again, their footfalls almost silent on the darkened path. "I would have brought it all Below, but . . ." She hesitated, and he sensed an uneasiness in her, some worry yet unresolved. When she went on, her voice was so low that he had to bend close to hear the words. "I don't want people to think I'm buying my place among you."

Surprised by the comment, Vincent stopped her with a touch at her elbow. "Nobody would think that, Catherine."

"I hope you're right." But her gaze was searching and a little doubtful, as though she wanted to believe him but couldn't quite set aside her fears.

And perhaps her concern wasn't entirely unfounded. Neither of them could know for certain how the community would react to her coming Below permanently, and though Vincent hoped for the best, he knew there were those who might resent the presence of a wealthy topsider in their midst.

"I have so much to learn." With the change of subject, enthusiasm gradually replaced the vague disquiet in Catherine's voice. "There's the security system, the pipe codes, the children's schooling . . ." Her eyes sparkled with excitement. She was so eager, so willing, and his heart swelled with pride as he watched her. "I want to learn all of it, Vincent. I want to understand, truly understand, everything."

The task she proposed would not be an easy one. Most who came Below settled quickly into one or two areas of community life, contributing to the well-being of the group in whatever manner best suited their abilities and temperament. Catherine's determination to learn all of it was impressive. "You amaze me."

"Why?"

"That you could leave everything you know behind and start over again in a strange new world . . . Such a thing takes great courage."

"No." She shook her head. "Only great love."

She held his gaze, and for a second even the wind seemed to hesitate. Then she smiled and took his hand, and they walked on. They were nearing the playground, and Vincent studied the deserted swings, thinking of the night when he would teach his son to fly.

"It's all going to be different now, isn't it," Catherine said, following his gaze.

"Yes." It would be. As a member of the community, Catherine would be expected to work as hard as any other tunnel dweller, to suffer the same hardships and share in the same triumphs. She would do well, he knew, and yet he also knew the adjustment might be more difficult than she anticipated. And they were parents now, with a son who would look to them for guidance—a son who might yet turn out to be more like his father than anybody knew.

"Vincent." She pulled him to a stop near a graceful willow tree. "We've talked about my reasons for coming Below, about whether it was the right thing for me." She touched the worn leather pouch that hung around his neck. "But we've never really talked about whether it's the right thing for you." The moonlight shone against her hair when she lifted her head to meet his eyes. "Is this what you want, too?"

He was vaguely surprised that she needed to ask. And yet, with the exception of one brief moment of unguarded honesty, he'd never put his dreams into words, unwilling to taint the choice that must be hers alone. Now such care was no longer necessary. He raised his head, listening to the night. They were alone. He was certain of it, and yet he guided her beneath the overhanging branches of the weeping willow, unwilling to risk a chance discovery. The tree welcomed them, its sheltering arms gathering them into a deeply shadowed haven, safe from prying eyes.

He leaned against the trunk and took her hands in his, rubbing the pad of his thumb across the soft skin while he considered how much to tell her.

"I was still very young when I began to understand that I was different from the other children. Father had always treated me with special care, but I was only a child; I thought nothing of it . . . until the other children my age began to explore the world Above, and I was forced to stay behind."

Her fingers pressed against his, and he glanced down at them. So delicate. So perfect. And so very, very precious.

"I soon came to hate what I was. Who I was." He lifted his eyes, his gaze slipping between the feathered branches to the playground beyond, memories of that dark time carrying him back. "When I was eight years old, I borrowed a pair of scissors from Mary's sewing box and . . ." He hesitated, searching for words that would convey the meaning of what he'd done while omitting the most graphic details. "I tried to make myself look more like other boys."

"No . . ." The shock and dismay in her voice drew his attention back to her, and he squeezed her hands reassuringly. Those days were far behind him now, the pain he'd suffered a distant memory.

"Father was very angry." It was a rather inadequate description. When Father had discovered him sitting cross-legged on the floor of an empty chamber—surrounded by mounds of hair, his fingers torn and bloody from his attempts to remove the hated claws—he'd been furious and appalled. But there was no need to burden Catherine with details that would only trouble her further.

Her voice was little more than a horrified whisper. "I imagine he was."

The way she watched him, her eyes wide and full of sympathy, sparked a rush of tenderness, and he lowered his head to place a gentle kiss against the softness of her lips. Then he tucked her close and let his gaze drift back to the abandoned playground.

"With time, I learned to accept who I was, to make peace with it and find what freedom I could in the deepest hours of the night. But I always knew that my life would never be like other men's lives." He breathed deeply, closing his eyes as he drew in her scent. "And then I found you."

She nestled against him, her arms tight around his waist.

"I never thought, never dared dream, that you might see in me a man you could love, a man you would willingly share your life with, giving up everything you'd ever known for a world without sunlight, a world of shadows and hardship."

"Thanks to you," Catherine whispered, "I've learned there can be magic in the shadows."

How like her to reassure him—even now, when such reassurance was no longer necessary.

"You gave me the courage to hope, Catherine. The courage to dream. Do not doubt, ever, that I want you by my side."

She said nothing, but he sensed an easing of some small tension within her, and a growing sense of peace. They stood quietly then, content to rest in each other's arms, with only the stars and the creatures of the night for company. A gentle breeze sighed through the willow fronds, and in the distance, Vincent heard an owl call to its mate.

"Catherine . . ." He waited until she looked up, her eyes mere shadows in the deep gloom. "I have . . . one more dream."

The look she gave him, a sort of curious, birdlike tilt of the head, almost made him set aside what he meant to say in favor of kissing her again.

"Tell me."

He was surprised to discover that he was nervous. It was an unaccustomed feeling, and he forced himself to breathe slowly in an effort to slow the disconcerting rush and flutter of his pulse.

"In my dream, you're standing beside me in front of the entire community . . ." The scene was so clear in his mind that he thought he might almost reach out and hold it in his hand, the way one might hold a butterfly. ". . . and agreeing to be my wife."

At first, Catherine was quiet. Then she lifted her hand to his face, and he closed his eyes to drink in the caress of her fingers against his skin.

"In the dream," she said, "am I happy?"

"Yes." The single word was all that he could manage.

"Good." She lowered her hand to rest against his heart. Could she feel it racing beneath her palm? Did it thunder in her ear like the beat of galloping hooves? But she said nothing more, and he'd begun to wonder if she would, when he heard her low voice whisper through the darkness. "I have a dream, too."

"Yes?"

"Mmhmm."

He felt the hum more than heard it, a faint vibration that trembled along his arm where it pressed against her back.

"Tell me." Rising hope made him smile against her hair.

"In my dream, we're surrounded by candles, and somehow I know we aren't alone, but I can't see anybody but you."

"And what am I doing?"

"You're smiling."

"I am?"

"Yes."

"And what else am I doing?"

Her fingertips flexed against his chest, and he felt her shoulders rise with her indrawn breath. "You're holding my hand in yours . . ."

She hesitated. She was nervous, too, he realized, sensing the thrumming tension in their bond. The understanding calmed his own nerves, and he wrapped his fingers around hers where they rested against his chest. How strange that they should be so uncertain. "And?"

"And you're putting a ring on my finger."

A ring. Of course she would expect a ring. His mind leapt ahead, considering possibilities, but she interrupted his thoughts.

"I've always loved my mother's wedding ring," she said, her voice still just a whisper in the darkness. "I used to hope that someday . . . I might wear it."

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss against the tender skin. "I think," he said, "your mother might like that."

He couldn't see her smile in the darkness, but he heard it in her voice. "Yes," she said, "I think she would."

"Catherine . . ." There was one more thing she must understand. "We don't have any helpers in the county clerk's office." She would know, of course, what that meant, and yet something drove him to say the words. "A formal marriage license . . . is impossible."

It might be different if New York recognized common-law marriage, or if a proxy could appear on his behalf, but such was not the case. It was, he thought a little sadly, yet another sacrifice he must ask of her. But before he could speak the apology that hovered on his lips, she pulled out of his arms and reached up to frame his face with her hands.

"I don't need a piece of paper to tell me what my heart already knows. All I need . . ." her grip on his chin eased, turning into a caress, "is you." She slid her hands around his head, tangling them in his hair and using her leverage to pull his head down to hers.

There was nothing tentative about her kiss, nothing hesitant. Her lips were firm, with little of the slow tenderness they'd shared in the past. Responsive heat rushed through him, and he pulled her into the cradle of his hips, setting his legs apart and splaying his fingers wide against the small of her back, bringing her body into tight, intimate contact with his. Her kiss tasted of sunshine, and he drank it in, its energy feeding the fire that already threatened to carry him away.

He wanted to claim her. He wanted to pillow her head with his cloak and peel away her clothes, and make love to her beneath the stars and the moon and the dancing willow fronds. He would worship every inch of her silken skin, seeking out the hidden places and enflaming her passions, until her cries mingled with the cricket song and drowned out the mournful call of the whippoorwill.

His senses, so highly attuned to hers, sang with their shared desire, her body seeming almost to pulse against his. Keeping her close with one hand, he buried the other in her hair, and strands of silk slid through his fingers like water. Their kisses grew more heated, her lips moving against his in a silent plea, and he wanted to grant her wish, wanted to share his love in all the ways he had before, and in all the ways he'd only imagined in his deepest, most private fantasies. Her tongue slid past his teeth to dance against his, and he struggled for control, holding desperately to the thin threads of sanity that still held sway over his desires.

It was Catherine who stopped it, Catherine who pulled back, gasping, her head dropping against his chest as she wrapped her arms around his waist and held on with surprising strength.

Breathing hard, Vincent let his head fall back against the tree. He stared up through the leafy branches to the star-studded sky, concentrating on the constellations, fighting the inferno that raged in his blood. How did other men live with this hunger? How did they prevent it from consuming them entirely?

Ursa Major. He stared at the pinpricks of light, just visible through the trembling branches, with single-minded intensity. Ursa Minor. Cassiopeia. Gemini . . .

"Vincent?" Her voice, heavy with humor and frustrated desire, stirred the hair at his shoulder.

He dragged his eyes away from the stars. His heart still raced, and his hands . . . gradually he became aware that he still held her body pressed tight against his own. With a conscious effort, he loosened his hold, but she made no move to step away.

"Do you think . . ." She pressed her palm flat against his chest and took a deep breath. "How long do you suppose it takes to plan a wedding Below?"

Amusement cooled the last vestiges of passion, and he smiled as he brushed a kiss against the top of her head.

"I hope," he whispered, "not more than a week."

He reached for her hand. She twined her fingers with his, and they turned toward home. Beyond the park, the world rushed on at a frenetic pace, but for now, for them, there was only the magic.

And love.