When the Phoenix Sings ~ 11

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          In the Great Hall, Catherine had finished with the candles and was bent over a long wooden table, rubbing its surface to a fine sheen with lemon oil.  She expected Vincent to appear with another table soon, and she was determined to have this  one  dusted  and  polished  before  he arrived.
          Several small groups of people were busy with their various labors across  the hall.  Rebecca,  Jamie,  and Brooke had left a little while ago in response to a request from William.
          When  the  door  of the Great Hall swung open a few minutes later,  Catherine looked up  expecting  Vincent's  arrival.  Instead,  a  small boy...whose  name  she  couldn't recall...entered breathlessly.  At the sight of his face, Catherine recoiled.

          Fire.  The  gust  of  wind behind the boy reeked with the smell of
     smoke and she thought she saw flames in the huge chamber behind him.
 
          She  blinked...and when she looked again there was nothing but the child's face, contorted with anxiety.  His thin voice pierced the heavy air of the Great Hall, alarming the people who worked there.
          "Vincent's in a fire in the study!"
          Catherine's heart leaped.  Someone else started  to  question  the boy, endeavoring to secure more specific information, but Catherine had already left the chamber.

 
          When she arrived at Father's  study,  a  large  group  had  formed inside  the entrance.  She saw several men bent over a blackened length of shelving,  their voices filling the room while a thin veil of  smoke hung in the air.
          Pausing,  she searched frantically for Vincent, panicking when she saw no sign of his golden hair.
          Under her breath, she gasped his name.  "Vincent."  She came  down the steps, urgently pulling at the arm of the nearest person.  "Where's Vincent?"
          She  received  a  gesture toward Father's bed chamber.  "He's with Father."
          "Is he all right?"  She held her breath.
          "He's fine."  The person nodded.  "He put the fire out  before any real damage was done."
          Pushing  her way across the chamber,  she tried to calm her racing pulse.  At last she was in Father's doorway.
          He was there.
          Vincent sat in the chair  at  Father's  side,  his  cloak  wrapped loosely  around his shoulders.  She breathed his name,  and he stood to face her,  opening his arms.  Throwing herself into  his  embrace,  she searched his face.  "They said you were in a fire."
          He shook his head.  "A very small fire.  I was in no danger."
          She turned to the old man on the bed.  "And you,  Father?  Are you okay?"
          With a nod,  Father assured her,  "Thanks to Vincent,  we are  all well,  Catherine.  What  could have been a major disaster...was nothing more  than  a  minor  incident.  It'll  make  interesting  conversation material  at  Winterfest."  He  added  as an afterthought,  "Although I suspect Mouse and Cullen will take a very serious view  of  the  matter  when I am through with them."
 

          Some time later,  Mary took her post at  Father's  side,  and  the group  disbanded.  Desperately needing to feel Vincent's strength after her frightening ascent from the Great Hall, Catherine clung to Vincent, flinching at the sight of the fire's  remains  as  they  left  Father's study.  She  found  her  voice  as  they  moved down the passage toward Vincent's chamber.  "How did you put the fire out?"
          "I beat it out with my cloak."
          "You're certain you didn't burn your hands?"
          He nodded.  "I have passed Father's inspection." After a pause, he shook his head, speaking almost to himself, his voice filled with self- recrimination.  "After all the times when I tried to insure that Father would  never be alone."  He paused.  "Mouse and Cullen had gone to move tables when I  was  late  coming  back  from  Chinatown.  If  I  hadn't returned...if I hadn't been within hearing distance..."
          She  shook her head.  "Vincent,  you can't be everywhere.  And you were there when he needed you."
          "If  the flames had spread through the shelves,  Father would have been trapped behind a wall of fire."
          "But  it  didn't happen."  She took his arm, pulling him around to face her.  "You were here for him."  With a reassuring smile she added, "And  now  it's  over."   She paused.  "Your dream... Vincent,  you were right...it was prophetic.  Your dream made you watchful  and  it  saved Father's life." Her hand smoothed a lock of scorched hair back from his forehead, "And now it's over."
          Looking down at her,  his eyes sparkled with a new light of  hope.
          "Do you think so, Catherine?  Is it possible the dreams are over?"
          "I'm certain of it. Something inside of you must have foreseen the danger.  You  said  all  along  that your fears seemed greater when you associated them with Father's study."
          He  shook  his  head.  "...and  with  you,  Catherine.  They  also centered around you."
          With a nod, she responded,  "I was here Below.  Maybe that's why I was a part of your dream.  I'm just very grateful you weren't hurt."
          As they entered Vincent's  chamber,  he  turned  toward  her.  "If you'll  wait  for me at the guest chamber,  I'd like to change clothes. I'll join you there shortly."
          She looked at him carefully, slightly puzzled that the cloak still hung upon his shoulders.  "I'm glad your cloak wasn't heavily damaged." Lifting  her hand,  she offered to help him take it from his shoulders. "Let me have it,  and I'll show it  to  Mary.  If  it  isn't  seriously burned, I'll ask her to let me help mend it."
          "No, I'll take care of it." He stood at an angle, keeping his back toward her as he restlessly stepped further away.
          She  looked at him with sudden suspicion.  He never wore the cloak within  his  own quarters.  It was usually thrown casually over a chair as soon as he entered.  "Vincent, are you certain you're all right?"
          She  watched  his hair shift as he nodded.  "I just need to change clothes."
          Her suspicions were rapidly growing.  Father would never have  let Vincent  leave  if  there  had  been  any  chance that Vincent had been injured,  but why was he standing here with his  back  turned,  encased within the scorched black folds of his cloak?
          She asked softly,  "Vincent, do you need some sort of help?"
          His  answer  was  almost  too casual as he nodded.  "Yes,  I would appreciate it if you'd take the lantern from the shelf by the  entrance and  place  it  on  the  floor of the outer passage as you leave...just beyond the bend."
          Catherine glanced at the lantern he had indicated.  She knew  that a lantern on the floor outside a chamber was the tunnel equivalent of a "Do Not Enter" sign.
          "Why?"
          His eyes met hers as he looked over his shoulder.  His  voice  was very quiet. "Please, Catherine.  I'll join you in just a few minutes."
          As he turned,  she realized that he was favoring his chest and his left  shoulder.  He  was hurt.  There could be no other explanation for his eagerness to have her gone.  She reached for the lantern and  stood for  a  moment...staring  at  his  back.  She  didn't  believe  he  was seriously injured,  but she needed to know for certain.  At  last,  she answered.  "I'll  put  the  lantern  outside...then  I'm coming  back."
          He started to respond, but by that time she had gone out  into the passageway.   Placing  the  lantern  well  beyond  his  entrance,   she straightened and immediately returned to his chamber.  He hadn't moved. He still stood with his back to her,  his stance hidden  by  the  heavy cloak.
          Hesitating only a moment, she approached him and placed one of her hands on his back.  Her action induced a noticeable shudder across  his shoulders.
          "Vincent."  Gently,  she  pulled his arm,  turning his body as she stepped around to face him.  His eyes were downcast,  refusing to  meet hers,  and his arms hung at his sides.  "Vincent," she whispered, "tell me what's wrong." Slowly she separated the folds of his cloak,  pushing it back from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
          She then saw the cause of Vincent's  silence.  The  front  of  his  white  cotton shirt was marred by a series of dark golden stains across
     his chest.  Most of them were small random  splatters,  but  one  honey colored  smear  was  as  large  as  the palm of Vincent's hand.  It was  mottled with blackened fibers,  evidence of the heat that  had  created these frightening patterns.
          Touching  the  stains  carefully,  Catherine  whispered.  "What is this?"  The substance was hard and unyielding.
          "Varnish."
          With a gasp, she realized what had happened.  "Was it burning when it did this?"
          "No."  His head shook once.  "The fire was out."
          "But you were spattered by scalding varnish..."  Her  hands traced one of the larger stains, testing its temperature. "Is it still hot?"
          He  stood in rigid acceptance of her touch.  "No."  His lips moved almost silently. "It cooled immediately."
          With extreme care she lifted the cotton fabric, trying to nudge it free from his body, and to her horror she realized that Vincent's shirt was sealed against his chest, bonded by the hardened substance.
          Catherine's eyes darted to his.  "Father doesn't know."
          His head shook slowly.
          Suddenly animated with concern, she spoke rapidly,  "You've got to tell  him...you've  been burned,  you need help..."  She took his hand, trying to urge him toward the doorway.
          "No, Catherine."  Shaking his head he remained in his  place.  "It isn't   as   bad   a   it  looks.   I  don't  want  to  concern  Father unnecessarily."
          She gasped, "How can it not be bad?  You've been scalded."
          He pulled his hand free from hers and turned partially away as  he answered  softly.  "There  was very little contact...with my skin."  He paused, and continued even more quietly.  "I was protected from most of the heat...by the...thickness of..."
          Catherine  frowned,  wondering  for  an  instant  why  he  was  so hesitant.  What  were  the  words which were eluding him?  And then she knew.  Beneath the white cotton of his shirt she could feel  the  thick thatch of his chest hair.
          She had seen him shirtless once, when he'd been ill.  At that time she'd been far too concerned about his health to pay much attention  to the  patterns  of  his  hair.  But  she  knew  that  Vincent  was  very uncomfortable with any  of  the  features  which  set  him  apart  from ordinary men.
          Interrupting  him,  she  again  took  his hand,  but this time she didn't lead him toward the door.  "Come sit down."  Drawing him  to his bed, she pushed him gently until he sat.  "If you won't let me take you to Father, I want to see the burns myself."
          "Catherine," his voice finally began to sound like his own. "I can handle this."
          She stood before him. "Oh? How do you plan to get that shirt off?"
          Looking down at the stains he replied quietly.  "I may have to cut it off."
          She  glanced  around the chamber for a pair of scissors,  then she remembered that she'd been trimming wicks earlier.  Reaching  into  the pocket of her apron,  she pulled out her small shears.  Her fingers had also settled on the tube of burn ointment which had been in  her  apron for  the  past  few weeks.  They would need that later.  But first they needed to remove the hardened  varnish  so  they  could  determine  the extent of his burns.
           She knew it would be easier if he would let  her  cut  the  shirt away.  She also knew it wouldn't be easy to convince him of that.
          "Here,"  she said.  "You can use these."  Handing him the scissors handle first, she stood back.
          He glanced at her, then at the shears.  He held them for a moment, then sighed and with a quiet mutter he replied, "I have never been able to use a scissors, Catherine."
          Feeling a rush of compassion, she scolded herself.  Of course, his large fingers would never fit into the holes of the handle.  It was her turn to mutter,  "I'm sorry."  She took his huge hand  in hers,  taking back  the  scissors  and  lifting  his fingers to kiss his differences.
     "I'll try to find a larger pair."
          "Catherine."  There was the slightest trace  of amusement  in  his voice. "The size will not matter...  My problem with scissors is that I am left handed."
          Catherine stood staring at him blankly.  In her eagerness to prove her acceptance  of  his  differences,  she  had  managed  to  assume  a difference  that  didn't exist.  A slow smile crept into her eyes,  and suddenly she felt like laughing.  Perhaps  it  was  the  irony  of  the moment,  or  the  overwhelming  relief  at finding him safe in Father's chamber.  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  needed  to  either  laugh  or cry...and laughing was easier.
          She  wanted to hug him,  but along with the amusement in his eyes, there was a hint of pain.  Enough of this, she thought.  There was work to be done.
          "All right.  I will remember to buy you  a  pair  of  large,  left handed  scissors.  But  until  then,  one  of us needs to cut away your shirt."  She asked gently.  "Will you let me?"
          Ducking his head, he slowly lifted his eyes to look at her through his bangs. "I seem to have little choice."
          She nodded.  With a sigh, she looked more closely at his shirt. "I don't see any way of salvaging this."
          He responded with a nod.
          Then  he  sat  patiently while she pushed his hair out of the way, cutting through the collar of the shirt  and  down  one  sleeve.  After making  a similar cut on the other side,  she knelt in front of him and  slit the shirt down to its hem, revealing Vincent's bare arms and back.
          With a slow shake of her head,  she cut away the excess fabric and examined each of the varnish stains as she bit at her lower lip.  "This is going to take a while,  Vincent.  I think it would be easier for  us both if you'd lie back on the pillows."
          His  eyes met hers for a moment,  then with a slow shift,  he slid his body back on the bed,  leaving space for Catherine to  sit  at  his side.  Easing  himself  back to rest his head and shoulders against his cushions, he watched as she settled herself facing him.
          Leaning  over his reclining form,  she lifted an edge of the white cotton,  carefully sliding her finger between the fabric and  Vincent's skin.  He winced slightly when her finger reached a place where the hot varnish   had  bonded  with  the  thick  golden  curls  on  his  chest.
     Regretting the necessity of cutting his hair,  she slid the tip of  her shears into place,  snipping a few hairs at a time,  trying desperately to avoid irritating the hot red skin that  was  slowly  being  exposed.
          She  could  only imagine how sensitive his skin must be.  This was tender  white  flesh,   never  exposed  to  the  harshness  of  sun  or wind...flesh  which was forever shielded by garments of leather,  wool, cotton,  and its own layer of soft,  protective hair.  And now  it  was being  exposed  to  the coolness of the tunnel air as Catherine clipped her careful path across the expanse of Vincent's chest.
          She tried not to think about the beauty  of  that  chest,  not  to respond  to  its  rise  and fall...and the corresponding whisper of his breath  across her hair.
          Finally,  she dared to glance up at his face,  and she  found  his eyes closed...not in peace,  but in tense denial of the intimacy of her chore.  His tensions were so great that she feared she had been causing him pain.
          "Vincent."
          He looked at her.
          "Am I hurting you?"
          "No."
          "I'm sorry.  I don't know of any other way to do this."
          He held his breath and let it out slowly.  "It doesn't hurt."
          She  accepted  his  lie.  She  knew  certainly  that it was a lie, because she was slowly revealing an area where his skin was welted with large watery blisters.  Some of the blisters had broken,  even in spite of her slow care, and they shown wet and angry in the candlelight.
          She paused. "I need more light.  Stay still." Rising from his bed, she stepped to his table and gathered the candles,  bringing them  back to sit on the ledge below his stained glass window.
          His eyes had followed her actions, waiting for her return.
          When she again sat down,  she lifted the loosened section  of  his shirt and cut it away,  taking downy masses of his golden hair with it. Reaching into her apron pocket,  she retrieved the salve which had been so effective on her own burns in Rebecca's candle chamber.
          "This is something that a friend of mine gave me  for  sunburn.  I found  out  it's  wonderful for all kinds of burns.  Rebecca and I have been using it when we work with hot wax."
          He  nodded and watched as she spread the colorless cream carefully over his reddened skin.  It seemed  to  her  that  a  fraction  of  his tension eased, slipping away with the cooling relief of the medicine.
          Then  it  was time to take up her task again.  The worst still lay ahead.   Up  until  now,  she'd  been  working  with  small  splatters, separated by areas which had been unaffected.  But now she examined the most serious of the spots.  This was the largest,  roughly the size and shape  of  Vincent's  palm...and the varnish appeared to be more firmly embedded in the hair of his chest.  To make matters far worse,  it  lay directly  over  his  left  nipple.  Catherine cringed at the thought of      pulling this sensitive scalded skin free  from  the  encrusted  mat  or accidentally nipping him with the scissors.
          Taking a deep breath, she began...rolling the cotton fabric back a fraction  of  an inch at a time,  kneading it loose from his hair until she had space to slip the sharp tip of her  scissors  into  place,  and  then  clipping  only  when she was certain that she wasn't catching his skin by mistake.  She tried lubricating the area  with  the  salve  and found that it gave her a slight advantage.  The hairs remained trapped, but  his flesh seemed to come free a bit easier.  It was tedious,  slow work.
          Her own hair fell forward,  blocking her light,  until she finally sat  up  and  fished  a length of candle wicking from her apron pocket. Tying back her hair, she was grateful for the contents of her pockets.
          She wanted to stop...to gaze at Vincent's face, but she was afraid the sight of him would make her lose her objectivity.  If she looked at him she might never be able to complete this task.
          Again  she  began.   It  became  a  pattern.   Snip,  tug,  knead, clip...snip,  tug...over and over.  And always there  was  his  breath, moving across her hair, halting sometimes when she knew she was hurting him.  Once  she  accidentally  pinched his skin with the scissors,  not  really cutting him,  but leaving a blue bruised ridge.  He had  gasped, but there had been no other sound.
          And then with another tug, she froze.  The skin here was no longer white or pink...the color changed.  In this place it warmed to  a  rich mahogany  brown.  She  had revealed that most sensitive place...a place which was meant to be caressed,  to be kissed,  a place which was never
     meant  to  be  violated  by  hot  scalds  and the cold steel of scissor blades.
          She  hesitated,   finding  this  task  suddenly  more   difficult. "Vincent.  I don't want to hurt you.  Maybe we should tell Father..."
          His head shook from side to side on the pillow,  and for the first time she noticed a thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead.  "Finish it, Catherine."
          She whispered, "But I feel like I'm torturing you."
          When he spoke again, she could hear the tremble in his voice.  "It must be done...please, finish it."
          She nodded,  biting her  lip  harder  than  she  realized  as  she resolved to end his pain as quickly as possible.
          There was one advantage at this point.  His pap was hairless,  and by kneading the salve into his skin she was able to work his flesh free more easily than  before.  Slowly,  the  flat  concentric  ridges  were exposed.  As she massaged his nipple gently with the salve she found no blisters   here...only   a   smooth   softness  that  would  have  been irresistibly enticing under other circumstances.
          She  became  aware  of  a  change in his breathing.  His eyes were closed and he panted slowly  through  parted  lips,  his  every  breath forced, controlled with great effort.
          Then  her fingers moved beyond the brown skin,  and she came to an area where her scissors found ready access.  Working more  easily,  she continued  until finally his entire left breast lay before her,  smooth and firm, his muscles trembling almost imperceptibly with tension.
          Lifting the shredded remains of his shirt,  she carefully  snipped the last hairs free...and it was done.
          "Vincent, it's finished."  She dropped the scrap of cloth and hair to the floor.
          His eyes remained closed and the panting slowed.
          Leaning forward,  she whispered,  "I don't think any of the  burns need a dressing...another coat of my salve should be enough, unless you want the protection of bandages."
          His head moved once from left to right.
          Gently she returned her attention to the scalds,  soothing each of them  with  a  thin sheen of ointment.  His blistered flesh felt hot to her touch, and she remembered a time when she'd been very young and had played  too long in the sun.  Her mother had cooled the severe sunburns with her  breath.  Catherine  now  chose  to  give  Vincent  that  same comfort.  Pursing her lips, she lowered her head and blew gently across his chest as her fingers worked with the healing salve.
          The  feel of her breath brought a response from Vincent as he made a small sound.  She was uncertain whether it was a sound of pleasure or pain.
          She stopped and looked up.  His eyes  were  still  shut,  and  she found it impossible to read the expression on his face.
          With a gentle whisper she asked, "Do you want me to stop?"
          Her  answer was a slow shake of his head.  Then slowly,  silently, he lifted his right hand from the bed and brought it up to the back  of her  head,  where  he  let it rest lightly against the loose tie in her   hair.
          Catherine felt a surge of silent joy at the weight of his hand  on her  hair.  It was as if a window had opened,  permitting her a glimpse of the hidden needs which called from the shadows beyond his walls.
          At last she was free to look at him,  and with her gaze there came the need to touch him...not as a caretaker tending his wounds, but as a woman who loved him more dearly than life itself.  She  wanted  to  see the  reaction  in his eyes when she touched his face,  to sense herself through his share of the bond as  she  ran  her  fingertips  over  that special place below his ear.
          Her gaze followed her fingers,  moving downward to trace the  line where  the  bare  flesh  of  his  throat  met  the thick curls over his chest...her touch seeking out the soft notch at the base of his  throat and holding that spot until she could claim it with a kiss.
          His  skin  was  warm against her lips,  warm and fragrant with his special  scent.  Her  mouth touched him with the whisper of a caress as she  moved  slowly  across  his  throat,  sometimes  nuzzling  into the softness of the hair below his collarbone,  sometimes  lightly  nipping the  smooth  skin  of his throat between her upper and lower lips.
          She pulled back and ran her tongue across her lips,  taking in the taste  of him as she glanced toward his face.   He lay in silence,  his eyes still closed,  his lips parted.  Beautiful beyond words,  his face was a contrasting study of total acceptance and mounting tensions.
          Something  in  the  touch of his hand on her hair told her that he wasn't going to stop her this time.  He had trusted her to work  across his  chest  with the cold sharp steel of a scissors,  and now he seemed ready  to  trust  her  with  the  soft  warmth  of  her  kisses.   More importantly, he seemed prepared to trust himself. She cautioned herself to  work  carefully  within  that  trust,  using it to make a place for herself inside his barriers.
          Still watching him,  she  brought  her  hands  to  his  face,  her fingertips creeping upwards toward his high cheekbones,  sliding gently up both sides of his face...soothing away the small  lines  of  tension and massaging his temples with the softest of touches.
          Finding a slight burn on his forehead, she leaned forward and blew on it gently,  cooling his flesh...while fanning the  warmth  that  was swelling within herself.
          Maybe  it was his need for her and his trust that brought his left hand to her cheek.  She froze,  closing her eyes and hardly  daring  to breathe as his fingers moved with the faintest of touches, tickling the downy fuzz on her cheek, just in front of her ear.
          His hand at the back of her  neck  held  her,  cradling  her  head firmly,  permitting  her neither to come closer nor to draw away.  Then his left hand shifted to her ear,  slowly  trailing  upward  along  its  outer curve.  Suddenly she felt the sharp tips of his nails,  snatching her  breath  away  as  they  traced  her  ear's inner curve.  In a slow spiral,  his nails left a trail of burning sensuality that ended at the
     bottom of her ear.  His hand paused there,  tenderly kneading her  lobe between his thumb and the base of his forefinger, his warm palm resting against her cheek.
          Catherine closed her eyes,  certain that he had  no  idea  of  the effect  he  was  having  upon her.  But then she felt a tremor in their bond, and she was suddenly equally as certain that he knew exactly what effect he was creating.
          His palm caressed her cheek once more, then freed her, moving back along her neck until his hands  met  behind  her  head.  She  felt  his fingers  in  her  hair,  combing  through  it  with his nails until the confining bit of candlewick fell  away,  releasing  her  long  hair  to tumble  forward  in  a  silken  curtain  that enclosed their faces.
          She couldn't remember when she had shifted, but somehow she was no longer  seated at his side.  She lay now beside him,  resting partially on the right side of his body, taking great care not to touch his burns on the far side of his chest.  Her hands still rested near his temples, framing his face between them.
          Within the cascading shelter of her hair,  she opened her eyes and could see nothing but his face.  Slowly  his  lids  fluttered,  and  he looked at her,  his eyes heavily shaded by the veil of her hair and the fringe of his own lashes.  Their quiet blue light shown...blue darkened on blueness, awake upon the dark.
          In  his  face  she saw everything.  She saw his love for her,  the hope she inspired in him, the dream that called to them,  only a breath away from becoming a reality.
          He was everything beautiful -- the air she breathed, her sun,  her sky...the reason she lived.
          His eyes closed again, and slowly the pressure against the back of her head grew heavier,  pressing her downward,  pulling her to him, and she closed her eyes, anticipating a kiss.  But it was not his intention to kiss her.  Rather,  she felt a warm whisper of air as he blew softly upon  her,  his mouth so near hers that she could feel the brush of his whiskers against her upper lip.
          The  feeling was exquisite.  She wondered how he could have known, then she remembered that only moments ago,  she had given her breath to him.  She smiled inside.  This man she loved was a rapid learner.
          Gently   his   breath  moved  down  across  her  full  lower  lip. Continuing downward, he found the hollow just below the tip of her chin  as her head curled back against the weight of his hand,  revealing  her  throat to him.
          Breathing a hot path down the length of her neck,  he blew softly, nipping with his lips,  his cleft catching her  in  tiny  pinches  that exceeded any lesson of love-making that she had taught him.
          At  the  base of her throat,  he nudged the collar of her shirt to one side, seeking the hollow below her collarbone, and there he paused, inhaling her, stroking her with his lips...much as she had caressed him earlier.
          When he ascended, the unique downy bridge between his eyes tickled her sensitized skin as he brushed against her.  She turned,  giving him her ear,  reveling in the feel of him...and realizing that  his  kisses had  been subtly replaced by this gentle stroking.  He pressed his nose against  her,  moving  his  face  upward  in unhurried short movements, rubbing sensuously below her ear...while his fingers on her neck  moved in  circular  motions.  She thought she heard him murmur her name,  but
     was uncertain whether she'd truly heard it,  or  if  he  had  whispered across their bond.
          Then he took her hand from his temple and turned his face into her palm,  again  nipping  and  stroking.  For a moment she believed he had tasted her with his tongue,  but she couldn't be certain.  And then she was  very  certain.  He  was  kissing her fingers,  pulling them to his mouth,  grasping her hand firmly as he singled out each of her  fingers to  kiss  and to taste.  His other hand still held her head,  massaging her neck with a  gentle  possession  that  sent  a  thrill  across  her shoulders and down her spine.
          At last he seemed to single out the first two fingers of her hand, treating them as one as he held them,  guiding her fingertips in  short strokes  across  his upper lip,  then opening his mouth and playing her fingers carefully across the tips of his lower fangs.  Catherine opened her eyes, determined to allow him to follow his course, but suddenly so aroused that she wondered if he was right to trust her.
          His  teeth were sharp...smooth and white.  She had seen them bared in anger.  She'd seen the terror his fangs had invoked in men  who  had reason  to  fear  Vincent.  She  also  had seen his efforts to hide his fangs from the innocent,  attempting to conceal them in the midst of  a smile.  She  loved them,  as she loved everything that made him unique.
     And now she found them highly erotic as he held her captive in  a  firm embrace that pulsated more with passion than with danger.
          Still clasping her two fingers,  he pulled them further  into  his mouth,  drawing  them  across  his tongue,  curling it slightly against their softness as he repeated the gesture a second time.
          He'd been breathing solely through his  mouth,  but  sometimes  he paused,  holding his breath and inhaling with his nose...using his nose for detecting scent instead of for taking in breath.
          It was during one of those pauses that  he  opened  his  eyes  and looked  at  her.  Then,  purposefully and slowly...with his eyes locked upon hers...he pulled her fingers from his mouth and placed them on the delicate triangle of flesh that marked the top of his  cleft.  Pressing her  fingers inward and downward,  he moved his head slightly from side to side,  parting the cleft beneath her fingertips,  bringing her nails against the fragile lining.
          His gaze hadn't left her eyes,  and his look told her  clearly  of his desire.
          Beneath  his  hand,   she  parted  her  fingers  slowly,   lightly pulling the sensitive split open,  revealing its inner surfaces.
          Slowly  she lowered her head,  feeling the hand on her neck follow her descent, and when her mouth was near his  she blew  gently into the pink  moistness  of  his cleft.  Then...not waiting for his reaction as she moved her hand away...she lowered her head  further,  bringing  her lips against the firm flesh of his upper lip.
          She  kissed  him...deeply...pouring  all her love into the kiss as her  tongue sought the sweet softness of his inner cleft.  Pressing the secret flesh firmly against his upper teeth,  her tongue worked its way slowly...from  the  top of his cleft to its base...and back again.  And as she traced the wondrous smoothness of him, truly tasting him for the first time,  she felt his own tongue -- moving possessively across  her lower  lip  as  if  he  had kissed her this way before...as if they had shared this kiss from the very beginning of time.
          But  it  was  a kiss that had never been...because she and Vincent were something that had never been.  Each discovery between them was  a first -- something unique and beautiful.
          Catherine deepened her kiss,  knowing that the miraculous  ecstasy of this moment belonged to them alone.
          This  time Vincent didn't pull away as he always had before.  This time he leaned into the kiss,  pulling her  closer,  lingering  in  the sweetness of their passions.
          At last he sighed,  releasing  his  breath  into  her  mouth.  And Catherine felt a fulfillment through their bond...a comfort far sweeter than she'd ever felt before.
          As  she pulled back slightly,  he slipped his fingers to her lips, stroking them,  quietly feeling and touching their softness  as  if  he needed  to  know  them  better.  Her  lips  parted  and  she kissed his
     fingers,  inviting  his  touch,   sucking  lightly  at  his  nails  and fingertips  until  at  last his hand at her neck guided her downward to his right side.
          Their  bodies  shifted...until  her head rested partially upon his chest within the hollow of his right  shoulder.  There  he  pulled  her more tightly against him, kissing the top of her head.
          She  watched the rise and fall of his bare chest,  marveling  that it was her privilege to rest her head  against  its  beauty.  Then  she remembered his burns, and she lifted her head to reassure herself.  His right hand came up and he pulled her head back down,  his lips claiming her again in a permanent kiss upon her hair.
          For  a  long  time  he  held  her,  silently  enfolding her as she snuggled against him.  Then finally his breath slowed and deepened, and Catherine smiled.
          Maybe  at  last  his  sleep would be undisturbed by nightmares and fears; maybe now he could find peace in his dreams.