Dancing in the Shadows

Ayiana

Catherine awoke to a small sound at the doorway.

"Vincent—" Father froze like a startled owl as he took in the sight before him. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt."

But Vincent was already helping Catherine to sit up against the pillows, his arm around her shoulders as he adjusted the pillows behind her back. "I’m glad you’re here, Father. Catherine is in pain."

"Oh?" Father's eyes shifted to his patient. "Catherine? Is that so?"

Uncomfortable at being the source of so much concentrated attention, Catherine blushed. "I am a little sore."

"Well, then. Let’s have a look." Father turned to Vincent. "I believe William has prepared a tray for Catherine. Would you be so good as to retrieve it?"

Vincent nodded. "Of course, Father."

When Vincent had left, Father turned back. "I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to have you back with us," he said.

"Thank you, Father. I feel like I’ve come home." She swung her legs over the side of the bed, turning her body to give him better access to the bandages. She was feeling much better, and though her arm still ached, at least the light-headed feeling seemed to have passed.

"You have come home, Catherine." He was unwrapping the bandages, and Catherine made an involuntary sound as he eased away the last layer. "I’m sorry. I know it’s painful, but that's the worst of it."

"No. It’s okay."

He examined the wound, checking for infection. "You’re healing well," he said, pleased. After cleaning it carefully, he reached for a fresh bandage. "I’m going to give you a sling. Now that you’re awake, you should try to get some exercise. Don't overdo it, though. You lost a lot of blood. You'll be weak for a while."

"Thank you, Father."

"Catherine—" He paused in his work, his hands hesitating against her shoulder. "I don’t think you should return Above."

She thought about staying in the safety of the tunnels, with Vincent. It was a tempting offer.

"Father, there’s something you should know."

"Tell me." He'd left her side to repack his bag, but now he stopped and looked over at her, still holding a pair of scissors in his hand.

She took a deep breath. "While I was away—" She dropped her eyes to the sling, took another breath, and pushed the words out in a nervous rush. "I had a baby."

Somehow saying the words to Father made it all real in ways it hadn't been before, as though by not talking about it she had almost been able to pretend it hadn't happened. Only it had. And somewhere out there, she had a son—an extraordinary son who needed her as much as she needed him.

Father stared at her, shocked. "Dear God." He sank into a chair. "Does Vincent know?"

"I know." Vincent came into the room bearing a laden tray. "Catherine spoke of him just before—"

He didn't finish the thought, but he didn't need to. Just before she died.

There was a moment of pained silence.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Father still looked stunned, and Vincent bent to pour him a cup of tea.

"I couldn’t think of it, Father. My grief was too great, the pain too consuming. All I could think about was Catherine."

"I don't understand." Father accepted the tea from Vincent with a nod of thanks and turned to Catherine. "Where is the child now?"

Catherine shook her head. The words wouldn't come. Memories of the baby she'd carried, of his birth, of watching helplessly while that monster carried away her dreams. It all came back to her with sudden stunning ferocity.

Then Vincent's arms were around her and he pulled her close, tucking her head into his shoulder. Never before had he indulged in such a public affirmation of their relationship, and the fact that he did so now only made her sadness more acute.

"Vincent?" Father's voice. Confused and worried.

"He was taken from her," Vincent said. "Moments after his birth."

"Oh my God." Father's anger was undeniable. "Catherine, I'm so sorry."

"We're going to find him, Father." Vincent's voice was fierce. Determined. "I won't allow that man to raise my son as his own."

"Your child, Vincent? But how—? When—?"

Catherine wondered a little hysterically if it might all prove too much for Father, if he might not suddenly collapse under the weight of the accumulated shocks.

"When Vincent was sick," she said, choosing her words carefully, "and I went into that cave—" She glanced back at Vincent. She didn't want to embarrass him, or make him uneasy, and yet she needed to explain. She thought back to that day. "It was so dark," she remembered. "I've never known such complete blackness."

Vincent and Father were watching her, and suddenly their combined attention was more than she could bear. She closed her eyes, shutting them out while she let the events of that fateful day flow through her mind.

"There was this . . . long tunnel," she said. "It seemed like it went on forever." The chamber was utterly silent, and Catherine thought that if she tried, she could probably hear the flickering of the candles on the table. "Behind me was safety. And a part of me wanted to turn and run back to it. But Vincent was ahead of me, alone and in pain."

She risked a glance at him and found his eyes fixed on her face. "He needed me," she said. "And I could no more turn my back on that than cut off my own arm." She could almost hear the anguished, desolate howls even now—echoes of savage loneliness that had reverberated through the twisted tunnel until she thought she might go mad with it. "And so I kept going, because in the end, there was no other choice."

A rustle of sound brought her head around. Vincent had turned away. He was leaning against the wardrobe, head down, hair spilling forward to hide his face. She wanted to go to him, to comfort him, but she knew she couldn't. Not yet.

"He was so far away, both from me, and from the world around him, that I thought he might already be lost to me, but I couldn't stop. And then all at once the tunnel opened up and he was right there in front of me." Oddly, there'd been enough light in the cave to lighten the shadows and highlight his form. Later, during the long months of her captivity, she had wondered where that light had originated, but at the time, all she was aware of was Vincent.

"He looked so fierce. And the sounds he made . . ." She dropped her head, her eyes sliding over worn books and handmade candles before coming to rest on his fountain pen. These would always be the things that made her think of him, not the deadly claws or fierce savagery by which he too often defined himself. "Maybe I should have been afraid," she said, "but I wasn't."

Across the room, Vincent turned. Their eyes met, and she found she couldn't look away. She forgot Father's presence, speaking only to Vincent now, needing him to understand that for her, there had been no risk in what she'd done. In the end, her deepest fears had been only for him.

"I said your name." She took a step towards him. "But you acted as though you didn't hear me. So I came closer, and then . . . and then . . ." she swallowed hard. This was the hard part, the part she'd been dreading, and yet she owed him the truth, if only to prove that, despite his doubts, he could control his darker self. "You charged. Your hand was up, and you were snarling, and for a moment I was afraid you'd gotten so far away from yourself that you might actually hurt me."

He was horrified. She could see it in his eyes. She hurried on, anxious to put his fears to rest.

"I screamed your name, hoping that somehow I might reach you." The image, his lips pulled back to reveal gleaming teeth, his hand raised against her, and that instant of frozen recognition, was still there in her mind. "And you stopped. You just . . . stopped." One minute he'd been bellowing with rage, and the next—

"And then you collapsed. I tried to catch you, tried to keep you from hurting yourself, but all I could do was cushion your fall. Then you stopped breathing, and I couldn't find a heartbeat and there was this sudden, absolute stillness."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Father nod, and she blinked, somehow surprised to see him there.

"The same thing happened the last time," he said quietly. "I thought we'd lost him."

She nodded. "I was afraid of that, afraid—" But she couldn't follow the sentence to its natural conclusion. She looked back at Vincent. "I was desperate. I was crying, and holding you, and begging you not to leave me, and then, somehow, I was kissing you." Her last words trailed off to a whisper.

"It wasn't something I consciously decided to do. I only knew I had to reach you somehow, had to try to bring you back to me." She folded her arms across her stomach, aware that what she had done might be difficult for Father and Vincent to understand, that they might think she'd taken advantage of Vincent in his weakened condition. But that hadn't been the case at all. She'd only been acting on instinct, doing whatever she could think of to try to reach him.

"I don't know if it was my words or the kiss or something else." Her eyes stung, and she swallowed hard. "But suddenly you gasped, and then you reached out to me, and somehow you were kissing me back. After that—" she gestured with her hands as a blush warmed the back of her neck. "Well . . . you can guess the rest."

For several interminable seconds after she stopped speaking, Vincent and Father were silent, and Catherine began to fear that Vincent was angry with her, that he believed her acceptance of his advances when he was in such a weakened state had been a betrayal of his trust. He was still watching her, his eyes fixed on hers, but when he shook his head, it was in amazement rather than dismay.

"That you could do that for me, and at such a time—"

In three steps she was standing in front of him. "How could I have done anything else?"

He put his arms around her, holding her with tender care, and with a relieved sigh, she rested her head against his shoulder.

They stood that way, oblivious to the world around them, until Father cleared his throat.

"Your pregnancy," he said. "Was it—?"

"Normal?" Catherine lifted her head from Vincent's shoulder, taking a step back but staying within the circle of his arms.

Father nodded.

She considered the question, remembering the morning sickness, the lethargy, and the wonder. "He came early," she said at last. "I remember the doctor talking about how quickly he grew."

Father nodded. "Anything else? Unusual symptoms? Complications? Was the child healthy?"

"He's beautiful." In her mind she saw his tiny face again. "And perfect." And alone.

Father pushed his empty teacup aside and got to his feet. "Well. Of course I understand that you want to find him. But Catherine, you mustn't go Above."

"He's my son, Father. I won't abandon him." She said it fiercely, unable to believe that Father would even suggest such a thing.

"Perhaps," Vincent interjected calmly, "it would be better to have this discussion after Catherine has fully recovered."

His arms tightened at her waist. A warning? A request? Catherine looked more closely at Father, seeing all at once the dark shadows under his eyes and the exhausted droop of his shoulders.

"Maybe you're right. I am still a little tired." She tugged at the belt of her robe, trying to tighten it one-handed. Vincent moved to help, his dark fur and claws a sharp contrast against the pale fabric.

When she looked up again, Father's eyes were on them, his gaze clouded with worry. "Be careful, Catherine. Please. Vincent was . . . we were all lost without you."

She remembered the hours of lonely silence, the days spent staring at blank walls and a locked door while her baby grew inside her. She remembered all the times she had wished for Vincent and for the simple, undemanding love of her tunnel family. "So was I." She watched as Father reached for his medical bag. "I missed you too, you know," she said softly.

He set the bag back on the table and turned. "I know I didn't make things easy for you when you first came here, Catherine, but you’ve become very special to me, to . . . all of us. And when I thought we’d lost you, the pain was unbearable."

Moving to his side, she reached out to give him an awkward one-armed hug. His arms came around her and he sighed, hugging her carefully.

"Dear, dear, Catherine." His voice was soft in her ear and rough with emotion. "Welcome home."

When he pulled away, his eyes were moist. He blinked and turned to pick up his bag again. "Make sure she eats, Vincent. She’s much too thin."

"Of course, Father." Vincent’s voice was patient and respectful, but there was a hint of amusement behind the words.

"Yes. Well. I’m off, then. Samantha’s got a touch of a cold and I’d like to check on her before classes begin."

"Of course, Father. Please say hello for us."

"I’ll do that." With one more nod, Father left.

Vincent turned to Catherine. "Are you hungry?"

She shook her head. "Not really."

"Catherine. You must eat. You need your strength."

"You are my strength, Vincent. You and our son." Her heart felt torn in two. She was alive. Vincent was alive. Their bond was back, maybe stronger than ever. For these things she was unreservedly grateful.

And yet her child—their son—had been taken from her. Stolen almost before she had glimpsed his face. She'd not even been allowed to feel the slight weight of his tiny body in her arms or experience the wonder of nursing him at her breast. And this loss, this horrible, desperate loss, had left a gaping hole in her heart.

She'd failed in her most basic obligation to her child: to protect.

She moved away, stopping at the statue of Lady Justice that guarded the entrance to the chamber, running her fingers over the edge of the weighted scales. Were it her life being measured, wouldshe be found wanting?

His arms came around her from behind, and he eased her back against the warm strength of his body.

"I feel as though I failed him." Her voice was barely a whisper in the quiet chamber.

She sensed his confusion even before he turned her in his arms so that he could look into her eyes. "How?"

"I should have told you about the pregnancy, should have stayed down here. With you. Where he could have been born in safety."

Vincent let go of her and turned away, his gaze going to the statue. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were still so weak, so lost. I knew you would worry." Her voice dropped as she remembered the sleepless nights she'd spent trying to decide what to do. "So I put it off. I thought it could wait until you were stronger." She paused as the events that came after flooded her mind. "I was wrong."

For a long time, he said nothing at all, and she waited quietly, knowing she'd hurt him by choosing to keep such important news to herself.

"Perhaps," he said at last, "you were right."

She blinked in surprise.

"Catherine, you are my life. My world. I couldn't bear it if something I did caused you pain. A pregnancy—" He turned back to her. "I would have been terrified."

She loved him so much that sometimes she wasn't sure where her soul left off and his began. "But I'm all right." She said it again, reassuring herself as much as him. "I'm all right."

His arms came around her and she felt him take a deep breath. "A truth for which I am eternally grateful."

She was home. And safe. And yet, as she relaxed against him, she knew she wouldn't find peace until they found their son. "I miss him, Vincent. I miss him so much."

"I know," he said. He lowered his head and brushed a kiss against her hair.

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

A uniformed police officer opened the door to Catherine's apartment. He turned on a lamp and checked to make sure it was secure before waving Diana inside.

"Thanks," she said. "Can you wait outside?"

"Sure." He backed out as she closed the door. "Just let me know if you need something."

Diana leaned against the door and looked around. What happened to you? she wondered. What kind of person were you? And why would somebody want to hurt you? She turned off the light. Then she moved across the room, dropping the case file on the back of the couch and letting her purse fall to the floor. She stopped beside a spindly-legged antique desk, her hand grazing the back of its matching chair. Turning, she scanned the darkened room with curious eyes.

It felt peaceful here. Cool, and comfortable, and feminine. The furniture and other pieces had been chosen carefully, with an eye for elegance and simplicity. Obviously, Catherine Chandler had exquisite taste.

When her eyes had adjusted to the shadows, she crossed to the stereo, and in a moment soft music filled the empty corners. A piano sonata. She let the music play and stepped out on the balcony. The view from here was spectacular. New York City at night. The lights of a million lives standing out from the darkness like so many Earth-bound stars. She shook her head at the bit of whimsy and went back inside. What was it about this case that made her feel like she'd walked headlong into a fairy tale?

She moved around the apartment, touching Catherine's things, looking at pictures, trying to get a feel for a woman she only knew from newspaper articles and police reports. You were strong,she thought. You must have been. A vicious attack left you disfigured and afraid. And yet instead of running away, you came to work for the district attorney. Why? Where did you find the strength? Idealism maybe? Determination? You were quick to see the good in people. Joe told me that. He said you were always there when friends or loved ones needed you. And yet you were very private. You had secrets. Deep secrets. What were they? And why couldn't you share them with the people you loved?

There was a box at the bottom of the bedroom closet, and Diana dragged it out. She lifted the lid. Inside were the mementos of a lived life. A delicate feathered mask. A pair of ballet shoes. A photo album. A book of sonnets, leather-bound and worn. Obviously very old. She opened it, flipped through the pages, even held it upside down to see if anything would fall out. A picture, or maybe a letter. But nothing did. Disappointed, she turned it over again and opened the front cover. There was an inscription there: "With love's light wings did I O'er perch these walls." The rest of the line came without conscious thought. For stony limits cannot hold love out. High school English classes had been good for something, after all. But what did it mean? And who the hell was Vincent?

She closed the book and set it aside, reaching into the box again. This time she pulled out a blanket-wrapped bundle. Gently, she shifted the folds aside to reveal a worn doll, its hair and body showing all the signs of a much loved toy. Its angelic expression brought a smile to her face.

"I bet you had a name, didn't you."

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

Vincent led Catherine through a series of familiar tunnels to a place he knew she would remember, a place where she might find the comfort and peace she needed to continue her recovery. At the threshold, he stepped aside, allowing Catherine to move ahead. He followed her, stopping to set the torch in its bracket by the door. When he turned back, Catherine was standing beside the bed.

"I remember this room," she said quietly.

It was the chamber she had stayed in after her father's death. He wasn't surprised that she recognized it.

"Yes." He nodded. "I thought you might like it here, that perhaps you might feel the comfort of your father's presence in your dreams." And perhaps her father's spirit would also help to keep the nightmares at bay.

"I'm surprised it hasn't been claimed yet. Surely there must be somebody whose need is greater than mine?"

Vincent allowed his gaze to roam the room, his eyes coming to rest on the bed with its warm blankets and soft pillows. He remembered the night he'd held her in his arms while she cried herself to sleep. The memory was bittersweet. "This chamber is yours for as long as you wish to stay," he said at last.

Her head came up, her eyes meeting and holding his. "And if I want to stay forever?"

The suggestion made his heart tremble with joy, but he merely dipped his head in a slight nod. "Then it will be yours forever," he said. As I already am.

She came to him then, her body seeming almost to glide across the stone floor. She wrapped her good arm around his waist and leaned into him, and he felt her shoulders rise and fall in a long sigh. Resting his cheek against the top of her head, he held her close.

"I love you," she said. "So much."

His arms tightened around her and he drew in a deep breath. "And I love you," he murmured. "With all that I am, all that I have been, and all that I will ever be."

                                                                                                                                             Chapter 6