Dancing in the Shadows
Ayiana
Chapter 8
Catherine had the dream again, her fear and anguish pulling Vincent from his own rest to go to her. She never remembered it in the morning, never knew that he came to her, chasing away the demons with his quiet words. But afterwards, when he was certain she was asleep, he often found himself unable to return to his own rest. He never spoke of it, and yet her unhappiness weighed on his heart. And so he would sit, thinking, until the new day began.
Tonight the nightmares had come earlier than usual and with greater force, leaving her tearful and trembling in his arms. It had been a long time before he'd been able to bring himself to leave her side, even after he was certain the nightmare had passed.
When he finally returned to his chamber, he sat in the chair, his mind still on Catherine. In many ways, she was the same woman he had met more than three years ago—strong, capable, and warm. But there were noticeable differences. She doubted herself more. And worried more. And she blamed herself for what had happened to their son. The self-confidence she had worked so hard to achieve had suffered a great blow, and though he would do everything in his power to help her find her way back, he feared it would be a difficult journey.
A sudden burst of anger brought him to his feet. Content at first to pace silently from one end of his chamber to the other, he soon found the space too confining, too restrictive. He picked up his cloak. He would go Above. Perhaps there he would find a measure of peace from the consuming fury he felt toward the man who had done this to Catherine, the man who had hurt her and stolen their son.
Leaving the tunnels behind, he walked quickly, his long strides eating away the miles. He was barely aware of his surroundings, depending on instinct to keep him hidden from those who would do him harm. As always, the city was quiet at this hour. Few people lurked in the shadows, and those who did ignored the cloaked figure that hurried past them and disappeared into the night.
And then, from somewhere deep inside his mind, Vincent sensed the steady beat of a human heart not his own. Nor was it Catherine's. He knew this, knew that she rested safely deep beneath the city. He paused, his eyes scanning the skyline even though he knew that what he sought would only be found within the confines of his own thoughts. What he was feeling, he realized after a moment, was the steady rhythm of an infant's pulse.
His son.
He followed the rhythmic beat, its faint call carrying him through the city until he found himself standing in front of a familiar building. For a long moment, he stared up at the place where Catherine had nearly been taken from him. It was a place of horrors, of almost unbearable memories. He didn't want to be here, but the demanding beat of his son’s pulse drove him to the rooftop.
In his mind's eye, he relived that night. He saw the helicopter and the dark-haired man. He felt his cloak whip against his legs. And he heard . . . Catherine's voice. Behind him. He spun, and she was there again, falling. The memory was so vivid that he moved to catch her in his arms.
But all he caught was air.
He remembered all of it—the throb of the chopper blades, the high, thin cry of his infant son, the fading light in Catherine's eyes—and the poem. Though lovers be lost, love shall not.
Staring up at the night sky, Vincent murmured the rest of the words to the stars.
"And death shall have no dominion."
And as he looked out over the city, Vincent knew what he had to do.
********************
It was nearly dawn when Vincent paused at the entrance to Catherine’s chamber. He hated to wake her, but he had an urgent need to speak with her. He stepped inside.
Two candles were still lit on the bedside table, their soft glow pooling over Catherine. A hand-sewn quilt outlined the gentle curves of her body, the faded patchwork rising and falling with the steady rhythm of her breathing.
She looked so small and delicate, almost fragile, and yet he knew how strong she was, how courageous. She had suffered such terrors, such unbearable loneliness. And she had survived all of it to bear his son. They had a son, and yet he had no memory of what it had been like to love her—of how she had felt in his arms, or the texture of her skin against his, or the womanly secrets that he'd read about but never thought to experience for himself.
He remembered the meeting in Father’s chamber and the sensation of intense pleasure that had flooded their bond when she'd remembered that night in the cave. And suddenly he wanted to experience that pleasure first hand, to take her in his arms and lose himself in her softness.
The wave of desire surprised him with its intensity, and without thinking he reached out, touching her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. The way she was lying, with her injured arm resting on a pillow, left her side exposed. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he let his fingers trail a path along the framework of her ribs and the dip of her waist before coming to rest at her hip, his hand curving itself, almost instinctively, to her shape.
There was no sound—no clatter of the subway, no music of pipe chatter, not even the hiss and splutter of burning torches—to disturb the silence and bring him back to himself. There was only Catherine, and his love for her.
And beneath his hand, her body felt like nothing he'd ever felt before.
He stared down at her. Her lips, slightly parted in sleep, were a delicate shade of pink, her eyelashes dark against her cheeks. And her hair spread out across the white pillowcase like a pool of honey in the snow. Drawn by her beauty, he bent over her with the notion that he had to kiss her—had to taste her lips, and bury his fingers in her hair, and feel the soft curves of her body against the hard planes of his own.
But before he could act on the impulse, she mumbled something unintelligible and rolled to her stomach, dislodging his hand so that it slid down against a part of her he'd never touched and never thought to touch—a soft, tender, utterly forbidden place.
For a moment he was too startled to move. Then he gasped and pulled away from her, away from the surge of passion that threatened to engulf him. Three long strides carried him to the chamber entrance, where he sagged against the wall, sucking in air and contemplating the ceiling while he struggled to bring his body back under control.
He knew what it was to desire a woman. At least, he knew as much about such things as Father's limited library and Devin's childhood forays Above would allow. And he had desired Catherine nearly from the beginning. But always in the past he'd been able to subdue those feelings beneath the weight of his fears for her safety.
Risking a glance in her direction, he allowed himself a sigh of relief when he saw that she still slept soundly, unaware of the strength of his response to her. He waited, breathing deeply, until the hunger subsided. Only then did he approach the bed once more.
"Catherine . . ." She moaned softly in her sleep, a quiet, lonely sound that made Vincent's heart turn over. He brushed the hair away from her face. "Catherine, I must speak with you."
She rolled over and opened her eyes, blinking in the dim light. "Vincent? What’s wrong?" Her fingers brushed across his chest before he caught them in his own. "You've been Above."
"I couldn't sleep." Her gown was tangled, the collar snug against her neck on one side and almost off her shoulder on the other.
"Where did you go?"
Vincent forced his eyes away from the exposed skin, but his fingers itched to touch her. "Nowhere, at first, and then . . . Catherine, I sensed a heartbeat."
Her eyes widened and she pushed herself up against the pillows. "Was it his?"
"I believe so."
"Where? Did you find him? Did you see him?" She leaned forward eagerly.
He shook his head. "No. I only sensed that he is alive. And near." He straightened her blankets, pulling the covers higher and telling himself he was just making sure she was warm. "I found myself back at the place where I first found you. The place where you—"
"The place where I died." Her voice was soft.
"Yes." Her skin glowed with reflected candlelight. Shaded in peach and gold, it called out for his touch.
He forced his mind back to their conversation. "The memory was so real. I felt your presence and his heartbeat." He hesitated. Thinking back. "And I saw the face of the man who took him."
"Dark hair? Narrow face? Thin?"
"Yes." Beside them, the candles flickered in their holders. "Catherine, there must be someone who could help us."
"Joe," Catherine said immediately. But then she shook her head. "No. He'd go straight to Moreno."
"Perhaps I could warn him."
"He’d still go to Moreno. He doesn’t know you. I don’t know how he would react—" She reached for his hand. "But he would believe me."
But Vincent couldn't take that chance. "Father is right, Catherine. The risk is too great. If they learn that you are alive, it would endanger the entire community." He was willing to risk his own life, but not the lives of the people he loved, and especially not Catherine's.
For a moment he thought she might argue with him. Then she sighed and looked away.
He rubbed his thumb along the back of her hand. "There must be somebody else."
"Maybe there is," she said. "Elliot."
"Burch?"
"I trust him," she said. "And he loves me. He would help. I'm certain of it."
"Elliot Burch is a powerful man. He could destroy us."
She shook her head. "I think he’s the only one who can help us."
"Then I will speak with him."
She was frustrated. And worried. He sensed it in her touch and through their bond. It was a feeling he knew well. But he said nothing. The risks he took now were necessary if they were ever to find their son.
"When will you go?" she asked.
"Tonight," he said. "As soon as it is safe."
"Vincent . . . be careful."
He saw hope in her eyes. But he also saw fear. And love. "How could I not?" he murmured, "when I know that you are here awaiting my return?"
********************
"Elliot Burch?" Father's dismay was almost palpable. He'd been in the midst of setting up a game of chess when Vincent had told him of his plans. Now he set the rook in its place and straightened up to stare at Vincent.
"He is our only recourse." Vincent picked up one of the knights and turned it end over end in his hands while he waited for the inevitable outburst.
"Look here, Vincent. You want to find your son. And I can understand that." Father sat down heavily. "But at what risk to yourself? What risk to this world?"
"The risk is only to myself. Our world is safe."
"That's not true." Father shifted a stack of books out of the way. "Elliot Burch almost destroyed us once. How can you be sure he won’t do it again?"
"Elliot Burch has had a thousand chances to betray our world."
"Even so, how can you possibly trust him in this?"
Vincent set the chess piece down. "The child is alone, Father. He needs me." Catherine’s face flashed through his mind, along with the sadness that seemed always to lurk in her eyes. "And he needs his mother."
"And what of us, Vincent? What of the people who need you here?"
Vincent looked up, holding Father’s gaze across the table. "I didn't come here for your counsel," he said quietly. There was steel in his tone, and Father dropped his eyes.
"Believe me, Vincent. I support your purpose."
"But you do not give me your blessing." It was a disappointment, but not a surprise. Father’s first priority was always the safety of the community.
"I think . . ." Father hesitated for a long moment. Then he took a breath. "The child may be lost to us."
"The child," Vincent said fiercely, "is my son." He turned away, ignoring Father's protest. "And now if you will excuse me, I must prepare."
********************
Diana took a fresh mug of coffee back to her desk and set it down on the stained blotter. Tugging her faded gray sweatshirt down over her hips, she stared at the bulletin board, wondering again about the people in Mark’s photos. Who were they? And what had they been to Catherine?
She picked up the book of Dylan Thomas poems and leaned against the desk. When she'd found the book in Cathy's apartment, it had opened almost of its own accord to one particular poem. Diana read it aloud, trying to divine the deeper meaning hidden behind the words.
"Though they go mad they shall be sane;
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion."
Her gaze shifted to the photo of Catherine lying as she'd been found in her apartment, her body placed with such loving care upon the soft coverlet of her own bed.
"And death shall have no dominion."
It was an interesting quote. Especially if it turned out that Cathy Chandler was still alive out there somewhere.
********************
"Then issue more partnership shares," Elliot said. He rounded the crowded conference table and stopped beside the window. It had been a long day, and it was getting late. They'd been going over figures for hours—balance sheets and income statements and profit/loss analyses. His eyes were starting to cross, and numbers were dancing around in his head like a swarm of demented dragonflies.
"It’s no good, Elliot." George Walker shook his head. "Share values are low enough as it is. You can't risk any more dilution."
"Gentlemen. Ladies." Elliot scanned the assembled group of bankers and accountants. "There are twenty-two buildings in this city with my name on them. And you're telling me now that Elliot Burch is a bad credit risk?"
"Well, no," Burton Fitch said. "But people are worried. Burch Properties Group is at a bit of a low ebb right now." Fitch, with his thinning hair and dark suit, looked apologetic.
"Elliot, is there something you're not telling us?" George asked. "Because if you're devaluing shares for a buyback—"
"What are you talking about? Burch Properties is worth what it was always worth."
Walker shook his head. "That's not true. The settlement on the casino fire will probably exceed liability coverage by a figure in the high tens of millions." It was a reminder Elliot didn't need. Even if investigators proved it was arson, his name would always be linked to the two hundred innocent people who had died that day.
"And taking everything into account," Fitch was saying, "the liquidation value today of Burch Properties is—" he paused to check the numbers again, "—about sixty percent of what it was six months ago."
"And that's not counting the cash drain with the D.A.'s restraining order on the Battery project," George said.
"I thought you said we could finesse Moreno."
"It's not just Moreno," said George. "It's coming from everywhere.
Fitch rifled through his notes. "Selling of group shares is across the board. Overseas banks, pension funds, you name it."
"Elliot," George said. "There can't be a single hand behind this. No one man has that kind of power."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that, gentlemen." The voice came from a man in the back of the room who'd been silent until now.
Elliot looked up, meeting his security chief's troubled gaze. "What are you saying, Cleon?"
"I'm simply saying there is someone out there. And he's taking you apart. Piece by piece."
A chill ran up Elliot's spine, even though the news came as no real surprise. He already knew the man responsible for Cathy's death was dangerously powerful. And it was patently obvious he didn't appreciate Elliot's determination.
"Where do you hear this, Mr. Manning?" George asked. "On the street corner?"
"I hear it from people like you, Mr. Walker. People who have nice jobs in banks. Nice families in the suburbs. People so scared, they hang up the phone before we get out the question." There was a subtle warning in the security chief's voice, a reminder that there were people in the world who were even more powerful than Elliot Burch.
Burch sighed. His obsession with finding Cathy's killer was going to ruin him, but he couldn't let it go.
"I think you boys should work with Cleon on this thing." He looked around the room, making eye contact with each of the people who had spent the day trying to convince him he was asking the impossible. "There is a connection out there. Please go and find it."
He turned away to stare out over a city he had once thought he would love forever. But he couldn't live in a place where every waking moment brought with it memories of the woman he had loved and lost. After he found her killer, he would leave New York. And he would never come back.
Elliot watched his people gather their things. From across the room, Cleon stared at him. He was worried, Elliot knew. He thought Elliot was pushing too hard, taking too many risks, and that his obsession would destroy him. Burch sighed and dropped his eyes as Cleon left. He might very well be right.
Elliot stayed in his office far into the night. He was standing by the window, staring into the darkness and thinking about Cathy, when a sound in the outer office distracted him, and he turned. At this hour, he should have been alone.
He crossed to his desk and opened the top drawer. There was a handgun there, tucked away in the very back, and he pulled it out. He slid off the safety and crossed to the door, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.
The outer office was empty, but when he turned the corner, he saw one of the janitors emptying the last of the day's trash. Relieved, he nodded. "Evening, Arthur."
Arthur nodded politely and went back to his work. Elliot watched him for a moment before returning to his office. He was jumpy, and he scolded himself for his paranoia as he reached for the drawer pull. Whoever was after him wouldn't pursue him here. That person wanted him to suffer. He was about to put the gun away when something, a movement, a shadow, or maybe simple self-preservation, made him lift his head.
A tall, cloaked figure stood in the darkened doorway. It had appeared silently and unannounced, like a spectre out of a horror movie.
"Elliot Burch?"
He gripped the gun and straightened, straining to see through the shadows. "Who the hell are you?"
"No one to fear." The voice was male and cultured, without noticeable accent.
Elliot kept his gun ready as he moved across the room. Without taking his eyes off his visitor, he bent to switch on a lamp.
"Don't. Please."
Slowly, Elliot lowered his hand to his side. The darkness put him at a disadvantage, and yet for some reason he felt he had nothing to fear from this man. "How do you know me?"
"We shared something." A siren wailed in the distance, its pitch faint and distorted this many floors above the street. "A friend. Somebody very dear to us both."
"Who?"
"Catherine." The visitor paused. Then, "My name is Vincent."
"Vincent." Burch knew that name. Diana Bennett had mentioned it. "You know about me from what she told you?"
"Yes."
The answer implied intimacy between the woman he'd loved and this stranger, and Elliot swallowed against a stab of jealousy. "What do you want from me, Vincent?"
"I need your help."
"Why should I help you?" Tension knotted his shoulders and tightened his grip on the gun.
"I do not do this for myself." There was a pause. The shadowy form shifted uneasily. "I saw the man who killed her."
The news stunned Elliot. He lowered the gun to his side. "You were—"
"I was there, with her, at the . . . end." Vincent's head dropped. He looked away. "I was too late."
Like a bloodhound who'd just scented prey, Elliot forgot about everything except the chase. "Who is this man? Do you know him?"
"No. But his face is burning inside my mind." Vincent hesitated long enough that Elliot knew the next words didn't come easily. "Will you help me?"
Elliot considered the request, but he already knew what his answer would be. He would do anything to find Cathy's killer. But did Vincent know that? Tilting his head, he stared hard at the lurking shadow. "Why should I help you?"
"Because you loved her, too."
