I, Beast

By Cindy Rae

Chapter 1

Hunting

Almost a week. She'd been missing for almost a week. Five days.

Plus fourteen hours and some odd number of minutes. Longer,

perhaps. Vincent knew he was losing track of time, somehow.

When it started, she'd been frightened, for a moment.

That was simply when he'd been aware of her distress.

Then, suddenly, he was aware of ... nothing, from her. Fear at first,

and then … blackness. Void. And ... nothing. The bond was gone.

Gone.

He dropped to his knees, both from the horror of it and the sheer

shock to his system. It was a punch to his gut and a tearing on his

psyche. She’d been ripped away.

Gone. Gone, gone… She was gone. Dead? Instantly?

It was too sudden, too extreme, and his brain grappled with what his

link to her was trying to tel him.

What..? How..? A car? A car on the street? Had she been hit? His

mind scrambled as his body fought to get him back on his feet.

It felt like there was a black hole in his brain where she used to sit. A

hole like the Abyss, and an emptiness in his heart to match it.

Gone… The word whispered frighteningly, in his sensitive mind.

Vincent flew to her apartment building, the last place he'd "felt" her.

A chloroform rag lay on the ground near the elevator of her parking

garage.

In some dark way, it was the only thing that had given him any hope

at al .

Not hit. Not an accident. Kidnapped. Taken. Anyone intending to kil

her might simply have done so, right there.

She'd been stolen from her normal life, from him. Removed from

whatever it was she'd been trying to do before she'd been

intercepted.

Not that he had any hope for a good outcome, not yet, but "taken"

was not "kil ed." Tears he'd been afraid to shed remained banked as

he'd raced to her home. He swal owed past the lump in his closing

throat.

He would find her.

In the bleak hours that felt like eternities later, he realized that the

District Attorney’s Office would be no help to her. It was already in

turmoil. There had been a bomb blast. Joe Maxwel was in the

hospital. And something about a man who'd been kil ed by the bomb.

A col ege friend of Joe’s. One he’d not seen in many years.

Information. Speculation. It meant nothing to Vincent. Nothing

other than Catherine had been caught up in al of this, whatever “al

of this” was.

The TV and newspapers were ful of bad tidings. Good people were

either missing or dead, and other good people were worried. Greg

Hughes sent his wife and children to stay with relatives, knowing

distance kept them safer. He wasn’t sure what any of the things they

were finding out meant for any of the foot soldiers, involved in what

had become an unexpected war.

Joe Maxwel in ICU. Catherine Chandler missing. A man Joe had gone

to school with dead, not enough left of him to bury. War.

Several people working for the DA's office cal ed in sick, out of fear. It

was like watching the city col apse in on itself.

They al knew that Catherine was nowhere to be found. But they had

no idea where to begin to find her. There was no ransom demand, no

case she was working on that led to a prime suspect. There were no

eye witnesses to her abduction. No body fitting her description, in

the morgue. There was no… anything. She was just… gone. The word

seemed to fol ow her like a hol ow echo.

Vincent had run across rooftops the first night she’d been taken,

blindly trying to sense her, trying to get any feeling of her, or at least

of her direction. But the bond was somehow lost to him. It was a

chasm of emptiness where “something” had been, in his mind.

His heart knew an abysmal fear, and the muscles in his stomach

clenched, and stayed that way. His chest felt tight. His throat felt like

it was closing. His body felt warm, adrenaline flowing into his system

in a constant stream. His mighty heart pounded, and sometimes the

blood rush made his sensitive ears ring. Yet he couldn’t find the inner

“sound” he searched for. Could not find her.

He felt nothing of her. Nothing at al . And that terrified him a little

more.

The second day passed in a haze of agony for him, one where he knew

she did not wake up. Had they kil ed her after al ? His heart refused

to believe it.

The city spasmed as good men tried to find the source of the rot in

their midst, and bad ones wore either helping smiles or serious,

solemn expressions, hiding from detection.

Joe Maxwel ’s ICU stayed under armed guard, the guards picked by

Greg Hughes, personal y. John Moreno seemed in the office as much

as out of it. The newspapers screamed updates and it was the lead

story on every local news channel.

The Mayor wanted a task force assembled. The Governor wanted

more. Senator Blair wanted arrests made within the next twenty-four

hours or there would be hel to pay, come the next election cycle.

Senator Cal ahan lobbied for more funding for more cops while State

Representative Dailey said it was better technology and programs

spent on crime prevention that were needed, not more cops on the

front line.

Politics. Same old song-and-dance.

Vincent was oblivious to al of it. Or at least, he was oblivious to much

of it. Jacob did not like the look in his son’s normal y peaceful blue

eyes.

And then he didn’t even recognize it.

Soft blue turned to a kind of steely grey, and his stare seemed almost

unblinking. And though Vincent spoke to him when Jacob pushed, the

answers were increasingly monosyl abic, and sharp. Had he found

her? No. Did he know where she might be? No. And that was the

same as the first question, wasn’t it? Vincent’s temper grew shorter

as his instincts began to grow sharper.

He stopped listening to newscasts or reading the papers. They

became al so much unhelpful noise, now.

Offers of food to him were refused when they were even

acknowledged, and sleep would not begin to come. He was

desperate, and driven. And he was hunting.

Hunting. The word became a low mantra, in his head.

On the third day, that word isolated itself in his brain, and he began to

operate on an entirely different level. The rag had held certain scents,

besides the chemical one. Catherine had a scent, al her own, and it

was there, along with some others.

He became aware of trying to track her that way, and cursed himself

for not having tried to do so, sooner. A night near her apartment

building gave him another scent, from a husky man in a tan coat.

Moreno. A man named John Moreno. He came back to the parking

garage and looked around. Considering that he was Catherine's boss,

that wouldn't have been suspicious in and of itself, but...

But Vincent caught his scent as he stood looking around the area

where the rag had dropped. He also wiped down the elevator

buttons, just to make sure he'd left no prints behind. If that action

hadn’t damned him enough, his smel would have. Crouched behind

an SUV, Vincent was certain of something.

Moreno's scent had been there, the day Catherine had gone missing.

And his hand had touched the rag. Even mixed with the garage smel s

of gas, leaking oil pans and car exhaust, Vincent was certain of it.

Scent. Moreno's scent was on the rag, and it was al over Catherine’s

car and the area near the elevator, both three days ago and now.

Others people had been there, too.

They had waited for her.

Vincent's steely eyes narrowed . Prey. Track. Hunt. Where is she?

Moreno drove a brown sedan, and he made his way to mid-town from

Catherine’s garage. Vincent was an inky shadow leaping over the

buildings above the car, as he drove.

Vincent's ability to think in words began to fail him. But his ability to

track and hunt, heightened in the extreme.

Moreno emerged from a parking garage and began to trek on foot,

across town. He was in an al ey just after moonrise, travel ing to a

destination only he knew.

Steely, unblinking eyes fol owed his progress from a fire escape

ladder.

Vincent could tel which way pedestrian John Moreno turned down an

al ey just by fol owing his spoor; could pick out the sound of his heavy

walk over a dozen other men on a crowded nighttime street; could

pin his trench-coated shape as he hustled from one office building to

another, sometimes getting into a blue compact, sometimes walking

down the street a ways, seeming to hand off a note to someone else.

He was having a busy evening.

Vincent watched him, low and high.

The instinctive creature Vincent was accessing inside himself couldn't

fol ow both the man who had the note and Moreno, so he stuck with

the one he knew had touched her, knowing he would kil John

Moreno without mercy as soon as he had her back.

That had stopped becoming a question of "if," in his predator's mind.

Vincent knew his hunter's instincts had helped him thus far. Hunting

had led him to what had once been a decent man named John

Moreno.

A day later, it led him to what had perhaps never been a decent man,

a man named Gabriel.

Vincent found the address of the first, having no idea about the

address of the second. From the first, however, he had only to wait.

Guarded. John Moreno's house was guarded, and not by the NYPD.

Vincent had confronted too many hired thugs not to recognize them

for what they were.

The wild part of Vincent’s brain was taking hold, and it wanted a

confrontation. But the rational side which stil held sway said to wait.

To wait, and to watch.

Kil ing Moreno brought him no closer to recovering Catherine and

simply threatening the man might not work. The wel -armed guards

were not simply there to insure Moreno’s safety. They were there to

insure his compliance. Vincent didn’t know how he knew that. He

just did.

Vincent felt his gentle side being subsumed by instinct and drive. He

let it go. He knew poetry wasn't going to save Catherine. He knew

what part of himself was needed, here.

The narrowed blue-grey eyes threw their pupils wide, taking in any

and al available light. The deepest shadow became a dullish grey.

Night vision brought every stirring of grass and leaf into his

awareness. Every detail around him pulled sharply into hunting focus.

Vincent knew his animal was on the prowl.

The black, low, Lincoln Continental that pulled up to John Moreno's

house seemed sinister and out of place even before it came to a

squeaking halt. A driver got out to open the passenger side door. His

coat couldn’t disguise the bulge of a shoulder holster worn on the left.

Vincent was unsurprised when Moreno came out of his house and got

in the car.

Vincent then knew his decision to stay with Moreno had been the

right one. Even from a perch in a distant oak, Vincent could tel

something: The driver of the car had also left scent on the rag, and

near her car. The two of them had taken Catherine.

Prey. Track. Hunt.

Heavy traffic slowed the progress of the prey, and made fol owing the

large black luxury car easy. There were no red lights on rooftops, and

Moreno clearly didn't want to stand out or be noticed.

Staying with him was almost effortless for the apex predator Vincent

had become. A wide leap from building to building, one he normal y

wouldn’t have chanced, felt eminently makeable, and was.

The driver looped around several blocks, making sure they weren't

being fol owed. They weren't... by car. When the Lincoln crossed the

bridge there was a dark-cloaked shadow in the scaffolding, nearly

swinging from one steel beam to the next.

Prey.

Vincent's uncanny eyes fol owed the car’s progress in the moonless

night. His quarry was moving past the warehouse district, past the

docks and into an industrial area far to the north of most of the

buildings in the city.

Perhaps it (the prey had become "it" in Vincent's mind) would take

him directly to Catherine.

Or perhaps he would simply rip out John Moreno's throat, if Moreno

wouldn't tel him where they were holding her.

No. Patience. Patience, his mind bid him, but more in the instinct for

that, than in the words. His throat felt too tight for speech, and he

knew he could no longer talk, easily, though he could roar. It was al

right. He had no use for words, right now.

It was the fourth day. Or at the very least, as midnight came, it was

the fourth night.

Travel ing by rooftop again, stil pushing down the fact that he'd not

been able to feel Catherine in the bond, he fol owed the car as it

wound through increasingly empty streets. John Moreno had

travel ed a long way to a building disguised to look like an office

complex, but obviously wasn't.

Not unless black-clad men with machine guns were now required to

guard business executives.

The Lincoln slipped inside a set of heavily guarded, rol ing gates.

Vincent barely spared those an inconsequential thought. They didn't

matter. Vincent knew he didn't need to get to Moreno. He’d just

needed him to take him to Catherine. The hunter in him had a feeling

he just had.

Nothing about the white, sterile building looked legitimate. It looked

like a fortress, or a prison. There were even heavy spotlights

sweeping the courtyard.

The predator in Vincent smiled, but it was an almost feral grin, full of

long fangs and dark intentions. The scholar in Vincent would barely

have recognized his own face.

The car disgorged the prey and a dark suited guard ushered Moreno

inside.

Good. The prey is contained.

The look of the fortressed building was how Vincent knew he'd found

the right place. She was in there. She had to be.

It was close to dawn, and Vincent knew he didn't care about the sun

coming up.

Morning inched across the ground below as it lightened the sky

above. Sunrise’s light came and tried to drive him down Below, but

Vincent would have none of it. He sheltered on a distant roof, and

drank the condensation off a rooftop air handler, for water. He knew

he needed the darkness. Not for himself. For her. He would need it

to help conceal her from their guns.

He did not remember his last meal or the last time he’d slept. Neither

mattered. He spent the day assessing the strength of his enemy, and

learning the exits of the building. A helipad sat on the roof. Black

vans occasional y came and went from the service entrance.

The sun was a pitiless bal in the sky, and Vincent moved around the

rooftop unit for shade as much as he could, never taking his eyes off

the distant building. He tried to sense her and found a blank wal , for

his efforts. But she was there. His instinctive mind knew it. Or at

least strongly sensed its possibility.

Eight exits and entrances, counting fire escapes and the roof. Steel

drums full of... something that stood in a semi-circle, protecting the

main entrance from being rammed by a vehicle. Guards at the doors

with side arms, and at least two with machine guns slung over their

shoulders. A sniper with a long scope, who should have been on the

roof, but had taken an upper floor balcony instead. Al of them wore

black, with no insignias.

Vincent thought that was fitting. Black was a funeral color.

She was inside.

He had no way to know. But he did. Moreno left around noon, alone,

then returned after three, again alone. Vincent did not even feel

thirst, though he felt the heat, inside his cape and heavy clothing. It

didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing but his mate, and he had

begun to think of Catherine in those terms for the last two days or so.

His mate. She was his. And they were keeping her from him.

With a knowledge born of sheer intuition, Vincent knew "Gabriel"

when he spotted him. The new prey emerged from the helicopter, a

narrow, dark haired man, impeccably dressed and authoritative in his

stance, even from a distance.

Vincent could not discern his features clearly, but again, the wind

carried scent, and Vincent now "knew" his enemy. The smel was

stored inside a place in his brain he rarely used and now knew he

would never forget. If he crossed the scent again in fifty years, he

knew he would now associate it with the person "Gabriel,"

automatical y.

Gabriel did not have fifty years to live, however. He did not have fifty

hours.

At one point, the new prey turned toward Vincent’s direction, and but

for the deepness of his concealment, Vincent knew he would have

been spotted, even at this distance.

So, the prey had wel -honed instincts, also? Interesting. Did it know it

was being hunted? Did it know how close to death it was?

Vincent suspected it did, but in its hubris, it didn’t care. The prey

carried itself as if it were invincible.

In that moment, Vincent had an odd thought: His beast is loose, too.

It didn't matter. Vincent knew his was the stronger, cannier creature.

Whatever dark god had made him, he'd made him for this purpose.

Protect the mate. Find her. Punish her captors unto their death, and

take her from this evil place. Tonight.

Sunset was a long time in coming, but the muscles that had stayed

tense for hours on the rooftop barely registered fatigue. Gabriel’s

guards changed shifts every eight hours. The last time had been at

four pm. Fine.

By eleven, Vincent no longer recognized himself, except he did. The

Other had been with him almost since the beginning, and was now

burning calories Vincent hadn't even taken in, scenting the wind,

feeling the trace breeze on his skin, gauging the pressure of the air

and the distance across the courtyard below.

The crescent moon was a problematic bonus. It gave no light to his

enemy, and he didn’t need any, to see. The night was more than

bright enough, thanks to his wilder self’s night vision. And more.

The people had begun to give off heat signatures, to his sensitive

eyes.

Vincent’s Dark Half liked the hood down around his neck, not up, so

he could feel the barest shift in direction of the wind on his blonde,

furred cheek. And "half" was, by now, an incredible misnomer. He

could feel every shift in the breeze. His skin was a barometer, testing

for rain. There would be none.

He observed the sweep of the spotlights across the courtyard, timing

the pattern. Calculating eyes narrowed.

Vincent crouched on the distant rooftop, weight balanced forward on

his fists and the bal s of his feet, mouth-breathing, to pull more air

deep into his lungs. His skin was flushed, and slightly darker looking,

every capil ary in his body pushed wide open, carrying blood and

oxygen. The iris of his eyes was nearly lost to the black of his pupils.

Had he a mirror, he would not have known himself. Had he a mirror,

he would have smashed it.

Hunting. Blood sport. Now.

The teacher-poet-scholar in him was utterly insignificant to this task,

so was no longer required in any way. This creature did not need

Shakespeare. He needed strategy, cunning, strength, and no smal

amount of stealth.

Lowering himself from the building so he could put himself into the

position he'd already settled upon, the Dark Being inside Vincent

moved to reclaim his mate, and God help anyone who tried to stand

in his way.

God, as it turned out, was not in a helping mood that night, for

criminals. As the fifth day slid into the sixth, and stil not a whisper of

the mate through the bond, Vincent commenced a bloodbath a serial

kil er would have been proud to claim. He was incapable of speech,

and didn’t need it. Battle cries needed no translation. Doors were

ripped opened and bodies dropped, not necessarily in that order. If

they fled, he let them. Not al of them fled.

At one point, he'd been shot. But it was an insufficient wound to stop

him, and it was insignificant in its slight damage. It tore a strip of

muscle and skin from his tricep as the bullet whizzed by. He didn't

feel it. He was aware of the danger in that. No matter what his

injury, he knew he was an unstoppable force, at this point. They

would have to kil him to keep him from moving toward her.

Especial y now.

He stil had no bond connection with her. He didn’t need it.

He'd scented her in the hal .

A nose that would normal y have found such a faint trace of her

undetectable now opened wide, taking her in. She was as easy to

fol ow as a simmering roast dinner.

Dinner was served.

She was strapped to a table, draped in little more than a thin,

hospital-style gown, unconscious and frighteningly pale. Monitors

beeped, around her. An IV needle punctured her arm, and her soft,

sandy hair was tangled and lusterless. A videotape of him savaging a

man was playing on a television screen, mounted on the wal . Loudly.

There were four armed guards in the sterile room with her.

And then there were none.

At some insane point, the Gabriel-prey entered the white room, and

even chal enged him, babbling something about the Vikings or the

Spartans. It was truly of no consequence.

Vincent could not find the ability to speak, so they were not about to

have a dialogue. The prey said something about ruling the world from

a jail cel , before it died under Vincent’s claws. Vincent had occasion

to wonder whatever made Gabriel think he was about to go to jail?

Nostrils wide from the need for oxygen, lungs pulling in air in great

draughts, pupils blown open with adrenaline, Vincent freed her from

the monitoring machines and IV, then tore through Catherine’s

restraints with a slicing claw. He scooped up the unconscious mate

like the priceless treasure she was.

Sirens. There were sirens in the distance. Should he leave her

somewhere for them to find? So they could take her to a hospital?

No. Of course not.

Of course not. She was his mate. His. She belonged to him in a way

she would never, ever belong to anyone else.

Though his rational mind might have argued in favor of her being

found by people, might have concluded they'd get an ambulance for

her, his rational mind was not in control right now, and the part of his

mind that was in control was in no mood for a debate.

She was breathing. She was alive. She was his. She was cold, though,

and she stank of a chemical, antiseptic smel he didn’t like. Her arm

was bruised from the needle stick, and that offended him almost as

much as the shabby hospital gown they'd covered her in. Thin slippers

barely enclosed her feet and the stink of disinfectant - and the evil

that was this place- clung to her skin like a miasma.

Something malevolent had touched her. It was al right. Something

malevolent was now dead, Vincent thought with a satisfied snarl.

He took her out of the austere confinement they'd kept her in. There

was no one and nothing on this floor left to stop him.

The building shook, hard. Explosion. Sounds of running, in the upper

hal s. They didn't know their mad king was dead, yet.

If any of them crossed him they could join their history-quoting

master.

Vincent's instincts stayed sharply attuned as he moved. There were

stil enemies to quel , and his woman to save. He knew better than to

get trapped in an elevator or stairwel , with her in his arms. He set

her down, heaved a chair through a window, then took her out of it

with a running jump, tucking his body around hers, in a protective

leap.

Floodlights on the ground had been re-aimed, back toward the

building, by him. Original y meant to help them find him, he’d simply

kil ed their operators and pointed them back toward the concrete

wal s. The light blinded the occupants of the balconies and acted as a

shield for anything that moved behind it. A gun was now useless, no

matter what the scope’s ability was. No one could see past the lights.

Vincent knew better than to stare at them, as he moved. Staring at

bright light made it impossible to truly ‘see’ what lay beyond it. It was

a trick used by Alexander the Great, with firelight. This side of Vincent

couldn’t appreciate how ironic that was, considering Gabriel’s

predilection for quoting history, and battle tactics. He simply knew

he’d blinded his enemies, with their own weapons.

Making the fence would be easy. The longer his foes looked at the

incredibly bright light, the blinder they became.

Her slight weight was insignificant, as he made his way through the

compound by stealth and speed. Bedlam reigned behind him, and the

smel of fire hit his nose as one corner of the building became

engulfed in flames. A second explosion went off.

He cleared an open space at a run, knowing he needed a way down,

yet also knowing this area was on the wrong side of the river, and far

from the nearest usable subway tunnel. Beneath his feet, he knew he

was near the caves wel past the labyrinth. Caverns and water-cut

passages snaked below his boots, not tunnel paths.

He was on the city's outskirts, the trains a distant thing. Beneath him

was the no-man's-land wel past where Paracelsus had plied his evil

trade. No pipes, but there were caverns, downward winding and

rugged. It was shelter, if he could get down through a service shaft,

or some other means.

Sirens again, and louder. And more. Many more.

He needed to get her Low. Needed to get her down. Down, where

she wasn't exposed. Down where she was safe. Like “hunting” the

word “down” felt instinct-driven.

He had no care that he was just as exposed as she was - if not more

so, thanks to his appearance. He had no care for himself, at al . No

wound he’d acquired was stopping him, so none was important.

He stopped once, to inspect her as wel as he could. He pressed his

ear to her heart. It was strong, but slow. Her white skin made the

purple bruise on her arm more stark, and more infuriating.

Either she'd tried to struggle or they'd been clumsy. Either way, the

mark made him see crimson. She'd been marred. The sight of the

violet and indigo flesh made him want to kil Gabriel al over again.

Vincent growled his displeasure, low in his throat.

He pressed his forehead to hers, searching for the bond, taking in her

scent through his nose. He couldn't find his connection to her, not

the one that always whispered in his brain just below the surface of

his thinking.

Their bond, the thing that flowed between them, the gentling link not

just to her but also to his calmer self, was simply… gone.

Vincent sheared the fence open with his claws, the claxon that caused

no longer mattering, since it couldn’t stop his progress and the guards

on this side of the compound were already either dead, blind, or

scattered.

He scooped her up again, not liking how light she seemed. Bondless

stil , the inside of his brain felt empty, even as his arms felt ful .

Gunfire stil sounded behind him, but it was sporadic and il -aimed.

They were shooting at shadows and sometimes at each other. That

was by design. His. Chaos reigned.

Clear of the fence line, the urge to go to ground became keen . Run.

Hit cover, then...Down. Find the way. Any way.

He needed to take her underground. He knew the direction, and

fol owed it like an instinct. Down was safety. Down was refuge.

Down was home.

He was in an unfamiliar part of the city, cut off from the main tunnels

by both the river and the natural “lay of the tunnel land” beneath his

feet. He could not risk climbing the bridge scaffolding with her in his

arms, and some of the jumps across the various rooftops would be

unwise, either burdened or injured, both of which he was, with her.

There was blood running down his arm and some on his leg. He had

no idea why, for the latter. He felt no pain from any injury. Stil .

Down. Get her down. Again, it was an instinct more than a word. A

manhole cover loomed before him .

Final y.

He knew what to do. So he did it.

Shoving the heavy disc of metal aside, he took Catherine down, deep

into the bowels of the waiting earth.

Chapter 2

She

A smel . Gunpowder. She could smel gunpowder. And her right arm

was stil manacled to the table. The first sensation was faint. The

second was unmistakable.

Noise? It was quiet now, but there had been noise, loud noise,

pounding al around her, before. Gunfire? An explosion? The sound

of Vincent, roaring as he kil ed a man, endlessly? There was quiet,

now. Was the VCR broken?

The room where they'd held her was a quiet one, too, sometimes.

Sometimes frighteningly so. Unless “he” was speaking. Gabriel.

Quiet, until the demented history lesson was over. Quiet until he’d

begun playing the tape, the damn cassette tape that had been set to

loop, over and over again.

A dying man's screams and Vincent's war cry could fade to ugly

background music when the drugs kicked in. But … gunfire? The rat-

a-tat sound of a dozen bullets hitting a wal , al at once?

Had Gabriel changed the tape? Catherine had wondered, at one

point. The sudden burst of noise had seemed so out of place… but

blackness had pulled her back down, some of it self-wil ed, some of it

forced. And enforced, by the drugs.

How long? How long out of it, this time? She felt hardness against

her back. The table was steel, cold, and pitiless. She tried to struggle

up, tried to remember what she only barely registered she’d heard.

The gunfire echoed in her mind. The sharp retort of a service

revolver, then heavier weapons. She knew the sounds, knew what

they were, and then knew... nothing.

The coma-sleep they had induced was pervasive, and she could no

more fight against it in the beginning, than she could now. The IV drip

was a relentless foe she couldn’t best and couldn’t disconnect.

Catherine lay on her back, feeling heavy. She knew that in a moment,

the dose of whatever they had been shoving through the IV would

kick in, and the black, dreamless sleep would come again. He only

made her stay awake to watch the tape, and it wasn’t playing, now.

She waited for the smothering unconsciousness to claim her. Again.

But it didn't.

She continued wandering up toward some sort of grey lucidity. Hazy

images played themselves across her closed eyelids. They'd

questioned her strangely, not al owing her to become fully conscious

again until yesterday, (was it yesterday?) then they’d simply knocked

her out again. Gabriel. An archangel's name on a satanic form. Irony.

Catherine's awareness carried an odd, almost hypnotized sensation,

one laden with drugs, persuasive words, and terror.

Vincent. Gabriel wanted Vincent.

She slammed down on her beloved’s name, wil ed herself to not think

of Vincent, not to cal out to him, to not even acknowledge his name.

Then she felt despair as she waited for the blackness to close over her

again.

How many times had they questioned her both with the drugs and

without? Two? Three? Seven?

The room they'd used was stark white and wel lit. The steel table had

felt industrial y hard, beneath her back. What day is it? She had no

idea. Am I dreaming? I can’t. I can’t dream. Not about him.

She wil ed it, and it was so.

Catherine knew that as further sensation returned, she'd have the

impression of the hard table and the buzz of the rewinding tape,

before she would see if either the unholy darkness reclaimed her or

the unholy man would begin to question her, again.

Neither happened. And the table was no longer an even thing,

beneath her back. Odd.

As greater awareness returned, Catherine very slowly became aware

of a few things: One, though her right wrist was stil manacled, her

left one was not, nor were her feet strapped at the ankles, any longer.

Two, the brutal y harsh examination lights were gone, and there was a

soft, natural darkness behind her eyelids, and not the black of the

drug-induced void, nor the piercing white of the overhead lights.

Three, the steel table was no longer beneath her shoulder blades.

She was on something softer, but lumpy. And she had a headache.

She struggled to place the last thing she remembered and came up...

blank. Then the smel of gunpowder came to her nose again. What

was the last thing she remembered hearing, again? The sounds of

gunfire?

Now the acrid smel made sense. Vincent?! She screamed the name

mental y, before she was aware she wasn’t supposed to even think it.

Was he dead? Did she want to open her eyes, to confirm it? God,

what would she see? Her muscles felt like lead. Her eyelids,

weighted. It was so hard…

Forcing her weighted eyelids open, she realized she was no longer in

the building held by Gabriel, though she was stil dressed in the thin

gown, and she was definitely being “held” by someone. Her wrist

couldn’t move. And a dark blanket was wrapped around her.

Not a blanket. A cape.

Awareness came by degrees.

She turned her head, even though that smal gesture sent a spike of

pain through her temples.

She was laying on the ground, on a shabby quilt that had seen better

decades. Her “blanket” was his beloved patched cape. And the

"manacled" sensation on her left wrist was Vincent's hand, which had

her in a tight grip, as he laid beside her, sleeping.

And bleeding. His shirt sleeve was red, from near the elbow down.

God. He'd come. Into insanity, he’d come.

He'd rescued her. And managed to drag her to safety but... She

struggled to sit up, her movements causing his eyes to open, instantly.

Oh, thank God. He wasn't dead. Neither one of them was dead—

And one of them wasn't even Vincent.

She had seen his expression any number of different ways: Tender,

thoughtful, loving, concerned… She'd seen the blue of his eyes glint

with soft humor, and warm with deep love. She'd seen them

distraught with despair and uplifted with the grace of what he was.

She'd even seen him enraged, bent on protecting her, the furious,

commanding side of him on display for al to see. She’d seen him

jealous. She’d seen him mourn.

But she'd never seen them look like this, ever.

Though his eye color had returned to blue, traces of the silvery grey

remained. His eyes were intense, and tightly focused. Almost

unblinking, and ... wild, was the only word she could think of, for it.

Not quite the savage look he often had when he was in a kil ing rage,

but... untamed. Piercingly instinctive. Dominant.

His eyes looked like a sharpened sword.

"Vincent?" She whispered the name through a parched throat.

He gathered his feet under him so quickly, that it sounded like an

oxymoron to say "he leapt into a crouch," but he did. He moved from

a prone position on his bel y to an immediately crouching one, as he

looked at her. He tilted his head. But it was a jerk of a motion, and

his head was at a deeper angle than he normal y held it. He did not

speak.

"Vincent, can you hear me?" she asked, half afraid that she already

knew the answer to that . Yes, he could hear her. But who was

listening was another question, entirely.

He said nothing, in reply. Nothing at al . But he released her hand as

he scrambled over the rocky ground and pulled a bottle of water out

of a battered wooden box, and brought it to her. Gratefully, she took

it.

When she was done taking long swal ows of the welcome, tepid

liquid, he finished what was left, holding it not against his lips, but

above his mouth, simply letting the leftover water pour in. Some of it

spil ed down his soiled shirtfront. He let it.

The area she found herself in was a smal cave. Some sort of… egress

in the rocks. Where?

"Where? ... Where are we? Do you know?"

She wasn't certain if he could understand her or not, though he

seemed to be fol owing some part of her words, judging by the

disconcerting flicker of his eyes. Al she knew was that they were in

some sort of rough-hewn room. That, and she was getting stomach

cramps from drinking the water too fast.

His bloody left shirt sleeve clung to his arm. He seemed to notice that

exactly when she stared at it. He ripped the seam with his nails and

tugged, tossing the soiled cloth aside. His thermal undershirt was also

stained, but the sleeve was shorter. He pushed it up past his elbow,

revealing a long gash on his forearm.

Then he horrified her. He licked the wound.

She watched him as he tended the injury to his arm, first with his

mouth, then with what little was left over from a second water bottle.

He poured a little on the skin, then drank the remainder, much as he

had done before.

She was beyond hesitant as she tried to talk to him.

"I... Vincent, we need to get out of here. Get back to the inhabited

part of the tunnels." She prayed he could understand her. She did

not even see a line of pipes here, near the roughhewn wal s.

Were they that low down, or simply that distant from help? She had

no idea which was more true, or if both were. With no sense of

cardinal direction, she felt amazingly lost.

She tried to stand, but before she could see if that were even

possible, he simply pulled her back down to the quilt, shaking his head

"no."

"No? You don't want me to go?" He was capable of expressing

himself that much, then.

He brought her another bottle of water, but she refused it.

Uncapping it, he drank some more for himself, poured a little more on

his arm, then set it aside. His clothes smel ed of the gunpowder smel

that had woken her up. That, and, sweat, blood, and something

tinged with musk, al of the aromas confined inside the smal space

they now shared. Adrenaline and hormones had sweated through his

hair-covered pores, and now clung to his fur, and clothing.

His movements were a scrambling type of locomotion, barely human,

as he moved on al fours more than he walked. Though the ceiling

here was low, it wasn't so low he couldn’t stand, if he watched his

head.

He simply chose not to.

From the soft aura of a turned-low lantern, she could see that the

smal cavern held only their equal y smal box of supplies. The air

seemed moist. There was condensation on the wal s, and some algae.

The river? Were they near the river?

She had no idea. She didn’t even know where Gabriel’s building had

been located. The chloroformed ride in the trunk had afforded her

not even the vaguest sense of direction or location.

She felt as lost as she knew she was.

"Vincent, I need to go. Need to go Above and find a phone, any

phone. And you... you're hurt. We need to get help for you."

The arm bled afresh. The damage was deep, and the surrounding fur

was either matted with blood or wet from the water. It was more

than a cut. The furrow of injured skin was too wide for that.

A bul et? Had a bul et torn his skin as it cut a path across his arm?

She had no idea, not for certain.

"Can I see?" She prayed he could understand that she meant him no

harm. His pupils expanded. Dark eyes watched her, somewhat

warily. He offered her the arm. Slowly.

He sat in the same crouch, panting, as she inspected the wound. Then

he did something unexpected. Which was to say he did something

more unexpected than the other things he'd done, so far.

He grabbed the back of her neck, and held it, keeping her forehead

against his, for a moment.

Catherine squealed involuntarily and stopped her movements,

struggling to understand what was happening. Part of her knew she

was now in the room with his Darker Self; in the room with the

shadow part of him that raged, and fought, and usual y only came out

when he was saving her life, or the lives of those in the tunnels. His

Warrior persona, but also his violent, unpredictable one. The part of

him that roared, but never spoke. The part that communicated with

gestures of fang and claw, but little-to-nothing else, at least nothing

she'd ever seen.

The part of him that should not be here, right now.

Unless they were stil in danger?

Which they were, of course, but not that kind. Wherever this place

was, it was safe, at least for the time being. And clearly, it was part of

the cavern system, though it might be an isolated part. Manhattan

was an island. If she was cut off from that, she would have to find a

way to get them home, somehow.

If she survived the next few minutes, that is.

Catherine held herself rigidly stil . Keeping pressure on her neck, he

kept her immobile, while he panted. No. Not panting. Not quite.

More like... breathing her in. Fangs that glinted when his mouth was

open, disappeared as his mouth closed. He closed his mouth now and

took her in, with his nose. He... scented her. It was the only word she

could use.

She had to speak to him. She had to try.

"Please, Vincent. You're hurt. Please let me see."

Two beats. Three. He said nothing, but he let loose the pressure on

her neck. Whatever the brief embrace had been about, he was done

with it.

When she touched his arm again, a soft, low, growl, ensued. It was

partly a warning against the touch, partly an indication that it hurt as

her fingers drew close to the damaged skin. He was in pain.

Considering that blood soaked the sleeve of what had once been a

white shirt, she could wel understand why. He tugged his arm from

her grasp.

Her voice dropped to what she hoped was a calming, reassuring level.

"Please. Vincent, please. Let me look at you." He made no move,

one way or the other.

When in Rome, Catherine concluded, taking in his stark expression.

She instinctively pulled his head to hers, the way he had done. It was

an odd, almost crude sort of embrace, but she thought she

understood it.

Mine. Mine to me. You are mine, and I wil not hurt you. Let me see.

She said the words aloud, "You are mine, and you were hurt, rescuing

me. I need to tend you." She gently pulled his injured arm forward,

but dropped her eyes, some, as she said it, indicating subservience.

This time, when her hand neared the wound on his arm, he stiffened,

but al owed it without growling.

She inspected the harsh, wide line of damage. She pulled the lamp

nearer and turned the wick up. He permitted it.

“We need to clean this some more, and bandage it. Is there more

water?" She looked around for a bottle, and uncapped it, showing

him with a gesture that she meant to pour it on his arm. He watched

her unblinkingly, as she did so. The silvery stare was unnerving.

She poured the water as slowly as she could, trying to get the matted

fur on either side of the gash as clean as half a bottle of drinking

water could manage.

Unfortunately, the wet wound continued to bleed, afresh, though it

was cleaner. It was a hard, deep gouge, on his arm. Wide. A

projectile shot from a high caliber weapon, probably. A few inches to

the left and the damage would have been infinitely worse.

"I need to get this shirt off you, get something clean for a bandage.

We need to stop the bleeding, then wrap it so it doesn’t get infected."

In the first indication he actual y understood her fairly clearly,

Vincent's Shadow self rose to his feet and began tugging at the

leather buckles on his vest with his good hand. The bad arm was a

hindrance, and he let it hang.

When she stood to help, he seemed content to let her, though his

eyes never left her face. The relentless stare was increasingly

disconcerting.

Gingerly, she helped him slide his vest down the injured arm. He let it

drop to the floor, then reached back with his right hand and deftly

pulled what was left of his loose top shirt over his head, needing to

bend so his arm didn’t bump the low-ceiling of the cave. That left him

with a ragged sleeved thermal shirt on, marked by his blood at the

uneven hem.

He astonished her by reaching back for the neck of the shirt, and

simply tugging it upward, with his good hand, keeping the injured arm

held out, a little away from his body.

His altered self clearly had no particular compunction about being

seen shirtless, and even though she was trying to help him, Catherine

could not help but be astonished by his wil ingness to reveal his bare

chest to her.

It was an intimidating view.

Muscle. Muscle as she knew there would be, but heavier, much

heavier than she’d supposed, and more body hair than she'd

previously guessed at. He was hirsute, to say the least, but more so in

the center of his chest than anywhere else. The silky mix of auburn

shaded hair was al over his torso and arms, with the exception being

the top of his shoulders. The left one of those sported a bruise, as did

his right hip just above the rise of his black cords.

Neither looked serious, though it was clear he’d taken damage to

reach her. His body hair thinned across his ribs and abdomen, and the

muscles there were incredibly wel -defined.

He peeled the matted sleeve down his injured arm carefully, and

when she saw him wince, it was then she remembered she was

supposed to be helping.

"Let me?" she stil wasn't sure how much he could understand, but he

released his grip on the fabric to her, and stood stil as she carefully

tugged the cloth down over the raw wound.

The She was tending him.

Vincent's brain had remained working almost on pure instinct and as

such, had only so much use for language and less for long sentences.

Words were slow. Actions were quick. But he thought that much.

The She was tending him.

The difference between victory and defeat was often not just

strength, and certainly not numbers. He had just proven that, in his

defeat of Gabriel and his many men. The difference between defeat

and victory was often speed. The blow that struck first often won the

battle; and if the battles could be fought one at a time, Vincent had

every confidence that he would win, that he could defeat any

chal enger.

But thinking in words was a slow thing, a thing men did, a thing his

Teacher’s self did. In this state, he had almost no use for them, had

trouble even forming them, in his mind. He could understand them,

yes, if he tried. At least most of them. But use them? No. Not like

this.

He knew Catherine. But in this state of being, he identified her in

much more basic terms. While in his Scholar's state she was

"Catherine," or even "the woman he loved," now she was simply She

or The She. Mate. His, in every possessive pronoun and sense of that

word. Woman, but not counter to his man, since he knew very clearly

he wasn't one, especial y not now. But she was definitely Female to

his Male, and he understood her on that level. To encapsulate it al in

the briefest word he used, she was simply “She.”

She was tending him, and the battle was over. He knew both simple

things to be true.

He'd gotten bloodied for her sake, so she (She) was pouring water on

his arm again, dabbing at the dried blood and bits of matted fur with

his ruined top shirt. It was not a disabling injury as far as he was

concerned, though as the shock of battle had worn off, it was starting

to sting, badly. It felt raw, like a burn, but worse.

And She was tending him.

Her hands were on him, and Her scent was in his nose. Al was good.

She did not smel of blood, or at least, she smel ed of no blood other

than his, from handling him.

His thinking vocabulary was limited, in this state, as the part of him

that rarely used language (but was galvanized almost instantly into

any kind of action) simply forced itself to stand stil , with no enemy to

fight.

This was odd. The She usual y tended his Other Self, his Scholar Self.

She rarely tended him.

He looked almost dispassionately at the wound. The bullet had dug a

wide strip of skin off his arm, and the sensation was stil one of being

scalded, more than anything else. He knew he would feel pain when

she touched the cloth to it, and tried not to growl at her, but couldn't

stop the low noise, in his throat.

Hurts. He had no other way to tel her, but that.

At his low growl, she lifted the cloth away, immediately, both trying to

see the depth of the injury and ascertain whether or not he was about

to strike her, or rebuff her in some other way. She was a little afraid

of him. There were tears in her eyes.

Ridiculous fear. She was safer with him than any other being on

earth. Or under it.

Her hair was dirty, and she ( She, his mind whispered) stil smel ed like

the alcohol-soaked room he'd saved her from. Like disinfectant and

the drugs that were now sweating their way through her pores.

He was bloody, and shirtless. And something at the back of his leg

stung almost more than his arm. She was dressed in a thin gown and

his cape, and thinner shoes. They both looked beyond ragged. They

were a fine pair.

But he knew this place, knew the exact location of it with an unerring

sense of direction he possessed either in this consciousness or his

other one. He’d carried her for an hour to bring her here, knowing

this was the closest supply box.

If they dared risk exposure above the ground, it was a comparatively

short series of leaps and climbs over the rooftops and a scaffolding

laden travel across the bridge to reach the train tunnels.

He assessed her as she tore the cleanest looking of his shirt sleeves off

the bodice and tied it on his arm to stop the bleeding. She was

unsteady on her feet, and closer to needing to sit back down than she

realized.

She did not look like she could negotiate scaffolding and rooftops, and

he needed two hands for part of the former, so carrying her al the

way was not an option – not that he was seriously considering that

course of action, anyway.

The safety of Above was an unknown, right now. One he didn’t trust.

Not after what had happened.

Unknown people were not a thing he was wil ing to expose her to.

Unknown people were who had taken her. The people who were

supposed to uphold her laws and keep her safe were worse than

useless as far as he was concerned, for John Moreno had been one of

them.

His Warrior self trusted the strength of his arm far more than he

trusted the strength of her laws. He knew few laws, and most of

those were centered around the use of cunning, strength, and speed.

He knew one other. The She belonged to him. Belonged.

But if they stayed Below, as his instincts now told him they should, it

was a hike of days, from way station to way station, until they

reached what was for her, safety. They would have to take the

passages that wound low enough to take them under the river, then

past the labyrinth. From there, they'd have to hike back in past the

maze, skirting far around, to avoid trouble from its wetter, less stable

side. He’d been trapped in there once, with Jacob. He had no desire

to repeat that experience.

Most of the paths they’d use were far from straight. The passageways

wound the way the groundwater had cut them, a mil ennia ago.

Alone, he could make it in a day or two of steady travel. But hurt, and

with her...

He was not certain she was in good enough shape to walk, for long.

That meant he might have to carry her. He shrugged at the

knowledge, simply accepting it as a fact he could not change. If he

had to, he had to. The injured arm wouldn’t stop him from doing

that. Besides, she’d (She’d) bandaged it. It would heal.

"Vincent, I need to go Above. I need to cal someone, let them know

where I am," Catherine said.

No. He couldn't say it, and could barely understand the quick flow of

her words, but "no." Above was dangerous for her, and he did not

feel like saving her twice in one day.

Though he'd slept next to her on the quilt, - exhaustion making no

other course possible - it was a veteran's light sleep. He stil had not

eaten, and had barely replaced the fluids he’d sweated out when he’d

drunk. He was muscle-sore everywhere. The fingers of his hand hurt

where he’d cut open the fence. His leg and the bruise on his shoulder

(a blow from a rifle butt) pained him and the wounded forearm was

beginning to throb.

None of it would knock him off his feet. But he was in no mood for

foolishness.

Now that they were comparatively safe, the needs of his body, and of

their situation, were making themselves known. His stomach was

tight, and empty. He was dehydrated, though not badly. His She was

not dressed for the cooler cavern air. Al were things that would have

to be remedied.

Tugging his arm away from her (roughly if not rudely), he moved to

the supply box, picking through its sparse contents: A smal backpack

stocked with lantern oil, for the light. Some trail bars. A smal metal

bowl to either wash up in or eat a meal out of. A thin blanket and a

man's pullover sweater. Another bottle of water and a lighter for the

lantern that now lit the space. A tiny medical kit that contained

nothing more than aspirin, some adhesive bandages good for little

more than blisters, and a little rubbing alcohol.

Camping supplies, and very basic ones at that. Emergency rations,

and the medical kit that was al but useless to them, for what it didn’t

have.

It was the barest of provisions, meant for someone who was already

travel ing with at least some gear, and food. The cache boxes were a

way to travel from spot to spot, when that was needed. He knew he'd

find a similarly supplied chest or box in the other places along the

route, if he could reach them, some better outfitted than this one. No

one came here, normal y. There was no reason to. That’s why it was

so lightly supplied.

He'd feed her and let her rest a little more, then they would go.

"Vincent. Your leg. Your leg is bleeding," she said.

He'd felt the sting of something each time he moved, near the back of

his knee. But as with the other wounds of war, he'd paid only so

much attention to it. There were the kind of injuries that took your

feet out from under you and meant you were probably about to die,

and the kind that didn't. This was the latter kind, though he could tel

something was wrong. He simply hadn't had the time to tend himself,

after the battle. He'd been too busy just getting them here, then

making sure she was al right.

Once they’d achieved this hideaway, he’d been overwhelmed by the

effort and the fatigue of the past week. He'd simply dropped, beside

her. Tending his injuries was usual y something his other self did.

The Warrior inside him hadn't real y expected to wake up stil in

control of his body. But he hadn't actual y thought about it, either.

When he was in his primal state, his ownership of his own form was

usual y brief.

Vincent’s primal self shrugged at the turn of events. What was, was.

He did not entertain philosophy or “what ifs.” His thought processes

were very direct, when his beast was conscious. He did not ask “why”

his primal self was stil in control of the situation. He simply accepted

it as fact.

What was in front of him had to be dealt with. They needed to eat,

then move, as there were no more supplies here to consume. If they

sat here, they’d starve. Simple.

“Your leg,” she repeated, sounding worried. “Please let me see.”

He brought her back the trail mix bars, what little medicine they had,

and another bottle of water. She was trying to inspect the back of his

knee through his torn cords. The blood was mostly dried, making the

patched fabric stiff. She was trying to see how bad it was.

There were no predators nearby, but he knew if there were, he'd have

drawn them. On instinct, he did not like to be dirty. Especial y not

with the smel of blood.

"Vincent you're hurt. We need to get you to Father." The ribbed

fabric was torn, and Catherine could see another deep gash, near the

back of his knee. Bits of white ceramic tile were stil embedded in the

black fabric of his pants. Ricochet.

She remembered the white tile wal s. One of the bullets must have

shattered the tile on the wal , next to him.

Again, he ripped the fabric open a little more with his nails, and

Catherine realized for the first time that he'd carried her a long way

with an injured arm and leg. Some of the blood on his hands

probably wasn't his, but the blood on his leg surely was. She had to

help him.

Carefully, she went to the cache, and she immediately noticed the

tightening of his muscles. If she tried to move toward the cave's

doorway, she knew he would stop her.

There was no wood for a fire, but the lamp and oil were most

welcome, both for light and what little heat they provided. The bowl

likely meant for soup they hadn’t brought with them was going to

serve as a smal wash basin.

Regretting the water she'd wasted by simply pouring it over his arm,

she poured some onto another strip off his shirt and into the bowl.

She doused her hands with the alcohol, then rinsed the leg with water

until she could see the extent of the damage.

It didn't look as wide as the damage to his forearm, though a piece of

shattered tile was stil stuck to his skin. No wonder the leg was

bloody. He'd hauled her over uneven ground on that.

"This is going to hurt. I promise I'm not trying to cause you pain."

The instinct for the words came through his mind to him, more than

the words themselves. To his primitive mind the last sentence came

across more like "I.. not...you pain."

He understood its message. He dropped his head, indicating that he

would submit himself to her care.

He gritted his fangs as She pul ed the wedge of tile away, and its

removal started the wound to bleeding afresh.

Stil , it felt better to have it gone, and he knew now the injury would

start to heal. Considering the firefight he knew he’d found himself in,

he was lucky it wasn't worse. So was she, considering.

She washed the area as wel as she could, given that his pants were

stil on, then dried it with what was left of his top shirt. She wrapped

his knee with the clean sleeve of the thermal one. It was the best she

could do.

The aspirin in the medical kit was expired. She tried to give him two,

anyway. He refused. When she offered again, he pushed the pil s

away, firmly indicating the answer was "no."

Catherine wasn't sure if he was just being stubborn or if the medicine

would do him no good. Father and Peter had both indicated Vincent's

reaction to certain medications was unpredictable. She remembered

the inordinately long time he'd hal ucinated under the drugs made by

Paracelsus.

She took two of the pil s herself, for the headache she stil had, and

tried to talk to him, since he seemed to understand at least some of

what she said.

"Vincent, I don't know what's happening to you. I don't know why

you're not yourself..." she fretted, as she dunked his hands in the

bowl, and rubbed them with hers, trying to help him get cleaner. He

approved of her care. It felt good.

"But I'm going to help you, and we're going to figure this out, okay?"

She tried to give him a weak smile of encouragement.

He was enjoying her touch more than he was enjoying her words. He

knew she thought he was not here, but found that conclusion absurd.

Of course he was here. She was helping wash the dirt and blood from

his hands.

The She was confused. It was al right.

He was here to keep her safe until they were in better circumstances.

His inscrutable eyes never left her face, unless it was to watch her

washing his hands.

She rubbed his hands past the wrist, rinsed, dumped the bowl, then

rinsed a little more. He stopped the water bottle from tipping a third

time. That was as much water as they dare waste on such things. He

drank a little more, then made sure she did.

She nodded that she was done, and suddenly they both seemed tired,

again. She bundled herself into the man's sweater, the thin gown

they'd given her in That Place barely enough to cover her backside.

She chafed her arms gratefully, as he put his vest back on, leaving

what was left of his fouled and torn shirts on the ground.

He adjusted the vest over his bare torso, not liking the thought of the

rank, blood-stiffened shirts against his skin. What was left of the cloth

stank from his recent efforts, not to mention him having been in them

for two straight days. It was easier to simply go without them. His

warm body didn’t feel cool, at the moment.

When he needed it, his cape would serve, for warmth. He’d offer it to

her, but knew its length would only hinder her, for walking, especial y

over rough ground. If she twisted something before they got her to

safety the results could be beyond serious.

He felt her staring at him as he tied the leather vest closed. She was

taking in his form, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the massive

strength of his build. It was al right that she did. Let her see. She

couldn't know what foes he could vanquish for her sake, unless she

could admire his form, see the proof of his power. He flexed his left

hand, testing the extent of the injury to his arm. It was an

inconvenience. Nothing more.

The motion made the muscles in his arm ripple and bulge. She saw

that, too.

His eyes checked hers, making sure she did.

This part of Vincent knew a certain amount of vanity about his

physique. She dropped her eyes.

The She was tearing open a trail bar as he tested his weight on the leg.

And she’d been staring at him since they both woke up. Fine.

She left one of the two remaining trail bars for him. When he shook

his head and pushed it toward her, she shook hers back, and did the

same.

Stubborn. The She was stubborn

He knew that, about her. There was a part of him that found that

very attractive, even as he found it exasperating. He snarled his

displeasure at her disobedience, aware by the startled look in her

eyes that the sound had been unexpected. She didn’t like it when he

did that.

Fine. Eat. He pushed the food back at her.

She opened the package and he thought he’d won her compliance

until she set the opened bar back down in front of him. He sighed.

Very wel . He couldn’t make her chew and swal ow.

He sat beside her and ate slowly, saving the last bit of the food for

her. He held the morsel in front of her, and would not drop his hand

until she took it from between his clawed fingers. His stomach ached

from the reintroduction of solid food. So did hers. They would save

the other bar to travel on.

"I'm tired again. Can we sleep here, a while?" She looked longingly at

the quilt, part of which was stained red, thanks to him.

It would do no good to push her before she’d had more time to rest.

Her pores stil stank of the sedative they’d given her, and he knew she

was fighting to clear their effects from her system.

He considered a moment, then nodded, and wrapped her in the thin

blanket, settling her away from the fouled part of the quilt. He spread

his cape wide over the both of them and slept with his back to hers.

He would know if she moved by the shifting of the bedding. He knew

he would not sleep deeply.

--

The lantern gave off enough heat to push the chil back in the smal

space. But it used the oil inside it, and when it began to sputter,

Vincent knew they'd lain there for at least two hours. His knee was

stiff, but serviceable. His left arm was abominably sore, but would

stil be good in a fight, if things came to fighting, again.

That was al he needed to know about himself when he was like this,

so he was unconcerned about much else.

He stil did not know why his Darker Self remained in command. Such

ruminations were usual y left to his other half, so he didn't bother

with them. He only knew that the light sleep had not changed which

one of them was conscious, and he simply accepted that as fact as his

eyes opened ful y, and took in her sleeping form.

Her eyes were shadowed, but she looked warm enough now, and

uninjured. He knew she'd been fed. It was enough to know.

He rose ahead of her, took care of bathroom business, and began to

stuff their meager supplies in the smal backpack.

Such mundane chores were something he was unused to, and they

felt strange, to his muscles. This was no fight. This was no battle, no

war. This was… packing.

But the canny, assessing creature within him knew it needed to be

done to insure their survival, so he did it.

The She needed him. That instinct was the utterly familiar one. And it

dominated his thinking.

He always came to her when she was in need.

"Are you better?" Catherine asked, though she could tel by the way

he crouched that he was stil not "her Vincent." There was something

in the way he carried his body that was simply "different" when his

Warrior self was in control of him. She couldn't explain it any better

than that.

He ignored the question and tossed her a smal package of soup

crackers he’d scrounged from the bottom of the box the look in his

eyes tel ing her she'd better eat them. She split the package in half

and complied, leaving him the rest. That was as good as he was going

to get, for cooperation from her.

Stubborn. He tossed al three crackers in his mouth at the same

time, chewing them col ectively. The salt on them tasted good.

Catherine watched her love wipe his mouth with the back of his hand,

and lick the salt off his fingers. He was completely unselfconscious.

Table manners are a refined thing, and he is not that, Catherine

thought, knowing “her” Vincent would be embarrassed to be caught

eating in a way that showed his fangs. She shrugged, knowing there

was nothing to be done for it, and indeed, nothing that needed doing.

“Can I see your arm? Your knee?"

He looked toward the former, at least indicating he yet understood

her on some level. He stil did not speak.

The bandage was blood spotted, but not as badly as it could have

been. Having no gauze to re-wrap it, she let it be, testing the skin

above and below the bandage for signs of heat, of infection. So far,

there were none.

"I'm so sorry you were hurt, coming to get me," she told him. She stil

had so little idea what had happened. "My boss turned out to be an

evil man. Working for an even more evil one. I hope Joe is al right."

Joe. Male. Another male. Vincent knew it, and growled at the name.

This time, there was no mistaking the tone for anything other than

what it was. He sounded jealous.

"He's my friend, Vincent. Nothing more." The growling continued,

however, and Catherine understood this line of conversation was

over.

She did not like the uncompromising look in his eyes, and wel

understood that though they'd tended each other, and he seemed

hel -bent on keeping her safe, this was not "her Vincent." This being

operated on a far more fundamental level. Also, a more reactive one.

She had a feeling he would be combative, if he were around other

males, right now. At least other males in their prime.

Catherine remembered secretly wanting to growl a bit herself, when

she'd met Lisa Campbel . Which was to say that some part of her

understood.

She deftly changed the subject. "We have to leave here, don't we?"

she asked, moving away from the subject of Joe Maxwel , John

Moreno, or other males.

She looked inside the box and realized there was only one more

bottle of water and a trail mix bar left. She took a careful sip, and

replaced the cap. He did the same. Fil ing the lamp with the

remaining oil, he left the soiled quilt behind but bid her to keep the

thin blanket, tearing a hole through its center for her head to fit

through. It would serve her as a coat of sorts, as they travel ed.

He bundled his cape into the smal pack, not needing it for warmth,

considering the workout he was fixing to get. His body burned hotter

when he was like this. It just did. The bowl, the empty water bottles

and whatever minimal supplies they had left went into the pack as

wel , taking up al its remaining room. Hitching the light bundle over

his shoulders, he indicated it was time to go, time to leave this place

of shelter.

They began to walk.

She tried asking him several questions about where they were going

and how long it might take to get there, but he had no gift for either

conversation or playing some kind of "yes" or "no," game with her.

After the third question, he simply growled at her, shortly.

His Warrior self was either not capable of conversation or not

interested in it. Probably both, Catherine reasoned.

He walked ahead of her, showing her the easiest path, reaching his

hand back for her any time the way grew too rough. With her feet

clad only in the cheap slippers Gabriel's people had left her with, she

could hardly negotiate sharp stones, or some of the steeper inclines,

easily. Catherine began to realize that this was not like a strol

through the tunnels. This was cavern walking. Uneven ground, some

of it damp. This was hiking, and over awkward terrain.

Concentrating on the path kept her occupied, but not so occupied she

couldn't marvel at the differences between "this" Vincent and "her"

Vincent.

He'd stripped to the waist for her, unselfconsciously. Not as a matter

of seduction, but of expedience. His arm was injured. Taking off his

shirts seemed the best way to deal with that. Catherine was probably

lucky he hadn't elected to take his pants off, as wel , considering the

condition of his knee. He ate and drank differently. Held his head

differently. Stared.

He walked differently as wel , both with a longer stride, yet with

nimble care. His weight was balanced “up,” on the bal s of his feet,

rather than back on his heels. He held the lantern aloft, yet he

canted his body at a slight angle, protecting her from the roughness of

the path, when he could.

Several times on the trail he stopped, listened, scented the air, and

then proceeded. He… sniffed as he took in smel s, something she’d

never seen her Vincent do. She wondered if the Vincent she loved

ever actual y did that, but hid it so as to not seem too animalistic.

This being before her clearly had no particular compunctions

regarding that.

She knew she was far better off in his company than she was as

Gabriel’s prisoner. More than that, she couldn’t say, for sure. She

was certain he was protective of her. But she knew she missed his

ability to speak with her, to tel her what was on his mind. He

communicated with growls, or grunts. He seemed irritated with her

at times, like when she’d refused to eat the proffered food.

They’d walked for a good while, and made their way over a

particularly pebble-strewn patch of ground when he paused, took an

empty water bottle out of the pack, then proceeded forward a bit

more rapidly. A few steps more and she heard it, too.

Water. Trickling water. They'd been walking for a couple of hours,

and Catherine was miserably tired, her muscles weakened by the

many days she'd spent in captivity.

A ribbon of water down the wal was a blessed salvation, and though

the flow was slow, it al owed Vincent to uncap the empty bottles of

water he'd stored in the backpack and refil them.

"Not enough for a shower, but it's very welcome," Catherine said,

cupping her hands until they fil ed, so she could rinse her face and

neck.

Vincent stood back as she performed what he considered a feminine

ablution. She pushed up the makeshift serape and sleeves of the

man's sweater she wore and rinsed her arms, as wel . They both saw

the severe bruising on her arm, along with tape residue and the

needle puncture.

"Looks like I went down fighting, at some point." She observed the

mark. It was sore, but it would heal.

Vincent's eyes shifted at the words. Yes. She had.

The She was marred, had been handled roughly, had been injured.

No one was al owed to do that. Even he was not al owed to do that,

in either this form or his other one. Lisa Campbel 's accidental injury

was a lesson learned by both his Scholar and his Beastly selves. But

Catherine was more to him than Lisa ever had been, or could ever

hope to become.

Injuring the She was the closest thing to a sin that this Vincent knew.

He stepped closer and surprised her when he took her injured arm

and held the damp skin out for his inspection. It was only a bad

bruise. But it stil made this deep part of him indignant.

Catherine watched his eyes go to flinty hardness as he studied the

bruise, checking it for signs of healing. He held her arm back under

the trickle of water and rubbed careful y at the tape residue, until at

least that much was clean.

"I don't even know for sure what they wanted from me," Catherine

said, struggling to remember. She did not like that he stil would not

talk, could not talk, to her. "I thought it was about a book, but then I

think it was about you. He was insane, Vincent. Gabriel was."

“Gabriel,” and the name caused his eyes to go from flint to steel. Too

late Catherine remembered that he didn't like the sound of other

male names, and he clearly hated this one. She felt pressure on her

arm and he remembered to drop it before he squeezed too hard. His

features took on a dark cast, and he was almost unrecognizable. The

growl in his throat was there. Low, but there. Steady.

"Where are you?” Catherine whispered. “Why are you like this?" she

asked, watching his golden cheeks flush copper. She was a little

afraid, but more … curious, than not, for lack of a better word. It was

like meeting him for the first time, or at least meeting a part of

himself he’d tried very, very hard to keep hidden.

There are dark places in al of us, she’d told him.

Was she seeing his, now?

“How long wil you stay this way?” she asked, fearing the question

was moot.

It was. Al questions were useless questions, as far as Vincent was

concerned right now, and some were even more useless than others.

Like the ones for which he had no answer, even if he could speak.

Like that one. He wil ed the satisfyingly threatening noise in his throat

to stop.

He stepped away from her and tossed the newly-fil ed water bottles

back inside the smal pack, forcing himself to calm down from her

mention of the name “Gabriel.” Gabriel was enemy, Gabriel was the

vanquished prey, and the memory of him caused a jolt of adrenaline

to slam through Vincent’s system.

Fight.

There was no enemy here.

Fight. Protect.

But there was stil no enemy here, and it would not do to make her

one, for lack of any other target. He snarled his anger, and stepped

back from her.

Stop.

A memory, of her voice. Words from a not-too-long-ago time,

between them.

No. Stop.

He’d been kil ing Micah, and her voice had cal ed him back from it.

No. Stop.

He remembered the words as he took in her frightened eyes.

No. Stop. He breathed in, holding the oxygen for several long beats,

before he exhaled.

There was no enemy here. It would not do to behave as if there was.

Yet he did not like to reign his instincts in. He liked to let them run.

This felt counter to what he was, what he was made for. Like packing

this morning, only worse.

A jerk of his head indicated they were through with their temporary

pause, here. He needed to walk. Hard. He wil ed himself to shorten

his stride so she could keep up, and that chafed, too.

They were a few minutes farther down the passageway, her about to

cal a halt so she could rub a cramp out of her foot when a certain

smel reached his sensitive nose.

His body suddenly went rigid. There were enemies to vanquish here,

after al .

He pressed her firmly against the rough wal and looked back down

the way they'd come, clearly sensing something he didn't like. He

extinguished the lantern that had been lighting their way and stared

hard down into a passageway that was now so dark Catherine would

have doubted its existence, except that her feet had been walking

through it, moments before.

"Do you hear something?" she whispered. He gave her an unsubtle

push with his body, indicating she was to be silent. She complied, but

heard nothing. He, however, was a mass of tension.

Had they been fol owed? she wondered . Some of Gabriel's men…?

He moved his big body away from hers and slid the pack down his

good arm, almost silently. She knew he was about to leave her, and

she was afraid.

Before she could protest his decision, he was gone, no words of

comfort to tel her he'd be back, no instructions to stay here and sit

tight, or advice to move on, just... nothing.

The cool tunnel air hit her face, away from the warm shield of his

body. One moment, he was solidly against her, his huge form as hard

as the rocks at her back, his arms bare except for the makeshift

bandage that rode just below his elbow. The next, he was a

weightless, soundless shadow in the darkness, and then the darkness

enveloped him.

Did he remember she hated the dark, especial y this impenetrable

kind? Did this Vincent even know that, about her?

Catherine's nerves were stretched rubber-band taut as she waited,

each second ticking into another. Her own heartbeat sounded loud in

her ears, and it interfered with her ability to hear his hoped-for

return.

What wil I do if he doesn’t come back? She had no idea where she

was, and she'd barely had a sense of what direction they travel ed.

They were clearly far away from the parts of the tunnels that she

knew, and even those stil had the power to get her turned around, at

times.

They hadn't passed any manhole covers, ladders, or signs of

civilization, at least not yet, and she definitely had the impression

they were deep, rather than close to the surface.

Should she go on, down the path they'd been using? Go back, and

find the way he'd brought her down, risk exposing herself again? Risk

getting lost, either way? Could she do either, in the dark? Dare she

light the lantern, knowing that danger was near? Indecision gnawed

at her, and she hated the feeling.

She was lost underground, and lost inside the blackness of no light

and deep uncertainty. A few silent tears born of fear fel , as she

waited. Though she was wary of the beast in Vincent, he was her

protector, and he was Vincent. Vincent, whom she loved.

A distant, muffled sound reached her ears. A popping sound.

A gun? Was that a gun? Catherine wasn't sure, and the twists of

winding stone made her even more uncertain, as they carried the

echoes of what seemed like a battle. She only knew she was more

panicked than ever. She heard more echoes of fighting. Him roaring.

More popping sounds. Then … silence.

She took two steps toward the direction of the sound, banged her

foot against a protruding rock in the floor and stopped, slipping on

loose stones she couldn’t see. She couldn’t move without light, and

she couldn’t light the lantern without revealing herself.

Is he dead? Oh, God, Vincent, what do I do? She felt helpless and

weak, and liked neither feeling as what felt like an eternity ticked off

her internal clock.

He returned almost as silently as he'd left her, the dark shadow-shape

of him passing literal y right before her eyes before she realized he

was back.

"Vincent!" She grabbed for his neck before he could even retrieve the

lantern, and he had no choice but to wrap his arms around her and

hold her. It was either that or stand there with them akimbo.

"Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?" she asked, stil half frantic.

He pressed his hirsute finger to her lips to ask for quiet as he reached

down for the lantern. When he lit it she realized his arm was bleeding

again, as was his leg, though likely from using them both hard, not

because he'd been newly injured. The blood was spotty.

He'd picked up a fresh injury, however. The skin around his left wrist

was starting to bruise. Someone had tried to struggle with him,

perhaps over a weapon. Someone had clearly lost. The smel of gas

or some similar fuel clung to his arm. Some of the fur there looked…

singed, was the only word she could think of for it. Did someone try

to burn him?

He rinsed the arm as best he could with one of the newly fil ed water

bottles.

He would answer no questions and he didn’t seem inclined to rest.

She felt his hand at the smal of her back, clearly indicating she

needed to move on, quickly. She did so, knowing it was the wisest

course of action, but stil missing the comfort she knew her Vincent

would have given her, with words.

Where are you? Oh, where are you, in there, Vincent? she asked yet

again, but silently, this time.

Vincent moved ahead of her and took the lead again, clearly wanting

them out of this particular tunnel. She simply kept her head down

and fol owed. She didn’t even know if they were stil in trouble from

potential pursuers or not. He wasn’t trying to run, she realized.

Perhaps that was a good sign.

The ground shifted from hardscrabble stones to a mix of rock and

sand, and she blessed it for being easier on her feet.

It did, however, create a problem. One she hadn’t considered. They

were leaving tracks.

At the next intersection they came to, he erased their footprints in

the sandy part of the ground, and left false ones heading the wrong

way. If someone was fol owing them, Vincent clearly meant to use

the terrain to send them off in the wrong direction.

He finished with his deception, then put her hand in his and tugged

her onward.

Another hour's more of walking and Catherine felt every bit of her

fatigue. The adrenaline that had given her strength was leaving her,

and she knew it was leaving her flat.

Vincent got behind her and nudged her to walk on, knowing they

needed to make safe camp for the night. He wanted distance, from

the melee he’d left. Distance equaled safety.

Another half-mile or so, though, and it was clear that Catherine was

beyond winded. No matter how fast or far he could walk, pain in his

leg or no, he could tel his She was tiring, though She wasn't

complaining about it. Stubborn. Stil .

He eyed her struggling form. His She was determined to keep going,

both for his sake as wel as her own. She always had been, in her way.

Catherine’s shorter legs took smal er steps, so she had to work harder

to cover the same ground he did. That was a tactical fact, and he’d

always been aware of it.

He let them stop long enough to give her a bottle of water, but dared

not let either of them rest any longer than the time it took to drink it.

The two armed men he'd kil ed smel ed of Gabriel's compound. One

was named Snow. He'd offered Vincent a ring, in exchange for his life.

It was a ridiculous offer. And an unaccepted one. They died in the

fire they’d brought with them. Vincent mourned only that it meant

he hadn’t been able to scavenge any supplies off of them, though

they’d only brought weapons.

He'd heard and smel ed no others, but he didn't like that they'd been

fol owed at al .

He wanted them to reach a few more junction spots before they truly

rested. If he couldn't keep her on her feet he'd just have to carry her,

but considering he was holding both their supplies and the lantern so

she could have her arms free to balance, she’d be a problematic load,

at best.

They would just have to keep on, for now. Either that or he’d stand

guard while she slept, and risk losing the lead they had, if they were

stil being fol owed. That was a bad plan, he realized. He didn’t want

her in the middle of a fight, if things came to fighting, again.

When she began to stumble, he knew they had to stop. It was earlier

than he would have liked, but there was no help for it. Running her

into the ground would do them no good, and if there was a brawl in

the offing, she at least needed the strength to run and save herself

while he gave her cover - or gave his life for her, whichever way fate

dealt those cards. If she snapped her ankle in a fal , or even gave it a

good twist, she’d be far too easy a target.

He settled her on an outcropping of boulders, disdaining the cheap

slippers that passed for footwear. The bal s of her feet had bruised

against the harder rocks, though the sand wasn't so tough on them.

Reaching for the blanket she wore, he began tearing strips off the

bottom, shortening its length. Catherine was startled at the tearing

sound, and jumped each time the “hem” of her covering got shorter.

“What are you doing?” she asked, as she realized it would be an

unanswered question, just like most of the rest of those. He showed

her, for an answer.

She watched as he wrapped the cloth around her foot and tied, it,

then repeated the process with the other. The makeshift ensemble

was not as good as a pair of shoes. But it was better than the

ridiculously thin slippers she stil wore.

"Were they Gabriel's men?" she asked. He stil could not speak, but

he could give her a short nod of assent. He did so.

Catherine felt the fatigue of the day. She had no idea how far they’d

come, or how far they had left to go. Nothing down here was even

vaguely familiar to her.

"You should go on without me. I'm only slowing you down. Send

back help."

The look he gave her was so dark it would have frozen sunlight.

"Vincent, I'm too tired to keep going and they had me pumped full of

drugs. I have no strength, and I..."

She didn't finish the sentence before he simply scooped her up from

where she was, indicated she was to pick up the lantern, and he

resumed walking with her in his arms.

"You're hurt. We can't go far like this." She put one arm around his

neck as she argued. The sandy ground was better for walking in than

the rock-strewn one, but if the terrain grew tough again, he’d need to

either set her down or risk a fal .

“If the ground gets rocky again, or steep, you’ll have to set me down,”

she said aloud what his instincts told him in impulses.

“Vincent, it makes more sense just to go on without me and… and find

a pipe. Bang a message.” Did he stil remember tunnel code? She

realized she had no idea if he did.

He grunted a response to her statement. It was as good as she was

going to get.

The She was tired. And babbling something about him leaving her

behind.

Never. That was never going to happen again. She'd been taken from

him because his Lesser Self had not the sense or the wil to keep her

close. He knew better. The She was not leaving his sight until she was

good and safe. And even then, something in him instinctively railed

against separating himself from her.

This more primal part of his nature had no particular compunctions

about letting her go so she could realize her life's full potential. Those

were odd niceties which upset his Poet’s side, not his Beast’s.

He had saved her. He had rescued her . Not his Other self. Him.

She would stay with him, where She was safe. There would be no

more partings until he said so. That was the end of it, as far as this

Vincent was concerned.

His gaunt cheeks were flushed and coppery, and Catherine realized he

mouth breathed, often, letting his fangs show, unavoidably. He was a

formidable presence, and Catherine wasn’t certain she liked being this

close to his exposed fangs.

“I wish I knew how to reach you,” she said, knitting her brow.

He simply cut her an icy look, and continued on.

The passageway wound and narrowed as it threaded through several

more intersections. Near as Catherine could tel , they were moving

more southward than any other direction. They were stil not near

the trains. But they were growing closer to water. The wal s grew

more damp. She could almost smel the mustiness in the closed

atmosphere.

"We're getting closer to the river? she asked.

He simply nodded, as the floor beneath his feet began to slope

distinctly downward. The roof over her head dripped in spots, and

she knew they were passing beneath what she assumed was the

Hudson. Vincent's footing became precarious, and he snarled his

displeasure as his bad leg slipped, before he righted himself. The

ground was wet.

"I can walk. Vincent, put me down. I can walk."

He ignored her until she hit his shoulder, at which point he openly

snarled his censure at her. She steadied her nerves at that, trying not

to reveal to him that the sight of his openly bared fangs made her

nervous.

He set her down, though he clearly didn't like doing so. She wasn't

sure how close to being bitten she'd come, or if she’d come close at

al . He was clearly unhappy with her fist on his col ar bone, even

though she hadn’t hit him hard.

The floor was damp, and the cloth strips he'd used to make “shoes”

for her were wet within a few yards of walking.

There was no help for it. After a few more steps, the sodden cloth

unwound from her feet and she left it behind. One section of the

path was so wet it required wading in water just over her ankles.

Tactical y, Vincent liked that the watery footpath covered their

progress. Also that they were approaching one of the more

labyrinthine areas of the tunnels, which should discourage any more

pursuers. But he did not like her discomfort, and kept his clawed

hand at her elbow to steady her. What stones there were, were algae

slick, for both of them. A fal here could be a unilateral disaster.

At last, the ground began to rise again, subtly. The water grew

shal ower, then became simply a muddy puddle of silt. He climbed

some more, keeping her in front of him, lest she slip backward. She

was panting. And she was determined. He loved her for it.

Finding dry, comparably level flooring at last, he urged them on, never

seeming to tire in spite of his injuries. The knee bled more freely than

the arm, and blood stiffened the corduroy pant leg, yet again, in spite

of her makeshift bandage. He treated it as no more than an

inconvenience.

Catherine realized he'd gone a long way on less food than he'd given

her, and carried her for part of it, not to mention having fought to

keep them safe. If they got to food again, she vowed to make sure he

ate more than he had at their last stop.

The passageway opened up, to her left. Another pathway through the

maze? No.

Not a pathway. A room.

The battered trunk, when she saw it, seemed like a welcome beacon.

She blessed that they'd reached another cache of supplies, and hoped

they could find rest, here.

Vincent pulled out a large quilt and spread it on the ground. She

wanted to sink onto it, but inspected the food, first. More trail bars,

and some cans of soup. Oil for the lantern, a tin of crackers that

would be past stale, more bottles of water and some sterno for

cooking, since there was no wood.

She handed him one of the trail mix bars, but he batted it away as he

straightened their “bed.” She then opened the bar and crouched in

front of him, insisting.

The chal enge in his eyes did not bear arguing with, but then, neither

did the chal enge in hers.

"If you starve, they'l kil me anyway," she reasoned. He did not like

her logic. But he accepted her offer of food. He ate it in two bites.

"I'm going to go take care of something," she said.

She'd taken a few steps away from him before she realized that was

an unwise thing to do. With a leap and a warning snarl he was

suddenly in front of her, blocking her progress. Whatever invisible

tether he'd decided was between them, she'd just stepped past it.

"You didn't mind leaving me alone in the tunnels, earlier," she said

pointedly, giving him a little temper back.

He jerked his head back toward the bedding, not al owing her to pass.

"I have to go pee, Vincent," she said inelegantly, her voice beyond

irritated.

He looked over toward a stand of rocks that were hardly more than

poor cover.

"You've got to be kidding."

But he wouldn't move, and her effort to step around him resulted in

an absolutely feral growl. He was either about to hit her or pick her

up and deposit her back on the quilt. She was wil ing to bet the latter

but couldn’t discount the former. He was not “mock-growling” at her.

He was real y growling at her. Angrily.

She sighed and stepped near the rocks. He did not move away.

Giving up and no longer able to fight the cal of nature, she simply

squatted down as far out of sight as she could and answered the

demands of a full bladder. He heard the sound and wrinkled his nose

as the smel hit his nostrils.

"Next time, give me some privacy and the smel won't bother you,"

she snapped, adjusting the ridiculously agape hospital gown back

down, and giving the sweater a tug. But for the ratty blanket that

skimmed her thighs he'd have been ogling her backside for the entire

trek.

Angry. The She was angry at him, and he didn't understand why.

Did she not know what this place was? Did she not understand that

she should not wander far, without him?

The area they were in wound and branched, and it was easy to

become lost. The wrong path led to water soaked areas where the

ground gave way, easily.

He'd been trapped in such a place with Father a few years ago, and

she had come to help them. He'd cal ed out to her in the bond, and

like a good mate, She'd come to help. That was as it should be.

And now she was angry with him?

He could fol ow only some of her words, but he could fol ow al of her

tone. He was unaccustomed to her censure. That was usual y for his

Other Self to handle.

Near his bestial self, she was usual y either frightened of her attackers

or either accepting of or dismayed by him. Which reaction he got

seemed to sometimes depend on what he’d had to do to keep her

safe. Much seemed to rely on just what he was doing, and who he

was doing that to, and how. To him, kil ing was kil ing, and there were

no points for style, one way or the other. She seemed to make

distinctions, with that. As she’d done with Micah.

But irritated with him? Never. Never, that he could recal .

He didn't understand the wide swing in her emotions, and he

struggled to accept them. She was The She. Females were mercurial.

He had no other choice but to accept her. She was his bondmate. Or

she had been, before, when they’d shared a bond.

His stony silence gave her no one to argue with, so she returned to

the quilt he’d laid out for them. The stiff gait of her walk told him she

was stil annoyed with him.

She sat on the blanket for a moment, toying with the idea of making

the soup, since the adrenaline rush was giving her a little strength.

She put the can back and pulled out another one of the trail bars.

When she saw him looking at her, she gave him her back, a little.

He was hungry, and wanted hot food. “Cooking” was like “packing”

had been, but he understood its necessity. He pulled the smal ,

dented saucepan out of the bottom of the chest and opened the soup

can, dumping the contents inside the pan and adding some water

from a bottle. He ripped the cover off the sterno and set it to heat,

not knowing what to do with Her when She was displeased with him.

He had no words to explain the reasons as to why she shouldn’t

wander off. He'd never needed them before. Suddenly he was tired,

monstrously tired, of being in control of the Body for so long, and

wondered how his Other Self handled it, handled her. Her.

As the smel of heavily salted broth and pasta hit his sensitive nose, he

realized how foul a thing canned soup was, how much like carrots and

potatoes this did NOT smel like, and he wondered why she wanted it

at al , and he wondered why he wondered.

Trying to think in words was tiring. He wanted to be away from her

just as badly as she wanted to be away from him, apparently, and he

didn't like the feeling.

Something in his distress must have communicated itself to her as he

stirred the contents with a wooden spoon, because She put Her

fingers on his hand as he stirred.

"I'm sorry." Her low voice was contrite. "It has been one long and

miserable day, and you risked your life to save me. I'm just used to

being able to talk to Vincent, that’s al ."

But he was Vincent. Not the part She preferred, perhaps, and not

even the part his Scholar Self preferred, but if he had a name, it was

Vincent. He had no other. He slowed the spoon down, but continued

with the chore.

"I'm sorry I was ugly to you.” Her voice was a soft thing, in his ear. “I

just wanted a little privacy. Do you understand 'privacy?'"

He did not know the word, not real y. It had nothing to do with what

he was, so he didn't understand it. Words like “hunt” or “track” or

“stay” or “go” or “stop” or “yes” or “no” he understood. Words from

strategy, or words from battle. Much else was lost to him, though the

vocabulary he used was effective, for what he was. Instincts like

“food” or “water” were universal. Instincts like “She.” “Privacy” was

a bit too nebulous a word. It was not a thing he used, for himself.

She was his to protect. He realized how much he didn't like it when

she was angry with him.

He gave over control of the spoon to her so he could finish unpacking

their supplies. There was a fresh rol of gauze in this cache, along with

another smal medical kit. Not much more than was in the last one,

but it would do to wrap his arm and knee, a bit. The burn stung, but it

was an inconvenience, nothing more. A patch of hair on his wrist had

taken the worst of it.

She crumbled the stale crackers in the pot to both stretch and thicken

their meal, and he watched her as she worked. He lifted the pan off

the sterno before she could scald it. She might not realize it yet, but

there were no bowls other than the one they’d used to wash wounds

in. They were going to have to share the pot. That was fine by him.

He didn't plan on eating much of it.

She realized their lack of utensils as she looked around. "Oh. I guess I

should have asked if you liked crackers before I just assumed," she

said, stirring the now sticky mess around a bit. She lifted the wooden

spoon to blow on it.

For as unappetizing as the soup had seemed a few minutes ago, the

addition of the saltines seemed to improve either the smel or

Vincent's appetite. He ate more than he thought he would, stil

leaving most of it for her. She used the spoon. He, on the other hand,

simply dug into the pot with two fingers, once it was cool enough.

Catherine tried not to be dismayed by the display, tried not to watch

him licking soup and crackers off his hirsute fingers.

Stop this. Stop comparing them, her mind scolded. But it was difficult

not to.

"You need to keep up your strength," she chided, offering him the last

of the pot once she’d had several large bites. He shook his head.

"My stomach has shrunk. They fed me through the IV, I think. I'm

gorged, I promise. And my stomach is probably going to cramp."

It was, and for that matter, so was his. Stil , warm food felt like a

welcome thing, and he watched her rinse the pot with water, being

careful not to use too much.

"I'm exhausted. Wil we get there tomorrow?" she asked, bedding

down on the quilt. He shook his head. "The next day?" she asked. He

lifted his shoulders in a kind of shrug.

"Maybe you'l be... more yourself, in the morning."

He said nothing to that but simply laid down near her, a little away

from her exhausted form. He covered them both with his cape, as

grateful as she was to be fed, relatively safe, and final y off his feet for

the day. His head ached. His leg and arm ached. And somewhere

inside him, his heart ached a little, as wel . He wasn’t sure why. But

he was sure he was exhausted.

Chapter 3

Regret

Catherine slept for hours. How many she didn't know. But when she

awoke, the bag was packed, his wounds were freshly dressed, and he

was pacing. She took care of bathroom business, noting by the smel

that he'd preceded her.

He kept glancing back the way they'd come, and though he didn't

seem as nervous as he had yesterday, he clearly wanted to put some

distance between them and this place.

Bemoaning her lack of decent footwear, Catherine made ready for

another day's trek.

Walking was easier today, Catherine noted, perhaps for no other

reason than she was getting used to using her leg muscles again.

Shaking her system clear of the drugs Gabriel had given her and

sandier ground didn’t hurt things, either.

Vincent stayed ahead of her, leading the way. He never spoke and

regularly checked back on her progress. When she tired and cal ed a

halt, he stood as she sat, waited patiently for a time, then indicated

with a jerk of his maned head that they should continue.

In an odd way, they were becoming used to each other.

She knew asking him "How much farther?" was to waste breath. It

was as far as it was. She knew he was bringing her closer to tunnel

civilization, by the general direction they fol owed.

The winding path beneath her feet was either level or it sloped

upward, rather than down, for the most part. Though they were stil

traversing the 'cave and cavern' section of his home rather than true

'tunnels' she thought she once felt the rumble of a passing train

through her thin-soled feet.

He felt it as wel , and simply shrugged the vibration away. It was no

threat. It was no aid. It was unimportant, therefore. They couldn’t

reach it through bedrock.

Vincent's instinctive mind stayed alert as he moved them through the

caverns on the far side of the Labyrinth, knowing that a wrong turn

here would likely get them kil ed. Becoming lost in this area would

not be a temporary thing. The ground was too treacherous, and too

directionless. Unstable in some spots, twisting back on itself in

others, it was a no man’s land of mazework. Intersections fed into

each other, where groundwater had split the passageways, then

reconnected, father down. Other branching trails were unknown, in

their destinations, if they had any of those at al .

He knew that if they were fol owed, it was fairly likely their pursuers

would become hopelessly lost. He also knew the sandy ground was

easier on her feet. He knew she could keep up with him for about

forty five minutes before she needed to rest for about ten. It was

information he needed, and stored. If they became separated for any

reason, it told him how far away she could get in a certain length of

time. Knowing that would help him track her.

The She was better, today, better able to travel, though quiet. She

hadn't tried to talk to him as they moved, today, a thing he found he

didn't like. Though he had no use for language, himself, (that was his

Other Self’s tool), he found he understood more of it as they'd gone

along with each other.

He did not know how to ask her for what he couldn't have. But he'd

discovered that he liked the sound of her voice, and missed its

breathy quality. The urge to hear her speak felt unusual, in his fiery

brain.

They ate the trail bars together as they walked, and lunch was the

luxury of sitting down while they finished off the last of those. He

longed for meat, and was tired of the taste of nuts packed with honey

and cereal. But like so many other things, that didn't real y matter.

The high energy/high calorie food kept them on their feet. It was

enough to know that much about it.

He also knew he smel ed bad and so did she, and he couldn't tel her

that the smel offended his sensitive nose. That didn't matter either.

Stink wasn't a threat to them.

Her lack of decent footwear bothered his sense of protection far

more. He’d retied more strips to her feet, but if she had to run she'd

be hard pressed to do it. Also, damp ground was occasional, and stil

problematic. Keep her walking in wet footwear and they’d have more

problems than they could handle.

The next cache might have something, the way the first one had

contained the sweater she now wore.

He made sure she drank, and gave her the privacy of his turned back

and a little distance when she needed to answer a cal of nature.

Privacy. For no reason he could name, the word now made sense to

him.

His injured leg was making itself known, and he was aware that they'd

need to stop soon, so he could look at it and re-wrap it. Perhaps he

could get her to help with that. Perhaps he'd just do it himself.

There were too many unknowns, right now. His brain felt fatigued by

that. He was accustomed to the hunt, and the kil . Those were

instinctive things, and often rapid ones. Straightforward. Linear, like a

bullet. Or dodging those, if it came to that.

This prolonged travel was pedestrian, both by nature and definition.

It required fairly mundane decisions, but constant ones. He wasn't

used to making those. And he wasn't used to making them for so

long.

He’d given up hoping that sleep would find his balance restored. He

was grateful that the constant travel kept him moving, al owing at

least some outlet for his natural y aggressive nature. But travel was

slow, thanks to her. This was not the calorie-burning chal enge of a

hard run, or a leap across buildings. This was not racing to get to her

or tracking prey. This was hiking, plain and simple. Careful walking.

His nature both rebel ed against it and accepted it, as he knew it was

necessary to keep her safe. He kept listening for enemies, out of

reflex.

But there was no enemy here. Nor was there any bond. He was

becoming used to the former, as he silently mourned the loss of the

latter.

The fresh water, when he final y smel ed it, was a balm to his battered

nose and his exhausted sense of self. Water, real water, and not just

a trickle down the wal . Somewhere in his instinctive mind, he knew

they'd been heading for it, al day. No matter how much strength was

or wasn't left in them, he knew they were going to stop near it for the

evening.

Not that "evening" had much meaning, down here.

Catherine could see the change in him, see the way his body came to

a rather sudden and excited attention. He scented the air and

lengthened his stride. It took her a hundred yards more before she

smel ed it too, but like him, her reaction was beyond positive.

"Water? Is that fresh water I smel ?" she asked. He nodded, reaching

his hand for hers, as they both moved forward. In a few more steps

she could hear it as wel as sense its humid quality, in the air around

her.

The damp, heavy air was a welcome blessing to her dirt-streaked skin.

The widened entrance of another cavern loomed before them. The

sound of softly flowing water echoed off the far rocks.

It was a smal stretch of stream that snaked down over a soft fal of

stones to the bowl of a tiny pool, below. Al of it was smal . It was

beyond a stretch of imagination to cal it a 'fal s' or even a pool. More

like a shal ow basin fed by down-flowing water. But the sound of

water on granite was a welcome, trickling song, and the little ribbon

of water that fed into the cave was clear enough to see the stones it

washed over. There was a rocked off circle of a fire pit to warm the

large area, and a few torches, for the wal s.

The expected cache chest sat near the center of the room, this one

larger than the one they'd used yesterday. Catherine hoped it

contained more, by the way of supplies.

"Is it safe to drink?" Catherine asked of the water. In answer, Vincent

scooped some up with his hands and drank from his palms, showing

her the purity. He nodded toward it and uncapped one of the empty

plastic drinking bottles from his pack. She fol owed his lead.

It was tepid, rather than warm like the hot springs or cold like the

Nameless River, and she couldn't guess its source. Perhaps it fed the

Hudson, eventual y, or the East River. Perhaps it just emptied into the

sea, at some point. Either way, it was beyond welcome, and after she

drank, Catherine happily knelt on the ground next to the tinkling flow

and splashed water on her face and hands.

Vincent was a good bit ahead of her.

By the time she'd finished drinking and rinsing, he'd removed his vest

and let it drop to the ground with a loud thump. He’d opened the

storage chest and had a thin towel already draped across one corner

of the open lid. He tossed a bar of soap into the shal ow basin, and

was already starting to remove his boots as he prepared to wash days

of grime from his skin and fur.

Catherine realized his intentions. His body was three quarters turned

away from her when she saw his hands go to his belt.

Surely he wasn't about to...

He was.

Catherine caught a blinding flash of coppery skin as he dropped his

belt and then his stripped out of his corduroy slacks, almost in one

smooth motion. The tattered pants fel straight off his lean hips, and

Catherine barely had time to turn away to protect what smal amount

was left of "her Vincent's" modesty.

Clearly this creature possessed little of that. Or none of that, to be

more precise.

She heard him wade in, heard the masculine groan of pleasure as he

reached what must have been the center of the pool. When she

dared a peek she realized the basin must be no more than three and a

half or so feet deep.

His back stil to her, he was standing in water that barely covered his

privates. He simply dropped his knees and dunked. And groaned,

again. Pleasure. The sensual pleasure of making one’s self clean,

after a long time spent dirty.

Catherine watched him tip his head back, and wet it with his hands,

then take his whole head under before he emerged again, arms raised

to push back the hair as he stood.

Hair.

His back was covered with it. And it was glorious.

She realized how little she’d seen of him from this angle, and never

wet.

In al of Catherine's most secret imaginings, his body hair was an

admitted source of intrigue, for her. She'd seen the soft lay of hair on

his forearms, and knew the springier variety of that peeked up from

his shirts, sometimes, near the top of his chest. When he’d stripped

to the waist so she could tend his arm, she’d seen mostly the front of

his torso, but she’d been preoccupied with his injuries, not to mention

more than a little worried about sharing space with his Other self.

Also, his almost relentless stare had caused her to drop her gaze more

than raise it.

Even the parts of him she already knew about looked different, now.

Now that they were melded as part of a whole.

His clawed hands were hirsute, though that hair was straight, and lay

along the length of his fingers. Now soaking wet, she saw how the

fine, straight hair lay al down his arm, finer whorls of it curling around

his deltoids, smal marks of delineation on the musculature of his

arms.

She'd always referred to the hair on his head as "the mane of his

hair" but never realized just how accurate a description that was until

he kept his nude back to her, busily applying soap to his front and the

tops of his shoulders.

Gold. Dark gold. And some lighter shades as wel . Gold with hints of

red, deeper in color and more obvious, now that his hair lay wetly

down his back. Hair that had never seen sunlight was riddled with

highlights that looked sun drawn. Her love was golden. And her love

had a mane that ran from the top of his head to clean down his spine.

It thinned as it went, but kept its silk-spun texture, then began to flare

again, just past his hips.

Of course, Catherine's mind took in the stunning picture he presented.

Of course he would have a mane down his back. Now it was her turn

to stare at him, unblinking.

Of course. Her mind repeated. A mane. It made sense. It went not

only with the leonine aspect of his features but with the

understanding that his body was more heavily haired than most. The

hair that was thickest on his head tapered down and laid like a wet

arrow on his vertebrae, an arrow that created a thinning line that

bisected his back as it lay protectively against it. She wondered if he’d

had it in childhood, or if, like other male lions, the "mane" had

appeared down his back as he reached sexual maturity. She couldn’t

discount the former, but bet on the latter.

The area across his ribs was lightly covered with the same shimmering

down that seemed to compose his beard. The mane, longer and red

streaked, stood out against his golden skin.

It's supposed to help him attract a mate, Catherine realized the

sentence mental y as the instinct of it clutched at her vitals.

He raised one arm to soap under it, and the rol of his shoulder blade

drew her amazed eye. He was huge, the power in his shoulders now

obvious to see. This was the source of the strength he lifted with, the

strength he climbed with. The muscles in his back were powerful. His

arm bunched when he bent it. An 'echo' of his mane ran under his

arms, she realized. The wet fur laid in a soft point, from elbow to

wrist on the underside of his arm. The hair on his arms thinned as it

reached his bare shoulders.

She turned her head quickly when he turned around. She didn't want

to be caught staring.

The She was stil by the stream.

Catherine had not changed her position, overmuch, and seemed

content to keep her face turned toward the running water. Though

he knew she was dirty and needed a bath, he knew she'd likely want

privacy for that, too, so he'd gone in first. It would leave her longer to

tend to her own bathing needs. There was no shampoo, but there

was plenty of soap for both of them. He finished soaping off his body,

including his hair, and rinsed. Time to get out, so she could get in.

Cold. He was a little cold now. Now that he'd emerged from the

basin, wet and dripping. Stupid. He should have started a fire, first.

There was wood for it in the chest. He realized his error only after.

She seemed incapable of moving, incapable of doing anything but

staying where she was. It was al right. He would take care of the fire.

Crouched naked on the stones, Vincent took out dry kindling from the

cache and started a smal fire. The ceiling of the cavern sloped

upward, and would carry the smoke away. They could have a hot

meal, later, and something warm to drink. She would like that. He

left her the one towel. She could use it. He would let the air and his

own hotter temperature dry him.

After a few moments spent crouching near the newly built fire, he

realized she had something a little different in mind.

"Here," her voice was gentle, behind him. She covered his damp back

with the towel. "Use this. It wil make you more comfortable. And if

you cover up with it, it wil make me more comfortable, too."

Her words were wry but he was starting to recognize more of them.

He gave a soft smile beneath his dripping hair as he felt the thin towel

cover his bare back.

"If you promise not to turn around while I take a bath, I'l owe you

forever," she said, stepping away from him. He wrapped the towel

around his hips and settled his body in front of the smal fire. He let

her know by his unwil ingness to turn that he was obeying her. At

least a little. He had little use for modesty of any particular sort. He

understood the She was different, in this regard. He shrugged at her

preference.

He heard her sigh as she pulled the ragged blanket over her head. He

also heard the heavy sweater drop to the stones, but didn't realize

she'd gone into the water with the ridiculous hospital gown stil on

her body until he dared to sneak a peek from beneath his wet bangs.

Once she found the deepest part of the pool, higher on her than it

had been on him by a good bit, she took off the gown and let it go,

al owing herself the luxury of dipping nude into the tepid water.

She made a sound of contentment so similar to his that it made him

smile. A groan. That groan of contentment, of feeling one's self

coming clean. An animal’s sighing reaction to comfort, no matter

what kind of animal was involved. He liked her sound.

She reached for the soap and he knew he had to turn his face away

from her lest she scold him. The barest hint of a smile played at the

corners of his mouth. His woman was pleased.

And for a moment, he forgot to think of her in terms of capital letters.

He unpacked the contents of the cache while she bathed, and he

warmed up a double portion of canned soup, and boiled a pan of

water for tea.

He kept the towel around his middle, not wanting to put on the blood

stiffened cords, again, not just yet. There was a man's shirt in the

cache, too smal for him, but welcome, for her. She could use it as a

robe. Besides, he was wearing their only towel.

He set the long tailed shirt near the edge of the water, his eyes

meeting hers over the calm of the pool. She kept her knees bent, and

was submerged to her shoulders. She had done as he had, washed

her hair with the bar of soap.

Her eyes looked huge, and vulnerable as she stared up at him. She'd

been scared. They had scared her. And she'd been living through the

last few days or so a moment at a time, with him.

Now she was naked in a pool of water while a towel clad behemoth

stood before her with a shirt in his hand. He knew he was making her

nervous, with his proximity. He just wasn't sure what kind of

"nervous" it was.

He dropped the shirt on the stones near the edge and went back to

preparing their first hot meal of the day.

He was aware of her on a sensual level, but as with any other instinct,

he was aware that there was both a time and a place for that. Mating

was a thing one attempted when a female was either likely to

conceive, or when she’d been made to feel comfortable, and safe.

That was an instinct, not a plan. He’d never held control of the body

long enough to consider either circumstance.

He knew by her scent that she wasn’t the former, and by their

situation that she wasn’t the latter. He had no urge to rape her. He

was her protector, not her tormentor. One of the things Vincent

feared about his darker side would never come to pass.

When she emerged, he heard the rush and splatter of the water, and

his imagination ran amuck at the thought of her standing behind him,

naked and wet. But after a moment, he knew she was dressed. He

heard her voice over his shoulder as she came nearer the fire.

"Vincent, your leg. Your leg is bleeding. The back of your knee is

bleeding, Vincent.” She repeated it as if he were a simple child. If

there was one word with which he was wel acquainted, it was

“bleeding.”

“Something must be wrong,” she said. “That should have stopped by

now."

Was something wrong with the leg? He'd thought the wet sensation

just the water, even as he realized it wasn't. He couldn't see the

wound very wel , though he could feel its effects. The tepid soak in

the water had helped with his discomfort, but now he was sore again.

More sore than he should be.

"Wil you let me see?" she asked gently, half-afraid to touch him but

more afraid not to. She'd watched his walk as he'd begun to favor the

leg. It was more than a mere cut. Had he been hit by gunfire? Had

he walked with her al this way with a bullet in his leg? That sounded

wrong. There had been no entry wound, for a bullet.

He turned to take her in, fascinated by the sight of her wet form

wearing a man's shirt. The roundness of her breasts made a damp

pattern on the cloth as the tails skimmed her thighs. Her brow was a

line of worry. Clearly, she could see the injury better than he could.

He knew it hurt like hel when he rose from a sitting position, and felt

better when he kept it straight. He knew it shouldn’t stil be prone to

bleeding. Not like it was.

He stood, stil towel clad, and turned for her inspection. Standing

now only made it bleed more.

"Lie down. Wil you lie down for me, please?"

He'd walk across hot coals if she asked him to. "Lie down" seemed

like a simple enough request.

He stretched himself out along the stones near the fire. The towel

kept the modesty he no longer possessed intact. Her smal , cool,

fingertips against his calf muscle felt like a blessing.

She knew the minute she looked at it that as incongruous as it

sounded, she should have asked him to take his pants off, sooner.

The cut was a long, jagged rip through the skin at the back of his knee,

much of it right at the crease. His corduroy pants had been no match

for the shards that had torn them, nor the soft hair that encased his

legs. His leg hair was thinner at the knees and ankles. Even bloody,

she could see smal bits of white porcelain stil buried in the wound. It

was probably starting to fester. She marveled that he’d travel ed on it

this far, then remembered that this side of Vincent didn’t seem to feel

pain as much. He was bred for battle. Pain could get in the way of

that.

"Vincent you stil have shards of tile in the cut. It can't heal unless you

get them out." She wasn't sure how much he understood. But she

knew she wasn't wrong. If they kept up like this another day, he'd

start courting an infection, or come up lame. The skin around the

wound was a little warmer, already.

"Wil you let me…?" she let the sentence trail off and he felt the pinch

as she removed the larger of the two shards of tile stil embedded in

his leg.

The second one was deeper, and though smal er, it was a knife point

near his Achil es tendon. It was not a sharp pinch. It was a sear of

blinding pain and he knew she had to stop what she was doing. He

turned on her faster than she’d ever seen him move, and both snarled

and screamed in reaction.

His eyes were wild, and his fangs were bared. And she suddenly felt

far too close to those.

"Stop! Stop it!" She was frightened, and threw herself away from

him, her fingers stil red from his bloody leg. She dropped the second

shard from her hand and scooted back away from him across the

stones, bare legs scrambling.

Fear. There was fear in Her eyes. Real fear. She wasn’t just wary

about him, she was terrified.

He remembered that fear, remembered seeing it from her. He'd seen

it before now, seen it the day she’d thrown the old headlamp at his

head. And the memory of it stung as badly as the back of his knee

did, now.

He knew that look. Knew it too wel . He’d seen it in his victims, right

before the last, sometimes.

And now he saw it from her. Again. Again, like before. And for much

the same reason. She had glimpsed the fury of his savage self. Seen it

the way she’d seen it the first time she’d ever seen his face in the

metal of a makeshift mirror she'd been using to see her own

reflection.

She'd thrown the headlamp at him and he'd snarled his displeasure at

her then, too.

At least this time she had no weapon to heave his way, he realized.

There was rue in the understanding.

The first time, this had been about their mutual reflection. About

how his was just as misshapen as hers had become, and twice as

savage.

This time… he couldn’t begin to explain it to her.

Catherine kept herself moving backwards over the stones until she

simply fel , and had to look at up him, stil terrified.

This is not Vincent, and he is not some pet you can have, Catherine's

inner voice scolded her soundly as she scrambled in fear. He could

eviscerate you with a swipe of his claws.

She'd seen him do it, to others. It was now at least a little likely that

he was about to do it to her. She'd hurt him, and like any animal, he

was about to turn on her.

"No! Vincent, no!"

Fangs stil bared, Vincent fought the waves of pain as he fought her

sudden terror of him. Fool! Didn't she know? Didn't she understand?

Clip his hamstring and he would be utterly lame, unable to take her

the rest of the way, or any way at al !

What would she do if he was disabled, down here with her? She was

hopelessly lost and weaponless, and barely decent in a fight. She'd

never be able to hold off what had hunted her into that white place, if

it came at her again. She hadn't been able to hold it off the first time.

If he couldn’t move, she’d get lost down here and die. It was as

simple as that.

Stil , he saw her fear. That remembered fear, that horror at what he

was... and it struck him, bitterly, now, just as it had the first moment

she'd ever looked at him that way. He’d forgotten what this felt had

felt like. Until he could remember nothing else.

I never regretted what I was, until now. It was the Scholar who had

said it, but it was him who had thought it, that first time. He had

come out and snarled at her then, too. And then he'd thought it . I

never regretted what I was, until now. The words repeated in his

brain. They were stil true.

And he thought it now, as he realized what had just happened

between them. She was terrified of him. Again. He curled away from

her, mourning. He hadn't meant to frighten her. Only to insist that

she stop. Immediately.

Sorry. I'm so sorry. But his throat was stil closed and tight against

speech, and he didn't have the words. Didn't begin to have them,

with the throbbing ache of the leg wound thrumming up the back of

his thigh and the image of her terrified face, before him.

No. Just no. Remember Father's words?

He did. He had to. It was why the Teacher kept him locked away

from Her. Away from al the 'hers' in the world.

Away from everybody… unless they al wanted something kil ed.

Catherine took in his damp form, knees bent and body curled up,

even though the posture likely hurt his bleeding leg. He was weeping,

almost silently, and half naked on the stones. Weeping because he

had snapped at her, and because she had snapped back at him.

Weeping because she’d been terrified, in her ignorance.

I'm sorry. Every line in his body said it.

Tentatively, and with no smal amount of worry, she moved very

carefully back near to him.

Sorry. So sorry. He was curled in on himself, and the muffled sound

of chasm-deep sorrow reached her ears. He was the picture of abject

misery. He couldn’t help what he was, could never help what he was,

yet seemed destined to suffer for it. It was in every curve of his

contrite, self-abased form.

I’m so sorry. He might as wel be shouting it.

"No, I'm sorry," Catherine's voice barely came to him over the sound

of his own muffled sobs. "Vincent, I'm so sorry."

Her hand reached out to push back the heavy, damp fal of mane that

obscured his features. She was afraid, and felt that fear hovering

between them, as it had before, the first time he’d ever snarled his

displeasure at her.

Before, it was a different kind of hood that had covered his face, and

she'd pushed it back.

She realized she'd injured him this time, just as badly. And that this

creature, this part of Vincent, wore his emotions far more on the

outside than on the inside.

"Vincent, I'm so sorry,” she repeated. “Please forgive me." She

brought her hand down slowly and gently, letting it lay on the long

locks of hair that lay against his cheek a moment, before she tried to

push it back, some more.

He went stil at her touch, just as he'd done that first time.

The She was touching him. It must be al owed. It was what She

wil ed. She could beat him if She wanted to. Again.

Because lord knew, this felt like a beating.

He opened his damp eyes to her, and they were naked with sorrow.

He'd displeased her and he knew it. He'd displeased the woman in his

life, but not just the woman, the Goddess.

Something in how he beheld her, even in his brutishness, made her

understand. He thought her holy. A thing that must be protected at

the expense of al else.

If she'd been ashamed of her reaction to him the first time she’d

injured his sense of self, she was despairing of it, now. She'd

wounded him. Deeply. Again.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. At least I got it out?" she

ended the last as a question and tried to smile, weakly. He said

nothing. Of course.

"I don't know where you are, or even if you understand everything I'm

saying. But I'm sorry I hurt you, and I didn't mean to... to be afraid of

you, that way. You just... surprised me, that's al . Did it hurt? Does it

stil ?"

He couldn't explain what it felt like so he didn't try. Couldn't tel her

that yes, she'd removed the shard but had cut him a little deeper, as

she'd done so, both emotional y and physical y. Couldn’t tel her he

remembered that she’d bloodied him both the first time and this one.

It would have been no consequence back in the main tunnels. But

here, at least a day and a half's hard trek from where help would

come, it might be important.

He couldn't tel her that if things came to fighting again, that she

should just run, that he would hold her stalkers off as long as he

could, kil them if he could, and track her after. Couldn't tel her that

the saddest moment in his life had been the times she had feared

him, or despaired of him because of what he was.

The time with the headlamp stil stung, as did the time he'd sensed

fear crawling through her, when she'd been after Jason Walker, and

been afraid of him, by extension. And the time she’d had to tel him

to stop kil ing Micah, the leader of the Outsiders. No. Stop.

Nightmare visions had plagued her not just when she’d thought he

was the Subway Slasher, but again when Alexander Ross had drugged

her. And they plagued her stil , in a way.

His Warrior self loved her but despaired of them. When she looked at

him, at what he was, she always saw a monster, eventual y. No

matter what, it seemed he always ended up terrifying her, somehow,

if they waited long enough.

No wonder the Teacher-Poet in him refused to charm her into bed.

He couldn't say he blamed his Other Self. There was no sense

pretending he wasn't what he was. There was no sense pretending

that part of her wasn't terrified of him, and always had been, since

the start.

Vincent closed his eyes and straightened out his leg, aware that with

the shards gone, at least some sort of healing could now begin. If only

he could stay off it for a day or two. That would help. Vain hope.

He felt her applying a wet cloth to the wound, wiping away the worst

of the blood, then drying it with something.

"There's a rol of gauze in the chest, and some alcohol. I won't use the

last one if you don't want me to."

She kept her head down, in shame. Shame, from her? Why? He was

confused by the teardrops that clung to her lashes. He was a Beast,

and often a terrifying one. There was no sense pretending otherwise.

He didn’t blame her for her reaction. He simply mourned it.

He desperately wished his Other Self would simply come. Come and

deal with al of it.

She didn't understand that it wasn't just the surprise of pain that had

sent him to snarling at her. It was the proximity to his hamstring and

the danger that meant for her, that had done it. He’d had to get her

to stop. The only way he could.

But he couldn't explain, and now both of them were miserable. He

laid down, quiescent. When she brought over the bottle of alcohol,

he uncapped it for her, and handed it over, indicating she was to use

it.

He flinched when she poured it across the raw looking wound, but

didn't growl. She knew it had to sting, abominably.

Drying the area again, she told him to sit up, then bandaged the area

gently in gauze, wrapping it softly around and around his leg as she

spoke.

"You know, I'm a hideous nurse. I think I went into law because I

knew I'd be bad at this," she said, gently unwinding the rol . "Come to

think of it, I was pretty terrible at law school, too, there, for a while,"

she admitted, reaching for a smal pair of scissors. “Nancy said they

thought I’d get my degree in fashion law.”

Being upset seemed to make her want to talk, to obviate her

nervousness. Or perhaps that was just the adrenaline rush, finding a

way out.

"Hm. Bad at law. Bad at dating. You should have seen the winners I

dragged in the door before you. Oh, you did. Tom Gunther and

Stephen Bass. I'm not even sure if those were the worst ones. And

now look what I'm doing to you," she said, snipping the gauze

vertical y so that it tore into pieces she could tie. She kept her eyes

focused on her chore.

He was so worn down he forgot to be jealous at the mention of her

other lovers.

He listened to her speak and watched her soft fingers tie the gauze

firmly to his knee. Her head remained bent.

"I keep saying this but I’m so sorry, Vincent. It was my fault you were

hurt in the first place." He couldn't see her eyes for the soft fal of her

damp hair, which was drying in the cool tunnel air.

"There was a book Joe had,” she continued. “But the man who was

holding me seemed to want you more. I think I was … bait. Part of

me was terrified you would come to get me," she said. "And part of

me was terrified you wouldn't," she confessed, unable to lift her eyes

to meet him with this honesty.

He put his finger under her chin and lifted her gaze to his. There were

tears of regret in her jade eyes.

Don't. Don't cry. Not for me.

"What kind of love is this where every time I'm in trouble, I know that

as long as we have the bond, you'l come to rescue me? That you'l

risk yourself to do it? That I'l risk you to do it?"

It's the only kind we have.

"How could I do that to you?" Her eyes, so full of regret, met his.

I love you. It doesn't matter.

He wished he could say it, but knew he couldn't, even if he had the

gift of speech, which he stil lacked. So he tugged her forward a little,

and let her rest her forehead on his shoulder. His naked shoulder.

She wept a little at the irony of their intimate-seeming embrace, and

at the sorrow she was carrying. He calmed her by keeping a hand on

her back, and staying very stil , while she let the tension of the past

several days pour out of her.

He smel ed the bottom of the pan as it started to burn. They'd let the

water for tea boil away.

"Great, I'm just as much a success at helping in the kitchen as I am at

everything else," she lamented with a touch of gal ows humor,

blaming herself for the pan even though she hadn't been the one to

set it to boil.

She wiped her eyes on her shirt sleeve as he went to fetch the pan.

They both moved closer to the fire and continued preparing the meal

and rummaging through the trunk. It was something to keep them

occupied so they didn’t have to deal with al that lay between them.

Avoidance. In one form or other, Catherine knew it was important to

them, sometimes.

While he set out a sleeping bag and the thin blanket they'd been

using, she took his wrecked pants down to the basin for a scrubbing.

The bar of soap might not take them al the way clean, but it would

deal with the worst of it. He blessed her, silently, for her care.

He could feel the leg muscle getting stiff, as they ate. If they were

near the hot springs he could remedy that. As it was, there was only

so much he could do. The water here was tepid. It would make the

abused muscle clench more, not open. He kept their thin blanket

over the leg, as they ate. Sleep would help with the healing. It was

the best he could do.

With a metal wire and two poles, someone had set up a crude drying

line in the room, for clothes when needed, or for the cookware, when

it wasn't. It was smal , like the rest of the space, but it would serve to

help dry their things.

The chest held two pair of ragged men’s jeans they both could wear, a

smal one that was too long for her, and a larger pair that was too

short for him, but the waist fit, and he blessed the comfort of being in

clean clothes.

She already had the smal er shirt. That left him nothing but the larger

one, a dark blue thermal which he kept to the side until his body hair

dried, something Catherine realized would take a while to do.

He sat near the fire, tugging at his damp chest hair, spreading it wide

between his clawed fingers, some, letting the warmer air near the fire

dry it.

Catherine realized that this was likely something he did only in

private, that it was one of his differences, and one he never spoke of.

It took him longer to dry himself, after a bath. Especial y in the cool

tunnel air. She’d never realized. She’d never even thought it about it

before. She thought about it now, and what that meant for him.

In the cooler air, things dried slower, and his body hair would be no

exception. Unable to change into dry clothes when he was damp,

he’d have to take a much longer time to bathe and dress.

His body hair was thick in places, and silky almost everywhere, and

where it grew long, like on his head, it would make things that much

worse. Not to mention that she now knew just how far it extended

down his back, underneath his shirt. No wonder he often came to her

balcony so late, yet clean. He’d taken time to bathe for her, especial y

after a long day of manual labor in the tunnels.

In a relationship that sometimes counted itself in minutes, she hadn’t

understood, fully, the reason why he often came to her balcony quite

so late in the evening. Even the first night he’d come to her balcony,

it had been late. She’d come in from having spent the evening with

Tom. And he’d come over the wal , bearing Great Expectations. It

had been far from early.

What are the things you have to do because you’re you, that I’m not

even aware of? She wondered. And… how could she help him now?

The thin towel was beyond damp, and no aid to making him either

more dry or more comfortable. But as it turned out, his warmer body

temperature was drying what tunnel air wasn’t much help with. He

shouldered into the shirt, at last.

There was a pocket comb in the cache, and Catherine silently thanked

whoever had left it there. It was smal , but it would do. She used it

on herself as he dried. She was about to simply hand it to him when

she changed her mind.

"Vincent? Would you like it if I ... Would you let me...” She cursed

herself for her stammering reticence. “Would it be alright if I helped

you comb your hair?"

Helped him? He wasn't sure what she meant by that. People did not

general y "help him." His other self, yes. But him? Yet, it sounded

wonderful. He processed her request slowly, and then nodded,

inclining his head in her direction.

He'd finger combed through some of it, but it was stil snarled, and in

some spots, matted. Catherine was undaunted. She and Jenny

Aaronson had been playing with each other's hair since they were

teenagers. Jenny's hair was thick, like Vincent's, and with a very

stubborn curl. Catherine knew what to do.

She set a bowl of water nearby for those places that needed re-

wetting so she could pick the tangles out, and she set about repairing

the golden mess before her.

She realized how thick the hair was at the back of his neck, how his

"mane" must be fuller there than it was elsewhere, as it arrowed

down his spine. He had a large snarl at the nape, one he was likely

accustomed to dealing with on his own.

"Everything is so hard for you sometimes, isn't it?” she asked, as she

picked out the knot. “And none of us know.” It was yielding to her

gentle fingers. “And you never complain," she tacked on.

Yes. It was a silent assent, as he dropped his head lower.

"I wish you'd tel me. I wish I understood why you can't, now."

So did he, but there was no way he could say it.

The She was touching him, had been touching him for several long

minutes. He was tired, and sore, and more muscles than just the leg

ached. He stil wanted a long soak in the hot springs, not the shal ow

dip in the tepid basin. And he wanted a long night in his own soft bed,

not the stone floor he was about to have.

But he wouldn't have traded the satisfaction of any of his wants for

the sensation of her running a comb through his tangled hair. She

was careful y combing it to silk. Wild silk.

"You know, if you tied this back in a ponytail, it wouldn't get so bad,

near your neck." The look in his eyes told her just what he thought of

that suggestion.

"No, huh?” She actual y smiled at his refusal. He adored the look of

gentle humor on her face. It was the first time he’d seen it.

“Al right then. But when we have to do this again tomorrow, don't

say I didn't warn you." She studiously returned to her task, and he felt

his shoulders begin to relax. She liked what she was doing. So did he.

When she was done, they ate in a companionable silence and he

eventual y shouldered into his vest while she put on the sweater

again. Before too much longer, it was time to bed down for the night.

He gave her the sleeping bag and took the thin blanket. A couple

more nights on the hard ground wasn't going to make him feel either

much better or much worse, and he knew they both needed the

sleep. He was suddenly exhausted. More even than she was.

"No you don't," she said, unzipping the sleeping bag completely so it

could open as wide as it could get. Army surplus. She spread its

camouflage pattern out on the ground.

"I am not sleeping in the comfortable bed, while you get the lumpy

couch in the den," she said. He had no idea what that meant, exactly,

but she did.

She was wearing her borrowed sweater overtop of the now-dry shirt,

and the slightly baggy jeans with the legs cuffed, twice.

"Bring the blanket over. We'l both lay on the sleeping bag, and share

the blanket," she offered, smoothing the space beside her. Part of her

wasn't sure this was a good idea. The other part of her told that part

of her to shut up. She'd already hurt him once, today. She wondered

if "her Vincent" would remember any of this, when he “woke up.”

As she rol ed so that her back was turned to him, she felt his weight

settle beside her. She heard his heartfelt groan of contentment at

being al owed to lay on the bag. It was an animal's grunting sigh. And

so… so "un-Vincent-like" a sound, she wondered also if she would

ever see her Vincent again.

With hands clasped in a prayerful pose, cradling her cheek, she drifted

off to sleep, the worry of that keen in her mind.

Chapter 4

Bondless

It wasn't until she cut her hand making breakfast that she realized

he'd lost his bond to her, and that it hadn’t been restored.

It was a simple accident, and nothing too dramatic. He was apart

from her, a little, fil ing the water bottles from a spot in the stream

near where it went over the rocks. He caught the flow as she opened

a can of sardines, getting ready to serve it with what was left of the

saltine crackers.

The metal ring tab broke off in her hand as the lid came part way

open. She'd tried to force it open the rest of the way, and...

Gasp.

She saw the slicing ribbon of red bisect her palm before she felt the

sting, but when it came, it came with a sharp (and too late) warning

that she'd done something stupid.

Damn it, Catherine thought. I can't even open a can. No wonder he's

worried about --

But as she looked up, she realized he wasn't worried about her. Not

at that moment.

She stared, half-expecting to see him bounding the short distance to

her side, asking with a gesture to see the cut.

But he wasn’t. He just wasn’t.

She was so stunned to see him stil crouched near the river's flow, his

back to her, fil ing another water bottle, she forgot to feel the pain in

her hand, for a moment.

Pain. She was in pain, and he hadn't moved an inch.

She looked at the deep cut, knowing it was just a cut, but also

knowing that it stung like the devil, and she looked back up at her

love.

The bond is gone.

It was the first moment she’d realized it.

Now she remembered how they'd slept the first night, with his hand

clamped around her wrist, how he constantly had seemed to need to

check back for her, visual y, as they'd travel ed, especial y yesterday,

when she hadn't talked much.

"Oh, no." Even though she'd said it out loud, he hadn't heard her.

She'd said it under her breath, and the flow of the water was loudest

near where he stil stooped, capping the last bottle.

"Vincent?" She said it louder, and this time he did raise his head.

Either the look on her face or the smel of fresh blood or the ribbon of

red that was now dripping from her closed palm to the stones, alerted

him. Or it was al three.

He was to her before she could even think of another word, his palm

open, demanding to see her wound.

"I... cut it on the can. Stupid. I... Vincent, you can't feel me, can you?"

Her mind scrambled and she realized that as hard as she searched,

she also couldn't find or feel that faint trace of the incredibly thin,

tensile line that had always run between them. For Catherine, the

bond had always been an incredible, though distant thing. A thing

she’d only felt a few times, in al their years together. When he was

desperate, she felt the brush of it. Sometimes.

He'd had a much stronger sense of it, always. She realized as he

studied her palm that she couldn't “sense” him any better than he

could sense her. See him, yes. "Feel" him, no.

And apparently he couldn't feel her, either.

Was it because he was not himself, right now? But... how much sense

did that make? This creature before her seemed to be the more

intuitive one, the one who often found her when she was in trouble.

How could he not have the bond?

No wonder he'd overreacted when she'd made bids for privacy. He

wasn't trying to chain her. He was trying to protect her. He could no

longer feel what she was feeling, could no longer locate her if she got

lost, or hurt.

He busied himself with tending her hand, unable to look up to answer

her question. She'd cut herself. It was long, but not deep. He doused

it with some of the alcohol and wrapped it in what was left of the

gauze.

"Vincent?" she asked him. He met her emerald eyes.

The She was both confused and coming to understanding about how

the link between them that was gone. Good. She had to understand

how vulnerable she was now. Now that he didn't have it.

"Can you sense our bond? At al ?" She searched his eyes and he

dropped them and shook his head, reluctantly, for an answer.

The answer rocked her, and she stepped back, a moment. Put the

fingers of her good hand through her now clean hair, hair he'd spent

with his nose as close to as he dared, last night.

"My God... I guess... I guess I just thought it would always be here.

Always be... part of us." Her mind wrestled with her questions, again.

Was that why he remained Beast-like? Catherine wondered . Was

that part of why he couldn't speak? Did it have something to do with

the loss of their bond?

She didn't know. But that answer made little sense. If anything, the

mysterious bond between them was at its most heightened when he

was like this. He was his more primal self when he had to make his

way to her, had to find her, had to save her. Had to fight.

Now he seemed al but trapped this way, and there was no longer a

bond between them.

But… Catherine knew she hadn’t tried to withhold the bond from him

since the moment she’d woken up with him on the stone floor of the

cavern.

Before that… withholding their bond was a conscious choice. One

she’d made when Paracelsus had held her, once, and then … Gabriel.

"Did they... inject you with something? While you fought?" her mind

was scrambling for a solution.

He shook his head, watching her struggle, hating that she was doing

that.

"Did you even... did you even have the bond when you found me?"

Her green eyes grew huge, with amazement. Now the odd length of

time she'd been held made more sense. Even in her drugged state

she could tel that time had passed. Two days? Three? Five? She

wasn't sure. She thought she’d… slipped somehow. That she’d

dreamed of him or that Gabriel’s manipulation of her had been

successful in bringing Vincent to her. He must have used the bond to

rescue her. How else could he have found her?

He kept his head lowered, and shook it in the negative, again.

"Dear Lord, how did you ever find me in that place, without the

bond?" She was amazed and stil frightened at the same time.

He couldn't answer for an answer. Couldn't explain that he'd cleared

his mind of every other sensation, of food, of sleep, of want, of need

or comfort, but for the thought of her. That he'd inhaled the chemical

soaked rag until he'd found information from it, even though the

chloroform had made his empty stomach pitch. That it had left him

feeling sick, and temporarily dulled his senses.

So much of that required words. Words he didn’t have. His throat

was stil impossibly tight. His narrow tongue wouldn’t work, that way.

He simply shrugged and gave her a steady look. A hard, steady look.

In his shining eyes, she saw him. Him. Not the Vincent who brought

her poetry or the one who taught children, or even the one who

sometimes beat Father at chess. That Vincent was there, yes. But

this one was cannier, more cunning, and that quality showed.

The apex predator stared back at her. The effective taker of lives.

The Vincent she'd always used and sometimes forgiven but never

loved. His blue gaze held a ghostly kind of steel and she saw the

determination in it, and the fire. The wil to slay enemies. Her

enemies first, and his, second.

She saw the drive that had pushed him non-stop to her side, the

galvanizing force that had helped him slaughter armed men to reach

the room where they'd held her. Wil . A hard wil , and an unrelenting

one. It shone in eyes that were diamond hard.

That was how he had found her. That was why she was safe, now.

That was why she was standing barefoot in borrowed clothes with a

cut on her hand and a healing bruise on her arm rather than strapped

to a table while they pumped drugs into her with a needle and a

madman stood over her, gloating.

"Vincent." Al she could do was whisper his name.

"I... I didn't know." It was a weak reply. A horrible and weak reply

and it covered so much. She hadn't known. Hadn't known (or

perhaps just been unable to face) the depth of his skil as an almost

perfect hunting machine. The depth of his love for her. The fact that

bond or no bond, that love tied him to her, and meant he would

always be by her side, no matter what. He loved her. He would slay

half of New York for her, if she asked him to. Or if he thought it was

necessary, to keep her safe.

He was dangerous in his capabilities. Because he loved her.

He dropped his gaze and looked off to the side, letting his intensity

cool, drawing the stalking beast in him back in, a bit. There was no

need to hunt, not now. The She was here, and She was safe. And She

was uncomfortable when She had to face that part of him. They both

knew it. His Other Self knew it, too.

He knew they had another long walk ahead of them, today. It would

not do to make her afraid of him. He just wanted to make her aware.

Aware of what he was, and what lengths he would, and could - go to

for her.

They ate the fish in near silence and he finished putting away the

things they'd leave behind. He kept the soap with them. They might

want to wash up, their hands at least, on the road. The cookware he

returned. Having no wood, it would do them little good. He didn't

want to carry too much. It would only slow them down.

He tucked the remaining alcohol next to the water bottles and a rag

they'd used as a dish towel. There was some unexpired aspirin in the

smal medical kit, useless for him, but perhaps good for her. He

offered her the aspirin bottle for the sting in her hand. She shook her

head.

"No. Save them for if we real y need them," she told him, aware that

their survival depended on being able to make it from way station to

way station, that they had passed no manhole covers or manmade

tunnels yet.

It stil disconcerted her to know that she was deep inside the bowels

of the earth with only a vague sense of the direction and an

uncommunicative Vincent to guide her. The little stream was no

guide. Like most of the water down here, it came up through the

rocks then went back down, as it would.

He repacked his backpack, this time taking the blanket and the

sleeping bag rol ed together. Whatever else had passed between

them, he was grateful that she'd al owed him to sleep near, and on

the thicker padding of the bag. It helped with the stiffness of his

muscles. Even his knee felt better, this morning.

"Is it bad?" she asked, trying to see the back of his leg. So far, she saw

no tel tale spots of blood through the soft denim he now wore. He

shook his head. That might change as he walked on it, but there was

no help for it. He had made strips out of the towel and dried them,

last night. They could use that for bandaging to keep him on his feet,

if they needed to.

There was a thick pair of socks at the bottom of the chest. He gave it

to her, wishing it was a pair of shoes, or even moccasins, instead. It

would help, at least. Give her some cushion for her feet inside the

ridiculously thin slippers she'd been wearing, which were now

showing holes.

She sat on the stones and gratefully accepted the socks, aware that

they were dividing what little they could scrounge between them. He

shouldered into his vest and handed her the light bedrol as he

adjusted the heavier pack over his shoulder. They had plenty of water

and a can of sardines left to split for lunch. She decided that when

the time came, she'd let him open it.

"Please let us get closer to civilization," she murmured, accepting his

offered hand. She had no idea if he agreed with her prayer or not.

--

Trains. The rumbling vibration of those. Stil distant, but more often,

now, and one even close enough to almost hear as the vibration built

and dropped, through her thin-soled feet. The sound that was barely

there cheered Catherine. "We're getting close to the North edge of

the rail line, aren't we? I think I can hear a train."

He nodded his head as he accepted as smal a portion of their shared

meal as he dared. She should have saved the other can so they could

each have one, rather than opening it for breakfast, but he hadn't the

heart to chide her (to growl at her?) for her wastefulness. It was al

right. If the meals they’d taken in hadn’t been generous, they’d been

steady.

Evening would see them at a far more comfortable campsite, one

better supplied, thanks to its proximity to his people. They would

have a decent dinner and pass the night with a good fire and a

generous amount of food, one their stomachs would probably rebel

at, considering how much those had shrunk.

"I guess I should have heated the last can of soup for breakfast and

saved the sardines," she realized as they ate. They'd had fire near the

basin, and at least enough wood left for that. They'd finished off the

last of the tea for breakfast.

He nodded at her realization of her error.

"Vincent, you should have told me... Growled at me, or something."

But of course he couldn't. For one thing, he'd been taking care of

making sure they'd had water while she was indulging her appetite.

For another... She watched him drop his head, and shake it. He did

not want to growl at her, again. For any reason, not after yesterday.

And he couldn't speak.

"Can you understand me? Everything I say?"

He shook his head “no,” but how to tel her differently? That it was

better now, now that they'd been travel ing for days, that he could

pick up on the nuances in her voice, that he understood much of what

she said, though not everything, that he too, was changing, thanks to

being trapped this way for so long?

How to tel her that he was stil more than half wild, had been

fol owing his nose since they'd left the last campsite, that the idea of

being near other people repel ed him utterly, that thanks to having to

deal with her for the stretch of time he had, he was different than the

being she usual y met, the one who was savage with bloodlust and

pumped full of adrenaline?

"Do you understand most of it?" she asked.

He nodded an affirmative. Barely.

She knew even at his wildest, he often understood her words. Simple

commands..."No," or "Stop," or "I'm here.” Uncomplicated

commands, or instructions meant to garner an immediate result. But

before, those simple instructions seemed to be held inside his wild

eyes. In the moment before he came back to her, in the moment

before he became "her Vincent" again.

"Vincent, do you know why you can't come back to yourself?" she

asked. He both shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as if to

indicate that to him, the answer either didn't matter or he didn't care.

"I miss you, you know," she said it gently, but the look he gave her let

her know he was insulted.

How could she miss him? Was he not right here? His look told her as

much.

"I'm sorry, again." She regretted her faux pas the minute he stood

from his meager meal and stepped away from her. "You've done

nothing but save my life and I think al I've done is insult you." She

rose and tried to step closer but he clearly didn't want her to do that.

"Not just today. Al the other ones, as wel ," she realized. "You're not

two different people. But this part of you. This... wild part of you.

This is the part that saved my life that first time, isn't it? Is this the

part of you that first found me, in the park?"

Yes. Yes it had been. Though there had been no fight, he'd smel ed

the blood. Subconsciously he immediately had accessed his more

primal self, to track her. There had been a deep mist, that night. The

damp air made tracking more difficult, and fog made it impossible to

see. He'd heard the van but not seen exactly where she’d rol ed,

down the hil . She'd not been the easiest thing to find, in the tal

damp grass near the road. A road he’d dared not stay near. He’d had

to locate her quickly.

He nodded, but kept his head low, and simply stalked away from her,

impatiently. He clearly wanted some distance, some space. She let

him go, even to the point where he was out of sight around a corner,

and she returned to where they'd settled on a pair of boulders and sat

down.

What a mess I’ve made of things. Was stil making of things.

Sometimes, in her secret longings, she'd wished for the bond to be

gone. It was inconvenient, and intrusive at times, and when she was

feeling bitchy or put out, it felt like he could invade her privacy any

time he wished.

She'd schooled her brain to remain calm, for the most part, to deflect

petty feelings like hate, or envy. She knew he would feel them if she

did, and she knew they were unworthy things, to send him.

And sex wasn't even a subject on the table, between them. A thing

she was both grateful for and in a quandary over. She'd never felt

very much, with her previous partners. And he seemed determined

to keep her near him with a very chaste, very courtly kind of love,

keeping whatever he felt on a very tight rein.

She'd pushed aside intimate thought, in the night, realizing that such

musings would be felt by him as wel . She loved him. But she felt

spied on by him, to some degree, though she couldn't say it to him.

What would the point have been? He couldn't turn off the bond, not

completely.

Except it looked like something had.

Now she wondered if she'd ever feel that sweet, comforting, constant

presence thrumming just under her own awareness, again.

She looked down the path he’d disappeared to. She'd upset him. She

didn't need the bond to understand that.

Cleaning up their mess she shouldered her lighter share of their gear

and went off in search of him, in the general direction he had taken.

--

She found him some fifteen minutes later, farther down the trail,

perched on top of rock in a large, open chamber that had maybe been

water-cut a mil ennia ago, but was dry, now. He looked like a sphinx,

he was so inscrutable. She set down their belongings. The barest

flicker of an eyelash acknowledged her presence. He’d clearly wanted

to be left alone.

She knew better than to accuse him of sulking. But wondered if he

wasn’t doing just that.

"I used to wish the bond was gone, sometimes," she confessed,

gamely. "I know that sounds horrible, but I used to wish it. We even

argued about it one time, when Stephen came back into my life.

Remember?”

He did. He remembered Stephen Bass. He remembered gutting him,

or at least he remembered the instinct to, before she'd stopped him.

Stephen Bass had touched her. He'd even made love to her, back

when they were both young. If there was ever a man Vincent had

longed to kil , it was that one. Bringing up his name was not a good

idea. Not when Vincent was in this mood. The harsh expression

didn’t change.

"You told me to be careful, but you couldn't tel me why. I asked 'how

could you say that, give me so little, then expect me to go back up

into my world and live with it?'" Her face was drawn, with memory.

His was tight with it. "I wanted the bond gone, then. Other times,

too, sometimes," she confessed

Yes. Yes he knew those other times. Knew the feel of El iot Burch's

kiss, in her mind, more than once. Tom Gunther had kissed her

goodnight and wanted more, one night, his mouth trying to ignite a

fire over hers.

She hadn't known about the bond, then, but he had. Some... some

other man, some date she had when they were new with each other,

had kissed her cheek almost perfunctorily. He'd tried for more, but

she'd brushed him away. No chemistry, the impression had come to

his very impressionable mind.

And then there was Michael. Michael's betrayal of a kiss had stung

Vincent's primitive mind most of al , had roused his primal self almost

immediately.

That had been a day. He'd wanted to run, and exact no smal bit of

vengeance for the transgression. His Teacher self had kept reigning

him in, kept tel ing him "no," had to keep holding him down, while he,

the inner Vincent, had wanted to come roaring out and go get a

pound of flesh.

He and Catherine had nearly fought with each other that day, in a way

they'd hardly struggled, since.

He'd resented al of them, al the men who'd touched her that way,

that way he never would. He'd even resented her a little, at first, for

letting them touch her. This was not Vincent’s ‘reasonable’ side, and

he had no wil for such niceties. His thinking was far more direct.

Where were they when her life was in the balance? Where was El iot

Burch when she was fighting for her life, other than responsible for

her danger, often? Where was the man who built the skyscrapers he,

Vincent scaled, or the bril iant young student Michael, or the insipid

Mr. Bass, or the no-chemistry Greg when a lunatic held a knife to her

eye, or a man with a gun threatened? Where were al of them, then?

Gone. They were al gone. And then there was only him, fit for the

kil . She'd be dead without him, even though it was the others she'd

loved, or the others who'd got to touch her. It was so damn unfair.

"I used to think it was the most amazing thing that you knew what I

was feeling.” Her soft voice continued overtop of his inner

resentment. “And even when I thought it was a little invasive, I

couldn't get over the miracle of it." She climbed up and sat beside

him. He let her come. She was She.

"It took me a while to come to the strange conclusion that we were

meant to be, but I guess I thought the bond was trying to point me in

that direction, and I was just being stubborn." He let Her talk. She

knew he couldn't answer.

"It felt so right. Even when it was hard, that felt like the right choice.

I told you it was worth everything, that night I came back from

Nancy's. But you never told me what you thought, then. Not real y."

She shook her head. "Maybe now you never wil ." Her demeanor

grew quiet, grew sad.

"Are we stil us, without the bond?" she asked. He had no answer for

her and no idea what the question was. It was far too philosophical a

one for his instinctive mind, the mind that operated better with verbs

like "Go," or "get" or "climb" or "jump." Or “stop.”

He pushed himself away from the rock and shouldered the pack she'd

hefted down the corridor. Whatever her question was, the answer

didn't matter, not to him. She was the She. She was stil that, and he

would stil die for her, bond or no. It was most of what he knew. And

al he felt he needed to.

She fol owed him out of the cavern, quietly. Please let this be over,

soon, she prayed, silently.

Catherine realized how much she missed her wristwatch down here,

how much even the glow of candlelight told her what a flashlight or a

lantern wouldn't. How much time had passed?

They'd walked a long time, and not stopped again. She knew that if

past experience was any help, that the next cache would be by water,

since the previous one had been, and that made some sense. It was

easier to fil empty water bottles in a place that already had a supply

of fresh water nearby than it was to lug the heavy bottles al that way,

yourself.

She wondered who had the job of re-suppling the caches, and how

many there were. Then she dismissed the thought as her big toe

stubbed itself over a large stone, not the first time that had

happened, today.

"Ow! Damn it! How long have we been walking?" she demanded,

leaning against the wal while she nursed the sore toe. He turned,

several yards in front of her, and simply waited. To say “they hadn't

said much to each other” since they'd left the cavern was ridiculous,

considering he didn't talk, but even then, she could feel silence

coming off him in waves at her.

They Were Not Speaking. Because He Was Annoyed With Her. It was

just that simple.

And he had no answer for her question, which irritated her even

more.

"This is just like you, you know. You always do this," she accused,

rubbing her foot a little before setting it down. "You always shut me

out when you're mad. Or... whatever. Maybe I just get tired of going

through the hoops, Vincent."

Vincent eyed her with an interested gaze which ful y informed her he

thought she was crazy. "He" had never done anything with her. Aside

from save her life. And have to put up with her for days now, in the

tunnels. That should have been The Other's job. Not his. But he was

stuck with it.

"You close up and you go off just like you did back there. You go past

where anybody can reach, and you pout, or sulk, or think or whatever

it is you do. And you're back for days before you ever come to the

balcony, and I always end up feeling like...” she caught her tongue and

let the ache in her foot subside. She was yel ing at Vincent. For being

annoyed with her. Problem was she was bringing up past history with

his other self, and as far as she knew, he had no knowledge of it.

Certainly no responsibility for it.

"Oh, hel , never mind," she said, vastly frustrated. "I've just been

bumping my toe al day and it feels like we've been walking forever

and I'm starting to think we're never going to get there and now

you're angry with me. Seems no matter which one of you is here I

manage to annoy you."

He couldn't catch al of the words but he caught her meaning, clearly

enough. Sometimes, he realized that was likely true. She did annoy

him. Both sides of him.

The one leading her through the tunnels remembered a day when

he'd wanted to throttle her for coming down to those same tunnels to

try and arm Jacob with a gun, when there were half a dozen armed

maniacs on the loose. It had been a bloodbath that day. His Other

self had sent her away, when al he wanted was to sleep at her feet.

Try that for never getting what you wanted. Annoyed? No. He was

furious. Annoyance was a delicate thing, an "Other" thing. He'd been

wanting to snarl his displeasure with her since the cavern. Before,

truth be known.

"You and Jacob. The studied art of avoidance." She set her foot down

and tested its weight. "I swear there are times when I think you two

are cut from the same cloth, that one day you'l both just..."

His roar split the tunnel and stopped her mid-diatribe. He might not

have language, but that didn’t mean he had no communication skil s.

He'd put up with her al he was about to. He'd been hefting a heavier

pack most of the afternoon thanks to her tender feet and he'd be

damned if he'd continue to do it just to feed her lousy disposition.

Tossing it down beside her he strode off in the general direction

they'd been going in, temporarily not giving a damn if she picked up

the gear and came after him or not.

Three hundred or so yards down the tunnel, he stopped and leaned

against the wal , panting his disgust. Women. No wonder his other

self was so tied in knots. They were difficult and they whined.

Expected too much and spoke too much and understood too little. He

was keeping the two of them alive. It was what he'd been born to do.

She was alive, wasn't she? How much more was he expected to do?

He was tired, and not physical y. He wanted to sleep. For a long time.

He was not used to being "awake" this long. He had no idea how his

other self did it. It was exhausting.

He waited for her to catch up. After a while, he realized she wasn't

coming, and went back for her.

She was sitting where he'd left her, the pack at her feet. Silent tears

were streaking down her face. He'd not heard her sobbing.

This strange, silent kind of crying had the power to frighten him.

"I thought I was dead." She didn't even look up as she said it. "I

thought ‘this time, this was it.’” Her stormy green eyes held an

almost impenetrably hopeless kind of memory.

“It was John Moreno, my boss. And no way was he going to let me

live, after I'd seen his face. It was so fast and the rag was over my

face and I knew you couldn't get there in time, and I thought "Wel ,

this is it. The job final y got you kil ed, Cathy." She shook her head.

“I didn't even have time to fight. To scream. The elevator doors

opened, and...” Her green eyes held her pain. The pain of one who

knows she’s just been betrayed. “They just... grabbed me, and it al

went so black..." He had no idea why she was rehashing her

abduction. Except that part of him did.

"Then I woke up at Gabriel's and I found out that there were worse

things than being dead.” Her tone was frighteningly bleak. “He knew

about you. Kept playing a video tape of you in a rage. Over, and over.

He was so fascinated, so... evil. He pumped me ful of drugs and

asked me questions. I think I was supposed to tel him how to find

you, how to find your world." She shook her head.

"I don't know why I didn't tel him. I just kept... I don't know.

Screaming, inside, but not to you. I wanted you to come and get me

and I wanted you to stay away, and be safe, and I couldn't want both.

I…” She hesitated, both trying to remember and trying not to.

“Then I'd just... black out, and when I woke up it would start al over

again."

She wiped her cheek with the heel of her palm, like a smal child. She

picked up the pack and shouldered it, which made him feel like a heel,

himself. When she walked by him he felt the extreme distance of her.

It was the first time he ever realized that he missed the bond as much

as she did.

--

Chapter 5

Still US

He let her walk ahead, knowing they weren't far from where they'd

stop for the night. She couldn't get lost, not here. They’d cleared the

labyrinth. There was only one way to go, either down the passageway

or back the way they'd come. Catherine stayed quiet, on the path, as

did he. They made good time, once he’d gently tugged the heavier

pack off of her shoulders. She’d let him. It was al right.

The path became much less rock strewn, and far more toward sand

and soft pebbles. Easy walking. They’d reach rest, soon, and he knew

it was a welcome one. He blessed the opening in the wal , once it

came into view.

She preceded him into the large space, a decent sized warm spring,

before them. It was full of minerals, and not good for drinking, but

the water was much warmer than the tepid basin of yesterday, and

the big steamer trunk held bottled water for them, aside from what

they'd carried.

The smel of magnesium and salt hung in the air, with a faint tinge of

sulfur. The smel was not pleasant, but it was not overpowering. And

the temperature was divine.

"God. I am going to soak my feet for the next ten hours. Cal me

when they're prunes," she instructed, peeling out of her slippers and

socks. The former now sported multiple holes. The latter was looking

dodgy, on her left big toe.

She cuffed her borrowed jeans and he watched her dangle her legs off

the stone ledge and into the water. It was an oblong basin, not so

much bigger than a good sized hot tub. But it was deep enough to

submerge in easily, and there were bench seats carved in the stone at

the wal s, thanks to Kanin Evans.

He dropped his vest and took off his boots while she sat. This time,

when he dropped his pants, she just looked away, a little. He

unwound the bandage on his knee. The injury had been ignorable

when they'd started out that morning, but had been making itself

known, for the past hour. He inspected it as best he could. The gash

was healing, but jagged, and it held a touch of fever. The salt in the

water would do him good, though it would sting.

There were no steps in. It was very much a hole in the ground, one

that had been rocked off, some, around part of the edge. Vincent sat

and let his legs dangle, then simply slid in, submerging himself, and to

get the water up over the back of his knee. It felt heavenly, even as it

did indeed sting, a little. He felt the location of every cut and bruise,

for a moment, and then… bliss. The temperature felt marvelous, as

the murky water seemed to cure al il s.

"Hmmmmmmm" it was a sound between a purr and a soft growl, as

he settled himself down on a low bench seat opposite of where she

stil sat on the rim. He checked her position then simply closed his

eyes, keeping his stil bandaged arm clear of the water. He spread his

arms out, bracing them on the edge as he simply leaned back his head

and relaxed.

She was staring, a little. That was alright. Let her. Everything she saw

belonged to her, anyway.

Catherine soaked her feet a while, then made her way over to the big

steamer chest, curious as to its contents.

The Spartan provisions of the other caches were minimalist,

compared to this one. Tins of beef, and more sardines. Tins of

crackers and sea biscuits. Cooking supplies, and a few dishes and

cutlery. Peanut butter in one jar, grape jel y in another. A can of

peaches. A jar of applesauce. A box of oatmeal. A box of salt. A jar of

honey. A decent medical kit with fresh gauze and disinfectant.

Several candles. More oil and another lantern. A smal bag of

toiletries and a change of clothing for him. This area was clearly used

for pleasure hiking, not just the usual kind. Some extra clothing lined

the bottom. There was a pair of books tucked into one corner, near

another army surplus sleeping bag. There was even a smal pil ow.

"People come here to camp, don't they? To soak in the mineral bath

and stay overnight?" She asked almost rhetorical y as she sorted

through the foodstuffs and began to prepare something for them to

eat.

Mindful of her accident with the sardine can, she judiciously opened

the tins of beef and set them in a pan to warm over some sterno. She

seemed to require no answer to her question, and was just babbling

to hear herself speak out loud. Vincent approved. He liked to listen

to the sound of her voice.

"I wonder if Kanin ever brought Olivia here. Remember their

anniversary chamber?" Her runaway non-conversation made her

cheeks pink, once she considered her words. "I guess you do. Or

maybe you don't. I don't know, anymore."

He caught the change in her expression before she turned her head to

dig something else out of the chest. He didn’t need the bond to hear

her breathing catch. Awareness. Something almost... sexual in the

change in her awareness. He replayed her words, mental y. Kanin

and Olivia. Their Anniversary Chamber.

Kanin Evans had made a trysting place, for him and his mate. Vincent

didn't remember the particulars, at the moment, but he understood

the impression. Trysting place. The place a male offered a female. A

place of beauty or safety or both. A place of privacy. A feathered

nest.

He unwrapped the bandage on his arm, and checked the progress of

the healing. The scabbed skin looked like it was healing, and like he

could soak it in the mineral bath. He’d likely carry a scar from it,

though the hair on his arm would cover it, more than likely.

He lowered the arm and stretched out in the water some more,

watching her move around in the loose-fitting men's jeans and the

borrowed clothes. It was warm in here, thanks to the temperature of

the mineral springs. After a few moments, she tugged the bulky

sweater up over her head and cuffed the sleeves on the man's shirt

she wore underneath. Whatever their fight earlier had been about,

she seemed done with it, and not the kind to bear a grudge.

The beef began to simmer and the smel of it drew his nose like a lure.

She stirred it a little and set out the crackers. He watched her from

his position in the water.

"Some of Wil iam's bread would go wonderful with this," Catherine

commented, spooning it onto plates where it could cool. She opened

the jar of applesauce.

Vincent felt a low growl at the name "Wil iam." Wil iam was an

unattached male. He didn't like it when she flattered those, even if

they were portly and too old for her. He discarded the instinct to

complain. Wil iam was not here. And if he was, Vincent would show

him which one of them was dominant. It had been a difficult day, and

Vincent knew al his emotions were bubbling near the surface.

Perhaps too near.

He watched her setting out the food for them, content to be

observing her, silently.

Her hands. She had beautiful hands. They were always a part of her

he’d loved, and he enjoyed watching them now as they set out bottles

of water. She kept her nails short and manicured, and though a

couple of the nails on her right hand would definitely need fixing, the

sheen of clear polish stil softly glimmered on most of her fingers.

Fingers that were elegantly tapered. He liked her hands. He always

had. It was as simple as that.

He stirred lazily from the mineral bath, aware that it was time to eat.

She gave him her back, purposely, while he dried off with a towel and

slid into a pair of old sweatpants that felt like heaven. The ragged

cuffs gripped his calf muscles, since they were too short, but the soft

fabric felt like a godsend. It was absorbent enough to take on the

dampness of his thighs. He left his chest bare, so the hair there could

dry.

"I may be getting better at this," she said, testing a piece of warm

beef. It was not bad. She added some salt to her plate and offered

some to him.

He took it and settled near her, dividing the crackers between them.

It would be a brief meal, but a good one.

"I'm sorry about before," she said. It felt like she was always

apologizing to him. "Now and then, a little of the spoiled brat I used

to be creeps in."

Her face, long free of makeup, looked young and vulnerable. He had

no idea what she was apologizing for, but he dropped his head in

acceptance of her words, and took another plateful of the beef to

show her he approved of her efforts. It was good. His body had been

craving meat, and final y felt satisfied.

"Good."

It took him a moment to realize he was the one who had said it.

Speech felt... odd. His vocal chords did not want to tame themselves

into making a sound that was not a roar or a growl. But almost by not

thinking of how to do it, he'd done it. The part of his brain

responsible for speech struggled to connect itself to his more

impulsive, more instinctive mind.

"You can talk." She set down her plate and stared at him, wide eyed.

No. He shook his head "no" at that, but both of them knew he'd just

done it. He looked at her, and worked the muscles in his throat for a

moment. No sound came forth. After a few minutes, he gave up

trying.

She let the quiet spin out, between them. Then: "It's going to be

beyond al irony that the first word you said was a compliment about

my cooking," she smiled, trying to see if he would say more. He

didn't, but Catherine could see he was processing that he had.

The instincts that ruled Vincent's Warrior self required focus, and only

a very specific but highly strengthened skil set. He could see better in

the dark, when he was like this, his sense of smel became highly

acute, his stamina increased, and the surface of his skin became

aware of the slightest change in wind or air pressure. He was a

hunting animal, and a fighting one. He did not speak because he had

little use for language. He could roar, because that was an advantage,

in a battle. It intimidated one’s enemies. Al were things he knew

about himself, no matter which side of him was charge.

The parts of his brain that were not used were kept quiescent so that

the parts that were needed could come to the fore. While he could

read the labels on the cans, that was more by recognition of the

words or pictures than by actual literacy. He did not have the focus to

read a book. But he had the stamina to run and fol ow a trail al night,

if he needed to.

She sat back, not wanting to push. He massaged his temple. He was

getting a headache, from trying to speak. Or maybe he was just

getting one, anyway.

"It's been a very hard few days for you," she said sympathetical y. It

had been.

"Wel . You spoke a word and we've got peaches for dessert. One way

or another I'd say this day is getting better." She eased away from

him, giving him room he didn't want. Suddenly he wanted her close.

Fortunately, she didn't have to move far for the can.

Her slender fingers fumbled a moment with the hand held can

opener, but she got it after the third try and twisted the mechanism

to open the lid. The smel of sugar and peach juice hit his nose, and

he found that even though his stomach was ful , it felt like growling,

with want.

She dumped their dessert into a bowl and handed him a fork out of

habit. One he didn't real y want to use, but he held it.

He real y wanted to upend the bowl and drink the nectar more than

he wanted to eat the fruit. Stil , he held back the instinct, and let her

spear a golden slice, first. The She always ate first. It was Law.

They shared the treat, Catherine aware that something in Vincent was

enjoying the peaches inordinately. She begged off eating more, while

he dove in, eventual y abandoning the fork to use his fingers, after a

minute. It was a primitive display, and again, one she feared would

have deeply embarrassed "her" Vincent.

Her Vincent. She wondered where he was, if he was aware of al that

had occurred in the last few days. Was he miserable? Asleep?

Watching, like through a window? Her mind wouldn't even

contemplate the proposition that he was permanently gone.

I miss you. She thought it but didn't say it. She did. She missed his

conversation and the gentleness that always seemed to hover near

him when she was close. She missed the sound of his voice and the

sensation of being read to.

She cleaned up the plates while he finished off the last of the

peaches. For whatever reason, she was feeling extremely domestic.

"I'm not giving up until we fix this," was al she told him.

Fix this. Fix. Again, as if he were a broken thing, something that

required repair. Something Mouse might fidget with, until Vincent did

something they al wanted. Did he not already do something they al

wanted? Did he not fight, sometimes kil , even, to keep them al safe?

Vincent shrugged at her words. He was not broken. But if the

sentence she'd just uttered gave her any comfort, he would let her

have it. It was useless to keep fighting about it.

She moved back toward the mineral pool and cuffed her pants again,

letting her legs dangle in the water and her feet soak. She seemed to

have no urge to go in, as he had done, but was content to wash her

face and hands, then simply... dangle.

He sauntered over, shirtless and clad only in the sweatpants, bel y ful

and muscles relaxed. His arm felt much better. The leg was coming

along. The water had done wonders, for both.

They sat near each other, and she stirred the water with her legs. He

wished she would strip and go in to bathe, but somehow knew she

wouldn't. It was al right. Whatever She wanted.

"Camping with you near a warm mineral springs with a book of Byron

nearby and a can of peaches. There are days when I'd have given half

what I have in checking for this scenario," she told him idly, watching

her foot draw circles in the cloudy water. She sighed.

"It's been so hard, lately," she confessed. He wasn't sure if she was

actual y talking to him, or speaking as if he wasn't there. Was this the

sort of thing she would have said to his Other Self? He wasn't sure.

She got up and toweled off her legs, then spread the sleeping bag out

and propped up the pil ow near a rock. She tried to read for a minute,

but clearly had no more patience for the words than he'd would have.

She kept flipping the pages, restlessly.

He came over and sat near, but not too near. She closed the cover of

the book and set the old volume down. He used the towel for his

calves, as she had done.

"The Outsiders, the frat boys. Now Joe and some kind of book. It's

like we keep taking hits. Like I keep wondering if we even know what

we're doing, anymore."

Did they know what they were doing? He had no idea. But he didn’t

like the notion that they, like he, needed some sort of “fixing.”

He struggled to get the words past his closed-feeling throat.

"Love....you… Al I ... know."

She looked up at him, but didn't move, and didn't prompt him, this

time.

"Every…thing ... I know," he added.

Her expression was incredibly tender. "Yes, you love me. But it's

been so hard, Vincent. So hard for us to find our love."

He shook his head and she almost anticipated his words before he

gave them.

"Not... for ... me.... I just... love you." He dropped his head from the

effort of speaking. His temple throbbed, and his throat felt like he’d

forced broken glass up it. It hurt to speak. But he wanted to do it.

"Feel it...here." he put his fist to his chest and then relaxed, letting the

strain of it go. It was a thing he had to tel her. He just had to.

"Then I'm the one who's made it hard. Is that what you're saying?

That I made things hard on myself?" He shook his head in denial,

owning whatever part he played in their troubles. But then he

shrugged, as wel , giving her whatever part she bore in it.

"Loving you. Easy. The rest... hard." He sounded a bit like Mouse,

and just about as erudite. This part of him disliked words. They stil

seemed useless to him, on some level. But she seemed to need them,

so he gave her what he could.

Loving her was easy. The rest of it was hard. Catherine turned over

his words and took them into herself. Yes. That she could see, and

that she could understand. Jacob's resistance to the idea of "them"

and sometimes hers, then sometime his. Her life and his, and how

they often didn't mesh. The risks she sometimes took, just to prove

she'd been worth saving. The risks he took because of the ones she

did.

"I treated you badly, sometimes," she confessed.

He shook his head. She thought it was denial, but the words were

soft.

"You treated me...love. And... nothing."

The sentence shocked her. She'd treated him with love? Yes, yes she

had. And there were times when she was guilty of some vanity or

petty sin, but ... she treated him like nothing?

Then she realized. Him. This Vincent. This odd being trapped before

her. Him, she'd treated like nothing. She'd adored the scholar in him

and treasured the erudite teacher, and the gentle side of the savior in

him. But him? This? The Beast/Warrior who screamed in his brain,

who fired it, who came to get her every time she put herself too far

over the line? This Vincent?

Yes, this Vincent she'd treated like "nothing." Because her Vincent

couldn't bear to speak of him and she hadn't wanted to ask. Had

never asked. They'd both ignored him, in their way.

"You don't know me," he'd once told her.

"I don't think any of us realize what a delicate balance Vincent is,"

Jacob's words came back to haunt her.

No, they hadn't. And it maybe didn't even matter if they did. None of

them wanted to face this part of him, sit at a table with this being.

Vincent didn't want them to, either.

"Don't hate him," Catherine said, realization of al they'd done - and

not done- hitting her hard. "Don't hate the gentler side of yourself

because of how it's been. It's my fault, not his."

"Don't...hate him...Don't ... hate ... you."

"And don't hate yourself. You're the...the one who saved me. I was

terrified, and you came. I'm always at least a little afraid and then I'm

so afraid to admit it to you." She cupped his cheek, and kept his

amazing eyes focused on her.

"I'm afraid you'l think less of me if you know how often I'm afraid.

You once told me I had strength, the strength to change my life. But I

don't have courage, Vincent. Or at least I don't have enough,

sometimes. I knew you were there. And I ignored you. You." He

knew she was speaking to his wild self, now, not to her "Other"

Vincent.

He covered her hand, and held it to his cheek, closing his eyes against

the blessing of the sensation. Him. She was final y talking to just him.

What did she need courage for? Did she not have him, for that? One

person could not be everything, and she was brave enough in her own

right.

"You ...have... courage." The words were a ground whisper. It was

stil hard for him to speak.

Now it was she who shook her head in the negative. "Vincent, I used

to be so afraid of the dark I had to go to bed with a rose clutched in

my hand. It was the first thing I looked for when I got up in the

morning. I'd put it on my dresser so I could find it again before I went

to bed that night. I even lied to my father once. He asked me if I'd

outgrown needing it and I said "Yes." Then I had to put it back in

exactly the same place every morning, so he wouldn't think I'd moved

it."

"Child," he said.

"Yes. I was a child. But sometimes I think I haven't been much braver

since. Especial y with you."

"Strong... In here." He indicated his heart. "Love. Me."

He took a deep breath and the smal sentence came in a rush.

"Don't try to fight so much, Catherine."

The words exhausted him, and he dropped his head.

"Because I shouldn't do it, or because I have you for that?" she asked

softly.

In answer, he just kept his head down but put his hand on the back of

her neck to pull her to him, in a soft embrace. No more words. He

just wanted the gesture to show her al he meant.

I am here, She. Always here.

He kept their heads next to each other, breathing softly into her neck

as she breathed softly into his. His shoulders felt the tickle from it. It

felt divine.

You have me, his touch said. You wil always have me.

"I love you." She whispered the words to his shoulder, and kissed the

warm skin there. She felt his hand tighten, his body sigh, at the

words. The Words. The Words the She gave to others, and to his

Other Self, but never to him.

"I love you," she repeated, kissing him again, on the hard ridge of his

shoulder. He turned her body so she was lying against him

comfortably, using his chest as her pil ow. Sleep, She. Sleep so I can

be happy that you're mine. Rest. Tomorrow wil be long enough.

She raised her head and wiped her eye. Tears. From her, for him? He

could not fathom it.

"I think I know what we are without the bond, now," she whispered,

looking at him with such deep love it stopped his breathing.

"We're stil us," she answered, feeling the strength, al the strength

and the comfort of that knowledge. Strength. The thing he swore he

sensed in her from the beginning. Perhaps she'd been confusing that

with courage so long, she forgot to give it its due.

"We're strong together, Vincent. If you think you don't have enough,

let me be your strength for you. Let me be the care that lights our

way. You be the courage. I'l be the care. Okay?"

Go with courage. Go with care. For a long time she'd taken his words

to mean that they both must have those things in equal measure. It

had taken her a very long time to realize that she didn't. She didn't

have to be as brave as he was, or as selfless as Mary or as protective

as Jacob or as creative as Mouse. Those were al amazing people in

his world, and they al embodied those things. But they did not

embody them equal y.

There is strength inside you. I feel it.

The strength to love his Beast. The thing he'd sensed from the

beginning, and prayed for, inside. So far inside he didn't even know

who the prayer belonged to more, the Scholar or the Warrior.

Catherine closed her eyes with realization, and kissed his gentle,

unresisting mouth. “I love you.” The kiss was firmer, the second

time.

Yes. Yesssssssssss. The word was a sibilant sound inside his brain and

the joy of her touch was a river of warmth. She was kissing him. The

She was kissing. Him. His mouth opened under hers, a mountain of

wil ing beneath it. He'd never thought himself "unworthy" of her.

Worth was the strength of his arm or the speed of his swing. He had

those. He'd only understood himself to be barely acknowledged by

her.

That She would say She loved him, would kiss him...

He forced his hands down to his sides lest he grab her. Under pain of

self-mutilation would he injure the She. She could do what she

wanted with him. Stake him to an ant hil . Send him into a battle

against armies. Beat him, spurn him, reject him, just...

Don't stop. For five minutes. Don't stop kissing me, please, oh

please...Just a moment. Just another moment. Just one more...

Catherine felt him tremble beneath her, felt the pent-up inner

reaction he fought to keep contained. His arms had snapped to his

sides with a rigid sort of discipline, and she could feel the muscle of

his arm bunching and flexing as he clenched his hand into a fist, then

relaxed it.

She stopped the kiss to look down at his hands, clenched at his sides,

to make sure he wasn't doing damage to himself. He wasn't. Either

the skin was so tough it would bear a certain amount of pressure from

his nails or he knew how to close his hand into a fist without injuring

himself.

"Don't hurt yourself," she said softly against his parted lips before she

took them with her own, again.

Don't hurt himself? He was dying. Dying, right here against a bedrock

wal , shirtless and propped up by stones, being kissed by... Her. His

right hand came up unbidden, and tangled in her hair when she

needed to gasp in a breath. He begged her head back to his, her lips

back to his, pushing gently, with his hand.

Please. Oh, Please.

The part of Vincent that usual y measured conscious existence in

minutes and seconds feasted for what felt like hours .

Her mouth left a trail of liquid fire across his, and he carefully set his

other hand on her denim clad knee and tugged her overtop him. She

came so fluidly, so gracefully, that for a moment he was afraid he'd

moved a dream image to straddle him.

Her weight was an inconsequential pressure, with just enough "push"

behind it to elicit a satisfied moan that was almost a snarl when she

settled. It was a noise of approval, and encouragement, as was the

lifting gesture of his hips.

"Love you," she whispered, nuzzling the skin of his jaw. Both his

clawed hands trailed down her back to her thighs, then remained at

her knees until he could simply bear it no more.

An immediate erection they both felt and neither would deny

hardened itself against the ridge of her jeans. When her hips thrust

almost involuntarily back against him, he saw stars. He knew he'd lost

the ability to speak, again. Not to mention the ability to breathe

evenly.

Yessssssssssssss.

The word whispered in his brain one more time, before the word

became simply instinct, and the instinct became need.

Her weight. Just her gentle, feathery weight against him. She

whimpered into his neck, and he knew she was caught between the

desire to continue and the desire to stop, her own needs slamming

through her tiny system. He trailed his clawed hands up her legs,

again, resting them at her thighs a moment, encouraging her to rock

her sweet, lithe body against his.

"Vincent..." her voice held a warning. So did his answering growl.

There was no Vincent, here, or at least there was not the one she was

used to being with, the one who quoted poetry or taught children to

write.

He leaned his head back against the stones, trying not to frighten her,

and trying not to coerce. He wanted to lift his hips again, so badly,

but he simply sat beneath her and trembled, massaging her legs,

making her core move against his erection, just enough. She began to

rock, just a little, and he nudged her with his hands, subtly, keeping

the sweet, abandoning pressure between them.

He could smel her approaching climax before she could even feel it,

and he wanted her to bury her head near his neck, wanted to

encourage her to mark him, with her teeth. Animal instinct. I belong

to you. Mark me so that others know.

Catherine moaned and he drank the sound.

No matter. When it happened, she would claim him. She wouldn't be

able to avoid it. He nearly smiled as his breath began coming in short,

soft pants, smal noises of satisfaction stuttering in his throat,

matching hers.

"This isn't fair." She was speaking about his Different self. His

Teacher Self. Maybe. He didn't care.

It didn't matter. Whoever this betrayed, her, him, or his other self, he

didn't care. This was bliss and she was so very close to...

“Ah!”

It was a short, feminine sound. She was surprised and fighting it, at

the same time. He made the next decision for her.

His arms wrapped around her waist and he bore her down, bringing

her hard against the steel of his desire, across the tip, then down. A

lover's suggestion of entrance, a bid to please.

She screamed her pleasure into the smal cave, and grabbed the bare

skin of his shoulders, leaving a scoring mark with her right hand. As

he predicted, she pitched forward and buried her mouth at the right

side of his neck, nipping as she shuddered against his steel. He let his

hips thrust upward against her to heighten her pleasure. Another

tremor shook her and this time the nip was more like the bite he'd

craved, a plea not to let her go, not to stop. She mewed into his neck,

her left fist making fluttering, ineffectual blows against his shoulder.

He gave a low snarl of approval as she rode, as she finished.

A long moment passed. Two.

"You... you have to. Your turn." she said weakly, feeling his restraint.

If she said they were done, right now, they were done. Something in

her knew it. And would never be so cruel. He was stil hard, against

her stomach.

"Shhhhh," she encouraged, sparing his tufted ear with a soft kiss.

"Please, Vincent? With me?" Her hips undulated in a motion so

sexual he nearly came right then. It took only a few more thrusts of

her feminine hips to cause his scrotum to tighten, in warning. He was

sensitive near the head. It only took her a moment to discern it.

He returned his hands to the width of her hips, not daring to hope she

was al owing what she was al owing. Him, too?

Him, too.

He didn't force her weight down, terrified that he would grab as he

thrust. In the end, he didn't have to. She simply locked her hands

behind his neck and... pushed.

His end was as cataclysmic as hers had been, and he shook as he

growled his climax. Head thrown back, eyes shut tight in ecstasy, she

rode his completion with the same shuddering joy with which she'd

ridden her own. Her body echoed his, and shook once more, a tiny

spasm of completion, before al was quiet, between them.

He felt her weight settle bonelessly, against his chest. Her arms were

limp, as his were cradling.

There, She. I have you.

Lethargy. The sweet, warm feeling of being unable to move, after sex.

His arms wrapped loosely around her back, and she settled her head

against his massive, hair covered chest. If she wanted to say

something, he had no idea “what.” He knew the moment she began

to drift, sleepily.

After an indeterminate amount of time, he simply shifted her, and

settled them both on the open sleeping bag.

It didn't even interrupt a hazy dream she'd been having, one where

they were both eating ice cream.

Chapter 6

Parting

Hours later, a time Catherine had simply decided to name "morning,"

she awoke to sounds of him preparing them breakfast. He was

stirring oatmeal in a pot, sweetening it with honey.

For a moment, she wondered if "her" Vincent had returned to her,

but something in the way he moved, the way he rested one hand on

the ground, crouching with his weight perfectly balanced on his

haunches and one knuckle on the stones told her "no." This was stil

the wild side of his nature.

What did I expect? That he'd wake up with a kiss?

At first, she wasn't even sure if she'd kissed him, and felt ridiculous for

having to search her memory for it. Yes. Yes, she had. Much to his

astonished pleasure. And then later, hers.

If self-recriminations for what had happened between them were on

the way, they felt distant, at the moment. She knew it was a thing

"her" Vincent would never have indulged in, with her. She also knew

that three days of being scared to death after almost a week spent in

terror had taken their tol . She’d wanted the comfort of being near

him. She hadn’t expected things to go where they had, but it was far

too late to put any genies back into any bottles. Whatever the

aftermath of last night would be, she would deal with it. As it was…

She felt good. Wonderful y good. When she stretched, her body had

the kind of warm languor that came from feeling wel loved, even

though she hadn't removed so much as a stitch.

She watched him through half closed eyes as he scooped breakfast

into bowls, and set it aside to cool.

"Hey," she said from her position on the floor, wanting him to know

she was awake. He must have been up for some time. He'd changed

clothes and already packed their bags.

"Mm." he "Mm'ed," coming over to crouch near her, brushing back a

lock of her hair with his finger.

"I see you made breakfast," she commented, rising slowly. "Thank

you." On impulse she slid her hand under his hair to grasp his neck,

bringing his head down for a brief morning kiss. He nuzzled her,

affectionately, clearly enjoying her nearness. She felt him bat down

morning arousal as he simply kissed her cheek, breathed her in, and

went back to bring her a bowl.

He sat cross legged with her on the sleeping bag, both of them stirring

the hot mix, to get it to cool.

"You have a sweet tooth," she commented, noting the amount of

honey he'd put in the mix. It wasn't that she minded. It smel ed

wonderful. It was that she didn't know how it was she didn't know

such a thing about him, after nearly three years together.

He said nothing to her comment, and simply blew on his food.

"We're getting close to home. We'l reach the pipes by some time

today, won't we? Reach help."

He nodded at that, confirming her expectation that they were about

to rejoin the land with other people in it. What did that mean, for

him?

"Vincent, whatever this is, I promise you I'm not going to leave you,"

she said.

Perhaps. But was he about to leave her? About to retreat to the

uninhabited areas of the tunnels and live as a wild being? This part of

him knew that was a possibility.

He began to eat, ditching the spoon almost immediately in favor of

scooping up the meal with two fingers. It tasted good. He was aware

that she was watching him, but could do nothing to ease her disquiet.

The trickle of adrenaline he always endured when his wild self held

sway made silverware untenable. His hand shook, at times, with no

outlet for the adrenaline and he had no patience for niceties.

Besides, she was right. Today was the day he returned her to The

World. To the land Above, a land which was for him, a dangerous

place. A place that was supposed to be safer for her than being with

him was.

Ridiculous a supposition as that was, he knew it was time. The cache

that had fed them so wel last night and this morning was wel

supplied thanks to its proximity to people. This was likely the last

meal he’d share with her.

He eyed her form with a glancing inspection, as he ate. There was not

a mark on her, from their loving. He could feel the tender bruise on

his neck, from her teeth, and her scoring marks on his shoulder. She

loved rougher than he did. He was pleased at that, pleased that the

strength in his form al owed her to take such liberties.

He'd considered waking her with kisses rather than food, but knew

they needed to get going. There was no sense in delaying the trip and

he felt an imperative to return her. Or perhaps his natural sense of

empathy, though not the bond, was communicating her anxiety for

that, to him.

"I don't know what's been happening, Above.” She blew on her food.

“Joe was hurt. I don't know what I'm walking back into, Vincent.

Either for myself, or for you."

He shrugged. Her enemies were dead. He'd seen to that. If any were

left, he would simply dispatch them, too.

"Can you speak, at al , this morning?"

She waited, and watched him swal ow, trying to prepare his throat for

speech. For some reason, it was closed off again, but he made a

second effort. His voice, when it came, sounded gravel y and harsh.

"I...kil for... you."

What?

Did he mean he would kil anyone who threatened her, when she

returned? Or did he mean that "kil ing for her" was his purpose, in

life? Either way, it was stark breakfast conversation.

Catherine touched his wrist. "Yes. You do. You kil for me. Me, and

to protect the other people you love. What a terrible price we al

demand of you, Vincent."

He set down the bowl, and initial y shook his head in the negative.

"No," he added the word. Then, after a moment, a reluctant

realization: "Yes."

Yes. Yes he did. He kil ed for them, for her, because there was no

other way for them al to be safe. The world Below existed on the

slimmest of threads, sometimes, as did she.

Sometimes, the perils they al faced could not be avoided. The Tunnel

World’s confrontation with the Outsiders, and for that matter, the

Tong, would have happened whether Vincent lived Below or not.

But often, like with the scientists who had captured him, it was what

he was that put him in danger. But sometimes, it was his family. Or

her.

"Vincent, is that why you're stil here? Stil your wild self? Because

the danger has been so great, lately?"

He considered her words, and had no answer. Her question implied

that this was a conscious choice, somehow, something he’d decided.

He hadn’t. He only knew what he knew. That he was here. That he

had one overriding function.

"I... protect." He said it with difficulty, but the words were clear.

She set her forgotten meal aside and went on her knees, before him.

"Yes. Yes, you protect. You protect them, you protect me. Always.

Always you protect us. Take care of us. And I swear al these people

protect you. Some of them would die for you. I would die for you."

The fire in his eyes was immediate and harsh. "No!" It was a barked

word punctuated with a growl, and his hand was tugging her forward

before she could even protest. The kiss he gave her was full of

warning, and full of need.

"No," he repeated, tracing his mouth across her forehead, across her

closed eyelids. He held her with strength, and was unrelenting in

covering the skin of her face with his mouth. On her scar, he lingered,

tracing the previously torn skin with his lower lip. He nuzzled her

neck, protectively.

Catherine suddenly realized the impact her going missing had had on

him.

"Vincent... you're here to protect me. Aren't you?" It was more of a

statement than a question, but he nodded his reassurance, slightly.

"You don't think you can do that any other way but to be... this. Is

that it?"

She pulled his head back from her neck, literal y needing to tug on his

hair to get him to lift his head. The look he gave her was both

unyielding and unanswering. The unblinking stare was back, ful

force.

I protect.

And of course, she'd needed protection like never before, maybe even

more than at any other time since she'd met him. Gabriel was insane,

and she was his prisoner. The law was no help, since John Moreno

was the law. Joe Maxwel was in intensive care, and she...

"You can't leave, can you? Can't give up control. Vincent, it's al right,

now. We've been in the tunnels for days."

"Not... tunnels. Passageways. You … lost."

Yes, that was true. She would get lost down here, without him. Near

as she could tel , they'd come around, partly through, and maybe

even under the area of the labyrinth, unable to pass easily from one

side to the other thanks to the rock fal that had trapped him and

Jacob years ago. The way to this place was achieved with great care,

in no smal part due to the ruggedness of the terrain and the

instability of the ground. They’d spent most of the trek in the caverns

that had been used by ancient peoples, and while near water, stil not

near the pipes.

Today would change that.

He lifted the lid on the big chest and tossed her a fresh pair of socks

and a thin pair of moccasins. They were not much. But they were

worlds better than what she had, for footwear.

They were also too big, but one more pair of socks helped with that.

It was time to leave. There was no reason to stay.

--

The pipe was low-hanging and ancient. And clearly a sign of home.

There was even a metal bar near it, openly indicating that it could be

struck and used for communication, that the line might even run clean

into the pipe chamber.

Catherine picked up the bar, intending to use it to let everyone know

where they were, that they were fine. Help would be with them,

soon.

Then she turned to look at Vincent and realized what that would

mean, for him.

Even wearing the borrowed clothes couldn’t change the

understanding that he was stil bestial. His shirt was pushed up at the

sleeves, to accommodate the bandage on his arm. A twin swatch of

gauze cradled his knee. The vest he’d worn since the beginning was

becoming increasingly ragged, at the hem, and he liked to wear it

open, rather than fastened, since this Vincent seemed to run a higher

temperature.

But it wasn’t his clothing that made him appear so different or even

the cape of his mane which persisted in tangling near the neck. It was

the rest of him.

His skin was flushed, and even when he was calm, it’s slightly darker

shade not only gave him away as not being his usual self, it

highlighted the lighter color of his eyes. His expression was stark, and

focused, the rarely blinking eyes of a predator. His narrow nostrils

tended to flare, taking in oxygen. He continued to tilt his head at a

sharper angle, and he was comfortable with either scrambling across

the ground or standing upright, shoulders held in a subtle curve.

This was a hunting animal, not a thoughtful one. He couldn’t speak,

unless pushed, and showed no real desire to. He growled his

responses, and had a temper that showed bared fangs. He viewed

other males as competition, as chal engers.

He could live, with their help. But he couldn’t live with them.

"They're going to come. And if they do, you're going to disappear,

aren't you?" she asked.

His voice was stil gravel. "You. Safe."

"Yes. Yes, I'm safe. But you're ... you're nowhere. You can't live like

this, with them. You'l have to change back. If you even can."

She realized their predicament. If he could not regain his gentler self,

he'd live in exile, on the perimeter of the people he used to cal his

family. But if he could regain himself, she knew Vincent would banish

his darker form to the dim places inside himself, and be disgusted

with both of them. Al three of them, considering.

"You loved me," she said, looking at him. She dropped the bar into

the dirt.

"You. Loved me." He forced the sound out, and a clawed hand went

to his throat, as if it hurt. He clearly did not favor speech.

She reached for him. "I don't want to do this. Don't want to lose you.

You held me. You took care of me. You... you scared me sometimes, I

admit, but you... you let me touch you, Vincent. You let us touch each

other."

Vincent had no answer for her other than to stare at her where she

stood.

The She was upset. He was not sure why. But she'd also dropped the

summoning bar into the sand, and that would not do. She needed

people. She was one. They were a communal bunch. And he wasn’t

one of them, no matter which part of him was in charge of his body.

"Vincent?"

Questions. So many questions, in her green eyes. And this creature

had answers for none of them.

He nudged her aside and picked up the bar. Before she could even

protest, he began striking the pipe with it, sending the message of

where they were. He might not be able to speak, but he could use

enough tunnel code to summon help. And he could hit. Hard.

"No! No, I... I'm not ready, yet!" She grabbed his arm and he nearly

snarled at her, showing her a warning lift of his lip, revealing his fangs.

Not a pet. This is not a pet you can keep, Catherine. Astonishingly,

they both thought very much the same thing at the same time,

though both were unaware of it.

"I... I can't. Don't tel them, don't... Not until I can think, Vincent."

But he didn't listen. He finished striking out the message, then tossed

the metal bar back into the dirt.

Her eyes were growing bright with unshed tears. "I hope no one

heard. I don't want them to come. I want to go away with you and

never --"

But an answering staccato tap of notes was coming back, already.

Message received. Help on the way.

"No. Vincent, no.” She shook her head in denial. “Wil you stay with

me? Come in with me?" She grabbed his hand. "These are your

people. You know they won't hurt you."

But would he hurt them? Given how he felt about even the mention

of other males by Catherine, would he tolerate those near her,

without an accident?

Vincent knew he wouldn't. And Catherine suspected as much.

"I'm tired and my feet are stil sore. And I swear if you ask me to

just ... go back into the caves and hide with you, I wil ."

Her gaze was frank. Had what they had which passed for sex meant

so much to her? Vincent could barely understand her distress, even

as the primal part of himself understood it too wel .

It didn't matter what was causing her reaction. There was not enough

food back the way they'd come, and she stil needed things like a

sturdy pair of shoes and a serviceable jacket, a pair of pants that fit

and a decent meal. Bedrest. Al the rest of it. Some of it he could

steal for her, but the rest...

Vincent closed his eyes, blessing her for what she was offering. She

needed to go back. Not just to his people, but to her own. The life

Above which he could never be a part of. The life Below he could

barely claim, other than to be what he, a beast, was in both places. A

necessary evil. A kil er.

He shook his head, but brushed her forehead with the gentlest of

kisses, in thanks. For whatever reason, it caused her to burst into

tears.

"I want time. Time with you…” Her tears were running fast and hot.

“Time to talk with you, both sides of you. I'm so afraid that if you go

… I'l never see either of you, again."

She looked into the staring eyes of her savior. We must confront our

fears and move through them. How great is our sacrifice?

Words from when her father had died echoed in her ears.

"Stay with me. Stay." She clutched at his vest as he gently held her

hands there. She was aware that she sounded like she was giving

commands to a dog. Also aware that this particular animal was not

going to obey her.

"No. No, Vincent, no," she begged, as he gently but firmly

disentangled her fingers from the fabric of his clothing. "Stay. Stay

with me," she pleaded, tears streaking down her pale cheeks. She

was white, with high patches of color on her cheekbones. He heard

the sound of running footsteps coming down the hal way long before

she did.

She felt him push her hands farther away, holding them back from his

form for a moment. He held her wrists. She knew he was going to

leave her.

"Please don't. Please… I love you."

He kept hold of her wrists as he took her parted lips in a kiss full of

passion and sorrow. She tasted it in his mouth, and in her own.

When he broke the kiss, she heard the approaching footsteps, too.

She turned toward their source as he dropped her hands.

When she turned back, he was gone.

Chapter 7

Eighteen

Eighteen. Eighteen counts of money laundering, drug running,

weapons dealing and embezzlement, not counting the murder

charges, which were separate. The maniac known as Gabriel went to

his grave unlamented, as did the traitor known as John Moreno.

Catherine mourned neither of them. In a way, she also felt she knew

neither of them, though she'd worked for the latter for almost three

years.

Eighteen. Eighteen hours from the time Vincent had left her to when

she final y got in to intensive care to see Joe Maxwel . He had pulled

through the surgery, but was listed in "guarded" condition.

Considering the number of uniforms outside his door, "guarded" was

a worthwhile description.

Everyone near him was being overseen by Greg Hughes, who had

barely slept. It took eighteen stitches to close the wound on Joe's

shoulder. He'd carry a scar there, forever. Maybe they al would,

considering. His office was in a state of turmoil. Ted was handling

things, as was Rita Escobar. Both had been assigned ‘round the clock

police protection, after Catherine's disappearance.

Eighteen was close to the number of frantic phone cal s left on her

answering machine by Jenny, Nancy, Edie, Kay, and a few of her other

friends. Even El iot had threatened her machine with destruction if

she didn't answer, twice. He was flying in from Europe. The events in

New York had made global news.

Eighteen had not been the number of straight hours she had slept,

with Peter Alcott standing (or at least sitting) guard on her sofa. That

number had been closer to twelve. And it might have been easier and

safer for both of them if they'd just agreed to go back to Peter's, or at

least check her in to the hospital, but Catherine wanted none of it.

She wanted to be home. She wanted to be where Vincent might

come to get her, Vincent in any incarnation whatsoever.

Eighteen numbers in a Swiss bank account worth mil ions, mil ions

Gabriel would never spend and the State Department was in a bit of a

throwdown over.

The US wouldn't win that one. Switzerland made its living off, wel ,

money. It was enough that the money could be traced there, to get a

posthumous indictment against John Moreno, and bring down four

others tied to what he'd done. No more were in the DA's office, thank

goodness, but that didn't stop a captain in the NYPD and one

appel ate judge from getting hit with the "corruption" brush.

Both were found dead around the same time Catherine had been

setting up camp with Vincent at the mineral springs. Gabriel's death

and the evidence that had come to light in a certain black book had

carried long echoes.

Eighteen pages of cyphers, more or less, in that certain black book, al

hand written by Gabriel, al in code. A bank name. Shipping times.

Phone numbers. Addresses and shipment sizes. Bil s of lading,

numbers and customs officials paid to look the other way. Serial

numbers on guns. Vehicle ID numbers on cars. Any of it. Al of it.

More. The name “Moreno.” The word “Snow,” capitalized.

The tentacles of the corrupt monster seemed to stretch everywhere.

Greg Hughes sat with Catherine in his office and ran video tape of a

criminal empire, imploding. The lieutenants were running or turning

each other over to the police in exchange for a plea deal. The hired

thugs were either disappearing into the woodwork or shooting each

other.

In Gabriel's empire, the criminals were eating their own. In some

strange way, Catherine felt numb to al the news. It was as if it was al

simply too much to take in.

Eighteen, astonishingly, was also the number of video cassette tapes

that had self-destructed once the police had breached the perimeter

of Gabriel's building. The burned-out case fragments declared their

number.

A failsafe meant to erase the activities of the guilty had likely saved

Vincent from detection. The tape Gabriel had loved, the one with

Vincent in a kil ing rage, was one of the ones to go, not to mention

any film of him rescuing her.

Catherine simply told Greg that she'd managed to flee the building

when some sort of chaos had ensued, and she'd heard shots fired.

She said she'd passed out for an indeterminate number of hours,

eventual y fought off the drugs, then hidden herself as she managed

to get herself to safety.

Considering the level of mayhem at Gabriel's compound, there was no

one to refute her story and no one who even wanted to. Greg Hughes

was just glad she was stil alive. So, for that matter, was everyone

else, including Catherine.

They'd removed half a dozen listening devices and secret cameras

from Catherine's building, al tied to Gabriel. Catherine was too

exhausted to even sort out what it al meant. She only knew she

missed Vincent, in a hard, empty place inside her chest. Missed their

bond and missed her love. Their hasty intimacy came back to haunt

her in the long, lonely hours in the middle of the endless night. What

if he didn’t return? What if he… hated her? Despised what had

happened between them?

Eighteen. Eighteen floors up. Eighteen huge stones on her terrace,

set two by nine. Were there eighteen petals in one of her roses?

Maybe. She had no idea. She was not a believer in numerology. That

was more something Edie would be inclined toward.

Where are you, Vincent? Where?

She knew she needed him, and was terrified that she would never see

him again. In a way, the feeling reminded her of being back at

Gabriel’s compound: Her deepest regret, there, too, was that she

would never see Vincent again.

Four days passed, each one aging Catherine what she swore was

another year. The World Below had not seen Vincent, and he was not

using any of the other caches, as far as they could tel . It was as if

he’d vanished.

Joe, meanwhile, was improving, and had been moved to a regular

room. Senator Blair was giving press conferences and orders, and

making it clear that she was not to be contradicted. She publicly

declared that the day Joe Maxwel set foot back in the District

Attorney’s Office it was his to command, if he wanted the job. Joe

wasn't sure that he did, but Cathy had the feeling that he would take

it, anyway. Eventual y.

She saw him in the hospital, again, and both of them had simply held

on to each other for a long time. Joe latched on to her with his good

arm while the other one remained in a cast and sling. He was scarred,

bruised, and was stil being treated for burns from the bomb blast.

And they were friends. They would always be friends. And they

trusted each other implicitly. If neither knew anything else after this

whole debacle, they knew that.

"You don't look so good, kiddo," Joe told her through torn lips.

"That is the pot cal ing the kettle lousy-looking," Catherine had tried

to tease, but feared the joke might fal flat. Joe let it slide.

"Nah. I get away from this hospital food I'l be as handsome as I ever

was. You get some sleep, okay?" He brushed a thumb across her

cheek in a tender caress meant to let her know he cared about the

dark circles under her lovely eyes.

"I wil . You too, Joe,"

"It's al they let me do in here, Radcliffe. Tel Greg Hughes I want to

talk to him on your way out, okay?"

"I wil , but you know your doctor wil have a fit."

"Let him fuss. I want to know what's going on."

Catherine shook her head and did as Joe bid her as she left for home.

Catherine wished something, anything, made her daylight hours go

faster. Or the nighttime ones.

Ohhhh. Ow. For a moment, everything seemed to hurt, then the

aches became localized. His head ached, abominably, and his throat

was sore, his tongue, desert dry. He'd either had no water or spent

time roaring loudly, or both. His mouth felt like cotton. His back felt

like he'd slept on rough, uneven stones, a thing he realized was

absolutely true.

Vincent sat up slowly, assessing his damages. He felt hung over, for

lack of a better description. Felt achy and miserable. Like thinking

was impossible and movement was unwise. He checked the decrepit

strip of gauze that stil held on to his leg, by some seeming-miracle.

The deep cut to the back of his knee was healing, though the knee

itself was stiff. He must have been running on it, or climbing or...

something. His pant legs below the knee were in tatters, and his shirt,

one he didn't remember putting on, was filthy.

Odd he should be thirsty so near water, he thought, hearing the

sound of rushing water like a white-noise anvil, in his brain. Then the

smel came to him. This was effluent, not fresh.

He was near the industrial district, near where one of the textile

factories operated. The water smel ed. So, for that matter, did he.

The emptied cardboard box was the only thing that indicated to him

how long he'd been here. Empty plastic water bottles littered the

ground and canned goods lay strewn in haphazard chaos. Three or

four day's worth, no more. One can looked like he'd simply ripped it

open with his claws. Another looked crushed. Two others clearly

looked as if they'd been thrown hard against a wal , and left where

they'd dropped, some of their contents spil ing on the ground.

The smel of rotting carrots out of the can permeated the space. He

had little memory of coming in here, and less of staying. Other

memories were fresher. Catherine.

Vincent stood on shaky legs, knowing it would be a very long walk to

wherever he was going. He downed the remains of an overturned

water bottle and pointed himself in the direction he needed to go. At

least there were pipes in the wal s as a kind of marker, and he wasn't

lost.

The feeling of being without her, without the bond, burned a hole in

his chest.

At least he could stil walk, and knew where he was.

It was the best he could hope for, considering.

--

"Please. Pleeeaase...." Catherine prayed both aloud and inside her

head, sitting on the stones of her terrace, watching evening slip into

night.

It was eighteen minutes after dusk when he slipped, silent as a

shadow, onto the stones of her balcony.

She saw him standing there. Just standing, arms covered by the folds

of his cape, face covered by the shadow of the hood, which he

lowered. For an uncanny moment, she wasn't sure "which Vincent"

was standing on the terrace, facing her. Had his wild self decided to

come and see her, especial y after she'd seen Joe, today? Or was this

"her" Vincent? Then Catherine confused herself by not clearly

understanding which one of them that was.

"Catherine?" The voice was clear, her name the sonorously ringing

bel it always was, when he said it.

"Vincent?" She exploded toward him, coming across the wide stones

like a woman shot out of a canon. He met her nearly halfway across

the narrow space, wrapping his huge arms around her as she

frantical y grabbed for him.

"You're al right, you're al right, you're al right. I have been so afraid.

So eaten alive with it," she confessed, looking up at him.

"As was I, for you. You are certain you are wel ? The papers wil only

say that you were found. I... I cannot find out bond, Catherine. I have

spent days trying, even as I tried to reach you."

"Where were you? I was frantic!" She let him see her tears.

"I ... woke up as myself only this morning, miles from the hub. I came

as fast as I could."

She kept ahold of him so tightly and for so long, it was clear she

wasn't going to release her grip on him. Vincent closed his eyes in

gratitude.

He remembered al of it, remembered everything. But it was the type

of memory one associates with a vivid dream, rather than a reality.

She was pressing frantic little kisses to the side of his neck, and

tightening her grip on him as she did so.

“Are you furious with me?” She knew she had to ask. Had to see if he

remembered. “Is that why you stayed away?”

She felt the shake of his head. “I woke up miles from here, filthy and

… feeling hung over, for lack of a better word.”

“How much do you remember?” It was a fearful question.

“Too much of some of it.” His eyes were blue again. “Every blessed

second, of others.” She felt his arms tighten, around her. “You have

no idea the gift you gave me. None.”

Since she wouldn't disengage from him, he simply lifted her scant

weight and moved through the gauzy curtains to her living room.

Finding the couch too narrow for both of them, he settled with her on

her floor, in front of the unlit fireplace. She kept herself pressed to

him, fiercely determined to not al ow an inch of space between them.

"Is he... gone? Please don't say he's gone, Vincent." Her green eyes

were ful of worry.

Vincent knew full wel who she meant. And that no, his other self was

not "gone," and never would be. It was only quiescent, again.

"Not gone," he replied. He looked away from her for a moment, but

then held her green eyes with both love and candor. "You have no

idea how much I bless you for finding the courage to love that part of

me, Catherine. A part of myself... I could never love, but always had

to accept."

She brushed at his ragged hair, a ton of fear and worry in her eyes.

"He was you. Wild you. He took care of me. You took care of me."

"And nearly took your head off when you pulled the piece of tile out

of the back of my leg. I remember, Catherine." His eyes were very

serious and his tone brooked no argument.

"You were surprised. And hurt. And on my account."

"Considering that it was Paracelsus who arranged much of what led

pictures of me to fal into the hands of a madman, I'd say you could

bear only so much blame..." He brushed his thumb under her worried

eyes in a gesture that was nearly identical to the one Joe Maxwel had

used. "You haven't been wel . You haven't been sleeping."

"Compared to what you must have been going through, I'd say a few

sleepless nights were minor."

What he'd been going through? He wondered if she could even begin

to understand what that was.

"What is it you think I have been through, Catherine?"

She dropped her head. "I know he is you. But I also know that's a

part of yourself that you don't like to claim," she struggled with what

to say, how to help him understand that she had loved the wild part

of him, without repel ing him.

Vincent took a deep breath. "I think you have no idea how... free

being in that skin feels to me, when I am away from everyone else…

And how much I … dread others seeing me that way," he answered.

She studied his noble features. The planes of his face were more

stark. He’d lost weight. "But you couldn't find your way back.” Her

tone conveyed the worry she’d carried while she was with him. “It

was days, and you were stil ... wild."

It was almost a relief to see his head tilt at the familiar angle.

"Perhaps I knew the part of me that was needed at the time was the

part that was with you." He stood and gave her some space. She rose

as wel .

He held out his hands, in a beseeching gesture. "Catherine... I know

that I am... inhuman when I am like that, and there are some things I

barely remember. I know I ate with my fingers. I know I frightened

you, sometimes.” He did. The look in her eyes when he’d growled

one of his several warnings was going to stay with him a long time.

“I beg you to tel me that there is stil a ... a chance for us, now that

you have seen me that way."

She was stunned that he felt he had to ask such a thing.

"Vincent... you have no idea how... I can't even explain what you

meant to me, what you mean to me, now." She moved away and put

a little more distance between them, crossing her arms at the elbows.

Defensive posture. Whatever she was about to say, she was afraid he

wouldn’t like it.

"I don't hate him. I love him, Vincent. I only wish you could."

The memory of their parting moments thrummed in his head. "You

were wil ing to go with me. Forfeit al safety and go with me into the

tunnels, into the caverns. I think of al the things that happened in the

last few days, that is the thing I cannot ignore, cannot forget."

She crossed to him and took his hand, tugging him back down to the

carpet. He came down, obediently. "I don't think I want to forget. I

don't think I ever... understood more about you than I did the last few

days. Everything about you was instinct. I'd have died, without you."

He adjusted how they sat, turning his back to her, a little. "Don't face

me. I don't know if I can say al I have to if you face me."

He settled them so they were essential y sitting back to back on her

living room floor.

"My shoulder is sore. You have no idea how good that feels." His soft

voice confided.

What? His shoulder was... Oh. From where she'd… when they had…

"Do you mean... from where I... scratched you?" She felt his hair

move, as he nodded.

"Where you scratched me. Why you scratched me. I wish it wouldn't

heal, Catherine." She felt him press his huge hand to his shoulder,

through his shirt.

She blushed with recol ection.

"I was afraid you'd be furious with me for that. That it was why you'd

stayed away, or part of it."

He shook his head, and she felt the motion she couldn’t see. "It

wasn't. And I could never be angry with you for being so... “ He

searched for the word, a moment, then dropped it low. “…perfect."

Perfect? Catherine smiled at his choice of words. "I think I bruised

your neck, too," she confided, realizing what the smal bruise where

his neck met his shoulder was.

"Did you? I can't see it." He realized he could feel it, however, and his

fingertips reached unerringly for the spot.

It was... it was when I..." Now it was she who fumbled to complete a

sentence. She heard him chuckle, softly.

"I know when it was. Do you have any idea the gift you gave me in

that moment?" He’d used that expression, before.

Now it was her turn to simply shake her head, and be quiet.

"I remember every second of that time,” he continued, softly. “I

wanted your mouth on my neck. When I felt your hand start to dig

into my shoulder, al I could think was ... ‘yes.’ That it belonged there,

just like that. You could have done twice the damage and I wouldn't

have minded."

Catherine chuckled a little. "That makes us sound like we're into

pain."

"Not pain,” he corrected. “Claiming. You were fierce, and beautiful,

and you had so much... strength in you, for it. The strength I told you

I sensed in you al along."

He had. It was the first quality he'd ever mentioned that he sensed,

within her.

"There is strength in you. I feel it."

"What about the strength in you?" she asked.

"I think we both discovered that as wild as it is, it's there for a

purpose. There for you. I wil ed my arms down to my sides so I

wouldn't hurt you. Forbid my claws to break your skin."

"But I didn't forbid mine," she marveled, looking at her nails and

realizing just which one of them had lost control, that night.

"You didn't need to. Even after I'd growled at you, you knew you

could mar my shoulder and it didn't matter. I stil wish it wouldn't

heal," he repeated.

"We can do it again, if you like," she was only half-teasing.

He turned toward her both aware that it was a jibe and aware that it

wasn't. His eyes held a kind of forthrightness she’d never seen in

them, and she’d always thought him an honest man.

"You accepted that part of me. That terrifying part. You even... loved

it. Him. Me." He shook his head at the multiple pronouns. "It's a

different side of me, Catherine, but it's not a different being. It is

me."

It was. Ruled by instinct more than reason, perhaps, but it was him.

Just as the being who sat before her now was ruled by reason more

than instinct, yet stil possessed both, in abundance.

"And you were always afraid of what my reaction would be to that."

She nodded with him as the light of understanding dawned some

more. She’d been with his Shadow-self for days. Not terrified. Not

disgusted. Not entirely at ease, perhaps, but definitely... definitely in

love.

Vincent kept his voice soft. "Before…I kept tel ing you that you didn't

know me. Now... you do."

With a clawed fingertip, he pushed her hair back from her scar. It

reminded her of something his Beast had done.

"You're fascinated by my scar. Or he is."

"I am. We both are. The darker part of me views it as a sign of

victory, in a battle you survived, and eventual y won. The rest of me...

it reminds me what a precious gift life is, and how amazingly fortunate

I am that you are part of mine... that we ever met at al . But we did.

And under the worst of circumstances."

She eyed the bruise at his neck. Even several days later, it was stil

there.

"I shouldn’t have… bitten you so hard. Father wil give you fits, if he

notices it. I'm sorry if it brings you any… embarrassment.” She knew

how private a person he was. She realized it must have been quite

the love bite if this was the result after four days of healing.

"I'm not." He shook his head and his smile was a subtle one. "There is

a beast in you, Catherine. And it would be beyond tragic if I never got

to meet that woman, again."

They both laughed a little at that, Catherine realizing how neatly the

tables had been turned.

"Right back at you," she answered.

"I know. I know you feel that way. I know it, now." He shook his

head at the wonder of it. His hair was beautiful, but tangled. She

wanted to comb it smooth, again.

Catherine brushed at his bangs with her fingers again, moving them a

little away from his beautiful eyes. The bangs were getting long. He’d

need a trim. "I don't want anything between us to be contrived, or

something you feel you have to force, just... If our beasts are ever in a

room together, it's nice to know the building wil be standing,

afterwards, and no one wil require stitches."

She put her forehead together with his, and he closed his eyes,

breathing in contentment. Her mantle clock chimed.

"I need to cal the hospital,” she said, eying the clock. “I promised Joe.

Can you stay a while?" she asked.

He shook his head, regretful y.

"I need to go Below. You are polite to not mention that I stil smel ,

and Father hasn't seen me now for over a week. I tapped him a

message that I was fine when I was on my way to you. But he must be

beside himself."

"Let him take care of you. Let us al do that, some, Vincent. For al

the times you take care of us."

"I hope your friend is better," he said, rising.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" she asked. It surprised her how nervous

she felt, stil .

"Better the next day," he answered. "Father's patience wil be sorely

tested and Wil iam wil insist on fussing over me, some. I have no idea

how much I've missed, at council." She nodded at that. He had

obligations. In a way, far more than she had. It seemed so odd to

realize that his old life was stil there, after how … intense the week

had been.

"I have to go give another deposition tomorrow. They're stil figuring

out what Gabriel was into."

"You wil be wel ?" he asked.

"I'l be fine. Greg Hughes would put me in a Kevlar vest, if he could,

and he makes sure we're al escorted to our cars. Oh, and El iot is

flying in from Europe."

"El iot Burch?"

"Looks like we made headlines across the pond. Interpol wants to

know what Greg has found out. It's going to be quite a meeting."

"Who knew that Paracelsus would blaze a trail to such a madman?"

Vincent sighed the words.

"Birds of a feather. From what I gather, Gabriel was hugely connected

to the drug trade. Perhaps they knew each other that way. Or

perhaps it was al just chance and bad luck."

He kissed her forehead.

"Perhaps. But I do not like that I cannot feel you, Catherine."

"The bond hasn't returned?" she asked. He shook his head.

"I have no more empathy for you than I do for anyone. I suppose it is

at least some comfort that I have no less," he answered.

Her feminine hand brushed his angular cheek. "What about you? Are

you sure you’re al right?"

"I have a headache that comes and goes, and a stomach that has been

empty for a while. I am wel , Catherine. Of the two of us, I wasn't

held hostage by a lunatic."

She gave him a soft smile. "Oh, I don't know about that," was the

teasing remark she left him with, as he turned to depart.

He smiled as he carried the comment with him. She was teasing him

about his dark side being in control. Teasing. Laughing about it, with

him.

What an amazing week it had been.

Chapter 8

Dark Water

He became her lover in al the ways there were for that to happen. If

the strength of his gentleness surprised him, the strength of his ardor

did not. There was a graciousness to it that left him stunned, and a

drifting peacefulness to it that left him nearly paralyzed, with languor.

It was as if the awkwardly passionate moment between them in the

cavern had given him al the knowledge, al the permission he needed

to cross her threshold again, and to do that in more ways than one.

She was a low ache in his midsection, at times. And for al the nights

she was gently perfumed seduction, there were other times that were

more raw, more passionate, between them. He was learning himself

as he learned her, awestruck by the knowledge.

But the bond had not returned.

For whatever reason, he'd thought it would, once they'd become

lovers. When it didn't, he chided himself for his own naiveté. How

should he, of al people, know what lovemaking wrought? From

where did he get the incredibly innocent notion that sharing his body

with her (until a fine sheen of perspiration enveloped both of them)

would cause their psychic link to be re-forged?

If Catherine thought the same thing, she never spoke of it.

Was it gone then? Was it truly, truly gone? He worried the sentence

over in his mind more often than he cared to admit.

She was often stil incredibly busy with depositions, reviewing

evidence, police statements and the al -important black book that

seemed to indict everyone from the deceased John Moreno to the stil

quite living head of the third precinct, two bankers, a scattered

number of longshoremen and three customs officials.

El iot Burch came and went, twice, leaning hard on the men he knew

who worked the docks, for information. The inestimable Mr. Burch

was, it was rumored, wil ing to pay wel for information that led to

any dock connections to Catherine’s kidnapping, even though as far as

Cathy knew, there were none.

It was also rumored that any name that came across his desk would

rather endure an IRS audit and time in front of a grand jury, rather

than spend so much as ten minutes in a room with El iot. Cleon

Manning and more foot soldiers than Greg Hughes had ever seen set

to work. El iot was pulling out the rot that was Gabriel with his own

hands, or at the very least his own wal et. He was clearly a man not to

be crossed. Senator Marjorie Blair was considering giving him some

sort of citizenship medal. The Governor was now on his speed dial.

Within a month, everyone who had so much as loaded a crate bound

for Gabriel's warehouse was either looking at jail time, retirement, or

a new career far away from New York City.

The day he left for London, El iot sent Catherine a decent bottle of

Chardonnay and a note that promised he’d have a glass of it with her

some time in the future, as his business dealings al owed. She tucked

the bottle on a high shelf in her kitchen, with the note stil attached to

it. It was nice to have friends.

Her other friend was enduring a slow recovery.

Joe Maxwel 's previously col apsed lung became prone to

troublesome infections, and the burns on his body where slated for a

round of cosmetic surgeries which Joe insisted he didn't need and the

governor of the state insisted he did. The job was stil waiting for him.

Cathy and company would hold down the fort while he endured

rounds of skin grafts, operations, and bandages. Cathy could relate.

She told him as much.

And the bond stil did not return.

Whatever this was, neither time nor passion seemed to restore a

thing Vincent rapidly came to realize he could not stop thinking about.

To be a part of Catherine's intimate physical life and have that not feel

like “enough” was not lost on him.

One night when they sat together, peaceful y listening to music, she

asked him, with a smile, how he was feeling.

He leaned even closer to her than they already were, wrapped his

arms around a little more tightly and simply answered, "Blessed." It

was a deeply felt truth. He did.

But Catherine’s admonitions that perhaps the bond being gone meant

something else wonderful may be on the horizon for him fel on deaf,

fur-traced, ears.

He was her lover. How in God's sweet, merciful name could he ask for

more?

Yet he did, and as one month slid into two, he thought he knew why.

--

"The bond. I need you to give it back to me, Catherine. I need it

restored. We need it restored."

They were in her bedroom. They'd just spent the last hour doing what

it was they now often did, there.

Her eyes looked left and right.

"But... I don't have it, Vincent. You said it was gone."

"I said I no longer felt you. It is like before, like when Paracelsus held

you. You are keeping yourself away from me."

She rose and brushed off her backside as she walked away from him.

She snatched a white silk robe off the back of a chair.

"After what just happened, I'd say that's ridiculous," she stated.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and prayed he was right.

He turned his head, watching her.

"Is it? Catherine…" He watched her pull on the robe, anger in her

movements. "We both know there has only ever been one way I am

unable to sense you."

"No."

"Catherine... whatever it is. It’s al right. Or it wil be."

"I said 'no.' Stop it." She yanked the sash of her belt tight. It made

her waist look impossibly smal .

"You'l take me to your bed, but you won't take me to your heart."

His voice was deceptively steady.

Her green eyes flared at the accusation. Now she was angry, and they

both knew it.

"That is so unfair."

"Catherine, I know. I know it is. You should not have to bear this," his

voice was gentle, on purpose.

Wel , he isn’t going to get his way with that voice, this time, she

thought .

"I love you. You can't doubt that." Her voice was full of her

conviction.

"I have never doubted it. Not from the first moment you said it. The

first time you said you felt our bond as I did."

"Not as you do. Never like that." She shook her fair head.

"No. Never like that.” He eyed the rumpled sheets, giving her a

moment to calm herself. “There is no reason for you to,” he

continued. “It is I who protect you, not..."

"Oh. So it's 'I protect,' and I'm supposed to just accept that, am I?

Wel , no. Just... no." Her tone rang with finality.

"You're holding it from me to protect me?" His blue eyes were sharp.

"I didn't say that. I didn't even admit I had it." She was too

experienced a lawyer to be bested in a word game.

"Catherine..."

"Vincent," her tone became almost plaintive. "How many more

bullets do you think we can dodge? It's al right. We can do this. We

can be this. Look at how far we've come since you brought me back."

She gestured to the messy bedclothes, and he stood and slipped into

his patched cords, not wanting to have this conversation naked while

she was fully covered.

"I went half mad, searching for you. I had to track you by scent." He

swept the room with his arm, to indicate the distance, the difficulty

involved.

"You shouldn't have done that." Tears came to her eyes. "It was

dangerous."

He crossed the room to where she stood, both of them struggling

with something, internal y.

"You were frightened. You are frightened, stil ."

"No. No. No I'm not frightened. I can't be frightened. You... you feel

it when I'm frightened."

What? Is that what this was about? He realized that as much time as

they'd spent together, they'd spent precious little of it talking about

her captivity. Either because they'd become lovers or because her

work life had consumed her, they'd spent nearly every possible

moment in each other's arms, either naked or clothed, since her

rescue. They'd traded "I love you’s" too numerous to count, both in

passion and in companionship. But they'd not traded this.

"So you pushed it al away from you, pushed it al down. Like you did

before."

"You said I was strong." She was trembling, and he felt the hurricane,

within her.

"You are strong. You are the strongest woman I have ever met." He

needed her to believe it.

"I..." she looked at his blue eyes, searching for purchase. "I wanted

you to come and get me. I was so... scared." She bit back the word, as

if admitting it was a sin. "But it was so dangerous. Vincent, that

place... There were cameras everywhere, and ... I'd never seen so

many guards. They al wore black and carried machine guns. They

wore vests, to stop the bullets..." She was remembering the horror of

the place, and the fear it inspired.

"I do not use bullets. And you were afraid I'd come. That I'd die,

trying to reach you." He was trying to guide her through whatever

this was.

"He played the tape of you kil ing a man. He wanted you.” Vincent

didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was.

“I just... kept seeing it, over and over. There was a wal ful of TV

screens. Everything the cameras saw. The nurses, the guards... There

was a helicopter on the roof and al the doors had alarms..." Her eyes

saw the past, and her voice trailed off. For the first time he realized

not just how terrified she’d been, but the flavor of that terror. He

could see her trying to swal ow bile. Could almost taste it, himself.

Tel me, Catherine. Say it. He thought it, but let his silence prompt

her.

Her eyes looked to a different moment, and he saw her replay her

betrayal. "John Moreno was dirty. I couldn’t believe I didn’t see it,

but I didn’t.”

She shook her head, slightly, remembering the terrible moment she

realized how trapped she was. “The police weren't coming. They just

weren't. It would be hours before they even knew I was missing.

And you..." she looked at him as if she just noticed he was standing

there, holding her elbows. "I couldn't... couldn't risk you."

He released her. Quickly and a little too hard.

" Damn you, then. You have to believe in us, Catherine. I could have

reached you days earlier. Saved you at least some of that torment."

"No," she whispered the word so softly he barely heard it, though he

could read her lips. Then, louder, "They were talking about wiring

some of the doors with explosives. A trap. It was al supposed to be a

trap, for you."

Her face was gaunt, with memory. His tone was firm.

"Catherine. No force in the world was going to keep me from finding

you. I had to track John Moreno by the smel on the rag, and you."

He realized that just as she'd not told him many details about that

week, he hadn't, either. Her green eyes stared at him, barely daring

to blink.

"When I found the building I had to sit in the sun hiding behind an air

handler on the roof near the compound. I couldn't even... think by

then, couldn't even speak.” She shook her head in such a tiny denial

he barely saw it. “I was pure instinct, and I knew I was going to get to

you. I saw Gabriel get out of that helicopter, once. He wasn't even a

man to me, by then. He was prey."

She put her fingertips to her pale lips, then ran a trembling hand

across her face.

"God, Vincent, he should have kil ed you. You should be dead. We

both should be." She believed it. She’d believed it for a long time.

Too long.

"We came away with nothing more than a few cuts and bruises. I

promise you they didn't fare as wel . Believe in us, Catherine. You

lived with the savage in me for days. Believe in him, if you believe in

nothing else."

Her voice was a terrified whisper. "There were cameras.

Everywhere."

"Break them as you go by and they can no longer see." It was a blunt

assessment.

"The men had guns. Kevlar vests. They were wel trained. Wel

armed."

"An arm is an easy thing to break, no matter what the man is wearing.

I don't use a gun, so al a bulletproof vest means to me is that you

must lift a man's shirt before you rake his stomach. Or simply snap his

neck. You know this about me, Catherine.” His voice remained firm.

“You’ve seen me do that. Seen me be that. You know what I can do

to a human being. He forced you to watch me do it, often enough."

The deep voice had a bitter edge, at the last comment.

"Vincent, there just wasn't a way..." Even though they were standing

here with each other, safe and sound he could stil feel her decision to

cut herself off from him.

"Yet here we both stand. Don't make me describe it for you,

Catherine. It was carnage. Stealth and cunning, and strength, and...

carnage."

She blinked at him.

"I was supposed to be brave."

"No. I am supposed to be brave. You are supposed to feel your fear,

so I can find you."

"But you said..."

"I said you were strong. And God, you are. You faced a more vicious

beast than the one that was holding you, and you... loved it. Loved

me."

"You would never hurt me."

He was exasperated by her claim. "You didn't know that. You've

never known that.” His hand sliced the air as he said it. “You've just...

trusted it. Needed it to be true, so you made it true. Do you know

what kind of strength that takes? What kind of ... foolhardy,

irresponsible, God-sent strength?"

"I didn't feel strong." She didn’t. Her face looked… stricken.

"No. No, you felt terrified. And so was I. Catherine, the instant you

lost consciousness, the minute you took away our bond... I thought

you had died, for a moment. I... it brought me to my knees.” His eyes

looked to the left with remembered pain. “You must never… never do

that again."

"I needed to protect you."

His tone remained adamant. "No. You need to be strong for me. You

need to show me that no matter what I am, I don't disgust you. Do

you have any idea what a treasure it is, you give to me?"

"I could have gotten you kil ed."

" I could have gotten you kil ed. Gabriel knew of me through

Paracelsus. This was as much my disaster as it was yours, Catherine."

"John Moreno was my boss." Moreno’s betrayal of her stil had the

power to wound.

"And Joe Maxwel is a good man, and he is your friend.” Vincent felt

compel ed to remind her that there were stil good people in her

world. People she could count on. “And we were al caught in an ugly

web we had no knowledge of, until it nearly kil ed al of us. It did kil

Moreno."

"Did you do that?" She’d never asked that.

"No. Gabriel did. But that doesn't make me innocent. I kil ed many

people that night, to reach you. I would have kil ed many more, if I

had to."

Catherine shook her head. "It is by sheer chance that there isn't

footage of you in police headquarters, right now."

He lifted his bare shoulders in a shrug. "It doesn't matter. We've no

need to borrow trouble we don't have. Let it go, Catherine."

She didn't move. She couldn't.

"It is our bond,” he pressed. “Let me share it with you." His honeyed

voice was firmer than she ever remembered it being.

"You're going to get kil ed, because of me." She let the tears fal

unchecked, down her cheeks.

"You've been afraid of that, before. Since the first time Paracelsus

took you." He realized it was true.

"Before that. Since the Silks," she admitted.

Vincent scanned his memories and realized she was right. She'd been

afraid that her choices that night had kil ed him, and to be fair, they

nearly had. But no one had forced him to stay behind and try to save

Shake. That had been his choice.

"We have to move through our fears. We said that to each other.

Remember?" His voice was so gentle it was as if he were coaxing a

child.

"Go with courage. Go with care," she whispered.

"Catherine, I need this.” He had to make her see that. “I need to be

able to find you, be able to come to you. More, I need to know you

believe in us, that you believe in me. That you know I wil come for

you, if need be. That I am your ... mate." He used the most primitive

word he could think of, because it fit.

She dropped her head. "The Beast needs a mate. You don't."

He leaned very close to her, his words bedrocked on the surety of his

position. "Every beast needs a mate. And I have found mine," his

voice was a seduction al its own. "But I need you to believe in me,

Catherine. You already believe I won't hurt you, no matter what.

That's an idea even I don't have the faith in it that you do. But you are

teaching me. You are teaching me through your faith. Through your

strength. Through your belief in us."

"I'l always believe in you." Her eyes begged him to understand that

she was tel ing him the absolute truth about that.

"Then believe in me enough to know I wil find my way to you.

Whether you make it easy or hard, I wil come, Catherine."

She shook her head. "There are times when you shouldn't," she said.

"Then there are times I wil be more cunning and less refined," he

answered. "But I wil come. You made it hard for me. So hard I

needed my Other Self to track you. But I found you. I wil always find

you."

"Though lovers be lost..."

"Love shal not be lost. And death shal have no dominion." He said it

with a gentle firmness.

"You aren't immortal, Vincent."

"None of us are that. But I swear I wil always love you like I am. Like

we both are. And if there is any grace in that, I wil take it, and love

you after death. But I wil not live divided from you. I can't. It's the

source of my courage, Catherine. That I can feel not just al you feel,

but al you are, inside our bond."

Her gaze clouded. She took a step back from him. "I'm afraid," she

admitted.

"I know. I wil help you through it."

"If anything happens to you because of me..."

"Something has already happened to me because of you.

Something... miraculous. Let it be, Catherine. Let it flow through

both of us and give us strength. Share with me, again." He stepped

closer.

"Vincent, please. I'm so... terrified. For you. For us. I can’t… live if

anything happens to you. I don’t even want to."

"I know," he repeated, tugging her near. "Feel my strength. Feel your

own." His arms were like bands of iron. "Together, we are strong. So

strong, Catherine. We make ... something impossible, together."

"Something that has never been," she sighed, resting her head against

his broad chest.

"Something that has never been," he answered.

She reached up for his shoulders, and clung.

"Don't leave me," she sobbed the sentence.

"Never. I wil never leave you." It was a foolish promise, the kind al

lovers make. The kind she needed, right now. It had been a year

marked by loss, for Catherine. Losing him was the one thing she knew

she couldn't bear.

"I couldn't stand it. I real y don't think I could," she said, brokenly.

"I remember the feeling of you... ripping away from me." He shook

his tangled mane of a head. "I do not want to be on this earth so

much as a day after you leave it. If there is a force that grants wishes

in this universe, it wil grant me that one." He needed to tel her he

understood. Because he did.

"Oh, Vincent."

"It wil be al right, Catherine. Let us be. Let us be who we are.

You've already accepted so much of that. So much more than I ever

thought to have. Let us have this. It's al right. It's al right,

Catherine."

She wrapped her arms around him, and felt the trembling resistance

inside herself, the pervasive fear Gabriel had put there, which she had

suppressed.

"He was going to put you in a cage. Gabriel was."

Of al the things she feared, he knew she feared that one the most.

Almost more than his dying, she feared his... dehumanization. That

he would be treated like an animal. By an animal.

"Shhhhh. We are here. And I am loving you." His hands stroked her

back through her robe.

"The bars were steel. And it was painted white. Everything was

painted white."

Let her talk. Let her get it out.

"He showed you this cage?"

"On the television screen. There were manacles. Chains bolted to the

floor. A thin slot to pass food through. Nothing, for a bed."

"I never spent so much as an hour in it."

Her next sentence was tentative.

"I think... I think I did. I think I was in there, for both of us."

He kissed her forehead and felt the memory, the fear of it al , wash

through her. There. There it was. Fear. She was final y making

herself relive it, and remember it. Remembering it so she could let it

go.

"I think you were," he answered.

"He wanted to... breed you." She shut her eyes tight. "I think I just

remembered him saying that, just now. He wanted a son." She didn't

want to think about the particulars of how that would happen, how

much it might dehumanize both of them. He felt her trembling body.

She was a leaf on a tree.

"I wanted to cal out for you." The guilt of that tore at her.

"I wish you had."

She shook her head. "I couldn't. I couldn't, Vincent."

He knew he would do no different if their positions were reversed.

"So you forced yourself to... not feel."

"I had to shut away our bond."

"I know. I know, Catherine. You were protecting me." She tugged his

great head down.

"I wil always protect you. I protect."

She nuzzled her head against his, feeling the communion of thought,

between them.

"Love you," she said, brushing her forehead against his.

"And I love you. So much. So much, Catherine."

"Take me to bed?" she asked.

He scooped up her slight form, as an answer. She was a feather, in his

arms, and she was suddenly both exhausted, and aroused, at the

same time.

He loved her with slow patience, adoring the curve of her hip,

lingering between the val ey between her breasts. Her climax was

barely there, yet pervasive. A whisper on a breeze, which enfolded

her.

She fel asleep clutching his hand in hers, the bond stil not restored,

between them.

When she woke up, dawn was licking its way through her curtains,

and he was gone.

--

She drove to the building where she'd been held, and saw the ruin of

it. Though it was stil standing, it had been cordoned off, not just by

police tape but by demolition equipment and a hastily erected

barricade, around some of it.

Fire had damaged the bottom floors, and white stone was smudged

with black. Catherine wasn't sure if anything could burn in the white,

sterile rooms where she'd been kept. But everything electrical no

longer worked. Elevators, cameras, lighting, and al . It was destroyed.

Climbing stairs wasn't an option at the moment, either. The east

corner had taken the brunt of a bomb blast, and was shattered.

Certain rooms and entrances had indeed been wired with explosives.

She had no idea how the one that had been detonated had happened.

An accident? People fleeing, in panic? Maybe.

The steel drums in the courtyard were mostly intact but now empty of

whatever they’d once contained. But some of those had exploded as

wel , though how and why Catherine could only guess.

The bomb squad had its hands full trying to help the special

investigators gain access to certain areas. The whole thing would

come down, eventual y.

Good. Catherine thought, eying the wreckage. John Moreno's ex-wife

had come to col ect his body for burial, but no one had come for

Gabriel's. Whatever. Perhaps there real y was no one to miss the

psychopath.

Catherine eyed the destruction, feeling numb, inside. It was a prison.

It was a lab. It was a fortress and a tomb. White and blank on the

outside. Blank on the inside, like the terrifying man who'd owned it.

Catherine drove away from it, knowing she'd never go back to see it,

ever again.

She made it almost to the bridge before she simply pulled the car off

to the side of the road, and crossed her arms over the steering wheel,

and wept into them. Reaction. Aftershocks. The horror of being

thrown in the trunk, then waking up, somewhere else. Barely. Barely

waking up. The sensation of time lost, of life lost. Of not knowing

what was happening, of knowing Vincent was in even more danger

than she was, if that was possible.

I protect. I wil always come for you.

When she'd first realized his peril, she'd clamped down on the bond

with a vengeance and a wil . He couldn't walk into this. Not into this.

They'd kil him. They'd cage him and kil him. Or maybe worse.

Maybe force him to live.

So she'd pulled the bond down, and buried it inside herself.

At first, that had felt so strange. She'd felt it almost like a life force,

trying to beat its fragile wings against a cage, in her heart. It had

thrown itself against the bars, at first. At first, when she'd been

fighting her own terror, and longed to cry out for Vincent.

But the sedatives they'd numbed her with had numbed everything,

and they'd helped to quiet her panicked mind. By the third time she'd

come to, Gabriel had realized his error, and stopped sedating her as

heavily. Especial y when he was in a mood to gloat.

Dark, malevolent eyes had bored into hers. "He'l come for you. He's

magnificent, isn't he?"

Don't. Don't feel anything. And whatever you do, don't feel afraid.

"What a terror he is. What a marvelous and magnificent terror. It's a

pity you're not pregnant. How I would have loved to have a son.

Maybe I'l stil have one."

The cassette tape played on a loop, of Vincent savaging a man.

Spirko. And Catherine knew a numb kind of scream, inside.

Cal him. Scream for him. Gabriel's fathomless, pitiless eyes wil ed

her to do it.

No. No!!!!!!!

And she'd torn herself away from Vincent, severed their link, and

known she was very likely going to die, because of it. Both because

Vincent would never find her and because this madman would never

let her live, once he realized she was useless, as bait.

Strapped to a table, a dying man's screams in her ears, Vincent's roar,

from the tape... it al seemed so unfair, somehow, so unfair. They'd

had so little time together, real y, she and Vincent. So little of

everything, and yet so much. She had the comfort of knowing she

wouldn't get him kil ed. And in despair, she realized that was pretty

much al she had. She didn't even dare think to him "I love you." She

didn't dare think anything.

Then the black slumber would come again, as Gabriel went off to do

something else.

Catherine raised her head from the wheel of the car, and wiped her

eyes. Were there other Gabriels out there? Probably. There always

seemed to be more evil, out there.

You have to trust us, Catherine.

The horrible thing about most of this was that she couldn’t figure out

anything she'd have done differently. Joe had given her the book, and

Paracelsus had sold the tape to Gabriel. She was in a madman's

crosshairs before she even knew it, and under his control before she

could even blink. The law that was supposed to protect her turned

out to be part of his empire. She wondered how long John Moreno

had fooled them al , wondered how long he'd been dirty. From the

first day she’d met him? After?

She opened the door to the car and stood up a moment, letting the

breeze from the river caress her face.

They'd walked under that dark water. Her and Vincent. Or her and

his Beast, to be more precise. Under that river, in a dripping

passageway, the weight of the water over their heads, the weight of

al their choices, and some they'd never made at al , bringing them to

this point. She'd been nearly barefoot, and dirty. And he'd been...

someone else.

Without their bond, he'd elected to remain bestial, to save her. His

other self had dressed her in borrowed clothes, fed her out of cans

and packages, walked her for miles through a labyrinth of tunnels she

couldn't begin to negotiate and... loved her. His Beast had loved her.

As much as he could love, and that seemed to be quite a bit, though it

had a different flavor than Vincent's own.

They'd been in danger. Vulnerable. Exposed. Both of them. And

she'd learned to accept that exposed part of him.

What if I can't restore the bond?

She hadn't been lying to Vincent when she'd told him she didn't have

it. She didn't. Or at least, she couldn't feel any trace of it any longer.

Not that she had ever felt it in the way he had, to begin with.

Perhaps she'd buried it so deep it was simply gone. Perhaps she'd

simply flung it away from herself, and destroyed it.

And then he'd found her and rescued her, anyway.

The river looked so… heavy. So huge and ful of … weight. So dark

grey and unforgiving. No wonder the maze was dangerous. No

wonder the groundwater sometimes seeped in, and took rock wal s

and ceilings with it. Dark water. Rippled and jagged looking, on top. A

perilous path, beneath it.

And he’d walked her under it, by the safest route. Because taking her

across a bridge was ridiculous, and letting her simply walk above

ground was a surefire recipe for getting her kil ed. It was not lost on

her that after her escape, they’d been fol owed.

At first, in her dimness, she hadn't even realized that he'd remained

bestial because she'd severed their connection. At first, she hadn't

even realized that the bond was stil gone. She was awake. Un-

drugged. She “felt” rescued. Before that was al it took.

But this was not like before, with Paracelsus, when she'd commanded

herself not to feel her fear, then simply felt the bond return, once she

was safe. It just wasn’t.

How much was her shoving the bond away a part of why he’d stayed

bestial? Did he think that since he could no longer “sense” her that

he must remain his Warrior Self to protect her? Though safer, they

had not been in a safe place. He’d told her as much. And she was not

yet rid of her enemies.

Could he not return to himself because of what she’d done? Did he

final y do so simply because his beast could hold control of him no

longer? Because once she’d been returned to her world, he could no

longer sense her safety or lack of it one way or the other, without the

bond? So he’d had to return to the being who saw her, Above?

And did any of that matter, now?

She didn’t know. She might never know.

And now she might never be able to restore them. And she wasn’t

even sure she should. The grim, grey panorama before her didn’t

help clarify her thinking.

Like Vincent, she'd first thought that simply waking and sleeping

would lead to his restoration, and to the bond’s. The bond had

original y come from him, hadn't it? Couldn’t he restore it, now? Just

reach in, somehow and…

But no. She knew he couldn’t. If he could have, he’d have done so

when she’d been taken by Paracelsus, much less Gabriel.

The dark water moved by . You couldn’t step in the same river twice,

they said. You could never go back to the person you were.

Could they go back? He wanted them to. And she…

She had no wish to keep them apart, after al ... did she? Especial y

now that they’d become lovers?

Or did that make this even worse? Was she now determined above

al else that no action on her part should endanger him?

She looked wryly at the moving river. I’ve become Jacob Wel s, after

al , she thought, ironical y. Aware of how much, how very much she

could cost Vincent. He’d lost his way back to himself, thanks to her.

And he’d taken far too huge a risk, to save her.

And if he hadn’t, she’d probably be dead, right now. Or stil strapped

to a table, wishing she was.

Catherine leaned her arm on the roof of the car. They were so

complicated. If she turned the car around, picked any direction other

than "back into the city" she knew she could step off the map and

save his life, perhaps. She could spend her fortune as a recluse. Get

on a plane and never return. She could save him.

But only if she were wil ing to break both of them, to do it.

Perhaps it was a moot point. Perhaps she'd kil ed their bond, this

time. Perhaps that could be done. She had no idea. But she also had

no idea how she was going to restore it, not real y.

Or even if that was the right thing to do for them.

She got back in the car, turned the keys in the ignition, and put it in

gear. Then drove back to Manhattan, over the dark water Vincent

had walked her under, unsure of what other direction she should

take.

Chapter 9

Unbound

The rest of the day she held the stark pictures of the blown out

building in her mind. She’d even pulled copies of the photographs

from her work. The back side of the building looked no better than

the front.

That evening, when he entered through her balcony doors she began

talking almost without preamble. The photographs were stil in her

hand.

"I'm going to get you kil ed, Vincent."

There. Just that blunt. No “maybe” or “I might” or “I’m afraid that…”

about it.

Fine. If they were going to start the evening by arguing, he wasn’t

going to back down an inch.

"You make me alive, Catherine. There is no reality for me, other than

that." She set down the pictures, and he saw them, as they scattered.

It looked worse by day than it had by night, he realized.

She left them where they were and stood from the smal table. "I was

afraid of you. In the tunnel, when you ... snapped at me."

Snarled, you mean, he thought.

"I'm so sorry," she said.

"Only a fool wouldn't have been," he stated.

"But you've never been afraid of me. And you should be. You should

be, Vincent." Her expression was lawyer-adamant. And her tension

level was off the charts.

"Not afraid?" his expression seemed confused, to her, as he crossed

further into the room. He bent down to unexpectedly kiss the corners

of her eyes.

"How can you say that? I've been afraid since almost the moment I

met you." He realized it was true the moment he confessed it.

He felt it, let himself feel it, let himself acknowledge it, for the first

time. Fear. The fear that she’d leave. The “always fear” that never

quite left him, back in their beginning. Catherine’s green eyes

searched his blue ones.

“Wil she find another?” he asked, posing the question as if it was

rhetorical. “Wil her life cal her down a path I can’t fol ow? Wil she

leave for Providence, or Boston, or God forbid, London or Paris or

someplace I can never go?” He brushed her hair back with a hard-

nailed finger. “Wil she love me, as I love her? Wil she tire of the

limits I always, always place on us? Wil she want a man who is a …

man?” He ran the laundry list of his fears.

“Wil she get me kil ed?” Catherine felt the need to add.

Vincent took a deep breath. “That, of al things, is not something I

ever worried about, one way or the other. My fears have far more to

do with the things I have no control over, than the things I do. There

are enough of those, believe me.”

“Your fears may need… broadening, then,” she said ruefully, stepping

a little away from him.

“Why? Why, when I have so many, now? Especial y now.” She knew

he was speaking about the loss of the bond.

"Afraid I’d never feel you again. Afraid you'd die, before I could even

save you." He recounted his new fear, the one that Gabriel had

introduced him to. He closed the distance between them, simply not

liking it.

Taking her by the elbows, he drew her forward and kissed her

forehead, at the center, as he continued to list that which he most

dreaded.

"Afraid your old life would cal you back to it, that there real y could

never be a place for me in it. That the dreams I had would drive me

mad, that wishing to be a part of you..." he pushed the early fear

away, the one that had final y become so poignantly terrifying, it had

driven him to her balcony, bearing a copy of Dickens. He let the

sentence hang.

"Then there was El iot, and a new fear. A fear that you ...loved

someone. And I knew you did, and even as I thought I knew that it

had to be... I couldn't... face it, Catherine. Couldn't live with it, but I

had to."

His fears reached back a long way. And he wasn't blaming her. He

was tel ing her.

Let him say it, her mind whispered.

"When El iot turned out to be ... less...a petty place in me rejoiced.

Your heart closed to him, and al I could do was send you the sonnet,

to tel you. I was stil here. I was stil ... impossible, but stil ... here."

He set his forehead against hers. "Maybe if I have no other virtue, it's

just that. I can't not... be here, Catherine." His hands rubbed her

arms. They were cold.

His voice did not damn her, but it did explain. "Stephen didn't hold

your heart, but he held your past. When he hurt you..." his voice

trailed. "The part of me you spent days walking through the caverns

with wanted to kil him.” Now it was he who stepped away from her.

Then he amended his sentence. “No. That isn't true. The part of me

you spent days with didn't care whether he lived or died. I just

wanted you to acknowledge me. That I was the better..." He couldn’t

say the last word.

"That you were the better man." Catherine finished for him.

His blue eyes pierced her. "But that's just it. I am not a man. I'm

never going to be a man. Not against El iot, or Stephen or Tom or

Michael, or... anyone. They wil al ... beat me, that way, Catherine.

They wil al best me."

"That isn't true. It isn't a competition." She shook her head in denial.

"Of course it is. And perhaps it shouldn't be. But it was. It was, and

you know it was. It was always going to be. Until... until you did what

you did."

"What?" she asked. She was puzzled. Her expression showed it.

"You made it not matter. Because you... fel in love with me. Al of

me. With that... inhuman part of me. The part that hunts, and kil s,

and can't speak, or barely can. You loved that part. I can't believe

you did that, stil ."

"I did. I do. I do love you, Vincent." She wanted to make sure he

understood that, if he understood nothing else. This was not about

how she felt about him; about how much she loved him.

“I know,” he replied simply.

She wrapped her arms across her torso, in a protective gesture. “I

could leave my job. I’ve thought about it.”

He shook his head in immediate denial. “No, you can’t. I don’t want

you to. You do great good there, Catherine. It has given you a sense

of purpose like nothing else has. Do not let a psychopath dictate our

fate.” He gripped her shoulders, loosely.

“Your job needs you. Joe Maxwel and the people you help need you.

Your job saved El ie and Eric, saved Jacob. Lena, and her baby. Saved

Charles and so many others, because of where you work. If you

choose a different path one day, that is al wel and good. But do it

because you wish to, not because you’re afraid for me.”

“How can you be so sure that’s the way we should handle this?” she

asked, her expression stil one of confusion. It was a thing she’d

struggled with al day.

He stepped closer. “I only know that choices made by fear are seldom

the right ones. And that once you begin doing that, it is very hard to

stop. Then your fear defines you. Not your love.”

More than anyone else, he would know. The entire world was both a

source of fascination and peril for him. If he’d listened to his fears,

listened to Jacob’s, he’d never have emerged from the tunnels to

begin with.

And she’d likely have died, three years ago.

We must face our fears, and move through them. Didn’t he live his

life by that motto?

He put his arms loosely around her smal frame, and held her for a

long time, in the deepening dark. A distant lamp provided the room’s

only il umination.

There are storms within you. His sense of empathy could tel him

what the bond couldn’t. She was struggling. And clinging to him. At

least that much was as it should be. When she faced her life’s

troubles, he wanted to be what she reached for. Always.

"Are you ready to give it back to me?" He whispered it, in the

shadowy room.

Tears sprang to her green eyes.

"I'm afraid I destroyed it. I'm afraid I can't."

He nuzzled her cheek. "You had to lock yourself very far away from

me."

"Yes."

"You thought of leaving. Even today."

How could he know that, without the bond? She thought it and the

question came into her startled eyes as it left her mouth.

"How did you...?"

"Because I know you. I don't need to be able to feel what you're

feeling to know you, Catherine. Shhhhhh. It's just your fear, talking."

Her voice shook a little. "We were forged in fear. Sometimes I can't

help but think that," she confessed.

He shook his maned head. Blonde hair moved like rippling silk, across

his vest. "No. We are forged in the wil to overcome that fear. Not

the fear itself."

She leaned her head against his chest. "I'm so tired of being afraid.

Afraid for us." She was. He could feel her exhaustion.

"I know. Shhhhh. Let me share it. Share every burden, with you."

She lifted her head. Her green eyes were too huge, in her delicate

face. "Vincent, I'm so afraid that what I am... it's going to end up

kil ing you, somehow."

"I believe that is my fear. And now you’ve made it yours,” he replied.

He pulled her closer. “Be more afraid that losing you wil do that,

Catherine. Not having you."

"I'm a weakness, for you. A way to hurt you. Paracelsus knew it.

Gabriel knew it."

Again, he shook his head, this time, gently. "You are not my

weakness. You are my strength. You are strength."

There is strength inside you. I can feel it.

"Together, we are mighty." The conviction in his voice sounded …

unshakeable.

She leaned her cheek against his huge, patient chest. A chest she’d

spent hours exploring with her hands and mouth. His heart was a

steady drum, under her ear.

"You came for me. I shut away our bond and you came for me."

Tears coursed down her cheeks.

"The only way I could. Did you think I would give up?"

Her eyes closed with remembered fear. "He was... malevolently

insane. Gabriel. I thought at least if he’d kil me he wouldn’t be able

to kil you. It was al I had left."

He drew back from her. "You never think that." His voice became

hard, and he punctuated the sentence with a growl. "You never think

such a black, such an empty thing."

Her trembling hand cupped his cheek. "Because you'l always be

there, no matter what? With al that you are?" Her green eyes

tracked his blue ones, and she saw a glint silvery fire in the azure. His

Beast was near the surface.

"No force can contain it. I can't even contain it. And neither can you.

But you can ... love it, Catherine," he whispered, his voice a little

rougher.

"I can't find what you're asking me for. I don't know where it is," she

confessed.

"Then it doesn't mean anything. And we'l live without it." He

reached down to pull her firmly against him. He began to rock his

hips against hers.

"You don't mean that. You don't think that," she chided.

The widening of his pupils was changing the blue of his eyes to steel.

"The only thing I think right now is that you are wearing too many

clothes, and I haven't made love to you in what feels like weeks." The

last word was punctuated with a soft growl of impatience.

She shook her head at his bad memory. Why, only last night they'd--

He dropped his head and exhaled, deeply, his eyes closed. She could

feel something gathering, inside him. When he looked back up, she

could see the change.

Silver fire. Fire and glaciers, and she knew who was coming into the

room with her a moment before he did.

His next growl was soft, but low. Lower in pitch, and in tone. She

peeled out of her sweater as she heard it, and recognized its cal . She

pushed his vest off his shoulders as he hooked an index claw into the

front of her bra .

Tear it. They both thought it. She could feel the war, rising inside

him.

"Do it." she whispered in his softly furred ear. "We both know you

aren't going to hurt me. Or at least, you're not going to hurt me any

more than I hurt you."

He cut the wisp of elastic with his claw, not leaving so much as a stray

mark on her skin. If anything, the pink band of skin where the elastic

had gripped her flesh beneath her breasts seemed to offend him. He

lifted the soft right globe, and laved the area under it with his tongue.

She gathered up his shirts, in bunches, and tugged them over his

head.

He stopped long enough to let the conjoined fabric clear his head,

then latched back onto the skin of her breasts, moaning in a lover's

pain as he stopped to suckle. One hand splayed at her back, the other

pulled her hand down to an erection that was kil ing him. He was

asking. Openly. Vulnerably.

She gave him the pressure he wanted and he tore his mouth away,

moaning his response. His hips moved, reflexively, and his hands

fumbled at his belt as hers explored the simple flap and tie that held

the front of his pants closed. When the belt dropped, he simply

leaned his head back and fought for balance, as she opened his pants

and touched him gorgeously, bringing him forth.

He was sensitive, here, and his need was raw. She massaged him to

hard readiness, and he kept his head back, reveling in her touch. He

mourned the necessity of her hands leaving him, as she pushed down

his patched cords, and tugged off his boots and socks. His manhood

wept a seeping droplet of expectation when she unzipped her skirt

and simply let it drop to the floor, pushing her underthings with it.

She pressed herself against him, deftly. "I missed you," she whispered

into his left ear as her hands moved up his chest, and around his neck.

She moved her hips in a way that made him tremble with want.

Sensual y. Suggestively, and with a Lorelei's abandon. The invitation

of Eve, and of instinct. He reached for the smal of her back and

pushed her hard against him, reveling in the pressure.

The warm, sudden contact made her tremble, and arch. It did that for

him, too.

He lifted her up and snarled a little, impatient and none too wil ing to

remain unsheathed. Her legs went around his back, as she held

herself aloft, bringing his mouth to hers for an impatient kiss. He held

her up with one arm, and caressed her thigh with his clawed hand, a

back-and -forth motion that simulated sex while his tongue in her

mouth did the same.

She felt his frustration build as he coaxed and caressed. He wouldn't

reach between them to make them one. Either because of his claw

tips or because he felt that was her right, and not his. Catherine

remembered his Beast’s reticence to join them. It was probably the

only reason he hadn’t lost his virginity to her in the cave.

They were One when She said they were. They were done when he

could no longer hold back his orgasm. The dance had rules for him,

rules even his Beast respected.

"You're too far away," she said, as she reached between them.

"No.”… You are." His speech was rough, and he startled her with it.

She smiled a lover's smile into his neck, and took him firmly in her

hand.

"We can fix that," she promised.

It was an awkward joining, at first, as need caused a fumbling lack of

coordination and the movement of his huge body threw them off

balance, a little, the first time he thrust. She squealed her delight as

the up thrust of his hips lifted her up on his body, making her need to

clutch his neck al the tighter. She grabbed her wrist in a locking

embrace and felt the joy of his deep penetration, as he threw back his

head. A long, low rumbling sound in his chest indicated his

satisfaction at being inside her warmth. His hands cupped her

buttocks. He let her down only to bring her back up again. And again.

She was barely able to start a rhythm before he interrupted it, simply

lifting her body once more, then settling it in a deep, impaling

embrace. She pressed her torso against his, shaking from the

eroticism, dampening the skin between them both.

He began to walk. In the haze of her passion, she thought they were

going to the bedroom. They weren’t.

He was simply taking her toward the closest wal .

"Who … comes for … you?" Speech was becoming more difficult. In

the mist of their shared ardor, Catherine thought he was talking about

sex, for a moment.

"You. You do," she answered, nipping his neck a bit playfully.

"No." His hands were at her back and she felt him move them, felt

him brace his feet under himself while he lifted her higher, stil

keeping them joined.

Catherine had no choice but to tighten her legs around his strong hips

as he simply walked her backwards. They stopped when she banged

into the wal just hard enough to set the pictures to rattling.

"Who comes … for you? " He repeated the words with the added

emphasis, and Catherine opened her eyes to see silvery light ring his

pupils. This was not sex. Or at least, it was not just sex.

"You." She whispered it and she knew she was pinned, al but unable

to move. She also knew who was doing the pinning. "You do." They

were the same words she'd given him a moment ago, but with a

different tone. His Beast. She was speaking to his Beast, to that side

of him that had saved her, would always save her.

He was satisfied that she'd answered him as he ran his hands along

her arms, disentangling them from his great neck and chaining them

over her head.

The deep baritone was ragged, but firm. "Who wil always... come for

you?" It was growling speech but it was speech. He was both his man

and his beast at the moment, and Catherine would have been hard

pressed to say if he was one more than the other. Almost as hard

pressed figuratively as she was literal y, now.

"You. You wil ." Her pupils were huge, but not from fear. And so far,

he hadn't moved, again, inside her. His mouth traced her left ear, the

one near her scar. He gave it a subtle brush, with his tongue.

"I need something.” His hands kept hers chained. “Give it back." It

was both a request and a command.

Tears sprang to her eyes. "I tried. I can't. I... I don't think I have it,

anymore."

The chuckle was low, and soft.

"Here." He kissed left side of her face, from her temple to the lowest

part of her scar. "Where you always … felt it."

Had she? She struggled to think, and realized he was right. Whether

it was by coincidence or not, she'd always felt a smal , tingling

sensation of awareness in her in her temples when she’d sensed him.

He nuzzled the spot near her scar, warming it, and coaxing.

"Give it back," he whispered, starting to move, inside her.

"Vincent..."

"Who … comes for you? … Always?” He was setting a demanding

rhythm. One that brooked no naysaying. Serving her did not mean

being her slave.

“Let it go, Catherine."

"Vincent... I'm stil afraid. Afraid I'm going to get you kil ed." A tear

tracked down her pale cheek.

"Fear is for our enemies," He growled it, but it seemed easier to

speak. Perhaps speech, like everything else, was something his wild

self could learn. Or perhaps, as Vincent had said, he and the beast

truly were one being, more now than they’d ever been.

He gave his hips a hard snap, forcing her to feel his strength, and just

a little of his rage. “For our enemies. Not for ussss,” the ‘s’ was a

sibilant hiss in her ear. "Give it back, Catherine.”

"No." She shook her head, aware she was refusing, and aware she

couldn't win.

"I'l find you, anyway." The strokes were sure, and deeply strong. So

was the claim.

"You … can't." She gasped her desire, feeling it build. Fast.

A low sound. A near chuckle? Almost? He stopped moving, again.

"Tel it to the men who took you."

It was a cruel thing to say, and she realized that even though Vincent

had no cruelty in him, he definitely had confidence. A confidence he

felt, but rarely articulated when he was his Scholar's self.

She tightened her legs around his hips. He let her arms come down.

"There are evil men out there. More than just the ones we've faced."

Her expression was one of hopelessness, against the tide. Against al

the tides.

He lifted her up the wal , a little more. "Then they better pray. To

whatever dark god they worship, they better pray, Catherine." He

began to move again. His rhythm became harder. The pictures began

to rattle, again.

"Pray... for what?" This was hard loving, and both satisfying and

openly about power, more than sex.

"That they never... meet... us." The last word was met with a deep

thrust, as he pulled her away from the wal just far enough to send

her back hard, against it. He lifted her thighs and bent his knees,

keeping her pinned, but making it so his penetration was more rapid,

more claiming.

Catherine squealed with the pleasure of it as she moved her hands to

his titan’s shoulders. He felt her fingers begin dig into the skin there,

and he reveled in the sensation. His woman was pleased. His woman

was claiming.

The silver blue in his eyes was nearly subsumed by the deep black of

his pupils. The Beast she'd woken up with in the tunnels was here, his

skin flushed dark, his eyes, uncompromising. He growled his pleasure

into her neck before he simply stood back from her, letting her see his

glory. He looked down between them to where their bodies joined,

and then tilted his head up and back, glorying in the feel of her, the

feel of him, penetrating her with a broken pace, and sometimes a

rapid one. One designed to please, for sex's sake alone.

His abdomen tightened, and the slap of his thighs against hers was a

lascivious tattoo of carnal sound.

Her graduation picture fel of the wal and thumped to the carpet.

Her law school diploma tilted, and threatened to do the same.

"Don't stop. Please don't stop." She knew he couldn't answer. Not

now.

He hitched her up the wal , again, changing the angle a little so that

he was more beneath her, loving the feeling of being inside. When

her wetness began to trail down his legs, he smiled a very masculine

smile. She was close. He nuzzled the side of her face, dragging his

bottom lip along the ridge of her scar. His breath was hot, and primal,

in her ear.

"Help me," she grabbed around his neck and held his mouth in place.

"Help me. Find me. Find me, again."

Find her again. Of course. It was what he did, what this part of him

did. What he always did.

Her brain was passion drowned, and his sex ached for release. She

was tiring thanks to his lovemaking and she was... lost. He could feel

it more than see it. Had she not been in the room with him he'd have

thought her far distant. Had she not been literal y impaled upon him,

he'd have thought her gone, again.

Lost. Lost in his lovemaking. Lost as she searched for something she

couldn’t find.

"I can't reach it. I've tried." There were tears in her eyes as she said

it, and he knew she wasn't lying.

"I thought I'd feel it again when I came, but... no."

When she came? With his Poet's self? Sil y love. Did she not know

she needed a Warrior, a Tracker, a Hunter, for this?

Hunting.

He kissed her right temple, then the left. Then kept his mouth near

her scar, nuzzling the skin there, both over her ear and just under it.

Find me. Help me. Her thoughts were almost loud enough to hear.

Of course. Of course he would. She had but to ask. He was pressing

kisses over the area of skin he insisted had something to do with their

bond. His tongue touched a spot near her temple and she began to

tremble, began to feel something there. Vibration. A faint fluttering

of wings.

A growling noise issued from his throat. Short. Sharp sound. He felt

it, too. Or he was helping her to feel it. She had no idea which one

was more true.

His rhythm inside her became something slow, something slow which

barely built in steady earnest, a heartbeat's cadence and a sweat

soaked effort. This time. This time when she came she would...

"Noooo.” She breathed out the long vowel. Softly. So softly no one

but him could have heard it. Her last effort at resistance.

He slapped the wal with his open palm, displeasure plain in both the

sound and the grimace on his face. He would not come until she did,

though he desperately wanted to.

Fluttering, pulsing, tapping against a white mental cage, the bond

Catherine had consigned to the depths of an imaginary hel moved

against her temples. The scar itched, and tingled.

"Take it," Catherine said, resigning. He was the stronger of the two of

them. Surely he could.

He shook his head and the blonde hair flew . No. He couldn't. He

never could. If he could have, he would have. Back when she was

being held by Paracelsus, and by Gabriel. Back when hunting for her

had unleashed...him. Him.

He couldn’t speak. He could only try to think to her . No. No, She. It

is in you. You must give. Yours is the strength. But he couldn’t say it.

Couldn’t say anything, now.

He stopped laboring and simply stood there, panting. She was lax,

with him inside her, unable to concentrate on the two separate

feelings so distant from each other, the one in her core and the one

near her ear. An image penetrated her consciousness.

The bond was in a white cage. A white cage? Why were the bars

white?

But of course she knew.

There is strength in you, She. Strength enough to return our gift. And

strength enough to keep it to yourself, forever. Chained up. Bound.

Bond.

Vincent whimpered against her neck, begging.

Catherine's mind screamed, from every effort she was making.

Fear is for our enemies. She remembered his words.

“Fear is for our enemies.” She said it into his damp ear, and felt him

nod.

She strained against him, rising, lengthening her body, stretching her

torso so that she was poised above him, inside.

"I want a child," she said, aware that of al the fears Gabriel had

implanted inside her, this was the one that needed banishing. He'd

made her afraid. Afraid to love him, afraid to be a part of his life. But

mostly, he'd made her terrified of how vulnerable a child would make

Vincent, make her. She didn't even know if it was possible. Except a

part of her did.

Child! Vincent froze, and her arms stayed locked around his neck,

forbidding him to withdraw.

"I want a child," she repeated. “Your child."

She would want...SHE would want? ... from a Beast?

There is strength in you!! His brain shouted it as his mouth longed to.

She. She. Mother to his children. Oh, She. Oh, holy, holy she!

He screamed as he drove, fists full of hair and body tense with need,

every muscle distended, every vein raised and channeling blood. She

wanted a child? He would give her two. Five. Ten. Whatever she

wanted, and as many as she wanted. Because she had the strength to

believe what he'd never believed, and the strength to live those

beliefs, when he was not even sure that he could hold them as

dreams.

"Give me a son," she cooed, picturing a blanket in her mind's eye. The

blanket was blue. So were the eyes that stared up at her, from its

folds. She tried hard to send him the image.

The image of his child. Their child.

Her womb clenched as the white cage door was obliterated. The freed

bond slammed into his awareness just as her climax engulfed them

both. His answering completion tore its way through his body and

into hers. A son. A son. Yes. Yessssss. He needed to make a son. She

commanded it.

He saw the blanket as he saw her cradling an infant. Eyes like his and

skin like hers. Male. Beautiful. His.

His cry of climactic joy trailed away to nothing as he held her with his

body weight against the wal , his pelvis thrust forward, head back,

eyes closed, holding the vision, and the sensation. Her feminine

ejaculate was running between his legs as his amazed tears made twin

tracks into the blonde hair at his temples.

Bond. Bond. Bond. The word rocked him mental y as it caused him to

rock, physical y. He swayed on his feet, and then steadied.

The bond engulfed and enfolded him as it surged free from her, and

settled, between them.

She felt tired, and triumphant at the same time. She had used his

courage to beat back her fears, and she was a limp treasure in his

arms. She'd scored his shoulder again, in a wound he didn’t

remember her inflicting as she came, and her left leg was about to

cramp from their awkward position, and he knew it al , felt it al , loved

it al .

Home. Home. Home. She was home. Final y.

He'd brought her home.

From a journey that had begun for her with a terrible kidnapping, and

ended here, in her home, the balcony view a few feet away.

From the cruel hands of evil men, to the claws of a sublime Beast,

she’d travel ed.

The Beast had brought her home. Final y.

She was about to whimper and try to shift her leg when he simply slid

down the wal , bearing her gently as feathers, to the floor. He

reached for his cape and tugged it over them as a blanket. She curled

against him right where she’d dropped on the carpeted floor, un-

protesting.

She slept with her arms tight around him, not al owing a mil imeter of

space between them.

--

She wasn't sure how long they slept. Hours, it felt like. At one point

during the night she thought she heard her mantle clock chime, but

she wasn't sure. And she was far too tired to lift her head to look. For

whatever reason, her floor felt like the most comfortable place in the

world.

Warm.

Tickle.

Warm. Just warm, again. Then the soft, tickling sensation again. His

mouth. Then his hair. His silky, flaxen hair, moving across her

abdomen.

He was kissing her stomach, brushing gentle, breathless kisses back

and forth, in the soft plain of skin between her navel and her curls.

Left... right. Left... right.

"Love you. Love you." He said to her skin, planting kiss after kiss

across her bel y.

She was too replete to rouse, she thought, but stil felt herself

wakening.

"Vincent?" She whispered the word. Either he didn't hear or he did,

and he was busy.

"She is amazing." He kissed the skin left and right again. "Your

mother is. Amazing. Strong. So strong. Sometimes when my

strength falters... when I forget to believe… hers is where I go." He

was speaking to the soft swel beneath her navel, laying between her

legs a bit awkwardly, making love to the skin, there.

"Vincent?" She said it louder this time, louder so this time he had to

hear.

"It's happening. Right now," he whispered, kissing her low, and a little

to the left.

"It is?" her green eyes were wide.

"It woke me up. You... cal ed to me."

Had she? No. She had no knowledge of... but something had cal ed

to him. Something. Someone. She was astonished.

"You can feel it?" she asked. She almost didn’t dare move. She

should stay stil , yes? She had no idea.

Vincent’s voice was ful of reverence. "I feel what you are feeling.

Perhaps even when you're not aware you're feeling it." He brushed

the white skin with his palm, in wonder, and planted another kiss

there.

Catherine concentrated, aware that she could feel no change inside,

could sense no difference, in her body.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"A son. Or a daughter. I can't be sure which one," he admitted,

hoping she would forgive him if he fathered daughters first. He

wanted one. Wanted to spoil it, so badly.

"But you're sure?" she asked, sitting up slowly, putting a protective

hand to her abdomen, overtop of his.

"Just a few minutes ago. The bond. It began ... singing to me."

"Singing?" It was a whispered word of amazement.

"A beautiful song. Angel song. So soft, so quiet... just... barely there.

But strong. Strong like you."

"I wish I could hear it!" Tears sprang to her green eyes. His hand lifted

away then pressed hers over her own skin, where his palm had been

warming it. She’d conceived on her left side.

"There. Right... there," he whispered, overcome. "Put your head

against mine," he told her, keeping his hand over top of hers.

She did, and the embrace was similar to the one they’d shared in the

cave.

“It's the sound angel wings make, when they're free,” he whispered.

“A fluttering sound, but there's music in it. Like ... like when the

strains of Schubert faded away, when it started to rain."

Schubert. Catherine held her hand to her womb and remembered the

sound of raindrops hitting the crosshatched grate over her head the

night Vincent had taken her to the Music Chamber to hear the

Unfinished Symphony. They'd barely made it past the introduction

when the musicians in the front had stopped, shortly fol owed by the

drier contingent in the back.

Catherine strained her internal ears and listened...

And there it was. A soft flutter of life, just as he'd said. Barely there,

yet... indomitable. Unfinished.

"He's so... strong!" She smiled her pleasure as she felt herself become

pregnant with their child.

"Like his mother," Vincent said, aware they’d both just used the

masculine pronoun.

It took her a moment to even register that while she'd loved her

Beast, she'd woken up with her Vincent. Her Vincent. She would

always think of him that way.

"My Vincent," she breathed, exhaling joy.

"You are not afraid?" he asked.

The look she gave him was beatific.

"I think with the two of you beside me, I can do … anything," she said

with a mix of both elation and solemnity.

"I think you dare to dream dreams I don't even think are possible for

me," he answered, awestruck once again by her incredible strength.

"I think that's maybe my purpose for us," she answered, loving it

when he squeezed her hand over their unborn child.

"And I think I'm going to keep doing that." She kept her head near

his. "And when this little one comes, he or she wil have dreams al

their own, and wil teach us both. And we can share those dreams, al

together. As a family."

The look he gave her was one of pure love.

“Dreams together. As a family,” he repeated. What an amazing thing

to have.

And they did.

--fin--

No matter where you are in your own fairy tale, I wish you love ~

Cindy