As usual, I do not own the characters or the premise. Those belong to the CW…
"Though lovers be lost, love shall not, and death shall have no dominion." –Dylan Thomas
"And Death Shall Have No Dominion" (AU-S2-08)
Chapter 1
As Vincent slammed the guy's head into the cement block wall and heard the crunch of bone and sinew, he smiled in satisfaction—more than he had in a long while. Maybe it was the smell of dead animals all around that end of the shipyard—a miserable failed attempt at smuggling the poor exotic creatures—he didn't know. But the place reeked of it. A disease had taken them all. They never stood a chance. But the guy, supposedly the one who'd ordered this carnage, died too quickly.
His sensitivity to the smell made the blood lust roar in his veins. He wanted justice! But as he looked around for another victim, he heard the sirens. He needed to leave the scene before the police arrived.
There was something still hot in his gut, and it drove him home . . . toward her—Catherine.
"One day at a time," that's what Catherine told herself aloud as she dabbed on her make-up, preparing for work. Her father's death was still fresh in her mind, but life went on and so would she. After all, she had a lot to look forward to. She and Vincent were growing closer together, day by day. In fact, he was becoming her rock.
She missed him on the nights he didn't spend with her, but she needed the sleep, especially on work days such as this where staying up all night didn't exactly equate to her being terribly sharp the next morning.
She held up the chintz blouse, a recent purchase. The fabric was silky, cool and white - a power color. It made her feel professional.
Having just done up the buttons, she was barefooting it into the bedroom to select her shoes when she was suddenly yanked to the side and flattened up against the wall. Before she could do anything more than gasp, his hands and mouth were all over her. Vincent!
The intensity with which he claimed her was breathtaking. Literally. They hadn't had an encounter quite like this since he'd first returned. Not that she was complaining—just short of time. She started to tell him that when he scooped her up, threw her down on the bed and covered her with his body, his murmurs and growls telling her just how strong his need was. A sharp tingle of excitement ran up her body from toes to nose.
He smelled faintly of salt sea air and she fleetingly wondered what he'd been doing all night. When he moved from her mouth to kissing her neck, she was finally able to speak, although gasping was a better description for what came out. The bristle on his chin was doing crazy shivery things to her brain, not to mention her tender skin. "Uh . . . wait . . . I need to . . . tell you something. Vincent! . . . I have a meeting . . ."
He wasn't exactly paying attention and pretty soon she didn't care, either.
Vincent started undoing the long line of buttons on her shirt and grunted in frustration at how snugly they were fitted. Catherine started to reach up to help him when he found his own solution. The rip of fabric was loud in the quiet room.
He froze, his eyes on her. "I didn't mean to do that. Or that," he added when more ripped. Then he covered his face and rolled away from her onto his back. They were both panting. When she turned to him, his eyes—which had been faintly glowing moments before—were tightly closed.
Still reeling from the surge of her own adrenalin, it took her a moment to find her voice. "Are you okay?" The whole incident was wildly different from their normal, sweet and slow encounters. They usually worked up to frenzy, not started at it. She shivered involuntarily.
"Yeah. Give me a minute."
When his breathing finally settled, he peeked over at her with a painful grin. "Oops." He slid his fingers, nails now dull and smooth, through the flimsy, shredded fabric on the front of her blouse.
She glanced down with a laugh. "No, it's okay. I'll . . . I'll just go change. But you owe me one, Mister," she said, and dropped a kiss to his lips. "This blouse was brand new."
Vincent nodded and sat up, still rubbing his head. "I don't know what came over me."
"No. It's okay. I'm just . . . I'm sorry I can't stay," she said. Sorrier than he knew. She was pretty sure she felt as frustrated as he looked. "I've got to be across town for a deposition in—" she looked at her watched and cringed, "ten minutes!"
Vincent frowned. He wasn't usually so careless, especially with Catherine. His head hurt. "Go. I'll . . . clean this up." He picked up the remains of her blouse as she ran into the closet to change into something else. "Must be this job I had last night. Been down at the docks dealing with smugglers of the worst kind."
"Don't worry about it."
He scanned her up and down when she reappeared. She seemed fine, had even straightened her hair again, no worse for wear. Wish he could say the same for himself.
"We'll talk tonight when I'm off?"
"Okay."
"I don't know, Tess. It was like he was a different person. Aggressive."
Tess shot her a look. "Aggressive?" Alarmed, she dragged her partner off to one of the alcoves set at intervals in the long hallway of the Federal Building. "The words 'Vincent' and 'aggressive' in the same sentence are terrifying enough, but he was aggressive with you?"
"Not in an . . . angry way. More like sexually—"
"Okay. Too much information!" Tess sighed at her partner. "The man is incredibly strong, Cat. He can seriously hurt you. I hope to God he's being careful because if I ever hear of him injuring you, even accidentally—"
"Tess, he has never hurt me and never will. But I am worried. He didn't seem to be his normal self this morning."
"Whatever his normal self is . . . ?"
"Okay, enough. He said something about being down at the docks. Have you heard of anything going on there over the last twenty-four hours?"
"No, but I'll look into it."
"Thanks."
When Catherine finally returned home in the evening, she was a little surprised to find no note or text from him. She tried his burner. No answer. Rather than wait around, she fixed herself something quick to eat and headed over to JT's—the old Gentlemen's Club he and Vincent had been occupying ever since the warehouse was destroyed.
"I haven't seen him, but then, he doesn't exactly keep me informed of his whereabouts anymore. Says he has more freedom to come and go. Personally, I don't like being out of contact."
"I saw him this morning—briefly—but we talked of getting together tonight. When he didn't show, I thought you might know where he was?"
JT got up from the table to take his microwave dinner to the trash. "Not a clue."
When she didn't say anything else and continued to stand there, he lifted his eyebrows at her.
Catherine looked around the room. JT had never been comfortable with her, one on one. She thought by now things would be easier, but he always seemed somewhat suspicious of her. Or perhaps jealous was the word. He had been Vincent's only friend and ally for ten years; it made sense that he felt crowded out of his friend's life since meeting her. But that was far from the truth. Vincent was an extremely loyal friend.
"Has he seemed different to you lately?"
"Define 'different.'"
"I don't know. More intense?"
"Not that I've noticed. Maybe he saves that for you."
Okay. This was going nowhere. She turned to go, but saw the open card on the edge of his desk.
"JT, what's this? Someone's birthday?"
"Uh, oh. You weren't supposed to see that."
"Why not?" Her eyes widened. "Is it Vincent's birthday? When?"
He frowned. "We don't do birthdays, remember?"
"But you have them. Is it already past?"
JT relented. "It's two days from now, but we made plans to watch a game together. Tomorrow."
"Oh. Well, okay. No problem. I'll plan on celebrating it with him in two days, then. That will work, won't it?"
"I guess. But don't tell him I told you. He gets kinda funny about it every year."
No doubt because he can't share it with family or other friends. Maybe that was what had him so amped up this morning—anticipating a day that didn't exactly have a lot of good memories attached to it in recent years.
"I'll pretend I found out through his military records." That's when she realized he'd had a birthday very close to when she'd first found him and he'd never said a word. Keeping all of that in mind, she headed out. Tess would come to the rescue.
"So I found out there was some trouble at the docks the other night. Smugglers. They found an open crate with a bunch of dead people and animals."
"Animals?"
"Some kind of exotic animal smuggling ring. Mostly birds. But they were all dead."
"Dead—how?"
"It's not what you're thinking. Coroner said the animals all died of a disease. The people died because they'd run out of clean air and water long before they made it ashore in their container from hell. Pretty gruesome. There was one suspicious death, though—one of the dock workers. The uniforms on the ground said it looked like at least one of the animals must have survived and killed the poor guy when he opened the container."
"But you think it was Vincent?"
"I don't know. But Reynolds took a personal interest. He went down to the scene."
"That doesn't give me any warm fuzzies."
"No, but if it was Vincent, then that means maybe Reynolds was there covering up his involvement?"
Catherine shuddered to think what that meant. She tried Vincent's burner cell again. It went straight to voice mail. She sighed. Surely Michael Reynolds would let her know if something was wrong?
They stepped out of the empty subway car into the platform. "Okay, tell me again why you are dragging me downtown not to go to a club?"
"We're shopping—for a very special gift."
"For Vincent. I get it. But what are we looking for? I mean, the man has almost nothing to his name. You could buy him practically anything and he'd be happy. Get him a shirt. Wait. I have a better idea. Get that man a new jacket—preferably one without pockets!"
Catherine laughed, despite herself. She'd add jeans to that pocket-less list, as well. No. Clothes were too easy and nothing special.
"I know. How about a gift card? Then he could get whatever he needed. You'd be showing him your practical side."
"Tess, no! I'm not going to give the man I love, who has saved my life on numerous occasions, such an impersonal gift. This has to be something special. Unique." Oh, bother. She was never any good at this.
"Well, homemade gifts are the best—at least, according to my brothers. One year they had this brilliant idea that everyone in the family had to make Christmas gifts for each other—nothing store bought."
"How did that work out? I mean, I don't see you as the crafty type."
"No?" Tess gawked, mock insulted. "Well, I'll have you know . . . I cooked! Gran's pumpkin spice bread. It was a family recipe, but I made it myself—a dozen little tiny loaves. You should have seen them, they were so adorable. And not burnt at all. It wasn't anything fancy, but it tasted pretty darn good, if I do say so myself."
Tess said that so proudly, Cat had to laugh again. "I'm impressed." Her partner wasn't exactly the Suzy Homemaker type. She herself loved to cook, but she'd cooked for Vincent on a number of occasions—it wouldn't exactly be special. But a homemade gift . . . hmmm. "I'll have to give that some thought. Meanwhile, can we go into that world market place? Maybe something in there will spark an idea."
They were about to leave empty handed, except for the jewel-colored jacket Tess managed to find when she should have been helping her hunt, when Catherine spotted it—a small, painted box. "Tess—what about this?" she asked, picking it up.
"A box? Gee, nothing says 'I love you' like a black lacquered box. It's pretty, I suppose, but what would he use it for? Chips on game day? Too small."
"No. Have you ever heard of a memory box? Or some people call them promise boxes."
"For what? Promises?"
"Okay, I'm being serious. A memory box—it's a place to keep little reminders of the special events in your life or relationship. People give them at weddings in some cultures." She picked up the small chest and examined it from all sides. It was on the plain side, but then he's a guy—guys like plain. The box wasn't the important part anyway. It was what went inside. She placed it into her cart. She had two days to fill it with memories . . . .
When they got home, her phone buzzed. "No," she answered JT's question. "He isn't with me. I thought he was spending the evening with you. Perhaps he got hung up somewhere." She sounded more confident than she felt.
"Nevermind," JT informed her. "He just showed up."
Catherine relaxed for the first time all day. "Perfect. Tell him I'll see him tomorrow."
"You want another slice before I put it away?" JT carried the pizza box over to the refrigerator with a frown. Vincent had barely eaten any of it.
"Nah, I'm good."
"Pizza makes the best breakfast, anyway." As JT cleared a spot on the coffee table, he spread his chemistry tests open on it. He still had some papers to grade before classes the next morning.
Vincent took the hint and got up. "I think I'll—" He made a little gasping sound, then whoosh! He sneezed, blowing JT's papers off the table and onto the floor.
"Whoa! Cover it up next time! Geez. Who do you think you are—Clark Kent? You got enough wind to knock down a horse! What is this—a new manimal ability coming on?" He bent to pick up the scattered exams.
"So sorry, man. I didn't see that coming." He helped JT.
"You catching a cold or-or- what?"
"Not that I know of, but—wow. Maybe it's the mold in this old place."
"The mold that didn't bother you last week?"
"I don't think I've sneezed in years."
"I've never seen you catch anything. I thought it was all part of your suped-up DNA. You sure you're fine?"
"Yeah." Vincent shrugged. "What's a little cold?"
"For you? Who knows. You catch something from Catherine? Because you're not exactly around a lot of virus-spewing children or anything."
"No, Catherine's fine. I don't know, JT. Must be a head cold. I do have a slight headache. Probably best if I don't hang around you much. I don't want to get you or Catherine sick."
"I'm fine, but why don't I take a blood sample, just in case? You said you felt hot the other night?"
"I don't really think it warrants any panic, JT. But I'm kind of worn out. I think I'll head to bed early tonight, if you don't mind."
"Hey. No worries. Games on are all the time." JT watched him go with a frown. The only other time in ten years that Vincent had acted peculiar was when he'd had those blackouts and that led to him developing more super senses. He shrugged. Maybe it was nothing, but maybe he'd keep that tranq gun with him tonight, just in case.
"I'm coming over."
"Catherine, you don't have to. I'm fine." Vincent paced his room talking on his cell phone. "This just feels like a cold virus, but I don't want you catching it."
"I'm not going to let you lie in bed, suffering, with no one to take care of you. JT has classes. You need someone there and I've got the day off."
Despite his repeated protests, Catherine was having none of it. She showed up an hour later with a bag of cold remedies and first aid supplies, along with a couple movies on DVD. If he had to be sick in bed, at least he'd have something to do.
When he met her at the door, she took one look at him and frowned. He looked dead on his feet. "You poor baby," she said and pushed a lock of sweaty hair back from his face. Without further talk, she pulled him through the living room to the back where the bedrooms were. JT came out of the study.
"I didn't expect for you to get the door. Wow."
"I know. JT, he looks bad."
Vincent straightened. "Hey. I resemble that remark. And I am standing right here. If you're both going to insult me, you could at least—" He swayed, then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed to the floor. JT just managed to get in front of him in time to soften the fall.
"Vincent!"
"Think you can help me get him to his bed?" JT asked.
"Sure."
After they half-dragged him to the room and got him up onto the bed, Catherine removed his shoes and shirt and made him more comfortable. Then she curled up next to him so she could change the cool cloths on his head every few minutes.
"What do you think?" she asked quietly, as JT hovered.
"I think I'll take that blood sample while he's out."
"Good idea."
Vincent roused an hour later. He turned his head and met her eyes. "Hey."
"Hey, yourself. No, don't try to get up. Just rest."
"I'm sorry about this."
"Don't worry about it. How's your head? Still hurt?"
"Yeah. But it's better in this low light."
Because he had extremely sensitive eyes.
"I just wish you didn't have to see me like this."
Catherine grinned at him. "I know you don't want me to see you all puffy and everything, but really—you are not that vain. And I've seen you at your worst, remember?"
"I'd listen to her if I were you, Big Guy." JT walked into the room and turned to Catherine. "You okay, or you want me to stay?"
"No. We'll be fine."
"I can take care of myself," Vincent protested. "You two don't need to play nursemaid."
"Yeah. How's that working out for you? You fainted like a girl the last time you tried to walk across the room."
"JT, I didn—"
"You did." JT and Catherine said simultaneously. That shut him up.
When JT returned later in the day and Vincent was sleeping, albeit fitfully, he sent Catherine home to get some rest, herself, and took over the nanny duties.
When he heard growling noises sometime later, he checked on him. Vincent wasn't in a good place. JT had grabbed the tranq gun, but when he pushed open the door, his buddy hadn't transformed—that was the good part. But he was burning up with fever.
He dialed Catherine. "You better get over here," he said when she answered the phone on the first ring.
By the time she arrived, Vincent had slipped into unconsciousness. JT checked his vitals then looked back into his microscope. He didn't like what he was seeing. "Heart's racing; temp's off the charts. What was he exposed to on his last mission?"
Catherine blanched. "Why? You think this isn't just a normal virus?"
"There's that word again. Nothing about him is normal."
She tried to think. "He-he said something about dead exotic animals—mostly birds. It was some kind of smuggling ring."
"From China?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"All those scary new flu strains come from China."
"Okay. So, if it's just a flu—"
"Bird flu. Different." JT went over to his computer and tapped the keys. "I'll see what I can find out from the CDC. He's in superb physical condition. By all accounts, he should be able to recover from it easily."
"But?" She heard the unspoken word.
JT sighed, worried. "Normally, Vincent's white blood cells do a fantastic job of fighting off infections of any kind, but not this time. Uh-oh."
"A new flu strain?"
"Yeah, but this one only affects birds." When she didn't react, he added. "This matches a new strain on their website. Humans can't catch it—neither of us will."
"Okay. That's good, then."
"For you and me, yes. Not for Vincent."
"Why not?"
"Because it's a disease only transmitted animal to animal—rare birds. Something Vincent has in his DNA."
"But now that you know what it is, you can treat it?"
"Nobody can treat it. They don't have vaccines for that—only for human viruses. Nobody cares about the animal ones. If he isn't any better by morning, I'm not sure what we're going to do."
But Catherine was. She left Vincent thrashing and mumbling incoherently the next morning and went straight to the precinct and Michael Reynolds' office.