Part X

Then tunnel entrance in this building was hidden by no more than a few empty crates and a metal door with a false padlock, and Vincent made a mental note to discuss something more secure with Mouse. The building would be sold or rented out to complete strangers at some point, and it was always better not to be surprised by these things.

A glance showed him that Andrea had already fallen into the deep, boneless sleep of young children, and he turned his attention to Melody, who was still awake, but listless. He hoped that the force of Sharpe's blows to her head hadn't been enough to cause real damage, but he also knew better than to take chances, especially with children. So he tried to strike up a conversation with her about her name, but her answers were short, and then she lost interest altogether. He changed course and segued into music, only to discover that, besides a few Christmas carols, they had absolutely no common point of reference on that topic, a fact which she clearly found most distressing.

"You've never heard it?" she demanded too loudly next to his ear. "Never, ever? Don't you have radios where you come from?"

"Radio waves don't pass through tons of solid rock," he answered.

"Mm," she answered with clear dissatisfaction. She tightened her grip with her arms and her legs, now less content to hang despondently. "But you have to know it. It's the most romantic song ever."

He glanced at Jacqueline, who failed rather completely at hiding her amused smirk.

"Then I'm very sorry I've remained in ignorance for so long. Will you sing it for me?" This was actually the point of bringing up music to begin with; singing would keep her from dozing until Father could look at her, and remembering the words and tune would test her cognition.

"How about I teach it to you, and you can teach it to the others, 'kay?" Without waiting for an answer, she told him, "Okay, the first part sounds like this." She hummed a melody. "Right? Can you do that?" She hummed it again.

This wasn't exactly what he had had in mind. Brian's sudden interest in the scene playing out between his daughter and Vincent, and Jacqueline's sudden fascination with the wall to her left, did not bode well for his pride if he continued. But Melody was insistent, even enthusiastic, and it would meet his goal of keeping her engaged.

So he did his best to copy her melody. He knew the he had no great talent for music, but he could carry a tune, and Melody was satisfied.

"Okay, so then the first verse goes like this:

Jesse is a friend, yeah

I know he's been a good friend of mine.

But lately something's changed that ain't hard to define

Jesse's got himself a girl and I want to make her mine."

"This is a romantic song?" He was stalling. He caught Jacqueline's shoulders shaking, even as she kept her face turned away from him.

"It's very romantic. It's that, what's that one word? Dad?" She turned to look at Brian. "You know, unra, um, unrek, you know, that one."

"Unrequited," Brian supplied with poorly concealed amusement.

"Yeah, that's the one. Unrequited love. It means when a boy falls in love with a girl, but the girl doesn't love him back. Isn't that sad? Anyway, so now it's your turn. Come on." She kicked Vincent twice with the heels of her shoes. "You have to go now."

"Unrequited love has been a common theme for writers and musicians for centuries," Vincent said instead. "In fact, it's said that the author of The Divine Comedy, Dante Alighieri, only met the woman he loved most in the world twice in his life."

"How can you know if you really love someone if you've only met them twice? Unless maybe it was two really long meetings, like they went camping together for a week each time, or something. That's weird. Okay, now it's your turn. Here, it goes like this, remember?" She sang the first verse again.

His attempts at tactful evasion thusly thwarted, Vincent resigned himself to being coached through the first verse of "Jesse's Girl," much to the delight of both Jacqueline and Brian.

When they got to the chorus, Jacqueline, and then Brian, had mercy on him and joined in, alternately singing and laughing. If their voices were high and slightly manic, if their laughter was too intense for the situation and slightly hysterical, Vincent was simply grateful for the release after the terrors of the last hours. He knew the levity would disintegrate to nothing once they reached the home tunnels and started dealing with reality again, but this in-between time could offer some measure of comfort until then, a buffer, however slight, against the truth of this night.

Melody sang the loudest, finding satisfaction in volume, and they were just transitioning between concrete-lined tunnels and bare stone when Vincent knew that something was desperately wrong, that the comfort he should feel in the descent had been subverted by something, someone—

"I hate to break up this wonderful, little sing-along," a cold, self-satisfied voice called from behind them, and an icy silence lodged in all four throats. The three adults whirled around, horrified to find Sharpe a dozen yards down the tunnel, his pistol raised. The side of his face had swollen and started to discolor where Vincent had struck him, which precluded the nasty grin from earlier, but his eyes glinted all the more dangerously, even in the dim light. "But I think we've come far enough."

Melody's arms tightened to a strangle-hold around Vincent's neck, but he pried them apart, forcing the girl to slide down off his back. He reached one hand out to keep her behind him, a low rumbling starting in his chest.

"Now, none of that," Sharpe said. "You're much too interesting to kill outright, but," he shrugged. He raised the pistol, and with a decisive cock of his head, he fired.

The explosion of the shot filled the narrow corridor, and as the cacophony faded from everyone's ears, Vincent stumbled backwards, clutching his right shoulder and only just missing treading on Melody. He dropped to his knees, the harsh grunts of his breathing loud in the sudden silence. The burning pain, the incomprehensible shock of the wound, overrode his every sense for long moments before his mind began to clear enough to form anything like coherent thoughts. He pressed the heel of his hand tightly against the flow of blood and flinched away when someone touched him.

"Vincent? Vincent, it's okay. It's just me. Vincent? God, that's bleeding fast. Okay. Okay. We'll get help. Hang on."

Vincent raised his head enough to look into Dominic's pale, half-panicked face. The pain slowed Vincent's thoughts down to a crawl, and he spent several seconds trying to take in the scene around him and understand the pieces; Sharpe lay on the ground once again where he had stood only moments before. Dominic had dropped his sentry staff when he knelt before Vincent. Brian still had a wide-eyed Andrea clinging to his back. Jacqueline cradled Melody against her, whispering soothingly into her hair.

"I heard you guys on my rounds, but then I saw him. So I followed him," Dominic explained in a rush. "I wanted to warn you, but he would have heard me behind him if I did. I was waiting till I could get back to the outpost. Oh, man. I'm sorry, Vincent. I should have done something sooner. Oh, man. Can you stand? We have to get you down to Father. He's going to kill me. I mean, after Winslow does first."

Vincent didn't answer immediately. His mind was still focused on the unconscious man on the ground, the man he had left alive to follow them into their sanctuary. Finally, he looked up at Dominic again. "Take Brian and his family down to your post."

"But—"

"Send word to Father. I'll be there in a moment."

"You're hurt."

"I'll be all right."

Dominic didn't argue further, but he also didn't move.

Vincent leaned toward him and looked him in the eye. "Dominic, I'll be all right, thanks to you. Now I need you to take care of our friends and send word to Father. Please."

Dominic nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, sure. Okay."

He grabbed his staff from where he'd laid it next to him and stood. "Okay, all of you, come with me."

Brian herded his girls after Dominic and out of sight. Jacqueline lingered, but gave in at his look.

With the wall for support, Vincent stood and stared at Sharpe. This man had seen too much. His heart was too tainted to keep their secrets. What choice was there?

Vincent hung his head, hating the moment he found himself caught in. There would be no darkness, no other, to blame. This would be done clear and sober.

Others would come. More guns. More violence. More blood. The blood of his family, his brothers and sisters, the children they raised with the promise of something greater, something lasting and beautiful. Their world would crumple and die if this man took their secret away with him. And there was no one to protect them, except themselves. Except Vincent. He had allowed this stranger to follow him this far down. This was his responsibility.

He left the wall and knelt down beside Sharpe, who groaned and started to shift. Before he could think about it too clearly, Vincent reached down with both hands, took hold of the Sharpe's head, and twisted past the point of resistance, until he felt a snap. He shuddered as the man's head fell limp from his grasp, one final breath seeping from the newly dead body. Vincent closed his eyes and waited for the nausea and the pain in his shoulder to subside.

"He was a monster."

Vincent looked down the corridor, at Brian standing a dozen yards away.

"He was a man," Vincent countered.

"You could have used the gun."

"Would that have made his death any less my responsibility?"

"You had no choice. Your world, he would have—"

"Yes."

Brian said nothing further.

With his good hand, Vincent pulled the bottom of his shirt out from the waist of his trousers. It was awkward, but he managed to get the hem up to his teeth to tear the fabric; from there he could rip a large swath of unbloodied cloth inch by inch with the fingers of his good hand. He was reminded all too clearly of the events of that very afternoon as he rolled up the cloth and passed it under the collar of his shirts and vest, to press against the wound in his shoulder.

Brian crossed the distance between them and knelt down. "What can I do to help?"

Vincent considered. Finally, he pushed Father's cloak off of his good shoulder and teased the seam of his shirt out from under his vest. Again using his teeth to start a tear, he pulled this sleeve off, much as he had done for Mouse. Brian tugged the sleeve down and off of his arm, and a little more careful tearing had the fabric torn into two long pieces.

"I need you to bind my shoulder tightly, to slow the bleeding."

Brian nodded his understanding, and at Vincent's direction, used both strips of cloth to press the makeshift bandage against the seeping wound.

With a deep, steadying breath, Vincent pushed himself to his feet, and before he was halfway up, Brian had grabbed his good elbow to help. He pulled Vincent's arm over his shoulders to take what weight he could.

"Thank you," Vincent said as they started walking.

"You saved our lives," Brian said after a minute or two of pained progress down the corridor. "After what I did, the things I said, you came for us. Why?"

"You would have died," he said because it was the simplest, the most obvious.

"Not much of a loss to you."

"You don't deserve to die for your mistakes, Brian."

After a few more slow steps, he said, "I'll tell them all that I killed Sharpe."

"No good will come out of lying," Vincent answered.

"It really is a whole 'nother world down here."

They were nearing the sentry alcove; Vincent could hear Dominic's quick tapping and Jacqueline singing a low, soothing tune.

Brian stopped suddenly, and Vincent lifted his head enough to regard him in silent askance.

"I'm sorry," Brian said. When Vincent had no response to offer, he went on. "I never said that to you. And…and, if I'm honest, I wasn't before. Father was right; I didn't understand what I had done. Not really. I think I'm starting to now. I'm sorry, Vincent."

"What happened today was no single person's fault. Our—"

"The knife was in my hand," Brian answered grimly, firmly.

Vincent nodded and started them moving forward again. "You're forgiven, Brian."

Dominic ducked out of the sentry alcove then to meet them. "Winslow says he's on his way. What should I do about the intruder?"

"Leave him," Vincent said.

"But—"

"The others will take care of Sharpe. I need you to stay here, Dominic. Keep to your post and make sure that no one else finds their way Below until the entrance is secured."

"But I—"

"Look, kid—"

"Dominic," the young man informed Brian sharply.

"Dominic," Brian amended. "Your quick thinking saved our lives already. Vincent needs to know he can count on you to keep watch for him now."

Vincent regarded the other man with more than slight surprise, but he tried to hide it away when Dominic looked to him for confirmation. He nodded. "Please, Dominic."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. No one's getting past here."

"Thank you. Please, tell Jacqueline to bring Andrea and Melody; we're going Below."

Dominic nodded and disappeared.

"You don't want him to see the body," Brian observed quietly.

Vincent closed his eyes against the truth of that deception. "It's not the way for him to learn. When the crisis is past—when we can talk—when the Council understands—then."

"And the body?"

"Sharpe's remains will likely be thrown into the Abyss."

"You all have an abyss?"

Jacqueline appeared with one girl firmly in each hand, and they restarted their exhausted, pained descent.

Brian snorted. "Of course you all have an abyss down here. Why wouldn't you? I bet the only thing you don't have down here is an old pirate shipwreck."

"That would be difficult to imagine," Vincent conceded.

They shuffled on in silence. Corridors that Vincent usually traversed with hardly a thought suddenly stretched long and arduous ahead of them. He had begun to adjust to the burning pain in his shoulder and the way that the ache seemed to radiate everywhere until it hurt even to breathe. Some small part of his mind even manage to find perverse humor in the way that the knife wound in his forearm, so effectively ignored during the crises of the evening, now throbbed with a malice that even the bullet in his shoulder couldn't overshadow. And no doubt Father would scold him back into prepubescence if he had torn any of his stiches out—nor did he hold out much honest hope that he hadn't.

Eventually, he heard voices ahead of them. After another few moments, Winslow, James, and Ernesto were hurrying up the tunnel toward them.

Winslow took Brian's place under Vincent's arm without preamble. Once he had himself situated, he said, "If you survive tonight, Vincent, I swear I'm gonna kill you in the morning."

With the relief of placing most of his weight on Winslow's shoulders, far more than Brian could take, Vincent drudged up a small smile. "I'll survive."

"Yeah, well, it won't be for your good sense or your efforts of self-preservation. This intruder, where is he?"

"He's dead," Vincent answered, all traces of mirth gone. He shared a sidelong look with Winslow, who nodded his understanding.

"We'll take care of it," Ernesto said grimly. "Glad you made it back, Vincent."

With a nod, James followed him up the tunnel.

With Winslow's strength, the journey back home progressed much faster. Brian and Jacqueline had each taken one of the children on their backs, and it was with immense relief that everyone approached the hospital chamber. Father was there and waiting to fuss and exclaim over Vincent and the danger he had put himself in, but the younger man implored him to silence.

"Melody was struck over the head, Father," Vincent said. "You must see to her first."

"You've been shot," Father protested. "The bleeding alone—" but he met Vincent's look, and as a doctor, he nodded. He left his son to Mary's care.

She helped him to remove Father's cloak first, then eased him into a chair behind a screen to help him remove the makeshift bandage and his shirts. She clucked over the bullet hole, which was still seeping red blood to darken and congeal on his skin and in the thick mat of hair that covered most of his torso. It made him lightheaded just to look—that is, if it wasn't the bleeding making him lightheaded—but he tried to assure her that it looked worse than it was.

"You'll need replacements for these, as well," Mary said with a small sigh as she bundled up the remains of his blood-soaked shirts.

Vincent ducked his head at the reminder of how much clothing he'd managed to ruin in a single day, a heedless waste of precious resource. Even with what was salvageable, he would essentially have newly made shirts in the end. It was far from the end of their world, he knew, but it would be a needless frustration.

Seeing his reaction, Mary clasped his good hand in one of hers. "Oh, don't listen to me complaining, Vincent. We're just happy you came back to us. A few shirts are nothing to that."

Father came around the screen then, and Vincent avoided meeting his gaze.

"Mary, the children are exhausted and frightened," Father said. "Would you see to making them comfortable?"

"Of course." She gave Vincent's hand one last squeeze and left them.

"Melody?" Vincent asked as Father settled down next to him and leaned in to frown over the damage.

"Fine, fine. I'll see her again in the morning, to be sure, but there's no sign of serious damage. This bullet will have to come out immediately. And you're staying here tonight; I won't have you moving even as far as the end of the bed in your condition. I'm surprised you're still conscious." He said this last as though he believed that his son's alertness was an intentional affront to his medical knowledge. "And you've torn your stitches, no doubt."

Vincent followed his glance down to the bandage around his forearm, the crisp white marred by deep red blots.

"Father, the intruder, the man who followed us—"

Father's hands stilled, and he sighed. "I know. Winslow told me. And Mister Kessler. Vincent, you had no choice."

"I know that."

Father nodded, his hands and his expression suddenly more gentle. "Then we'll leave it there for the time being. I'm glad you came back to us at all."

"So am I, Father."