Every night, before retiring to the den to watch the evening news, Gabriel toured his house. It was a ritual he undertook, not out of pride, but simply to keep a running inventory. He kept a list in his mind of all the treasures he owned, and another of all the treasures he desired, and every night he compared the two. Invariably, the second list was longer.
His past always accompanied him on these nightly tours, the spectre of Raul's ghost following him down the long hallways and through the silent rooms. Short, swarthy, and vicious, Raul had bought him and his brother Snow from their father in settlement of a five hundred dollar gambling debt. Gabriel had been five at the time, his brother seven. Days later, Gabriel had received a brutal introduction to Guatemala's back alleys.
Now, when he stopped in the formal dining room, with its two fireplaces and hand carved sideboard, he saw the moldy cardboard boxes he'd lived in as a boy. When he ran his fingers over a high-backed captain's chair, he felt the warm stickiness of his own blood—though whether from a street fight or one of Raul's beatings, he couldn't have said.
In the kitchen, he stared at the bright cookware hanging from pegs on the ceiling, and remembered eating rotten fruit and spoiled meat without bothering to pick out the maggots. On good days, when Raul had been pleased with them, he and Snow might have gotten a bit of hard cheese. But those times were few and far between.
Gabriel let his gaze drift over the room with its marble countertops and large windows. Every item was the best that money could buy, including the carbon steel knives on their magnetic strip near the stove. The knife Snow had used to kill Raul with had been similar in style to one of those, but double bladed and dull. Raul had died in excruciating agony while Snow had watched without expression and Gabriel had cried, blood and tears mixing together to stream down his face.
It was the first time Snow killed, and the last time Gabriel cried.
In the bedrooms, Gabriel stared at thick mattresses and silk sheets and remembered dirty straw and biting rats. The bathrooms, with their claw-footed tubs and gleaming fixtures, recalled the stink of raw sewage and unwashed bodies.
He moved on to his private suite. Opening the mirrored doors of his closet he saw, not hand-tailored silk or Egyptian cotton, but grimy rags. Instead of deep, lush carpets and Italian tile floors, he saw garbage-strewn alleys.
He and Snow had come a long way since those days in Guatemala City. They'd survived the slums and the beatings and the sweatshops, and built themselves an empire. But the final piece of the puzzle, the culmination of his dreams, was lying in a nursery at the end of the hall. He hurried his pace, eager to gaze upon the future.
Julian. Gabriel rolled the syllables on his tongue. The name of the last great pagan emperor was a fitting one for his son. He closed the door before crossing the thick carpet to the crib.
The baby was awake, his eyes tracking Gabriel's approach. Gabriel's ring glittered with reflected moonlight when he reached in to pull the blanket aside, and Julian grabbed at it.
"Go on," Gabriel urged, when the tiny hand released its hold. "Grasp it." His soft voice whispered through the quiet room. "Don't be afraid." Eventually, Julian would wear the ring. And he would rule the world. "The day will come when you will know the truth."
Darwin had been right when he'd written about survival of the fittest. Gabriel and Snow were living proof of evolutionary theory. They had survived, and thrived, despite their childhoods. Or possibly because of them.
And fate had rewarded Gabriel's survival by giving him a son.
Outside, one of the dogs howled. The call was answered by its mate on the other side of the compound, and Gabriel lifted his head, listening. The animals were part wolf and trained to kill.
"When the ring is on your finger," Gabriel said, looking back down at Julian, "that day your life will truly begin." The little hands were strong for one so small, but Gabriel wasn't surprised. Julian's sire also had unusual strength.
"Listen to the shadows." His thin lips turned up in a cold smile. "Nothing is impossible." He'd proven that himself, having begun life as a slum rat and risen to control the fate of nations.
"The truths are so simple." Money was power. People existed only to serve that power.
"Their fear will build your castles." Know an opponent's weakness, his fear, and you control him. "Their greed will make them slaves." Gambling, and its big brother, greed, had been his father's weaknesses, and Raul had exploited them mercilessly. It was one of Gabriel's earliest lessons, and one he'd never forgotten.
"Look when they close their eyes," he continued, drawing out the words, dreaming of the future. "Push forward whenever they pull back. Eat the meals they dare not taste."
Julian's eyes followed Gabriel's every move. They had a disturbing clarity to them, as though the baby could see into Gabriel's very soul. Gabriel looked away and pulled the blanket back into place.
"The power will come. So easy." One day, Gabriel and Julian would rule the world. It would be Earth's greatest family-owned business. "Century after century, the truths never change."
He looked up, gazing out the window. "Someday."
His low chuckle rolled through the quiet room, and Julian began to cry.
xXx
xXx
Catherine and Vincent were quiet during the walk back to Vincent's chamber. When they arrived, Catherine dropped wearily onto the bed. Her thoughts had been chaotic since they'd left the carousel. She knew Vincent was aware of it, but he didn't push her. Instead, he put his cloak away and busied himself lighting candles.
She watched him, only distantly aware of the steady grace of his hands and the sudden glow of flame against his fur when he struck a match.
"It's because of me, Vincent." It was all spinning out of control, and she wanted to stop it, wanted to get off the merry-go-round and run away, only she couldn't. She couldn't do anything at all. "Those people in that hotel, Elliot's friend . . ."
Vincent blew out the match and set it aside. "It isn't because of you, Catherine. Those people were murdered by an evil man. He is the only one to blame for this."
His voice was as warm and beautiful as ever, but she found little comfort in it. "I wish I could see Elliot, tell him how sorry I am." But would it even matter anymore? Or was it already too late?
Finished with the candles, Vincent turned his chair around and sat down, leaning forward to take her hands in his. "Elliot Burch chose his path months ago, Catherine."
She looked up, meeting his eyes. "Why didn't you tell him it was our baby?"
"Because I fear," Vincent said, "that Elliot is not ready for us. For the truth of us."
"Do you really think it would shock him so much?"
Vincent sighed. "Catherine," he said. "When you look at me, you see only the man that you love. The man who loves you." His gaze dropped to their joined hands. "But when other people look at me, people who judge only on what their eyes tell them . . . These people see only a monster."
"Then they're mistaken." She touched his brow, smoothing her fingers along his hairline and down to his jaw. "And because of it, they'll never have the chance to know what a wonderful man you are." Laying her hand on top of his, she said, "But I think you misjudge Elliot."
"Perhaps. But it is a risk I'm not yet prepared to take."
He lifted his fingers and laced them through hers. Dark fur, pale skin, dark fur, pale skin. Contrast. Repeating patterns. Male and female, yin and yang, dark and light. To Catherine, the pattern was almost achingly beautiful. But would Elliot see it that way? Or would he be unable to see beyond the very differences that made Vincent who he was?
xXx
xXx
Diana returned to Cathy Chandler's apartment, drawn by the mystery of the invitation she'd found on the desk. She should have taken it with her before, but somehow it had seemed wrong to take it from its place of honor. The picture, drawn with crayons on a piece of faded construction paper, was interesting enough, but the elegant script inside was what intrigued her. Now she sat on the back of the couch mulling over the cryptic words again.
". . . The threshold Below . . ." Who used words like that anymore? College professors? Shakespearean actors practicing their craft? Elegant old men with hand-carved pipes and smoking jackets? And what the hell did Below mean? Below what? With a shrug, she got to her feet. Maybe the basement would offer a clue or two. It was belowsomething, after all.
Minutes later she was ducking under cobwebs and around dust covered boxes and discarded furniture. She poked into dark corners and tried the doors of the storage rooms, sneezing occasionally and shuddering each time she felt a spider crawl up her arm or around her collar. Finally, frustrated and grimy, she stopped in the middle of one of the largest rooms.
"Okay," she said, looking around her. "Below. The threshold Below." How much more Below could she get?
Then she saw it, a dark gap behind a stack of boxes. She moved the boxes aside and peered into the hole she'd uncovered. A ladder disappeared into the darkness. She shrugged. The invitation had clearly used the wordBelow. So, below she would go.
She climbed down and turned around, examining the narrow space. It was a tunnel of some kind. Dry and cool, it led off into the darkness. She'd need to come back with a flashlight. And maybe a way to mark her path so she wouldn't get lost. And she'd stop at City Hall, first. Maybe they'd have a map.
But what did she really expect to find down here? It hardly seemed plausible to expect elegant old gentlemen and child prodigies, as the invitation seemed to suggest. More likely, her wanderings down here would only afford her a deeper acquaintance with New York City's decrepit sewer system and its fabled rats.
With a shiver of distaste, she turned back to the ladder.
xXx
xXx
Joe burst into Elliot Burch's office unannounced. "What's at 1900 Sixth Avenue?" he demanded. He was tired of playing games—of chasing mysteries that turned into shadows that became enigmas. He wanted answers. And he wanted them now.
Elliot looked up from his work, set down his pen, and leaned back in his chair. "You talked to Moreno," he said calmly.
"I did."
"And?"
"Why don't you tell me what 1900 Sixth Avenue is?" Putting his hands flat on the desk, Joe leaned forward, deliberately invading Elliot's personal space.
But he wasn't expecting the quiet answer.
"It's where Cathy died."
Joe stumbled back to sit in the closest chair, a soft leather contraption that probably cost more than his entire month's salary. "Jesus."
There was a moment of painful silence in the room. Then it occurred to Joe that Burch knew a lot more about Cathy's case than casual interest would seem to warrant, and in an instant he was on his feet again.
"How do you know?"
Elliot shook his head. "I can't tell you that."
"Why not? Are you protecting someone?" Or was Burch himself somehow connected with Cathy's disappearance? God knew the man wasn't exactly lily-pure. "How do you know so much?"
"It doesn't matter how I know," Elliot said.
"The hell it doesn't!"
And then Elliot was up too, anger propelling him across the desk. "Moreno's dirty, Joe! We both know that!"
Joe lowered his eyes, unwilling to acknowledge the truth of Burch's words.
Elliot sat down again. He'd made his point, and he knew it. "What's important is that he may be the only link we have to whoever killed Cathy."
Defeated, Joe dropped back into the chair. "I don't believe this is happening."
Elliot shook his head. "I'm so sorry."
But Joe didn't answer. There was nothing left to say.
xXx
xXx
When Kipper had first told Vincent about the red-haired stranger he'd seen in the tunnels beneath Catherine's building, Vincent had kept the news to himself, not wanting to worry Catherine or Father. In truth, he had hoped that the woman, upon finding nothing of interest Below, would never return.
But she had come back, only hours after her first visit, and Kipper had sent for him as soon as he'd seen her. He'd wanted to know what should be done, and Vincent had come to see the woman for himself.
She was slim and athletic, with thick hair held back by an elastic band, and an honest, determined look about her. But he had never seen her before, and he wondered what had led her to the tunnels. When she had gone, Vincent turned to lean against the wall.
"What shall we do now, Vincent?" Kipper was watching him, waiting for instructions.
Vincent gazed toward the ladder, remembering all the times he'd waited here for Catherine to come to him, haloed in the light from Above, their bond shimmering with her joy. He would do what must be done, but his heart ached with the knowledge that they would never share this place again.
"Tell Mouse we must seal this section of the tunnels."
"Forever?"
"Yes." Vincent looked away. "Forever."
With a sigh, he turned to go to her, to tell her of this new threat to their safety.
xXx
xXx
By Monday morning, Joe's anger and disappointment had grown to dangerous proportions. He strode through the criminal courts building, oblivious to the bustling activity, intent only on settling things with Moreno.
John was talking to one of the new attorneys when Joe walked in without knocking. "Tell him to testify," he was saying. "You can't take the easy win. There's a principle here."
The two men turned at Joe's entrance, and John smiled an uneasy welcome. "Hey, Joe."
"Hello, John." Joe was seeing Moreno with new eyes, and his voice was tight with carefully controlled anger.
Moreno must have sensed it, because he spoke to the other attorney without taking his gaze off Joe's face. "Charlie, let's pick this up later."
Charlie nodded and left. Joe waited until the door closed before moving further into the office.
"Everything all right?" Moreno asked.
Joe gestured toward the door. "I remember when you used to give me those lectures."
"You remember wrong. You used to lecture me all the time. I never met anybody with a bigger thirst for justice." Moreno shuffled a stack of papers into a folder. "These new guys, they don't know. Today it's every man for himself."
"Is that the way you feel?" Joe asked. He needed to find out how just badly his judgment had failed him.
John glanced up from the file. "That's the way it is."
"No, I mean for you. Is that the way you feel?" There had been a time when Joe would have thought he knew what Moreno's answer would be to that question, but now he found himself doubting everything he'd ever known about the man in front of him, the man he'd once thought of as a friend.
John gave him a wary look. "What's on your mind, Joe?"
"I heard some things. Things I didn't want to hear." Things about you, John, about how you sold out one of your own.
"What things?"
"About the ones who killed Cathy."
Shaking his head, John pushed the folder aside. "You can't let that go, can you."
"About someone bought and paid for in this office."
John stiffened.
"Deny it for me," Joe said. "Please?"
In an instant, John was on his feet. "I'm going to let you apologize for that," he snarled, punctuating his words with short, hard jabs of his finger. "And then I'm going to let you leave!"
Joe leaned across the desk. He kept his voice low, but it dripped with venom. "Do you think I'd come here if I wasn't sure?"
John straightened slowly. "You don't know what you're talking about." But there was fear in his eyes.
"Cathy Chandler is dead, John, and her blood is all over you."
"You better get out of here, Joe."
"What are you doing here?" Everything Joe had ever thought, everything he'd understood about John Moreno, lay shattered at his feet. "This office stands for something!"
"Out!" John stabbed a finger toward the door.
"How many times have you told me that the only difference between us and the people we put away is what's here?" Joe slapped his palm against his own chest. He was yelling now, his temper close to the boiling point. "'It's like a religion, Joe! It's like a faith, Joe! It has to be!'"
"I also remember telling you something about loyalty!" John shouted. "Where's your loyalty?"
"Where should it be, John? With you? Or the law!" Joe turned away in disgust. "I didn't think there was a difference." He took calming breath, trying to bring his rage and disappointment back under control. "I know you didn't do it." Whatever else Moreno might have been, he wasn't a murderer. "Help me get the one who did."
"Who told you this?"
Joe looked away.
"It was Burch, wasn't it." It was a statement rather than a question. "Burch got to you."
Joe shook his head, his anger replaced by deep sadness. "No, John. The truth got to me. Just the truth." Disappointment lay heavily on his shoulders as he turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.