"Are you Diana?" the cabbie asked cautiously, "Diana Bennett?"

Tense, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet, Diana faced the men who'd chased her into the alley. "Who wants to know?"

"I'm Benjamin," he said, "and this is Sammy. We've been trying to find you."

"Why?"

"We know you're in trouble," Sammy answered, "and we know a place where you'll be safe."

The comment didn't exactly inspire confidence. After all, even the bottom of the East River was a safe place for a corpse. "Why should I trust you?"

Sammy and Benjamin exchanged a glance before Sammy offered her a wry smile. "Do we look dangerous?" He took a step closer. "Look, we don't have much time."

She hesitated, caution warring with exhaustion. Common sense told her the men didn't pose a threat. If they'd been Gabriel's, she'd be dead already. But was she desperate enough to trust a pair of strangers? And in the end, did she really have a choice? Reluctantly, she nodded.

A few minutes later, they guided her into a Byzantine network of tunnels that soon had her completely lost. As they walked, Diana found herself thinking of Alice in Wonderland. She'd never thought less of Alice for her tumble into a rabbit hole. After all, who wouldn't chase a white rabbit wearing a waistcoat and carrying a gold pocket watch? But there was no white rabbit here, and the only person she had to blame for this bizarre turn of events was herself.

Her sense of unreality grew as they moved deeper into the maze of concrete, rusty pipes, and rotting beams that led, finally, to a brick-walled section where dust swirled around her feet and thick cobwebs clung to her hair and clothes. Cool, dry air carried the stale odor of a place long undisturbed, and yet Diana heard a low rumble of excited voices just around the next bend. When a group of oddly-dressed people surged forward to greet her arrival, she shrank back against the wall, a stranger in a strange land.

An elderly man stepped forward to greet her, his broad shoulders covered by what looked like a patchwork quilt of leather and fur. "I'm sorry if we frightened you." His gray hair was disheveled, and he leaned on a sturdy wooden cane. "We never meant you harm."

"Who are you?" Maybe Lewis Carroll'srabbit hole was the wrong analogy. Judging by this guy's renaissance-style clothing, Mark Twain's Connecticut Yankee would be more apt.

"When I was part of your world," the man said, "my name was Jacob Wells." He lifted his head, and there was pride in his eyes as he continued. "Vincent is my son."

"We're his family." This was from a young girl of maybe fifteen with an air of self-assurance and wisdom that seemed out of place in someone so young. Diana's eyes settled on the crossbow the girl carried, its business end pointed carefully at the ground.

"His friends," Sammy said.

Diana blinked. "Do you all live down here?" She twitched her nose against a sneeze, and fought the impulse to run her hands through her hair in a quick check for eight-legged hitchhikers.

"Last night you came down into the tunnels," Jacob said, without answering her question. "You called for Vincent. Why?"

How much did they already know? How much had Vincent shared with them? And where was Catherine? Shouldn't she be here? Wouldn't she be concerned as well?

And then she was there, appearing out of the shadows as though conjured by Diana's thoughts. The others made room for her, stepping back out of the way, and Diana read their respect for her in their eyes. But Catherine appeared not to notice, her gaze fastened on Diana as she stepped closer.

"If you know where he is . . . why he left . . . Please."

Diana heard the worry in Catherine's voice and wished she'd come bearing better news. "I brought him a message from Gabriel. His son . . . your son . . . is sick. He may even be dying."

Catherine turned pale, but it was Jacob who spoke, his voice harsh with fear.

"Oh, dear God."

Diana looked at him, unable to face Catherine's pain, unwilling to acknowledge the envy that curled, snake like, in her stomach. "He surrendered himself," she said, "to save the child's life."

Catherine shrank back from the words. "No . . ."

"Gabriel has men inside the police department." She wanted to help these people, but what could she do with no weapon and no way to get to Joe? "They're everywhere. I don't know who to trust. They took my gun. My badge is back at my loft . . ."

Jacob glanced a question at Catherine, who nodded slightly in response. Diana continued, wondering about the meaning of the silent exchange.

"They've completely cut me off. I have no money, no clothes . . ."

Jacob whispered something to the girl with the crossbow. The girl's eyes settled on Diana for a moment, her gaze coolly assessing. Then she turned and left at a run.

"If they find me they'll kill me," Diana said.

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" asked Jacob. "Anything at all?"

"There's this." Diana pulled a scrap of paper out of her pocket. It was a piece of a wadded up napkin she'd picked up in an alley. The figure she'd sketched on it was rough, drawn with the worn nub of a discarded pencil. "It's from Gabriel's mansion. A tile pattern."

The others crowded around to look.

"The pattern's very unusual," Diana said, thankful for the blue-collar father who'd spent a lifetime in the flooring business. "Very old. I think if we can find the pattern, we'll be able to find Gabriel." Diana met and held Jacob's gaze. "I need to get this drawing to Joe Maxwell."

"No problem." Sammy looked up from the paper. "I'm in and out of there all the time, delivering sandwiches."

"No." Catherine shook her head before Diana could respond. "It's too dangerous. They'll be watching Joe."

"In that case . . ." Jacob folded the drawing and tucked it in his pocket. "I'll take it myself."

Diana didn't object. He stood a far better chance of getting to Joe than she did. "Do you know the meaning of Veritas de liberat?"

"Veritas . . . ?" He thought about it for a moment. "Yes. The truth will set you free."

The teenager returned with a small bundle wrapped in dark fabric. She looked from Father to Catherine, a question in her eyes. Catherine took the bundle with a word of thanks and handed it to Diana.

Bewildered, Diana pulled the fabric aside. A handgun. She checked the chamber. Loaded. The weapon was clean and well-maintained. But whose was it? And what was it doing down here?

"Mine." Catherine's chin was raised, and her gaze held a mild challenge.

"She brought it to me," Jacob said, "during a time of great danger." Something passed between him and Catherine, some dark memory, and Jacob touched her arm—though whether in reassurance or in warning, Diana couldn't tell. "Now the danger is elsewhere."

Diana looked from Jacob to Catherine, her thoughts a jumble of questions. But this wasn't the time to ask. "Thank you."

Catherine took a step closer. "I can't go up there. If I did, it would endanger everything Vincent is trying to protect." Her fingertips brushed against the sleeve of Diana's jacket. "But he's my life, my world. And he's up there someplace, alone, trying to find our son. Please . . . Bring him back to me."

For a long moment, Catherine held Diana's gaze, and there was so much love in the gray eyes, so much fear and worry, that Diana was forced to look away.

"I'll do my best," she said. And though she envied what Vincent and Catherine had, and doubted she would ever have such a love of her own, she determined that she would do whatever it took to bring these two back together.

xXx

xXx

Gabriel's fingers curled around the arms of his chair, the tips pressing deep into soft leather that already bore lasting imprints. He gazed at the monitors, watching his reluctant houseguest. Energy and tension emanated from Vincent in waves that Gabriel imagined he could almost see roiling, blood red and frothing, across the airwaves.

"I told him she was dead." He couldn't believe that Pope had failed. Pope never failed. "Are you making a liar of me?"

"No, sir." The denial came quickly. "It's only a matter of time."

"When it's over, bring her here. I want him to see her." Gabriel imagined the expression on Vincent's face when he viewed Diana's broken body, and his grip on the armrests relaxed as a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "I want him to learn." He glanced up from the monitors, meeting Pope's gaze. "The truth will set him free."

"Gabriel!" Vincent's voice carried clearly into the room.

"I'm here, Vincent." Gabriel's microphone was turned off, so Vincent couldn't possibly hear him. And yet he reacted as though he could.

"I can feel your eyes on me."

"Does that make you uneasy?" Gabriel wondered aloud.

"I can feel my son, too."

He sounded proud, triumphant even. Cold fury burned in Gabriel's stomach. Even caged, Vincent was a formidable enemy.

"Our bond is growing stronger, Gabriel."

"There's only one bond that counts," Gabriel said, almost to himself. He hit a button, opening the mike. "I gave this child life."

Vincent spun toward the sound, his growled response fierce. "Catherine gave him life."

"I kept her alive for months when a word would've ended it. I was there when Julian was born." Electrified steel bars gave Gabriel the confidence to goad his opponent. "The first time he opened his eyes, he looked at me." Vincent's strength and determination fascinated him. How satisfying it would be to harness that power. "He's mine."

"He'll never be yours." Vincent glared at him through the monitors, the peculiar intensity of his eyes disconcerting even from a distance. "Hour by hour. Minute by minute. Our bond grows. And nothing you do can stop it."

"Your death would stop it."

"Death," Vincent said quietly, "shall have no dominion."

And yet, there was a headstone in the graveyard that seemed to indicate otherwise. Gabriel shook his head. "Tell that to Catherine Chandler."

"She knew it. Even at the end. She knew—"

With a flick of the wrist, Gabriel turned off the monitors, cutting Vincent's voice off mid-sentence.

xXx

xXx

Joe couldn't believe what he was hearing. First Cathy and now Diana? "So what you're telling me is that there's no trace of her."

Hughes shook his head. "We'll keep looking, but I'm not holding my breath. The guys who grabbed Bennett were pros."

Joe folded his arms across his chest and eyed the detective. "And what the hell are you, the campfire girls?"

"Look, Joe."

"No, you look, Greg—"

The office door opened to admit the new assistant. She hesitated at the threshold, glancing uneasily between the two men. "Joe, there's a man out here insisting that he has to see you."

Joe cast an irritated look toward the outer office. "Tell him to come back tomorrow."

"He says it's urgent."

"Andrea, the office is closed." Impatience made the words sharper than they might ordinarily have been. "Give him an appointment."

She hesitated. "He says he has information about Vincent."

Vincent. The name was like a lightning bolt connecting the unknown visitor with Cathy and Diana. "Bring him in." He glanced at Greg. "Maybe you better stick around for a minute for this." He turned back to the door in time to see the old man from the cab step inside. "On second thought," he said, without taking his eyes off his visitor. "I think I'd like a minute alone with Mr. . . ."

"Wells. Jacob Wells."

Joe waited until the door closed behind Greg and Andrea. "You're very lucky you're not under arrest, Mr. Wells." He gestured at the chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

"There's no time for that, Mr. Maxwell." Jacob took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and held it out to Joe. "Here."

Puzzled, Joe unfolded the paper. It was a penciled drawing, some kind of abstract sketch. "What the hell is this?"

"A pattern of a floor tile. From the home of the man who tried to kill Catherine Chandler. The man who murdered Elliot Burch."

Joe sank into his chair. How the hell . . .?

"Diana Bennett said you'd know what to do with it."

"Diana—" Just how much did this guy know? "Diana Bennett's been missing since last night when she was taken out of a diner at gunpoint. If you know her whereabouts—"

Jacob lifted a hand, stopping Joe mid-sentence. "I know she's safe. I also know we're running short of time."

Joe scrubbed a hand through his hair. He was Joe Maxwell, District Attorney of Manhattan. And he was starting to think the damned sandwich guy knew more about what went on in this city than he did. "Why am I listening to you?"

Jacob stepped closer and looked Joe in the eye. "Because Catherine wants you to."

xXx

xXx

Vincent sat on the floor, one long leg stretched out along the concrete, the other drawn up against his chest. It was late. Beyond his cell, the world slept. Catherine slept as well. He knew it the same way he knew that somewhere over his head their infant son also slept, though neither rested easily. He rested his arm on his upraised knee and stared at the steps that led to freedom, but his thoughts weren't on his captivity. They were on the many ways in which Catherine had changed him, bringing her warmth and tenderness into what had been a cold a lonely life.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Vincent got to his feet as Gabriel came down the stairs. He had three men with him. All of them carried weapons.

"We have so much in common," Gabriel said, his voice almost regretful as he came to a stop just beyond the bars. The guards lined up next to him, weapons raised and pointing at Vincent.

"We could've been great friends."

Vincent stared at the guns, his mind awash in thoughts of Catherine and their son. To never see his son grow to manhood, to lose what he and Catherine had so painstakingly built . . . Every fiber of his being cried out against it. A roar of denial built in his throat, bursting forth just as Gabriel turned to his men.

"Fire."

No! Vincent jerked away from the bars, covering his face as the guns erupted in an explosion of sound both louder and more terrifying than anything he'd ever heard before.

But it was only noise.

The smoke cleared slowly, leaving behind a caustic odor that burned the back of Vincent's throat.

"Leave us," Gabriel said, without taking his eyes from Vincent's

Vincent waited, chest heaving, hands curled into fists at his sides, ignoring the men who seemed only too pleased to make their escape up the creaking wooden stairs. His muscles—arms and legs, back and chest—coiled tight, ready to spring. And in his mind, the beast demanded vengeance.

Only after the door at the top of the stairs swung closed did Gabriel approach the bars.

"It doesn't have to end that way," he said quietly. "Even enemies can join hands." He looked around the room, his gaze coming to rest on the manacles that chained Vincent to the wall. "I have so much to offer you. Your life. Your freedom."

This . . . man didn't know how to give, only how to take—his son, Steven and Sam, Catherine's faith in herself, her strength . . . "Nothing you can give me can replace what you took."

Gabriel's eyes locked on Vincent's. "Love."

"You don't know the meaning of love." Vincent spoke through gritted teeth, his hold on the Other dangerously close to the breaking point.

"Julian needs both of us."

"My son," Vincent snarled, "needs nothing from you. You have nothing to give."

"I can protect him. I can show him the way the world works. The real world." Gabriel twisted his ring around his finger. "I can make him a king."

"I've seen your kingdom. It's a kingdom of shadows. A kingdom of death."

"It's our kingdom, Vincent." Gabriel pulled a small device from his pocket and pushed a button. Images flickered to life on the wall at Vincent's back. "Julian will see this one day." He gave Vincent another one of his thin-lipped smiles. "It's important that a boy know who his father is."

He started up the stairs, but as he reached the top he pressed another button, and suddenly Vincent was assaulted with the sounds of his own rage. He staggered back, hands pressed against his ears while Gabriel slipped through the open door, leaving him to face his demons alone.

Horrific sounds slammed against the concrete walls and reverberated off the steel bars of Vincent's prison—the agonized screams of the dead and dying, the dull crunch of shattered skulls, the wet, sucking sounds of evisceration, and the muffled thud of crushed bodies dropped, rag-like, to the floor. All of it overlaid with furious roars and sporadic bursts of gunfire.

But the images . . . the images were worse, and Vincent closed his eyes against them, against the slavering jaws, the bodies tossed aside like discarded toys, the claws that ripped through soft bellies and vulnerable necks. A panicked guard begged for mercy while the Other bore down on him with relentless fury. Another brought up his weapon, only to have the Other rip it from his hands and use it to crush his skull.

Blood splattered against the camera lens, dripped down the walls, and pooled in the stair wells. Blood, thick and dark, oozed through the Other's fingers and stained its cloak as it ripped each victim apart with brutal efficiency, disemboweling some and throwing others to the ground with broken necks, their faces contorted in pain or frozen forever in terror.

Trapped in his cell, Vincent was helpless against the relentless onslaught, unable to avoid reliving that night in gruesome detail—the night he'd first tried to rescue Catherine from Gabriel. He remembered all of it. Every moment. Every sound. Every smell. All of it engraved on his mind for all eternity.

With a tortured roar, he charged the bars and wrapped his hands around the cold steel, desperate to bring an end to the torment. Electricity surged through him, but he just snarled again and yanked. Sparks flew, and he was thrown back against the wall, the smell of burned flesh rising from his hands. In an instant, he was back on his feet, mouth open, teeth bared. Again he approached the bars, and again he was thrown back. Beyond the steel barrier, Gabriel's recording continued to play, the terrible battle repeating itself in an endless, soul-destroying loop.

His desperation rose with each death-cry, each cracked skull and splash of blood, until finally he sank to the floor.

And did not rise again.

xXx

xXx

"Catherine?"

They were in Father's library. She'd been helping him assemble the maps when she'd suddenly frozen, her hand in midair, beset by a sudden, pounding headache and the conviction that Vincent was in trouble.

Father's hand on her arm brought her back to herself. "Tell me."

She met his worried gaze. "Something's wrong."

"Vincent?"

"I don't know." Distracted, she turned away. "I'm sorry, Father. I have to go." She was barely aware of his response as she hurried from the library.

Several minutes later she found herself at the Central Park entrance. It was raining, and she'd come without her cloak, but she had no desire to venture further. Instead she stopped, her eyes on the falling rain, her thoughts and heart with the man she loved more than life.

Don't give up, Vincent. Please . . . Don't ever give up. I'm here. I'm coming.

I love you.

xXx

xXx

Gabriel saw Vincent's collapse, but he kept his face expressionless, unwilling to reveal his triumph. He'd had doubts, had wondered, for a time, whether he was tilting at windmills, fighting a battle when he'd already lost the war. But the recording had accomplished what mere words could not, forcing Vincent to confront his true nature.

Guilt was a weakness. Compassion a failing. Both prevented Vincent from fulfilling his destiny. A few more sessions like this one would bring him to his knees. Soon, he would beg for mercy.

And then? Then he would belong to Gabriel.

Jacobson stood at Gabriel's elbow, a nervous presence that itched at Gabriel's skin like an irritating rash. "He's going to kill himself."

"No." Gabriel didn't turn from the monitors. "He won't die." On the screen, Vincent lay still, his head buried in his arms, apparently oblivious to the continuing parade of images and sounds. "He's not afraid of pain."

Jacobson folded his arms across his chest. "Perhaps he's not intelligent enough to comprehend his own mortality."

"He's more intelligent than you are, Doctor." Gabriel glanced at Jacobson before turning his eyes back to Vincent's inert body. "And less mortal. No. The only thing he's afraid of is himself."

"You sound like you envy him."

Envy wasn't precisely the word Gabriel would have chosen. "Do you feel sorry for him, Doctor?" Gabriel picked up the remote and turned up the sound, and the room filled with the sounds of Vincent's fury. "Don't."

Vincent's inert body gave no hint that he was aware of what transpired around him. Was he even conscious? Or had he finally succumbed to exhaustion and despair?

"The day will come when he'll watch himself with pleasure." Gabriel smoothed the tip of his finger across Vincent's image, the motion almost reverent. "He'll savor every murder, and polish the memories like precious gems."

Jacobson shifted from foot to foot, his hands first behind his back, then at his sides, then fiddling restlessly with his tie. Gabriel was finding the man's squeamishness increasingly tiresome, and he made a mental note to bring an end to their relationship.

His death would be the perfect object lesson for Vincent.

"Life and death make a perfect circle," he said, imagining the scene in his mind, "like a ring that has no beginning and no end. It's a serpent eating its own tail forever. Violence feeds on violence. Murder on murder. Vengeance on vengeance. Century after century."

Gabriel laced his fingers together and rested them beneath his chin, his eyes on Vincent's unmoving form. "Through all eternity."