Catherine felt his approach before she heard it, and she was already moving when he rounded the corner. The light was behind him, casting his face in shadow, but his shoulders were back and his head was up, and in his arms . . . he carried their son.
She flew to him, tears blurring her vision, and he gathered her in, the baby snug and safe between them.
"I love you," she said, her voice cracking. "I love you so much." They were the only words she could find, and they were at the same time hopelessly inadequate and perfectly precise, summing up the wealth of emotion that swelled in her chest and clogged her throat. How could she begin to tell him how grateful she was to have him back? What words could express her happiness and wonder at their son's safe return?
In the end, she could only repeat herself. "I love you."
"Catherine." His voice, muffled against her hair, was hoarse with emotion and fatigue. "Catherine."
They held each other, their heads bent over the small, warm bundle cradled between them, until tiny fingers tangled themselves in Vincent's hair. He eased back then, and with gentle hands, extricated his son's fingers from the knotted strands before settling the baby in Catherine's arms.
Despite their long search, despite all the times she'd assured Vincent of her confidence that they would find their son, the intensity of the moment stunned Catherine. With trembling fingers, she eased the blanket away from the baby's face. His eyes were open, and he smacked his lips with a damp, cooing sound that made her smile through her tears. Vincent's head was bent over hers once more, and he was whispering her name over and over like an incantation . . . or a prayer.
They were a family—she, and Vincent, and this tiny, perfect being born of their love.
"You're safe now, little one." Catherine brushed the baby's satin-soft cheek with the back of a bent finger. "You're safe."
He blinked, and she could almost believe he understood her words. She tightened her arms around him. He felt like a piece of heaven that she would hold in her heart forever—the physical embodiment of more miracles than she could even begin to count.
Vincent twined his fingers with hers where they rested against the blanket, and for the first time, she noticed the burns on his hands.
"Vincent, you're hurt."
He shook his head, making no move to pull away. "It's nothing."
"Vincent, let me have a look." It was Father. They'd forgotten he was even there, and Catherine looked up apologetically as he reached for Vincent's hands.
But Father only smiled at her, and she saw that his own eyes were damp as he examined the burns. "How did this happen?"
Vincent glanced at Catherine and closed his fingers lightly around Father's. "It doesn't matter. It's over now."
"They need tending," Father said.
Vincent nodded. "We must leave this place," he said, "before we are discovered."
Catherine had momentarily forgotten the danger they were still in. Joe's men might already be searching Gabriel's estate. What would they find? What conclusions would they draw? And what would happen if they discovered the entrance to the tunnels?
She glanced at Vincent and knew he shared her concerns. He touched her elbow, and with Father leading the way, they started walking.
It was time to go home.
xXx
xXx
Joe raked his fingers through his hair and directed a glare at his office window. He was frustrated. And more confused than he'd been since Cathy had first disappeared all those months ago. He'd taken an army to that godforsaken mansion, but all they'd found were dead bodies and a mystery even more bizarre than any he'd dealt with yet. It could take weeks or even months to make sense of the mess, and the worldwide fallout didn't even bear thinking about.
He'd prepared his men for a war, or at the very least, a battle. But when they'd burst upon the scene, weapons drawn, Kevlar vests in place, there'd been nobody left to fight.
Eventually, they'd figured out that the trail started in the basement. There'd been three dead men there, one of a single rifle blast to the chest, one of a broken neck, and one of what looked like some kind of knife attack.
From there, they'd followed the evidence through the house, photographing and cataloguing each set of remains before moving on. Eventually, they'd arrived in an empty nursery, where they'd discovered Gabriel Konkani dead of a single gunshot wound to the chest. It looked like a small caliber handgun this time rather than a rifle, but whoever had fired it had done so with deadly accuracy.
Joe turned back to his desk. To his left, a metal cart held a television and VCR. He hit a button on the remote control, watching with morbid fascination as images paraded across the screen. They'd found the tape at the Konkani estate, and Joe still had trouble believing his eyes. It was like some kind of horror movie come to life.
"Joe."
He started. He hadn't heard her come in. "Diana."
She closed the door and crossed the room, her gaze going from the television screen to the photos scattered on Joe's desk. "So."
"Yeah," he said. "So." He paused the tape mid-roar. "What do you know about this?"
"Only that it isn't what it looks like."
"It looks like a dozen dead bodies and at least three different MOs. You're telling me that isn't what it is?"
"No." She sighed. "That much is true."
He picked up the photos, tapped them into a loose pile, and dropped them again. "Sit down, Diana."
She perched on the edge of a chair, but she didn't relax, the tension in her shoulders and spine holding her upright and stiff.
"I've got a theory. Wanna hear?"
"Joe . . ."
"No." He grinned, aware that he was dangerously close to losing it, but not caring anymore. "Listen to this. It's a good one. You'll like it."
"Okay." Her response was wary.
He pointed at the TV. "Vincent, right?"
She didn't answer.
"Yeah. That's what I thought. Okay. Here's my theory. This Gabriel guy stumbled across Cathy because of me. And he grabbed her because she knew things, things he didn't want her to know. Then, somehow he found out about this guy." He hooked a finger at the television screen. "Maybe he tried to rescue her or something." He shrugged. "Doesn't really matter. Point is, Konkani finds out that Cathy's pregnant and thinks maybe the kid is Vincent's."
"It is Vincent's, Joe."
"Yeah, yeah. We'll get to that later. Anyway," Joe leaned back, putting his feet up on the desk. "Gabe wants the kid. Maybe he thinks it'll be some kind of superman or something. Or maybe his biological clock is ticking. Hell, I don't know. But he keeps Cathy alive until the baby comes." He flipped through the pictures, pulled one out, and tossed it to Diana. "After that, he figures he doesn't need her anymore so he tells his goons to finish her off."
He pulled his feet off the desk and leaned forward. "Only somebody messed up big time, because Cathy didn't die."
He eyed Diana, but she didn't comment.
"Things get a little murky after that. Somehow Cathy got away from the hospital and went into hiding. And this guy Vincent," Joe tapped another picture, "wanted revenge. Or maybe he just wanted his kid back. And he got to you, somehow, because suddenly you went all James Bond on me. Next thing I know, you're sending me cryptic messages about floor tiles."
Diana refused to look at him, which told him all he needed to know. "You could've trusted me, Diana. Cathy's my friend, too."
She didn't answer, and he blew out a breath. She wasn't making this any easier. "Somehow Vincent winds up in a cage, which—" He shook his head, still not quite able to believe it all, despite the evidence. "Yeah, I can see why Konkani might've figured that was the smart thing to do." He hit the play button, and a raging Vincent tore across the screen. "Then Elliot Burch winds up dead, you wind up with Sammy the sandwich man for a bodyguard, and suddenly some old guy with a cane knows more about this case than I do."
"They're good people, Joe."
He waved that away. "Whatever. Point is, you could've been killed." He paused, waiting until she met his eyes. "All of you."
He folded his arms and leaned back, watching her. "So am I right?"
There was a long moment of silence. Finally, she nodded. "For the most part."
"Where's Cathy now?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Can you at least tell me if she's okay?"
"She's fine."
"And the baby?"
"Also fine."
"Is it . . ." Joe's eyes went to the photos.
Diana raised an eyebrow. "Normal?"
"Yeah."
She gestured at the pictures. "You know as much as I do."
Joe turned back to the TV. "Diana, if this guy . . ."
"He isn't dangerous, Joe. He only kills to protect her."
"So if every Tom, Dick and Harry out there starts killing people to protect their families it'd be okay with you?"
She let out an impatient sigh. "That isn't what I'm saying."
"Then what are you saying? Because it sure looks to me like you're condoning vigilantism here."
"He isn't a vigilante."
"Oh yeah?" He tossed more pictures in her direction. They landed on the floor, scattering into a macabre mosaic of violence. "What do you call this?"
Diana didn't look down. "Self-defense."
"And all those other pictures you showed me? The cases you talked about? Were those self-defense too?"
She didn't answer, and he stood up, kicking the chair away as he started to pace the floor. "I don't know what to do here, Diana."
"Joe . . . you have to let it go."
"Let it go?" Was she serious? "Diana, I've got a dozen bodies in the morgue! The public's got a right to know what happened!"
"Call it a drug deal gone wrong. It's New York. They'll buy it."
"You're asking the district attorney of Manhattan to tell a bold-faced lie." He couldn't believe it. He'd built his career on truth and justice. And now this—
"No." She was on her feet now, facing him. "I'm asking you to do the right thing." She stepped closer. "For Cathy."
"You've gotta be kidding me."
Slowly, Diana shook her head. "I've never been more serious."
"Cathy's my friend, Diana. I'd cut off my arm if I thought it would help her. But she isn't above the law."
"Cathy didn't do anything wrong."
"See, that's where you're wrong." He paced away from her, turned, paced back. "She knows somebody who did something wrong. Worse than that, she's protecting him. That makes her an accomplice to murder."
"Look at him, Joe." This time it was Diana who pointed at the TV. "The world doesn't even know he exists. What's going to happen to him if they find out?"
"That isn't my problem." But he lowered his voice, the anger seeping away. It would be another bloodbath, but one of a much different, and more destructive, kind.
"Yes, it is. If you really are Cathy's friend, it's your problem as much as it is hers."
He looked up, meeting Diana's eyes. "Does she really love this guy?"
In answer, Diana picked up the picture of the baby, turning it so that he could see the distinctive blue eyes. "What do you think?"
Joe sank into a chair and dropped his head in his hands. "I don't know what to think anymore."
"Then don't think. Feel. What does your gut say?"
He gave her a crooked smile. "Because your gut never steered you wrong, huh, Bennett?"
She grinned back and reached out to squeeze his arm. "It's gotten me this far." She tilted her head toward the electronics. "Who else has seen that?"
"Nobody, yet."
"Can I have the tape?"
"Why?"
She shrugged and shook her head. "The less you know . . ."
"Plausible deniability. Yeah. I get it." He gestured at the scattered pictures. "Those are going to be a problem."
"Lab?"
"Yeah."
"Any other copies?"
"I don't think so."
"I'll take care of it."
He stared at her. "I don't think I want to know how."
"It's best if you don't." Diana got to her feet. "What should I tell Cathy?"
"Tell her—" He hesitated. Sighed. "Tell her to take care of herself."
Diana started toward the door.
"Diana . . ."
"Yeah?"
"Konkani was into some dangerous stuff. And Cathy can identify his goons. She should think about staying out of sight. At least for a while."
"Somehow I don't think she'll have a problem with that."
As the door clicked quietly closed behind Diana, Joe rubbed his temples, willing away the oncoming headache. He'd just given tacit consent to an illegal act, making him an accomplice to a crime. A lot of crimes, if his suspicions were correct. And yet somehow he felt like he'd done the right thing.
Justice was one confusing lady.
xXx
xXx
Vincent set the bassinet down next to the bed and turned back to find Catherine watching him. She held the baby in her arms, and she was smiling, her face alight with joy. The sight took his breath away.
"Vincent?" She tilted her head. "Are you okay?"
He nodded. "It's . . . like a dream."
She crossed to the bassinet and laid the baby gently inside. He was asleep, and Vincent wondered if he would sleep until morning, or if he would be restless in the night. Catherine straightened and turned toward him. He welcomed her into his arms, certain that he would never grow tired of having her close.
"If it is a dream," she said, "I hope we never wake up." She laid her head on his chest and he rested his cheek against her hair. Beyond her shoulder, he could see their sleeping son, and his chest grew tight with emotion. Every time he thought he couldn't possibly feel any more deeply connected to her, something happened to prove him wrong.
He sensed the subtle change in her mood just before she lifted her head and stepped out of his arms. She crossed the room to light another candle on the dresser, keeping her back to him as she spoke.
"You took a great risk," she said in a low voice. "And you left . . . without a word."
He wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but he knew she would reject him. He had hurt her, and the wound must be opened and cleansed before it could begin to heal. So he stayed where he was, watching her carefully while he tried to help her understand.
"If I had come to you, you would have been forced to choose between my life and our son's. How could I do that to you?"
Her eyes flashed with anger. "I could've lost both of you!" Her hands curled tight at her sides, and beneath the light shawl, her shoulders were tense. "He would have killed you! Once he got what he wanted—" She turned away, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. "And yet you went to him freely . . ."
"If Diana had come to you instead, would you have made a different choice?"
"I don't know, but at least I would've had the choice to make." Her voice cracked and she dropped her head, her hair falling forward to hide her face.
"Catherine . . ." The tension tore at him. It was strange, and painful. But he didn't know the words that would close this dark rift between them. "I would do anything, go anywhere, to protect you. Both of you."
The baby shifted in his sleep, and she went to check on him, bending over the bassinet and adjusting the blankets. She stayed there, her hand gripping the worn wood, the skin tight across her knuckles.
"Vincent, without you . . ." She stopped. Shook her head.
The pain she felt was his as well. He remembered it, had lived through a dark time when he'd thought he would never hold her in his arms again. And it had almost destroyed him.
"Catherine—" In three strides he was by her side, and he touched her shoulder, his bandaged hands stark against the dark weave of her shawl. "I'm here now," he whispered.
With a low, shuddering sigh, she turned into his arms, and he held her tightly against him, comforting her. This storm, too, they would survive.
"I've never been so frightened." Her voice was choked with emotion.
He closed his eyes and lowered his head against hers. "It was your love that kept me safe," he said. "My sense of you, our connection, gave me strength in my darkest hours."
She pulled back enough to look up at him, her eyes liquid pools that shimmered in the candlelight. With his thumbs, he wiped the dampness from her cheeks. Then he bent and kissed the salt from her eyelashes.
When he lifted his head, she wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled him back down, and then she was kissing him—or he was kissing her—he didn't really know. He knew only that a great hunger rose up in him, and as he drew her close again he sensed that she felt it as well. He wanted to be closer to her, to show her, in every way he knew how, that she was his life. His lips moved over her face, brushing across the soft skin, savoring the warm, salty taste of her tears on his tongue, and she pressed against him with a quiet, needy sound that made him hold her even tighter. He was about to lift her into his arms and carry her to the bed when something, some small sound in the tunnels beyond her chamber, drew his head up and pulled a low, frustrated growl from the back of his throat.
"Vincent . . ." Footsteps sounded in the corridor. "Vincent, are you down here?"
"Father," Catherine whispered, stepping back and dropping her head. He saw her shoulders rise as she drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and knew that she was trying to calm her racing heart, just as he was.
"Yes." Vincent crossed to the chamber entrance, giving her time and privacy in which to recover. "Here, Father."
Father came in, leaning heavily on his cane. "I thought I might find you here."
"I brought Catherine a bed for the baby." Vincent indicated the bassinet with a wave of his hand.
"Ah. Yes. Very good. How is he?"
Catherine looked up with a faint smile. "He's perfect."
"He's also asleep," Vincent said mildly. He struggled to keep the frustration out of his voice, but the faint blush on Catherine's cheeks didn't make it easy. Nor did the fact that he knew she was equally unhappy with the interruption. "Was there something you needed?"
Father's gaze shifted between them, and a look of embarrassment flitted across his face. He coughed nervously. "No," he said. "I just wanted to make sure the baby was well."
"He is."
Father looked across at Catherine. "I believe William has some formula in the kitchen."
"You don't think I could—"
Father looked doubtful. "A great deal of time has passed since his birth. The hormone levels you would need for successful lactation . . ." He shook his head. "I'm afraid it would be quite impossible."
"I understand." Catherine hid her feelings well, but Vincent felt her disappointment.
"What will you do now?" Father asked. "Will you return Above?"
"No." Her eyes came up to meet Vincent's across the room. "If it's all right with the council," she said, her head held high, "I'd like to stay."
Father looked from her to Vincent. "Are you certain it's what you want?"
"Yes." She rested her hand on the edge of the bassinet. "We want to raise him here." The certainty in her voice left no room for doubt.
Vincent's heart stumbled and then leapt ahead as he realized all at once that he had a family, now. A real family. He hadn't had time to consider it before, so caught up was he in Catherine's return and the search for their son. The precious infant sleeping peacefully in the worn bassinet made it all real in ways it hadn't been before.
Father cleared his throat, and Vincent started, dragging his gaze away from Catherine long enough to nod his agreement. "All right, then. I'll have a word with the council, but I'm quite certain you'll be welcome."
"Thank you, Father."
He crossed the room to look in at the sleeping baby. "He really is a beautiful child."
"Yes," Vincent agreed. "He looks just like his mother."
Father looked up with a faint smile. "He looks like both of you." He moved to the door. "It's been a very long day. If you will excuse me, I believe I'll turn in."
Vincent followed him, bending to kiss the worn cheek. "Rest well, Father."
"You too, Vincent." Father glanced back. "Goodnight, Catherine."
"Goodnight, Father."
Father turned to go, paused, and glanced back at Vincent. "You might speak with Cullen tomorrow," he said. "I think he could probably manage a door . . ."
And then he was gone, leaving Vincent and Catherine to exchange bemused looks in his wake.
Vincent crossed to stand beside her at the bassinet. Together, they looked down at their sleeping son.
"I still can't believe he's really here," she said.
"I know."
"Do you think . . . will he remember any of it?"
"Perhaps." He put his arm around her waist.
She leaned against him. "You said once that we were something that has never been." She looked up, meeting his eyes. "So is he."
"Yes." He bent to kiss the top of her head. "And we will be there for him—to love him, and guide him, and watch him grow."
She searched his eyes, and he sensed that there was something she wanted to ask him, and yet for some reason, she hesitated.
"What is it, Catherine?"
She started to speak, closed her mouth again, and shook her head. "It's nothing."
"Tell me."
He could almost see her gathering her courage. She took a breath. "Do you remember," she said. "After my father died, I asked you a question."
They had spoken of many things during that difficult time. He searched his mind, but after a moment, he shook his head.
"I asked you," she said, "if you thought we would ever be together." She took his hand in hers. "Truly together."
"I remember."
"And you said only when we truly understood the sacrifice." She touched the leather pouch on his chest with the tip of her finger. "And the fear."
He nodded. It seemed so long ago, now. Another lifetime.
"Are you still afraid?"
He thought about all that had happened to them since they'd had that conversation. About losing her, and then finding her again, about their search for their son, about Elliot Burch and Diana Bennett and even Joe Maxwell. He thought about Gabriel, about how he looked human, but wasn't.
And he thought about his dawning understanding that the unique combination of proteins and amino acids that defined his genetic makeup did not define his humanity as well.
In the quest to find his son, he had found himself.
"No," he said, as he bent his head to kiss her. "No, I'm not afraid."
As his lips moved against hers, and the sweet, familiar scent of her skin and hair filled his senses, desire heated his blood once again. Reluctantly, he ended the kiss, resting his forehead against hers.
"Catherine . . ."
"Hmmm?" Her voice was little more than a hum of sound as she curled her hands around the edges of his tunic.
"Have you seen Peter, yet?" They couldn't risk another pregnancy. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Her regretful sigh echoed his own feelings. "Not yet."
"Then perhaps it is best that I leave you now."
With obvious reluctance, she released him and stepped back. "You're right, of course."
It required all of his will to move away from her, and yet he knew he must. He crossed to the bassinet, stopping there to look once more upon his son's face.
"Goodnight, little one," he whispered. "Be well."
Tenderly, he tucked the blankets beneath the baby's chin. Satisfied, he started toward the doorway, determined to leave before it was too late.
"Vincent?"
He stopped and turned, half hoping that despite the danger she would ask him to stay. But she merely stared mutely at him, biting her lower lip as she fought her desire.
"Sleep well."
He hesitated. Everything within him demanded that he return to her side, but in the end he nodded and left quickly, not trusting himself to linger for another moment.
