By the time they reached Father's library, the chamber was empty. But the tell-tale sign of what had happened lay on the table next to the book the man had been reading.
Catherine picked it up first, holding it up to the light.
"A mask," she said, examining it.
"Paracelsus," Vincent growled in anger.
"Latex, by the looks of it," she assessed. "That means Father could still be alive."
He let out a sharp breath, the thought that Paracelsus might have killed Father to impersonate him not having entered his mind. But the tunnel's nemesis had done exactly that at Winterfest when he has posed as the helper, Lou, taking the man's face to use as his own. Catherine had informed to him later that the police found Lou's body in the basement of his barbershop, the grizzly scene making a splash in the papers before the case quickly ran cold.
"Vincent, I'm going to change and go above," she told him. "I'm not sure why, but I know Elliot is involved in this somehow. I'm hoping he can give me a lead to wherever Father might be."
While he heard her words, they did not register in his brain, and he continued to look at the mask of Father's face splayed on the desk.
After a moment, she stepped close to him, gently taking his hands in her own. "Will you be all right?" she asked. Pausing to look at his palms, hastily bandaged, she said, "Perhaps I should help you with these first."
The sudden contact between them snapped Vincent out of his mental state, and he looked at her. Her words finally penetrated to him and he said urgently, "No, I'll be fine. I can wake Mary if necessary. Please go and look for Father."
With a nod, Catherine rushed to change before heading back above, not even bothering to wait for Vincent to guide her. She had journeyed below enough times to know how to find way to the threshold of her apartment building, and she made her way back in record time.
From her place, she took a cab directly to Elliot's building. Once she spoke with Elliot and Cleon Manning, Elliot's driver took all three of them to the place on Sutton where Spirko had met with his source. Thanks to Cleon's keen eyes, they were able to find the false wall behind which Father had been imprisoned.
"Paracelsus is below," the old man told Catherine urgently, ignoring the rivulets of blood that ran down the side of his face from what appeared to be a nasty head injury.
"He's gone," Catherine assured him, aware that both Elliot and Cleon were paying very close attention to their conversation. Turning to Elliot, she said, "I need to get him help."
"I'll call an ambulance-"
"That won't be necessary," Father interrupted quickly. "If you would just be so kind as to give us a ride… to Central Park."
This time, Cleon seemed incredulous. "Central Park?" he demanded. "Man, you have a bleeding head wound and I don't know what else, and you want to go feed the ducks in the middle of the night?"
"His home is close by," Catherine assured them both. "And from there, I can make sure he gets proper care."
Cleon looked at Elliot, who in turn looked back at her. She implored him with her eyes.
"Whatever the lady says," Elliot said definitively. "After we've gone, Cleon, call in that anonymous tip."
Catherine explained everything to Father as she helped him through the park to the tunnel access. In addition to Paracelsus having pistol-whipped him with the gun, he had dealt a few debilitating kicks to Father's body, particularly his bad hip. And to add insult to injury, he had broken Father's cane in half, forcing him to lean heavily on Catherine as she helped him towards the drainage culvert which would take them below.
In return, Father told her the truth about Anna's death, how John Pater had become obsessed with Vincent as a child, believing him to be his lost son.
"But I can't believe he would tell him such lies about his birth," Father said, cringing in pain as he thought about how a sensitive soul like Vincent would internalize such a history, even as a newborn baby.
"That wasn't the only thing Paracelsus made up to cause Vincent to hate himself," Catherine stated. At Father's look of alarm, she quickly outlined the other lies the man had told about herself and how Vincent had harmed her.
Sighing, Father said, "And coming from me, Vincent would believe such a preposterous story, especially if you had not been there to refute it."
"At first, Vincent didn't even believe me," Catherine said.
They had reached the drainage culvert and with one quick look behind them, she made certain that neither Elliot nor Cleon had attempted to follow them across the park. Carefully, she led the old man through the access point.
Vincent waited for them inside. At the sight of Father's bloody head injury, he stepped forward, taking his father's weight from Catherine's slim frame. She quickly moved to open the access door, pulling the hidden latch and then stepping back as it rolled out of the way.
The three of them spoke little as Vincent helped Father walk down to the hospital chamber, Catherine following behind. They spoke even less once they had reached the destination and Vincent insisted on examining his father as well as treating his injuries. As he worked, Catherine saw him wince slightly as he moved his hands, the bandages across both palms starting to dot with blood.
"I told you, I'm fine," the patriarch declared even as Mary entered the chamber, obviously already having been roused from sleep.
"You could have a concussion," Vincent told him. "And I'm fairly certain two of your ribs are cracked."
"And they will heal just fine with rest," Father insisted.
"Mary, will you sit with him?"
"Of course."
Despite his protests, they situated Father into one of the hospital beds and Mary went about making him comfortable.
As they left, Catherine walked automatically towards Vincent's chamber, and he followed without a word. They still had things to talk about, and she had no intentions of going back above on this night. Not much was left of the night anyway.
It is almost morning, she thought to herself, noting the fatigue of her body.
Once in Vincent's chamber, she stopped in the middle of the room and turned to him, not certain how to begin their next conversation. The lies Paracelsus had told while impersonating Father had led him to shout and grown at her multiple times, to push her away and accuse her of unspeakable acts of treachery. That he would believe such things of her, even at his own father's behest, stung her deeply. But more than that, she worried for his spirit, having been so severely wounded in the previous hours only to learn it had all been the lies of a madman.
Vincent spoke first.
"Catherine, please forgive me for… for all the things I said earlier."
She shook her head as if to belie any such guilt on his part, and through the bond, he felt from her an abiding conviction.
"There is nothing to forgive, Vincent. You were manipulated by an evil, vindictive man. Paracelsus told you exactly the lies he knew would destroy you. I'm just glad I was able to convince you of the truth."
He flushed at the reference to her earlier nudity. At the time, his distress had overridden any thoughts of a lustful nature, but now, thinking back on her appearance, he allowed his mind to dwell on the awe-inspiring beauty of her naked figure. But from Catherine he sensed something else, something she tried desperately to hide from him.
Embarrassment. Mortification. Shame.
The last emotion slashed through him as cleanly as a knife and he imagined how he would feel if he had found it necessary to bare himself to her in such a way. There could be no comparison between the two of them, of course. Catherine was a beauty no artist could ever hope to capture, and she had nothing to feel ashamed of regarding her appearance. But Vincent realized how vulnerable it must have made her feel.
"I'm so sorry you had to…"
Vincent stopped, wishing he could find the right words to express himself to her.
"I have never seen such beauty," he remarked finally. "The sight of you was a gift I was never meant to have, but I will treasure it always. Thank you."
As his words reached her, Catherine looked down, her shoulders slumped with the weight of some invisible burden.
"Vincent, I don't regret what I did. At that moment, I felt it was the only way to prove to you that you what you had been told was not the truth. But I wish…" She sighed sadly. "I wish the first time you saw me like that was when we were making love."
The depth of her statement made its way to him through the bond, and with it, and he sensed a flash of imagery from Catherine's mind. They were both nude, their bodies clinging together like two vines that had naturally grown entwined. With the image came a sense of physical touch, and Vincent realized that part of her fantasy involved his mouth on her skin, the unusual shape of his lips causing new and exotic sensations everywhere they touched.
"Catherine, please," he begged, struggling to push away her image of the two of them.
But she stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "No, Vincent," she urged him, "you cannot shut me out. Not this time."
His heart felt as though it might wrench him in half. He wanted Catherine, wanted with every fiber of his being to give her the physical love she so desperately wanted and deserved. But his fear pulled just as strongly in the other direction. The self-loathing Paracelsus had capitalized on was still there, and it reminded him of the risks if he were to fail.
If he hurt Catherine, he would die. There could be no redemption, no forgiveness, no trying again. If he lost himself in the haze of passion and harmed her… If he killed her…
If Catherine died, he would follow. But his death would be neither swift nor painless, Vincent vowed to himself. He would not die until he wrung every last bit of agony from his worthless, wretched self. And even so, even if he tortured himself, it would not bring Catherine back. Nothing could restore her to health if he did the unthinkable.
"What if Paracelsus' lies hold a seed of truth?" he asked in despair.
"They don't."
"Catherine, we cannot be sure-"
"I am sure," she reaffirmed.
Her words seemed inadequate to express the certainty in her heart. She held no doubts, no fears, no reservations about pursuing a physical relationship with him. Rather, with this newfound freeness between them, he sensed that she was unspeakably eager to touch him and feel his touch in return. Thoughts of his naked body did not fill her with quiet revulsion as they did his mind. Rather, she felt a peculiar sense of longing.
Of Passion. Desire.
But after a moment, he felt all of it fade away again. As if a spillway on a dam had suddenly been closed, her erotic feelings were closed off to him once more. Looking up at her, he recognized the expression of patient reserve which Catherine now assumed.
"I told you before, what we have is all that matters to me," she told him firmly. "I will wait as long as necessary for this part of our love. I'll wait our entire lives if I must. But we will be together, Vincent. This part of our love is as much an aspect of our dream as the rest. You must believe that..."
Shaking his head, Vincent began, "If I ever harmed you…"
He thought back to those moments when he had believed the lies of Paracelsus. Experimentally, he reflected back on his anger and hatred. While the notion of Catherine's betrayal had raised his ire, it was because she had kept from him the truth and allowed him to turn one moment of lustful indulgence into many. That she would conceal from him his own indiscretions hardly surprised him, but Vincent could not reconcile her continual sacrifice.
"If I ever harmed you..." he began again, "would you stop me?"
The question startled her, he knew, but he also felt an undercurrent of excitement within her, as if she suspected that if she answered him adequately, he might give in to her deeper desires.
Catherine spoke carefully in return. "I don't think you're capable of harming me, Vincent. But if you did cause me some discomfort, I would tell you. I promise."
As if to reinforce her words, Vincent felt from her a renewed image of the two of them making love. Through the bond, he could feel her body accepting him, inch by inch, frustration building within them both. And even as he felt his hurried invasion of Catherine's body, he sensed from her… "Discomfort" was the best word he could find to describe it. Not pain exactly, but a stepping stone which could easily lead to pain and from there to unspeakable agony…
Within the image in his mind, Vincent felt Catherine's grip on him tighten, holding him back, guiding him to a more measured pace. While her body reveled at receiving him, it needed time to adjust, to relax and accept his girth.
He blushed furiously at the unspoken compliment she bestowed on him, her having assumed without having ever laid eyes on him that he would be more well endowed than any prior lovers. But there lay the end of her concerns - an unspoken vow to slow his movements within her if she became uncomfortable. She paid no heed to the sharp claws which adorned each of his fingers nor the strength of his body or the sharpness of his teeth. Catherine betrayed no fear of his darker side, the one which could rend a man's flesh into tatters within seconds if he were so inclined.
No, she held no fear of him. Not even a glimmer of uneasiness had taken hold in her mind, and Vincent marveled at her courage.
Her love, he amended himself. Surely, it was love that blinded her to the possibility of what he might do to her in an unguarded moment.
"Lisa tried to pull away," he began, that old and ugly memory as fresh in his mind as if it had occurred days before rather than decades.
Catherine moved closer to him even as she spoke. "Lisa was a girl and you were a boy. I know what transpired between you was traumatizing, and I would never intentionally minimize your experience. But I promise you, Vincent, I would not want to pull away from you."
Another vision followed her statement, and this time Vincent saw the memory of his younger self with the lithe dancer in a different light. Instead of standing in the Great Hall watching Lisa practice ballet, he stood opposite Catherine. His mind knew she intended to look younger, but to him, she seemed as lovely and mature as he had ever known her. As the familiar pull of teenage lust filled him and he reached for him, the younger Catherine did not flee. Instead, he saw her smile and reach for him in turn, bringing him even closer.
"I love you," she whispered into his ear, easy words for a near child to utter when hormones mixed with affection. "Vincent, you are mine."
As he experienced Catherine's vision, Vincent shivered with a mixture of fear and delight. Rather than try to flee his embrace, she brought him close - as close as his younger self could have hoped and more. He held her tightly against him, the swell of her breasts crushed against his chest, causing his own body to respond in a way that embarrassed him deeply.
This time, it was he who tried to pull away, mortified that she would feel his growing need for her through the thick denim of his trousers. But Catherine held fast, anchoring him as much with her will as her strength. They both knew he could overpower her in an instant.
"No, please," she whispered, clinging to him. "I don't mind it. I… I want to feel you. Please."
The last word was not spoken but begged, a desperate entreaty that likely came from Catherine's adult mind rather than any sense of her younger self. The realization brought Vincent out of the vision he had been feeling from her through the bond, and blinking quickly, he cleared his mind.
Catherine now stood very near to him, having slowly stepped closer and closer while he had been preoccupied with the vision of their younger selves. She was within arm's length but had halted, perhaps waiting for him.
"Please, Vincent," she said softly.
While he had no notion of exactly what she needed, Vincent knew with aching clarity that he could not deny her. Not any longer. Whatever she needed from him, be it steady reserve or loving passion, he would find a way to provide it.
I'll wait our entire lives if I must.
She should not have to wait!
Anger kindled anew in his breast - anger at himself, at his body, at the fickleness of fate which made him the way he was. Catherine deserved everything - everything! And yet she subsisted on scraps of affection and fleeting touches…
For one long moment, he saw again the teenage Catherine from her vision, and he imagined her having to wait those many intervening years for him. He marveled at her patience, but he also despised himself for forcing her to forgo physical intimacy for so long. The very thought of denying her for so long seemed cruel and criminal. And yet, he had done so for the two years they had known each other.
"Vincent…" she said gently. Either she sensed his turmoil through the bond or she could read it on his features. "Please tell me what you're feeling."
Her request was not to be denied, Vincent determined. Nothing he could grant her should ever be denied again.
"I'm feeling… that you deserve more than I can give you." Before she could interrupt him with assurances borne of fear he might try once again to leave her for her own good, he went on. "I'm feeling that I should do more to give you… everything I can."
Looking down at his hands, the bandages across his palms reminding him of his own propensity for violence, Vincent felt a deep and unsettling realization begin to take hold. There were things he could do, possibilities that had not been explored. But he had been either too cowardly or pious in his beliefs to explore them sooner.
"Catherine," he said, curling his hands into fists before looking up at her. "I promise you now - you will not wait forever. I will find a way for us to be together... without you being harmed. I will find a way."
TBC