This story originally appeared in the now out-of-print fanzineWithin the Crystal Rose, in 1990. It was my first Beauty andthe Beast story, and I've learned a few things since then, so Igave it a face-lift, but no major changes. Beauty and theBeast and its characters are owned by Witt-Thomas Productions andRepublic Pictures. This story is presented merely for the enjoymentof fans.

Blackout

by BeeDrew

He let his eyes close, faintly aware of the tired whir of the fanin the corner and traffic noise from far below. Thoughts driftedacross his mind's eye, unpleasant thoughts that he tried to shoveaway. But they would not be banished. They had plagued him all week,nipping at his concentration and filling him with vague sadness. NextTuesday marked the twentieth anniversary of his father's death. Hisfather's murder.

Joe took a dart from the pencil holder and threw it, hard. Hewatched with satisfaction as it struck deep into the dart board andtrembled there. You'd think I'd be over this by now.

He hoped the evening ahead with Cathy Chandler would help. She hadrecently lost her father, and he knew her mother had died when Cathywas a child. But Shea Stadium was hardly the perfect setting for aheart-to-heart chat. Maybe they could go somewhere after the game andtalk. He was still mildly amazed that she had accepted his offer of aspare Mets ticket. He'd caught her on her way to an appointment.

"This Friday? Sure, Joe. Sounds great." Cathy had smiled at himand whisked out, leaving him staring after her, mouth ajar.

He winced as he remembered Escobar's smirk. "Spare Mets ticket?Pretty lame, Joe. And close your mouth. You look silly."

He had asked Cathy out many times before and almost alwaysreceived a gentle refusal. But it seemed she had finally grown wearyof Mozart and white wine, and decided to sample life's simplerpleasures--baseball and beer. The idea made him grin. Today they hadboth worked late, trying to wrap up the slippery details on anextortion case. He glanced up at the sound of her footsteps, hushedbut audible in the silent office, coming closer. A sudden mischievousimpulse made him snatch up a stout rubber band.

As her slim, green-clad form crossed the doorway, he fired. Therubber band flew across his office, just missing the swirl of dark,honeyblonde hair.

"Damn!" He'd missed.

And he'd also forgotten that today, courtesy of a visit by RitaEscobar's niece, Cathy was packing. She lunged around the door frameand aimed a pink water pistol at him. Before he could duck, a thinstream of water spurted against his chest. "Gotcha!"

"Hey!" Joe sputtered, leaping out of his chair. But he laughed ashe crossed the office. The cool wetness felt good next to his skin,since the upstairs air conditioner had gone on vacation with everyoneelse at the beginning of August.

Lounging against the door frame, he surveyed her smug grin. "Thisinsubordination has got to stop, Chandler."

His growl didn't intimidate Cathy. It never did. She smiled up athim, eyes dancing. "Yes, Oh-Lord-and-Master."

"That's better. Ready for the Mets tonight?" He mimed a fastballpitch.

She glanced at her watch. "I can taste the peanuts now. I'm goinghome to change. Is seven o'clock in front of the ticket counterokay?"

"You bet. I'll buy the first round."

She smiled over her shoulder as she walked toward her desk. "I'llhold you to that, Joe. See you later."

"Hey, Radcliffe!" he yelled after her. "How about giving me theMets? Friendly ten-dollar bet?"

"Seven o'clock, Joe!"

Chuckling, Joe went back to his office for his suit jacket andbriefcase. To soothe his conscience he gathered up a few files totake home and retrieved his tie, draped as usual over his desk lamp.Monday would come soon enough.

He tucked his gear under one arm and began his usual circuit ofthe bullpen, turning off forgotten desk lights. The office, sofrenetically busy during the workday, now looked forlorn and dingy inthe amber sunlight of late afternoon. Lazy swirls of cigarette smokestill floated in the air to mingle with the bitter scent of overdonecoffee. He was usually the last to leave, in charge by default ofshutting off lights, copiers, the coffee machine. Even though he knewthe cleaning people would be in later, he couldn't resist theimpulse. He felt as if he had his mother at his elbow: Don't wasteelectricity, Joe. It's not free.

As he shut the office door behind him, he spied Franklin, thejanitor, unloading his vacuum cleaner from the elevator. He headeddown the hall at a half-trot. "Hey, Frank. Hold that."

Franklin gave him a wide grin. "You, leaving early, Maxwell? Ican't believe it. Usually I have to sweep around your big feet."

Joe smiled as the elevator doors began to close. "Don't work toohard, Frank." He thumbed the Lobby button, wishing vaguely for abeer. He knew he didn't have any in his refrigerator; he couldn'teven remember the last time he'd opened it. He grinned crookedly, ashe thought of his tiny, nondescript comer of the Village. It was afar cry from Radcliffe's uptown digs.

He waved at the night guard and took a deep breath of theair-conditioned cool in the lobby, like a swimmer going underwater.As he emerged onto the street, the dog-day humidity wrapped itselfaround him, an unwelcome second skin. Not a breath of breeze stirredthe city's carefully placed trees. He slung his jacket over oneshoulder and headed for the subway station a few blocks down.

Friday's mass exodus from the business district was nearly over.Only a few obsessive-compulsives like himself were left, vying gamelyfor taxis or hoofing it toward public transportation. Joe bought somecheese curls from a street vendor and grinned at a redhead who gavehim the eye as she passed. With his dark eyes and easy, sensuoussmile, he didn't often have to ask twice for dates. Except, that is,when he asked out a certain diminutive lady lawyer. Joe continued ontoward the subway entrance, musing idly about Cathy Chandler.

She had worked with him almost two years now, and she was by farhis best investigator. She had an uncanny knack for getting into andout of dangerous situations in a way that shed glory on thedepartment and made her the apple of Moreno's eye. Joe wasn'tjealous, but he was curious. Sometimes she was downright mysteriousabout the exact way things had happened, and every once in a whileshe would vanish to who-knew-where. If she weren't so good at herjob, he wouldn't put up with it. But she was, and he did.

He was embarrassed to remember that at first he'd thought her abored Park Avenue princess looking for thrills, and expected that hermajor distinction around the office would be her vast collection ofearrings. Cathy had proved him wrong and become a good friend.

Joe scowled to himself as he began to descend into the subway,trying to ignore the sour smell of hot, tightly packed humanity.More than a friend, buddy, he told himself. Or at least,you'd like her to be.

Still scowling, he groped in his pocket for a token and pushedthrough the turnstile. He joined the crowd waiting on the platform totake the subway to the Village. Lately, he wasn't entirely sure whathe felt about Cathy. He knew he was instantly aware of her when shewalked into a room. He noticed what she was wearing, he listened forher laugh...And then, a few weeks ago, that head-case had nearlykilled her. He'd been scared down to his bones, scared and protectiveand angry. And he thought maybe he'd cared a bit too much for merefriendship.

You wouldn't call it a date, he thought, watching the trainapproach. With an ear-splitting roar, it barreled into the stationand slowed to a halt at the curb. An old woman carrying several bulkypackages trod heavily on his foot as she shoved past him into thecar. No, you wouldn't call it a date. Just friends, taking in a ballgame.

Joe boarded the car and automatically reached for an overheadstrap, before he realized there were plenty of seats in thisparticular compartment. Besides himself and the old woman, there weretwo business suits, one pregnant woman who looked miserable in theheat, one student sporting an NYU T-shirt, and a blonde-haired manasleep in a corner. Joe took a seat and dug into his briefcase for afile. He ought to be home in no time.

*****

Vincent's eyes were blue, a blazing, electric blue; but theirbeauty was hidden in the tunnel's darkness. Cloaked in flowing black,he was a shadow among shadows, as silent and potentially lethal asthey--and as soft and protective. His booted feet made scarcely asound on the gritty floor as he moved unerringly toward hisdestination.

Ahead the shadows faded and fled as they met illumination fromabove. Vincent walked until he stood at the base of a rusted metalladder that reached away into the light. It was time to go up.

Tiny hairs on the backs of his hands lifted as a shiver ofautomatic apprehension, bred into him by a protective parent, ranbeneath his skin. He reminded himself for the hundredth time that hewas perfectly safe, that the basement of Zeke's delicatessen wasHelper territory. It was just that he felt so horribly exposed,climbing blindly into the light.

Vincent grasped the ladder in large, furred hands and began toascend. He swung himself up using only his hands and arms, lettinghis feet dangle. A guilty pleasure, this display of his strength, butone he did not deny himself when he was alone. He slowed near the topand rested his feet on the rungs as he peered over the edge of themanhole-sized opening. He held his breath and listened. No one wasnear.

Cautiously, he climbed the last few feet, emerging behind a stackof fat, dusty flour sacks. He had been here many times before. Thekindly shopkeeper had long made a gift to the tunnel dwellers ofwhatever food he could not sell the day he prepared it.

Zeke had known someone would come and had moved the flour sacksfrom their customary place over the opening. Vincent could certainlyhave shoved them over himself, but Zeke hadn't known it would beVincent who picked up the food today. Perhaps if he had, thoughtVincent, squinting, he might have dimmed the lights a little. But itwas bright in the small basement, for things had happened to Zekethat made him abhor darkness. A long, phosphorescent tube blazedwhite along the length of the rectangular ceiling, and all thesurfaces were spotless, though crowded with foodstuffs. At one end ofthe room was the massive metal door of the walk-in refrigerator.Closer to Vincent, a narrow stairway led up to the shop above.

"Who's that?" came Zeke's hoarse-voiced challenge. Vincent saw theold man's shadow move on the stairs, but knew he would not descenduntil he heard the identity of his guest.

"It's Vincent, Zeke," he called softly. "I've come for thefood."

"Ah, Vincent!" Zeke hurried down the stairs, as though tocompensate for his earlier reluctance. He was a stringy scrap of aman in his seventies, with a salt-and-pepper beard and a gruffkindness about him. An immaculate white apron covered hisold-fashioned trousers and shirt, and his shoes were buffed to areflective shine. His black eyes crinkled at the corners as hewelcomed his visitor. "Didn't know it would be you today, Vincent.Usually they send the young ones." Zeke hastened forward to shakeVincent's hand.

"Michael and Lena have taken most of the children on a...fieldtrip," Vincent explained, groping for Lena's term. "They've gone tothe Metropolitan Museum of Art."

Even to him, his voice sounded wistful. Zeke seemed to understand,laying a warm hand on his arm. "Never you mind, Vincent. Everyoneknows you could lead tours in that place."

Vincent smiled at Zeke's effort to comfort him. He had long agoceased to be bitter about his limitations, but that didn't mean hedidn't chafe against them now and again. "Have you been well, Zeke?"he asked as the small shopkeeper led him toward the refrigerator.

"Not bad, not bad. Business is picking up. Lots of folks arecoming over on their lunch hours. Can't resist 'everything fresh,every day‚" Zeke chuckled. He grunted as he unlatched and pulledopen the heavy door. Cold air rushed outward, driving back the stickysummer heat.

"Prop that open, would you Vincent? Darn thing's not hung justright, and we're liable to get shut in here." Zeke tugged on a stringthat dangled overhead, and dim yellow light flooded the room.

Vincent dragged a crate in front of the door and made sure it washeavy enough to keep the door open. "Cullen could probably fix thisfor you, Zeke," he offered.

The old man piled sandwiches and Styrofoam containers of potatosalad and coleslaw in a large box. He shook his head emphatically."Nah, I'm used to it. Same as you get used to freckles on a wife, youget used to the little things around here. Wouldn't change it forlove nor money."

Vincent smiled at that. Just as he reached to help Zeke lift thebox from the floor, the lights went out, plunging them into darkness.Zeke sucked in his breath and voiced a ripe Yiddish curse thatVincent politely pretended not to understand.

"Power's out," Zeke said shakily. "Got a flashlight around heresomewhere."

Vincent didn't answer at once, absorbed by the sudden swoop offear within himself that radiated from his bond with Catherine. Thetension eased as he felt her emotion, which had been mostly surprise,level off and fade. He heard Zeke take a few hesitant steps, as if heforced frozen muscles to work. Vincent knew how Zeke hated darkness,had hated it since a nightmare boxcar ride toward Auschwitz. Vincentstrove to soothe with his voice.

"Stay still, Zeke, and tell me where to look for the light. I canstill see."

That voice, deep and whisper-soft, was one of the few Zeketrusted, coming at him out of the dark. He cleared his throat and wetlips gone dry with remembered terror. "I think it's on the secondshelf to the right of the door."

Vincent found the flashlight and thumbed it on. The cone of lightseemed of immeasurable comfort to Zeke, who took the flashlight fromhim and sighed heavily, expelling his fear. "If the electric is outfor long, I'll have a lot more for you to carry Below, Vincent." Hegestured around him at the shelves packed with produce, meats, andcheeses of all kinds. "All this will go bad within a couple ofdays."

"Surely they'll fix it before long," said Vincent. Disquietingthoughts of Catherine, alone in a darkened city, troubled him.

"Maybe, maybe not. Depends how widespread it is and what causedthe blackout. Could be hours, or days." Zeke shuffled glumly out ofthe refrigerator, followed by Vincent with the box of food. "Therewas looting during the big one in '65. Better find my shotgun."

"You must come Below, where it's safe, if that happens," saidVincent quickly.

Zeke shook his head, and a little steel came into his voice as hereplied. "What, and let those hooligans steal everything I have? Ilost everything once, in Germany. Never again!"

Vincent let that pass, but made a mental note to have some of thepeople Below help him watch over Zeke. He would not see the old manhurt or robbed.

"The ones I feel sorry for are the poor folks stuck in the subwaytunnels," said Zeke. Memories of the boxcar were in his shudder."Sitting ducks for the muggers."

"You're right," Vincent said slowly, For a split second, he felt arepulsive flash of what Catherine called "city-think": There aremiles of subway tunnels; what good can one man do.... Instantlyhe was ashamed of the thought, and decided he must see if he couldhelp.

"I must go Below, Zeke, and see if I'm needed," he said. "Will yoube all right?"

The old man waved him away. "Sure, sure. No need to worry. You goon." Zeke waited, lighting Vincent's way as he made his carefuldescent, the box of food balanced on one shoulder.

Vincent called out his thanks and then began to retrace his path,his movements graceful and sure. In the Tunnel world, darkness wasthe norm; the city's lack of light mattered not a whit. He movedswiftly, and once he reached an intersection that contained one ofthe main pipes, he tapped out a message for someone to come and pickup the food. As soon as he received a reply, he was off in theopposite direction. He wanted to check on Catherine, but he would goto her home via one of the subway lines. If he came across anytrouble, he would deal with it.

*****

Joe froze as the lights cut out and the subway car began to slow.Like a dying animal, it groaned to a halt.

"Aw, hell, this I don't need!" someone whined. Joe thought it wasthe student. Reflexively, he closed his eyes to think, even thoughthe inside of his eyelids was no darker than the subway car. Hementally pictured the car and tallied its occupants. He thought onlyhimself, the student, the slumbering man, and the pregnant woman wereleft, plus one teenage girl who had boarded after them. He had avague memory of the business suits and the old woman leaving thecar.

After a few moments of utter blackness, weak emergency lightingflickered on, dim and intermittent. Joe was able to see that his headcount was correct. He saw the passengers staring nervously around ateach other, judging possible friends and foes. Joe saw the pregnantwoman draw her purse in closer and curve one arm protectively overher belly. She was pretty, with dark hair and eyes and olive skin.She looked like pictures he'd seen of his own mother when she wasyoung.

The student stood up and moved toward the door. "Always wonderedwhat you'd do if you got stuck in one of these," he said to no one inparticular. He wedged the fingers of both hands into the crack thathalved the door, braced his long legs, and pulled. With a grunt, hemanaged to separate the doors a couple of inches.

Joe got up to help. Pulling opposite one another, they forced athree-foot exit into the pitch-black tunnel. Joe looked askance at itand wondered just who--or what--he might encounter stumbling aroundout there. He almost wished he hadn't quit smoking, after theinterminable nights of studying torts and precedents were over. If hehadn't quit, he would have had a lighter in his pocket.

The student seemed to feel no misgivings. "Hey, thanks dude. I'moutta here. No telling how long this will last."

"Mind if I go with you?" The teenager, a skinny girl with lots ofjangling bracelets and impossibly tortured hair, stood up. "I gotsomewhere to be."

"Sure, babe. Let's go." He helped her climb onto the narrow stripof concrete that ran along the underground tunnel at aboutwaistlevel. He looked back at Joe. "You coming, man?"

He wanted to go. Hours sitting in a dim, sweltering subway carheld no appeal, and Cathy would be worried about him. But when heglanced behind him, he saw panic forming on the pregnant woman'sface. If Joe left, it would be only her and the man slouched in acomer, who hadn't moved or spoken, though he now seemed to be awake.The woman was in no shape to climb around in the dark.

"Nope," he answered. "I think I'll hang on awhile. I'm a long wayfrom home, and the electricity might come back in a few minutes."

"Suit yourself," the student said. He climbed out of the car, andhis footsteps receded as he introduced himself to the girl. "Thename's Van. You know, like Van Halen."

"Maya. Like nothing you ever heard of...."

They were gone, swallowed by the dark tunnel. Joe thought aboutclosing the door. He felt vulnerable with this black hole at hisback. But they might need the ventilation. As he returned to hisseat, he caught a grateful look from the woman. He smiled at her andsat down again, his eyes fixed on the only other passenger. Streetrules told him to give the guy a hard stare, let him know he wasbeing watched. But the man, cap pulled down low, wasn't looking hisway.

Joe leaned back with a sigh, stretched out his legs, andunfastened his second shirt button. Could be a long wait, and notenough light to read by. He decided to try conversation.

"Guess we're instant friends," he said, smiling across the aisleat the woman. "I'm Joe Maxwell."

She smiled tentatively in return and gave him a damp hand toshake. "Connie Reichert. Think this will last long?"

Joe shrugged. "Depends what went wrong. Cops'll be along withflashlights. They won't leave us in here forever." A thought occurredto him, and he grinned at her, well aware of the charm in theexpression. "You weren't trying to get anywhere important, were you?Like the hospital?"

Connie gave a nervous giggle. "No. Another month to go, and Iwon't take the subway, you can bet on that. Where were yougoing?"

"Home, to the Village. Then to a ball game." Joe heaved a gloomysigh. "Guess the Mets will have to win without me tonight."

They said little more as they settled down to the business ofwaiting. Joe kept setting ten-minute deadlines. In another tenminutes, he promised himself, he'd try to talk Connie into chancingthe tunnel. Heat and darkness, darkness and heat, pressed on themalmost palpably, like a smothering blanket. Despite his intention toremain watchful, Joe felt himself grow drowsy. It seemed to him therewas not quite enough air to go around. . . .

It happened before he could even register that the man had moved.Steel-wire fingers grabbed his shirt and hauled him halfway to hisfeet, before a haymaker punch slammed against his head. Joe foundhimself on hands and knees, spitting blood.

Connie screamed. "No! No, get away!" she shrieked.

"Gimme the purse, lady," growled the punk. He shook her with onehand, and tried to wrestle the purse away with the other.

Panicked, Connie continued to scream and claw, holding on to thepurse with the same ferocity she'd have shown if he'd threatened herbaby. The punk slapped her once before Joe jumped him frombehind.

Joe dragged the punk away from Connie, who pressed herself into acorner, sobbing. He jabbed a solid body punch at the would-be mugger,and grabbed him by the arms to wrestle him to the floor. Neithercould get swinging room, but Joe knew he had a weight advantage andcapitalized on it. As he rolled on top of his opponent, who wasstruggling and cursing wildly, Joe clutched a handful of dirty,white-blond hair, and began to slam the punk's head viciously againstthe floor, ignoring the fists pounding his back and arms.

The smaller man gave up trying to punch and, with a manic burst ofstrength, shoved Joe over and wrenched free. Drugs, Joe realized ashe stared at the bloody mass of hair in his hand. He didn't even feelthat.

The punk backpedaled, his glittering eyes fixed on Joe. Like amagician's trick, there was suddenly a six-inch switchblade in hisfist. "You are dead meat now, pretty boy," he whispered. "Gonna carveyou up."

Connie yelped at the sight of the knife and tried to press herselffurther into the wall.

Joe sucked in a ragged breath as he got to his feet. He knew thatgiving up his wallet and Connie's purse now wouldn't stop the fight.He'd pushed this guy too far, and was probably going to pay for it.His mind, which should have been fixed on survival, was shriekingDad, Dad...DAD!!! All he could think of was his father's murder. He'dbeen knifed in an alley, and bled his life away on a cold morning,twenty years ago.

Warily, the combatants tested each other with feints, each waitingfor the other's move. Joe knew not to watch the evilly glintingblade, but the man's eyes, equally evil. When they flickered, helunged. Closing one hand around the man's wrist, Joe tried to drivethe knife upward. But his fear made him slow, and his palm was slickwith sweat. The punk's wrist twisted out of his grip, freeing him toslash at Joe crosswise.

For an instant, Joe thought he hadn't been touched; then he felt ashriek of pain and a spurt of warmth from his abdomen. The punkgrabbed him, hauled him close. Numbly, he watched the knife rise andhang poised to deliver the killing blow. His thoughts raced. Thisis not happening it just can't be happening I'm gonna get cut justlike Dad this is why I'm not a cop OhgodOhgod, my poormother--

Something happened. Even afterward, Joe couldn't clearly recallwhat. There was someone else in the car, a huge, black-and-goldsomeone else, and was this guy really roaring, or was it only theblood in his ears and the buzz of pain in his mind? His knees bangedpainfully on the floor as he was dropped, and his head nearlyfollowed. He heard a sickening thunk, as the newcomer swung thescreaming mugger against the wall of the subway car. The limp bodycrashed to the floor a few feet from him.

Joe glanced over and saw that the punk still breathed. Then hiseyes traveled upward. The black outlines of his rescuer loomed abovehim. Clothed in a black, flowing cloak, the huge figure seemed a partof the darkness; even his face was shadowed.

"You're bleeding."

The voice was strong and gentle, like the hands that lifted Joe,as though he were no heavier than a child, and laid him across a rowof seats. Joe squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his teeth togetherto hold in a cry of pain. The reaction was fortunate, for the sightof the furry, claw-tipped hands attending him would have compoundedthe day's shocks.

He felt most of his shirt being torn off. His hands, held flatagainst his belly in an instinctive effort to stem the blood loss,were nudged away. With seemingly trained smoothness, the strangerpressed a wad of cloth against the long wound and wrapped the sleevesof the shirt around Joe's torso to hold the bandage in place. Onlywhen the hands left him did Joe experimentally open his eyes. Hecouldn't see very well; his ears seemed more reliable. He could hearquiet breathing close by, and Connie's hushed sobs, farther away. Hepeered in her direction, and motioned weakly. His rescuer's headturned.

"Are you all right?" he heard the man ask.

Both hands pressed against her eyes to shut out the nightmare,Connie moaned, "Stay away...stay away from me!" She sounded veryclose to hysteria.

The stranger sighed deeply, and did not try to approach her.

"Who are you?" Joe asked, his voice humiliatingly weak. "Where didyou come from?"

"I am a friend," came the soft reply. The voice, soothing anddeep, floated to his ears as though disembodied. The massive figurewas hooded, and even his hands were hidden.

Joe reached up without thought to push the hood away, the movementdriving a spike of pain into his gut. His rescuer reared back out ofreach, and Joe's hand fell.

"Please don't," said that distinctive voice.

Joe peered at him, still trying to see. Succor without a face wasnot entirely to be trusted. But his thoughts seemed to bleed away,just like his wound, until suddenly, a solid wedge of light partedthe dimness and a gruff voice came through the gaping door. "Police.You folks okay in there?"

*****

Vincent froze as the policeman barked his demand. He had been sodistracted that he hadn't even heard the approaching footsteps. Hesaw the injured man draw breath to reply, and then wince. The womanwas weeping quietly. Vincent would have to answer. "There's someonehurt in here, officer. He's bleeding. We will need a stretcher tomove him." Vincent's muscles trembled as he resisted the urge toflee. Discovery seemed imminent.

The chagrin in the officer's voice was plain. "Gonna be a problem,friend. Been lots of injuries with the blackout, and they'll have tocome down on foot from street level. Can you hang on?"

The woman, hearing a sane, sensible voice from the world she knew,heaved herself to her feet. "Get me out of here!" she whimpered."Don't leave...get me out!" She stumbled toward the door, armsoutstretched.

"Easy, lady. I'll get you out," came the long-suffering voice. Theofficer grunted as he bore most of her weight, hoisting her up to thenarrow cement walkway of the tunnel. He shone the beam of his lightinside again. "How many more of you in there?"

"Three," Vincent replied. "Myself, the injured man, and the onewho attacked him. He's no longer a threat. We'll be all right untilyour return." He sweated, willing the officer to go for help withoutcoming inside the car. There was nowhere to hide.

The cop, thus reassured and with an hysterical pregnant womanhanging on his arm, made the wise man's choice. "I'll get up top andcall the squad, then. Sit tight." The light vanished as he led hischarge away, droning encouragement to the tearful woman. Their voicesfaded gradually.

Vincent sighed silently with relief, and looked over at hispatient. The man hadn't spoken or moved since he had reached forVincent's hood, and looked to be unconscious. His eyes drooped nearlyclosed and his skin was a pasty white. He was probably in shock.

Vincent glanced around for something he could use to cover theman. He couldn't part with his cloak lest his features be revealed.Spotting a coat on the floor, he scooped it up and draped it over thestill form. Surprisingly, the man's eyes opened and he peered againat Vincent; he was not unconscious after all.

"Hey," the man murmured weakly. "Got a name?"

Vincent hesitated, then shrugged; in for a penny, in for a pound."Vincent. My name is Vincent."

*****

Joe tried to smile; maybe he'd succeeded, maybe not. Blood loss,he thought, was almost as good a buzz as three beers and football onSunday. Almost. He wished he could turn and make sure the punk wasstill face-down and unmoving; he wished he could see this Vincent'sface. Still, he shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth...or a giftNinja in the face....

He lifted his head, trying to clear it, and found that to be agreat mistake. The movement made his stomach muscles go taut and thealready white-hot pain intensified. A groan escaped between hisclenched teeth. The hooded figure shifted fractionally closer. "Youmust stay still," warned the soft, gravelly voice. "Help will be heresoon."

"Hey, Vincent, I haven't thanked you," Joe managed. He had totalk, had to think; anything but feel the amazing pain of his rentskin--the same pain his father must have felt when he died. "You cameout of nowhere."

He heard rather than saw the smile.

"I came out of the tunnel when I heard the woman cry out."

"Not many men would've helped," said Joe. "This is New York, afterall."

"You helped," said Vincent. "You fought that man to protect thewoman, despite the fact that this is New York."

The mockery was gentle, and Joe shrugged. "Well, you know.Couldn't just sit there. My father was a cop...he would have donesomething." But he didn't, hissed a tiny voice in his mind.He didn't do a thing, except let himself bleed to death. Lethimself be taken from us....

*****

Vincent stirred. He sensed more pain in this man than that of thewound. It was rare for his empathy to touch those to whom he was notclose. Perhaps the sharpening of all his senses in the absence oflight had enabled him to feel this man's pain. It was fresh pain,laced with old grief.

"You know my name," he said. "What is yours?"

"It's Joe," came the answer. "Joe Maxwell."

Vincent froze, eyes widening in shock. This was Catherine's Joe,the friend from work she liked so much. She had told him she wouldnot see him tonight until late, because she and Joe were going to abaseball game. He was doubly glad he'd been here, able to helpCatherine's friend. He would go to her later, let her know the manwas safe.

"Helluva thing, huh?" Joe murmured. "They say if you live in NewYork long enough, statistics are going to get you." His words hadbegun to slur.

Vincent made no reply, glancing anxiously at his patient. Beforehe'd covered Joe with the coat, he'd seen the battered face, thespreading stain on the bandage. If help did not come soon, he wouldhave to take Joe to Father. He winced at the thought; it was easy toenvision his parent's displeasure. Vincent prayed for the sound ofhelp approaching. As soon as he heard it, he would melt back into theshadows, into his own world.

Suddenly, he wondered what he would do if the power were restoredbefore he could escape. He would be caught in full light, which wassomething he feared almost as much as Zeke feared darkness. But hecould not leave Joe, injured and helpless, alone in the car with theone who had attacked him. Vincent sighed silently. He wastrapped.

He watched as Joe shifted restlessly on the hard plastic of thebenches, fruitlessly trying to ease what had to be a hellish amountof pain. "I was going to a baseball game with a friend of mine," hesaid. Vincent knew he was talking only to stave off panic. "HopeCathy doesn't think I stood her up. It took me months to get her togo out with me. See, we work together in the D.A.'s office--in fact,if I live through this, I think I'll put her on the prosecution forthat scum-of-the-Earth." He jerked his head toward the still figureon the floor. "She's some lady."

Vincent smiled to himself. Indeed.

"And," continued Joe thoughtfully, "she's got great legs."

Vincent raised his eyebrows at that. Something, some feeling,stirred in him that he didn't name and quickly repressed. It left anasty aftertaste.

Joe continued blithely on, apparently unaware of his effect on hislistener. "I always wondered why she never hooked up with anyone elseafter she gave Burch the heave-ho. Once in a while she mentions adate with someone, but no one from the office has ever met him. Shenever even says his name. She's going to just lose it when she hearsabout this." Joe paused, leaving Vincent to wonder what Catherine wasgoing to lose.

"Awhile back, Cathy was mugged herself," Joe remembered. "Missingten days, and hurt pretty bad."

Vincent closed his eyes. Memories, some harsh and some wonderful,cascaded through his mind. He said nothing as Joe went on.

"That was before I knew her, but I always felt it had something todo with why she gave up corporate law and came to work for us. Shehas a way of looking at things dead on, you know? She's not afraid tosay what needs to be said, to decide what's right and...and refuse tocompromise." He paused, seeming to grope for words. "It's like thatknife attack cut away all the shadowy grey areas for her," he said atlength. "What happened to her made her stronger." Joe sighed. "Me, Isometimes feel like I'm going to unravel. And it wasn‚t even mewho got...well. Until now."

Vincent waited, sensing there was more. His generous heart wantedto help this man, Catherine's friend.

"My father died like this, Vincent," Joe said presently. His wordswere slowing, his voice going thick as shock took hold, but Vincentknew this was no delirium. Catherine had spoken of the years-oldtragedy. Yet for Joe, the loss seemed as raw and fresh as the woundstill seeping beneath the makeshift dressing.

"Dad bled to death," Joe said. He blinked, slowly. "Just laidthere and...got cold and...left us. I always wondered what he felt,those last moments. Now I know."

Ah. Now we come to it. Vincent knew this was the source of thatother pain he had sensed before, the pain that was not the wound. Andthis, he could do something about.

*****

"You said your father was a police officer. He died in the line ofduty?"

Joe had to strain for the quiet words out of the dark; his earsdidn't seem to be working so well anymore. He wondered if Dad hadfelt...if Dad had

He drew in a breath that cut him in half. "Got knifed by a coupleof kids on his way home," he bit out. "Just about killed my mother,losing him. If you hadn't come along today, I hate to think...." Whywas he raking over ancient history at a time like this, especially toa stranger? But Vincent didn't seem to mind.

"It must not have been easy for you, either, to lose your father.You were young?"

"Fourteen. And I was so mad at him," Joe heard himself say. Andthen his words were galloping way out ahead of him, and he wasstruggling to catch up. "I was mad, see, because it was his fault hegot cut up and died, you know? Dammit, he was a cop, he had a gun! Hewas my father, he should have been able to do something--"

Joe cut himself off, appalled at the flood of grief and rage thathad somehow broken loose when the guy on the floor cut a hole in him.He had sworn never to feel like this again. Never.

Shaking, sick, he dragged in another breath, setting razorschurning in his gut. He thought Vincent wasn't going to speak again;after all, what could he say? Then that unique voice, quiet andstrong, reached him. He found himself thinking irrelevantly what anasset that voice would be in the courtroom, even as he listened.

"I, too, have a father who has disappointed me on occasion, eitherin deed or in understanding. I have been angry, and resentful. But Iknow that he always does his best. And I love him."

The words were piercing and clear in Joe's head, even thoughalmost everything else had gone as hazy and soft-edged as awatercolor. Suddenly, new pain slashed at him, pain in his eyes, aslight blazed in the compartment. He blinked, caught a glimpse of aswirling black mantle, tawny hair, and a face...a face thatwas....

Gone.

*****

Vincent hid himself in shadow after bolting from the car. Hedidn't know whether Joe had gotten more than a glimpse of him.Chances were, despite the man's undoubted intelligence and tenacitywhen presented with a puzzle, he would think he'd imagined whateverhe'd seen. The cars jerked as full power returned, but did not move.Peering down the tunnel, Vincent spotted paramedics approaching witha stretcher, led by a beefy police officer. Joe was safe.

Lest he be discovered, Vincent faded noiselessly back into hisworld, where darkness was not an emergency, but a blessing.

*****

Joe counted the water spots on the ceiling tiles of his hospitalroom. There were eighteen, and he'd counted them three times already.He was bored, bored, bored. And there weren't even any pretty nurses.It was with a welcome sense of dejà vu that he spied a slenderform in his doorway.

Cathy saw that he was not asleep and came all the way in, smilingat him. "Maxwell, I have never been so insulted. Stood up on a firstdate." She carried neither a potted plant, which he would have killedwith kindness, nor a box of candy he wasn't allowed to eat. Instead,she'd brought him three newspapers, separated into sections to sparehim lifting the heavy sheaf of paper. She knew him pretty well.

"Sorry, Radcliffe. In the mood for excuses? I've got a whopper ofa story." He gave her a sheepish smile. "Thirty-nine stitches,Exhibit A."

Cathy settled into the chair beside his bed and took his hand,giving it a squeeze. "I'm glad you're all right, Joe," she said. Shedidn't try to hide the concern in her eyes, and Joe gently brushed afinger along her cheek.

"Thanks, Cathy. So am I."

She smiled shakily. "So spill it already. You're a hero, they tellme."

Joe recounted his adventure from start to finish, and found hersuitably amazed by his mysterious rescuer. As he spoke, he tried toconvey Vincent's odd synthesis of gentleness and strength, his quaintway of speaking, and his almost medieval appearance, in the glimpsehe had gotten. He shook his head, stymied.

"He was big, and really strong," he said at length. "He threw thatcreep against the wall like an old shirt, and picked me up like I wasa six-year-old. But he said he was a friend, and he stayed almostuntil the paramedics got there. I never got a good look at him. Hisface...."

Joe's voice trailed off, and he shrugged as he met her expectanteyes. What he wanted to say was, He looked like a lion. Cathy wouldscoff at that, and tell him he'd dreamed it. Perhaps he had. But hedoubted his own ability to dream up someone like Vincent.

"We talked about my dad," he admitted, a little shamefaced. "It'sbeen twenty years, since...well." He saw by the change in her eyesthat she knew what he was feeling. "They say when you get insituations like this, strangers become your best friends. It was truefor Vincent and me, at least on my side. He...well, he helped me. Letme talk about it." Joe felt like a fool. She hadn't been there,couldn't understand.

But it seemed she did. Her voice was compassionate, as she againtook his hand in a warm grip. "I'm glad you had someone there foryou, Joe. Thank goodness for Vincent."

"Yeah," said Joe quietly.

They talked a few more minutes before Cathy left. She promised tokeep him posted on the goings-on at the office. Joe was sleepy, thepainkillers and his own exhaustion drawing him to the brink ofslumber. Just as he slipped over the edge, Vincent's words echoedagain in his mind, and they became Joe's own.

I know you did your best, Dad. And I love you.

*****

Catherine sighed as she settled against the hard vinyl of the taxiseat and gave the driver her address. Joe had given her quite ascare, and it hadn't been easy, listening wide-eyed to his story asthough she hadn't just heard it all from Vincent. She wondered if Joewould ever ask her how she'd known he was in the hospital.

The streets were only marginally crowded this late on Saturdaynight, and Catherine soon alighted in front of her building. Shehurried, knowing who was waiting for her above. As the elevatorwhisked her upward, she got out her keys, and was barely through thedoor to the balcony before Vincent was there, drawing her into hisarms. She pressed herself closer to the beloved figure and nestledher cheek just where she could hear his heart beating. No matter thatshe'd just seen him an hour ago; blissfully, she lost herself in thefeel and scent of him.

"Joe is well?" Vincent questioned, his hands lightly rubbing hershoulders.

Catherine nodded and leaned back in his arms. "He lost a lot ofblood. They'll keep him in the hospital at least until Wednesday."Her lips curved in an impish smile. "Were your ears burning abouttwenty minutes ago? He was singing your praises."

"Does he remember much about me?" Vincent asked.

Catherine shook her head. "He remembers a large, strong, gentleman named Vincent who saved him, but didn't want to be seen. I thinkthe secret is safe."

Vincent sighed with relief. "Joe is a good man. I trust him. Butwhen I think what Father would say, if I told him I'd been seen,again..."

Catherine laughed. She drew him to the balcony rail and they gazedout over the sparkling city. Light and power, its lifeblood, had beenrestored, and all was as it should be. Catherine took Vincent's handsin hers and turned him toward her. She was learning, in small ways,to lead him into the closeness she was quite sure they bothwanted.

"They said on the news that the blackout was caused by a car thatsmashed into a transformer," she told him. "It took out whole blocksof the city, but they got it fixed quickly...." Catherine paused,puzzled by Vincent's expression. He was not looking directly into hereyes as he usually did, reading the play of emotions there. He waslooking at...her legs?

When the power had gone off, her air conditioning had gone withit, and she had changed from the jeans and shirt she'd put on for theball game into a knee-skimming knit dress and sandals. She lookeddown at herself and saw nothing amiss.

"Vincent?"

"Yes, Catherine?" Belatedly he met her eyes, his a guileless,innocent blue.

She shrugged, and wrote it off to momentary inattention. "Anyway,Joe's going to be fine in a week or two, except that he'll have anasty scar. He says it doesn't upset him, since he knows a girl namedLilah who thinks scars are sexy."

Vincent chuckled at that, and slipped an arm around her shouldersas he turned to lay his cheek against her hair. They stood incompanionable silence for a while before Catherine whispered, "Tellme what you're thinking?"

"I am thinking of darkness, and light," he answered at once. "Someof us so at home in the former, some needing the latter tosurvive."

"Sometimes," said Catherine, circling her arms around his waist,"the brightest of lights grows out of darkness. It was out of thedarkest time in my life that you came to me. And I have never feareddarkness since."

Vincent hugged her hard, wordlessly, letting the radiance of theirbond speak for him.

End