After

Part I "Dreamers Often Lie"

William Shakespeare (Mercutio) Romeo and Juliet

ACT I

As Vincent and Father struggled through the mouth of the cavern, Catherine followed a step behind. Her limbs, and her heart, were heavy. Vincent had come back from the brink, but the cost had been high.

Alone deep beneath the earth in the cave where he retreated to protect those he loved, Vincent’s frenzied psyche had roared for salvation. His vision was blood-red, fueled by the primal forces ignited and stoked by the tunnel-dweller’s evil nemesis, Paracelsus. Vincent’s only desire was to strike out at the sinister shadow of his own fractured self. He raised his arm to strike, to rend, to kill the beast within him that he could no longer reconcile. In that same instant, the very moment his rage reached its most ferocious zenith, Catherine, the woman he loved more than life itself, had approached through the darkness. The potent sense of her washed over him in an iridescent wave. Her presence flooded the stone chamber with a glow that shimmered and pulsed with life. The power of that devotion quelled the forces rioting in Vincent’s core, quenching, at last, the rampant inferno that had seethed in him for days. In that blinding moment of pure light and love, something deep within Vincent shattered. In a rush that stopped his heart and stilled his breath, he saw himself through Catherine’s eyes, a full and true acceptance of who and what he was, and of who and what he could become. He felt the dark side of his nature, the beast that was forever lurking in the corner of his eye and at the back of his mind, give way completely as he collapsed into Catherine’s arms.

Falling to the cavern floor with Vincent’s lifeless body, Catherine had become wild with grief. The thought of going on without him was more than she could bear. She kissed him deeply, passionately, but his lips turned cold as the blanket of death settled over him. Still, she refused to give it purchase. She caressed Vincent’s face, calling out to him, begging him not to leave her.

Sobbing, her face buried in his neck, she didn’t know how long she cradled his motionless body, but it was long enough that she didn’t immediately trust the faint stirring she felt beneath her cheek. She kissed him again, this time thrilling when she felt his warming breath mingle with her own. When his lips finally began to move beneath hers, her heart leapt like a captured bird. When his hand rose to tenderly stroke her hair, then to gently close around the back of her neck to pull her closer, any world but theirs ceased to exist. Catherine absorbed both halves of Vincent, enveloped them both, and took them both in as only she could.

Father and the others had left them in seclusion, trusting that Catherine alone could temper Vincent’s fevered, boiling rage. When, at last, Father cautiously made his way into the eerily silent chamber, the nightmare was over. Vincent lay in Catherine’s arms, quiet--and alive. What Father felt for Catherine, her courage and her commitment, went beyond mere gratitude. There were no words, so Father said none. He bent and gently helped Catherine to her feet. Together, they helped Vincent rise, and together they made their way down the tunnel to where the others were waiting. It wasn’t until Father deliberately sought Catherine’s eyes in an effort to relay his deepest love and admiration that he saw a somber new light lingering there.

It was finally over. Returned to the security of his chamber, Vincent fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. Vigilant, Catherine remained at his bedside. Moving a chair beside the bed, she sat in wary silence. Father came, offering to take her place so that she could get some sleep, but she steadfastly refused. After a time, Mary brought tea, and sometime after that--Catherine had no idea how many hours had passed--Jamie arrived with a bowl of steaming soup. Both the mug and the bowl sat cold and untouched on Vincent’s bedside table. Catherine couldn’t eat; she couldn’t drink; she couldn’t sleep. What happened in that dark, desolate place had torn at the very fiber of her being. Watching him through that long first night, Catherine knew her life would never be the same.

When Vincent finally awoke, he said nothing. Silently, he reached for her. The enormous wave of relief swamped every other emotion racing through her. She crawled into bed beside him.

He pulled her close, tucking her head beneath his chin and wrapping his arms around her. "Rest now," he whispered.

Catherine nodded--and finally let go. Feeling his steady heartbeat beneath her cheek, she was asleep in minutes.

Several hours later, Father stood at the doorway to Vincent’s chamber. Seeing the two of them asleep in each other’s arms both warmed and terrified him. Mary came up behind him, respectfully taking a step back into the darkness when she saw the couple. Father turned and joined her down the passage.

"They love each other very much," Mary said, softly.

"Yes," Father nodded. "I only wish that love could protect them from what’s to come."

"Perhaps it will." Mary’s voice was hopeful.

"Perhaps," he agreed. "But a miracle certainly wouldn’t hurt."

Mary nodded and tucked her arm through his. "Then that’s what we’ll pray for."

ACT II

Catherine stared in astonished silence.

"I’m sorry," stammered the puzzled nurse from the blood bank. "I thought you knew."

Only seconds before, the most pressing thing on Catherine’s mind was the condition of her friend and boss, Joe Maxwell. Earlier that evening, Joe had been in a horrific accident, nearly blown to bits by a car bomb that killed one of his friends. He’d lost a lot of blood, and Catherine and others from the D.A.’s office volunteered to give some back. After leaving the blood bank, Catherine had been able to visit with Joe for only a few minutes. In that time, he directed her to a small black book Patrick Hanlon, his now very dead friend, had given him. As she headed toward the elevators at the end of the intensive care unit, Catherine had been pondering what to do with the mysteriously coded book when the nurse from the blood bank stopped her.

"I can send the report to your own doctor if you like," the flustered nurse added.

Catherine could only shake her head. "No. Thank you."

The implications of what the nurse had inadvertently revealed were immense, and Catherine’s world tilted on its axis. This changed everything. She left the hospital in a daze.

Many weeks previous, before Vincent’s strange and debilitating illness that nearly killed him, they passed through the final barrier in their relationship. It was right and good and true, and they had been ridiculously happy. Considering the circumstances, she never contemplated the possibility that a pregnancy could occur. Now that it had, she was stunned and terrified and elated all at the same time.

In the past, Vincent would have sensed her tumultuous emotions and raced to her side. From the moment he saved her life nearly three years before, they connected on a level so deep that he could sense her. That bond had saved her life on more than one occasion, and it gave him joy beyond measure to be able to reach out to her, to find that love, and to hold it close to his heart. Sadly, when he came through the other side of his illness, his memory was deeply affected—and the bond between them no longer existed. He knew she was the woman he loved, but beyond that, their previous life together was still shrouded in mist.

Catherine desperately wanted to talk to Vincent, to seek his counsel, but she couldn’t go to him until she knew her own mind. In this decision, there was no one to guide her, no one to give her advice. What to do must come from her heart and her heart alone.

That evening, she stood on the terrace for a long time. Dusk slipped into deep night as she searched her soul for the answer. Should she leave her world behind and go below for good? This wasn’t the first time she’d thought about that eventuality. Her world was dangerous and cruel, but it was also a big part of who she was. If she couldn’t leave the world above, did she have the right to bring Vincent’s child into that world? What would that mean to Vincent, to have a child and not be allowed to fully share in that child’s growth and care? Some decisions, she knew, could not be made until this child was born. If, like Vincent, their child faced life as a curiosity—or worse—she would die before allowing the heartless scrutiny of science and media from the world above. But if their child did not share Vincent’s physical nature, how could she deny that child full measure of the culture and beauty her world had to offer? Could she raise a child above and below?

There was much she didn’t know, but in the end, one thing remained constant--she loved Vincent and he loved her. This child was a symbol of that love. Together, she knew they could face anything. Ultimately, she had to have faith that a child conceived in such deep devotion could only be a blessing to them both and offer the world a new soul destined to understand both worlds. At peace, she knew what she must do.

*****

The world below had become more familiar during the weeks Vincent had been healing, and she felt more a part of that world than she ever had before. Turning down the last bend and reaching Vincent’s chamber, she found him where she often did, sitting at his desk writing in his journal.

Although his memory was still hazy, Vincent had begun to remember more and more of the life they shared before those dark days. He did not, however, remember making love with her. She had to hope that what she was about to tell him wouldn’t cause him any more pain as he worked to recover.

He lifted his head. "Catherine," he said softly, closing the journal.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, suddenly hesitant to cross the threshold.

A look of unease crossed Vincent’s leonine features. "Unsettled," he said soberly.

A shiver of worry skittered down her spine. Putting her own distress aside, Catherine stepped into the chamber. "What’s wrong?"

"I had a bad dream--a nightmare." He capped the pen and got up from the desk, moving to sit on the bed. "About you."

Catherine sat down beside him. "Can you tell me about it?"

Vincent leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. "You were taken from me. I searched and searched, but because our bond was broken, I couldn’t find you."

She put a hand on his knee. "I’m right here," she said reassuringly. "Safe. With you."

"Yes," he said, then shook his head. "But it was so real." He stood abruptly, crossing the chamber as if he needed to get away from the remnants of the intolerable image. "The man who took you was beyond evil, Catherine. He kept you hidden from me, locked away." Vincent closed his eyes. "I can still see his face and feel his stare." Vincent’s hands curled into fists. "He wanted--" He stopped, turning away. "You were carrying a child, Catherine--our child. He kept you alive only long enough--" He dropped his chin to his chest, bowing his head. "Once you gave birth, he escaped with our child. When I finally found you, you were near death, but I was too late--I couldn’t save you. You died in my arms, and our child was lost."

Staggered by this partially prophetic dream, Catherine’s body went slack. "Vincent--" she tried.

But Vincent was too caught up in the retelling of his nightmare to hear her. "When I awoke, I thought the dream was true," he continued. "I leapt from my bed, frantic to find you, to help you. Before I could get out of the tunnels, Father and the sentries stopped me, terrified that I would go above in such a state. Father assured me that all was well, that it was just a dream. You were safe, on your way here, in fact." He turned to face her then. "But it was so real, Catherine. Even now, when I think of it--"

"Vincent," Catherine tried again, rising on shaky legs. "There is something you must know—something I just learned. It’s what I came to tell you."

Vincent moved to her, suddenly aware that all the color had drained from her face. "Catherine...what is it?" he asked, alarmed.

"I don’t know how to begin." The words caught in her throat, but she knew she must go on. "Before the darkest days, we came together..." She looked up at him. "We loved, Vincent," she said softly. "And it was beautiful--more beautiful than I ever imagined."

Stunned, Vincent said nothing. The tenderness of her words, and the knowledge and significance of what she was saying, moved him beyond imagining.

"I have been hoping that, with time, you would remember this on your own," she continued, "but now--"

"Catherine..."

"I am carrying our child, Vincent." A tear slid down her cheek. "Your dream...our bond...somewhere deep inside, you must have known."

A look crossed Vincent’s face that she had never seen before--a wonder that defied description and an apprehension that nearly broke her heart. He braced a hand on the table, needing support. "Are you sure?" he asked quietly, avoiding her eyes.

She knew he was asking two questions--and as quickly as she felt the stab of hurt, she released it, knowing why he had to ask. She came to him and lifted his chin. "Yes," she said with conviction. "I’m sure."

His hands rose slowly to lightly cup her face. In increments, the apprehension in his eyes gave way to awe, and then joy, and finally to deep concern. "Are you...all right?" he asked, stepping back a bit to study her slender frame.

They both knew it was unavoidable not to recall the grisly lies Paracelsus had told Vincent about his own birth. She placed a comforting hand against his cheek. "I’m fine."

He took both her hands in his, kissing them and pulling them gently to his chest. "Can this be possible?"

Although tears continued to slip down Catherine’s cheeks, a radiant smile tempered them. "This is our beautiful and impossible thing, Vincent--lovely and thought to never happen. Something that was not and that should be, suddenly is." Unexpectedly, Catherine saw a terrifying dread darken his eyes. "What is it?"

"The dream--"

Catherine shook her head. "No, Vincent." She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. "I’m here. Safe. With you," she repeated the words she’d said earlier.

He pulled her closer to him. "You’re not afraid?" he asked, his heart aching that he had to put voice to it. In the past, he would have simply known.

She looked into his eyes, her gaze steady and sure. "No, Vincent. I’m not afraid."

*****

Dr. Peter Alcott pulled a stethoscope from around his neck and sat down behind his desk. Drawing up to the wide mahogany expanse, he opened a folder and sifted through its contents. Muttering to himself here and there, he finally looked up and gave Catherine a confident grin. "You’re definitely pregnant."

Seated in a wingback chair to the right of Peter’s desk, Catherine blew out a long breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.

Peter pulled a vial of blood from his pocket. "I’m not taking any chances. I’m sending this to a private lab. We should have a lot more information in a few days." Peter gave her a pointed, paternal look. "How have you been feeling?"

A soft smile crossed Catherine’s face. "A bit tired, but other than that, I feel fine."

"In a few weeks, we’ll do an ultrasound. At that point, we’ll have a better idea of the size of the baby and a projected due date."

The idea that she would be able to see the child growing in her womb was truly amazing—and a little frightening. Not unlike all first time parents, the wonder of it all held a considerable share of anxiety. "Do you think there is anything to worry about?"

"Every indication is that you are a typical pregnant woman somewhere in her first trimester, healthy, and in perfect shape to deliver a perfect--and very special--child." He rose and crossed behind the desk to stand in front of her. "Don’t worry." He put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Catherine smiled up at him.

Peter took a step back and sat against the edge of his desk. "Have you thought about what you’re going to do? You have time on your side for the moment, but that won’t last forever," he said gently.

"I know," she admitted, getting to her feet. "Joe and Jenny both know there is someone special in my life, so it won’t come as a complete shock to them, but beyond that, I’m not sure."

Peter hesitated a moment. "And Jacob?"

"Vincent and I thought it best to meet with you first," she replied.

"And now that you have?"

"We’ll find a way," she said resolutely, her voice projecting far more confidence than she felt. Neither she nor Vincent had forgotten Jacob’s resistance to their early relationship, and she had no idea how he would react to the idea that she was going to give birth to Vincent’s child.

Peter didn’t press her further. He nodded once and then changed the subject. "Does the DA’s office know any more about what happened to Joe?"

"Only that Patrick Hanlon was the target of some very dangerous people. From what little we’ve been able to piece together, he had some powerful and unscrupulous clients, which leaves a long list of suspects." Catherine said nothing about the mysterious book Joe had given her. So far, she hadn’t been able to decipher it. Just that afternoon, she’d shown it to Moreno and left him a copy. If Joe was feeling up to it, she wanted to go over that book with him in more detail.

Peter walked her toward the door. "Let the police handle it, Cathy. You’ve got other things to worry about." He put a hand on her shoulder. "Speaking of which, let me know if you feel anything out of the ordinary," he ordered.

Catherine gave him a wry smile. "That’s terrible advice," she chided him. "Everything is out of the ordinary!"

ACT III

Bending forward in an unsuccessful effort to untie his running shoes, Joe Maxwell thought his head was going to explode. He’d been home from the hospital for less than an hour, and for the first time in his life he wished he’d followed his doctor’s advice. The hospital staff hadn’t wanted to release him at all, but he knew he couldn’t stand it one more night. Reliving the nightmare of the explosion was bad enough, but to do it in the presence of a floor full of doctors, nurses, and visitors was too much for him to bear. Now that he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to die, he’d rather lick his wounds in the privacy of his own home. At the moment, however, all he really wanted to do was crawl into the security of his sagging couch.

The peal of the doorbell sliced through his aching head like the down-stroke of a machete. "Perfect," he muttered.

"Joe, it’s Cathy." Catherine’s voice was muffled through the door. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Go away, Radcliffe," he called from the couch. "I’m fine!"

The door shook with the force of her pounding. "If you don’t open this door right now, I’m calling the super. And then I’m calling an ambulance to take you back to the hospital, you idiot."

Joe found a way to drag himself up and to the door. Unlocking it, he oozed back toward the couch.

Catherine wrenched the door open. "Are you trying to kill yourself on purpose, or are you just that stupid?" she demanded, storming into the room.

"Give it a rest, Cathy. My head feels like I went fifteen rounds with Ali."

"I imagine that’s a pretty common feeling when you’ve been blown up! You weren’t supposed to be discharged until the end of the week."

Joe made it back to the couch and sank into it, grateful he hadn’t passed out on the way. "I told you--I’m fine," he lied.

Catherine took in his deeply purple, still blackened eyes and singed hair. "Yeah, you look fine," she said with bite. "Signing yourself out against doctor’s orders after a nearly fatal concussion is a great way to demonstrate your ability to think clearly."

Joe passed a weary hand over his eyes.

She made a concerted effort to reel in her anger and gentle her voice. "What’s going on? I was worried."

"If this is what you’re like when you’re worried, I’d hate to see you ticked off."

"Seriously," she continued, "you need to be in the hospital."

Joe shook his head with difficulty. "No. I seriously don’t."

"Joe--"

He held up his hand, stilling her. "I can rest better here than there. Do you know they wake you up twice a night to make sure that you’re asleep? That’s nuts."

"They wake you up to make sure you’re not dead. Head injuries are nothing to fool around with."

"I’m fine. Honest," he assured her. "But if you really want to do something for me, help me take off my shoes, will ya?"

Catherine tossed her purse on an end table. Bending down, she helped Joe lift his legs to stretch out on the couch. Deftly, she unlaced his running shoes and pulled them off, tossing them aside. She then pulled a knit throw from the back of the couch and settled it over him.

"Better?"

"Yeah." Joe nodded. "Thanks."

She sank down in an easy chair beside the couch. "You scared me, Joe. It’s never a good thing to stroll into a friend’s hospital room and find it empty."

"Sorry about that. I just couldn’t stay in that place one more day. I gotta get back to work."

Catherine stared at him like he’d lost his mind, which he supposed he had. "Don’t look at me like that, Cathy. This thing with Patrick is bad news--and he trusted me to figure it out. He had a wife and kid--did you know that?"

Catherine shook her head. "No. I didn’t know."

Joe pulled the blanket to his chin. "They worked for the same law firm. Patrick got them out of the country before--" He closed his eyes. "I’m sure he warned her not to come back if the worst happened--which it did. His body, or what was left of it, was sent to South America. The funeral is today."

"I’m so sorry, Joe."

"That’s the weird thing. I hadn’t seen Patrick since law school, and we weren’t even friends then. I have no idea why he pulled me in on this."

"He must have trusted you."

"Yeah, but trusted me with what? That damn black book is just as cryptic as ever."

Catherine nodded. "I haven’t been able to figure it out at all. I gave Moreno a copy this afternoon--"

Joe’s eyes flicked open and he lifted his head. "You did?"

"Should I have held it back?"

Joe sighed, dropping his head back down. "No--at least I don’t think so." He was silent for a moment. "This whole thing stinks, and I have no idea where the stench is coming from."

"We’ll figure it out," Catherine assured him. "But you’ve got to let yourself heal first."

He nodded, giving Catherine a weak smile. "Okay, okay," he said softly, holding up a hand in surrender.

Catherine returned the smile and got to her feet. "When is the last time you ate?" she asked.

"I don’t know...breakfast, maybe."

"Trust a man to make an escape on an empty stomach," she scoffed. "I’m going to make you a bowl of soup, and then you’re going to go to sleep in your own bed--not on that lumpy couch."

"You’re pretty damn bossy."

"Get used to it."

*****

As the flower draped coffin lowered into the ground, a grieving widow placed both hands on the shoulders of her son. On either side of them, a pair of beefy, no-necked body guards kept watch, paid for by Patrick’s firm. They scanned the crowd with sharp eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

A man stood beyond the last row of mourners, the body guards as meaningless to him as girl scouts. If he’d have wanted Hanlon’s wife and son dead, they’d already be in the ground. Their suffering might be far more productive than their deaths.

At the close of the ceremony, the little family filed down a path toward a waiting limousine. The man stepped forward unobtrusively, reaching out to Hanlon’s son in a gesture that looked like comfort. Bending down, he whispered in the boy’s ear, "Remember this day. You’ll come to cherish it."

The boy looked up at him, puzzled, before he was whisked away by the tide of security.

Icy, grey eyes followed the boy, a grim smile crossing an emotionless face. Vincent would have recognized those eyes in an instant. They belonged to the man in his nightmare.

ACT IV

Catherine knew Vincent would be waiting for her that evening. His amazing empathic powers had not returned, but neither of them needed any type of extraordinary means to know she’d be anxious to share her visit with Peter.

Hurrying into her apartment, she pulled open the French doors leading from her bedroom out onto the terrace, stepping right into his arms.

After a moment, he held her away from him. "How are you?"

She gave him a rueful smile. "I’m fine. Please don’t worry."

"That would be impossible."

"You can choose to believe that all will be well." She looked up into his face. "I do."

He conceded a nod, pulling her close once more, resting his cheek against the top of her head. "You amaze me."

"Women have been having babies for eons, Vincent. I’m no different," she said confidently, although they both knew that wasn’t strictly true.

"Peter isn’t concerned?" he asked.

Catherine shook her head. "He says that everything is completely normal."

Vincent pulled her closer. "It’s real," he said with wonder. "This is truly happening."

Catherine smiled. "Yes, it’s truly happening." She pulled back a bit to meet his eyes. "And now we have to tell Father."

Vincent nodded. "Yes, I supposed we do."

*****

Warm candlelight threw whimsical shadows across the stone walls of Father’s chamber, belying the serious expression Jacob could not hide. He sat down heavily in his rough hewn wooden chair.

Vincent stepped forward. "Father..."

"Please don’t misunderstand, Vincent," Father began. "I know how much you and Catherine love each other." He raised his eyes to Catherine, "And how much you both deserve every joy and happiness."

"Then be happy for us," Catherine said quietly. "And share our joy, knowing that this child will not only be a part of our life but a part of your life, too."

Finally, Father nodded, sighing heavily. "I am happy for you," he said, holding Catherine’s gaze. "But this will not be easy."

"You’re right," she agreed.

Vincent crouched down beside Father, meeting his eyes. "You saved my life, and through that you taught me to believe that all things were possible through love."

Father nodded, looking up into the eyes of the man but seeing the eyes of the foundling cradled in his arms so many years before.

Catherine moved to stand beside Vincent, putting a hand on his shoulder. "And we will do the same," she said with quiet confidence, "Because of you."

Father reached out and placed a hand on Vincent’s cheek. "I never thought this day would come," his voice caught in his throat, "Even in my wildest dreams..."

"That’s okay, Father," Catherine smiled down. "We dreamed it for you."

*****

Later that night, Catherine lay curled in Vincent’s arms. His chamber was safe and warm, protected from the world above by layers of earth and rock, and his bed was soft. Drifting in that ethereal place between waking and sleep, Vincent pulled Catherine closer to him. Catherine responded by finding his hand and entwining their fingers, lifting their joined hands to rest against her breast.

"I love you," Vincent whispered into her hair.

"I love you, too," she replied, and they both drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep.

*****