Chapter One
Into the Darkness
As he swam up through the inky blackness to consciousness, he felt the swift passage of another to the back of his mind where he disappeared. The one he feared. He thoroughly searched his mind, and the other one was nowhere to be found. Good riddance, he gloated. Maybe he was dead. That would solve all his problems.
All this was lost in the mists of forgotten memories as he warily opened his eyes to discover that he was in a dark, gloomy chamber. When he tried to sit up, he found that he was chained to a heavy bed, its legs imbedded in the floor. Enraged, he struggled vainly to break free. In his struggle he noticed a figure standing in the shadows. "Father?" he whispered. As fast as the thought appeared, it evaporated, leaving him bereft and alone. Who was Father? For that matter . . . who was he? "Who’s there? Who are you?" he snarled at the indistinct figure. He stopped his struggles, waiting to find out.
The figure stepped into the light revealing a tall, thin man dressed in black. He had a receding hairline, a long, thin face with a cruel mouth surrounded by a dark mustache and van dyke beard. The eyes were deep set, piercing and black. It was John Pater, better known as Paracelsus.
The being on the bed smiled darkly, "I know you, don’t I?"
"Yes, this is my domain. You are in my world."
"What world is this? I don’t know it?"
"I can see that." Whatever he had become, mad or sane, John Pater was an astute observer of people. The feral look in the eyes, the tense posture, the raspy voice just shouted to him that the being chained to the bed was not the gentle Vincent that he detested. His plan had worked out better than he had ever hoped for. "Let me remove these chains," he said smoothly. "They were meant for someone else." Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the shackles from around the leonine man’s wrists and ankles, who gratefully rubbed feeling back into them and flexed his shoulders. "Rest now." Paracelsus put all the comfort he could into those words. "I’ll have some food brought to you. We’ll talk later, you and I. I have plans for you. Ones that you will like, I’m sure." Swiftly he turned, and with a satisfied smirk, he exited the chamber. Smiling to himself spitefully, he thought I have Vincent right where I have always wanted him. Now to teach him what he needs to know.
*
Someone was poking her in the arm and she wished they’d stop. Slowly she awakened to the sounds of everyday hospital life. What was she doing in a hospital? The last thing she remembered was walking through the office, then those two terrible blows and Vincent’s voice calling to her. Something had happened to him. Frantically searching for their connection, she finally found a thin, tenuous thread that could break at any moment. She had to get out of here and to Father. When she opened her eyes, she met the concerned eyes of Peter Alcott bending over her. A nurse was just removing a needle from her left arm.
"Peter," she whispered, her throat so dry it hurt to talk.
"Cathy," he cried delightedly, "you’re awake. How do you feel?" At her aborted attempt to talk, he said, "Let me get you something to drink."
Swallowing the water in several large gulps, she said, "Thanks. Other than a slight headache . . . fine. What happened? Why am I here? How long?"
The nurse quietly closed the door as she left. They were alone.
"Two days. We were hoping you could tell us."
"Two days! All I know is that I felt two blows and that I knew something had happened to Vincent. I need to get out of here, Peter."
"I know. A few more tests and you can go."
"Have you found anything?"
"No."
"Then I’m leaving. There’s no time to waste. Vincent’s in trouble," she said as she swung her feet over the edge of the bed. She was a little unsteady on her feet, but she brushed off the hand Peter offered. "I’m going to get dressed, Peter," she said pointedly.
"Oh . . . right." Admitting defeat, he backed out of the room. "I’ll wait for you in the hall."
*
After leaving the hospital, she found the nearest threshold where she tapped out a message to Father asking him to send a guide. Waiting for what seemed like hours in her agitated state, she heard someone coming at last. It was Mouse, cheerfully whistling until he saw her.
"Catherine," he greeted her happily.
"Mouse, is Vincent back yet?"
"No, on journey. Be gone many days."
"Take me to Father quickly, Mouse. I must talk with him."
"Ok." Mouse took off at a dead run.
"Wait," she shouted as she bolted after him.
*
"Catherine. Are you all right? Peter sent word that you were in the hospital. I’m surprised that Vincent hasn’t raced back to be with you."
She had arrived in Father’s chamber winded and flustered. "I’m fine," she admitted. "No word from Vincent yet?"
"No, which surprises me. He should have sensed your illness and raced back to you. Usually it takes at least 4-5 days for the trip, and I anticipated his return before this."
"That’s just it: our bond is so weak that I can hardly feel him. I think something has happened to him, . . . that he is in some kind of trouble or danger."
"Vincent can take care of himself," he confidently assured her.
"I know, but he went to the river to try to solve a problem that has risen between us. He may be distracted."
"And you fear that he is in danger. Why?"
"Two days ago I was walking across the office when I was felled by two hard blows: one to the back and another to the head. The last thought I had was of Vincent calling to me."
Father sagged in his chair. "Dear god, where could he be? He could be anywhere. Has there been anything in the papers or on TV?"
"No, nothing. He’s alive. That much I know for certain. But our bond is only a ghost of what it was before he left for the river."
Father rose unsteadily from his chair. "I’ll send a search team to see if we can find any trace of him. It may not be too late."
"I’m going too, Father. I’ve got to know." The look on her face told him she was not to be denied.
*
The bed was harder and lumpier than he was accustomed to–he didn’t know how he knew this–but he enjoyed laying there relaxing, reveling in his newfound freedom. His newfound freedom. He did feel free, free of all restraint, free to do what he wanted. He wondered who or what had kept him in chains before then brushed the thought aside. It wasn’t worth worrying about now. He was free and that was all that mattered.
His gaze wandered around the room, noting how threadbare it was. Standing beside the bed was an old decrepit wardrobe with one of its hinges missing, a worn desk and chair, a cracked pitcher in a washbasin reposed in all their faded glory on the heavily marred top of a small cabinet. Idly he examined his hands. There were the requisite four fingers and opposable thumb, but there the humanity ended. The backs were covered with dense, gold blond hair, and the fingers were tipped with razor sharp nails. A strange mixture of human and animal and he wondered what he was.
His idle speculation was interrupted as the tall man pulled the door curtain aside. Entering, he asked as he pulled the chair close, "Are you ready to learn who and what you are?"
"I suppose so," he answered.
"What do you remember?" Paracelsus asked expectantly. Were all his dreams about to come true?
"Nothing much. Before I woke up here, everything is a blank."
Cautiously the man asked, "Do you know who Father is?"
"No, are you my father?"
"Ah . . . yes . . . yes, I am," he said with increasing heartiness. "Others call me Paracelsus but you may call me Father and your name is Vincent."
"Vincent. Seems to fit." He shrugged. "One name’s as good as another."
"Do you know what you are?" Father stared at him intently.
"I know I’m not like you or the man who brought me food."
"Would you like to see what you look like?"
"Yeah."
Paracelsus called through the curtain to someone named Sal who stuck his head around the curtain and left on a dead run when ordered to bring a mirror. He was back in a matter of minutes, handing the mirror to the man then scuttling out of the chamber like a frightened rat.
Vincent snatched the mirror out of Paracelsus’ hand. He stared into the mirror fascinated by what he saw there: a being whose face was an odd dichotomy of human and animal. There was a broad forehead, deep set slanted blue eyes, high cheekbones, a flat nose covered with fur, a wide mouth with a cleft upper lip and fierce heavy white canines when he smiled. The cheeks and chin were covered by golden bristles. Altogether, not an unpleasing face to look at. Long, golden hair flowed over wide and powerful shoulders. Tearing his eyes away from the image reflected there, he looked at Father. "How did this happen?" he asked.
"No one knows. There are theories. You were found in the snow behind St. Vincent’s Hospital by my wife, your mother. You almost died, but she saved you, and we raised you, together, until she died. Then we were forced out of our safe home by a man named Jacob Wells and banished to a life here in these dark, forbidding tunnels. But someday we will go home, you and I."
"So . . . are there any others like me?"
"Not that I am aware of."
"Then, I’m one of a kind, huh? What now? What do you want of me?" He sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the bed and began to pace around the room like a caged animal.
The hooded, malicious eyes of Paracelsus followed him. "I want to go back and destroy Jacob Wells and the world he stole from me. But first I want to let loose a reign of terror on this city’s big crime bosses. I want to be top dog in this pond of sin. With you by my side, I can take over the syndicate."
"And you need my help."
"Yes."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Rip them apart, then kill them, bring terror to their hearts."
"Good."
*
A week later Catherine, Mouse and Stephen sat with Father around the council table. All their efforts had come to naught. There was no evidence that Vincent had even made it to the river: nothing to show what had happened to him.
Pascal had already sent messages to friends and Helpers to be on the lookout for any tidbit of information that might be about Vincent.
Thoroughly perplexed, they were trying to figure out what they could do next. "Mouse, Jamie, Stephen can explore other tunnels," Mouse offered in his own inimitable way.
"Yes of course, Mouse, but not alone. In pairs, if you please."
"Ok good. Ok fine." Mouse was gone, followed hastily by Jamie and Stephen.
Alone with Father, Catherine’s steely facade broke when she bowed her head into her hands. "Oh god, Father, where can he be? Could he be wandering around lost somewhere in the tunnels?"
"No, I don’t think so. If he is alive and awake, his sense of direction would lead him home. I’ve never known him to get lost."
She jumped to her feet and, pacing agitatedly back and forth, declared, "I feel so helpless. There’s not much I can do here nor much I can do Above. I’m lost without him. I feel so empty not having his loving presence within me."
"I know, child. If anyone can find him, Mouse can. He literally grew up in these tunnels, hiding from people. He was like a ghost until Vincent found him. I really believe that he knows them better than Vincent. I’ll keep you informed of what we are doing."
"Thank you," she said. Heaving a big sigh, she stated, "I don’t want to leave, but I really must get back to my job; I’ve taken enough time off already. I’ll be back this weekend." With a final despairing look, she left Father to his own fears and worries.