Chapter Three: Companion to Our Demons

Catherine awoke to the feel of something tickling her nose. She brushed her nose, then realized it was Vincent's hair, clean-smelling and untangled for the first time in days, which had awakened her. In his sleep, he'd drawn her closer, so that her head was directly under his chin. It was still late, or early, she judged; the pipes were quiet and the sound of the overhead trains had ceased.

She lay there for a time, not wanting to disturb Vincent's sleep. He had been restless in the night, muttering unintelligible sounds and growling low in his throat a couple of times, but he hadn't awakened. His left hand, with the IV line, rested on her thigh while his right hand held her left one in a firm clasp. Catherine studied those bandaged hands, the hands that had killed for her and for the tunnels so many times, the hands that grieved him so. She had seen them be gentle, soothing many a child's fears. Yet all Vincent saw was the killings, the mark of a beast, he would have said. How could she help him move beyond that?

She knew she'd have to go above in a few hours, to call and tell Joe that she needed a leave of absence. He wouldn't be pleased, but better him angry than him calling the police because she'd disappeared for days without explanation. If she still had a job when Vincent was healed...there were going to be changes. Starting with her job. It had become too dangerous, and if it was in her power, she would never see Vincent kill for her again.

Catherine heard a soft, even tread and turned her head. It was Father.

"I just came into check on him," Father said softly. "I'm sorry to have disturbed your rest."

"I was awake," she said just as quietly. "I think he's doing fine, so far."

"Hmmm," Father said, taking Vincent's pulse and checking the IV. "So far, so good."

She studied Father's face, noting how drawn he looked. "Are you sleeping at all?" Catherine asked.

Father smiled. "I think I slept more during my residency, but don't worry." He studied her carefully. "How are you doing?"

"Thinking," Catherine said. Father followed the line of her gaze to her hand clasped with Vincent's, and nodded. "Have you come to any conclusions?" Father asked.

"I'm going to ask for a transfer to the trial division, if I still have a job when this is all over," Catherine replied. "I think...no, I know....Father, it's become too dangerous."

"And you want this? Because you know what Vincent will say if you change your job assignment merely for him."

"I do," Catherine replied, smiling a bit at his likely reaction. "And if Joe can't or won't approve the transfer, then I'll quit and find work at a small non-profit. Anything. Just so he doesn't have to kill for me again."

Father folded up his stethoscope, and replaced it in his bag. "I will tell you what I'm sure Vincent would. Follow your heart." He looked down at their clasped hands then across at her again. "For myself, I would welcome anything that keeps the two of you from harm." Readjusting the IV line, he pulled the covers up around them both. "Rest, now."

When he'd left, she nestled against Vincent once again and closed her eyes. The morning would come and there was time enough to make plans.

***

Vincent was sitting on the park bench again. The Other sat next to him, eating an ice cream cone. It was such an incongruous image that Vincent almost laughed, except that the sight of his twin contentedly licking an ice cream cone was no weirder than anything else he'd experienced thus far. "What now?" Vincent asked.

"It's chocolate. You want some?" the Other asked.

Vincent shook his head. "No, thank you. Chocolate doesn't really agree with me."

The Other grinned in a flash of white teeth in that dark face. "I know. But it tastes good while it lasts. Remember when Sam brought the ice cream down?"

Vincent nodded. He'd been 20 and they'd finally gotten reliable refrigeration thanks to Phillip's inspired jury-rigging. Sam had brought the ice cream down in celebration, and it had tasted so good after lugging the refrigerators---surplus from a helper's store---down to the main stockroom. .

It had also been the last week Phillip was alive. Vincent frowned, remembering. "I know," the Other said. "Phillip was a good man. But his death wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it?" Vincent asked. "If I'd been just a bit sooner..."

The ice cream cone had disappeared; the Other sat up and looked him straight in the eye. "Would have, should have, could have. Brother, the past is past. You did what you could, when you could. Let it go."

Vincent felt the touch of a clawed hand on his shoulder. "I cannot," he said. "I was their protector. I should have been there."

The Other sighed. "Very well. Then we'll go down this path again."

***

They'd just finished hooking up the refrigerators to Phillip's jury-rigged electrical system when the alarm rang out on the pipes: intruders. "Probably just some drunk teenagers again," Phillip said, straightening from his wiring. Above, he'd been an electrician until his continual battle with the bottle had left him homeless, sick and alone, in what turned out to be the tunnel's main entrance. Now, almost eight years after Vincent and Devin had found him, he was a trusted member of the community.

Vincent grunted in agreement, carefully maneuvering the refrigerators into place. "I should go," Vincent said. "I have sentry duty tonight anyways."

"After hours of hauling these lugs? Man, that's brutal. How do you do that?"

Vincent wiped his hands on a relatively clean bit of rag. "Because I must," he replied, uncomfortable with any suggestion that he might be more different or unusual than he already knew himself to be.

"Nah, man, I mean, when do you sleep?"

"Tomorrow," Vincent said, smiling at Phillip.

He'd grabbed his cloak and walked to where the intruders were----an access tunnel preferred by some of their older helpers because of its close proximity to the inhabited tunnels. Along the way, he met the sentry who'd sent the alarm. "How many are there?" Vincent asked James.

James shrugged. "Four or five. Young guys. I heard them moving about and there might be more now."

Vincent nodded. The drunks weren't usually a problem---one good roar and they'd go running and if they didn't, there were other ways of scaring them off. But if they were sober and exploring, that was a whole other kind of risk, and one they all feared. "I'll go check on them," Vincent replied, pulling the hood of his cloak up.

"Be careful," James said.

"I will," Vincent said, stepping into the shadows. It was a short walk to the corridor where the intruders had been sighted. He crouched behind an outcropping of darker rock and watched them. Five, six men, hefting large bundles down from the street above. Two men stood guard, guns slung over their chests, watching with wary eyes.

He growled low in the back of his throat. Drug dealers. Storing their poison in his home, near the places where children lived and slept every day.

***

"Drug smugglers? Are you sure?" Father asked in the council meeting that night.

Vincent nodded. The council meeting had gone on for an hour already and they were still no closer to reaching a decision than they were when he and James had returned. The rolling tide of emotion---fear, anger, defiance---beat against him and added to the headache he felt in any large, agitated gathering. Father's voice cut through the confusion. "We need a plan. Does anyone have any suggestions?"

"We could try and scare them off," Vincent said, resisting the urge to rub the bridge of his nose where the headache gnawed fiercely. If he could just go somewhere quiet...

"And if that doesn't work, what then?" Winslow demanded. "If they're storing drugs down here, it won't be long before they find more entrances. Even if we block the entrance they used, that doesn't mean they won't find others the longer they're down there."

"So what do you suggest?" Father asked.

"Perhaps an anonymous tip to the police," James said. "Then we block or reroute the other entrances."

"It's located near a main artery," Father replied, gesturing to the map that was laid on the table before him. "We could change the entrances but that would be difficult on the helpers who live near there...and there's no guarantee that the police wouldn't go searching for other tunnels they might have used. No, we cannot involve the world above in this, even though they bring their poison to our home."

Father looked over at Vincent. "Take a couple of men with you. Try to scare them off."

Vincent met Phillip’s eyes across the chamber, knowing full well what would happen if they couldn’t scare the drug dealers off. The tunnels were limited in their ability to defend themselves; the sentries traditionally carried no weapons, and if there was further trouble, there would almost certainly be bloodshed. And Vincent knew which role his tunnel family expected him to assume in such times: the protector. "Which is a crock," Phillip had said on more than one occasion, and loudly too, until Lark—Phillip's wife of three years---shushed him. "What, no one else can defend themselves around here?"

It wasn’t the first time Vincent had thought such a thing, but it was the first time he’d heard it said by anyone else. "That William," Phillip said, "he’s ex-Army. What, he can’t fire a gun to defend his home? What good are the sentries if Father won’t let them carry arms?"

"He doesn’t want the violence above to follow us down here," Vincent repeated, as if by rote. It was a philosophical argument he’d heard since childhood and at times, it was wearying.

Phillip had scoffed at that notion too. "You all gave me a place when I had no one. My wife lives here now. Give me a pitchfork or a kitchen knife, and I’ll defend this place. Seems to me everyone else should be willing to do the same." Phillip’s dark eyes had looked into Vincent’s own; they were almost of a height, he and Phillip. "It shouldn’t always be you, man. You’re just a kid."

Vincent had chuckled at that---no one had referred to Vincent as a kid since he’d topped a rangy six feet at sixteen---and the conversation turned to other things. But he remembered the conversation now as the wrangling and the arguments and the fear ricocheted around the rock walls. Phillip's arm was wrapped around his wife's waist and there was a careful, subtle nod. Whatever Vincent was asked to face, Phillip would stand with him.

***

In the end, three of them went that first night: Vincent, Phillip, and Winslow. "I don't like this much," Winslow said as they walked to where the criminals had made their camp. "My old man told me stories of the drug dealers up top. You all think they're going to be scared by some meowing?"

Vincent chuckled a bit. Only Devin and Winslow could get away with that kind of teasing. "I do not," he said with some dignity, "meow."

"Sure, whatever you call it," Winslow replied, punching Vincent lightly in the arm. "But still. You're gonna growl, or whatever, at them and they'll never come back? Who does Father think he's fooling?"

"Winslow," Phillip said, "Father doesn't want to provoke an all-out war. I don't blame him. These guys don't fool around, and we're not armed like we should be."

Winslow breathed out once. "My old man and Father had that argument for years about arming the sentries. I get his point. Doesn't mean I like it." He rubbed his hands together. "So, what's the plan?"

Vincent shrugged. "The plan is, we go there, make a lot of noise. Coming at them from all directions, it might scare them off." He spread his hands at Winslow's dark look. "Do you have a better idea?"

"Calling the cops wasn't a bad one," Winslow said. "But since this is what we got, we'll go with it. And hope to hell it works."

They crouched lower, hugging the shadows as they came closer to the drug smugglers. Five of the smugglers were crouched around a fire, passing bottles of beer around. Vincent reached up and made a light tapping noise on the pipes; the signal for Pascal's part to begin. All at once, a loud random clanking burst from the pipes over the smuggler's heads.

"Hey, what the hell was that?" one smuggler asked, eyes darting around.

Phillip reached back and grabbed the old pots that James had stashed behind a rock outcropping the night before; handing two of them to Winslow, they began banging loudly on them, in counterpoint to the noise of the pipes.

"Man, this place is creepy," another smuggler said, covering his ears as the noise grew louder and louder, relentless, the echoes chasing each other in small space.

Then it was Vincent's turn. In safe, normal times, it was difficult for him to roar, but these men threatened his home and his family and all the fierce protective energy the Other could muster rose within him, primal and defiant. The roar started somewhere in the middle of his chest and the sound ricocheted over the sound of the banging pots and the clanking of the pipes. He stepped forward, a tall hooded figure, dark in the shadows cast by the smugglers' fire.

The roaring continued, and at the advance of the hooded figure, the nerve of the smugglers broke. They ran for the entrance ladder above, leaving their drugs behind. Vincent retreated, the roaring slowly lessening until it was nothing but a threatening growl then finally, harsh breathing. He slumped against the wall, trying to reign in the Other, to control the instinct to chase the intruders from his home and make sure they never returned. Winslow banged out the all-clear on the pipes and the noise above them ceased.

Phillip threw down his pots and touched Vincent's shoulder. Vincent recoiled, a warning snarl emerging despite his best attempts. Phillip jumped back a little in shock and Winslow grabbed his arm. "Leave him be," Winslow said. "He'll be all right in a moment or two."

"He will?" Vincent heard Phillip ask, as if from a great distance. The roar in his ears began to recede.

"He will," Winslow replied. "That's what most don't get---this ain't easy for him."

Vincent took one breath, then two and the haze of protective rage faded. "I'm sorry, Phillip."

Phillip smiled. "No problem, man. Looks like they've scattered. Let's get rid of these drugs and go home."

***

The Other smiled at his twin. "I enjoyed that, you know. Scaring them off. It felt good."

Vincent nodded. It had felt good. But he'd been scared of it too, frightened that the protective rage would flare out and harm the others. "See, that's where you keep messing up," his twin said. "We never hurt or scared anyone that didn't have it coming."

Vincent raised his eyebrows. "What about Devin? Lisa?"

The Other leaned back against the park bench and folded his arms. "Devin had it coming. You'll remember he hit us first."

"I shouldn't have hurt him," Vincent said. "He still has the scars."

"It was a fight between brothers," the Other said. "And he was spoiling for a fight. Haven't you and I fought often enough?"

Vincent felt the echo of his twin's sardonic grin cross his face. "Didn't you tell me you weren't real?"

The Other grinned back. "I'm not. But your mind likes to think I am, so...until you get over the idea that I'm some dark, dangerous part of you that can't ever be allowed to surface, here I am."

Vincent stared at his twin. "You were dangerous, with Lisa. I hurt her."

"So you did. But hurting her was an accident. We didn't mean to hurt her. She toyed with us, teasing. Surely you remember that."

Vincent nodded. "But it doesn't excuse what I did."

"What you did, was to hold too tightly to a silly, immature girl who was startled when her game went too far. No, you shouldn't have hurt her, but there's plenty enough blame to go around. Forgive yourself, brother. Just because you made one mistake---two, if you insist on counting Devin---doesn't make you a monster."

Vincent leaned back and studied his twin, the blue eyes so startling in those dark features. "You were very different when I became ill the last time. Why?"

"I frightened you, didn't I?" the Other said. "Surely you can figure out why. You desired Lisa, and that scared you. Father told you, had always told you, how different you were, so you couldn't talk to him. When you hurt her, even accidentally, it was confirmation of everything you feared---that you really were some monster, that you weren't fit to love anyone. And your guilt nearly destroyed you." He paused. "What you feared, Brother, was yourself. What you battled, in your rages and fevers and deliriums, was only and always...yourself."

 

 

Chapter Four: All My Sins Remembered

Catherine returned above shortly after dawn. She hated the thought of leaving Vincent for any amount of time, but she had to talk to Joe and arrange for a leave of absence and pack some clothes and toiletries for what she suspected would be an extended stay Below, and neither of those things could be accomplished by one of the tunnel messengers. Before she left, she kissed Vincent softly on his mouth and whispered into his ear, "I'll be back soon. I love you." Only his breath had stirred, moving slightly faster, but he had settled back into sleep.

In her apartment, with its shattered balcony doors---must remember to get that fixed, Catherine thought to herself, then almost at the same instant dismissed the damage as unimportant---she showered and changed and thought, long and hard, about what she could or would tell Joe. He knew she was involved with someone; it was part and parcel of the things he knew about her but would never ask directly about. But Vincent was, in so many ways, beyond explaining. Keep to the facts, she reminded herself. The man she loved was sick, and he needed her. All else was details, details she could not, must not share.

But when Catherine saw Joe that morning, she was not prepared for his reaction. "Good God, Cathy, you look like hell," Joe said, ushering her to a seat in his office and pressing a glass of water into her hand. "What's wrong? When was the last time you slept?"

"This morning, I think." She took a drink of water. "Joe, I need to ask you something. I need a leave of absence."

"It's not the flu like you told Rita, is it?" he asked, and Catherine was reminded of why he was such a good prosecutor. Not much ever escaped him.

"No," she replied, not liking to admit she'd lied to Rita but Vincent's welfare was, as always, paramount. "The man I love is sick, and he needs me. And I can't keep splitting my life---I have to be with him now."

"How long do you need, Cathy?" Joe asked.

"A month, maybe more," Catherine replied, not at all sure even that time would be enough.

"Cathy, look, I'm not gonna lie to you---we're going to have to rearrange all of the assignments for the cases you were working on, but it's okay, we'll work through it. Escobar needs the practice anyway." He studied her face. "He must be something special, am I right?"

She'd managed to hold her emotions together throughout all the awful days before, and the nights and the hours when she'd had to be strong for Vincent, and even for Father, but this last bit of kindness undid her completely. She started crying and it was like a dam had burst---all the fear, all the worry, all the grief and horror of the last few days and weeks crowded out of her in a flood. "Hey, hey, easy now," Joe said, his arms around her. "It's going to be all right. It's been rough, hasn't it?"

She blew her nose, nodded. "Sorry about that," Catherine said, feeling suddenly exposed, afraid she'd revealed too much.

"Hey, Radcliffe, no one can be strong forever. Take the time you need. The work will still be here. You do what you have to do." He stepped back, released her. "You okay?"

"No, but I will be," Catherine replied, smiling. And in a strange way, she felt it; life had changed, her priorities had shifted and become more focused but the way before them was starting to become clear.

***

Vincent opened his eyes to the true dark of a tunnel night. His dark alter sat cross-legged on Vincent's own bed. "Ah," the Other said, "I wondered when we'd get back here."

"Why are we here?" Vincent asked. There was somewhat less clutter, but in all other respects, this chamber was very much his own. His eye fell on the chess game, half-completed, that sat on the table. The chess set was different than the one he used now; Phillip had carved the first one and after he died, Vincent hadn't been able to look at it. Perhaps Lark had taken it when she returned above. He couldn't remember.

"Because you insist on blaming yourself for things which were never in your control," his twin replied, following his gaze to the chess set.

"She blamed me," Vincent said, seeing the aftermath of the funeral as though it had happened yesterday.

"She did," the Other agreed. "She was wrong. Do you see that now?"

He tore his gaze from the chess set to the Other. "How can I? Phillip died because I was too late to save him."

The Other rolled his eyes. "When will you learn that not everything in the universe is under your control? Phillip died because he'd been shot five times. You couldn't help him because you were shot twice. You nearly died---ask Father some time. He'll tell you."

"But I should have---"

"What? Kept him from being shot? Kept Phillip from helping you? Phillip saw you as the son he never had. He wouldn't have stayed behind while you risked danger for his home. It could not have gone otherwise, Brother. Let me show you."

And at his words, the world dissolved again.

***

They'd disposed of the drugs, large parcels of them, down the Abyss, then returned home. For a time, things were quiet and the tunnel routine slowly began to return to normal. Vincent and Father had been planning the closure and reroute of the tunnel entrance the smugglers had used when James failed to show up for sentry duty. "That's not like him," Father said, concerned, and indeed it wasn't.

"Where was he last seen?" he asked Ethan, who was relaying the message from Pascal.

"Pascal heard from him about an hour ago, near that tunnel we had marked for closure," Ethan replied.

"He was measuring it for the supplies we'd need to rerout it," Father said. "Vincent, will you check on him?"

Vincent nodded. "Don’t go alone," Father continued. "Take someone else with you." His eyes met Vincent’s and Vincent understood the older man’s concern. The incident with the smugglers had been only a few days earlier and it was possible that whatever had befallen James was related. The predator’s instinct within him shifted, rising to the surface. That they might return here, to his home…unthinkable. And not to be allowed. He gathered his cloak and went to see if Phillip would be available to aid in the search.

Vincent heard Phillip, long before he saw him, deep in conversation with Lark. Vincent halted just down the hall from their chamber, not wishing to intrude or overhear but very much afraid he could not avoid it. To his surprise, they were discussing him. "And he could have gotten you killed, Phillip," Lark was saying. "Why did you have to go with him on that fool stunt? And now James is missing and…."

"Lark, this is our home. What do you want me to do?"

There was the rustle of cloth; Lark embracing her husband, Vincent realized, backing away further so as not to hear further. He and Lark did not really get along; she’d come Below shortly before the incident with Lisa and Vincent knew that her distrust of him was rooted in her fear of what she’d seen him become during that dark time. She was cordial enough, but her fear of him rode every word she spoke and every glance she shared.

Phillip met him at the end of the corridor. "Lark, she worries," he said by way of explanation.

"I didn’t hear anything," Vincent said. It was a lie and surely Phillip knew it as such, but if he did, he made no comment.

"This thing with James," Phillip said. "It doesn’t sound good. Does it?"

Vincent shook his head. "No. It’s unlike James to fail to appear for sentry duty, and then to not respond to Pascal’s messages on the pipes. It is…troubling."

They met up with Davy and Alex at the juncture of another corridor; they’d been checking some of the more uninhabited areas of the tunnels where James might possibly have fallen or become injured. "No sign of him," Davy said, frowning. "Alex and I, we called for him but didn’t hear a thing."

"I think we should start where James was seen last," Vincent said.

Alex nodded. "Davy and I will keep searching; it's just possible he went for a walk and got hurt somehow."

The group separated, and Phillip and Vincent made their way back to the tunnel where they'd rousted the drug smugglers only a few days before. It was there that they found James, face down in the dirt, dead of a gunshot wound to his head. Phillip gently turned the body over as he looked up at Vincent. "They came back," Phillip said, agonized.

Vincent knelt beside the body of James and the roar that escaped him was full of grief and sorrow.

And rage.

***

The day after James' funeral, Father held a council session. It was a smaller meeting than usual; just Father, Winslow, Pascal, Vincent, and Phillip were present. "We need a plan," Father said, clearly in shock. James had a been a young man, and well-liked; his death by violence was something they all thought they had left behind when they came Below.

Winslow, leaning up against the banister, spoke. "I still think the idea of calling the police wasn't a bad plan."

"It's gone too far for that," Phillip said. "Vincent found evidence that they've been into the other chambers branching off from that tunnel. Calling the cops will only make them find us quicker."

"How far have they gone, Vincent?" Father asked.

Vincent pointed at the map unrolled on Father's desk. "I found tracks here, here, and here."

"And you're certain it's from them?"

"Yes," Vincent nodded but didn't elaborate. He didn't really want to describe just how he knew, that the smell of drugs and blood and gunpowder had hung thickly in the air long after James' killers had left. It was something else that marked him as different and with the Other beating at his mental barriers, demanding to be set free to wreak his vengeance upon the smugglers, he hardly needed the reminder. "I believe they were looking for their drugs when James stumbled upon them and..."

"I see," Father said. "And the drugs are...disposed of?"

"Down the Abyss, after we chased them off," Phillip said, his mouth twisting bitterly. "We thought we were so smart, getting rid of it."

"You couldn't very well leave them there," Father said. "James' death was a tragic accident, but the fault lies only with those who killed him." He paused, looking down at his folded hands. "My fear is that whoever those drugs belong to will come looking for them."

Winslow nodded. "Ain't much doubt about that. It wasn't just a couple of joints we threw down the Abyss."

Father sighed, suddenly looking old and haggard. "I see no other course for us but that we should arm the sentries. Winslow and Phillip, will you see to it?" Father asked.

Phillip and Winslow exchanged shocked glances. Father, wanting to arm the sentries, after twenty odd years of insisting they must never be? "This is our home," Father said, clearly understanding their reaction. "I very much hope that such weapons need never be used...but at the same time, I can't leave us defenseless."

"No, you can't," Vincent said, the instincts of a predator denied its rightful prey running hot and violent within him.

"Pascal, we need to make a community announcement," Father continued. "The women and children will have to stay near the home chambers at all times while this threat remains."

Phillip looked at Father. "You're afraid of hostages."

Father nodded. "Very much so. Who knows what such desperate men might do, in search of their drugs? We've already seen what they're capable of."

"Anything else?" Pascal asked, making notes on a bit of scrap paper.

"The sentries will travel in pairs only. Who's on the roster for tonight?"

"I am, Father, as is Ethan," Vincent replied.

"Ethan was James' best friend," Father replied. "Let's give Ethan some time...Phillip and Winslow, are you available tonight?"

Winslow nodded. "And I don't think my dance card is full," Phillip said, smiling. "Sure, I'll switch sentry duty with Ethan."

***

Sentry duty that night started out as it usually did; checking the entrances and the main tunnel arteries looking for water leakage or cracks that might need to be fixed, making sure the torches in the hub were lit, and keeping an eye out for signs of incursion from the world above. Phillip carried a torch and a hasty copy of one of Father's maps to mark where they'd been and what they'd seen, if anything.

"Do you...sense anything?" Phillip asked.

Vincent looked at him in some surprise. "Oh, come on" Phillip said. "Maybe everyone else here doesn't notice—or doesn't want to---but I know how good your senses are. So...do you hear anything or smell anything?"

"Just dust," Vincent said, and sneezed. "A whole lot of dust."

Phillip chuckled and they kept walking, making notations on the map as they went. They were exiting one pathway, a little used access tunnel slated for closure when the main entrances were rerouted, when a prickling sensation began to tug at Vincent's nerves. The feeling, the impression that they were not alone. He touched at Phillip's arm, gesturing into the shadows.

"What is it?" Phillip asked.

"Listen. Do you hear it?" Vincent said. Phillip shook his head. "Two or three people, in tennis shoes, carrying...carrying something," Vincent whispered.

"Where are they?" Phillip asked.

"The fourth junction to our left," Vincent replied.

"But that's---"

"---the level above Eileen's candle workshop. Yes." Vincent's fist clenched against the rocky walls, trying to hold the Other at bay. Let loose, he would kill the smugglers one and all to defend this place and these people...but Vincent dare not assume he could control the beast then. The boiling rage was too strong and he growled low in his throat.

Phillip glanced at him, startled. "You okay?"

Vincent nodded, not trusting his ability to speak just then. "We need to get an exact count for Father," Phillip said. "Are you...can you....?"

"Yes," Vincent said, shoving back the fury and finding his words. "You're right. Father will need to know what we're dealing with."

They found out, soon enough. The dull scrape of metal—gun metal---against stone was all the warning Vincent received when one of the smugglers (a scout, he realized sometime later,) began firing at the two strangers. Vincent lurched forward to shove Phillip out of the way but he was just out of arm's reach, and was cut down almost instantly. Phillip fell forward, bleeding into the sand.

The rage burst forward, the awful, heated fury that admitted no injury, that could not be bargained with. Vincent only remembered what happened next in a series of disjointed images: the blood of one smuggler spraying his face as an artery was laid bare, the guts of another as he was torn to bits, the dying screams of a third.

When it was over, Vincent stood in a pile of bodies and wondered why it was so hard to breathe all of a sudden. The agony in his chest was a terrible, spreading weight, matched only by the pain in his heart as he stared at Phillip's dead body.

Alerted by the sounds of gunfire, Winslow arrived just in time to catch Vincent as his knees buckled.

***

Weak from infection and blood loss, Vincent could not attend Phillip's funeral, but he mourned Phillip just the same. "Lark wants to see you," Father said after the funeral. "As your physician, I'm not sure I'd allow it. You're running a fever and one of those bullets I took out of you nicked an artery. It's only due to Winslow, luck and these sutures that you're still alive at all." He gave Vincent an injection from their precious store of antibiotics.

"She blames me," Vincent said. He needed no special senses to know this; Lark's shrieking that he'd killed her husband had echoed off the rock walls as soon as she'd been told of Phillip's death.

"She does," Father said, touching the side of his face in a reassuring gesture Vincent remembered from his childhood. "You must know she's wrong."

"Do I?" Vincent asked, feeling the heat of the fever prickle at the corners of his eyes. "Phillip is dead because he went first into that cavern. If it had been me---"

"If it had been you, you would be dead. You were ambushed, Vincent. And there's no way you could have known."

Father stood then. "There's something you should know. Lark has announced that she's returning above. She says there's nothing for her here now that Phillip is gone."

Vincent closed his eyes. "She must not abandon her home because of me."

"Vincent," Father said, "she's angry. And in pain. Perhaps Lark will return above; if she wishes to, that's her right. But if she does, it's not because of anything you did." He replaced the bottle of antibiotic in the small refrigerator— one of the ones, Vincent realized with a pang---that Phillip had installed only a few days earlier. "I want you to rest; I'm going to go and talk to Lark."

Vincent didn't mean to close his eyes, but close them he had, for he opened his eyes to see Lark standing just outside the entrance to his chamber. "May I come in?" she asked.

He tried to sit up, but the pain in his chest and Father's dire warnings about reopening the sutures stilled his action. "Please," he said, gesturing to the empty chair at the end table.

"I just realized---all the years I've lived here, I've never come to your chamber." Lark sat down, and Vincent was reminded of how little they knew each other. She had lived here for nearly six years, but they were still strangers to each other. Her thick braid fell over her shoulder as she settled in the chair and she impatiently pushed it back.

"Why did you come?" Vincent asked, curious.

"I had this idea that I'd come here and blame you for Phillip's death and yell and scream and that would make me feel better. But he's just as dead." Her cold brown eyes stared into his own. "Not that I don't blame you. I do. He had no business going out there on sentry duty; I begged him not to go, but he wouldn't listen, said he couldn't send you out there alone. Well, if he had, you'd be dead and he'd be alive. And I'd have preferred it that way. He was...everything to me. He was my life. I don't suppose you understand that."

"No," Vincent replied. "I've never known that. I doubt I ever will."

Lark folded her arms. "I doubt you will either. It's not something that's common." She stood. "I don't know why I came, really. But I can't, I won't, stay here. Every time I see you, I'll think that Phillip should still be alive and you should be dead in his place, and that's no way to live."

"I loved him too," Vincent said, the waves of her pain and grief enclosing him in a storm so loud he could barely hear himself think. "Not like you did, of course, but he was my friend and he..."

She held up a hand. "Please. I don't want to hear it. Not from you." Lark turned her back on him and left his chamber.

***

Vincent opened his eyes, not surprised to find his face was wet. "She left the following morning."

"I know," the Other said. "Again, that wasn't your fault. Father had the right of it---Lark could have stayed Below and healed among her friends and family but she chose to leave. It was her choice."

"But I was responsible for getting Phillip killed," Vincent said. The grief had lodged in his heart so long he no longer knew what it was like to live without it.

His dark alter sighed. "One of these days, I'll have to tell Father that 'infernally stubborn' doesn't begin to cover it. Look, Brother, what were we doing there? What was Phillip doing there?"

"We were trying to protect the tunnels," Vincent replied. "Phillip volunteered to go with me that night."

"Phillip was a grown man. He knew what he was facing---you both did. He chose to go with you because your safety, and the safety of the tunnels, was worth it to him."

Vincent nodded. Phillip had been like that; fierce and loyal in defense of his friends and family. For the first time in years, Vincent felt that stone of grief begin to dissolve, just a little.

He looked down at his hands and saw the blood that had covered them, stiffening the fur and clotting under his nails. "What about the others? The smugglers I killed?"

"Again, we've never hurt those that didn't have it coming," the Other said. "You can't tell me you regret killing them."

"No," Vincent said slowly. In the face of the threat the smugglers had represented, there had been no question about the rightness of his actions, only regret that James and Phillip had been killed before he could act. "But what I feared then, and now, is the rage. I have no control over it."

"Really?" his twin said. "You have no control over me? Then why aren't you snarling when Father angers you? Why aren't you lashing out when Catherine has to cancel on us because she has an early court appearance the next morning? You truly have no control over your emotions?"

"That's different," Vincent began, but his twin cut him off.

"How is it different? Don't you see, Vincent? Your rage, our rage, is a protective rage. It only emerges when those we care for are threatened. The tunnels. Catherine."

At the sound of her name, Vincent's head jerked up. She must be terrified, he thought, remembering the shards of those last few minutes in the cave. How she could still stand to look at him after all the men he'd killed was a source of utter shock.

"She is our mate. Of course we have killed for her, to protect her," the Other said.

Vincent stared at his twin. He'd never dared to consciously think of Catherine in those terms, so convinced had he been that she must be free to choose a life without him. But the Other, it seemed, knew. Had always known. As did I, Vincent thought. If I survive this journey, I must tell her.