Part 9
Chapter 17: Two Shadows That Flow Together
They ambled back to the cottage in a sort of contented daze, stopping only to take the bagged leaves up to the front of the house. "Are you hungry?" Catherine asked as they walked inside the cottage.
Vincent's eyebrows rose and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You have to ask?"
Catherine chuckled. She put her arms around him, inhaling the scent of leaves and earth and their loving that rose from his clothes. Vincent's cloak was stuck through with leaf bits and dirt and her own hair, she supposed, was just as wild and mussed as his. "We look like..." and she tried to repress the cliché that rose to her mind. It was such a sensitive area with him sometimes....
"We look like what, Catherine? Something the cat dragged in?" Vincent murmured against her hair, the chuff of amusement riding just under his words.
She couldn't help it. Catherine started laughing. Vincent, able to poke fun at himself, even just a little? "Not that I'm complaining, mind, but...yes. We look rather...fluffed."
He kissed her forehead. "'Fluffed' is a good look for you." Vincent waved a hand at his own hair, which was sticking up in any number of aimless directions and looked even more like a lion's mane. "It's not such a good look for me. I think I'll go upstairs and take a shower."
Catherine reached up to tug on a disordered lock of hair that had fallen over his shoulder. "You go do that, then. How does soup and sandwiches sound for lunch?"
"Fine," Vincent said. "I'll cook dinner if you like."
"That sounds wonderful," Catherine said, and watched as he went upstairs for his shower.
****
She had chopped the vegetables and added them to the stew to simmer when she felt a jolt of surprise through the bond and heard a muffled thump. Oh, heavens, what now? Catherine wondered, lowering the temperature on the stove and rushing upstairs.
Catherine opened the bathroom door and was struck by Vincent's expression. Embarrassment? "What is it, love?" she asked.
He didn't answer for a bit and so she had time to notice the location of one of his boots, which was laying askew on the floor as if it had been thrown there. A thought occurred to her and she struggled mightily not to laugh. "Vincent, was there a spider there?"
Vincent nodded. "I don't like spiders," he confessed.
Catherine shook her head. "I don't like them either but...Vincent you live in tunnels underneath New York City. Caves, even. Rats and insects must be all over the place. And it's spiders that bother you?"
He pulled a towel off the ledge to start drying himself off. "Catherine, have you ever seen anything like that where we live?"
"No," she said, "and I'm surprised I haven't, now that I think of it. How do you do it?"
He dried off one muscular arm. "Simple, Catherine. We have cats."
"I've never seen them," she replied, amazed by something else she didn't know about Vincent's world. "Where do they live?"
"Well, Kali likes to sleep with Father, and Wilma prefers Pascal's chamber. No one knows where Slinky disappears to at night, but I've occasionally found him on my bed. Father doesn't know how they came down here; we don't keep pets as a rule—Arthur being the obvious exception. Father theorizes their ancestors were down here long before we were, but at any rate, they keep our rodent and insect population down to a minimum." He shrugged. "Nevertheless, I don't like spiders. Never have."
"I don't blame you there," Catherine said, chuckling a bit at the mental image of her mate, fearless in the face of all other dangers, being startled by an insect a fraction of his size. "Well, when you're done...'come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.'" She grinned impishly. "The soup should be ready soon."
***
After they'd eaten lunch and the dishes were cleared away, they went into the library. Far to the east, the clouds were gathering. "It'll rain tonight," Vincent said; the scent of moisture in the air that he'd noticed earlier in the day was stronger now.
Catherine looked out the window. "You're right. I didn't see those clouds this morning. Which reminds me, I should call Gertrude and let her know her leaves are ready."
Vincent smiled. "The leaves that she no doubt has more than enough of already?"
"Yes, those leaves." Catherine chuckled. "I can't blame her for liking the sound of your voice...and I'm certainly not going to complain about the result of all that leaf raking."
"Nor I," Vincent said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Making love in the sunshine---even if it was something they were never able to do again---had been worth all the risk for the sense of normalcy, of freedom it had given them both. I was as every other man, in the sunlight. I am a man. Whatever else I am or may become, I am at least that.
Catherine nestled against him, near to his heart as she always, always was. From the contentment that flowed through the bond, he knew she was listening to the sound of his heartbeat, the reassurance of his life and its continuation. He closed his eyes, remembering. They had come so very close to losing everything last summer.....
***
He'd opened his eyes to Father's worried face, just bare spaces from his mouth and felt Catherine's head on his chest. Father's eyes were damp and abruptly, Vincent became aware of her muffled sobbing. "Father...what happened?" he said, and winced. His throat felt like it had been torn with daggers.
In the dim light of the cave, Vincent saw that Father looked years older, haggard and worn. "You died, Vincent. Catherine saved your life; she screamed for me and started CPR herself until I got in here." His hands touched the side of Vincent's face. "I am so very glad you're back with us, my boy, so very glad." Father stood then. "I'm going to go outside and call for help. Catherine, you'll be fine with him?"
Vincent felt her nod, felt the golden silk of her hair tickle his neck, but couldn't see her face, and when he tried to lift his head, found he had not enough energy to do even that. "Catherine," he whispered. His ribs ached and everything hurt where muscles and tendons had been tensed and strained beyond their limits in his delirium, but none of that mattered. He had to see her face.
Catherine lifted her head so he could see her. "Oh, Vincent. You're all right." Her green eyes were swimming with tears. She laid her head on his heart and the sobs shook her body. "You died, Vincent. Oh my God, you died."
***
"I'll not leave you ever, either," Catherine said, as she had the previous summer. The incident had not been very far from either of their minds since. She pulled back a little to look at him and her hand touched his cheekbones. "You know that, right?"
He nodded. "I shouldn't have pushed you away so often. I was so hard on you."
"We were hard on each other, Vincent. All those times you had to rescue me, I regret what that cost you. I told Father when you were so ill that I'd begun to wonder if some part of me was going into danger knowing that you would be there to rescue me."
"Nonsense," Vincent said firmly. "Catherine, it's true, I did save you, many times. But those situations were not of your making. I didn't enjoy the killing and I hope to never do it again...but I'd do it a thousand times if it would save your life." He pressed a quick kiss to the palm of her hand. "You are my life, Catherine. I promised your father I would protect you until my last breath. I meant it then and I mean it now."
Tears fell from her eyes and he brushed them away, careful of his claws. "What is it?" Vincent whispered. He could sense nothing through the bond but her joy and love, but she was crying....
Catherine sniffled a bit and blinked rapidly. "I was just thinking...all we had to go through to get here...but if that was the price, I can't regret it. Not one bit."
"No," Vincent agreed, pulling her close.
***
A few hours later, Catherine called Gertrude about the leaves. Matt answered the phone. "Gert's down with one of her headaches, Cathy," Matt said. "She's sleeping it off now."
"Oh, that's too bad, Matt. Will you let her know we called and that we'll put her leaves inside the porch?"
"No problem," Matt replied. "Thanks for your help with the leaves, by the way. I've been meaning to rake ours up for her, but my back's been giving me some trouble for the last couple of days and you know how Gert is about her compost heap."
Catherine chuckled. "I do indeed---but she gets so many vegetables out of the fertilizer from that compost heap that I can't imagine you guys can eat all of them."
"You're right about that; we've been going to the Farmer's Market in town for years but even then, some don't sell. It seems like such a waste, but how much squash can you eat, anyway?"
Catherine smiled, thinking of Vincent's story of the mushrooms in all the food below. Which lead to other thoughts about the tunnels, and food, and how good fresh vegetables would taste below. "I know what you mean, Matt. Maybe I can find a way to take the excess off your hands come harvest time."
"That'd be great, Cathy—I'll have Gert call you when we're up to our ears in squash and pumpkins."
"Sounds good to me, Matt. Tell Gertrude I hope she feels better soon."
She could hear the farmer smile on the other end of the line. She didn't know how old Matt was, or Gertrude either, for that matter, but like Father, they seemed timeless. "Will do, Cathy. Thanks again."
Catherine hung up the phone and turned to Vincent, who was cutting up the raw ingredients for spaghetti sauce in preparation for dinner that night. "Vincent, how would you all like some fresh vegetables?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Via Gertrude and her compost heap? That sounds wonderful, but someone would have to come back up here to get them; there are no helpers out this far."
She smiled at him. "Yes, I suppose someone would have to come out here. I can't imagine who would come this far, can you?"
Vincent smiled his wry half-smile. "I believe I can."
Chapter 18: Life in Its Jewel Boxes
It rained the next night, a fearsome autumn rain that rattled the old windows of the cottage and blew in cold drafts under the doors. Vincent awoke with the first crash of thunder and, leaving the warmth of Catherine’s side, padded down the stairs to watch the storm. He’d seen very few thunderstorms; the most recent being during the first concert he and Catherine had ever attended below.
He made himself a cup of tea and sat down at the old oak table. Rain slid down the warbled glass of the kitchen windows. Vincent turned, feeling more than seeing Catherine’s presence behind him. "Hi," she said sleepily, wearing an oversize robe that made her look like a young girl instead of the woman who’d writhed in their passion only the day before. Her hair was tied back in a sloppy braid and stray tendrils of her honey hair drifted about her face, stirring with her breath.
"I didn’t want to wake you," Vincent said.
"The storm did that," she yawned. "How many storms have you seen?" Catherine sat next to him on the long, narrow seat and relaxed into his warmth.
"Not many," he replied, holding her close, content to watch the play of light and water over her features.
They watched the rain for a time as the lightning flashed and made everything bright and dark, light and shadow. "I remember that first storm, the one you and I saw together," Catherine said.
"Yes," Vincent said. "I wondered what I'd done to earn such fortune as to have you in my arms."
She smiled, nestling further against him. "You were...just you. And you let me be me. I've always loved the rain, but I never felt free to dance in it until I met you."
"Dance with me now," Vincent murmured against the softness of her hair.
"What, outside?"
Vincent smiled. "No, here, in the kitchen." He pulled her gently to her feet and gathered her near to him, and they moved to the music of the rain and the night.
***
Catherine awoke shortly before dawn to a grinding ache, low in her belly and an equally fierce backache. Wonderful, she thought. Though I suppose it's only fair. Vincent gets carsickness, cold showers, splinters and spiders. I get cramps and a backache. Gahh, couldn't this have waited until we got back to New York City? She went into the bathroom, and when she returned she found Vincent, wide awake and concerned. "You're not feeling well, Catherine."
She nodded. Of course he knew. "You're right," Catherine sighed, climbing back into bed and the warmth of his body curved against hers. "It's just that time of the month, Vincent. The first few days are never fun."
"I'm sorry it hurts you so much," he murmured, rubbing one calloused hand into the center of her backache, where the muscles jumped and bunched in a painful rhythm. The pain began to ease off, just a little.
Catherine tilted her head back to look at him. "Have you felt this before from me?"
He nodded, continuing his massage. "Yes. At first, I didn't...recognize what I was feeling, but it didn't take me long to figure out what it was."
In spite of herself, Catherine chuckled. "There are obviously some advantages to being a doctor's son."
Vincent smiled. "There are. What do you normally do when this comes?"
"There's some pain medication that helps; I just took it. A heating pad helps too." She looked up at him. "Why do you ask?"
He looked mildly uncomfortable. "Rebecca and Olivia were discussing their...techniques for pain relief with Samantha the other day."
From the expression on his face, Catherine knew he hadn't meant to hear their conversation. "They don't know how acute your hearing is, do they?"
"Some do," Vincent replied, the pain in her lower back receding more with his touch. "Pascal, for instance; it's the main reason why he'll ask me to fill in for him on the pipes if he's not feeling well. And Mouse.." He chuckled. "When he first came to us, he was a shadow, stealing food and supplies. No one else could hear him move, but I could hear his clothing moving against the rock. I'm afraid most people thought I was hearing things."
Beneath his words, Catherine thought she sensed an undertow of other meanings: Vincent, the different one, the one who was so like his tunnel family and so unlike them, the eternal outsider. "You've had to hide a lot even there, haven't you?" she asked softly.
In a gentle, soothing rhythm, Vincent rubbed her back. "We all hide, Catherine. We all have secrets, things we don't share with our friends or family. My...secrets are no worse than some others."
She toyed with a lock of amber hair that had fallen over his shoulder. "It's not quite the same thing, Vincent. You're hiding an essential part of yourself, your differences. And there's nothing wrong with them...you shouldn't need to hide them. Not among people who love you." Catherine touched his high cheekbones, bristled with fine, soft fur. "I love your differences."
"I know you do, and I can't tell you what a miracle that is to me," Vincent replied, kissing the top of her hair. "But consider what you're asking. Should I tell Cullen to stop teasing Samantha when he teaches her because I can smell that her period has come and I know she's not anywhere near her normal good humor? Should I tell Lena that her trysts with Warren are not as quiet as she believes them to be, because I---and only I---can hear them? What possible good would that do?"
Catherine chuckled. "Well, in Cullen's case, it might save him from being stabbed with his awl. Not that I'd do it, but there have been plenty of times I've thought about impaling Joe with one of his pens." She paused. "Wait. Lena and Warren?"
"Lena and Warren," Vincent confirmed, smiling. "Warren joined our community shortly after I recovered from my illness; he's been a great help to Kanin."
"And a bigger help to Lena and little Cathy, I'd imagine," Catherine said. "That's good to hear. Lena deserves to be happy."
His eyes twinkled. "And the fact that Warren helped her over her infatuation with me is purely incidental, I imagine?"
Catherine grinned. "Well, I don't care how it happened, I'm just glad it did."
"As am I," Vincent said. "I've never seen Lena so happy, or Warren. They are very good together and there has been some speculation that they'll marry soon."
"Oh, how wonderful for them both," Catherine replied, smiling. "So what are weddings like below? We were about to discuss that a few days ago but---"
"But someone decided to….distract me first," Vincent said, gazing at her with a decidedly sultry look in his eye. "Not that I’m complaining."
"Of course not," Catherine said, giggling. "But as I’m hardly in any shape at the moment for that sort of…distraction, how about you tell me now?"
Vincent smiled, brushing back the hair back from her face. "Very well. Our weddings tend to be relatively informal, for the most part. Sometimes a couple will just announce to Father that they’ve married themselves. He makes a notation in our records and that’s all that’s required by our customs. Other times, couples choose a full ceremony with Father or, more rarely, a helper who can officiate at weddings above." His voice, never loud unless he was angered or afraid, became softer. "Our wedding will not be legal above, Catherine. Does that trouble you?"
She shook her head. "It isn’t a piece of paper that makes a marriage, Vincent. My commitment to you isn’t something I need a license for." Catherine touched his face, feeling his disquiet through their bond. "Vincent. I want to celebrate our marriage in front of our friends and family. However that happens, I leave to you. What do you want?"
"You," he said, and kissed her forehead.
***
Vincent left Catherine sleeping, and walked downstairs. They'd been at the cottage long enough that he knew where the creak was loudest in the old wooden stairs and he neatly sidestepped it. Catherine's pain had eased enough to let her rest, and he was determined that nothing should disturb her. He put on a pot of tea to brew and gazed outside.
The rain continued, a drenching downpour just on the edge of ice and snow. They would be leaving in the space of a few days, ahead of all the winter's fury. He watched the rain fall and considered all that he had learned and felt. There are no limits, Catherine had said to him once, and he smiled. She'd known better than he, and not for the first time. Vincent had once thought himself to be a creature who could never walk in sunlight, but as a man, he had loved his mate in full daylight and awoken with her in the sunlight. He might never do it again, but he had done it. And he would take that sunlight with him when he returned to the eternal twilight of the tunnels.
Who am I now? Vincent wondered. It was a question he'd asked himself in various ways over the years, but never quite in this context. The fur-covered hands, the claws, no longer seemed quite so fearsome---but Catherine had claimed his hands for hers and begun the process of altering forever how he viewed himself. Some internal weight, long off-center, began to settle. I know who I am. I am...whole, complete as I have never been.
He heard the faint click of the phone connection just before the ringer came on. Crossing swiftly to the phone, he picked it up before the phone rang. "Hello?" he said into the receiver.
"Ah, Vincent, hello," Gertrude said. "Did I wake you?"
"No," he replied. "Catherine's sleeping, though; she's not feeling well. Are you feeling better?"
"Oh, thanks for asking. I am feeling better---I'm so sorry to hear about Catherine. It's nothing serious, I hope?"
From the pain that had surged through their bond early that morning, Vincent would have judged it serious, would have considered calling Father if the pain had been his, but Catherine had accepted it as a routine, if painful, part of her life. How strong she is. "I don't think so; she's resting now."
"That's good. I wanted to thank you and Catherine again for raking up those leaves the other day. Would it be okay if I came by to pick them up before the weather gets too much uglier? Matt has to run into town for a doctor's appointment this afternoon and we can just stop on the way."
She knows who I am, if not the how of it. What can it hurt? Vincent thought. "Very well, Gertrude. . "What time will you be coming?"
"About two, if that's okay."
"That's fine," Vincent replied. "Have a good day, Gertrude."
"You, too," she replied and hung up the phone.
"So that's who you were talking to," Catherine said from behind him. Her color had improved and she looked somewhat better than she had earlier in the morning. "Gertrude's coming by to pick up the leaves?"
"Yes," he replied, looking at her closely. "Are you well?" The thick haze of pain he'd felt through their bond this morning had disappeared, replaced by a dull ache.
Catherine pushed her hair out of her face. "I'm functional for the most part." She smiled at him. "Thanks for letting me sleep."
Vincent handed her a cup of tea and sat down next to her on the oak table. Rubbing her back, he asked, "Are you hungry?"
"Toast would be good, thanks," she replied, taking the mug from him and smiling her contented smile at him. She watched the rain slide down the windows. "Winter's really on its way, isn't it?"
"Yes," he said. The bread popped out of the toaster and he handed her a plate of toast with the container of butter. "Breakfast is served, my lady."
Catherine giggled. "You're too kind, good sir." She leaned against him as he sat next to her. "I had the strangest dream."
He pulled her close. "What did you dream?"
"You and I were in Central Park; the snow was falling and we had a snowball fight. Then Father yelled at us for setting a bad example for the children."
"What happened then?" Vincent asked, sensing there was something more to the story.
She tried, but failed, to keep back a laugh. "You stuffed snow down the back of his sweater."
Vincent chuckled. "Well, before this journey, I would have said we'd never make love in the sunlight. But we have. So who is to say what is not possible?"
Catherine looked up at him and brushed his hair behind his ears. "No limits," she said softly.
"No, none," Vincent replied, and kissed her soundly.