"Night Of Masks"
by Debbie Nockels
COPYRIGHT: February 1993 (slightly revised October 2002)
RATING: NC-17
DISCLAIMER: None of the characters are mine (I wish!). They belong to Ron Koslow, who created them, and I'm not sure who else at this point in time.
SUMMARY: Placed in the AU created in my novel Though They Sink Through The Sea." Catherine is alive and living Below with Vincent, but continues to work in the D.A.'s office.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The lovely image in this part was drawn by the very talented Sue Krinard for my fanzine Crystalfire II. Sue went on to have several fantasy romance novels published, although unfortunately I can't remember who the publisher was and my copies are in storage right now, so I can't get to them.
___________________________________________________________________________
"Hi, Joe! What's up?" Catherine stuck her head into Joe Maxwell's office, rather mystified as to why he had summoned her.
"Cathy - come in." Joe motioned her inside. "Shut the door, please."
Even more puzzled and with a growing concern, Catherine obeyed. Seating herself opposite him, she asked again, "What is it, Joe?" A frown creased her forehead; her voice was grave.
Joe shot her a glance, then smiled. "Nothing to worry about, Radcliffe. I just wanted to speak to you privately; sorry if I scared you. It's about my party next week."
"Oh." Catherine relaxed back into her chair. "I got the invitation, Joe. Thanks for thinking of me, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline. Halloween is kind of a special time for us, you know. It's the only night of the year - except maybe New Year's Eve - when Vincent can go Above in safety."
At Joe's raised eyebrows and exaggerated, cynical look, she laughed. "Okay," she amended, "as safely as anyone can in this city."
Joe dropped his clowning and grew serious. "I admit that when it comes to defending himself, or anyone else, Vincent's track record is quite impressive," he said drily. Catherine winced at this oblique reference to several unsolved slashing deaths in the police files. "But even he would find it difficult to dodge a bullet, Cathy."
Catherine's lips tightened. She stared at him defiantly. Joe came around his desk and sat in the chair beside her. "Cathy," he said, his voice gentle, "I know what Halloween means to you and Vincent. I know how it must feel to be able to walk the streets without fear - or with only the usual amount of fear."
A humorless smile briefly crossed his face. "But you know as well as I do, that night of all nights will bring out the Sniper. And the guy's a world-class shot, Cathy. One shot, one dead target. Every time."
She wanted to deny his words, wanted it desperately. Closing her eyes, she strove for control. Thoughts of the Sniper's victims flashed through her mind. Joe was right, damn him. Twelve people in twelve weeks. Seven men, five women, each killed with a single shot through the head. The killings occurred on Tuesday, Friday, Sunday, Thursday, Sunday - there was no consistency. The only common factor was that all the victims dressed in ways considered by general society to be unusual, or even bizarre.
The first victim, a man, had belonged to an offbeat religious sect that panhandled on street corners and subways. A young woman was the second victim. She'd affected a heavy metal look complete with multi-colored spikes of hair, three "diamond" studs in her nose, and the same number of hoops in each eyebrow. The third and fourth victims - the only instance where two people had been shot on the same day, in fact within seconds of each other - had been extras in a movie being filmed on location in the city. Both had been in alien-type makeup and costume.
"You know his MO, Cathy," Joe went on. "What do you think's going to happen on Halloween night, when the streets'll be crawling with weird-looking people?"
Catherine opened her eyes on a burgeoning tide of anger, black and choking. Her voice was tight. "The one night when Vincent and I can walk Above like any other couple, taken from us by a madman with a rifle."
Defeat rose bitter in her throat. She slumped back. "You're right," she said dully. "We can't risk it. We'll have to stay Below that night."
"Maybe not."
It took a moment for his words to register. When they did, Catherine looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"
Joe got up and perched on the corner of his desk, facing her. "Come to my party instead. Both of you."
Catherine sighed, shook her head. "It won't work. Don't you think I've thought of that? Once, before we were married, Vincent did attend a Halloween party. It was when Brigit O'Donnell was in town; do you remember?"
"I remember." From the look on his face, Joe was also recalling some other events of that memorable night.
"Brigit wasn't fooled for more than a few minutes, Joe. No one else would have been either, not if they'd gotten a good look at him close up. It's just too obvious that Vincent isn't wearing a mask, that the face is really his." She forced a smile on her own face, and prepared to stand up. "But thanks for the invitation; it'll mean a lot to Vincent."
"Wait." Joe put out a hand. "There may be a way."
"How?" Catherine eyed him. There was a decidedly smug look on Joe's boyish face. "Maybe if you kept the room dark, but - "
Joe raised his eyebrows. "Hey, that's a good idea; I hadn't thought of that. No, what I was thinking of was this: I have a friend - well, actually she's some sort of cousin. . . ."
Catherine sank back into the seat and listened.
<><><><><><>
"Vincent?" Entering their chamber, Catherine paused only long enough to set her briefcase down before heading straight to the writing desk where Vincent sat, engrossed in a book. She put her arms around him from behind and pressed a kiss on his head. "What are you reading?"
He showed her the cover; it was the most recent book by Mercedes Lackey. Catherine smiled, much amused. Raised on a steady, almost exclusive diet of Classic literature and ponderous biographies, Vincent had at first been dubious about the lighter fare which Catehrine enjoyed (in addition to the Classics). It was only to please her, she knew, that he had read the first book in the Valdemar series by one of her favorite fantasy authors; but once started he had quickly become as fascinated by the characters and their world as she was. This one had only just been released; in fact, she had bought it only yesterday on her lunch break.
"Looks like I started something," she laughed. "Is it good?"
"Very good." Vincent returned her smile, tilting his head back. Carefully marking his place with a wide blue ribbon, he set the book on the table and pulled her onto his lap. "How was your day?"
"Busy." Catherine sighed, savoring the warmth of his embrace. After a moment she asked, "Where's the imp?" She had seen at first glance that their son was nowhere in the chamber.
"He's with Lena. You know how much little Katy loves having him there."
Catherine shook her head, laughing. "That child is a born mother, even if she is only four."
Vincent changed the subject. "Catherine, this afternoon I felt a moment of intense anger from you . . . anger and bitterness. What happened to cause that?"
Catherine felt a momentary resurgence of the emotions. "I was talking to Joe about Halloween. He pointed out to me something I'd been refusing to think about - the fact that this year it would be extremely foolish of us to do our usual excursion around town."
She looked up into his sober face. "It really isn't safe, Vincent. The Sniper is bound to be out. In fact, the psychologists all agree - now there's a miracle - that there's a damn good chance he'll go on a real frenzy that night. All those people walking around in strange costumes . . . it'll be like a red flag to a bull. We can't take the chance." Her voice dropped, full of regret.
Vincent was silent, but she could feel his disappointment. Finally he said, "Then we will celebrate Halloween Below this year, with the children."
She took a deep breath. "Joe is throwing a little party Halloween night, and he's invited us. I think we should go."
Vincent looked at her in surprise. He said doubtfully, "Do you think that's wise?"
Catherine willfilly misunderstood. "I think we'll be safe enough for the few minutes it'll take us to get from the Tunnel access to Joe's apartment - it's only a block away, you know."
Vincent cocked an eyebrow at her, fully aware, as she knew perfectly well, that her innocence was assumed. "I was referring to the danger of my mingling with the other guests. Is there not a risk that one or more of them will realize I'm not in costume?"
Catherine lowered her eyes as happy amusement ran sparkling and secretive within her. "Joe's promised to keep the lights turned low," she said as nonchalantly as possible. "Since it's Halloween no one will think twice if the rooms are a bit on the dark and gloomy side. I think it will be okay." Her gaze met Vincent's.
His mouth moved in a faint smile. "I should like to meet some of the people I've heard so much about. Will Rita be there?"
Catherine hugged him. "Are you kidding?" she laughed. "Rita miss something like this? Beneath her studious exterior beats the heart of a dedicated party animal, let me tell you. She may have other parties to go to that night, but I know she'll be at Joe's for a while. And Joe told me today that Edie may drop by."
Vincent smiled. "That will make you happy. I know how close your friendship is."
"Yes." Catherine snuggled closer. "It's strange," she mused. "Since Edie left town I've only seen her, what - twice? - but both times it was as if no time had passed in between. We sat down and everything just picked up where we left off."
"She must be a special person."
"She is; very special," agreed Catherine. "You'll like her." She smiled, thinking of her energetic little friend. Edie of the quick wit and even quicker tongue; pert wisecracks concealing a heart as big as, well, as Vincent's. Sighing, she sat up. "Guess we better go rescue Lena. Dinner should be ready soon."
Vincent put a hand on her arm. "Catherine. What will your costume be?"
She hesitated, then leaned forward and planted a kiss on his fuzzy cheek. "I want to keep it a secret," she said, smiling mysteriously. Getting to her feet, she held out her hand. "Come on. Let's go get Jacob."
<><><><><><><>
"What time are you meeting Catherine at her apartment?" Father leaned on his cane, watching Vincent put the final touches to his toilette.
Vincent fastened the last cuff button. "At seven."
Father looked mildly surprised. "Seven? I thought Mr. Maxwell's party didn't start until eight o'clock. It won't take more than fifteen minutes to walk to that sector, why does Catherine want you there - "
Abruptly he stopped, and the look on his face made it ludicrously apparent that a possible reason for such an early meeting had just occurred to him. A wave of pink slowly tinged his cheeks and the sharp gray eyes involuntarily slid away to begin an intense study of something over in the corner.
Vincent stifled a chuckle. With palpable effort Father assumed an expression of determined casualness and cleared his throat. Vincent sat down, reaching for his boots.
"Catherine didn't explain," he said mildly, "but I assume it has something to do with her costume. Perhaps she needs help with it."
He heard the faint sigh of relief from Father and out of the corner of his eye saw him relax. He smothered another grin and pulled on the boots. Standing up, he stamped once, hard, with each foot, then smoothed the supple black leather up over his calves and turned to the older man.
"What do you think?"
Father surveyed him from head to toe. He smiled. "You look wonderfully exotic - and incidentally, quite handsome."
With some apprehension Vincent strode over to the full-length mirror that had been Peter Alcott's wedding present. Studying his reflection he was forced to agree with Father's assessment; at least, the first part of it. "Exotic" was a perfect description. The previous night Catherine had come home from work lugging a garment bag over her shoulder and beaming from ear to ear.
"It's your costume, Vincent," she'd explained, dropping the bag onto the bed with a relieved sigh. When he'd begun a startled protest, she'd smiled and kissed him. "At least try it on. If you really don't like it then you don't have to wear it." Then, slipping away to greet Jacob, she'd looked back at him with a demure little smile. "I chose it to go with mine."
With those words he'd known he had no choice but to wear it. He'd only hoped, fervently, that it would prove to be something not too alarming. He had promised Catherine not to look - "peek" was the word she'd used - at it until the next night, so it wasn't until he'd returned from his shower this evening that he'd finally seen what she'd picked out for him. He turned slightly to one side, viewing the effect with a reluctantly appreciative eye.
Black leather pants, soft and smooth as butter. Ebony shirt of heavy silk, shot through with silvery threads that caught the light at even the slightest movement, reflecting it back in subdued shimmers. The neckline plunged in a sharp V from the wide collar, displaying rather more of his chest than Vincent was quite comfortable with. Graceful, billowing sleeves ended in wide cuffs at the wrists. A small bag looped over one of the hangers had proven to contain a bracelet fully two inches in width. Swirling abstract designs were etched on the softly burnished surface in some brightly glittering substance, so that they too caught the eye with their brilliance.
Included with the bracelet in the pouch had been a narrow length of fabric which Vincent now studied with a frown. HIs first thought upon finding it was that it was a belt, but then he'd discovered the long fringed sash which was obviously intended for that purpose. Holding up the puzzling item he asked, "Father, have you any idea what this is?"
The older man took the long strip in his hands, turning it over and running it through his fingers while he surveyed it closely. He shook his head. "I'm sorry; I can't imagine what its purpose may be, unless it's to tie back your hair."
Vincent considered this possibility with dismay. After another scrutiny he carefully folded the strip of cloth and stowed it in a pocket. He checked the clock. Time to go. Turning, he scooped the cloak that had come with the costume off the chair and flung it over his shoulders. He stopped to give Father a warm embrace.
"Be careful," Father told him, returning the hug. "Don't take any foolish chances." Any more foolish chances, his tone reproached.
"We will be careful," Vincent promised, knowing how Father fretted every time his son ventured Above. "Joe Maxwell's apartment building is barely a block from the access, Father. Surely we can walk one block in safety."
His guardian flattened his lips but remained silent. As he left the room, Vincent could feel the gray eyes following him, worried and fearful. He sighed, with sad resignation. The years had not changed that. In all probability Father never would truly accept his occasional trips uptop. Oh, intellectually he realized the necessity for them, understood Vincent's driving need to taste even a limited version of the freedom everyone else took for granted. But Father's fear and distrust of the senseless violence so prevalent in the upper world wouldn't allow him to relax whenever any of the Tunnel dwellers left the haven of their world, but especially not when it was his beloved adopted son.
"Wow!"
Vincent stopped. His head snapped around as a soft wolf whistle sounded off to his left. Jamie emerged from a side corridor, Samantha close behind her. "Vincent, you look fantastic! Really sexy!" Samantha's large brown eyes were round with admiration.
Jamie grinned, her eyes sweeping him from head to toe. "You sure do," she drawled, raising one eyebrow. "You'll have to beat the women off with a club. Catherine better stick close to you tonight!"
Vincent swept the girls an elaborate bow. "Thank you, ladies," he replied. Then seeing the sacks each one carried, he added, "Do you need help with those?"
Jamie shook her head. "Thanks, but they're not heavy. It's just some stuff for the party - extra decorations and things that we stored last year." She smiled. "I'm sorry you and Catherine won't be with us, but I'm sure you'll have a great time at Joe's party."
Samantha sighed. "I just wish we could see Catherine's costume; she always has such beautiful ones. Tell us what it's like, Vincent?" She looked hopefully at him.
"I'm sorry, Samantha," Vincent was forced to apologize. "Catherine is keeping it a secret even from me this year."
"Oh." The pert little face fell, mobile mouth grimacing slightly in resignation, then the teenager shrugged. "Oh well, you can describe it to me later, okay?" With a brief glance at Vincent for his agreement, Samantha stooped and picked up her sack. "See you later, Vincent. Have a good time!" Jamie grinned and echoed her words before following Samantha back toward the central hub.
Vincent continued on, thankful when he reached the entrance to Catherine's building to have encountered no one else along the way besides old Elizabeth. Her admiration, although obvious, was decorously restrained, in marked contrast to Jamie's and Samantha's embarrassing remarks earlier. He stood in the misty blue-white light at the foot of the iron ladder and listened intently to be sure no one was in the sub-basement. Reassured it was vacant, he ascended, carefully arranging the stacked cartons behind him to hide the entrance before opening the door to the parking garage. This too was comparatively empty of people, although a few cars were in various stages of arrival or departure. No one, however, seemed to take the slightest notice as he strode toward the stairwell door, preferring that method of access over venturing into the small, probably crowded elevator.
He saw no one during the long climb up to the seventeenth floor. Finally he stood before Catherine's door. He knocked softly. A second later he heard a flurry of movement from the other side. "Yes, who is it?" came Catherine's voice.
"It's me."
"Vincent?"
Vincent chuckled. She sounded so startled, as if having him show up outside the door was the last thing she'd expected - which it probably was, since his usual method of arrival was still via the balcony as it had always been. "Yes," he answered.
A moment of silence, followed by the sound of chains and locks being unfastened. "Wait a moment, please." He heard her footsteps retreating, then her voice from another room. "Okay, you can come in now."
He entered, closing the door behind him. A quick glance told him Catherine was in her bedroom; through the closed folding doors he could hear her and see her shadow moving around. As he turned to secure the locks she called out, "I'll just be a minute, Vincent. I'm sorry, it took longer than I thought it would to get ready. There's some wine on the table; would you mind filling my glass?"
Draping his cloak over the couch, Vincent poured them each a glass of the California chardonnay he found open in an ice-filled bucket on the dining table. As he replaced the cork in the bottle, he heard the bedroom doors open behind him. He picked up the wind glasses, holding them carefully, and turned around. His intended words of greeting froze on his lips.
Catherine's costume was indeed a match for his, from the graceful fall of heavy black silk to the silver highlights softly shimmering throughout. Her shining hair was swept back from her face, caught high at the sides by delicate silver-and-black combs before cascading in long golden-brown waves over her shoulders and down her back. Her face -
Vincent stared, and stared again. "What - ?" he managed to get out before his voice cracked. Clearing his throat and wetting his lips, he tried again. "How did you - who - ?" He ran out of words and simply stood speechless, as Catherine walked toward him. Taking the glasses out of his limp hands, she replaced them on the table then tilted her face upward.
"Do you like it?"
"I - Catherine - " Vincent shook his head helplessly. "Words fail me." He continued to study her, finally asked, simply, "Why?"
Her soft laughter rang out. Catherine drew him over to the nearby mirror. "So you won't stand out as much, my love. It was actually Joe's idea. He has a cousin who's a makeup artist and who's done a lot of theatrical and movie work. I described to Natalie what I wanted, she drew sketches until I was satisfied, she came here this afternoon and - voila!" Satisfaction sparkled green in her eyes; her lower lip stretched in a smile.
Their reflections stared back at them, twin images in the glass. Wispy eyebrows slanting upward, a shade darker than his own golden ones; the narrow muzzle more delicate and feminine-looking, ending in a cleft over her upper lip identical to his; and over it all, a fine, dusty coating of soft, honey-colored hair shading to dark amber under the cheekbones.
Catherine smiled again, more widely this time, and Vincent was jolted again to see sharp white fangs thus prominently displayed. He realized that accounted for the slight thickness he'd wondered at in her speech. Catherine waited silently.
"Amazing," he finally said. He shook his head, gazing closely at her in wonderment. "Truly amazing. How was it done?"
"Do you remember that video we watched a while back, about the making of Michael Jackson's 'Thriller'?" He nodded. She shrugged. "Basically, it was just like that. I met Natalie after work a few days ago and she did the mold; after that it was just a matter of deciding on colors for the skin tones and hair and then, today, gluing everything on and applying the makeup."
Vincent was still rapt in fascinated study of her face. "Incredible," he murmured. "It's absolutely flawless." He glanced down and took her hand in his, turning it from one side to the other. "Even your hands." Shaking his head again, he said, "This must have taken hours."
Catherine shrugged. "About three hours for the face and another hour for the hands. We skimped a little on them, as you can see."
Vincent nodded silently. He'd noticed that only a small area of her hands had hair on them; mainly the fingers and a small patch on the back that was noticeably smaller and less dense than the thick covering on his own hands.
Catherine endured his scrutiny for a few minutes more, than took Vincent's arm and led him back to the table. She handed him his glass. "Here. Let's drink this and go. We don't want to be late for our theatrical debut!"
Catherine took a gingerly sip of wine, relieved to find that only a small amount of care was needed on her part to avoid spillage. She had worried that the prosthetic makeup might inhibit her ability to eat and drink. Actually, she found, it was the fangs that proved the greater problem. She removed them, placed them on the table, and took another, bigger sip. Relaxing, she looked over at Vincent, amused by his uncharacteristic speechlessness.
Suddenly she frowned. "Where's your headband?"
Headband? Vincent stared blankly at her. With great effort he collected his thoughts. "Do you mean this?" From his pocket he pulled out the strip of cloth that had so puzzled him earlier.
"Yes, of course I mean that. Didn't you like the way it looked?"
He chuckled. "I don't know. We weren't certain what it was intended for, although Father did venture the suggestion that it might be for my hair."
Setting her glass down Catherine took the strip out of his hand. "Here." She pulled a chair out from the table. "Sit down and let's try it."
Vincent hesitated, then seated himself. "Do you truly want my hair tied back?" he couldn't resist asking, hoping his dismay wasn't too obvious. Catherine moved behind him, busy with the cloth.
"It's not to tie your hair with, Vincent," she said. "It's really just for appearance, to complete the look we're aiming for." Deftly she passed the ribbon across his forehead, tying it carefully and firmly in back. "There!" She stepped back, allowing the ends of dangle onto the luxurious fall of his mane, and checked the knot. "It isn't too tight, is it?"
Vincent moved his head from side to side. "No, it's not too tight, but it does feel . . . peculiar." Catherine came around to the front. "How does it look?"
Head to one side, Catherine considered him. Slowly she nodded. "I like it. What do you think?"
Vincent rose and went to the mirror. After a moment's study he concurred. "But I'm afraid it won't last throughout the evening, Catherine. Won't the knot loosen as the night wears on?"
"Probably." She shrugged. "Nothing says you have to wear it all night, you know. If it gets too loose or starts bothering you, take it off." She smiled up at him. "Shall we leave now?"
"Unless you prefer to be fashionably late," he said solemnly.
Chuckling, Catherine finished her wine. "I'll just get my cloak," she said, going into the bedroom. "Actually, we are going to be late. I guess I got the times mixed up. When Joe called this afternoon, I found out that the party started at seven."
She returned, a long swath of dark velvet over her arm. Vincent carefully lifted her hair up out of the way while she swung the cape around her shoulders. He assisted with the clasp, which she found difficult to manage with her long, false fingernails, then retrieved his own cloak from the couch. Shorter than the ankle-length garment he was accustomed to, the rich fabric fell in soft, flowing lines only to his knees, as did Catherine's. The lining of silver satin gleamed dully with each movement. Catherine replaced her fangs, gathered up a small velvet bag, and they left.
END OF PART ONE
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