Revelations, is an original story, inspired by the U.S. cult T.V. series BEAUTY AND THE BEAST and was first written in 1998 and published independently. I can confirm that I am the original author.

Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Ron Koslow, Witt-Thomas Productions, Republic Pictures, or CBS.

CHAPTER ONE.

FRIDAY 30TH DECEMBER, 1994 - NEW YORK CITY.

It wasn't too difficult to get a taxi back to the house, and Josephine let herself into the dark lobby with shaky fingers, then hurried across the hallway and up the stairs to the first floor, then up the stairs to the attic level, retrieving the key from the nail by the door, and unlocking the door with still trembling fingers.

Inside, she hesitated about switching on the single bare electric light bulb, then decided against it. He, Joseph, had already made it clear that he was uncomfortable about revealing his face to her, and she did not want to cause him any further discomfort or unease.

But, he would still need light to read by.

There were a couple of old hurricane lanterns, lying around, still filled with kerosene, and she had matches to light them with.

Josephine hurried to set these things on one side in readiness, then reached out for the pole with the ugly looking hook on the end that had scared her so when she was a small child, and maneuvered it to undo the rusted old latch on the skylight.

The small square of glass unlocked now, Josephine set about opening the boxes of treasures that her mother had left for her to keep safe for her brother, her heart beating rapidly in her breast, her fingers shaking, as she waited for him to arrive.

She had no idea how long it would take him to reach her home, but she wanted to be ready for him when he did arrive, give him no excuse to hightail it out of here leaving her high and dry, and wondering if she would ever see him again.

A sudden sharp tap on the skylight drew Josephine's attention, heralding as it did, her brother's arrival. She turned her gaze upward to find his large, dark clothed figure blocking out the stars, as he bent to open the skylight, and then gracefully lowered himself through the open window, dropping lightly to his feet just a few feet away from her.

"Hello Joseph. Welcome ...."

"Josephine ...."

"I know .... you have questions .... lots of questions .... me too .... but you first .... let's sit down ...."

She indicated to a space that she had cleared on the dusty wooden floor, close to the boxes and the hurricane lanterns.

"It's all right. They won't bite ...." She grinned, when he hesitated. "And nor will I ...." She added for good measure. "Please .... don't be afraid ...."

That's usually my line .... Vincent thought to himself with unusually wry humor, taking in a deep breath and expelling it slowly.

"I have gotten everything ready for you ...." She indicated to the tissue wrapped items strewn around the floor, and Vincent nodded gently. "Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee?" Josephine asked, knowing that she was babbling like a brook, but unable to stop herself.

She simply could not believe that he was really there. That her quest was really over.

It felt so strange.

Nothing like she had imagined.

It had a strange, unreal quality to it ....

He was so quiet.

So reticent.

So big.

Imposing.

He needed no words of intimidation. His just being there was intimidating enough.

"May I stay?" She heard herself asking in a soft voice, feeling like an intruder in her own home.

"It is your home ...." He mumbled awkwardly, his gaze traveling to the piles of old leather bound journals, then lifting to regard her, his face concealed by shadows, making it hard to read his expression. "I would not wish to drive you from it ...."

"It's your home too now ...." Josephine told him sincerely.

"Where should I begin?" He spoke absently, and for a moment, she wondered if he had heard her.

"Here, I guess ...."

Josephine moved slightly to her right, where she had laid the pile of journals earlier in the evening, before going to the park to meet with him.

They were in no particular order, but there was one missing. The one that she still had in her pocket.

The one she had come to think of as her trump card, as it was probably the most important one to him.

The one that told of his conception, her mother's captivity and escape.

And of course, his birth.

Vincent silently moved toward where she was pointing, and Josephine moved too, toward the hurricane lantern, digging in her pocket for matches.

"Allow me," Vincent offered in a low voice, and Josephine reached out to the large shape extended toward her, which she guessed was his hand, and dropped the book of matches into his open palm, watching, as with deft fingers, he opened the glass front of the hurricane lantern, struck the match, and touched it to the kerosene soaked wick.

Instantly, the attic was flooded with soft yellow light, and Josephine got her first real glance of her brother.

His large, fur covered, sharply clawed hands.

Her mouth dropped open in surprise, but to her credit, she made no sound of revulsion, forcing her jaw shut swiftly lest he should see her reaction and make a bolt for it.

A reaction was indeed what Vincent was waiting for, the usual strangulated gasp of surprise .... scream of horror .... And was pleasantly surprised when neither was forthcoming from his sister's lips.

Oh yes, he could sense that she, Josephine, had reacted in some way to his strangeness, but, it was to her credit that she had quashed it, intelligent enough to know that any outward show of revulsion or fear might cause him pain.

Might cause him to flee in to the night.

The first hurdle successfully negotiated, Vincent moved to an old footstool, and sat down carefully upon it, reaching out to pick up a journal, and opening the front cover, noted the flowery script on the fly cover, one word inscribed there, simply - Joseph.

Josephine watched as he opened the first journal and read the inscription on the inside front cover. She was curious to know which year he had picked up.

"They're not in any real order," she pointed out softly. "Maybe I should sort through them for you?" She offered.

"Do you keep a journal?" He asked in rich, deep, velvety tones, the question surprising Josephine.

"No. Do you?"

"Yes." He replied simply.

"I never really had the time. And I'm glad now, because it would not have been right, true. I know now that I had a very jaded, jaundiced and cynical view of the way my mother treated me. I never really knew her at all, until these past few days. Until I read her journals," Josephine explained softly, letting out a ragged sigh.

"Whatever I had written over the years would have been untrue. The jaundiced view of a child who felt unloved and unwanted ...."

This brought his head up sharply, and from the light cast by the hurricane lantern, Josephine was able to see tufts of deep red/gold hair poking out from beneath the large hood.

Her fingers itched to reach out and touch it, him, and she curled them in to tight fists, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palms, leaving tiny crescent shaped indentations there.

"Now I know my mother's side of the story, I can better understand her," she confessed sadly then. "I just wish she had told me all this when she was younger, when we could have shared this. When there was still a chance that it could have brought us closer," she sighed deeply.

"That is why I wanted you to come here, Joseph, to read her story, in her own words, so that you would understand why she did, what she did, and how it affected the rest of her life .... my father's life .... And mine ...."

Vincent carefully opened the journal and read the date inscribed at the top of the page.

January 1960.

Five years after his birth.

His eyes moved down to the neatly written text, and the first words made his heart constrict in his chest, as he closed his eyes tightly, for a heart beat, and dragged in a deep breath:

JANUARY 12 1960.

My beloved boy is five today. I wonder if he ever thinks of his mother .... as I think of him, often.

My beloved boy.

My .... beloved .... boy ....

The words reverberated around Vincent's mind as his heart lurched once again in his chest.

I have just discovered that I am to have another child, in the summer. July, Patrick O'Shea tells me and Edward is overjoyed.

Vincent read on, captivated by his mother's style of writing, and the power of her words.

Since I have learned that I am carrying this new life inside me, I have thought even more and more about him. My Joseph.

Is he happy?

How tall has he grown?

Does he .... hate me?

I hope not. For I only did what I thought was best.

Even now, today, I am unsure if I am capable of loving any other child, after having loved him for so long.

Is there room in my heart for another child?

I hope so.

After all, for a time, I thought that I would never be able to find room in my heart to love anyone ever again.

But somehow, my sweet Edward has inveigled his way into my heart, and I can not imagine my life without him.

But am I worthy of raising this child either?

No .... I must not think like that.

Edward is so delighted about this baby. I must not allow him to see my doubts .... My fears ....

I want this child. I really do .... But if loving it is going to be as heart breaking as loving my beloved boy has been ....

But .... I do want this child ....

As much for myself as for my darling Edward.

Not to replace my Joseph! No, not to replace him, but to prove to myself that I can love another child.

And because it is the one thing that Edward wants so much, the one good thing that I can do for him, to repay him for his kindness, generosity, compassion and patience.

Josephine watched in fascination, as he drew his knees up towards his chest, booted feet resting on the small front rail of the footstool, and balanced his elbows on his knees, his large, fur covered hands cradling the journal as he read each page swiftly, turning over to the next page without taking his eyes from the text.

She watched him for several minutes, convinced that he was unaware of her, and so, she quietly sat down on the floor a few feet away from him, adopting a cross-legged position, and pulled off her scarf, gloves and coat, settling down for what was obviously going to be a very long night.

After about half an hour, so engrossed was he in the scribblings on the page, Vincent forgot about his surroundings, the familiar golden glow of the hurricane lantern putting him at ease, as he allowed himself to become absorbed in the thoughts and feelings that his mother described so eloquently on the pages before him.

However, he was aware of his sister's silent scrutiny of him, sensing from her, curiosity, wonder and total acceptance of him.

Father was right, she was an incredible young woman. Sensitive and understanding.

And vulnerable and sad and lonely.

Even engrossed as he was in his mother's outpourings of love and regret, he could actually feel Josephine's emotions, in exactly the same way that he had been able to feel Catherine.

He knew her every thought and feeling, her fear that he would disappear into the night, disappear from her life before they had had a chance to get to know each other.

Her understanding of his reticence. His distrust ....

Wariness.

Her understanding that it would take some time for him to come to accept her. For him to be able to reach out to her ....

To trust her.

He also felt her need to reach out to him ....

To offer him love ....

And her regret that she had not known the child that he had been, and that he had not known her as a child.

There were also some very turbulent emotions surrounding her memories of her childhood .... of feeling outcast and exiled .... banished from her family home .... unwanted and unloved by the woman who had handed him over to a stranger .... and had never been able to move beyond that point in her life.

And there was something more ....

Something about her own life ....

A terrible lose.

A pain that went so deep that even she was afraid to revisit it, fearing that it would envelope her and drag her down.

Destroy her.

Vincent was amazed that he could get such a clear sense of her emotions.

The only other person he had been so strongly connected to had been Catherine.

And he had forgotten what it had felt like to be linked in such a way.

But then again ....

They were bound by blood.

Why then should he find it strange that he felt drawn to her, and could feel her emotions as if they were his own?

Could she feel him in the same way? He wondered silently as he flipped over another page and continued to read.

He was also beginning to get a sense of the kind of woman that his mother had been and he was surprised to find that she had not been hard or callous or cruel, simply frightened by her circumstances, and unable to accept that she could offer her child the kind of life that he deserved.

That she had loved him, he no longer doubted.

Was it a healthy kind of love? Or an obsession with something that she could neither have, nor understand, Vincent was not sure.

But .... Surely the most important thing was that she had loved him.

Had loved him until her dying breath.

And in doing so, had kept all the other people in her life at arm's length.

Surreptitiously, out of the corner of his eye, Vincent glanced over at his sister, Josephine.

She was regarding him with open curiosity and he could not help wondering why she did not hate him.

Or at the very least, resent his being alive.

For he sensed no malice or antipathy toward him from his sister.

In fact, her feelings of love and acceptance and friendship toward him were growing stronger by the minute.

Vincent could sense most clearly that her life had not been a bed of roses.

For all his aloneness, for all of his feelings of exile and separateness, Vincent had always known the blessing of love. Father had always seen to it that he had felt valued, cared for, safe and secure. Cherished.

All of his fundamental emotional needs had been given the highest priority, trying to fill the child with a warmth and self worth, as though that could, in some small way, make up for all the other things that would be denied him as he grew into manhood, allowing him to grow strong and confident without any resentment for the way that he had looked, his differences.

Allowing him to become a well balanced individual who knew his own worth.

This incredible young woman had felt none of those things from her birth mother, although, from reading between the lines of the journals, and from what little Josephine had said herself, Vincent guessed that her father, Edward Reeve, had also tried to make up for this lack of a mother's love in her life.

However, Vincent knew all too well what that felt like.

Mary and the other ladies Below had always tried to mother him, to show him love and affection and to try to drum so basic discipline into him, teaching him right from wrong with loving patience and offering him the comfort of their embrace when tears were close, amidst the heartache and tragedy that had seemed to dog him throughout his life.

But, it had not been quite the same as the love of the woman who had given birth to him.

Now, he understood.

Josephine too had been denied that kind of love.

How fortunate then, that both had had such caring, devoted and loving fathers ....

Anxious that she should catch him watching her, Vincent returned his gaze to the text on the page before him, and continued to read his mother's words. Her doubts and concerns about the child growing within her body, about whether she would be able to accept this child and love it as it deserved to be loved, as she had not been able to love her first born.

Her musings about her son and how he was fairing.

And as he continued to read, Vincent was getting a better sense of the woman who had given him life.

Josephine sat in a cross-legged position on the floor, watching her brother, amazed at the speed with which he read, his chunky, fur covered fingers, with those dark, sharp looking claws at their tips, swiftly turning the pages.

Sitting there, totally impassive.

She wondered what he was making of her mother's .... their mother's thoughts and feelings.

Were they affecting him as deeply as they had affected herself?

She wanted to tell him not to grieve for her, the child that she had been, lacking a mother's love, feeling unwanted and exiled.

It was not his fault.

And she did not blame him.

Truly she did not.

And in the end ....

The whole situation had made her a stronger person.

Josephine wanted to reach out and tell him that she could love him.

For she knew that to be the truth, on some level beyond thought, beyond reason ....

That that was really all that she wanted ....

To love him. As the brother that she had always longed for.

And to know his love in return.

Was that really so much to ask?

Was that really so much to hope for?

Right now .... perhaps.

But they had time.

They had all the time in the world to get to know each other, to learn about each other and the people that they had become.

But ....

Perhaps the most that she could hope for from this first meeting, was that he would understand that she did not hate him, that she did not fear him either. That she wanted to reach out to him. To love him. To instill in him the belief that he could trust her, with his very life if necessary, and that she would accept his presence in her life, in any form that he chose, just so long as he did not disappear again without trace.

It did not take him long to finish the first journal, and he absently reached out for another, making no comment as he flicked through the pages, and Josephine was once again curious to know which journal he had picked up this time, and what he was making of all of this.

She inched a little closer to him carefully, but he noticed the small movement immediately, his head snapping up, and the soft light from the nearby hurricane lantern made his eyes glitter like jewels, although, still deep in shadow inside that loose, capacious hood, Josephine could not discern what color they were.

However, she could tell that there was nothing animal .... feline .... about them.

Silently, Josephine cursed herself for being a fool, for trying to rush things.

It was far too soon for him to trust her enough to reveal himself to her.

But ....

She was getting tantalizing glimpses .... of his hands .... the clothes that he was wearing beneath that much mended homespun cloak of patchwork that covered him from head to foot.

He was wearing dark corduroy breeches, probably a chocolate brown, and soft leather boots that had not been very well cobbled together, although the soles seemed sturdy enough.

Where his cloak parted a little around his waist, Josephine could see a large silver belt buckle, attached to a wide black leather belt, and there was just a hint of a loose fitting, snowy white shirt above it.

Of his face, Josephine could still make out no details at all.

But his voice ....

That wonderful voice ....

She would never forget it, even if she never heard it again after this night.

Honey, velvet and gravel exquisitely combined.

By the time he had reached the fourth volume, Josephine could barely keep her eyes open, but she fought valiantly against the needs of her body for sleep.

Sleep?

How could she possible sleep at a time like this?

The quietness of the attic and the soft light of the hurricane lantern had a soothing, hypnotic affect.

Maybe if she pretended to be asleep, he would lower his guard, just a little, relax enough to reveal a little more of him self to her.

Meaning only to rest her weary bones, Josephine flattened out her coat a little more, on the hard wooden floor, and lay down, pulling the heavy woolen material about her more closely.

Vincent, engrossed in yet another of Andrea Reeve's journals, chose to ignore the movement that he caught out of the corner of his eye.

He could sense Josephine's weariness, and also her frustration that he was showing no reaction to his mother's words.

She needed sleep, but was fighting against it, her need to see him, look upon him, reach out to him and show him her unquestioning and unconditional acceptance of him so overwhelming, that she could think of nothing else.

Except her fear that if she slept, when next she awoke, it would be to find him gone. Forever.

Vincent lifted his gaze from the text, and turned his head slightly to look more closely at his sister, still astounded that she had no fear whatsoever of him, that she trusted him so deeply that she could even contemplate sleeping with him so close by.

"Josephine ...."

"Mm?" She responded absently.

"Sleep …." He encouraged softly.

"Oh no. I'm all right," she tried to assure, but spoiled the effect by yawning softly.

"You are tired ...."

"Yes .... I am .... but ...."

"Rest, little sister. I have much here to keep me occupied and I will not leave without saying goodbye," Vincent assured in soft, velvet tones.

"Promise?" She said in a small, childlike voice.

"I promise," Vincent pledge solemnly in return.

"Well .... okay ...." Josephine acquiesced softly, snuggling up in her coat, the simple gesture reminding Vincent of young Jacob, and the way he snuggled up to his pillows when sleep was close, and showing Vincent just how trusting she was of him.

She truly was not afraid of him.

She truly had accepted him, and his differences, sight unseen.

Because he was her brother.

It was as simple as that.

As Josephine settled into a light slumber, Vincent settled back into his reading, still more of his mother's thoughts, fears and feelings inscribed in fading ink on the pages before him.

By now, he had read Andrea Reeve's account of Josephine's birth, without complication, on July 30th 1960, and how she had welcomed the child, a beautiful girl child, with her father's dark hair and complexion.

But how quickly her fears had set in.

Fears that if she gave her heart to this child she would lose her, just as she had lost her beloved son.

During this time, Andrea was consumed with thoughts of her son, what he was doing, how he was getting on in the world, never for one moment, Vincent realized with heart stopping clarity, doubting that he had survived infancy.

In fact, at one point, Andrea Reeve had committed to the page, her sincere belief that he was alive, that she could feel that he was alive, and growing stronger with the passing of every day.

And although he continued to read meticulously, Vincent was a little disappointed to discover that there was no actual detail, no reference to his conception and subsequent birth.

He began to wonder if his sister had misled him in getting him here.

Or, had Andrea simply found the whole thing just too traumatic to write about, even five years on?

The night was almost gone, Orion having reached well past it's zenith in the inky sky above the small square skylight, as Vincent set aside the last volume.

He had learned much.

Yes.

He had learned all of his mother's thoughts and fears.

And he had learned that his sister had also endured much pain and heartache and tragedy in her young life.

Something else that they had in common.

The loss of a husband that she had loved deeply.

And the loss of a child, much longed for and much cherished.

He thanked providence that he had been spared that particular pain, although, for a time, it had seemed that he would never get baby Jacob back from Gabriel's clutches.

Young Jacob was the greatest treasure in his life, growing stronger and healthier every day.

If anything should ever happen to the boy ....

The thought was far too painful, and Vincent closed his eyes against the horrors conjured up in his mind.

Nothing was going to happen to Jacob. Vincent would give his own life first.

He set aside the journal and turned his head slightly to look at the pretty young woman sleeping just a few feet away from him.

Yes ....

She had endured much, and had become a stronger person because of it.

But ....

It would, he knew, have been better not to have had to endure at all.

And yes ....They had much in common.

They had both lost so much ....

He, his beloved Catherine, she, her Jeff, the only person in her life, other than her father, from whom she had really known love, and Amy, a beautiful daughter, much longed for, deeply loved, and whom she would now never see grow to adulthood.

Although Catherine was not truly lost, not yet. He could still see her, touch her, be close to her ....

He could still cling to the slimmest of hopes that one day, one glorious day, those beautiful grey/green eyes would open and settle on his face, shining with all of Catherine's love for him, those sweet lips would curve into a smile of genuine love and pleasure and utter his name as only she could ....

But ....

Josephine's loved ones were truly beyond her reach .... gone .... forever ....

He was the only soul that she was bound to now on this earthly plain.

No wonder she wanted to reach out to him.

But ....

It was not solely through loneliness.

It was simply because he was her brother.

That they were bound by blood and genes, even if his were a little tainted.

That truly did not matter to Josephine.

Such total acceptance he had never known before, and Vincent's heart rejoiced as he continued to watch Josephine as she slept, her expression soft and her cheeks softly flushed, the occasional little sigh coming from her slightly parted lips ....

And yet ....

Having taken this voyage of discovery through his mother's memories and her life, Vincent felt that there was something missing.

Andrea had held nothing back, her anger and hatred and venom toward herself in the beginning .... her love .... of him .... how she had felt it necessary to keep the daughter that she had loved, just as fiercely, at arm's length ....

Every detail of all their lives for the past forty years ....

So, then ....

Why was there no account of how he had come into the world ....

As Josephine had led him to believe there was.

He felt sure that Andrea would have wanted him to know that too.

And he also felt sure that there was a volume of the journals missing.

Vincent carefully hunted through each of the journals that he had read, once more, finding volumes dating back from 1956 through to 1994, but the journal for 1955, the year of his birth, seemed conspicuous by its absence.

In reaching out to replace the last journal amongst the others, Vincent made contact with a heavy brass bedstead, which made a loud scraping noise, which startled Josephine into wakefulness.

She sat bolt upright, blinking rapidly in confusion, then rubbing her eyes, she once again became accustomed to the soft golden light.

"Do not fear ...." Vincent broke the silence in soft, husky, reassuring tones.

"Joseph?"

"I did not mean to wake you ...."

"No ... I'm glad that you did. I didn't mean to drift off like that. Have I been asleep long?"

"An hour or two ...."

"Good heavens! I'm sorry. what must you think of me ...."

"Josephine ...." He cut her off, but not abruptly, and she smiled softly, liking the sound of her name on his lips.

She looked at him then, still seated on the footstool, shrouded in shadow and half light, and there was something else in his voice, something so vulnerable.

"Yes, Joseph?"

"I .... I ...." He faltered briefly. "I do not seem able to find a journal for the year 1955 .... the year of my birth .... nothing that I have read so far .... describes .... how .... I came .... to be ...."

"Ah ...." Josephine expelled the word on a deep sigh, carefully crossing her legs as she remained seated on her coat.

"Josephine?" Vincent could sense her turbulent emotions, fear amongst them, but not fear of him.

Fear for him.

Fear that he would not like what he discovered about his origins.

"I have something of a confession to make," Josephine spoke softly, carefully avoiding looking in his direction now. "There is a journal for that year. It is right here, in my pocket, you see, I was going to give it to you at the lagoon, earlier, but then I got cold feet, changed my mind. I guess I didn't want you to go off and read it on your own. It's too .... painful .... sensitive ...." She explained hurriedly. "Either you should stay here and read it with me, or take it home with you, and read it with .... your family ...."

"Josephine ...."

"Look .... I know that you want answers, that you came here looking for the truth, but I didn't want that to be the first thing that you read. I didn't want that to be the end of it .... us .... and I guess I knew that it would be. I wasn't trying to hide the truth from you. I just wanted a fair chance to present all the facts to you ...."

"You wanted to protect me?"

"No .... Not protect you, just allow you to discover Andrea through her journals, to let you see what this did to her .... me .... my father .... to help you to understand, so that when you eventually discovered how this all started, how you came to be, you would be able to see past the .... past the pain of it all, and know the woman who was your mother ...."

"Josephine, I know who I am and what I am, but the truth of how such as I came into the world has haunted me these past forty years. You told me that you could provide me with answers, but, in doing so, you fear the consequences ...." Vincent let out a long, ragged sigh.

"Joseph ...."

"Josephine, whatever is contained within the pages of that journal, it is my heritage. For forty years I have dreamed .... pretended .... imagined .... Now, all I want is the truth. Whatever that may be. I am strong enough to take it ...." He assured resolutely. "Please .... allow me to complete the journey. It is, after all, what our mother wanted," he concluded.

"Okay ...." Josephine acquiesced, knowing that he was right.

She rose to her knees somewhat stiffly then, and lifted her coat, digging in the pocket for the journal and then, with visibly trembling fingers, she held it out to her brother.

"You said that I should not read this alone ...." She could hear the question in his voice now, and smiled softly.

"I'm not going anywhere, Joseph .... ever ...." She assured softly now. "I will always be there for you .... please, know that .... believe that .... whenever you need me .... no matter what .... I will be there for you ...."

"And this is one of those occasions?"

"I think so. Trust me ...."

"Very well."

Vincent took the thick dark blue leather bound journal from Josephine's trembling fingers, and waited while she made herself comfortable once more on her coat, once again adopting the cross-legged position that she obviously felt most comfortable in, remaining just outside the pool of soft, golden light given off by the hurricane lantern, and watched as her brother opened the journal at last, and began to read.

It was not long before she began to sense the build up of tension inside him.

He sat up, rigid and straight on the footstool, his back ramrod straight, a tense set to his broad shoulders, as he continued to read, these things translating themselves to Josephine as tension and a slowly building rage that she found somewhat confusing, but no less real.

As he continued to read, Josephine was startled to hear from his lips, a soft snarl, and then another, and then another, each slightly louder than the preceding one.

"Joseph? Are you all right?" She enquired with genuine concern.

Vincent suddenly let forth a might roar, and despite the fact that Josephine was completely aware of just how different her brother was, she could not help but feel startled by the sound that came from his lips .... the animal quality of it ....

"Joseph ...."

She spoke his name, her tone edged with confusion and concern, as Vincent rose sharply to his full impressive height of well over six feet, or so Josephine estimated, and began to pace jerkily back and forth across the small space that she had cleared for their use earlier in the evening.

His cloak was swirling about his booted ankles, a fine red mist creeping across his vision from the corners of his eyes, his blood pounding through his veins as he felt the old familiar surge of rage course through him.

"Joseph ...."

Vincent made no response, save for peeling back his top lip in another snarl, tossing his head, trying to rid his mind of Paracelsus' menacing face and taunting voice.

He was far too angry to care about what the young woman would think of this display.

Far too disgusted and sickened by what he had read.

That man ....

Paracelsus ....

How right Narcissa had been to call him the evil one ....

In his twisted mind.

Paracelsus had not been lying.

He really had considered himself to be Vincent's father.

For he had surely sewn the seed that had resulted in his creation.

Kidnapping an innocent young woman, naive and vulnerable and trusting .... obviously distraught and disorientated .... incarcerating her .... Below .... impregnating her with semen that he had obviously tampered with .... genetically altered .... for his own sick reasons .... and keeping her captive, bound and gagged, in a darkened room for month after month .... until the child could be born ....

And all in the name of experimentation .... using Andrea as a guinea pig, before trying the same procedure on his devoted, loyal, loving wife, Anna, so that she might bare the child that she so longed for, and he could glory in the power of life .... and death ....

That evil .... wicked .... vile .... insane man ....

He had not been lying on that night six years ago.

For in his mind, having been the one to impregnate Vincent's mother, he saw himself as the babe's creator. Father.

In his twisted mind, he had seen Vincent as his son, his heir and having to watch from a distance, all those years, as his most hated enemy, most bitter rival, Jacob Wells, had taken the child under his wing and raised him, as his own, forced to watch and wait and bide his time, something had snapped inside Paracelsus. The last vestiges of goodness, if indeed, there had ever been any, had died, leaving behind the insane monster, who had wanted his revenge, at any cost and saw Vincent as a means to that end.

The anger that was building up inside of Vincent had a life of it's own, as he paced back and forth across the attic, narrowly avoiding crashing heedlessly into furniture, sculptures and old chests, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.

No ....

Not now ....

Not here ....

It cannot begin again .... not here ....

But ....

It was beginning again, and he was losing his tenuous grasp on reality, and his precious control.

The pressure was building up, becoming unbearable, but Vincent still had enough awareness to know that he could not give vent to this, darker side to his nature here.

Not in front of Josephine ....

He could not allow the beast to be released here, in his sister's home.

Not in the place where his mother had lived, putting together the shards of her shattered life, dreaming her dreams, wishing her wishes, hoping that her son had found the kind of life that she had wished for him.

If only she had known how close her tormentor had come to destroying her son.

Thank God she would never know that, never know that she had entrusted her child to the one person who could return him to his creator.

Fortunately, Anna Pater had had a quick mind, grasping the situation and it's implications quickly, and she had had the good sense to go to Jacob Wells with the child.

And the rest was history.

She must have worked out what her beloved John had been doing .... Had seen with her own eyes, the results of that experimentation.

And yet, she too had seen only the beauty and the strength of the child, knowing that as easily as he had created this wondrous being, so could John Pater destroy it.

And the punishment for her treachery had been .... a poisoned chalice .... wine from the hand of the man that she had loved .... tainted, no doubt with some other odious, noxious concoction distilled for his own lurid purposes. No quick, painless death for the woman who had betrayed his trust.

No ....

For her, slow agony, as the poison had worked it's way outward, around her body, destroying her cell by cell, nerve ending by nerve ending, until she had finally suffocated.

And all the time, He had been watching, waiting, reveling in her pain and anguish.

To protect the child, and Jacob Wells, Anna had concocted the story of finding him outside St Vincent's hospital, knowing that John Pater would never admit to such wickedness that had given the child life, at least, not straight away.

And once Jacob Wells had committed himself to the babe, given his heart to the extraordinary child, Anna had known that his future would be a safe one.

You are .... my son ...

Paracelsus evil voice reverberated in Vincent's mind once again.

No ....

Not again ....

Not now ....

I must hold on ....

I must .... hold .... on ....

"Joseph?"

Josephine Grayson's soft voice suddenly penetrated his thoughts, and Vincent stopped dead in his tracks.

"Joseph, are you all right?" Josephine asked in genuine concern, taking in his wild, frantic eyes and rapid breathing. She had risen swiftly to her feet and was about to move toward him.

"No!" Vincent hissed through clenched teeth. "Stay where you are! Please ...." He insisted.

He barely had control of himself, and was terrified about what might happen if she came too close.

Catherine had been the only one who could get through to him when he was in this terrible rage, when he was this close to losing control.

Josephine was extremely puzzled by his strange reaction.

Over reaction.

His anger was almost a tangible thing, palpable, crackling the air around them, and there was a frenzied quality to those darkly shadowed eyes.

"Joseph .... I know that it's hard .... unsavory .... unpleasant .... but you did want to know the truth .... didn't you?"

"The truth?" He spat the words venomously. "Oh yes .... now I know the truth ...."

This time he snarled and in the glow of the hurricane lantern, Josephine could see four very thick, long, sharply pointed fangs .... two at the bottom of his mouth and two at the bottom, where his incisor teeth should have been, as well as twin rows of very white teeth glistening in his mouth.

He was breathing so hard that she feared that he might begin hyperventilating, fighting for control as he struggled with some inner demon.

Josephine could also sense the tension in every muscle in his body.

He was wound up tightly like a spring. Like a ticking bomb waiting to go off.

"Joseph .... I don't understand ...." Josephine took a step forward, afraid, but not for her self, fearful that he was on the verge of a coronary, or some other form of physical collapse.

Vincent instinctively took a step backward, away from her.

Josephine took another step forward, arms outstretched toward him, as he continued to back away from her.

"Joseph .... please ...." She implored softly.

"This man .... you know as John Pater .... this man was closer to me than either of us realized .... all my life .... near .... watching .... waiting .... biding his time .... plotting and planning my downfall .... as an enemy .... and a threat to all that I hold dear ...." Vincent choked out, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.

"Joseph?" Josephine frowned deeply.

"This man .... tormented me .... threatened those closest to me .... until I had no other choice than .... to kill him ...."

"Then you did us both a favor," Josephine sighed deeply. "And you avenged Andrea ...."

Josephine was surprised by her reaction to this piece of information. Complete indifference.

In her mind, the man Pater was a monster, and he deserved what he had got, and now was not the time to dwell on the possibility that her brother was capable of murder.

To protect those he loved?

Self defense?

Or in defense of his home and those people most precious to him?

In circumstances like that, everyone had the capability for murder.

Even she did.

She had been forced to acknowledge that revelation a long time ago, when Amy and Jeff had died, and she had wanted her revenge on the man responsible, who had been freed from the wreckage of the gas tanker, but who had later died in hospital.

"Murder is something that we are all capable of Joseph, if provoked enough. I've seen the end results of enough crimes of passion, and have felt moved enough myself ...." She confided softly.

However, her words did not seem to be affording him any comfort as he continued to back away from her outstretched hand.

"Joseph .... please .... let me help you ...."

"Help me? You cannot help me! There is no help for one such as I ...." He snorted, tossing his head so violently that the hood of his cloak slipped back, revealing him in all his glory to his sister's hungry eyes.

"That's not true ...." Josephine gaped at him in awed astonishment, taking in the leonine features, the big, wild, all too human eyes that were as deep as the clearest, cloudless vast blue sky that she had ever seen, the cleft lip, the ginger down and whisker covered planes of his cheeks and long, square jaw, and that hair .... that glorious riot of red/gold hair that fell in a silken curtain about his shoulders ....

Lord .... but he was beautiful!

He truly was.

And now, Josephine truly understood what Andrea had seen in the infant boy's face all those years ago.

Beauty.

Hope.

Greatness.

"You are my brother ...." She said absently. "My brother ...."

"I am nothing ...." Vincent spat at her, unaware that she could see all that he was, aware only of the love radiating from her. "And you must forget that I even exist ...."

"But I don't want to forget. I can't ...."

"You must!"

"Why dammit? Because you say so?" She demanded, a certain defiance in her voice now, which took Vincent aback. Only Father and Catherine had ever faced up to him in this kind of wrath, with the courage to challenge him, reason with him, and they had both done so out of love.

"Look at you," Josephine took another step closer, and this time, Vincent had nowhere to go, as he was backed up against an old ottoman.

Feeling trapped, he tossed his head quickly from side to side, eyes frantically seeking an escape route, and it was only when his hair whipped across his face and clung to his coarse cheek, that Vincent realized that he was no longer protected from her view by the hood, and that instead of gasping in horror, or fleeing into the night, giving vent to full throated screams of revulsion and terror, Josephine was gazing upon his unique countenance with an air of perfect calm and serenity, smiling softly ....

And he could feel her love for him.

He could feel her acceptance of him.

Her joy. Her pleasure.

And it almost took his breath away.

She was not repulsed by his appearance.

She did not feel revulsion in the face of his otherness ....

On the contrary ....

Instead ....

She thought that he was beautiful.

And she truly did understand .... everything .... completely ....

There was no need for words.

Any words at all would have been inadequate to describe the love that she felt for him .... and the need that she felt to reach out to him, to help him.

Vincent stared at Josephine in total astonishment, feeling his anger rising and falling with every beat of his heart, like a relentless incoming tide, crashing against the shore, only to recede a little way, then coming crashing in once more.

"Yes .... look at me ...." He panted raggedly. "Let me tell you what you see ...." He sneered.

"I see beauty, Joseph. You truly are beautiful. It radiates from within you. Strength and goodness and hope ...." She spoke in a very low voice, filled with wonder and love. "Now I understand what Mother saw in you. Why she knew that you were destined for other .... greater .... things .... Please .... let me help you ...."

Josephine quickly closed the gap between them, and Vincent, rooted to the spot, unable to move, was astounded and amazed by her reaction.

He could feel no fear in her, no distrust, and no hint of malice or cruelty.

Instead ....

He could feel love.

Pure and beautiful, and unconditional.

He could feel her joy radiating through him, washing over him like warm water, seeping into his bones to drive away the chill that was years of fear and distrust of strangers and futile rage that he had been born so completely different.

As she drew closer, Josephine could see that he was shaking, could see the sparks of anger in those beautiful cobalt blue eyes, but she knew implicitly that he was neither afraid of her, nor angry with her.

"My beautiful brother ...." She breathed, as she reached up slowly and twined her arms gently around his neck and waist and drew him closer to her.

He did not fight her, but his whole body was rigid and trembling, as though he were fighting to maintain control.

And she knew that he was fighting not to give into some terrible impulse.

His darker nature.

"Joseph, you have every right to be angry. The man was .... an utter bastard .... cruel, wicked .... insane .... but you must not let his legacy destroy you. You are Andrea's legacy too, and all that is good and beautiful in you, you inherited from her ...." Josephine soothed, gently stroking his lustrous mane of red/gold hair in a reassuring rhythm.

He made a very strange, strangulated sound, something between a groan and a snarl, and Josephine wrapped her arms around him more tightly, squeezing him against her warm body, feeling his rage crash through her.

And then ....

Just as suddenly ....

She felt him let out a deep, shuddering breath, and his body relaxed in her arms, as his head fell forward to rest gently against her shoulder.

His anger, which had been building into a crescendo had suddenly evaporated, and in the same instant, Vincent felt a great jolt, like electricity, course through his entire body, as her warmth and her love flowed through him, illuminating all the dark places in his soul, filling them with light and love and tranquility, as though something that had always been missing deep inside him had finally come home.

Vincent's spirit began to soar.

Rocked to his very core, he felt all his anger, bitterness, resentfulness and tension drain away from him, leaving him feeling light headed and elated, as he staggered forward.

And Josephine absorbed his weight, cushioning his fall, enveloping him in her arms and cradling his still trembling body as he leaned heavily against her.

"It's all right, Joseph. I am here now. I am here. I love you, and nothing will ever separate us again. I promise. You are a part of me now, and I am a part of you ..." Josephine crooned lovingly, and just for an instant, she felt it too.

Could feel his relief and his wonder.

Could feel his very heart, beating in time with her own.

"We are one .... meant to be .... together at last .... Do you feel it?"

"Yes ..." Vincent replied in a low, gravel voice, his eyes bright with unshed tears of love and relief.

He could offer no explanation for this sudden turn in events.

Nor did he want one.

He only knew that he was free.

It was as if the heavy weight, the burden that he had carried with him all of his life, the burden of being who and what he was, two tortured souls occupying the same space, body, so different, so diverse, one pure and good, the other dark and untamable. So completely at odds with each other. That terrible burden, that interminable struggle, had suddenly been lifted, and he felt lighter, free, his soul knew no bounds, no limitations ....

Never again to feel the despair of having to fight for control over his wild, animal nature.

For miraculously, it no longer existed.

He truly was free.

And his sister truly was a special woman.

His sister.

And just for an instant, she was sharing this Bond with equal strength, depth, knowing him, all that he was, all that he knew, as if she were the link that had been missing, the only thing that could make him whole.

And he knew that things would never be quite the same again.

Josephine felt the jolt surge through her own body at almost the same time, but she was able to absorb its impact, concentrating on cushioning the blow to her brother with a strong, loving embrace.

An empath?

He is an empath? She thought in wonder.

It felt so good to have her arms wrapped around his sturdy body.

And to be the one offering reassurance and giving comfort, instead of being the one seeking those things.

It felt so good.

She was home.

Whole at last.

Complete and at peace.

And so was he.

She knew it as surely as she knew that the sun would rise on the morrow, and set again, perpetually and for all eternity.

Wanting to look at him once more, needing to commit that beauty and goodness to memory, Josephine reluctantly took a small step backward, and noted with satisfaction the look of intense disappointment in his beautiful expressive blue eyes.

Smiling softly, she reached up with her right hand and delicately caressed his chin, before cupping his cheek with her warm hand, savoring the contrasting textures of his prickly, rough whiskered chin, and the velvety smooth softness of his down covered cheek.

Josephine slowly reached up with the other hand, and caressed his other cheek, paying it similar homage, then slowly rising up on tip toe, to press soft, warm lips to each cheek, before finally touching them to the sensitive area of his cleft top lip.

"Our souls are as one, Joseph ...."

"Vincent ...." He corrected in a low, gruff voice, edged with barely suppressed emotion.

"Vincent ...." She drew away slightly, a soft smile curving at her lips. "Vincent! Of course! St Vincent's, I should have guessed. Vincent ...." She savored the sound of it on her lips, before once again pressing them to his.

Vincent watched her in wonder as she drew closer once more.

How could he be so blessed?

To have this woman as his sister.

And yet.

He had almost let this glorious moment pass him by.

The immensity of what had passed between them was not lost on Vincent.

For an instant, she had shared both mind and body with him, as he had with her and now there was no going back.

It was different to the Bond that he had shared with Catherine.

Deeper.

Healing.

And, in other ways too.

No urgency. No fear. No sense of peril. No constant threat.

Just peace.

And love.

All healing. All powerful. Unconditional.

Love.

He did not know how it could be.

It was just another of those differences that set him aside from other beings.

And if they never shared such an intense moment on oneness again, at least they had had this moment.

His heart was beating an erratic tattoo in his chest and his lungs were burning with the need to breathe deeply.

But Vincent could not move.

It was as though he no longer had a will of his own.

And then, Josephine drew away, removing her tender, sweet lips from his own, hideously deformed ones, and the spell, or whatever it was, was finally broken.

Vincent blinked rapidly once or twice and drew in deep, ragged breaths until his blood stopped pounding in his ears and his heart beat more regularly.

He quickly noted that Josephine was equally stunned by what had just passed between then, tears rolling down her pale cheeks.

Tears of love which he could feel radiating out toward him, warming him, giving him peace.

Tears which melted away when she smiled at him, and reached out to take one of his large, fur covered hands in her own, mindless of the sharp claws, as she gently stroked her thumb across the sensitive skin of his palm and coaxed him back across the room to the footstool and the hurricane lantern.

They sat down on the floor opposite each other, and just stared at each other for several minutes, as they tried to put some meaning into what had just happened.

But ....

Neither could ....

And each sensed the moment when the other simply accepted that it simply had happened.

"Tell me about yourself, Vincent," Josephine invited in soft tones, some time later. She could no longer feel him so strongly inside her mind, but hints of him, his thoughts and his feelings, still lingered, leaving behind an essence of who and what he was.

Slowly becoming aware of his surroundings once more, Vincent also became aware that time had defeated both of them, the night almost over. In no time at all, it would be light and he would no longer be safe, in this, her world.

"Vincent?" Josephine followed his gaze upward to the skylight, where the inky darkness of the night had already mellowed to the deep blue of pre dawn.

"I .... have to go .... For me .... there is great danger in daylight ...." Vincent spoke as if in a dream, not wanting to leave, but knowing that he must.

"You know that I don't want you to go, Vincent, that you would be safe, here, with me ...." Josephine said softly, and Vincent could hear the disappointment in her voice now, that beautifully modulated voice with more than just a hint of an English accent.

And he could feel her disappointment too, and her lingering fear, that she would never see him again after this night.

"I know it .... I too would like to stay .... but ...." He confessed softly. "I cannot ...."

"Your family would be worried ...."

"Yes," He smiled softly, pleased by her intuitiveness.

"But .... I will .... see you .... again?"

"Yes," he assured, rising then, slowly, to his full impressive height of well over six feet, and this time, he opened his arms to her.

Josephine came into the circle of his embrace willingly, and snuggled up against him with a contented little sigh.

"Be well, my sister ...." Vincent tentatively reached up to the back of her head and gently stroked her soft, dark hair.

"You too, my brother," Josephine echoed softly. "Don't stay away too long. We still have much to say to each other ...."

"We will see each other soon .... but .... for now .... I must go ...."

Vincent drew away from her slowly, loathing to break their connection, but knowing that he must.

"I will be in touch ...." He vowed, taking a step back from her.

"I'm not going anywhere .... now that I have found you ...."

Josephine suddenly bent down and retrieved the journal that had fallen from his lap when he had begun pacing, reaching out to press it into his hand.

"Take this. It will help you to explain to your family ...."

"Thank you ...."

Josephine watched then as he moved the ottoman with ease, until it was directly under the skylight, and then climbed up on top of it, easing the small square of glass open once more. He reached up to test if he could pull himself up and through, his powerful arms and upper body making egress easy for him, as he quickly disappeared from her view, and when she thought that he had gone, Josephine felt her heart skip a beat.

And then he was leaning back in through the open skylight, hood drawn back up over his head, and she smiled up at him.

"God speed, Vincent ...."

"Be well Josephine. Until we meet again ...."

And then he really was gone, and Josephine sank down on to the footstool, her heart light, her lips curved into a soft, warm smile full of love as tears of pure elation rolled unchecked down her cheeks.

At last .... I am whole ....

At last ....

I am free ....

At last ....

We are one .... never to be alone again ....

I am truly blessed ....

Blessed ....

To have one so unique and thoroughly beautiful as my brother ....

Vincent ....

Mother ....

You were right.

You were right ....

He is beautiful ...

Unique ....

And now that I have found him ....

Life will never be the same ....

Thank you Mother ....

Thank you ….