by Diane Nelson
THE SHADES OF TIME
By
Diane Nelson
Copyright ©2013 by Diane Nelson
First electronic edition published by Smashwords
Published in the United States of America with international distribution.
Cover Design by Sessha Batto
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION:
To Denysé Bridger
For inspiring this tale
The Shades Of Time
Three brothers from the fabled Medici family.
Two operatives from the future with conflicting agendas.
1515 Venice. Politics, greed and war with a side of religious fervor.
An epic journey through the tangled morass of one world gone mad,
the other on the brink of another apocalypse.
One woman, four men.
Hearts beating separately.
Hearts beating as one.
All cloaked in the shades of time.
Chapter One
Veluria followed the echoes of water slapping ancient pilings. The cobblestoned passage lay cast in shadows, dank and spiritless, yawning ahead with a dim pinpoint of light to guide her path. She wished she could have ignored the message but her instincts—and traitorous sentimentality—refused to acknowledge the danger. Had Stefano indeed summoned her? And for what purpose? It seemed out of character, this young man hardly adept at the subterfuge that came so easily to others of his family, the Medicis. The name, whispered down long corridors, brought chills and loathing, intermixed with respect and awe. A heady concoction. One she found exhilarating, and all too enticing.
"Before the game is afoot, thou still let'st slip," she whispered into the dank enclosure. Frowning, she mentally cautioned herself against dipping into arcane pockets of knowledge, though no one of this time would know the quote or its source. Or rather … they shouldn't. And that bothered her, sending icy prickles cascading over her skin in stark contrast to the cloying warmth and humidity trapped in the passageway.
She moved with stealth bought at a price, her senses on high alert, attuned to whispers and soft shushings. Scent and sound engulfed her as she floated toward the distant opening, her skirts fanned out about her slight figure, the rustling of heavy silk lost to the thrumming in her ears.
Pausing, she closed her eyes, extending her senses in search of a presence—felt, not seen—as the mists from the canal seeped through the underground corridor. A cool breeze drifted past, a wraith, a hint of something. Or someone.
Stefano? She whispered in her mind, a question. She didn't like questions, not when her senses should have locked onto his presence. She fingered the velum and the masculine scrawl that hinted at a mysterious tryst, one that made little sense. For nearly a month she'd been carefully building rapport and currying confidences, using her relationship with Stefano to open doors, building on the young man's standing at court. This summons had the ring of ominous despite the pretty phrases and sentiment.
Carissima Veluria,
Mio fiore più preziosa… Cuore del mio cuore...
È urgente incontriamo segretamente…
Unfortunately, with Stefano, everything was 'urgent', including his ardeur, so much so that her not inconsiderable skills struggled to keep up. The small entertainments, as her mentor had so coyly referred to the terse instructions issued for the execution of her mission, had surprised and delighted her. She could get used to being someone's 'precious flower'. But not at the cost of losing perspective. Far too easy to do when a naïve young courtier seduced so prettily.
This time … this place: Venice. The name itself reeked of the seductive, amongst other things. Stefano, of all the Medici brood, was the adept, the one who navigated the tricky passions so unique to the halls of power in the city. Papàl, civil … the handsome boy-man managed indulgences without incurring costs. Something her sisters would examine with interest if she ever managed to return to her own dimension.
Mother Superior may have been correct to question her choice, but the young Stefano, for all his naiveté and courtly mannerisms, still provided a relatively safe ingress into the centers of influence and corruption. Had she tried for one of the other, more elusive—and eminently more powerful—brothers, the inevitable suspicion and distrust would have denied her the access she required. For now she was nothing more than one of a long line of Stefano's infatuations, of little consequence, dismissed as yet another vacuous courtesan. And, as such, virtually invisible.
That kind of anonymity could not be bought at any price.
The heavy skirts dragged at her waist, the need for authenticity far outweighing what common sense dictated was unsuitable when mission parameters went askew. She stared at the brightening opening leading to the canal, debating her next move.
Damn. This makes no sense. Why am I here?
The answer came in a blinding rush—a searing white hot pain assaulting her brain, catapulting her against an ornate beam supporting the passageway. Veluria gasped for air, desperate to thrust the filthy presence out and away before it discovered the hidden vaults guarding her own secrets. She fought the rising bile and vertigo but the drilling intrusion refused to release her, robbing her of all thought. She slumped against the beam and slid boneless onto the wet stone.
Zoning in and out of consciousness, she felt rather than heard the staccato rhythm of booted feet. The attacker—or a rescuer? She could not discern from whence the presence came. Gathering what energy she could, she lay supine, waiting. She would need every nuance and control her long years of training afforded her. But the stab of fear penetrated like a battering ram, turning her gut inside out, perception upside down.
"Veluria, take care, there may be other interested parties," Mother Superior had warned. "Prepare yourself, child, for we must not interfere, though your need be manifest. Use the gifts available." She paused, hands clasped about her tora, the clacking beads suddenly silent.
Veluria interjected, before the Mother could continue, anxious to assure, though she, of all of them, had less need to do so, "I am not inexperienced with the Council. They will not disrespect our hegemony so easily next time."
"I hope you are right, but…"
"But what, Blessed Mother?"
Shaking her head, she waved Veluria toward the door. Before she could exit, the Order's Elder said, so softly Veluria nearly missed the words, though the import seared itself into her soul, "I fear the Dark One, child."
****
Andreas hesitated. The thud of flesh impacting a hard surface reverberated through his chest, the frantic susurrations of lungs screaming silent pleas, her fear, hard fear, and then nothing. He'd been following at a safe distance, watchful. The opportunity to probe while she hesitated for a mere instant was too much to pass up.
The penetration into her psyche had been easy, far too easy. He should have known better. Instead of identifying pathways, he'd simply alerted her to his presence, awakening her pain receptors.
You idiot!
The Council had tasked him. He was not off to a good start.
"Seguire questa donna, Padre Andreas. Osservare. Riferire a me. Solo a me. Lei è una minaccia per tutti noi
." The Monsignor had tapped a carefully manicured blunt nail on the walnut desk, emphasizing each point: follow, observe, report … His Eyes Only.
"Monsignor sì, ho capito," Andreas replied, though he did not understand. None of this made any sense. His Holiness considered this woman to be a threat to the Papacy. He was more right than he could possibly know. But how they had come to that conclusion rested on false logic. They looked to her dubious French connections and the kind of missteps pillow talk afforded, though how such a light weight as Stefano de' Medici could be a source of concern afforded the young gallant far too much import in the larger scheme of political machinations. At least in his opinion.
Gods be damned, he loved and hated this time. The simplicity and austerity of his upbringing nearly imploded upon the vipers' nests of competing interests, the plots within plots within plots, in an endless round of intrigue and backstabbing that contaminated his homeland and all he held sacred.
That he did not belong here was a given, yet he had been the logical choice given his … unusual proclivities and abilities. Serving two masters was seldom a problem, though often a condition of his trade. He would best remember to whom he owed absolute fealty. That was a calculus with a zero sum outcome if he were not careful … at least as careful as the alleged 'French woman'.
With no small amount of admiration, he had to admit that the woman's behavior, her demeanor, was spot-on. Skillfully played, so much so even he had developed doubts. However, in the absence of any other leads, following the Monsignor's directive afforded him purpose, until opportunity presented itself.
The woman, Veluria, had an agenda, of that he was certain. That his probe slammed into an impenetrable defense system told him volumes about her abilities. What remained unclear was the when, that crucial element of time … and place. Was she like him, Venetian? He suspected it was so—she had that classical grace, the sultry earthiness and stark sensuality he hungered for. Dark on dark, ebon-kissed, eyes black as his soul.
He smiled at the fanciful turn his thoughts had taken him. That brief foray into her mind had been intoxicating, inexplicably so. There was something there … something forbidden. As hard as she tried to mask it, the stink of modernity rested as a distant echo. No, she was no French seductress sent to spy on the royal court. For now he would store that piece of knowledge and let the Council calculate a new paradigm. Keeping the statisticians busy and off his back served his purposes well.
Andreas crouched on the cobblestoned pathway, his robes splayed about his slim form. The temptation to try one more time overcame caution. She already knew he was there. She was vulnerable, for how long was anyone's guess. Accepting a stalemate was not an option. That was not why he'd been selected.
He laid a hand on a damp stone for balance and shut his senses down, one at a time: eyes, ears, smell, touch, all forced to the background. He slowed his breathing, allowing her energy to envelop him—misting, swirling, penetrating his consciousness. He probed cautiously, peeling away the layers, mindful of her pain and her watchfulness. Loins burning, he writhed with need, desiring nothing more than a violent mind rape, preparing himself for the sharp edges and metallic smoothness of resistance. Instead she fed him a confection, delectable, so soft he wallowed in its luxurious feel as his veins throbbed wildly, the heat pooling in his groin.
Gods, she was good. A true master of her craft.
But I am better. More evolved. Because I come prepared…
Caressing her gently, he moved aside the fibrous barrier to take a peek, to indulge in a taste only. He needed her whole, not parsed into fragments, useless to his needs. She would not willingly serve him or the Council, but she could advance his objectives by being his eyes and ears where clerics dared not tread.
All I need is a clue. Let me in, mia puttana deliziosa. There. A single thought, hidden—Stefano, message.
The Medici brat? Caro dio. This is what she shelters? Why him? The boy-man was an idiot, his family beyond dangerous. Surely Cosimo's youngest was not more than he seemed—a court wastrel, destined to be married off to cement the family lineage in whatever propitious manner the Papacy and the trade mogul determined.
What if he, and the Council, were wrong? What if the Monsignor was right, for all the wrong reasons? He did not believe in co-incidence. The woman, Veluria, had calculated the probabilities, just as he had. Obviously her answer had a different solution. That was a metric worth investigating. Now, more than ever, he needed her talents. Withdrawing, he argued with his inner desires, urging control and patience. As enticing as penetrating her mental defenses was, it was nothing compared to the promise of burying himself in her slick tight core. That thought alone was worth a few Hail Marys. He grinned mirthlessly.
The shuffle of boots on cold stone reverbed down the tunnel—solid, confident and long-strided. Andreas melted into the shadows, drawing his cloak over the energy shield, annoyed that he'd failed to pay attention to his surroundings. Buffered from outside stimuli, he had felt secure enough to wander through the woman's inner thoughts, but the journey had so captivated him that he'd lost his awareness of everything but for the sensual caress of her mind.
Stupid. Dangerously so.
The huge figure passed, brushing lightly against him with stray fingers of energy—probing, then spinning off into nothingness. Cautious, and not a little spooked by the fleeting encounter, he reached out for some recognition, some sense of familiarity.
That was more than odd. The stranger gave him nothing. A blank, impenetrable, nameless nothing.
What in God's name was going on?
The man paused at the crumpled heap and glanced about quickly before scooping the woman into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all. So tall he had to bend away from the curved ceiling, he staggered slightly as he carried his burden toward the dimly lit opening.
Andreas shifted awkwardly, his gut roiling. Of one thing he was certain, no matter that the woman stalked the serpentine passage expecting to meet her paramour, this creature was not Stefano. Nor did she recognize him—her audible intake of breath and stab of dismay betrayed her inner awareness of the otherness of the creature. Fear, soul-numbing fear followed. An urge to coddle and sooth her distress rose unbidden.
Sweet Mother, but she was delectable.
Why had the Monsignor failed to apprise him of other potential interests in the woman? Or did he even know? He doubted it. His Holiness was hampered by an antiquated surveillance system and lack of resources. Unlike others of his ilk, he harbored boundless ambition without having familial ties with the Medicis. That simple quirk of fate set him permanently outside the ring of influence—something that aggravated and made the man amenable to manipulation.
Andreas smiled grimly. Now was not the time to dwell on the petty concerns of the age. The stranger approached the opening to the canal at a leisurely pace, hesitating now and then, listening. Andreas feathered his breathing, fearful the man would realize he was being observed. It made him lightheaded but sensitive to energies bubbling along the damp conduits.
The woman, Veluria, controlled her own energies, of this he was certain. Yet when he stole through her defenses, her mind had screamed out, a pulse-pounding screech of pure terror that had cut him, nay seared him, and branded his soul, binding him to her. She could reach out if she willed it. Reach out for help … reach out to him.
And he would have her for himself…
He keyed on the softer shuffling now, movement receding, as if the stranger had foregone his leather boots in favor of soft slippers. His burden was a slip of a woman, but richly gowned, layers upon layers of lush silk fabrics that had swished along the uneven mosaic tiles in her heedless attempt to evade detection. Though the giant's silhouette implied brute strength, her boneless form and bulky togs made transit through the low-ceilinged tunnel difficult and slow.
The man's bulky frame blocked out the weak light coming from the entrance to the docks. With obvious relief he stretched to his full height and turned righ
t, the faint shush of fabric the only sound marking his passage.
This nameless stranger—how had he known to come to her rescue? Had he somehow heard her silent scream of terror? Andreas had savaged her with that first clarion blast, ramming against her defenses. He shook at the shared memory and phantom aural ache and rued his lack of finesse and control. She had finally opened to him long enough for him to know that the only one she stole to meet was the Medici fop, Stefano.
Andreas whispered, "No, this makes no sense." She'd been summoned by the Medici boy clearly for a clandestine meeting. The why echoed in his head.
He'd sensed only himself and the woman, certainly not that foolish boy. And where had the stranger hidden? Why had he not intuited that presence? He stroked his Crucifix, then slid a finger along the hilt of the stiletto, assuring himself of God's protection and his own resolve.
Silently he slipped through shadows, keying on her energies, now restful, as if she felt safe. He knew that to be a lie.
"Dammi la forza, mio Dio. I do not understand the face of this evil." Andreas prayed his God would reveal the nature of the forces allayed against the Council, against him. He feared only that which claimed no name.
He hastened toward the canal, anxious not to lose her energy signature, then stopped abruptly. Panicked, he scanned in every direction. The fetid waters lapped rhythmically with the creak of gondolas; his pulse pounded until the sound became a roar, drowning out all but his fury and despair—her essence severed.