The Shades of Time

by Diane Nelson

  The assault in the tunnel had left residual disquiet, not because the Council operative stood to access information but because there had been an unexplained psychotic edge to the episode, an unnerving neediness not easily dismissed. It had left her feeling … unclean.

  For the foreseeable future she lacked the dubious luxury of choice. Events were now in motion and, not for the first time, she wondered just how much her mere presence here affected history and the timeline. She left the theorizing to those who specialized in such studies. Her job was to find out, if at all possible, exactly what or who had altered or interfered with the normal course of events.

  The pathway along the canal ended abruptly, forcing her through a narrow alley onto the empty street fronted with merchant quarters and modest townhomes. Feeling vulnerable she sought to occupy her mind with something other than the endless loops of unanswered questions. The state of her gown, the fact that she wandered the empty streets in the middle of the night unescorted, that she'd abandoned Stefano to the certain wrath of his volatile brother…

  That thought brought her up short, so much so she stumbled and nearly went down on the rough stones. Curious, she risked seeking Stefano's energy signature, a passive activity and unlikely to draw the operative's attention. She ducked into an alley and leaned against the stone wall, cursing the corset and its restrictions. With an effort she calmed herself with several shallow breaths, shutting out as much of the night sounds and scents as possible.

  Whether or not she was successful depended more on the strength of the emotional attachment than on proximity to the person. Since she'd developed an inordinate fondness for the young man, the odds were in her favor that she could establish a feel for his current mental state.

  She was unprepared for the wash of pain spearing her gut. She bent over, retching, aware only of agony and anger and a gush of emotions she could barely comprehend. The brothers' essences intermingled in a tsunami of fear and panic and self-loathing.

  How was that even possible? She'd established no such link, nothing so powerful that could conceivably allow Antonio's energy such easy access.

  The Demon de' Medici caused her young lover's suffering, as well as his own. Stefano's distress rapidly faded into the background, replaced by a complex sea of emotion that defied description, dominated by the demon's, Tonio's, hate … and regret.

  How could she be drawn to such a man? How could she not?

  Staggering, she fled down the empty streets knowing one thing for certain. Antonio de' Medici was on the hunt. For her.

  ****

  Antonio attacked the night the way he approached everything, full frontal assault, without guile or finesse. He had little patience for fools and tonight his brother had stretched that patience to the breaking point. His shame and regret was a palpable thing but he must not let it interfere with the execution of his duties to his family.

  Duty? Is that what drove him?

  The simple mission had devolved into a disaster, partially of his own making. The woman was a formidable adversary with remarkable skills, certainly worthy of Cosimo's attention. What he couldn't fathom was why or how she'd managed to insinuate herself into his thoughts, planting seeds of an emotion he reserved only for his brothers.

  If desire had a rhythm it was a staccato beat, not the faint flutterings of the merely smitten, but the steady thrum of senses on full alert, blood pounding hot and strong through his veins. Heat flooded his face, a burning, like ice, like fire, like nothing he'd ever sensed or experienced in his long, troubled life. He thought himself immune, protected from the vulnerabilities of emotions that served no purpose.

  His father had taught him well and for years he'd banked those fires, taking his pleasure on his terms. But this … this was out of control, a wildfire racing through conduits long idle, now ablaze. He felt the panic and the bile rise in his throat and the delicious assault on his groin, hurtling him into readiness.

  With a gasp, he collapsed against a fractured surface, rough and pitted, harsh on hands that knew little gentleness. What was wrong with him? It could not be her alone—this was too strong, coming from separate directions, beating at him like a storm gone wild, wind and hail and rain surrounding him from every quarter. He wanted, needed escape and knew there was none. Papà and his uncles would see to that. He would take back the control of the Demon, the Dark One. His gifts must not be squandered, his training forsaken, his attention splintered, fractured like a mirror hurled into space from the highest parapet.

  His priority remained the same but the reasons behind it had shifted dramatically. He now understood he must find the woman before the other did, that nameless stalker who was but a wraith, vague in shape, indistinct— a darkness from which no light could enter or leave. He silently cursed his ability to feel other's thoughts … to peer even into their souls. It was a constant reminder that he had none of his own.

  The distant sound of revelers, the strange shushing of cloth and soft-soled feet, lapping wavelets and creaking docks swayed to a symphony that was uniquely Venezia. Florence, his home, had nothing like this, this ever-present danger clothed in soft hues, vengeful nights and a sea that hungered for the soul of the city with a voraciousness not even he could match.

  He ached for relief, for freedom from the pressure in his skull, and pain that threatened to drive him to his knees. The best he could hope for was to have cool logic replace the jumble of emotions consuming him from within: fear, longing, desire, need. None of that served his purpose.

  He allowed a frisson of shame to remain. What he had done to his brother was inexcusable. Stefano was one of the few things in this world he truly cared about. The young one needed his guidance and protection. Instead he'd reverted to the monster all knew him to be.

  With a sigh he straightened and forced all extraneous sensation to the background, willing the pain in his head to retreat. Logic dictated that she'd lose herself in a crowd, perhaps retreating back toward St. Mark's Square. Yet from that direction he sensed the stalker, the man's presence like icy fingers of dread racing up and down his spine. If he were in her position he'd try to put as much distance between them as possible. And that included himself.

  With no way to know for sure he decided to go with his gut instincts. Turning to the right, he hastened toward the Piazzali Roma.

  Were he a betting man, he'd lay odds he'd find Veluria first. Perhaps when Cosimo was done with her, he could indulge his fevered imagination…

  ****

  Andreas paused at the steep stairwell, the stone stairs slippery and canted to the left. The tunnel had been carved by hand in a time beyond memory, using the natural grottoes alternately as tombs, then hiding places when the time of troubles visited the city, spreading hideous death and destruction until only the weak-minded and foolhardy chose to remain and guard a once glorious culture.

  Andreas felt the reverence for and the residual fears of the ancient ghosts who inhabited all spaces where god and man fought for jurisdiction and pre-eminence.

  A flicker at the end of the long tunnel indicated a candle or torch. Few, other than brigands and the destitute chose to inhabit the underground warrens. The rest of the populace avoided the caverns out of superstition and fear. Curious he extended his senses, realizing it was too much to hope that his quarry would so conveniently await his pleasure.

  What swamped him was a perplexing mix of pain and terror, someone—a woman—in considerable distress, but alone. He would have turned away, left her to her misery, except for one thing … a residual trace of the woman he sought. Veluria?

  No, not her, though without seeing for himself, he could not be sure.

  Shivering with anticipation he plunged with abandon down the steep tunnel, stopping only when he reached the small alcove from which a weak light winked as from a stray breeze.

  The stench of blood and sweat and sex pummeled his nostrils. He blinked against the sudden light, eyes drawn to something huddled in the corner. "Veluria?" he whispere
d.

  The small form moaned and struggled to stand. The woman was a mass of bruises, her eyes blackened, nose bloodied, face filthy, arms and legs stained with unmentionable substances. Her generous breasts hung like savaged globes, scarred, reddish-purple splotches a roadmap of lustful mouths hungering for a feast. She carried the remains of her gown over her left arm, unconcerned about her nakedness and vulnerability.

  "Padre," she croaked weakly. "Have you come to save me?"

  Andreas hesitated, unsure how to proceed. The resemblance to Veluria was uncanny. And there was no mistaking that this pitiful creature had been in contact with her, and not that long ago.

  Remembering the role he played, he said with false kindness and concern, "Of course, my daughter." When he asked if she wished him to call the authorities, he was not surprised the creature objected strongly. "Then tell me your name and explain what has brought you to this heinous state."

  "Giovanna, Father." Trembling she sank to the stone floor and attempted to cover herself with the wisp of fabric.

  With difficulty he managed to prise sufficient details to piece together the evening's chain of events. He stared at the whore with interest. Apparently with her help, Veluria had shaken off the Demon de' Medici and his fop of a brother. How or why that had transpired was of little consequence.

  "Father?"

  The woman had finally turned her ravaged face toward him with a look that pleaded for … what? Comfort, absolution?

  He murmured the first words that came to mind, "You have done well. The Lord will reward you in the next life, most generously."

  Through swollen lips, she hasped, "I want what is due me now. I have no use for eternity."

  He admired her defiance, her understanding that eternity, and the empty promises thereof, had little to do with the here and now. She was wise beyond her station. Payment now, let the Church and its God worry about the hereafter. He had just the solution.

  "Capisco, figlia." Andreas held his growing excitement in check, but barely. "But I must ask you to do one thing for me."

  "No. I have done enough," she pointed to hideous, angry welts along the inside of her thighs, "I can do no more."

  Andreas purred in soothing intonations as he advanced slowly, fearful he might spook her into bolting. Carefully removing the remains of the dress, he set it aside, then stroked her hair, letting his fingers tangle in the dark strands. She cringed and drew away from his touch.

  "Bend over," he husked, parting his robe.

  "Vi prego, per favore, no."

  Andreas lifted her hips to receive his offering, his cock thick and eager to dive into her depths. It had been an eternity since he'd availed himself of such pleasure. That this vessel carried the essence of the one thing he desired above all others made it that much sweeter. He drove deep, to the hilt, then withdrew slowly, savoring the sensation. Slow, loving thrusts—each accompanied by a throaty moan of 'no, no, no' echoing weakly off the stone walls.

  "Tranquillo, figlia. Sono quasi. You will soon receive your just reward."

  As the tide released his passion, he grasped her hair and roughly jerked her head back, driving deeper and coming on a single swell and a rasping moan of "Veluria" as he smoothly drew the blade across the whore's throat.

  "Riposa in pace, figlia." Andreas lowered the limp body carefully to the stone floor and adjusted his robes. He saluted the still figure with the crucifix, intoning last rites, then backed away and began the long climb up the torturous tunnel.

  Pausing at the entrance, he quickly scanned the dark street, his senses at full alert. His beloved would be on the run from the Medicis. In her shoes, he might have done the same thing, given what powerful adversaries they were. Their training, the careful adherence to bloodlines, uncommon intelligence combined with luck and a devotion to family unmatched by any of the Great Houses of the time—all that and more made them formidable indeed.

  But the Demon was something else entirely. His powers, and his alone, could terminate his mission with dire consequences for his Order, his culture and even time itself. The operative, Veluria, was also an unexpected complication in that she had awakened unholy desires he'd denied himself for far too long. He craved her and her alone. How ironic, he was a man with a banquet of sin to be sampled and treasured and savored—but instead he succumbed to her wiles, yearning for nothing more than the black comfort of her soul.

  Like a bloodhound on a scent, he snapped his head around and sighed, "Ah, there." Adjusting the link, he allowed the energy to flow through and around him, accentuating the signal. "And the Demon de' Medici. Interesting."

  With the Council suspecting the Medicis being at the nexus of the historical perturbations, having all the players in one spot would serve his purpose better than divide and conquer. The Demon would secure his quarry soon enough so he need do nothing more than wait.

  Veluria had no idea how deep his hooks went into her psyche. Everything she did, everyone she touched would be an open book to him.

  And when the time came, he would finally have his heart's desire…

  Chapter Seven

  "No, Papà, I do not know where Tonio has gone."

  Stefano hung his head in misery. He ached in places no man should bear, far beyond the physical discomfort his enraged brother had inflicted, justifiably so. It was shame, a deep abiding black hole that ate at his soul, not in small nibbles but with ravenous bites, tearing, ripping and shredding until he could barely stand against the assault on what he once considered his greatest strength—purity of spirit.

  Tonio had tried, so very hard had he fought for him, but time and circumstances, and this vexing miasma of intrigue and unknowable confluence of fate had finally broken the walls of protection his possessed sibling had erected. Protected no longer, Stefano could not help but feel abandoned. He blamed Antonio, for that was the easy way and he was always about ease of passage.

  'Tonight could be different. Tonight could be when you become the man you were meant to be.' Antonio's deep voice husked softly in his mind, as ever, his spirit-guide.

  "… and I assume you took care of your little problem?" Cosimo de' Medici glared at his youngest son, everyone's court favorite, the handsomest of the three he'd sired legitimately.

  Stefano gulped audibly, having paid little attention to the incessant tirade about his shortcomings on this matter. "Yes sir. The Guards took care of the … matter."

  Cosimo huffed, "Well, then. Come, my boy, let us sit. I have much to discuss about your prospects."

  "Prospects?"

  Stefano's gut clenched, knowing full well what his father had in mind, none of it good for his future wants or desires. He would be auctioned off like a prize stallion to the highest bidder, likely to one of the hideous Habsburg bitches, of which dozens seemed to come out the narrow parapets so favored by the Duchys and their prideful inhabitants.

  He whispered, "I wish you had cut it off, Brother. You would have saved me from a lifetime of agony."

  "What?"

  "Nothing, Papà."

  Cosimo, short and deceptively stout, guided his taller son to a small alcove off his main meeting room. A fire burned cozily against the far wall, driving away the ever-present damp and chill, even in the heat of high summer. Plump cushions, burgundy velvet and tasseled at the corners, lay close at hand. A flagon of red wine and a plate of cured meats and cheeses sat invitingly between the cushions.

  With a sigh, Cosimo sank onto the nearest pillow. Stefano followed, lowering himself slowly as the brush of cloth against his cock opened and irritated the small knicks and cuts. Phantom pain, and a strange remembered pleasure from his public coupling with the whore, left him feeling twisted and oddly curious about his unexpected arousal and feelings of satisfaction as the men had goaded and cheered him on. They'd chided, then commiserated, when he could not perform a second time, the blood and angry marks a testament to his brother's well-deserved reputation as a cruel and violent man, one to be feared and respected.


  What threatened to consume Stefano's soul was the knowledge that he had wanted it, desperately, the pain, then the slick, smooth feel as he commanded her body and drove his own relentlessly to explode with a roar, an ecstasy of release even his beloved Veluria had only begun to awaken in him. He recognized it for what it was, a perversion, and he desperately wanted to embrace it, own it, to call it up at his every whim. The stray wisps of memories set his blood boiling and his cock aching with need.

  In the deepest recesses of his mind he pleaded, Antonio, help me before I am lost.

  Cosimo chewed idly on a piece of meat and observed the play of emotions on the young man's face. Tonio's man, Eduardo, had apprised the capo della famiglia of events as he had observed them, leaving no detail, however small, unmentioned.

  "Hai fatto bene, figlio mio."

  "Gracie, Papà." Stefano mumbled. In another time, another place, such praise, a simple 'you did well,' would have burst his heart with pride. Now a cauldron of doubt and shame and desire threatened to bury him in darkness from which there was no escape. A darkness Antonio knew all too well. He did not wish to join his brother in the living hell he dwelt in every day of his tortured life.

  Stefano bent close to his father, concentrating hard on the old man's intonation of events unfolding on the continent. Carlos had inherited Burgundy and Castile-León and stood next in line to inherit Aragon from the ailing Ferdinand, placing the young man in the enviable position as effective ruler of all of the area known as Spagna.

  "You understand what this means, do you not?" Cosimo queried his son.

  "I think so, Papà. When Carlos' father, Phillip, died ten years ago…" Cosimo nodded encouragingly, "…that left Maximillian with no direct heirs other than Carlos."

  Stefano sat up straighter and rubbed his left hand over his brow, the implications now clear. No wonder his father worked so diligently to secure the favor of the man who would rule Spagna, and eventually most of the continent.