by Diane Nelson
Besides, the real question was: where was Veluria and why couldn't he sense her presence?
With an effort of will Andreas continued to lounge carelessly against a stack of crates. With his slight frame and robes proclaiming him a simple cleric, he'd be no threat to those busy with the matters of commerce. The docks swam with deckhands and passengers, a babel of tongues shot through with urgency, the tide waiting for no man.
Andreas released a small burst of energy, casting about in a broad band to avoid having the Demon pinpoint his location. He'd taken enough risks exposing himself like this—his shadow self was less effective in the brighter light of day with no comforting walls to shield him.
She's not here.
That left the matter of the Demon's presence on the docks as a nagging concern. Quickly he calculated probabilities but found no satisfactory resolution.
"Damn it. Why are you here?"
Disgruntled, he had no recourse but to expose himself. As casually as he could muster, he backed away from the shielding tower of crates and angled toward the furthest ship, the one commanding a final spurt of activity as thick hemp ropes flew in graceful arcs to land on deck. Two swarthy deckhands pulled at the companionway, securing it, then spun away to tend to the task of pushing off from the pier.
Well forward, almost to the bow of the vessel, a tall figure bent over the rail, his head and face obscured by the hood of his cape. Andreas risked a closer look as the ship slipped its moorings. The figure was clearly recognizable—few carried that height and bulk, that commanding presence that so marked the Demon de' Medici as unique amongst his peers. Yet the energy, the man's essence, seemed … not quite right, a bit off.
Muttering, "Who are you?" Andreas dropped all pretense and aggressively sought out the man's identity. Fists clenched he stood perched at the end of the pier watching the ship slowly ease into the waning tide. The fluttering and tickling sensation in his gut mimicked the slow roll of the vessel as sails snapped into place on a freshening breeze.
As if he felt the probe, the man on deck raised his head and stared directly at Andreas. With a smooth sweep of his arm he dislodged the hood, revealing unkempt sandy blond hair framing a stern face. Intense blue eyes shot arrow straight onto Andreas' open-mouthed stare. A small smile played at the stranger's mouth as his gaze lingered, his eyes knowing. With a slight nod, he swept the hood over his head, spun away from the rail and stalked regally toward the aft cabin, leaving Andreas to gasp in consternation and bewilderment.
"Mio Dio, how did this one escape the Council? Fanculo a lui!" Andreas swore out loud, heedless of his audience who gazed at him, curious and somewhat taken aback at the cleric's anger and harsh language.
Andreas ignored the ache in his leg and stomped the length of the pier, thinking hard and fast about this new intelligence. Another chess piece, another knight on the board, when he'd thought them all safely dispatched. This was unconscionable. His handlers would hear of this. That they would fail to inform him, their most valued field agent, of another with such power, how could…?
Andreas ground to a stop, the thought taking root mid-flight. Only one other could possibly replicate the Demon's energy signature so closely. Not a perfect match to be sure, but close enough to fool him, especially in his weakened condition.
What was needed was a dose of logic and rational judgment, not a racing mind and unproductive anger. With effort he calmed himself, muttering a mantra of soothing phrases as he clacked his beads rhythmically. Slowing his heart rate, he once again mastered his inner turmoil, sorting through what he knew and what they had but surmised.
So there was another. Genetics would dictate not but they had been wrong before, his most esteemed colleagues with their research and prognostications and smug assurances.
Andreas raked his hands through his hair, his mouth set in a thin line, veins bulging dangerously on his slim neck. "Nicolo," he breathed, "the second most dangerous man in this cluster fuck of a game those idiots dumped me into. With no warning, no intel. How was I to know he could…?" Andreas' voice trailed off, once more aware of his surroundings and the untoward interest of passersby.
His thoughts still racing, Andreas settled on the two most likely explanations: Nicolo either had a genetically similar energy as his brother Antonio, or he had the capability to alter it to match the Dark One.
The former was cause enough for concern, and thought to be unlikely given that the men were all half-brothers. Cosimo's genetic legacy would surely have suffered dilution, though not so much with Antonio, who was line bred through a close cousin reputed to be the love of the elder's life. Nicolo was the result of a brief liaison with a Habsburg beauty who died in childbirth. Cosimo had dipped into Florence's merchant class for his final marriage, the result being the brainless idiot, Stefano, whose powers—other than his good looks and charming manner—had yet to manifest.
The latter possibility, the one that suggested this Nicolo had that kind of command over his psychic abilities, would send the statisticians into an orgy of research as that capability could only be engineered and controlled with implants in his own dimension.
Whatever the explanation, Andreas knew he'd blown his plan to bring his quarry and the woman together. His only chance to avoid the ire of the Council, and even of the good Monsignor to whom he'd be giving an abbreviated report as soon as he recouped his strength, was to start over. He'd keep his musings about the middle brother to himself for the time being. There was no rush as the man would be off stage for the foreseeable future and no threat to the current mission.
Right now he had to reacquire his targets. The Demon was still his best option for finding Veluria. And she was his best option for solving the equations and understanding the predictions that had motivated the Council to violate their guardianship of the gateways.
"Where would you go, I wonder?" Andreas murmured and smiled slyly. "Perhaps to Papà?"
He would need best speed and walking on his still aching ankle did not appeal. Andreas moved to the dock jetting into the shallow bay in search of transport. A young man looked up expectantly, waving his hand to indicate he was for hire. Andreas grunted his assent and climbed down into the small skiff, settling onto the rough wooden bench seat.
"Padre?"
Andreas stared blindly at the oarsman, trying to recall the exact location of Cosimo's current residence. The man kept several palazzos scattered about the city but given the time of day and the demands of his business, there was only one choice.
He muttered, "Sestieri de Polo, e rendere veloce. La residenza Ferrara, do you know it?"
"Sì."
Andreas scowled at the wide-eyed youth and turned to stare at the greasy water slipping past the small craft. Unconsciously he fingered his beads, the movement on the string registering one click at a time. The shape and texture of the cold alabaster, the repetitive motion, helped him focus. Time, he was running out of that commodity at a fearsome rate. He would lay odds that the next move on the chessboard would be Cosimo's. But how the chess pieces in the game would align themselves was anyone's guess. He'd made enough moves already, despite the missteps, to come close to taking the Queen and neutralizing her.
That thought sent a frisson of lust to his groin. 'Neutralize' wasn't exactly his intent, though it was a necessary prelude to the release from his obsession. She was going to pay dearly for his indiscretions. His fall from grace would not end on a whimper.
Embracing the ancient adage, better to ask for forgiveness than permission, brought a small smile and reminded him that he needed more analysis before engaging in any further moves.
The piece that would be king, the 'key'? That piece had yet to reveal its identity, let alone the nature of the opponent manipulating the supporting assets. He'd had the Demon son pegged as an annoying guardian of the clan, the knight as it were—expendable. Not anymore. There was more at work here, more probabilities to calculate.
Shadows within shadows. Plots within plots. He stroked
the blade hidden in the folds of his robe, remembering the heat and sweet gush of blood…
****
The harried man glued to her side prodded Veluria toward an ornate walnut door at the far end of a hallway carpeted with a thick Persian rug. Antonio stood impatiently as her guide abruptly released her elbow and scurried into the room. She brushed past the Demon and entered a richly appointed, tall-ceiling space with a wall of narrow windows overlooking the canal. Walnut wainscoting and palest cream stucco gave the space dimension and intimacy. A heavy walnut desk occupied pride of place at the far end, but in the middle a cozy seating area invited conversation … and plotting.
Antonio indicated a settee so she once more arranged her skirts while she took the measure of the players arrayed about the room. Antonio muttered something to the man who had accompanied them into the salon. He hastily lay his burden of parchments onto the desk and retreated quickly. Other footsteps followed, clearing the room. That left her to face her newest adversary, known only by reputation, and her Demon about whom she feared she knew far too much already.
Well, this should be interesting…
Cosimo settled onto the chair opposite, waving his tall son to stand by the petite woman in a show of dominance and power. He fully appreciated how daunting Antonio could be without even trying. It gave him great enjoyment to use his eldest as a weapon of intimidation, particularly when it brought rosy coloring to the cheeks of an especially attractive woman. He would have said 'girl' upon initial examination, but this one had a world of experience in her demeanor and a hard set to her eyes.
He would not err on the side of frivolous disregard of certain feminine wiles as had his youngest. He fully intended to plumb her depths before allowing any further missteps. She and Stefano might make a pretty couple, but he had plans for the silly young man that did not include mystery French whores and their petty court intrigues.
"Monsieur, it is my understanding that your son has effected a rescue … of sorts. For that I am, of course, grateful, as will be my cousin, François."
Tonio, standing behind Veluria, raised his brows in surprise and motioned to his father to continue the questioning. Cosimo twitched a finger imperceptibly, their code for shared knowledge and a need for further interrogation.
"Yes, and my salutations and best wishes to him and his new bride. Claude? Of Brittany I believe." A manservant approached with goblets and a plate of meats. Cosimo waved him off and leaned forward intently. François stood in line to inherit the French throne, sooner rather than later if the rumors from Nico were correct, and Nico seldom steered them wrong.
He had sent his son packing to Spagna only hours after his arrival from France based on the hints about Carlos the woman had dropped in Stefano's ear. Carlos, the heir to the continent, and one with whom he would curry favor.
Settling his bulk on the edge of the chair, he waited to see what direction this most interesting conversation was headed.
Veluria was impressed. Her world's modern communications often seemed clunky and slow compared with the nuanced intelligence that spread like wildfire through the court gossip network. While Stefano had accepted her subterfuge as emissary from the French court, his father did not. He was too smart by half and she'd best be on her toes around him.
Veluria raised her eyebrows and said, "Si, signore," pausing with classic Gallic disdain, "Claude." She had no idea whether or not it was a good match, but expressing an opinion gave her an edge and the aura of having insider's information.
While Cosimo waited expectantly, she prevaricated to gain a measure of control over the competing energies washing through and around her. The Demon and his father formed a straight line broadcast path aimed directly at her core—the effect was uncommonly intense and uncomfortable. Because the two men seemed to be doing it unconsciously reinforced her appreciation of the raw, undisciplined nature of their abilities. It was far easier to control a disciplined mind once she'd determined the architecture of the neural pathways than one with such an organic nature that its complexities were not easily identified, let alone amenable to statistical analysis.
Off to her left she felt the faint stirring of a weaker signal, most likely Stefano. Having him close gave her a measure of relief. In the back of her mind she'd been concerned about him, about his mental state. Tonio gave no indication that he knew his brother was in the same house. She'd love to be a fly on the wall if and when the brothers came together to work out whatever had caused Tonio so much guilt and shame.
Keeping her face a mask of pleasant acquiescence to the Capo's hospitality, Veluria selected a goblet of wine and sipped daintily, allowing the drama to play out while she examined probabilities. Lost in thought, she didn't hear the door opening.
Cosimo shifted in his seat, exclaiming, "Ah, Stefano! Come and see who graces our presence this fair morning."
Stefano?
She twisted slightly to get a better look but halted mid-turn when Antonio's hand gripped her shoulder so tightly she hissed in pain.
He murmured, "I'm sorry," and released her but moved in close enough she could feel the heat from his huge frame.
She listened to Stefano's steps moving around his brother and realized the young man could not see her with Tonio hovering so close. Cosimo waved his youngest forward with a genuine smile of affection, then gestured in her direction, his grin now sly. For Tonio he leveled a pointed glare and a warning.
With all eyes on her, the air left the room and she could have cut the silence with a knife. From a constant ambient hum of energy it was like being dumped into a sensory deprivation chamber. Not even the sound of her heartbeat registered.
Stefano broke the trance with a hesitant question, "Veluria?" He breathed a sigh of relief and said, "Thank God, you are safe."
Sensation rushed back with a roar: Tonio moving away, leaving her back exposed—in more ways than one; Cosimo shifting in his seat, a calculating expression on his face; Stefano approaching with an air of relief and anticipation tempered with reluctance. Was that because his brother still loomed near?
Or is it me?
The young man bent to brush his lips lightly on her brow, but withdrew quickly when he detected a less than wholehearted welcome. Her miniscule cringe had caught not only him by surprise, but also Antonio whose satisfaction rolled in waves over her.
Cosimo smiled benignly, clearly entertained by the interplay and jealousies. He waved to his manservant, "I believe I will have some wine after all." Cosimo tilted his goblet and gave her a toast. "To you, my dear, and to all your many interests."
Chapter Eleven
"Antonio, why don't you take our guest for a tour of the Palazzo while I have a word with our layabout here." Cosimo grinned but no one in the room misconstrued it for less than the veiled threat it was. From paternal indulgence to angry displeasure, Cosimo's mercurial changes of mood were legendary.
Stefano shuddered, then squared his shoulders, approaching his father cautiously as one would a lion guarding his kill.
Antonio held out a hand but Veluria managed a graceful exit off the hard cushion and waited patiently for the Dark One to lead her from the room. The Demon, her Demon, swept the contingent of servants and guards hovering outside the door in the hallway out of their way before quietly closing the double doors with a perceptible snick.
"Sit."
"Papà, it was not my fault…"
"Quiet, my son. This matter is of little consequence at this time. We shall let your brother work his particular charms. Whatever mysteries she shelters will not last long in his expert hands."
Cosimo chuckled, fully aware of his son's unique talents in extracting the minutest piece of information from both enemy and ally.
"I don't want her hurt, Papà." Stefano tried to hide his dismay and fear by appealing to cold logic. "She is, after all, a ward of the French court, and as such is a valuable asset if, and when, Francis succeeds to the throne."
"An asset how?"
"As our g
uest," Stefano emphasized the word 'guest', "she brings a measure of respect to our house, having sought us out to deliver a personal message of goodwill, rather than to the Duke and his flunkies. She pays homage to Florence in this matter, rather than Venice. A good thing, no?"
Cosimo barely avoided barking out a laugh. "May I remind you that she did not seek us out? I seem to recall your brother mentioning allegations of kidnapping." He chuckled at that. The woman had cleverly avoided an unpleasant accusation in favor of reworking the episode into a negotiable commodity. How kind of her to place a non-existent family obligation on the bargaining table.
I do admire a woman with wit and intelligence.
He continued to press the issue, determined to instruct his youngest by pointing out his failures in seeing through the obvious subterfuge. "Is it not apparent that her so-called message of goodwill is as genuine as the vapors on the canals in the early morn?"
Stefano squirmed and appeared ready to debate that point. Surely the boy did not still believe her a ward of the French court!
He was poised to give his son a good tongue lashing when the young man interrupted. "Even if she isn't all she claims, Papà, so long as others think of her in that light, is it not still useful to us?" He rubbed his chin, one of his few nervous gestures, generally allowed only when with family.
Cosimo clapped his hands with delight. "Excellent, my boy. And what else…?"
Stefano thought hard for a moment. "She makes a useful, uh, item for trade?"
"Yes, well." Cosimo knew better than to push his youngest beyond his limited capabilities. Analysis would never be his strong suit, but at least he had the manners and the trite phrases down pat. More importantly he would follow directions to the letter when properly motivated.