The Shades of Time

by Diane Nelson

  Antonio murmured, "I understand," though for the briefest moment his face belied his feelings until the mask settled once more. "If that's all, Papà? I have matters to attend to. I shall leave you to break the news. Your guest also awaits your pleasure."

  "Tend to your duties, Antonio. I will let you know when it is time for me to explore exactly what our guest has to offer." He gave his son a crafty stare. "I have a feeling it could prove entertaining."

  Antonio stalked from the room leaving Cosimo to ponder what his eldest planned to do next. That he did not back this decision—considering the marriage not in his brother's best interest—was quite clear. His son also had his gut in a knot over the woman, setting up an interesting conflict of interests.

  But however it played out, ultimately Tonio would protect that which mattered most—the family. And perhaps he might also see how his clever father had opened a new possibility, a new opportunity to serve. His attraction to the woman, and her potential as an ally in the always shifting loyalties of the continental courts—whichever one she actually served—offered intriguing possibilities.

  Cosimo wandered over to a small leather-topped table flanked with burgundy brocaded stools. He examined the chess pieces with interest. The rooks he'd dispatched early, with Nico moved into striking distance at C5. He'd yet to call his knights into service. Nodding sagely, he picked up the heavy marble piece and moved G1 to F3. Sliding onto a stool, Cosimo pondered the disposition of the pieces, frowning at the black Bishop at C8. This was the imponderable, the thing he'd been feeling for several days. A new player graced the stage, with similar abilities to the woman, perhaps even stronger. Most certainly dangerous. Cosimo had him blocked by Nico, but perhaps that move would not have the outcome he anticipated. His gut told him the threat was closer than Spagna, very close indeed.

  ****

  Andreas grew weary as the heat of the day drained his meager resources. He was hungry and thirsty and had not slept in days. He had desperate need of a vessel to restore his flagging energies and to take his mind off the passion that threatened to consume him when in such close proximity to her.

  He moved surreptitiously along the narrow pathways jutting in several directions off the Ferrara estate. Though unremarkable in outline from its near neighbors, the imposing edifice broke the dullness of gray granite with ornate finials and over-sized windows. He admired the beautiful leaded cut glass and recalled that it was Venice that controlled the secret process and had been a center for glass-making for almost four hundred years. He grumpily latched onto his vast store of trivia to occupy his mind when his patience for his beads grew thin.

  He gave thought to abandoning his watch and seeking audience with the Monsignor, if for no other reason than to entertain himself with the righteous fool's concern and unending need for gossip. His games with the Papàl envoy, the good Cardinal, were of no interest to his mission, yet they formed a convenient excuse for him to maintain his cover and to secure access to areas a normal citizen would be unlikely to breach.

  He rather enjoyed playing the role of cleric. Venetians were, if nothing else, agnostics at heart—the citizens' lack of religious zeal spoke volumes of their shaky relationship with the Vatican. Over the years, the city had been subject to interdicts by the Holy See, the most recent imposed during the War of the Holy League under Pope Julius. Those shifting alliances had been of the neck-snapping variety with Venice entering into an unholy pact with Henry and Maximilian against the French.

  Having the woman represent herself as a ward of the French court was an interesting, though odd, ploy. Political games aside, what mattered were that her peculiar abilities to set his training to naught over-rode the Monsignor's petty concerns. That she might wreak havoc on the man's ill-conceived politicking with competing interests in the church amounted to a mere sideshow as far as Andreas was concerned.

  The sound of a door slamming brought Andreas to full alert. He peered around the corner to find the Demon de' Medici standing only yards away, his face a study in irritation. Andreas faded against the rough stone, drawing on his remaining reserves to cloak himself in the shadow of the alleyway. He felt rather than heard the dangerous man passing, a whirlpool of anger, tightly coiled and spinning so fast it would consume all who ventured in his path. Andreas knew that someone would pay dearly tonight. He preferred it not be him, but he knew he must follow the Dark One. There were answers with him, and the woman was not going anywhere. At least not for a while. Of that he was pathetically sure.

  Chapter Twelve

  "In here, Madame, if you would…" Paulo held the door as Veluria swept into a well-appointed salon. Unlike the ornate, thickly brocaded wall-coverings on the lowest level, this room was spare in ornamentation. The walls sported walnut wainscoting topped with cream-colored stucco artfully applied in random swirls that caught and reflected the light streaming in the south-facing bank of windows.

  She muttered, "Gracie," but the manservant had already left, closing the door quietly. Veluria paced about the room, willing herself to stay calm and not dwell on the disturbing interplay of powers that had almost entrapped her in a game of … what? Exactly what had happened in the garden? Who had tempted whom? It had been such an intense exchange, almost like two lovers rutting on a forest floor, heedless of their surroundings, aware only of each other. She reached out gingerly, seeking the Demon, testing her resolve and ability to contain her energies. With a sigh of relief, she felt his awareness drift away, like clouds dissipating after a storm, the air fresher, though still fragrant with a lingering scent of musk and animal wildness.

  To distract herself, she cataloged the furnishings, memorizing every detail, including the pattern of the rug—octagonal, with a deep burgundy floral pattern so favored by the ruling elite. With its political and economic interests still firmly in place in the Middle Eastern regions, Venice lay claim to that rich cultural heritage which the fair city adopted as its own. The textiles, of a nubby linen weave in a variety of patterns, adorned not only the floors but also doubled as wall coverings, though in this salon the large rug occupied single pride of place in the center of the room.

  The space had a very male feel to it. She wondered who occupied the suite and if she were in fact a detainee rather than a guest. To her surprise a wave of exhaustion swept over her, almost staggering in its intensity.

  How much time had passed since she'd responded to Stefano's request for a clandestine meeting? Days, weeks? It felt that way, though in truth the string of episodes, the engagements with enemies and allies alike, could be measured in mere hours, hours that had been productive in unexpected ways.

  She collapsed onto a settee hoping to alleviate the strain of the tight bodice constricting her midsection only to have the voluminous folds of the skirt and the hooped stays preclude her achieving any kind of supine position.

  "Can I help?"

  "Stefano," she gasped, mildly annoyed that she'd neither heard nor sensed his presence. She must be more tired than she thought.

  The young man fussed with her skirts as she struggled to sit upright, feeling more than a little foolish with the state of her disarray. But she had more problems that a simple wardrobe malfunction. She needed to get her head back in the game. Antonio de' Medici had effectively derailed her, forcing her down pathways over which neither of them seemed to have much control.

  Whatever attraction, feelings, she'd developed for Stefano's older brother had to be set aside. If she didn't resume her role she would miss an opportunity to insinuate herself into the one arena that mattered. Cosimo was known as the kingmaker, though it was a misnomer. The fractured politics that divided city-states and the Papacy from each other—and the rest of the continent—functioned on the shoulders of commerce and the waning threat of eternal damnation.

  The Medici family played a pivotal role in the building of a new empire that had changed the face of the continent and the course of history. Her history.

  Stefano interrupted her train of though
t. "Does this remind you of anything?"

  He leered at her in his old lecherous way but the good humor failed to extend to his eyes. It seemed she was not the only one playing a role. With an effort she resumed the mantle of the courtesan, rearranging her face into the familiar coquettish mask.

  "If you mean when we, in that Count's … what was his name?"

  Stefano muttered, "Gustaf," as Veluria recalled what should have been a mortifying situation.

  "That sitting room with the hideous Moorish pillows he'd imported to impress Carlos … who never did come to visit."

  "I believe we were the first to, uh, make use of them, no?" Stefano carelessly rearranged her skirts so he could slide next to her on the narrow seat. His actions seemed stilted and awkward.

  "You are such a wicked one." Veluria summoned a warm rush of pleasure, hoping to steer the young man back to lighter sparring and teasing while she re-established her persona.

  A shadow passed over Stefano's face. "I may be more wicked than you know."

  "Whatever do you mean? Surely that night we…" she sputtered to a halt when his face turned pale, his breathing labored.

  The young man choked back a sob, his agony palpable. "You don't know me, Veluria. Not anymore. I am not the person I was just two days ago."

  Antonio's overwhelming presence intruded, almost as if he were in the room with them. He'd been the source of Stefano's and his own distress, of that she was certain. Perhaps now she would learn what had transpired and so traumatized both brothers to the point where they'd buried it beyond her ability to divine even the smallest hint.

  "Explain this to me. What has happened? Who has done this thing to you? Tell me, now!"

  Veluria did not have to feign anxiety for she sensed the agony, the barrenness of his soul. The sensation was akin to falling down a well without a bottom, a spiritual rush through cold, clammy air—so real it raised the hairs on her arms.

  A few of her sisters were mediums, graced with the ability to 'see' into the realm of the spirit world. She was not so blessed, yet the connection had such a three-dimensional quality she could swear she saw his spirit circling about the cavity that had once been a vibrant boy-man.

  She murmured softly, "Stefano, please?" but he stuttered, "I, I can't."

  "Stefano. You can trust me." She poured sincerity into her voice, willing him to believe. "I would never betray you."

  Stefano grimaced, making no effort to hide the emotions warring for predominance, his fists clenching and unclenching as he battled some inner demon. A demon who would be his brother.

  She took his face in her hands and rubbed her thumbs along his jaw, allowing her energy to open to whatever tortured his spirit. She hissed in dismay as a frisson of fear and something she could not identify flowed through her. Such pain, such agony, such…

  Pleasure? What in the name of the Holy Mother?

  Fighting through the confusion was akin to swimming upriver in a full flood. Channeling it was simply out of the question, although that worked in her favor as it avoided what she liked to call 'blowback'—a reversal of energies that risked initiating awareness in potential adepts. Like Stefano.

  "I'm not the fool everyone thinks, Veluria."

  She brushed a finger across his lips and said, "I don't think…" but halted when he raised a hand to stay her words. His eyes took on a hard edge, calculating. She could swear she saw Cosimo staring back at her—with recognition and no small amount of satisfaction.

  His voice tight, he rasped, "I know you are like us. Like him."

  Him? Antonio or Cosimo? Did it matter?

  Stefano glared at her accusingly. "Don't try to hide it. I've always known." He stood and towered over her. Softly he continued, "I am so very sorry."

  "I don't understand. Sorry because someone mistreated you, hurt you?"

  He whispered, his voice an agony of emotions, "No, I hurt someone. Someone who didn't deserve it. I started it. I should have stopped it." Stefano grasped Veluria's hands, clinging to them like a lifeline, trembling as with palsy. His next words cut her like a knife, "But I didn't want to."

  He didn't want to? Did he mean he didn't want to hurt that person? Or … he didn't want to stop it? What in God's name…?

  Stefano had his lips clamped in a thin tight line, making it clear he was offering no further comment on the subject. Instead she focused on his admission that he recognized her 'gifts'. That was hardly cause for concern. All the Medici men were well aware of their own unique abilities and, in true Florentine fashion, exploited those powers with single-minded cunning and legendary deceit. Even Stefano, the kindest and most fey of the famiglia, had a preternatural understanding of court intrigue. Coupled with a glib tongue and stunning good looks, the boy-man charmed with a savant's guile.

  Reverend Mother had factored in the probability that she would be found out, yet the head of their order had assumed she would be able to mask her own abilities when necessary. In light of the Medicis' extraordinary psychic gifts, that amounted to a miscalculation on the woman's part, something she would have to turn to her advantage if at all possible.

  For now she was more concerned with Stefano's cryptic confession, though without context she was having trouble understanding why he embraced this soul-searing self-flagellation.

  She stated with a conviction she feared might prove groundless, "I cannot believe you would intentionally inflict suffering on anyone."

  With a darkness not even his demon older brother could match, he growled, "Believe it."

  "Stefano, no…"

  He lunged back from the settee, dragging her with him. Still grasping her hands in an ever-tightening grip that nearly crushed the fine bones in her fingers, Stefano raked her with such a hungry stare she felt the first tremor of fear snaking along her spine. He yanked her roughly into his arms, as close as the awkward bodice and heavy silk fabric would allow.

  "Damn it," he muttered.

  Ignoring her protests, he half dragged her to a door set at the far end of the room. With one hand firmly around her waist, he pushed the door open, revealing a spacious bedchamber beyond. He thrust her through the narrow entryway, his excitement evident as his cock strained the fabric of his wool codpiece.

  Veluria took in the dark walnut four-poster bed, several wood benches and an ornate leather-covered Spanish chest at the foot of the towering bed. The coverlet was a rich tapestry of muted browns, greens and russet. It lay rumpled and tossed to one side. The indentation remained where Stefano had tossed restlessly, pulling the fine linen sheet away from the down-filled bolster. A gossamer spill of sheer ecru curtains surrounded the imposing bed on three sides. A small stool lay overturned from where Stefano must have kicked it over when he heard her in the antechamber.

  Veluria turned to take the measure of the young man advancing, not aggressively as she had half-expected, but with his heart in his hands, to do with as she will. Under other circumstances he would have what he wanted, whenever he wanted it, so artful were his gifts that he gave back tenfold in pleasure and devotion. But not this day. Not when he'd let her glimpse a capacity for violence … and the potential to enjoy it beyond anything she could have guessed.

  The contrast between Stefano and Antonio hit her like a runaway train—an image unsuitable for the time but it was the only frame of reference she could conjure. Antonio, a man of violence, believing himself devoid of a soul—and, ultimately, redemption—harbored a deep well of tenderness and a capacity to care that belied the demon persona he so carefully nurtured. His youngest brother, on the other hand, beguiled all with a mask of youthful exuberance and innocence.

  Even she had bought that image of the shallow dandy, the court favorite with pleasing mannerisms and a decided gift for conquests of the heart. She trembled at the memory of the last time they'd touched and fondled—his scent, his exquisite gentleness that had set every nerve, every synapse on fire. It had been a most pleasant … entertainment. Clever boy, constructing a magnificent false front and
using it so artfully.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  It might have seemed a betrayal of the young man's affections, a violation of trust, when his older brother so possessed her and sent everything in her sensual arsenal into free-fall. At this moment she was less inclined to suffer feelings of remorse. But if she could not rein in her rampaging hormones, she would have to recuse herself from the mission.

  No, Reverend Mother would not be happy.

  "I've missed you, amore mia bella," Stefano husked in her ear. "More than you can ever know. When you were attacked, I feared I would lose you. Had it not been for my brother, all would have been lost."

  How convenient for Stefano to overlook the fact that he was the one who summoned her, placing her in peril. Wherever he'd been holed up, he'd chosen to let his brother do the dirty work instead of coming forward to see to her safety and well-being. It would do well for her to remember that.

  It became harder and harder to think as Stefano drew her close, bending her slim neck in an exaggerated arc until her artery bulged and pulsed, as if begging for his tongue to taste the heat. He had such a clever tongue, so eager to sample every inch of flesh. Heat and pressure in her private place begged for her to yield, just one more time, to give in to his sweet demands. Sometimes her training and self-control came into serious conflict. With so much at stake, she must yield to the euphemistic greater good and subsume her own needs.

  Damn you and your mission. When this is said and done, Reverend Mother, I am going to need serious therapy.

  Stefano felt the familiar heat settle in his loins, no longer tempered with a desire for subtle restraint and consideration. All his life, his peers and court toadies had fed his lust with admiration and exhortations to outdo himself. Even his brothers had looked on with sly smiles and unabashed support while working behind the scenes to set to rights the inevitable fall-out from his headlong rush into one infatuation after another. From the age of fourteen he had set a standard amongst his cousins and circle of friends of a randy lad graced with a way with the ladies, young and old alike, to the dismay of his father's business managers whose profits often contributed to salvaging his freedom from demanding fathers or irate, cuckolded husbands.