The Shades of Time

by Diane Nelson

Nico's words ... or his own? What did it matter? He had the excuse he needed.

  "This is for the senhora?" It was more a statement than a question.

  The whore nodded and rubbed at her wrist absently as she backed away, her heavy breasts bobbing with each mincing backwards step. His cock seemed to appreciate the show, rising to the occasion and pressing against the codpiece with lustful insistence. The woman's eyes widened with dismay, obviously remembering when he'd said, "That will do ... for now," and slipped coins into her pudgy hands.

  With a feral grin, he staggered through the door and made his way to the outer stairs leading to the second floor suite of rooms. With no memory of climbing the rickety steps, he paused on the narrow landing with the basket clutched to his waist.

  What the hell am I doing here? This isn't right.

  Before he could set the basket down and beat a hasty retreat, the door opened. Veluria stood framed in the backwash of candlelight, her features masked in darkness. It was like staring down a well—a bottomless chasm that would trap him for an eternity.

  There was no barricade in place, no wall against which he could bash his head in a fruitless attempt to gain access. She was just standing there, soft and welcoming, ripe for the plucking. There would have been nothing to stop him had he not rendered himself impotent with his indulgence in drink ... and other things.

  Feeling the fool, he thrust the basket toward the woman and muttered, "Your dinner." The words came out slurred and he was vaguely surprised she didn't turn away given the state of his foul breath and stink of sweat and sex that permeated his pores.

  Veluria stood as if mesmerized. He said, "I-I'm s-s-sorry..." and stumbled back still clutching the parcel of food.

  Rousted from her trance at the propect of Antonio tumbling headlong down the steep flight of steps, Veluria grabbed his jerkin and pulled him through the door into the sleeping quarters. The mountain of a man lurched forward and staggered to the bed. He set the basket down and rested his head against the bedpost, his body swaying.

  Muttering, "Drunk as a skunk," Veluria rushed to the bed to retrieve the basket before Tonio collapsed on top of it. She could feel the stabbing pain in his head—he was broadcasting like a vidfeed set to ear-bleeding volume in her skull. A migraine. Of earth-shattering proportions, and not the first he'd ever had, though it might be the worst. She'd had no idea he suffered from that condition.

  She was also too aware of other things assaulting her senses. Keenly aware. When she'd given in to curiosity and probed for his whereabouts, she been privy to his insatiable rutting to the point where she'd nearly succumbed to an out-of-control orgasm.

  She'd felt an odd mixture of jealously and awe. Jealous that he was fucking someone, not her. Awed because he had so much ... stamina. That the sex had been filled with anger and self-loathing hadn't registered right away but when it finally floated to the surface, waves of guilt and anxiety nearly consumed her. It had taken all her control to not rush out to find him, to make him stop. To make him tear her clothes off and impale her, to fill her with his seed. Over and over and over...

  Gods above, it had been a long afternoon. An exhausting afternoon. Now this. She could barely control her reflexes as she approached the Demon.

  I can't let him in. It's too dangerous for him to know what I know. He has no capacity for this knowledge, no framework to make sense of it. It would destroy him, drive him insane.

  And me along with it. I am too close to this. Forgive me, Reverend Mother. I cannot use my skills. Not on this man. Not now. Not ever.

  The Demon tempts me as have no others. Give me strength, Dearest Mother, for I must break my heart as well as his. I have no choice.

  I love him too much.

  With her nose wrinkling in disgust, she hissed, "You stink."

  Antonio sneered back, "You have a gift for the obvious, M'lady."

  "Why are you here?"

  Tonio thought about that—confusion, guilt, and a dozen other emotions flitting across his stern features. Despite his drunken state, he apparently did not suffer from performance anxiety given the bulge in the codpiece. He glanced down at his arousal, the look of consternation almost funny had the situation—and her struggle for resolve—not been so vexing.

  Bemused he gave her a pleading look then wiped his face into the characteristic scowl, eyebrows drawn into a tight line that accentuated the pulse hammering his temple.

  She tapped her foot as if expecting an answer to her question. She hoped it would distract him, but from what she wasn't sure. When he simply squeezed his eyes shut against the pyrotechnics assaulting his optical nerves, she took pity on him.

  "I can help you with that." He shook his head, not understanding. "The headache. I can ease the pain."

  Dear Mother, that's exactly what she should not do! But she couldn't allow him to suffer so harshly, not when she was partially to blame.

  "Antonio, please sit," she said softly, keeping her tone low and soothing. She knew all too well how the tiniest sound would take on monumental proportions, ringing like a klaxon inside the head. Ears, eyes, chest, gut—every system in the body became compromised and slave to the agony. She prayed she could get him stabilized enough to avoid the vomiting that was sure to follow. Instead of the usual swarthy complexion, his face had paled to a translucent, waxy quality.

  Not for the first time she wondered how a man with such rough features could be even remotely handsome, yet he was—his dark eyes limned with heavy lashes, the severe cut to his cheekbones, the square jaw softened by the black stubble and a jagged thin scar running from his chin almost to his left ear. Straight dark brown hair hung loose about his face. She longed to brush it aside so she could observe his features more closely. She had a need to study every plane, every imperfection—to commit each one to memory.

  Shaking herself free of her fanciful musings, Veluria took Antonio's arm and gently backed him to the bed, forcing him to sit. The movement caused a grunt of pain and another grimace. She was surprised he permitted her to see him so vulnerable. The Demon de' Medici she'd first met would never have allowed her such intimacy.

  Tonio inhaled a sharp breath and braced his arms against the comforter. "I need to go," he hissed but made no move to do so.

  She suspected he was past the point of having conscious control over his body. The migraine had him in its clutches and would not so easily be banished by sheer force of will. That he still tried was impressive enough.

  "Hush. Stay where you are."

  She gently nudged his thighs apart, the action causing the wool codpiece to tighten across his erection, though he seemed not to notice. She blushed to think she did. His arousal should be the least of her concerns yet it seemed to hold her undivided attention.

  She quickly loosened the ties on the jerkin and slipped it off his shoulders. With effort he lifted one hand, then the other off the bed so she could slide the vest out of the way. The room was stuffy and warm, the upper floor still retaining the heat of the day. His brow and upper lip were beaded with sweat. She needed to cool him off.

  He complained, "The light..."

  "Yes, I know, but I need to see what I'm doing." She paused and pulled his shirt free and tugged it over his head. "You're too hot. This will help."

  Even though he was sitting on the bed, the man was so massive he still towered over her. She gazed with admiration at the broad chest sprinkled with dark hair lightly peppered with gray. For some reason she'd never given thought to his age. Cosimo was in his sixties, though still virile. That would put Antonio in his mid-to-late thirties. In that time, no longer considered a young man. But he had the build of a Greek god with rock hard abs and bulges and grooves that begged for her tongue to explore...

  Oh my dear sweet Lord.

  She felt the probe before she saw the slight smile, a lopsided uptick to his lip. Through gritted teeth he asked, "Do you like what you see?"

  "No." Most definitely yes. "Just be still and keep your eyes closed. I'm going
to massage your temples, neck and shoulders."

  As she worked efficiently across all his chi points, she could see him visibly relax into her hands. Without suitable pharmaceuticals, or use of her powers, the best she could do was alleviate some of the worst of the discomfort. If he could sleep without the interruption of pain, his body would take care of the rest.

  Tonio gave a grunt of pain as she applied her thumbs to pressure points inflamed and ultra-sensitive to touch. She'd bypassed the bits about how much it might hurt to make it better. She was no empath but even so she could feel the tension flowing through her fingers to dissipate harmlessly through her system.

  She would take it all from him if she could.

  Antonio felt the first flush of relief followed by a biting sting, like someone rammed a stiletto through his eyeball, again and again.

  Caro Gesù dolce, she is killing me!

  Without thinking he grasped her waist and held on for dear life, fighting through the pain. Somehow, without using her powers, she drew the noxious vapors from his body into her own. How she could bear the vile stranglehold on her system, he had no idea. He knew her to be strong, but this ... this was unexpected.

  Why would she do this thing for him? She knew him for the loathsome creature he was—a hideous parody of humanity, without a soul, beyond redemption. She'd taken his measure and found him wanting. Yet still, she did this act of mercy.

  Would she have done this kindness had she known about his betrayal, his mindless fucking of the whore? But what was there to betray? They were not bonded, he had no claim to her, she had none to him. Not now.

  With a perversion borne of his pain and the ache in his heart, he opened to her, flooding her senses with his lust as he loosed his seed countless times, replacing the image of the coarse whore with Veluria's fragile form.

  She tensed and choked out, "Stop it, Tonio, stop!"

  Her tiny hands gripped his neck, but were too small to circle it. Instead she pressed both thumbs against his windpipe, cutting off his air. He could have thrown her across the room, but the pressure, the denial of air to his starved lungs, made his cock tighten, so hard it turned painful. Hips thrusting he forced the rough fabric to rub seductively along its swollen length. He was close, so very close.

  "Stefano, stop!" She moaned, then dropped her hands and backed away, eyes bright with tears.

  Fuck fuck fuck. What have I done?

  Veluria was backing to the door, confusion and despair turning her beautiful face into a picture of agony he would not soon forget. Before she could turn and bolt, he stumbled toward her, his head splitting in two. He must not allow her to leave, he had to explain his feelings, he had to say the words.

  Gathering Veluria close, he murmured, "I am not Stefano. I will never hurt you." He rubbed a cheek against her blue-black hair, leaving a streak of moisture.

  Dear God, what is this? Am I crying?

  He'd never cried in his entire life. He had to convince her that he meant her no harm, that he would protect her with his life. He would not ask for her affections in return for he was unworthy, but she must know this one thing in his heart.

  Antonio tilted Veluria's chin so that he could look into the fathomless depths of her soul, opening himself completely.

  Veluria protested, "Tonio, no, don't do this! It's too dangerous."

  Dangerous? She had no idea.

  He held her by the shoulders in a death grip, pouring all his power into her terrified eyes, until he stood naked, completely exposed. Releasing her he backed toward the bed, leaving her fragile body to sway unsteadily.

  Fists clasping and unclasping, he struggled to find the words that would send her away, that would confine him for all eternity to a shadow existence. He'd once accepted being condemned to a lifetime of being alone. That seemed a small sacrifice now. For her he would be willing to endure hell itself.

  With a heavy heart he said quietly, "I love you." Turning away, he spoke the words waiting to rip him asunder, "You are free to go."

  "No."

  Spinning to face her, unsure he'd heard it correctly, he sputtered, "Wha—?"

  Shrugging, Veluria gave him a weak smile. With blood pounding in his veins so hard he heard nothing but hope, saw nothing but desire, breathed nothing but her scent of honey and lavender.

  With a whisper she sealed their fates forever, "I love you too."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Andreas twitched as the electrodes pulsed with healing energy.

  "Sit still, man. You're not helping." The medic glared and returned to twiddling knobs and consulting the machine's readouts.

  That was easier said than done. After the shamans pronounced him unfit for duty, he'd been confined to headquarters for 'debriefing'. More like the Spanish Inquisition, sans robes and religious fervor.

  "That's all for today, Marcus." The voice came from the private elevator located at the rear of the boardroom. "Let the tissue heal of its own accord."

  "But, Your Holiness…" the medic objected, but hastily reconsidered when the prelate entered the room, his face set in a harsh frown. With alacrity, he removed the electrodes—leaving sticky residue on Andreas ankle—and packed away the leads and instrument detritus.

  Neither Andreas nor Matteo heard the medic leave.

  "So, Andreas, are you ready to tell me about this cock-up of yours?"

  "Not really," Andreas muttered, "but I guess I'm not getting a choice, am I?"

  "Better me than the full Council, boy." The tall man indicated that Andreas join him at the seating area near the broad expanse of plexiglass overlooking the city. He watched his acolyte limp painfully, concern briefly replacing the scowl.

  At the Reverend's 'can you manage', Andreas simply nodded and settled into the plush leather recliner with a grateful sigh. Matteo slid an ottoman close to the chair and helped Andreas lift his aching leg to settle it on a stack of pillows.

  The shamans had buzzed about stress fractures and spiral this and that, all of which went over his head. What he did know was it hurt like hell and wasn't getting any better. And apparently a less-than-graceful exit through a cobbled together gateway had wreaked additional havoc on the soft tissue.

  "You were lucky, you know."

  "You have a gift for stating the obvious, Matt."

  "The scientists have always suspected the gateway's energies might be … oh, what's the term they used?"

  "In-con-fucking-gruent?"

  Matteo laughed and went to a narrow sideboard bearing a decanter and heavy Murano goblets. "Can I get you anything, Andy?"

  "Yeah, whatever you're having and make it a double."

  "You want ice?"

  "Oh fuck yes." Andreas grinned at his superior. "You have no idea what it's like back then."

  "Then perhaps you will educate me?" Matteo tipped his goblet toward Andreas and sipped the amber liquid appreciatively.

  Andreas considered the tall man lounging on the settee opposite him. Matteo had eschewed his cleric's garb in favor of jeans and a tight-fitting tee-shirt that showcased an impressive physique. A former cyclist with turns in the Verrano Open and the now defunct French Pyrenees Challenge, he'd retained his lean build without resorting to the asceticism preached by his cohorts.

  "Well, you already know about the Sisterhood's involvement." He sipped the scotch and let the flavor explode on his tongue. The heavy amber goblet refracted light as the ice cubes bumped and jostled across the surface. He was buying time and Matteo knew it. But the man was nothing if not patient.

  At the prelate's 'um' of acknowledgment he continued, "They've sent an operative, one of their … super tarts," he did air quotes, "and she's quite good."

  "And does this one have a name?"

  "She's called Veluria…" He hesitated at Matteo's sharp intake of breath. "Do you know her?"

  "Not personally, no. But Tomas had an unfortunate encounter with this one on his last assignment."

  Andreas stared at the man, open-mouthed. He'd had no idea the
object of his desire was that operative. Tomas had had his mind scrubbed and placed in solitary for his own protection, his withdrawal so harsh he'd been on suicide watch for more than two cycles.

  "Andy. Did she get to you?" Matteo sat up straight, his eyes boring into his skull like blue laser beams.

  He felt the power like a slow trickle, a mere suggestion. If the prelate ever loosed his full spectrum, he'd crush him like a bug, shutting his internal organs down one at a time, maximizing the agony.

  He'd seen his superior do that during an especially entertaining interrogation of one of the Sisters a few years back. It had sent the gallery rushing to the exit, retching—all except for him. He had stayed and observed. That simple act of fate, serendipity as it were, had brought him to Matteo's attention and guaranteed his position in the Brotherhood.

  Under the man's guidance he had achieved clarity of purpose … amongst other things. If he admitted his culpability in succumbing to the whore's charms, he risked losing the man's trust and faith in his abilities to carry out the Order's prime directives.

  Fighting the familiar tightening in his groin, he decided full disclosure would gain him not only sympathy but perchance an opportunity to make a case for returning to that timeline. Matteo understood revenge all too well.

  Andreas said, "Hell, yeah, she got to me. Fuck man, it was a rush." He brandished the goblet and chuckled, "I even said a few Hail Marys as penance."

  Matteo barked a laugh, "Jesus, Andy. You did not." He rose and retrieved the decanter, refilling their goblets before asking slyly, "And what else?"

  "You're a bloodthirsty bastard, aren't you? How about I save the gory details for … later." Muttering, "Fuck," he twisted in the seat, trying to situate his leg to a more comfortable position.

  Once settled Andreas continued, "Here's what I know…"

  Two hours later, Andreas and Matteo sat glassy-eyed, having finished off the decanter. The plexiglass had automatically darkened to shield the room from the unrelenting afternoon sun.

  Matteo grunted and sat back against the cushions, processing the information. Out of the blue he said, "We lost the Grand Plaza last week."