The Shades of Time

by Diane Nelson

  Are you there, Tonio? Can you hear me? We're coming for you.

  Only the sounds of their labored breathing and the soft scuffling of boots on loose gravel and packed earth measured their progress. Veluria desperately hoped that the pain and misery of that single sound had come from some unfortunate creature of the night, prey in the grips of a predator. But she knew it came from Antonio and it was the final thing that snapped his control and forced him to vent his agony.

  The bastards had finally broken his body. She feared they'd broken his mind and his spirit as well. A flash of fury such as she'd never known or felt before blazed through her mind—Nico.

  Nico froze in place, allowing the echo of his brother's scream to wash through his senses in a cleansing flood of pitiless revenge. Veluria's terror had threatened to consume him. He needed to shut everything out, to allow the madness to take him, for nothing and no one mattered now. He knew what they'd done to his brother, every heinous act, every violation of body and spirit—the pain ripping through him with deft strokes, filling his throat with bile so thick he wanted to choke on it.

  It was the knowing that nearly did him in, the realization that they'd stripped Tonio of his reason for living, the warrior broken of will, weak and defenseless.

  Even now he felt them … the cruel delight in breaking a man's spirit, the bloodlust and perversion, the evil that permeated their souls.

  And he felt Antonio, awakening to memory—of who he was, of what he had been. Too late.

  Too late, too late, too late…

  Nico drew his blade and gestured toward the house, "He's in the courtyard." That he knew with certainty. But the rest was still a guess. He reached out, siphoning though confusing images, letting reason help him work through the possibilities. Finally he said, "There are two with him, the third must be occupied elsewhere."

  Antonio moaning, No, no, no…

  He was missing something but his men grew restless, waiting for his command. If he were seeking divine guidance he would not find it this night. He knew what lay on the other side of the walls. And for that a lifetime of penance would never be enough.

  Maso pointed to a broken window and muttered, "Through there?"

  Nico nodded agreement and took off at a run, calling back, "Paulo, with me."

  Circling swiftly around the rear of the hacienda, Nico and Paulo searched for the door that would lead to the kitchens. Nico smelled the stink of stale wine and rotting food off to his right. Their third man was crouched in the dim light from the partially open door, his head back, flask tipped. Blood red droplets sloshed over the rim to drip into the parched earth. The man's tongue reached for the liquid, eyes closed against the night.

  Nico took a fistful of greasy black hair and yanked back. The man's eyes popped open, staring upward in disbelief, then down at the blade slicing slowly across his jugular, the acrid stench of iron replacing the vinegary sweetness as the man exhaled his last breath. Nico settled the body face down and looked for Paulo.

  His man had taken position at the door, sword at the ready. With a nod at his commander he slipped through the opening and disappeared into the maw of the kitchen. Nico continued around the corner of the building looking for another doorway but finding none. He would have to resort to the front door.

  Feeling time slipping away, he angled away from the building, and from the weak light filtering through the windows. He relied on his men's training and discipline to wait for his sign. All about him the night had come alive, sounds magnified, drowning out the drumming of his heart and the painful raspy gasps as he stutter-stepped to avoid broken bits of stonework.

  A lantern illuminated a small patch of porch and weed-strewn yard. It hung suspended on an ornate wrought iron hanger, swaying in an invisible breeze. Tempted to extinguish the candle, he decided instead to allow his eyes to adjust to the light. Once he entered the house he would need all his faculties. He couldn't risk being even temporarily blinded. That thought brought him up short.

  He could feel his men, their patience wearing thin. It was time to confront what he most feared … having to free his brother into a hell no man deserved, let alone one who commanded his love and respect. Would he take the coward's way out, did he secretly wish that the choice would be conveniently removed?

  Only now was he coming to the full realization that rescuing Antonio might mean releasing him into God's grace.

  Whispering, "Sweet Mother of God, give me strength," he opened the heavy oak door, his promise to Veluria weighing heavy on his soul for he feared he would keep it and earn his brother's everlasting hate.

  You will mistake pity for love and that which has not destroyed him this night will surely do so when kindness and caring become the torture he can no longer bear.

  Sliding through the opening he moved his blade to his left hand, the metal warm to the touch, and replaced it with his sword. No amount of blood would feed his voracious need for revenge. Blackness invaded his soul and he welcomed the void, knowing what he was now was nothing compared to what he would become.

  Nico raced through the foyer, no longer caring if they heard him, saw him. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Maso rushing off to his right to engage in a blur of metal and incomprehensible shouts.

  Paulo? Where was Paulo?

  He knew Tonio writhed against his restraints but he refused to look. Not yet. The sight would transfix, distract. He couldn't afford that.

  From the bowels of the surrounding rooms men poured, some still rubbing eyes heavy with wine and sleep, cursing in a language Nico didn't understand.

  Dear sweet Jesus, they faced an army of armed men. Why did I not feel this?

  Paulo bellowed in anger and dismay, his alert coming too little too late. There were too many for Nico to focus on anything but his brother's anger and agony. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up in warning. He spun in time to avoid being gutted, going down on one knee and angling the sword upward. His attacker's momentum carried him forward. Eyes wide, arms pinwheeling, the man sought to halt his precipitous advance only to land impaled on Nico's sword.

  Switching his blade to his right hand, Nico rolled past shuffling feet, slicing neatly through Achilles tendons before coming to a stop on his hands and knees. With a lunge, he raced back to grab his sword, seeking Maso and Paulo. Both men were pinned, backs to the wall, Paulo bleeding from a slice to his cheek and Maso splattered with blood and gore. Nico couldn't tell if it was Maso's or his opponents.

  His men fought well but visibly tired under the onslaught. Nico waded in, his blood boiling, forgetting technique in favor of blunt force assault, the ring of steel-on-steel music to his ears.

  Tonio called to him. He tried to shut him out but the voice in his head was insistent.

  Use me…

  Dammit. His brother offered what little power remained to him. Nico shuddered at what it cost Tonio but accepted the gift and added the weak life force lingering in his brother's soul.

  The one called Tomas. Save him for me…

  I'll save him for both of us.

  Veluria gasped when Christo crumbled to his knees, weakness, pain and loss of blood finally draining the man of all stamina.

  "A moment, madam," he husked, voice wracked with dismay that he showed such weakness.

  There was a moment when time suspended, when Veluria imagined the gateway appearing, Reverend Mother on the other side beckoning her home. With all her heart she wished for nothing more than the safety of her world, relief from the unrelenting violence, the harsh reality of a time so alien she quaked at the otherness and feared what it might do to her psyche.

  I don't want to love him. Not like this.

  But who, what did she love? The charming man-child who amused and delighted her senses, who'd become a vicious pervert with his universe turned inside out until only pain begot pleasure? She felt responsible for Stefano, inextricably so.

  But her heart beat for the man who had been stolen from her before she had a chance to e
xplore what her feelings meant, before understanding the depth of the Demon's commitment, his bond so formidable, so compelling, she nearly drowned in the power he offered her. Without reservation, he'd bared his innermost secrets—a man without mercy, without compassion, who believed himself forever damned. That demon gave her his heart to do with what she will. Yet to allow him to love her would be his death, for he would not survive the loss to come and that was a stain on her soul she'd carry to her grave.

  She'd allowed Antonio to need her, an unacceptable error.

  Perhaps it would be best for him to die this day, my child. You would save him the pain of your betrayal.

  But what of me, Reverend Mother, what of me?

  There is no you, dearest Veluria. You are but a construct, a tool. You are your Sisters, the One. You will return to your home when this is finished … and forget.

  Veluria quailed at the thought of abandoning the people she'd grown to care for. Even Nico, strong, intelligent, savage in his devotion…

  Damaged goods. Damaged heart. I have the power to heal it.

  Be careful, child. There are many types of betrayal. Do not confuse compassion with love.

  Veluria bent to adjust the makeshift bandage on Christo's arm when the night air split with shouts and the unmistakable ring of metal on metal, the gurgling screams of men dying, gagging on blood and bile. The terrible sound of retribution.

  Christo barked, "Help me to my fe—" but the words choked off mid-sentence.

  Veluria watched in horror as the man she would have called friend pitched forward, blood pooling by his severed neck, the head rolling off into the darkness. Blanching, she turned to face her attackers, recognizing at once that the men staring at her with interest were the two they'd seen heading into the village.

  She couldn't understand the rapid exchange but from their leers she knew they'd determined her sex and were already congratulating themselves on coming upon such an unexpected prize. They seemed unconcerned about the din and screams coming from the house. When the tall one leaned close she realized why—his breath, his body, stank of ale and garlic and sex. Drunk. Perhaps too drunk to register the sounds of slaughter.

  But who? Who screamed their last breath? Panic danced in her chest, sending flutters of fear into her throat, her ears hammering dull staccato beats. Icy tendrils skittered up and down her spine, the fleeting registers of chaos and cruelty staking a claim to her consciousness, edging close. She was being buried alive in terror that only imagination could claim.

  Weaving slightly, the taller of the two pinched her upper arm painfully and dragged her toward the house. Her sword lay on the ground next to Christo's body, useless. All she had left was the blade stuck in her boot. She would use it, on herself if necessary. She had no illusions about surviving this intact.

  The smell was throat-gagging strong, the air laden with gore, dust and blood, trapped inside the enclosed space, an arena of death and destruction. Veluria slipped on something slick and nearly went down, her mind closing against the possibilities. Her captor jerked her up and thrust her forward into a sea of bodies—men who had once been whole but now lay shattered on a killing field, no longer recognizable as human.

  Veluria's mind blanked at the sight—Antonio strung up like a carcass, twisting weakly, kicking out as Nico pressed his two attackers back, his sword arm bleeding freely. Tonio managed to connect with one, causing the man to stumble. It was all Nico needed to gut him.

  Feeling the madness grip her she screamed at Nico but her words were lost in clang of metal and the roaring of madmen locked in mortal combat. The man holding her dropped her arm briefly so he could draw his sword.

  It was all she needed. The blade lay nestled in her boot, so near, yet so far. He was quicker than she would have given him credit for, the sword brandished with drunken glee. But she was faster and nimbler. Dropping to a crouch, she gripped the hilt and yanked the blade free, nicking her calf in the process. The slice stung but was shallow.

  The man reached down and yanked her long braid, dragging her off the ground and shaking her like a dog with a bone. Scalp screaming in protest, she bit her lip and waited until he set her down, backhanding her cheek so hard she saw stars. She stumbled back, whimpering, her head ducking as she clutched her cheek with her left hand, the right fingering the blade until she had a firm grip. When he approached to deliver another blow, she bobbed away, and feigned a stumble, coming in low, below his fist, and buried the blade to the hilt in his groin.

  The bellow of rage and pain was lost to the bedlam around her. The blade slid reluctantly out of the soft flesh with a satisfying pop. He had yet to release her so she sliced the wrist holding the sword, the blood spurting to coat her face as the weapon slipped from his grasp. With cold-blooded precision she grasped the heavy sword and drove it deep into the soft belly tissue.

  The man staggered for a heartbeat, then dropped like a rock to lie writhing at her feet. Time stilled once more as she contemplated what she'd done. Her first kill. She knew with certainty, on this night, it wouldn't be her last.

  Grimly Veluria turned to confront the horror that would haunt her to the end of days.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "Do not look, M'lady." Paulo gripped her arm, tugging gently. "This is not for your eyes."

  Is this what our world becomes, Reverend Mother, this insanity? Beasts released to ravage all we've built? Have we learned nothing?

  No, my child. For history is never our savior and ever our weakness, and the peace we safeguard is as dust in the wind.

  Then why am I here?

  To salvage what we can…

  Salvage? Is there no hope?

  Find the other, Veluria. We shall need both of you now.

  "M'lady, please…"

  "No, Paulo. I am strong."

  "Strong enough for…" he waved his hand at the carnage, "…this?"

  Veluria's voice cracked, "Not for this. No."

  With trembling fingers she gripped Paulo's wrist until he grunted in pain. They watched Nico cut his brother down, the hemp yielding ungracefully, thick ochre fibers splaying out in ragged clumps, the sword edge dulled to near uselessness. Tenderly he wrapped his arms about Tonio's waist and lowered the shattered body to the blood-soaked earth.

  Paulo pleaded with eyes clouded in pain, "I must help him."

  Reluctantly she freed the man and followed slowly as they staggered, single file, through a hellish landscape, the air already thick with the stench of death, cloying at the back of her throat. She listened for a moment, insects buzzing fitfully, the horde yet to descend, savoring what little peace remained before the internal screaming shut all her senses down.

  What shall I do if he lives?

  Hope that he does not, child.

  Nico murmured something to Paulo, his man carefully averting his eyes from the wreckage that was once his brother. Sound echoed hollowly as Paulo moved away to do his commander's bidding. She followed the man with sightless eyes, unwilling to look down, mind blanked, denying the acceptance that would free her, free him.

  Nico sank to his knees and pulled his brother into his arms, knowing full well that every touch was agony, that not a spare inch of flesh remained undamaged, the violation so cruel she had no idea how her Demon had survived so long.

  Veluria crouched low, finally willing her eyes to see, to comprehend the atrocity she could no longer deny. She whispered, "Dear God, how does he live?"

  Nico stared at her, eyes dry and hardened to pinpricks of hate. Slowly, carefully, he pivoted Antonio's body for her to see the true horror, leaving her to gasp for air. Falling to the ground, she scrabbled away, fighting the nausea. The stone pillar gave her something to brace against as she retched her agony into the barren blood-soaked soil.

  Please don't let him live, not like this, robbed of all his senses, his very manhood. No man should suffer so.

  Would Nico have the strength? What would his conscience dictate? His love for Antonio was a palpable thing
, his pain and suffering so profound her mind paled at the depths of his despair.

  Paulo approached with a handful of clean cloths and handed them gingerly to Nico, taking care not to touch his commander. It was not out of fear, but out of respect. The two brothers were joined in ways neither she nor Paulo could ever understand, and every fiber of her being dictated she turn away from what was to come.

  Tentatively she probed, seeking that last essence of the soul Antonio had revealed, the promise of his love … the love she did not want and did not deserve. Instead she found a wall shutting her out, closing off the inner being, the man who would be demon and lover and protector now locked with the one who knew him best. It was as it should be. She had no place in this world; she was alien to this time, both a shadow and a lie.

  Paulo spoke softly, though his voice intruded like a shout, grating and unexpected, "Sire, what do you wish me to do?"

  Nico hissed a breath, glancing first at her, then at his man. "Find Cristo and Maso. We shall not leave them in this place without paying our final respects."

  "Sir." Paulo turned to attend to the grisly task of recovering the remains of his brothers-in-arms, but stopped and asked quietly, "How many?"

  Veluria was uncertain what he meant until Nico replied grimly, "Three." At that point she knew her prayers would be answered and the beginning of her search for absolution would commence.

  "M'lady, leave us. Please."

  "No, I cannot." She said it with as much resolve as she could muster. What he asked next nearly derailed her.

  "Did you love him?"

  Did she love him? Veluria noted the use of past tense, as if her feelings could be so shallow that they'd not survive when confronted with a mere shell of a man, all he'd been, all he could be hacked off like hunks of meat. Butchery so complete she wondered if he could still be called a man.