The Shades of Time

by Diane Nelson

  She cared, deeply. She understood the gift he'd offered, the promise he made although even he could not fully appreciate the depths of his own yearnings. That it had been for naught, an unrealized, unconsummated passion—did that make it less real, less authentic?

  She loved, for that was her reason for existence, part and parcel of her training. She was a master of the physical and emotional, cursed to wield her abilities in the service of a greater good. What she'd never realized until she'd met Antonio was that her spiritual being had lain dormant, untouched by all. Antonio believed he had no soul, yet he offered her that phantom gift and in so doing it became real … and hers alone.

  Did she love him? She'd asked herself that question dozens of times. She thought, she hoped, there was an answer, but now she would never know.

  Nico deserved the truth. It was all the comfort she could offer to either of them.

  "Yes, I could have loved him."

  He nodded in understanding, then rose onto his knees and gently positioned Antonio on his back, grimacing at the sight splayed out in mute testimony to courage and self-sacrifice. With tenderness he pressed the cloths onto his brother's ruined face, his mouth set in a grim line. Antonio weakly grasped Nico's wrist with his left hand, leaving it there in silent supplication.

  Veluria knelt by the men and placed a trembling hand on top of Nico's.

  "Does he know I'm here?"

  "No, M'lady. I will not allow that. Even he is not strong enough to bear your witnessing this."

  Together they waited until Antonio's life force dissipated into the waiting night, the hand that had gripped Nico's wrist falling softly to earth, lying in repose. The huge man seemed somehow diminished, smaller in death than his fearsome presence in life had been, in the end just a man. Not a demon nor a devil.

  Veluria said, "His suffering is over." She made no effort to mask the relief she felt.

  "I fear, M'lady, that his suffering is just begun."

  Veluria looked at him with surprise and stuttered, "Wha—?"

  Nico carefully crossed his brother's arms over the massive chest, then stood with difficulty. Veluria followed suit and moved to stand next to the grieving man.

  He asked, "Do you believe?"

  "Believe?"

  "In your world. Do you have hell?"

  Veluria wasn't sure how to answer, yet she knew he needed the assurance. "Yes, we had this," she pointed to the courtyard and continued, "but on a scale that not even you could imagine." With a shudder she growled, "We brought hell to the living."

  "Then nothing changes."

  "No, Nico, nothing changes. That's why I am here."

  Nico shrugged and said, "We will leave that discussion for another day, for when we find comfort in each other's arms. For now, we must pay our respects."

  Veluria gaped as Nico bent and gathered his brother's body into his arms, as if he weighed nothing.

  Are you strong enough for that?

  Yes, M'lady, I am strong enough for this.

  He was the key.

  No, M'lady. You are wrong.

  Nico carried his burden to the rear of the building, exiting through the kitchens. She trailed behind him, pondering his words.

  Antonio's death refused to register. Her training and analytic mind took over, sparing her the burden of dealing with her errant emotions. She should be grateful for the automaton she'd always been, yet this family, these men and the violence of their time had somehow corrupted her control and left her caring. They'd breeched her once impenetrable defenses. Would the Sisterhood be able to repair the damage or would she be cast adrift to spend the rest of her days in loneliness and despair?

  What if she could not fulfill her mission? That had always been a possibility—that she could and would be collateral damage. Yet the bigger question remained—how much of the horror of this day lay at the feet of her and her kind? Had she so compromised the timeline by her actions as to render the coming cataclysm inevitable? Was their deity exacting retribution for their folly and hubris in manipulating time and space? They meddled with history, paying obeisance to ancient principles, yet vindicating the endgame with false justifications and an unerring belief in the righteousness of science.

  Veluria stood under the shelter of an olive tree and watched Nico and Paulo dig shallow graves in the soft earth of a weed-strewn garden. The men worked silently, sweat streaking bloody faces, arms and chests, with only the chink of metal on stone to disturb the frail pallor of grief. She wondered if any amount of washing would cleanse their bodies of the layers of hate and rage. It was far easier to clutch the hard kernel of anger, to hold it close, to nurture it like a lover. Gentleness and caring sloughed too easily away, replaced by an ugliness that was a cancer consuming the soul.

  She turned away as the men lowered the bodies into the shared grave, Maso first, then Cristo and finally Antonio. Nico looked up expectantly, eyes questioning. She gathered a handful of dirt and approached, one foot in front of the other, her shadow-self leading a solemn procession of all whose fates rested on this moment in time.

  Never taking her eyes off Nico's face, she tossed the dirt onto the remains and murmured, "Requiem in pace," and touched her lips, brow and heart in order while the two men made the sign of the cross. When the men shoveled the first mounds of earth into the grave, she backed away and walked quickly to the other side of the house, her heart threatening to burst.

  Nico found her much later and held her head as she dry heaved onto parched soil. With regret he informed her, "It is not over yet."

  Nico lifted her easily and settled her against the tree trunk, keeping his massive hands braced on her narrow shoulders. She shook her head to indicate she didn't understand.

  "We found one still living. He is the one…"

  She gasped, "The one who did … that to-to…" The words trailed off as she fought against the memory.

  "Yes." There was a frightening terseness, almost an eager anticipation to that single word.

  "Why are you telling me this, Nico? Let it be over. Please. Let's just leave this wretched place to the vultures."

  Nico tipped her head up and stared into her eyes. She didn't like what she saw.

  "You said you would cut their balls off and make them eat them raw." Darkness descended over his ragged features, cruelty etching fine lines about his lips and eyes. "And I said you could do that after I was done with them."

  She whispered, "And are you done with him?"

  "I have yet to start." With that he spun and marched back to the house, disappearing through the door into the dim reaches of the foyer. She heard the footfalls on tile, then nothing.

  Nico had made her an offer, a chance to exact revenge. Why? What did that prove? Did he doubt her feelings for his brother? Was he punishing her for the equivocation, having expected a more impassioned avowal of her feelings?

  Somehow that seemed wrong, too out of synch with what she knew of the man. The Demon had proven his cruel, unforgiving nature but what of his brother? Rumor had it they shared abilities though Nico never exercised the level of power and control and sheer dominance of his brother. Tonio had been the merciless assassin.

  So what manner of man was Nicolo de' Medici? Beyond the power broker image, he was the man who loved unreservedly, only to be cast aside and swept away with grief over his daughter's death—a death for which he held the blame tight to his heart. He was a man who loved his brothers and his family above all others, who would willingly die to protect them.

  Were all who felt the unbridled passions of love and lust the same as those who found solace in ruthlessness and spite? She'd seen no spark of that divine madness that allowed retribution using the most heinous acts. There'd been nothing but a glacial determination in his eyes. And unless she stopped him, he would slip into a hell beyond even his imagining.

  She knew in her gut Nico no longer cared about his own soul. But she did. And that was a path forbidden to her kind. Her own hell beckoned as she teetered on the
brink of choices made in the heat of the moment rather than cold, hard analytics.

  Massaging her temples, she tried to recall something he'd said, something that should have raised a flag but did not at the time. His peculiar statement, '…when we find comfort in each other's arms,' had a ring of truth. And a promise that sent shivers up her spine, whether in fear or something else she couldn't say. But there was more…

  He'd said she was wrong. Antonio was not the key. Then who or what was? And how did Nico even know that? She'd risked all by opening herself to Antonio. Then she'd invited Nico in, just far enough to share powers, to find Tonio. That was it. Had he slipped in using Tonio's link? Was that even possible?

  If what she suspected were true, then Nicolo had knowledge he was not meant to possess. Tonio had shared that knowledge yet he cared little for the particulars, intent only on the passion he felt. Nico on the other hand, knew and understood her mission—she was sure of it.

  What he intended to do about it remained to be seen.

  At the first scream, she raced into the house, ignoring all but the tragedy repeating itself in front of her eyes.

  "Nico, stop!" Ears ringing with the echoes of agony, she pleaded, "Nico, you are better than this. Please, please don't be like them…"

  Nico turned and scowled down at her, his face contorted in a nightmarish mix of pleasure and pain. His brother had been a demon, but this man was more, far more—he was the weapon that would destroy them all.

  Sneering, Nico spat, "Madam, you don't understand."

  "Understand what?" She already knew the answer but needed to keep him talking, focused on her and not the evil threatening to pervade his being.

  "Today I am exactly like them."

  "And what of tomorrow, who will you be then?" He kept his face blank but she caught a tremor in his lower lip as he warred with his need for revenge and the exacting price it would cost his immortal soul.

  To Paulo he said, "You are free to go," and watched as his man nodded his understanding.

  They waited a heartbeat, two, then Veluria said with conviction, "You are the key, aren't you? You shared energies, masquerading one for the other, indistinguishable." It was so clear now that only one of the pair remained. She wondered if the Brotherhood operative realized their error. If he did not, then there might still be hope.

  Nico laughed, the sound oddly grating amidst the silence of death and the man whimpering as he hung suspended, awaiting his execution.

  "I admire your dedication, M'lady." The hint of sarcasm stung but she deserved it. "But as I said before, this is a conversation for another time…" He allowed the final thought to linger unspoken.

  Veluria blushed, vexed that he could twist her emotions so easily. She spat out, "Finish it."

  "Do you still wish to … participate?"

  Her throat tight, she came to a decision. She'd made her first kill this vile day. She knew it would not be the last.

  Handing her a sword, Nico stepped away and gave her room to advance. The man's eyes were squeezed shut in silent prayer as his body twisted against what was to come.

  Heat—boiling, hot enough to curdle her blood—sent a wave of nausea through her gut. She lifted the weapon and angled sideways. The man whimpered once and pleaded in a language she couldn't understand, though she could taste his terror.

  Nico whispered, "You loved him."

  "Yes."

  "Then I shall end it."

  But only if I prove myself to you. Why, Nico, why?

  Because we are one now.

  I'm not strong enough for this.

  But I am. Together. For Antonio. For the man we both loved.

  Paulo gazed wide-eyed as two swords rose as one, then quietly melted into the dusk. Pausing at the grave he said softly, "It is done." For the second time, he'd been released from his obligations. He was free to go.

  With his back to a tree he patiently waited for his commander and his lady.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Andreas let his eyes sweep the dais. It was one of the few liberties permitted when faced with the full Council in regal attendance. The fact that all fifteen members chose that day to put in an appearance indicated the seriousness of the current situation.

  Matteo sat to the far right, studiously ignoring him as was their way. The man paid rigid attention to forms, insulating his people from the vagaries of fanaticism through ritual and a keen understanding of mathematics.

  "Hand me my cassock, boy."

  Andreas moved to comply. Matteo stood in front of a full-length mirror, frowning at the reflection.

  "You have not worn formal choir vestments in years, Matt." He slid the sleeves of the garment up his prelate's arms and adjusted the tight-fitting shoulder seams over the fine-weave tunic. "I'm surprised it still fits."

  Matteo gave him a rude gesture and smiled grimly. "Are you worried?"

  "Should I be?" It was a valid question. Although Matteo had assured him that the convocation was a briefing only, he couldn't get past feeling that he was headed to the woodshed for a good stropping. Or last rites.

  "I told you before, if there's punishment to mete out, the old men take volunteers. Few have the stomach for it anymore." The man carefully buttoned the ankle length robe, fumbling with the ornate wooden toggles.

  "Here, let me." Andreas moved in front of his lover, crouching to reach the lowest set, and finished the task. Smoothing the fine fabric over Matteo's slim form, he turned to the valet to retrieve the lacy rochet. "Lean down, you're too tall for me to reach."

  Matteo muttered, "Shrimp," as he lowered his head to receive the overgarment. The narrow fit of the cassock allowed the flowing sleeves of the rochet to settle elegantly about his wrists. Not bothering to hide the complaint he said, "I feel like a fucking fop."

  "It's tradition…"

  "Don't start." Matteo grimaced. "I can't stand that ancient tune."

  Andreas bit his lip, choking back the urge to hum the melody. Normally such teasing would have the man chuckling, but this day he sheltered behind his ceremonial garb, sober to the point of glumness. What did he know that he wasn't sharing?

  "Which cape, Your Holiness?"

  Matteo chose to ignore the sarcasm and said, "Just the mozzetta today, Andy." He sighed with displeasure, "And the zucchetto." He set the small red cap on his slicked-back greying curls and surveyed the effect.

  Andreas stared with awe. The man was magnificent. He moved to stand side-by-side with his lover and superior, not bothering to hide his admiration for the man who'd chosen him above all others.

  Matteo's features softened incrementally as he scanned the small figure standing beside him. He fingered the rough woolen robe and said, "I'm sorry for the discomfort. I had the costumers scrape the inner fibers to remove some of the coarser bits. But we had to leave it mostly as is."

  Andreas nodded he understood. His comfort hardly mattered in the big scheme of things. The wool fabric irritated his skin in a satisfying way, a constant reminder of his mission and his resolve. His small stature, while unusual in his own time, allowed him to fit in easily, to become truly invisible to the masses going about their daily lives.

  What he couldn't understand was why Matteo, of all men, would choose him as consort. He was nothing, no one…

  "I know what you're thinking, boy, and you're wrong. How often do I have to tell you…" he let the words trail off and pulled Andreas to stand in front of him.

  When Matteo gripped his arms and leaned in to nuzzle his ear, Andreas groaned, "Don't, Matt, you'll get the vestments dirty."

  "You're right. The Three would have my ass in a sling if I showed up less than pristine." He backed away marginally and said, "It's time."

  Andreas murmured, "Yes," but remained rooted to the spot, struggling to find the words that eluded him. Finally he said, "I feel like…"

  "…we'll never see each other again," Matteo finished the thought. The tall man's eyes grew soft with longing and regret. "We know the risks."


  "It doesn't make it any easier."

  "That's why we have faith, Andy."

  Andreas had no answer to that. What he had was more—and less—than simple faith. And it waited for him on the other side. But that was not something he would willingly share with the man who'd given him his heart. He had no qualms about breaking with his faith but he would suffer grievously if he ever lost Matteo's regard.

  That his lust continued to be a real and present danger was something he agonized over nearly every minute of every day. There would be opportunity. There would be a choice. He would own his betrayal when the time came.

  He followed his superior down the hall leading to a set of antechambers. Matteo ushered him into an austere room, no more than ten by ten, with a single mahogany bench set against a cream stuccoed wall.

  When Andreas settled onto the seat, Matteo leaned over him and lightly brushed his mouth, running his tongue along the bottom lip, savoring the taste.

  Cupping his chin, the man said intently, "Pay careful attention, Andreas. The playing field has changed dramatically."

  "I ask you again. Do I need to worry?"

  "Yes, my love. You do." He stood, head bent, and made the sign of the cross over Andreas. "I fear this time … we both do."

  Matteo paused at the door and said, so quietly Andreas' strained to hear the words, "If you take her, will you love her?" Without waiting for a reply he disappeared into the Council's chambers and shut the door with an audible snick.

  Andreas fingered the stiletto, tempted to seek a distraction in the carefully applied cuts, his emotions seething with the wish to say no but his body already responding to the implied promise.

  He needed the prelate. He craved the woman. Time and distance had done nothing to alleviate the constant yearning in his soul.