The Shades of Time

by Diane Nelson

  The hands that gripped her shoulders with punishing intensity promised violence, the man so out-of-control she believed him capable of anything at that moment.

  She grew lightheaded, the silence, the total absence of sound amidst a cacophony of emotion, stretched her resources thin. Nico's groin pressed against her back. He would not feel the slick weeping as her flesh ripped to the sweet sting, Stefano's hiss of pleasure amidst the damning words of comfort.

  With an effort she pulled back, forcing her concentration on the here and now. Time warped and wavered and her senses told her they no longer had the luxury of engaging in such sport.

  Talking, always talking, never doing… The other awaited her.

  It was time.

  Time.

  The tunnel echoed with the unspoken words.

  She is mine.

  Do what you must.

  I will not leave her.

  Protect…

  The willow stick whistled, such a sweet melody, slippery, slick, the taste of iron thick on her tongue, soothing her parched throat…

  Thrusting, driving, his sobs rend her soul, possessing her, devouring her.

  She is mine.

  No Tonio, she was never yours. She never will be.

  ****

  The dim light in the room told her evening quickly advanced. She'd been out for hours. She lifted her head to find Nico staring with anxious eyes.

  "How do you feel, sweetheart?" Nico gathered her close and stroked her hair.

  She mumbled into his chest. "What happened?"

  "You had another episode. My father put you out," he shrugged, "if that's the correct term."

  Veluria said, "We call it stasis."

  While grateful for the older man's intervention, for she was sure she had needed it, she wasn't happy about how both men seemed able to exercise so much control over her body and her senses.

  Cradling her breast, his thumb flicking the nipple until it stood taut, Nico gazed with hooded eyes, his breath ragged with need. Lazily tracing his fingers over the soft rise of her belly, he probed her moist folds, his lips purring against her throat like a great jungle cat.

  Playing her body like an instrument, his mouth wandered at will until she lost focus and gave in to the man's power and dominance. She arched her hips as he pleasured her beyond her endurance. With a cry she answered his silent plea…

  Yes, Nico, I am yours.

  ****

  Cosimo watched the carriage drive away. The retinue was smaller than he would have preferred but it would do on short notice. Paulo had done a good job of securing some of the city's better swordsmen, if not the most savory. Of their loyalty to Florence there was little doubt. Paulo and his son would see to it that they acquitted themselves well in service to the family.

  He'd slept little, partially because not even their thick walls could muffle the telltale sounds of his son's impressive stamina. But mostly he'd fretted over the confusing mountain of information that the woman had reluctantly offered under his unrelenting attack. He understood little of the particulars but the broad outlines were clear. Each world existed as a shadow of the other. It mattered not how. He was willing to leave that conundrum to men of letters who would spend lifetimes analyzing and arguing and coming to false conclusions.

  He regretted inflicting so much pain, but it was a necessary consequence to justify learning what he could. Time was never on anyone's side and he'd learned early on not to rely on it. Cosimo disliked causing his son dismay, and to his surprise he realized he also felt compassion for the woman and the difficult choices she would face. What those choices would mean to his son.

  He understood their current precarious situation, swords at every throat, the fate of the continent teetering on shaky alliances, ill-begotten marriages and the insatiable hunger for power.

  All he wanted was peace and an opportunity to build a legacy of prosperity for Tuscany and the Famiglia Medici. What he foresaw was war and the disintegration of his direct line, but not the house. That would survive. But only if Nico and the strangers averted events that still lurked in the shadows.

  He wondered if he would ever see any of them again.

  "Sire? I brought your meal." Tomas set the tray on the bench and joined him at the window.

  Cosimo said quietly, "It feels unsettled, does it not?" He looked up at the clear sky and shrugged. The coming storm he sensed had nothing to do with the weather. Turning to his secretary, he smiled grimly and spoke with a voice filled with remorse, "Sometimes it is better not to know."

  Tomas looked confused for a moment, wondering if that were a question he was expected to answer. When Cosimo returned to gazing out the window, he asked instead, "Shall I have Stefano's quarters prepared, sire?"

  Cosimo ignored the question and moved to sit on the bench. He surveyed the food on the tray, lost in thought.

  "Sire?"

  "Take this away. I'm not hungry."

  Tomas picked up the tray and said again, "Stefano's quarters, sire."

  Irritated at the man's persistence, he barked, "No," then apologized quickly and said, "Not yet, Tomas."

  The man quickly retired, leaving Cosimo alone once more. He wandered back to the window and gazed at the wind rustling the trees.

  With a sigh, he muttered, "Not yet."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Andreas prowled the narrow halls with increasing frustration. Veluria's presence was everywhere and nowhere, yet so far he'd failed to penetrate the barriers she'd so cleverly erected. He'd not detected that kind of power when first he'd become aware of her presence and he puzzled over its source.

  The few times he'd managed to caress her senses he'd found they opened like petals on a rose, the scent sweet and intoxicating, yielding as she was trained, as if she'd been created solely for him.

  "Father, a word." The Monsignor grabbed his arm and propelled him quickly to a small alcove where they could speak privately.

  One thing they'd learned early on, the walls had eyes and ears. Little escaped the voyeuristic Duke and his lackeys. It had taken his considerable skills to determine the few places where he and the prelate could talk undisturbed.

  As the Monsignor chattered on about packing up their entourage and heading back to Venice, he raced through all the possible reasons he could bring to bear to convince the man to stay.

  "Your Holiness." Desperation gave his voice an edge that caught the prelate's attention. The man looked down at him curiously.

  "Well?"

  "The Medici son is here for a reason."

  The Monsignor sneered, "Of course he is. He and his father, that merchant…" he spat the word with distaste, "…are simply currying favor with a man who stands to gain a position in the Reichstag."

  "But…"

  "Cosimo's no fool. He's not going to rely on that idiot pup, Stefano, to see to his plans being carried out. The boy's use is to provide heirs," he snorted and leered at Andreas as if he were somehow to blame, then continued, "but from what we've seen and heard, that won't be happening anytime soon."

  Andreas sputtered, "But Cosimo can't possibly know…"

  "Oh don't be so naïve, boy. Of course he knows. Everybody knows. Why do you think he dragged Nicolo from Carlos' court? He needs to make sure Friedrich doesn't go off and make alliances with undesirable elements in the Reichstag." He chuckled, "Not everyone is on board with Maximillian's grandson as heir apparent."

  "But, Holiness, you cannot know that for a fact. There may be other reasons, and if we leave precipitously, there will be no way to know or to safeguard your and Venice's interests." He stood to his full five-feet-eight and stared at the prelate, prepared to use his last trump card. "The Papacy goes whichever way Florence goes. If Friedrich is as unreliable as you suggest, then would it not be in your best interest to have an ear in the court so that you may be alerted ahead of time."

  The Monsignor considered Andreas words and said, "That idea has merit. But I still plan to leave, tomorrow if possible. T
he seasons turn and travel will be difficult, if not impossible soon."

  Andreas' gut churned. He hadn't received the dispensation he needed to justify remaining behind. He wasn't so foolish as to think the Duke stupid enough not to recognize a blatant spy when he saw one. Right now he wandered the halls unremarked because he'd been billed a simple-minded monk of no consequence. As part of the Monsignor's group he was invisible. Alone he would stick out like a sore thumb and come under the very watchful eyes of the Duke's enthusiastic guard.

  He also did not wish to be singled out for the Friedrich's special attentions. Though he hadn't seen the infamous 'parlor' himself, he could well imagine what delights it might hold. He appreciated a man with eclectic tastes, having his own particular interests, but he had no intention of being on the receiving end of perverted sexual torture under the guise of religious fanaticism.

  He might not have been the best student Matteo ever had when it came to history, but the Inquisition would seem tame compared to what the fair Duke considered righteous retribution.

  Andreas called down the hallway to the Monsignor's retreating back, "Holiness, wha—?"

  "I will think on it, Father. See me on the morrow."

  Frowning, Andreas spun in the opposite direction. There was little to be gained from fretting over things he couldn't control. It would be better to gather more information while he had the opportunity. He had no intention of returning with the prelate to Venice.

  For now he needed to figure out why no one had seen the Medici pup for over a week. The Duke's daughter, Wiltrud, was known to spend her evenings in meditation in the chapel. She was most likely praying for divine intervention to relieve her of the burden of a loveless marriage or thanking her deity for having the foresight to provide her father with a new toy and leaving her, and her sisters, to go about their lives relatively free of parental intervention.

  If he were a betting man, he'd go with door number two.

  ****

  Veluria wriggled on the uncomfortable bench, the stays cutting into her ribcage and precluding any thought of actually enjoying the generous repast set out by the Duke's kitchens. A hunter by avocation, the man's passion provided an astonishing array of table fare: wild boar, venison, pheasant, rabbit and small birds that she assumed were quail.

  The keep that housed the banquet hall was part of the original ancient structure with thick walls, a perpetually dim interior and the dank musty smell of too many unwashed bodies intermingled with wet dogs and stale urine.

  Surprisingly, she was the only female in attendance, the duke's daughters feigning illness or disinterest in affairs of state. In any other court it would have been construed as rudeness of the highest order but the Duke seemed content with the arrangement, and none remarked on the oddity.

  If Nico was concerned, he made no show of it, entering into easy banter with Friedrich, trading hunting stories and court gossip. Her lover was a natural in the ways of the court, just as his younger brother was.

  As for Stefano, they had yet to meet with him. Friedrich apologized effusively for the inconvenience. He'd had no idea they would arrive so soon and had sent the young man on a 'mission of some importance'.

  The fact of the matter was he shouldn't have had a clue that the castle was their destination. They'd driven hard and fast, making sure any layovers did not include potential spies who could alert the Duke to unwanted visitors.

  Their initial audience had been a long drawn-out affair, tedious in the extreme but it had given her an opportunity to observe Friedrich's two remaining daughters, the eldest having been recently sloughed off to a neighboring duchy.

  The youngest, Margaret, was perky and given to a quick smile. She was attractive in an adolescent unformed way, flat-chested, narrow-hipped, but with wide-set eyes and clear complexion she gave the impression she might someday grow into a reasonably attractive young woman. Hopefully not like the older sister, Wiltrud, Stefano's new wife.

  Calling her 'plain' was being generous. She carried a perpetual scowl that spoke to a difficult disposition and a sharp tongue. If Stefano had had a choice, he would have chosen the immature Margaret in a flash.

  Idly she wondered if the woman's scowl had anything to do with her new husband's very particular tastes. Despite the rumors about Friedrich, the castle staff had been singularly tight-lipped. Neither Nico nor she had been able to glean any useful information about what actually transpired in the lower reaches of the castle.

  Paulo had had more luck in the town located near the river winding through the foothills. He and his men spent their evenings there, building rapport with the merchants and innkeepers with their generous patronage. Drink loosened tongues enough that Paulo could piece together a picture of fear and loathing for the man who provided protection for the region. That protection came with a steep price. Nearly every family had lost a member, or knew of someone who'd succumbed to the Church's vigilance and the Duke's insatiable 'appetites'.

  Nico had presented Friedrich with a few 'trinkets'—an array of baubles and silver that would have amounted to a king's ransom. Cosimo had casually thrust the chest into Paulo's hands before they'd left Florence. Had she known what the chest contained she might have insisted that their ten man retinue was hardly sufficient for the rigors and dangers of the trip.

  The elder Medici had chosen the gifts well. Friedrich was a peacock, sporting an elaborate brocade tunic edged with fur over a shirt of exceptional quality, the weave so tight she could have sworn it was silk. His new jewelry—an ornate ring and gold necklace—were remarked upon often during the course of the evening.

  Feigning weariness, she excused herself and left the men to the serious drinking. Instead of heading to their quarters, she turned left and followed a hall that she guessed might lead to Stefano and Wiltrud's quarters. The stairs circled down to a lower level. She took them cautiously mindful of her skirts and the potential for a nasty fall.

  The entire day she'd been uneasy, with little to occupy her thoughts while Nico was out and about with Friedrich. She practiced maintaining her shields, using Nico's additional power to buttress her own diminished capacity. Though erratic, the 'episodes' as Nico called them, still plagued her, leaving her temporarily weakened.

  It had been Nico who'd discovered the Brotherhood operative lurking about the castle. He'd recognized the man from Veluria's description and had set one of his men to keep an eye on the cleric.

  The man's presence validated her assessment that time and history approached a confluence in this place. He had arrived before them, part of a group from Venice claiming Papàl indulgence for the newlyweds. Nico doubted Leo was aware of or had sanctioned the visit. But he simply made note of the fact and dismissed it. The party was due to leave the next day. Fewer players on the stage made it easier to narrow the list.

  I just wish I knew for what…

  Low voices emanated from behind plain wood doors on which a cross had been inscribed. She assumed this was the chapel but it seemed late in the evening for services. She paused, straining to hear the words. Two voices, a man and a woman. From the accent she recognized Wiltrud's strident tones. The man was unknown to her but when she heard him say his name, Andreas, a sense of recognition washed over her.

  Putting herself at risk did nothing to help them resolve the dilemma they all faced. She turned and huffed up the stairs, the stays and her skirts making progress difficult. Retracing her steps she eventually found their quarters and gave a sigh of relief. It turned out to be premature. When she opened the door Nico stood by the bed, his face set in a grim line. He looked ready to murder something … or someone.

  "Where the hell have you been?" He rubbed his hands through his tousled curls and glared at her. "I've been searching everywhere."

  He reeked of wine, sweat and panic. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to throw a bucket of water on him or jump into his arms. He saved her the effort. He was on her in a single stride, crushing her to his chest and devouring her with hungry
kisses.

  Growling, "Turn around," he tore at the laces, releasing the cumbersome device to fall to the stone floor.

  "Nico, we have to talk…"

  Ignoring her, Nico carried her to the bed and dropped her unceremoniously onto the brocaded coverlet. Stripping quickly, he mounted her slight form, ready to plunder and dominate.

  Veluria turned away from his probing tongue and hissed, "I don't like you this way."

  The air sizzled, cracking into a million bits, thin slices oozing fluids, yellow pus-filled maws opening to the bone.

  She twisted, stilled, knowing the worst was yet to come—the violation so profound she cowered in abject terror.

  There was nowhere to hide. No one to protect her. No one to care.

  Alone. So alone.

  Rocking her in his arms, Nico moaned, "Oh, my dear sweet Jesus, please … please forgive me." She was only dimly aware of the man's tears pooling against her cheek.

  Somehow the pain had been different, less real, more of a foreshadowing of something worse—or better—to come. She'd been both repelled and attracted, each episode offering an embellishment as if the experience remained incomplete, unfulfilled.

  Why? Why her and why that singular incident, repeated endlessly in a purgatory of pain chasing pleasure.

  Wailing, "Please, make it stop," she sobbed into Nico's chest, clinging to the last shreds of her sanity.

  Nico whispered, "I will, I promise. Even if I have to kill him myself."

  ****

  Andreas leaned against the cold stone wall, immensely satisfied with his evening's activities. The pup's bride had been surprisingly adept at satisfying his needs, her sharp teeth a delightful accompaniment to her equally sharp tongue. And she'd been more than willing to supply him with the information he sought once he'd properly motivated her.