The Shades of Time

THE SHADES OF
TIME

By

Diane
Nelson

Copyright ©2013
by Diane Nelson

First
electronic edition published by Smashwords

Published in
the United States of America with international distribution.

Cover Design by
Sessha Batto

All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright
owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles and reviews.

This is a work
of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the
product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and
any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION
:

To Denysé Bridger

For inspiring this tale

The Shades Of
Time

Three brothers from the fabled Medici
family.

Two operatives from the future with
conflicting agendas.

1515 Venice. Politics, greed and war with a
side of religious fervor.

An epic journey through the tangled morass of
one world gone mad,

the other on the brink of another
apocalypse.

One woman, four men.

Hearts beating separately.

Hearts beating as one.

All cloaked in the shades of
time.

Chapter
One

Veluria
followed the echoes of water slapping ancient pilings. The
cobblestoned passage lay cast in shadows, dank and spiritless,
yawning ahead with a dim pinpoint of light to guide her path. She
wished she could have ignored the message but her instincts—and
traitorous sentimentality—refused to acknowledge the danger. Had
Stefano indeed summoned her? And for what purpose? It seemed out of
character, this young man hardly adept at the subterfuge that came
so easily to others of his family, the Medicis. The name, whispered
down long corridors, brought chills and loathing, intermixed with
respect and awe. A heady concoction. One she found exhilarating,
and all too enticing.

"Before the
game is afoot, thou still let'st slip," she whispered into the dank
enclosure. Frowning, she mentally cautioned herself against dipping
into arcane pockets of knowledge, though no one of this time would
know the quote or its source. Or rather … they shouldn't. And that
bothered her, sending icy prickles cascading over her skin in stark
contrast to the cloying warmth and humidity trapped in the
passageway.

She moved with
stealth bought at a price, her senses on high alert, attuned to
whispers and soft shushings. Scent and sound engulfed her as she
floated toward the distant opening, her skirts fanned out about her
slight figure, the rustling of heavy silk lost to the thrumming in
her ears.

Pausing, she
closed her eyes, extending her senses in search of a presence—felt,
not seen—as the mists from the canal seeped through the underground
corridor. A cool breeze drifted past, a wraith, a hint of
something. Or someone.

Stefano
? She whispered in her mind, a
question. She didn't like questions, not when her senses should
have locked onto his presence. She fingered the velum and the
masculine scrawl that hinted at a mysterious tryst, one that made
little sense. For nearly a month she'd been carefully building
rapport and currying confidences, using her relationship with
Stefano to open doors, building on the young man's standing at
court. This summons had the ring of ominous despite the pretty
phrases and sentiment.

Carissima
Veluria,

Mio fiore più preziosa…
Cuore
del mio cuore...

È urgente
incontriamo segretamente…

Unfortunately, with Stefano, everything was 'urgent',
including his
ardeur
, so much so that her not inconsiderable skills struggled to
keep up. The small entertainments, as her mentor had so coyly
referred to the terse instructions issued for the execution of her
mission, had surprised and delighted her. She could get used to
being someone's 'precious flower'. But not at the cost of losing
perspective. Far too easy to do when a naïve young courtier seduced
so prettily.

This time … this place: Venice
. The
name itself reeked of the seductive, amongst other things. Stefano,
of all the Medici brood, was the adept, the one who navigated the
tricky passions so unique to the halls of power in the city. Papàl,
civil … the handsome boy-man managed indulgences without incurring
costs. Something her sisters would examine with interest if she
ever managed to return to her own dimension.

Mother Superior
may have been correct to question her choice, but the young
Stefano, for all his naiveté and courtly mannerisms, still provided
a relatively safe ingress into the centers of influence and
corruption. Had she tried for one of the other, more elusive—and
eminently more powerful—brothers, the inevitable suspicion and
distrust would have denied her the access she required. For now she
was nothing more than one of a long line of Stefano's infatuations,
of little consequence, dismissed as yet another vacuous courtesan.
And, as such, virtually invisible.

That kind of
anonymity could not be bought at any price.

The heavy
skirts dragged at her waist, the need for authenticity far
outweighing what common sense dictated was unsuitable when mission
parameters went askew. She stared at the brightening opening
leading to the canal, debating her next move.

Damn. This makes no sense.
Why am I
here?

The answer came
in a blinding rush—a searing white hot pain assaulting her brain,
catapulting her against an ornate beam supporting the passageway.
Veluria gasped for air, desperate to thrust the filthy presence out
and away before it discovered the hidden vaults guarding her own
secrets. She fought the rising bile and vertigo but the drilling
intrusion refused to release her, robbing her of all thought. She
slumped against the beam and slid boneless onto the wet stone.

Zoning in and
out of consciousness, she felt rather than heard the staccato
rhythm of booted feet. The attacker—or a rescuer? She could not
discern from whence the presence came. Gathering what energy she
could, she lay supine, waiting. She would need every nuance and
control her long years of training afforded her. But the stab of
fear penetrated like a battering ram, turning her gut inside out,
perception upside down.

"Veluria, take
care, there may be other interested parties," Mother Superior had
warned. "Prepare yourself, child, for we must not interfere, though
your need be manifest. Use the gifts available." She paused, hands
clasped about her tora, the clacking beads suddenly silent.

Veluria
interjected, before the Mother could continue, anxious to assure,
though she, of all of them, had less need to do so, "I am not
inexperienced with the Council. They will not disrespect our
hegemony so easily next time."

"I hope you are
right, but…"

"But what,
Blessed Mother?"

Shaking her
head, she waved Veluria toward the door. Before she could exit, the
Order's Elder said, so softly Veluria nearly missed the words,
though the import seared itself into her soul, "I fear the Dark
One, child."

****

Andreas
hesitated. The thud of flesh impacting a hard surface reverberated
through his chest, the frantic susurrations of lungs screaming
silent pleas, her fear, hard fear, and then nothing. He'd been
following at a safe distance, watchful. The opportunity to probe
while she hesitated for a mere instant was too much to pass up.

The penetration
into her psyche had been easy, far too easy. He should have known
better. Instead of identifying pathways, he'd simply alerted her to
his presence, awakening her pain receptors.

You idiot!

The Council had
tasked him. He was not off to a good start.

"
Seguire questa donna, Padre Andreas.
Osservare. Riferire a me. Solo a me. Lei è una minaccia per tutti
noi."
The Monsignor had tapped a carefully
manicured blunt nail on the walnut desk, emphasizing each
point:
follow, observe, report … His Eyes
Only
.

"
Monsignor sì, ho
capito
," Andreas replied, though he did not
understand. None of this made any sense. His Holiness considered
this woman to be a threat to the Papacy. He was more right than he
could possibly know. But how
they
had come to that conclusion rested on false logic.
They looked to her dubious French connections and the kind of
missteps pillow talk afforded, though how such a light weight as
Stefano de' Medici could be a source of concern afforded the young
gallant far too much import in the larger scheme of political
machinations. At least in
his
opinion.

Gods be damned,
he loved and hated this time. The simplicity and austerity of his
upbringing nearly imploded upon the vipers' nests of competing
interests, the plots within plots within plots, in an endless round
of intrigue and backstabbing that contaminated his homeland and all
he held sacred.

That he did not
belong here was a given, yet he had been the logical choice given
his … unusual proclivities and abilities. Serving two masters was
seldom a problem, though often a condition of his trade. He would
best remember to whom he owed absolute fealty. That was a calculus
with a zero sum outcome if he were not careful … at least as
careful as the alleged 'French woman'.

With no small amount of admiration, he had to admit that the
woman's behavior, her demeanor, was spot-on. Skillfully played, so
much so even
he
had
developed doubts. However, in the absence of any other leads,
following the Monsignor's directive afforded him purpose, until
opportunity presented itself.

The woman, Veluria, had an agenda, of that he was certain.
That his probe slammed into an impenetrable defense system told him
volumes about her abilities. What remained unclear was the
when
, that crucial element
of time … and place. Was she like him, Venetian? He suspected it
was so—she had that classical grace, the sultry earthiness and
stark sensuality he hungered for. Dark on dark, ebon-kissed, eyes
black as his soul.

He smiled at
the fanciful turn his thoughts had taken him. That brief foray into
her mind had been intoxicating, inexplicably so. There was
something there … something forbidden. As hard as she tried to mask
it, the stink of modernity rested as a distant echo. No, she was no
French seductress sent to spy on the royal court. For now he would
store that piece of knowledge and let the Council calculate a new
paradigm. Keeping the statisticians busy and off his back served
his purposes well.

Andreas
crouched on the cobblestoned pathway, his robes splayed about his
slim form. The temptation to try one more time overcame caution.
She already knew he was there. She was vulnerable, for how long was
anyone's guess. Accepting a stalemate was not an option. That was
not why he'd been selected.

He laid a hand
on a damp stone for balance and shut his senses down, one at a
time: eyes, ears, smell, touch, all forced to the background. He
slowed his breathing, allowing her energy to envelop him—misting,
swirling, penetrating his consciousness. He probed cautiously,
peeling away the layers, mindful of her pain and her watchfulness.
Loins burning, he writhed with need, desiring nothing more than a
violent mind rape, preparing himself for the sharp edges and
metallic smoothness of resistance. Instead she fed him a
confection, delectable, so soft he wallowed in its luxurious feel
as his veins throbbed wildly, the heat pooling in his groin.

Gods, she was
good. A true master of her craft.

But I am
better. More evolved. Because I come prepared…

Caressing her
gently, he moved aside the fibrous barrier to take a peek, to
indulge in a taste only. He needed her whole, not parsed into
fragments, useless to his needs. She would not willingly serve him
or the Council, but she could advance his objectives by being his
eyes and ears where clerics dared not tread.