The Shades of Time (33 page)

"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.

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.