The Shades of Time (8 page)

What she did
know was that they were inextricably linked at some level that went
beyond even her understanding of the complex interplay of
energies.

That she was
vulnerable around the elder brother was undisputed. She would need
to take care for she risked more than the mission, more than the
fates of their worlds. She had a soul and forces only dimly
perceived seemed intent on robbing her of her very essence. She was
tethered by competing enmities, both laying claim to her emotions,
both ready and willing to inflict pain to bring her to heel.

The assault in
the tunnel had left residual disquiet, not because the Council
operative stood to access information but because there had been an
unexplained psychotic edge to the episode, an unnerving neediness
not easily dismissed. It had left her feeling … unclean.

For the
foreseeable future she lacked the dubious luxury of choice. Events
were now in motion and, not for the first time, she wondered just
how much her mere presence here affected history and the timeline.
She left the theorizing to those who specialized in such studies.
Her job was to find out, if at all possible, exactly what or who
had altered or interfered with the normal course of events.

The pathway
along the canal ended abruptly, forcing her through a narrow alley
onto the empty street fronted with merchant quarters and modest
townhomes. Feeling vulnerable she sought to occupy her mind with
something other than the endless loops of unanswered questions. The
state of her gown, the fact that she wandered the empty streets in
the middle of the night unescorted, that she'd abandoned Stefano to
the certain wrath of his volatile brother…

That thought
brought her up short, so much so she stumbled and nearly went down
on the rough stones. Curious, she risked seeking Stefano's energy
signature, a passive activity and unlikely to draw the operative's
attention. She ducked into an alley and leaned against the stone
wall, cursing the corset and its restrictions. With an effort she
calmed herself with several shallow breaths, shutting out as much
of the night sounds and scents as possible.

Whether or not
she was successful depended more on the strength of the emotional
attachment than on proximity to the person. Since she'd developed
an inordinate fondness for the young man, the odds were in her
favor that she could establish a feel for his current mental
state.

She was
unprepared for the wash of pain spearing her gut. She bent over,
retching, aware only of agony and anger and a gush of emotions she
could barely comprehend. The brothers' essences intermingled in a
tsunami of fear and panic and self-loathing.

How was that
even possible? She'd established no such link, nothing so powerful
that could conceivably allow Antonio's energy such easy access.

The Demon de'
Medici caused her young lover's suffering, as well as his own.
Stefano's distress rapidly faded into the background, replaced by a
complex sea of emotion that defied description, dominated by the
demon's, Tonio's, hate … and regret.

How could she
be drawn to such a man? How could she not?

Staggering, she
fled down the empty streets knowing one thing for certain. Antonio
de' Medici was on the hunt. For her.

****

Antonio
attacked the night the way he approached everything, full frontal
assault, without guile or finesse. He had little patience for fools
and tonight his brother had stretched that patience to the breaking
point. His shame and regret was a palpable thing but he must not
let it interfere with the execution of his duties to his
family.

Duty? Is that
what drove him?

The simple
mission had devolved into a disaster, partially of his own making.
The woman was a formidable adversary with remarkable skills,
certainly worthy of Cosimo's attention. What he couldn't fathom was
why or how she'd managed to insinuate herself into his thoughts,
planting seeds of an emotion he reserved only for his brothers.

If desire had a
rhythm it was a staccato beat, not the faint flutterings of the
merely smitten, but the steady thrum of senses on full alert, blood
pounding hot and strong through his veins. Heat flooded his face, a
burning, like ice, like fire, like nothing he'd ever sensed or
experienced in his long, troubled life. He thought himself immune,
protected from the vulnerabilities of emotions that served no
purpose.

His father had taught him well and for years he'd banked those
fires, taking his pleasure on his terms. But this …
this
was out of control, a
wildfire racing through conduits long idle, now ablaze. He felt the
panic and the bile rise in his throat and the delicious assault on
his groin, hurtling him into readiness.

With a gasp, he
collapsed against a fractured surface, rough and pitted, harsh on
hands that knew little gentleness. What was wrong with him? It
could not be her alone—this was too strong, coming from separate
directions, beating at him like a storm gone wild, wind and hail
and rain surrounding him from every quarter. He wanted, needed
escape and knew there was none. Papà and his uncles would see to
that. He would take back the control of the Demon, the Dark One.
His gifts must not be squandered, his training forsaken, his
attention splintered, fractured like a mirror hurled into space
from the highest parapet.

His priority
remained the same but the reasons behind it had shifted
dramatically. He now understood he must find the woman before the
other did, that nameless stalker who was but a wraith, vague in
shape, indistinct— a darkness from which no light could enter or
leave. He silently cursed his ability to feel other's thoughts … to
peer even into their souls. It was a constant reminder that he had
none of his own.

The distant
sound of revelers, the strange shushing of cloth and soft-soled
feet, lapping wavelets and creaking docks swayed to a symphony that
was uniquely Venezia. Florence, his home, had nothing like this,
this ever-present danger clothed in soft hues, vengeful nights and
a sea that hungered for the soul of the city with a voraciousness
not even he could match.

He ached for
relief, for freedom from the pressure in his skull, and pain that
threatened to drive him to his knees. The best he could hope for
was to have cool logic replace the jumble of emotions consuming him
from within: fear, longing, desire, need. None of that served his
purpose.

He allowed a
frisson of shame to remain. What he had done to his brother was
inexcusable. Stefano was one of the few things in this world he
truly cared about. The young one needed his guidance and
protection. Instead he'd reverted to the monster all knew him to
be.

With a sigh he
straightened and forced all extraneous sensation to the background,
willing the pain in his head to retreat. Logic dictated that she'd
lose herself in a crowd, perhaps retreating back toward St. Mark's
Square. Yet from that direction he sensed the stalker, the man's
presence like icy fingers of dread racing up and down his spine. If
he were in her position he'd try to put as much distance between
them as possible. And that included himself.

With no way to
know for sure he decided to go with his gut instincts. Turning to
the right, he hastened toward the Piazzali Roma.

Were he a
betting man, he'd lay odds he'd find Veluria first. Perhaps when
Cosimo was done with her, he could indulge his fevered
imagination…

****

Andreas paused
at the steep stairwell, the stone stairs slippery and canted to the
left. The tunnel had been carved by hand in a time beyond memory,
using the natural grottoes alternately as tombs, then hiding places
when the time of troubles visited the city, spreading hideous death
and destruction until only the weak-minded and foolhardy chose to
remain and guard a once glorious culture.

Andreas felt
the reverence for and the residual fears of the ancient ghosts who
inhabited all spaces where god and man fought for jurisdiction and
pre-eminence.

A flicker at
the end of the long tunnel indicated a candle or torch. Few, other
than brigands and the destitute chose to inhabit the underground
warrens. The rest of the populace avoided the caverns out of
superstition and fear. Curious he extended his senses, realizing it
was too much to hope that his quarry would so conveniently await
his pleasure.

What swamped
him was a perplexing mix of pain and terror, someone—a woman—in
considerable distress, but alone. He would have turned away, left
her to her misery, except for one thing … a residual trace of the
woman he sought. Veluria?

No, not her,
though without seeing for himself, he could not be sure.

Shivering with
anticipation he plunged with abandon down the steep tunnel,
stopping only when he reached the small alcove from which a weak
light winked as from a stray breeze.

The stench of
blood and sweat and sex pummeled his nostrils. He blinked against
the sudden light, eyes drawn to something huddled in the corner.
"Veluria?" he whispered.

The small form
moaned and struggled to stand. The woman was a mass of bruises, her
eyes blackened, nose bloodied, face filthy, arms and legs stained
with unmentionable substances. Her generous breasts hung like
savaged globes, scarred, reddish-purple splotches a roadmap of
lustful mouths hungering for a feast. She carried the remains of
her gown over her left arm, unconcerned about her nakedness and
vulnerability.

"Padre," she
croaked weakly. "Have you come to save me?"

Andreas
hesitated, unsure how to proceed. The resemblance to Veluria was
uncanny. And there was no mistaking that this pitiful creature had
been in contact with her, and not that long ago.

Remembering the
role he played, he said with false kindness and concern, "Of
course, my daughter." When he asked if she wished him to call the
authorities, he was not surprised the creature objected strongly.
"Then tell me your name and explain what has brought you to this
heinous state."

"Giovanna,
Father." Trembling she sank to the stone floor and attempted to
cover herself with the wisp of fabric.

With difficulty
he managed to prise sufficient details to piece together the
evening's chain of events. He stared at the whore with interest.
Apparently with her help, Veluria had shaken off the Demon de'
Medici and his fop of a brother. How or why that had transpired was
of little consequence.

"Father?"

The woman had
finally turned her ravaged face toward him with a look that pleaded
for … what? Comfort, absolution?

He murmured the
first words that came to mind, "You have done well. The Lord will
reward you in the next life, most generously."

Through swollen lips, she hasped, "
I
want what is due me now. I have no use for eternity."

He admired her
defiance, her understanding that eternity, and the empty promises
thereof, had little to do with the here and now. She was wise
beyond her station. Payment now, let the Church and its God worry
about the hereafter. He had just the solution.

"Capisco,
figlia." Andreas held his growing excitement in check, but barely.
"But I must ask you to do one thing for me."

"No. I have
done enough," she pointed to hideous, angry welts along the inside
of her thighs, "I can do no more."

Andreas purred
in soothing intonations as he advanced slowly, fearful he might
spook her into bolting. Carefully removing the remains of the
dress, he set it aside, then stroked her hair, letting his fingers
tangle in the dark strands. She cringed and drew away from his
touch.

"Bend over," he
husked, parting his robe.

"
Vi prego, per favore,
no
."

Andreas lifted
her hips to receive his offering, his cock thick and eager to dive
into her depths. It had been an eternity since he'd availed himself
of such pleasure. That this vessel carried the essence of the one
thing he desired above all others made it that much sweeter. He
drove deep, to the hilt, then withdrew slowly, savoring the
sensation. Slow, loving thrusts—each accompanied by a throaty moan
of 'no, no, no' echoing weakly off the stone walls.

"
Tranquillo, figlia. Sono
quasi
. You will soon receive your just
reward."

As the tide
released his passion, he grasped her hair and roughly jerked her
head back, driving deeper and coming on a single swell and a
rasping moan of "Veluria" as he smoothly drew the blade across the
whore's throat.

"
Riposa in pace,
figlia
." Andreas lowered the limp body
carefully to the stone floor and adjusted his robes. He saluted the
still figure with the crucifix, intoning last rites, then backed
away and began the long climb up the torturous tunnel.

Pausing at the
entrance, he quickly scanned the dark street, his senses at full
alert. His beloved would be on the run from the Medicis. In her
shoes, he might have done the same thing, given what powerful
adversaries they were. Their training, the careful adherence to
bloodlines, uncommon intelligence combined with luck and a devotion
to family unmatched by any of the Great Houses of the time—all that
and more made them formidable indeed.

But the Demon
was something else entirely. His powers, and his alone, could
terminate his mission with dire consequences for his Order, his
culture and even time itself. The operative, Veluria, was also an
unexpected complication in that she had awakened unholy desires
he'd denied himself for far too long. He craved her and her alone.
How ironic, he was a man with a banquet of sin to be sampled and
treasured and savored—but instead he succumbed to her wiles,
yearning for nothing more than the black comfort of her soul.