The Shades of Time (32 page)

It was the
knowing that nearly did him in, the realization that they'd
stripped Tonio of his reason for living, the warrior broken of
will, weak and defenseless.

Even now he felt
them
… the cruel delight in breaking a man's spirit,
the bloodlust and perversion, the evil that permeated their
souls.

And he felt
Antonio, awakening to memory—of who he was, of what he had been.
Too late.

Too late, too
late, too late…

Nico drew his
blade and gestured toward the house, "He's in the courtyard." That
he knew with certainty. But the rest was still a guess. He reached
out, siphoning though confusing images, letting reason help him
work through the possibilities. Finally he said, "There are two
with him, the third must be occupied elsewhere."

Antonio moaning,
No, no,
no…

He was missing
something but his men grew restless, waiting for his command. If he
were seeking divine guidance he would not find it this night. He
knew what lay on the other side of the walls. And for that a
lifetime of penance would never be enough.

Maso pointed to
a broken window and muttered, "Through there?"

Nico nodded
agreement and took off at a run, calling back, "Paulo, with
me."

Circling
swiftly around the rear of the hacienda, Nico and Paulo searched
for the door that would lead to the kitchens. Nico smelled the
stink of stale wine and rotting food off to his right. Their third
man was crouched in the dim light from the partially open door, his
head back, flask tipped. Blood red droplets sloshed over the rim to
drip into the parched earth. The man's tongue reached for the
liquid, eyes closed against the night.

Nico took a
fistful of greasy black hair and yanked back. The man's eyes popped
open, staring upward in disbelief, then down at the blade slicing
slowly across his jugular, the acrid stench of iron replacing the
vinegary sweetness as the man exhaled his last breath. Nico settled
the body face down and looked for Paulo.

His man had
taken position at the door, sword at the ready. With a nod at his
commander he slipped through the opening and disappeared into the
maw of the kitchen. Nico continued around the corner of the
building looking for another doorway but finding none. He would
have to resort to the front door.

Feeling time
slipping away, he angled away from the building, and from the weak
light filtering through the windows. He relied on his men's
training and discipline to wait for his sign. All about him the
night had come alive, sounds magnified, drowning out the drumming
of his heart and the painful raspy gasps as he stutter-stepped to
avoid broken bits of stonework.

A lantern
illuminated a small patch of porch and weed-strewn yard. It hung
suspended on an ornate wrought iron hanger, swaying in an invisible
breeze. Tempted to extinguish the candle, he decided instead to
allow his eyes to adjust to the light. Once he entered the house he
would need all his faculties. He couldn't risk being even
temporarily blinded. That thought brought him up short.

He could feel
his men, their patience wearing thin. It was time to confront what
he most feared … having to free his brother into a hell no man
deserved, let alone one who commanded his love and respect. Would
he take the coward's way out, did he secretly wish that the choice
would be conveniently removed?

Only now was he
coming to the full realization that rescuing Antonio might mean
releasing him into God's grace.

Whispering,
"Sweet Mother of God, give me strength," he opened the heavy oak
door, his promise to Veluria weighing heavy on his soul for he
feared he would keep it and earn his brother's everlasting
hate.

You will
mistake pity for love and that which has not destroyed him this
night will surely do so when kindness and caring become the torture
he can no longer bear.

Sliding through
the opening he moved his blade to his left hand, the metal warm to
the touch, and replaced it with his sword. No amount of blood would
feed his voracious need for revenge. Blackness invaded his soul and
he welcomed the void, knowing what he was now was nothing compared
to what he would become.

Nico raced
through the foyer, no longer caring if they heard him, saw him. Out
of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Maso rushing off to his right
to engage in a blur of metal and incomprehensible shouts.

Paulo? Where
was Paulo?

He knew Tonio
writhed against his restraints but he refused to look. Not yet. The
sight would transfix, distract. He couldn't afford that.

From the bowels
of the surrounding rooms men poured, some still rubbing eyes heavy
with wine and sleep, cursing in a language Nico didn't
understand.

Dear sweet
Jesus, they faced an army of armed men. Why did I not feel
this?

Paulo bellowed
in anger and dismay, his alert coming too little too late. There
were too many for Nico to focus on anything but his brother's anger
and agony. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up in warning.
He spun in time to avoid being gutted, going down on one knee and
angling the sword upward. His attacker's momentum carried him
forward. Eyes wide, arms pinwheeling, the man sought to halt his
precipitous advance only to land impaled on Nico's sword.

Switching his
blade to his right hand, Nico rolled past shuffling feet, slicing
neatly through Achilles tendons before coming to a stop on his
hands and knees. With a lunge, he raced back to grab his sword,
seeking Maso and Paulo. Both men were pinned, backs to the wall,
Paulo bleeding from a slice to his cheek and Maso splattered with
blood and gore. Nico couldn't tell if it was Maso's or his
opponents.

His men fought
well but visibly tired under the onslaught. Nico waded in, his
blood boiling, forgetting technique in favor of blunt force
assault, the ring of steel-on-steel music to his ears.

Tonio called to
him. He tried to shut him out but the voice in his head was
insistent.

Use me…

Dammit.
His brother offered what
little power remained to him. Nico shuddered at what it cost Tonio
but accepted the gift and added the weak life force lingering in
his brother's soul.

The one called
Tomas. Save him for me…

I'll save him
for both of us.

Veluria gasped
when Christo crumbled to his knees, weakness, pain and loss of
blood finally draining the man of all stamina.

"A moment,
madam," he husked, voice wracked with dismay that he showed such
weakness.

There was a
moment when time suspended, when Veluria imagined the gateway
appearing, Reverend Mother on the other side beckoning her home.
With all her heart she wished for nothing more than the safety of
her world, relief from the unrelenting violence, the harsh reality
of a time so alien she quaked at the otherness and feared what it
might do to her psyche.

I don't want to
love him. Not like this.

But who, what
did she love? The charming man-child who amused and delighted her
senses, who'd become a vicious pervert with his universe turned
inside out until only pain begot pleasure? She felt responsible for
Stefano, inextricably so.

But her heart beat for the man who had been stolen from her
before she had a chance to explore what her feelings meant, before
understanding the depth of the Demon's commitment, his bond so
formidable, so compelling, she nearly drowned in the power he
offered her. Without reservation, he'd bared his innermost
secrets—a man without mercy, without compassion, who believed
himself forever damned.
That
demon gave her his heart to do with what she will.
Yet to allow him to love her would be his death, for he would not
survive the loss to come and that was a stain on her soul she'd
carry to her grave.

She'd allowed Antonio to
need
her, an unacceptable error.

Perhaps it
would be best for him to die this day, my child. You would save him
the pain of your betrayal.

But what of me,
Reverend Mother, what of me?

There is no
you, dearest Veluria. You are but a construct, a tool. You are your
Sisters, the One. You will return to your home when this is
finished … and forget.

Veluria quailed
at the thought of abandoning the people she'd grown to care for.
Even Nico, strong, intelligent, savage in his devotion…

Damaged goods.
Damaged heart. I have
the power to heal it.

Be careful,
child. There are many types of betrayal. Do not confuse compassion
with love.

Veluria bent to
adjust the makeshift bandage on Christo's arm when the night air
split with shouts and the unmistakable ring of metal on metal, the
gurgling screams of men dying, gagging on blood and bile. The
terrible sound of retribution.

Christo barked,
"Help me to my fe—" but the words choked off mid-sentence.

Veluria watched
in horror as the man she would have called friend pitched forward,
blood pooling by his severed neck, the head rolling off into the
darkness. Blanching, she turned to face her attackers, recognizing
at once that the men staring at her with interest were the two
they'd seen heading into the village.

She couldn't
understand the rapid exchange but from their leers she knew they'd
determined her sex and were already congratulating themselves on
coming upon such an unexpected prize. They seemed unconcerned about
the din and screams coming from the house. When the tall one leaned
close she realized why—his breath, his body, stank of ale and
garlic and sex. Drunk. Perhaps too drunk to register the sounds of
slaughter.

But who? Who
screamed their last breath? Panic danced in her chest, sending
flutters of fear into her throat, her ears hammering dull staccato
beats. Icy tendrils skittered up and down her spine, the fleeting
registers of chaos and cruelty staking a claim to her
consciousness, edging close. She was being buried alive in terror
that only imagination could claim.

Weaving
slightly, the taller of the two pinched her upper arm painfully and
dragged her toward the house. Her sword lay on the ground next to
Christo's body, useless. All she had left was the blade stuck in
her boot. She would use it, on herself if necessary. She had no
illusions about surviving this intact.

The smell was
throat-gagging strong, the air laden with gore, dust and blood,
trapped inside the enclosed space, an arena of death and
destruction. Veluria slipped on something slick and nearly went
down, her mind closing against the possibilities. Her captor jerked
her up and thrust her forward into a sea of bodies—men who had once
been whole but now lay shattered on a killing field, no longer
recognizable as human.

Veluria's mind
blanked at the sight—Antonio strung up like a carcass, twisting
weakly, kicking out as Nico pressed his two attackers back, his
sword arm bleeding freely. Tonio managed to connect with one,
causing the man to stumble. It was all Nico needed to gut him.

Feeling the
madness grip her she screamed at Nico but her words were lost in
clang of metal and the roaring of madmen locked in mortal combat.
The man holding her dropped her arm briefly so he could draw his
sword.

It was all she
needed. The blade lay nestled in her boot, so near, yet so far. He
was quicker than she would have given him credit for, the sword
brandished with drunken glee. But she was faster and nimbler.
Dropping to a crouch, she gripped the hilt and yanked the blade
free, nicking her calf in the process. The slice stung but was
shallow.

The man reached
down and yanked her long braid, dragging her off the ground and
shaking her like a dog with a bone. Scalp screaming in protest, she
bit her lip and waited until he set her down, backhanding her cheek
so hard she saw stars. She stumbled back, whimpering, her head
ducking as she clutched her cheek with her left hand, the right
fingering the blade until she had a firm grip. When he approached
to deliver another blow, she bobbed away, and feigned a stumble,
coming in low, below his fist, and buried the blade to the hilt in
his groin.

The bellow of
rage and pain was lost to the bedlam around her. The blade slid
reluctantly out of the soft flesh with a satisfying pop. He had yet
to release her so she sliced the wrist holding the sword, the blood
spurting to coat her face as the weapon slipped from his grasp.
With cold-blooded precision she grasped the heavy sword and drove
it deep into the soft belly tissue.

The man
staggered for a heartbeat, then dropped like a rock to lie writhing
at her feet. Time stilled once more as she contemplated what she'd
done. Her first kill. She knew with certainty, on this night, it
wouldn't be her last.

Grimly Veluria
turned to confront the horror that would haunt her to the end of
days.

Chapter
Twenty-Four

"Do not look,
M'lady." Paulo gripped her arm, tugging gently. "This is not for
your eyes."

Is this what
our world becomes, Reverend Mother, this insanity? Beasts released
to ravage all we've built? Have we learned nothing?

No, my child.
For history is never our savior and ever our weakness, and the
peace we safeguard is as dust in the wind.

Then why am I
here?

To salvage what
we can…

Salvage? Is
there no hope?

Find the other,
Veluria. We shall need both of you now.

"M'lady,
please…"