Brushstrokes

by

Richelle Mead

Francesca thought the priest was a lost cause, but I still believed I could lure him into my bed.

"Help me, Father," I sobbed, falling to my knees before him. "I don't know what to do. I'm lost. I'm going to burn forever. There's no hope for me."

"Child, child," he murmured. "Of course there's hope. God forgives all."

He leaned forward, eyes kind, but he didn't touch me, thus forcing me to stifle a growl of annoyance. That was the whole point of this weeping spectacle. It was the perfect opportunity for him to gently pat my hand or—better yet—to hold me in a compassionate embrace. Then, perhaps, he might run a comforting hand along my cheek, perhaps down my neck, on to my breast…

Father Betto wasn't falling for any of it, unfortunately. As it was, I knew meeting with me in private unnerved him. He knew the risks—both to his own resolve and to his reputation. With the force of my money and power, however, I had insisted no one else would counsel me through the 'spiritual crises' that continually plagued me.

"I want so badly to be good." I continued to kneel, conveying just how much the pain of my sin ached in my bosom while also giving him an excellent view of said bosom. "But I'm weak. I can't seem to let go of my worldly attachments."

"That isn't true. You always give to the Church. And the hospital's still talking about your last contribution. God rewards such kindness."

"But is that enough?" I whispered. I knew my tears gleamed like jewels upon my face because I'd crafted them that way. Perfect. An enhancement to my beauty. No red eyes or blotchy skin here.

"It's a start. If you truly wish to go further, you will give up your earthly excesses. That dress, for example, is far more...elaborate than a woman of your station truly requires."

I glanced down at my gown. It was a thing of beauty, emerald green brocade over gold-colored silk. A perk of having a 'brother' in the silk guild. When I'd been a mortal over a thousand years ago, the emperor himself had worn nothing so fine.

"This dress?" To make sure we all knew which dress he referred to, I ran my hands over my body, sliding them carefully down my breasts and hips. With a small flare of triumph, I saw him reluctantly drag his eyes away. "But I... I couldn't..."

This signaled a well-worn argument between us. It was always the same. I would come to him, in tears over the state of my soul, and he would tick off the luxuries and behaviors in my life I needed to expunge. I would listen, cry a little more, promise to take his words to heart, and then change nothing.

"Fra Savonarola is urging the entire city to give up its vanities, you know. He plans to gather up all sinful items and burn them on Shrove Tuesday. You should answer the call. It could be a rebirth for you. A purging by fire."

I smiled and muttered something conciliatory. I'd throw myself to the flames before donating to Savonarola's madness. Father Betto was a fervent believer in the zealous friar's cause, and lately, it seemed the rest of Florence was too. The city's residents had turned into a flock of frightened sheep.

"There is, of course, another matter...one, perhaps, better discussed with your brother..."

Still smiling politely, I waited for him to continue even though I knew what he would say. It was another oft-discussed topic.

"You and your sister have both been widowed for some time-"

"It still hurts, Father. Francesca feels the same way. It's so hard...so hard to move on..."

At least, she and I continually tried to make it appear that way. My fellow succubus and I both put on good shows of mourning for our fictitious husbands, but she kept forgetting the name of her 'beloved,' which made us look bad.

"Yes, yes, I understand the need to grieve, but it's been years. Neither of you wear black anymore. A young woman without a husband is far more susceptible to sin—particularly considering your involvement in your brother's business. It isn't...appropriate. You interact with men so often...well, some might question your virtue. If you truly wish to remain unattached, then you should take vows."

When he started talking convents, it was time for me to leave. I rose gracefully to my feet. "I'll think about it. Thank you, Father."

He stood with me, his eyes again lingering on my body a bit longer than they should have. Hiding my smile, I left the church, knowing it was just a matter of time.

* * *

"I suppose you cried again," muttered Francesca when I arrived home later. She stood before the mirror in her room, trying on necklaces for the wedding we had to attend that night. Their brightly colored jewels contrasted dramatically with the creaminess of her skin, and I paused to admire the effect.

"I even got on my knees."

A smile quirked her lips. "A more blatant invitation than usual. I'm surprised. You must be getting desperate."

"Not desperate. Just trying new tactics."

"Tactics, hmm? You can call it whatever you want, but you're wasting your time. You're one of the best I've ever met," she said it both grudgingly and honestly, "but still, even you have limits. Besides, he's not that much of a catch. I swear, every time we go to mass, he has less hair than the day before. If you really want a priest, why not take that young one over at Santa Croce? He's terribly attractive. I'm sure he'd give in."

"I'm sure too, considering half of the city is filled with his bastards already. I want someone untainted. That's the whole point."

She rolled her eyes at me, saying nothing. Francesca was young for a succubus, only a couple hundred years or so. She was content to drink her fill of the life we needed from easy conquests: mortal men who needed little urging to commit adultery or some other sin. As for me, I held myself to a higher standard. A priest like the one at Santa Croce wasn’t worth my time. I wanted good men, men with souls so pure that when I took them to bed, the energy that poured into me was like the Holy Spirit itself.

I left her to make my own preparations, changing to a dress dyed a brilliant red. It, like the gold of my hair, was much coveted by Florentine women. Unlike these poor women and their crazy fixation on dyes and other hair-lightening concoctions, I had the luxury of shape-shifting. A blink of the eye, and I had any color I wanted. A minor compensation for having sold my soul.

* * *

No expense had been spared at the wedding. The bride, a tiny thing of fourteen, shone like a small sun in her heavy brocaded dress, and the servants brought out delicacy after delicacy at dinner. Francesca and I dined with the women while the men had their own area on the other side of the room. Afterward, mingling and other festivities ensued.

"Bianca," I heard a voice say. Turning, I stared into familiar brown eyes.

"Signore Cristofani," I murmured, lowering my own eyes as was appropriate, but still managing to sneak a sidelong look at him. With those black curls and long lashes, he was worth taking several looks at. Lovelier still were his hands and the way they could stroke a woman's flesh...

He cast an anxious glance around, making sure no one noticed us. Addressing me alone was a breach of etiquette, particularly since he was married.

"Why haven't you returned my letters? I need to see you again."

"I can't see you again, Signore. What happened before… it was wrong. It was a sin I will not repeat."

It had, however, been a sin we repeated a number of times the night it occurred. It had been a good night, one that had left a taint on his soul and filled me with enough life to last a month, ft had also left him drained and exhausted for days afterward, as often happened when men of good character lay with succubi.

"But...I love you." Naked desperation glowed on his face. "I can't live without you."

"You must go back to your wife," I said, still playing proper and demure. Handsome or no, I hated it when they clung like this. I’d gotten what I needed from him, and I daresay he'd gotten plenty in return. We were finished. Why couldn't he move on? "Please don't speak of this again."

I retreated into the crowd, knowing he'd hesitate to pursue me among so many witnesses. I'd just made it to the other side of the room when someone else stepped in front of me, nearly making me trip over him.

"Bianca Rinaldi?"

"Yes?"

I carefully eyed the man before me. He was young, handsome in a different way than Cristofani. Apparent time outdoors had given his face a weathered and tanned look. The sun had lightened his brown hair, and frank gray eyes appraised me. His common attire looked out of place among the other guests' opulence, and I wondered what he was doing here. There was a grand note in his voice when he spoke, like he was someone more important than he looked.

"I'm Niccolo Giordani."

I waited.

"You've heard of me."

I shook my head. His face fell.

"Oh. I'm a painter. I did the picture of the Annunciation over at the Palazzo Fazzi. Perhaps you've heard of it?"

Ah, an artist. That would explain the air of self-importance.

I shook my head again, amused and puzzled. "What is it you want from me, Signore Giordani?"

He still seemed stunned that I hadn't heard of him. Blinking, he recovered himself quickly. "Why, your patronage, of course."

"I'm not looking for an artist."

"Not yet. But that's because you haven't met me. Er, I mean, now you have...but, well, you understand." He took an inappropriate step closer. "You see, Signora, I've had a vision."

I stepped back uneasily. I didn't really want any crazy mystics in my life just now. "A vision from God?"

"No. A vision from the muses. A vision to create a fresco. A fresco the likes of which has never been seen."

"What of?"

"A Bacchanalia. The god Bacchus reclining among nymphs and satyrs who drink and dance to his glory. It will be amazing. a feast for the eyes. The muses have promised as much."

"That's...an unusual idea. And possibly immoral."

Recent years had seen a resurgence of the old myths in art something I heartily approved of. I'd missed those glorious, decadent stories. But many modern interpretations were caged in terms of Christian symbols, or else they depicted relatively tame scenes. Although intriguing, what he suggested would both provoke and offend someone like Fra Savonarola.

Niccolo grinned. It was a delicious smile, one full of charm and mischief that made his lips look particularly appealing. "Which is why I come to you."

"I told you, I'm not looking for a—wait. Are you saying I'm immoral?"

"A bit. I mean, I've heard no concrete details about your behaviors, of course, but you have been a widow for an extremely long time. And everyone knows you've sponsored artists in the past who work with 'questionable' topics."

"I also sponsor a number of artists who portray proper Christian scenes."

He made a dismissive gesture, ignoring my prim tone. "Of course you would. How else would you get away with your other interests?"

This was the best thing to happen to me in a while. I lived for absurd moments like these. Everything about him was preposterous—and entertaining. Artists did not proposition their prospective patrons, particularly female ones.

"Signore Giordani, I'm 'flattered' by your offer and your regard, but I can't make a decision like this without my brother s consent."

Niccolo scoffed. "Don't play coy. Your brother's never here. Everyone knows who really handles the finances in his house and business. You have a man's mind in what is very, very much a woman's body."

It was true, I supposed. My 'brother' was a minor demon who traveled excessively and was far too busy brokering souls to be troubled with his silk trade in Florence. He was happy to let two succubi handle it. In return, Francesca and I enjoyed the relative freedom of unattached women who still technically remained under the protection of a male family member.

I studied Niccolo, working to keep a straight face as I considered his brazen offer. "And when could you start this masterpiece?"

"As soon as my lady likes. We can draw up the contract tomorrow. I think you'll be pleased with the quality of materials I plan on using."

"But probably less pleased with their price," I noted dryly.

"Brilliance has no price. And I know you can afford it. The final product will be well worth it. Your guests' mouths will drop in awe. Nobles and dignitaries will line up outside to see it. Besides, I offer outstanding speed and attention to detail with my price. And, once we're lovers, I'll even write a book of sonnets in praise of your beauty. No extra cost."

"Once we're—are you joking?"

He cocked his head at me. "About which part? The sonnets or the cost?"

"The lovers part."

He blinked, clearly confused. "Why, plenty of high-born ladies take their artists as lovers. And I've wanted a clever mistress for some time now." He sighed wistfully. "The stupid ones are so taxing. I can't get out of bed with them fast enough. With a learned woman though...ah, how marvelous a thing it would be to make love and then discuss the great philosophers. And then make love again."

Francesca was never going to believe this. Good lord, I wanted to laugh, but that would attract too much attention. My straight face grew harder to maintain.

"Signore, your proposition is completely scandalous, not to mention insulting. I'll overlook it this once, but it'd better not happen again if we're going to do business."

"She wants to yield in her heart. Stolen love is as sweet to a woman as a man.'"

I rolled my eyes. "Don't quote Ovid to me."

That charming grin returned, underscored with something more suggestive. "Ah, you are clever. I can hardly wait."

* * *

Niccolo was as good as his word. We finalized the contract the next day, outlining scope, materials, payment, and timeframe. Once it was signed and notarized, he set about sizing up the wall in our salon, planning sketches and other preparations. In the following days, he arrived early and worked late, barely leaving in time for curfew.

My own days were busy with controlling the household and business finances—more of ‘playing a man,’ I guessed—but I still managed to spend a fair amount of time watching him work. I liked studying an artist's mindset, and he could chat fluently as he went along. To my surprise, he was astonishingly well-read.

"Are you saying it wasn't just jealousy?" I asked one day, watching him sketch with sinopia. We'd been discussing Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

"Well, of course it was jealousy but not just because Arachne won. Children experience that kind of jealousy. This was bigger. Arachne wove better than a goddess. A goddess! Don't you see the implications? Humans surpassing gods, surpassing those who created them. It calls the whole balance of power into question. The gods do not like their progeny to be too successful or too clever."

I sifted through all the stories I'd heard in my long life. "Like Prometheus. He stole fire for humans, so they could advance themselves, and it angered the gods."

"Exactly so. Truly, you are as wise as you are beautiful."

I rolled my eyes at his melodramatic flattery and gave him a sly grin. "But these are only pagan stories, right? They mean nothing."

Niccolo paused in his sketching and sat back on his heels, cutting me a knowing glance. "You're smarter than that. Our one, true faith of today gives us the very same message. All of humanity is now condemned because Mother Eve sought to advance herself, and women in particular are discouraged to learn and study."

"You sound like you disapprove."

"As I've said before, I like clever women."

"Some might consider you a heretic, you know."

"Then I'm in good company, Signora."

I laughed. It had been so long since I'd had anyone I could discuss these kinds of topics with both frankly and intelligently. When I spent time with men, we usually had...other matters to attend to. And the women of this age were so ignorant and poorly educated as to bring me to tears. Knowledge and wit: those things almost meant more to me than my lovers. Men came and went in this world, especially to an immortal. But the wisdom they left behind...that was eternal.

Francesca found Niccolo less amusing than I did.

"You're wasting our money," she chastised after he'd left that night. She'd been with a lover earlier in the evening, and to my immortal senses, she glowed with his stolen life energy.

"I checked his references. He's good. And when he's done, we'll be left with a tribute to an age of decadence and debauchery. Besides, we could use a little excess around here. Father Betto told me Savonarola plans on gathering up the city's ‘vanities’ and burning them."

She made a disparaging sound, her disdain shifting to Savonarola. "Great. As if his laws and 'holy' gangs weren't bad enough. Now he wants our mirrors and clothes?"

"And any sinful books or art."

"Oh. Well, that's not such a loss. And don't look at me like that," she added, seeing my glare. "If you spent half as much time seducing men as you do reading, you could challenge Lilith herself. I don't care about the books. Just let me keep my silk."

"Is someone going to take it?"

We both turned around at the new voice. A surge of power filled the air. Savia, the demoness we both answered to, stood before us. She had materialized in the salon without warning, as she was accustomed to doing. Francesca and I curtsied.

We were discussing Fra Savonarola."

Resplendent in black silk, Savia strolled around the room and settled on one of our low couches. The black of her hair flowed into her dress. Her aura burned around her. "Which one is he again?"

"That ugly friar with the hooked nose," offered Francesca. "The one who got the French out."

"I think it was the city's ransom that actually got them out, " I muttered.

Savia favored me with an indulgent smile. "My darling Bianca, always so clever. Tell me what you've been doing. Have you taken your priest yet?"

Francesca and I dutifully reported on our recent activities. Savia was very efficient as demons went. She showed up every couple of weeks, listened to our reports, advised if necessary, and otherwise left us alone. Yet, despite this casual treatment, we both knew her power over us was insurmountable. Only a fool would anger her. Actually, only a fool would anger any demon, end of story.

Francesca finished citing her recent conquests, glowing like a prize pupil. My list had been much shorter, but I felt no shame. Savia listened impassively to it all and stayed silent when the recitation ended.

"You're taking the easy prey," she said at last, voice cold as she stared at Francesca. My colleague's gleeful smile faded.

"But I-"

"I do not want to hear about men who have sought you out, men who only wanted another mistress. I want to hear about monks and priests. I want to hear about guilty husbands and fathers whose souls you've lured to our side. If you want easy fucks, you can go join a brothel. Do you understand?"

"Savia, I-"

"Do you understand?"

The demoness rose to her feet. She was no taller than us, but her power crackled around her, making her presence loom over Francesca and me. The other succubus sank to her knees, trembling.

"Yes, Savia," she whispered. "I understand."

As I said, only a fool would cross a demon.

***

Weeks later, I sprawled across the couch in our salon, talking with Niccolo while he worked.

"Ovid didn't know anything about love," I told him. I should have been reviewing accounts from a recent shipment, but the lure of his charm and intellect continued to prove too strong. He looked up at me with mock incredulity.

"Nothing about love? Woman, bite your tongue! He's the authority! He wrote books on it. Books that are still read and used today."

I sat up from my undignified repose. "They aren't relevant. They were written for a different time. He devotes pages to telling men where to meet women. But those places aren't around anymore. Women don't go to races or fights. We can't even linger in public areas anymore." This came out with more bitterness than I intended. I'd adapted to these times as I had all others, but I missed the freedoms earlier eras and places had enjoyed.

"Perhaps. But the principles are still the same. As are the techniques."

"Techniques?" I repressed a snort. Honestly, what could a mere mortal know about seduction techniques? "They're nothing but superficial gestures. Give your ladylove compliments. Talk about things you have in common—like the weather. Help her fix her dress if it gets mussed. What does any of that have to do with love?"

"What does anything have to do with love anymore? If anything, those comments are particularly applicable now. Marriage is all about business." He paused, tilting his head toward me in his usual way. "You've done something with your hair today that's extremely pretty, by the way."

I paused in return, thrown off by the compliment. "Thank you. Anyway. You're right: marriage is business. But some of them are love matches. Or love can grow. And plenty of clandestine affairs, no matter how 'sinful,' are based on love."

"So your problem is that he's ruining what love is still left?" His eyes drifted to the window, and he frowned. "Does it look lit it'll rain out there?"

The zeal of this topic seized hold of me, making his abrupt interruptions that much more annoying. "Yes—what? I mean, no it won't rain, and yes, that's what he's doing. Love is already so rare. By approaching it like a game, he cheapens what little there is."

Niccolo abandoned his brushes and colors and sat down next to me on the couch. "You don't think love is a game?"

"Sometimes—all right, most of the time—yes, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't—" I stopped. His fingers had slid to the edge of my dress's neckline. "What are you doing?"

"This is crooked. I'm straightening it."

I stared and then started laughing as the ruse revealed itself. "You're doing it. You're following his advice."

He leaned close to me, wearing that dazzling and dangerous smile. "Is it working?"

"No."

He pressed his lips against mine. They were soft and sweet, and his tongue felt like fire moving into my mouth.

"What about now?" he murmured a moment later, breaking from me.

"Now it might be working."

I put my hand behind his neck, pulling his mouth back down to my own. When his hand began slowly pushing up the folds of my skirts, I knew it was time to retreat to my bedroom.

Once there, he abandoned any attempts at subtlety. He pushed me down onto the bed, the fingers that so deftly painted walls now fumbling to release me from the complicated dress and its layers of rich fabrics.

When he had me stripped down to my thin chemise, I took charge, removing his clothing with a brisk efficiency and delighting in the way his skin felt under my fingertips as my hands explored his body. Straddling him, I lowered my face and let my tongue dance circles around his nipples. They hardened within my mouth, and I had the satisfaction of hearing him cry out softly when my teeth grazed their tender surface.

Moving downward, I trailed kisses along his stomach—down, down to where he stood erect and swollen. Delicately, I ran my tongue along that shaft, from base to tip. He cried out again, that cry turning to a moan when I took him into my mouth. I felt him swell between my lips, growing harder and larger, as I slowly moved up and down.

Without even realizing what he did, I think, he raked his hands through my hair, getting his fingers caught up in the elaborate pinning and carefully arranged curls. Sucking harder, I increased my pace, exalting in the feel of him filling up my mouth. The early twinges of his energy began seeping into me, like glittering streams of color and fire. While not physically pleasurable per se, it sparked me in a similar way, waking up my succubus hunger and igniting my flesh, making me long to touch him and be touched in return.

"Ah...Bianca, you shouldn't..."

I momentarily released him from my mouth, letting my hand continue the work of stroking him closer to climax. "You want me to stop?"

"I ...well, ah! No, but women like you don't...you aren't supposed to..."

I laughed, the sound low and dangerous in my throat. "You have no idea what kind of woman I am. I want to do this. I want you to explode in my mouth. I want to feel it on my tongue, running down my lips ..."

"Oh God," he groaned, eyes closed and lips parted.

His muscles tensed, body arching slightly, and I just managed to return him to my mouth in time. Hot liquid poured into me as he found his release, and I drank greedily while his body continued to spasm. The life energy trickling into me spiked in intensity, and I nearly had a climax of my own. We'd only just started, and I was already getting more life from him than I'd expected. This would be a good night. When his shuddering body finally quieted, I shifted myself so that my hips wrapped around his. I ran my tongue over my lips.

"Oh God," he gasped, breathing labored and eyes wide. His hands traveled up my waist and rested under my breasts, earning my approval. "I thought... I thought only whores did that..."

I arched an eyebrow. "Disappointed?"

"Oh, no. Oh God, no."

Leaning forward, I brushed my lips against his. "Then return the favor."                                                                        

He was only too eager. After pulling the chemise over my head, he ravaged my body with his mouth, his hands cradling m breasts while his lips sucked and teeth teased the nipples, just as I'd done to him. My desire grew, my instincts urging me to take more and more and stoke my body's burning need. When he moved his mouth between my legs, parting my thighs, I jerked his head up.

"You said I think like a man," I hissed softly. "Then treat me like one. Get on your knees."

He blinked in surprise, taken aback, but I could tell something about the force of the command aroused him. An animal glint shone in his eyes as he sank to his knees on the floor, and I stood before him, my backside leaning against the bed.

Hands clutching my hips, he pressed his face against the soft patch of hair between my thighs, his tongue slipping between my lips and stroking the burning, swelling heart buried within. At that first touch, my whole body shuddered, and I arched my head back. Fueled by this reaction, he lapped eagerly, letting his tongue dance with a steady rhythm. Twining my hands in his hair, I pushed him closer to me, forcing him to taste more of me, to increase the pressure of his tongue upon me.

When the burning, delicious feeling in my lower body could take no more, it burst, like the sun exploding. Like fire and starlight coursing through me, setting every part of me tingling and screaming. Imitating what I'd done to him earlier, he didn’t remove his mouth until my climax finally subsided, my body so twitching each time his tongue tauntingly darted out and tease that oh-so-sensitive area.                                                  

When he finally broke away, he looked up with a bemused smile. "I don't know what you are. Subservient... dominant... don't know how to treat you."

I smiled back, my hands caressing the sides of his face. "I’m anything you want me to be. How do you want to treat me?"

He thought about it, finally speaking in a hesitant voice. "I want… I want to think of you like a goddess...and take you like a whore..."

My smile increased. That about summed up my life, I thought.

"I'm anything you want me to be," I repeated.

Rising to his feet, he turned me around, pushing me to my knees on the bed. I felt the hard press of his erection behind me, and then he shoved it into me, sliding almost effortlessly now that I was so wet.

Moaning, I arched myself up so that he could get a better position and take me deeper. His hands clutched my hips as he moved with an almost primal aggression, and the sound of our bodies hitting each other filled the room. My body responded to his, loving the way he filled me up and drove into me. My cries grew louder, his thrusts harder and deeper.

And, oh, the life pouring into me. It was a river now, golden and scorching, renewing my own life and existence. Along with his energy, he yielded some of his emotions and thoughts, and I could literally feel his lust and affection for me.

That life force warred with my own physical pleasure, both consuming me and driving me mad, so that I could barely think or even separate one from the other. The feeling grew and grew within me, burning my core, building up in such intensity that I could barely contain it. Seeing how close I was, Niccolo shoved into me with increased force, so much so that I nearly fell forward, my face pressed against the soft covers of the bed.

The fire within me swelled, and I made no more attempts to hold off my climax. It burst within me, exploding, enveloping my whole body in a terrible, wonderful ecstasy. Niccolo showed no mercy, never slowing as that pleasure wracked my body. I writhed against it, even as I screamed for more.

And more there was. Much more.

* * *

Niccolo might be immoral in the eyes of the Church, but at heart of what mattered, he was a decent man. He was kind to others and had a strong character whose principles were not easily shaken. As a result, he had had a lot of goodness and a lot of life to give, life I absorbed without remorse. It spread into me as our bodies moved together, sweeter than any nectar. It burned in my veins, making me feel alive, making me into the goddess he kept murmuring that I was as we continued our lovemaking.

Unfortunately, the loss of such energy took its toll, and he lay immobile in my bed afterward, breaths shallow and face pale. Naked, I sat up and watched him, running a hand over his sweat-drenched forehead. He smiled.

"Those sonnets might be harder than I thought. I don't think I can capture this with words." He struggled to sit up, the motion causing him pain. "I need to go...the curfew"

"Forget it. You can stay here for the night."

"But your servants—"

"—are well-paid for their discretion." I brushed my lips over his skin. "Besides, aren't we supposed to discuss philosophy and then make love again?"

He closed his eyes, but the smile stayed. "Yes, of course. But I...I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me. I need to rest first..."                                                                              |

I lay down beside him. "Then rest."

* * *

"That fresco is the work of demons!"

I gave Father Betto a nigh angelic look. "It is?"

"Yes, of course. It depicts sin and hedonism. What were you thinking?"

Sitting across from him in his office the following day, I looked sheepishly down, lower lip trembling. It was another of our prayer sessions, and I wore a dress with a Milanese neckline so low, it was a wonder he couldn't see my nipples. "I thought the Church supported the arts. You commissioned a painting last autumn."

"It was of the crucifixion," he reminded me. "By paying for this monstrosity, you encourage the depraved creations so many painters are engaging in. This is what Fra Savonarola is trying to get rid of. Many such works will burn in the flames. Botticelli is bringing his own abominations."

I jerked my head up, momentarily forgetting my mission to seduce him. "Sandro Botticelli?" As if there was any other. I had seen his paintings. Their beauty made my heart ache.

"He's seen the error of his ways and now repents—as must you. Savonarola's Bands of Hope will come to your house soon. You must yield your vices to them."

Thinking of Botticelli's masterpieces consumed in fire, I could only stare into space. Then, remembering my task here, I moved a hand over the priest's. He flinched but did not remove it as my fingers tightened around his. I looked up at him through my lashes.

"Thank you, Father, for your continued guidance. You're too kind to me."

* * *

Niccolo didn't show up the following morning. I lingered in the house for much of the day, waiting and hoping. No sign. Finally, figuring I should get some work done of my own, I went down to the lowest level of the building where we stored a great deal of our stock and conducted transactions.

"My darling Bianca."

Turning, I smiled up into the face of Giovanni Alfieri. A merchant of considerable wealth and influence, he traded and shipped with us regularly. He also wanted to bed me very, very badly. I waved away the clerk assisting him and wandered up to Alfieri's tall, bearded form, tossing my hair back coquettishly. I liked him fine for business but had no intention of ever doing anything more; his soul was too corrupt to even count as a prize for hell. Still, we enjoyed an excellent flirtation.

"Signore Alfieri, what a treat. You're visiting us in person. I figured you'd send one of your assistants."

He swept me a gallant bow. "And miss the chance of basking in your presence? Never. That dress, by the way, is particularly stunning. Lovely neckline."

I laughed. Nice that somebody at least appreciated my better attributes. I knew he had no illusions about my ‘virtue,’ nor did he hold its lack against me.

"You've been staring at my neckline?" I filled my voice with mock indignation.                                                             

"Certainly not," he said, pitching his voice low so the workers wouldn't hear. "I've been paying much more attention to what it contains. I’ve also been imagining what it contains."

"Well," I said dryly, "I trust you have a good imagination."

"It's excellent, but I wouldn't mind comparing to the real thing..."

I repressed an eye roll and beckoned my clerk back over. Alfieri's face immediately turned shrewd and attentive. Lascivious or not, he was a businessman at heart, and his ships had a huge shipment bound for England soon. He'd make us both a lot of money.

When we finally closed up shop, I returned upstairs, hoping to find Niccolo, but he still hadn't arrived. Finally, barely an hour before curfew fell, he showed up at last, a secretive look on his face and a large, wrapped bundle in his arms.

"Where have you been? What is that?"

Unwrapping the cloak, he revealed a stack of books. I sifted through them wonderingly. Boccacio's Decameron. Ovid's Amores. Countless others. Some I'd read. Some I'd longed to read. My heart gave a flutter, and my fingers itched to turn the pages.

"I've gathered these from some of my friends," he explained. "They're worried Savonarola's thugs will seize them. Will you hide them here? No one would force them away from someone like you."

The books practically shone to me, far more valuable than Francesca's stash of jewels. I wanted to drop everything and start reading. "Of course." I flipped through the pages of the Boccacio. "I can't believe anyone would want to destroy these."

"These are dark days," he said, face hard. "If we aren't careful, all knowledge will be lost. The ignorant will crush the learned.

I knew he spoke the truth. I'd seen it, over and over. Knowledge destroyed, trampled by those too stupid to know what they did. Sometimes it happened through forceful, bloody invasions; sometimes it happened through less violent but equallv insidious means, like those of Fra Savonarola.

"Bianca?" Niccolo chuckled softly. "Are you even listening to me? I hoped to spend the night with you, but maybe you'd rather be with Boccacio..."

1 dragged my eyes from the pages, feeling my lips quirk up into a half-smile. "Can't I have you both?"

Which is how, an hour later, I found myself straddling Niccolo in my bed, both of us sweaty and sated as I read passages aloud from the Decameron. I'd ridden him into exhaustion, taking him as forcefully as any man might conquer a virgin. He lay back, watching and listening with a small smile, happy and content.

* * *

Over the next few days, Niccolo continued to smuggle more and more goods to me. And not just books. Paintings accumulated in my home. Small sculptures. Even more superficial things like extravagant cloth and jewels.

I felt as though I'd been allowed to cross through the gates of Heaven. Hours would pass as I studied paintings and sculptures, marveling at the ingenuity of humans, jealous of a creativity I had never possessed, either as a mortal or immortal. That art filled me up with an indescribable joy, exquisite and sweet, almost reminding me of when my soul had been my own.

And the books...oh, the books. My clerks and associates soon found their hands full of extra work as I neglected them. Who cared about accounts and silk with so much knowledge at my fingertips? I drank it up, savoring the words—words the Church condemned as heresy. A secret smugness filled me over the role I played, protecting these treasures. I would pass on humanity's knowledge. The light of genius and creativity would not fade from this world, and best of all, I would get to enjoy it along the way.

When Savia's next visit came, she showed approval at Francesca's recent trysts, much to my friend's relief. The demoness was slightly less thrilled to hear about my continued delay with Father Betto, but her mood stayed optimistic. I’d proven myself on too many other occasions for her to grow agitated—yet.

"I have faith in you, Bianca. I've seen you work before." Her dark eyes cut to Francesca. "You should pay attention. You could learn a lot."

Francesca flushed angrily, upset at still being considered second best. "Bianca doesn't have much time for teaching anymore. She's too busy building up her horde."

Savia, curious, demanded an explanation, and I told her about my role in protecting the contraband. As always, her response took a long time in coming, and when it did, my heart nearly stopped.

"You need to cease this immediately."

"I-what?"

"And, you need to turn these items over to Father Betto."

I studied her incredulously, waiting for the joke to reveal itself. "You can't...you can't mean that. This stuff can't be destroyed. We'd be supporting the Church. We're supposed to go against them."

"We're supposed to further evil in the world, my darling, which may or may not go along with the Church's plans. In this case, it does."

"How?" I cried.

"Because there is no greater evil than ignorance and the destruction of genius. Ignorance has been responsible for more death, more bigotry, and more sin than any other force. It is the destroyer of mankind."

"But Eve sinned when she sought knowledge..."

Savia's lips turned up in a smirk. "Are you sure? Do you truly know what is good and what is evil?"

"I don't know," I whispered. "They seem kind of indistinguishable from one another."

"Yes. Sometimes they are." When I didn't answer, the smile vanished. "This isn't up for debate. You will yield your stash immediately. And to sweeten the deal, you'll give up some of that was wardrobe you have. Perhaps that will finally endear you to Betto."

"But I—" The word can't was on my lips, and I bit it off. Under the scrutiny of her stare and power, I felt very small and very weak. You don't cross demons. I swallowed. "Yes, Savia."

* * *

Niccolo showered my neck and lips with kisses, their caresses both tender and fierce. "There is no way," he declared, "your skin can be so soft. It isn't possible."

I managed a smile I didn't feel. Part of me had died, despite how wonderful he felt moving in and out of my body. I stared up into his eyes without really seeing them, distantly noting he was about to peak. I made the appropriate noises when it happened, tightening my muscles around him as that ecstasy took over and his seed spilled into me. The lightning of his energy crackled through me as well, and he gasped at its loss, not knowing what had happened. He never realized I shortened his life a little each time we made love.

I had moved around in a daze since Savia's directive, despairing and depressed. She had the power to make my life very, very miserable if I disobeyed her, and I'd known she would check up with Father Betto and Francesca to make sure I'd indeed turned over my stash. What could I do? Nothing.

And then...yesterday, I'd thought of something I could do. But to make it work...to really make it work, I realized I'd have to make a terrible choice. I'd have to choose the lesser of two evils, just like the old cliché says, giving up something I loved to protect something else I loved.

Niccolo rolled off of me, exhausted but pleased. "Lenzo's going to bring me one of his paintings tomorrow. Wait until you see it. It shows Venus and Adonis—"

"No."

He lifted his head up. "Hmm?"

"No. Don't bring me any more." It was hard, oh God, it was so hard speaking to him in such a cold tone.

A frown crossed his handsome face. "What are you talking about? You’ve already taken so much—"

"I don't have them anymore. I gave them up to Savonarola.*

"You...you're joking."

I shook my head. "No. I contacted his Bands of Hope this morning. They came and took it all."

Niccolo sat up, frown deepening. "Stop it. This isn't funny."

"It's not a joke. They're all gone. They're going to the fire. They're objects of sin. They need to be destroyed."

"You're lying. Stop this, Bianca. You don't mean—"

My voice sharpened. "They're wrong and heretical. They're gone."

Our eyes locked, and as he studied my face, I could see that he was starting to realize that maybe, just maybe I spoke the truth. And I did. Sort of.

We dressed, and I took him to the storage room I'd hidden the objects in. He stared at the empty space, face pale and disbelieving. I stood nearby, arms crossed, maintaining a stiff and disapproving stance. I'd had centuries of practice making men believe any illusion I wanted.

Eyes wide, he turned to me. "How could you? How could you do this?"

"I told you-"

"I trusted you! You said you'd keep them safe!"

"I was wrong. Satan clouded my judgment."

He gripped my arm painfully and leaned closed to me. "What have they done to you? Did they threaten you? You wouldn't do this. What are they holding against you? Is it that priest you're always visiting?"

"No one's made me do this," I replied bleakly. "It's the right thing to do."

He pulled back, like he couldn't stand my touch, and my heart lurched painfully at the look in his eyes. "Do you know what you've done? Some of those can never be replaced."

"I know. But it's better this way."

With a last shocked look, he stormed out of the room.

Swallowing back tears, I watched him go. He's just another man I thought. Let him go. I'd had so many in my life; I'd have sо many more. What did he matter?

Ignoring the pain in my chest, I crept downstairs to the lower level, careful not to wake the sleeping household. I'd made the same journey last night, painstakingly carrying part of the horde down here, a feat that required several trips. It had been many years since I'd performed that kind of manual labor, but I couldn't trust anyone else.

Splitting the art and books had been like choosing which of my children had to live or die. The silks and velvets had been mindless; all of them went to Fra Savonarola. But the rest...that had been difficult. I'd let most of Ovid go. His works were so widespread, I had to believe copies of them would survive—if not in Florence, then perhaps some other place untouched by this bigotry. Other authors, those whom I feared had a limited run, stayed with me.

The paintings and sculptures proved hardest of all. They were one of a kind. I couldn't hope that other copies might exist. But I'd known I couldn't keep them all either, not when both Savia and Francesca knew my collection contained art. And so, with tears running down my face, I'd chosen those which I thought most worth saving.

Francesca had seen the shipment of chosen items go out with Savonarola's thugs this morning. She would report that to Savia. But I'd still technically disobeyed a demon, and I needed to cover myself. I needed a distraction to ensure that neither Francesca nor Savia would probe too closely and find out about the other stash. That was where Niccolo came in.

If he believed all of the treasures were gone, so would the others. His angry, abrupt split from me would distract Francesca and Savia while convincing them of my own devastation, giving them no reason to doubt my sincerity. Besides, if he knew about the secret goods' existence, the truth could eventually come out. I couldn't risk that, couldn't risk him knowing. I couldn't risk anyone knowing.

Except for one.

Giovanni Alfieri had refused me at first when I'd asked him to smuggle the salvaged objects out of Florence. While not a pious man, he feared the Church just as we all did. He didn't want to court the kind of trouble that might ensue if he was caught. But I saw the glimmer of greed spark in his eyes as I increased the price he'd get for his assistance. And when I'd taken off my clothes and did all the things to him he'd long imagined—and a few he hadn't—he'd agreed to take the two crates of contraband to England.

The real irony here was that I was sending them to an angel I didn't like angels as a general rule, but this one was a scholar and when I'd lived there, we'd gotten along reasonably well. Heretical or no, the books and art would appeal to him as much as to me. He would keep them safe. How ironic, I thought, that I would turn to the enemy for help. Savia had been right. Sometimes good and evil were impossible to distinguish from one another.

Now, standing in the darkened storage area, I bid a silent farewell to the crates. Alfieri would come for them in the morning. I knew I was also saying goodbye to Niccolo, the expression on his face still haunting me. But his grief would save me—and the crates. The knowledge and the beauty I so loved about mankind would be saved. And inside of him, I knew Niccolo wanted the same thing. If I could have told him my dilemma, I think he would have understood.

Besides, he would still keep creating too, still making his wonderful, immoral art. He didn't need me for that. He would get over me. After all, I was just another woman to him, just as he was another man to me.

* * *

Father Betto glowed as he paced his office, afloat on his zeal and exultation.

"Fra Savonarola was so pleased. You can't imagine how wonderful this is. It is a blow to the forces of evil—an example to this indulgent city."

"Yes, Father."

Even he couldn't mistake the doubtful tone in my voice. Alfieri had safely taken my crates, but the loss of the rest still weighed heavily upon me.

Turning around, Betto knelt in front of my chair and placed his hands over mine.

"You are an angel, child. I’m so proud of you. You are peerless among women."

I studied the rapt way he looked at me, felt the warmth of his hands. Feeling sick inside, I slid my hands up his arms as I recalled my mission. Perhaps this fiasco wasn't a total loss.

"Thank you, Father. I owe it all to you. I couldn't have done this without your guidance. I'm grateful." My hands traveled further, touching his cheeks as my face moved closer to his. He took a heavy, shuddering breath, his eyes wide. I could feel the lust humming around him, feel how much he wanted me. "Very grateful."

Later, as his body moved clumsily into mine, I stared at the ceiling, thinking it funny that it took a renunciation of sin to finally lead him into it.

Good and evil were impossible to distinguish from one another.

* * *

Savonarola's Bonfire of Vanities was a great pyramid stuffed with fuel and sin. His followers threw still more items in as it blazed, seeming to have a never ending supply. Other citizens came forward, caught up in the moment, contributing dresses and mirrors and books. I watched as Botticelli himself tossed one of his paintings in. I saw only a glimpse of it in the firelight. It was beautiful. And then it was gone. Tears ran down my face, and this time, they were not contrived.

"Bianca."

"Hello, Niccolo."

He stood in front of me, gray eyes black in the flickering light. His face seemed to have aged since our last meeting. We both turned and silently observed the blaze again, watching as more and more of man's finest things were sacrificed.

"You have killed progress," Niccolo said at last.     

"I’ve delayed it." Reaching into the folds of my dress, I handed over a purse heavy with florins. It was the last part in my plan. He took it, blinking at its weight.

"This is more than you owe me. And I won't finish the fresco."

"I know. It's all right. Take it. Go somewhere else, somewhere away from Savonarola. Paint. Write. Help others. Whatever it takes. I don't care how you do it. Just create something beautiful."                                                                  

He stared, and I feared he'd give it back. "I don't understand. Why are you doing this now? I know you didn't want to give those things away. Why did you do it?"

I studied the fire again. Humans, I realized idly, liked to burn things. Objects. Each other. "Because men cannot surpass the gods. Not yet anyway."

"Prometheus never intended his gift to be used like this."

I smiled without humor, remembering the conversation that now seemed ages old. "No. I suppose not."

We said nothing else. A moment later, he walked away, I disappearing into the darkness.