Masters of the Elements- Resonance Read online

  Masters of the Elements: Resonance

  CC Sullivan

  Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  24. Thank you!

  25. Acknowledgments

  26. More To Come From The Author:

  27. Fire, Earth, Air, Water

  About the Author

  Copyright © Cécile B. Sullivan 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

  The novel is entirely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The portrayal of the historical figures in this novel is purely fictional and based solely upon the author’s own personal impressions.

  For requests, information, and more, contact Cécile B. Sullivan at [email protected].

  Available in ebook and print.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64467-554-0

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64467-553-3

  First edition: 2018

  Cover designer: Amanda Walker, PA & Design Services

  Some of us can hear whispers, sense people’s thoughts, and breathe underwater.

  A thrilling tale of mystery, adventure, and time travel from present life to Renaissance Italy.

  Lena Bianchi’s existence is about to change. Student life has its challenges, but when Lena encounters an extraordinary phenomenon, her world is flipped upside down.

  In recurring dreams, she travels to the past, experiencing Renaissance life through Damiano’s eyes, the young model posing for Michelangelo’s Statue of David.

  As her connection to Damiano intensifies, Lena stumbles upon mysterious disappearances and an ancient secret—one with deadly implications.

  While struggling to unravel the mystery to save Damiano, Lena and her friends confront their own tragic pasts and uncover a hidden truth, a revelation so shocking it transcends their present reality.

  In a race against time, will they save Damiano’s life or lose their own? And if they succeed, can they live with the truth they have discovered?

  For my children, David-Alexander and Shannen, and to my husband, Michael, for his immeasurable patience while I worked on this book.

  Author’s Note

  Several years ago, I completed studies in the History of the Renaissance. Fascinated by the idea these enlightened artists had lived at the same time in history, I wondered about their relationships with each other. A storyline developed resulting in this book, Masters of The Elements: Resonance, after many hours spent imagining what it would be like to spend time with these fascinating, creative people.

  The portrayal of Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo are purely fictional and based solely upon my personal impressions. I developed their emotional conditions and personalities to fit the storyline. The details relating to their living situation and the settings used were also altered for the storyline. For example, they may or may not have been in Florence at the time the story takes place, the artists’ studios and their locations are also a fabrication of my imagination.

  I hope you will enjoy a glimpse into the humanity of these astonishing men as they weave their way into this fictional tale accompanying my cast of characters on the path to their true selves.

  Safe travels to lands past,

  CC Sullivan

  Chapter 1

  The Magic Box

  Florence, 1489

  “… Tre, due, uno. Whoever is there, I will find you!”

  Dante darted through the woodlands while behind him Damian’s faint cry resonated. Under the canopy, his feet bounced on the forgiving earth. He’d reached a fork in the path and hesitated, unsure which way to travel.

  Pop!

  To his left, a twig crackled. And beyond the slender trunks of saplings, something shifted. His attention set on the noise, Dante crouched low to the ground to reach for a stick to defend himself. His fingers brushed against a cool, polished surface; this rock will have to do. He looked toward the underwood. A tree branch rustled. There!

  Two eyes fixated on him: a wolf?

  Beads of cool sweat trickled down his back. Stone in hand, Dante rose. Awaiting the beast’s rush, he raised his arm, ready.

  Instead, a young woman stepped onto the pathway. Dante faltered, shocked that those pale, peculiar eyes belonged to her. This wild creature draped in white stared wide-eyed. Dante’s arm quivered, as he lowered it.

  Her long dress fluttered in the light breeze, translucent. The curve of her body sending a shiver skittering through him. A finger moved to her lips to shush him, and though he wanted to, he dared not scream. She whispered, just above a murmur.

  Dante had understood only one word: Firenze. With his senses coming back to him, he pointed the path to Florence.

  She carried an object—a shiny, silver box emitting an iridescent, blue light—unlike anything he’d ever seen. When their eyes met, she glanced down, sliding it into the folds of her finely embroidered dress.

  A high-pitched voice taunted from a distance. “Dante! Where are you?”

  Her expression softened. “Dante?” Though a fair distance from him, her warm breath caressed his cheek and tickled his ear. Am I imagining it?

  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His voice trembled.

  “Si Signora, I am Dante di Ronaldo D’Alessandro.”

  “How old are you, Dante?”

  He’d comprehended but did not answer. A crease formed between her brow.

  “Quanti an…”

  “Otto.” Eight.

  A hot flush rose to his cheeks. He fled as fast as he could. Feeling foolish, he glanced back. No one followed. She had left. He stopped in his tracks and crept back on tip toes to where they’d met. The feathery touch of her breath lingered on his cheek.

  Ahead, something sparkled. The gleaming object lay on the ground. With the tip of his sandal, he shoved the bizarre case. Nothing. Picking it up, he jiggled it just once. Like magic, writing popped up onto its glass surface.

  He jumped, dropping it like it was afire. Then he plucked it up again, despite his racing heart, and tapped a finger against its smooth exterior. A picture appeared; the lady with the wolf eyes. Like magic. He gawked at her likeness. How did she fall inside this box?

  In the distance, his brother grumbled. “Dante? Come on, this game isn’t fun anymore!” Answering Damian’s call, Dante shoved his new toy deep into his pocket and scooted back toward his brother’s voice.

  Florence, Present Day

  Tears blurred Lena’s vision. Standing alone in the Tribune, she gazed up at Michelangelo’s Statue of David. Memories of her father floated to the surface. Her throat tightened.

  He’d held onto her slight hand; a soothing warmth in the frigid interior of the Galleria dell’Accademia.

  “Who was this man, Papa?”

  “David. A young man who stood up to a giant named Goliath, killing him with just a sli
ng and a stone.” Her father’s voice echoed in the chamber. “With one shot, he saved his kingdom.”

  Lena had craned her neck, glancing up at the sculpture’s full extent. “He could step down and walk away with us.”

  Her father continued, “This statue captures the moment before David’s life changed forever. He grew up to become one of the greatest kings of all time. His courage symbolized the heart and soul of Florence.”

  She shielded herself against her father’s side. He looked down at her, his expression becoming sober as their eyes met. “Lena, the world’s not as you know it, and you’re still too young for me to explain. One day you will learn about it.”

  With her head craned toward him, she noticed a dark shadow of uncertainty passing over him, and he squeezed her hand a little tighter than usual.

  “For now, I want you to remember that we’ll always watch over you. You’re precious, a girl with special gifts.”

  Lena shivered, still unsure what he’d meant; however, a nagging sensation—something askew—gnawed at her. She looked up, almost expecting to see her father’s face, but found herself alone.

  A flicker caught her eye—like a butterfly flitting about the statue’s feet, fluid and rippling outward. Lena blinked, wiping away a tear. Nothing. It had vanished.

  A loud clash distracted her. The guard had dropped his keys. As she turned away, something stirred again. Her eyes darted back to the base of the statue and, this time, she caught it, an unmistakable undulation. Lena’s eyes narrowed. She leaned forward to get a closer look. Did David just twitch his toes?

  Looking around her, she reached in for her phone, keeping it hidden on the inside flap of her jacket. Leaning near the glass encasement keeping David safe, she hoped to capture something, anything.

  Just then, a heavy hand landed on her shoulder. Caught! She jerked around, almost dropping her phone. The guard glared at her.

  “No photos in the Galleria!”

  “I—I wasn’t taking any.”

  The guard held out his hand.“You give me the phone.”

  “No. I wasn’t taking any photos!”

  “I telephone the Police.”

  The Carabinieri—never a good idea. She handed it over. Her feet thudded against the cold marble floor as she followed him to the office. The guard glanced back at her with a laser beam look that could have burned a hole in her skull. They reached his station, and he demanded her identification.

  As she searched her purse for her student card, she trembled.

  “I want my phone back when you’re done.”

  When he had taken her information, he held out her phone.

  “Unlock phone!”

  While he viewed the video, Lena watched as a crease formed in his brow. He shook his head. She wondered, Did he see something too?

  A moment later, his fingers flew about the screen before handing the phone to her. He’d erased the video.

  “You no welcome at La Galleria.”

  The guard’s tone had a distinct edge to it. He meant what he said. Reaching out to grab her, he grazed her elbow. She yanked her arm and stepped away. Stumbling, he dropped his walkie-talkie. It fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

  Heat rose to Lena’s cheeks as a surge of pride prickled the surface of her skin. “I can leave on my own.”

  At that moment, a large group arrived. She took this freedom to dash down the corridor. Just before escaping into the crowd, she spun to see the guard marching toward her. I must leave, and fast. Shoving her way through the group, she burst out the front doors onto Via Ricasoli.

  On the narrow street’s other side stood the Libreria Evangelica, a shop spilling onto the pavement with Christian publications, postcards, maps, and ATMs up front. This tourist trap was the closest store to take shelter, and it was still open. The afternoon light had diffused into a warm, orangey glow. Lena slunk into the store to hide behind the ATMs. From her stand, she had a direct view of the Galleria’s entrance.

  If it weren’t for the large signs outside, no one would presume that nondescript building housed the treasures it did. Her guard stepped out, searching the street. Lena ducked. He mumbled something into his walkie-talkie and went back inside.

  With quickened steps, she marched up Via Ricasoli as dusk fell. Wrought iron bars secured the lower windows facing the street. Even in this light, their appearance ruined the charm of this historic city.

  Lena reached Via degli Alfani, but instead of turning, she strode through its small junction. Her cheeks still burned; she wasn’t yet ready to head home.

  Fresh evening air settled over the city. The day’s heat rose in undulating waves, and from the Arno’s waterways, a river smoke covered the bridges of Florence, blanketing the piazzas, alcoves, and narrow passageways.

  The fine mist descended like a hazy memory. Some lost dream imbued with the perfumed fragrance of a time long forgotten. The city sparkled. A million, shimmering diamonds sprinkled the city, and street lamps glowed like hallowed angels standing guard.

  Lena had wandered on much further than she’d planned. She stopped at the Ponte alle Grazie—the longest bridge—stretched out across the Arno River. She wiggled her fingers to ease the niggling sensation in her fingertips. To keep them warm, she rubbed her palms together. The prickling changed to pins and needles.

  Under the streetlamp’s hazy illumination, Lena stopped. She shook her hands. Short, violent jerks. It’s not that cold out! Her street lamp flickered, she looked up. Why do they always do that when I step under them?

  Then a cooling sensation crept up her arms to her elbows, as though plunged in frigid water. She held her palms out and glanced down. Her mouth ran dry. She stared in horror. As if someone were tightening their grip around her throat, she gasped for air.

  The tips of her fingers stretched into a clear, bluish-coloured fluid, disappearing from sight. What the heck is going on?

  Her heartbeat quickened, contesting her laboured breathing. Without another thought, she burst into a full run. Down the street running along the Arno’s northern bank she sailed.

  In one of the dark corners of a home that bordered the river, two beady eyes stared out from under a hooded cloak.

  Beads of sweat formed on her forehead. She paused before fleeing again, bypassing the Ponte Vecchio, and swinging right onto the first lane.

  Lena glanced over her shoulder. Nothing. Yielding to a stream of tourists, she took ten minutes to snake her way through the crowds before she arrived back at her residence.

  At her building’s front door, Lena checked her hands once more. They’ve returned. Back to their original shape!

  She fumbled with her large key. After a few tries, she unlocked it and bounded upstairs. Stopping on the third floor’s landing, she entered her apartment. Slamming the door behind her, Lena leaned against it, bracing herself against the outside world.

  Her roommate jumped at this abrupt intrusion.

  “Jesus, you scared the crap out of me!”

  “Sorry, Portia…”

  Lena, taking in a deep breath, raised her head toward the cathedral ceiling. The calm of being back in her own space settled her nerves.

  Portia, in her own corner of the spacious studio apartment, frowned. Reading in bed, propped up with a pillow against her headboard. She glanced at Lena.

  “You okay? You look spooked.”

  Lena moved to the window to stare out onto the avenue below.

  “I saw something. Come to think of it, I—I’m not sure what happened.”

  Though it was getting dark, the Piazza San Lorenzo still had a few tourists strolling through the square. At the far end, she spotted movement.

  A cloaked figure lurked in the shadows, then vanished into the night. She nibbled on her lip. In the window’s reflection, she caught Portia staring.

  Portia’s crystal green eyes glowed in the semi-obscure room. “Lena, what’s going on? Something happen?”

  Lena sat down on the edge of Portia’s bed, her hand
s shaking. “Check my eyes and tell me if you see anything?”

  Portia approached, her nose almost touching Lena’s. “It’s not the best lighting…but there’s nothing unusual.” Leaning back, she shrugged, lowering her eyes to her book. “Just your wolfish eyes. They’re fine.”

  The distinct click of Portia’s tongue discomforted Lena. Portia only does that when she’s nervous.

  Lena was used to the unease people experienced when looking into her eyes for the first time. Those deep blocks of ice, surrounded by a dark blue rim. So why is Portia reacting this way?

  Lena crossed her arms and huffed, hoping Portia would look up. Not a chance. Not even a flicker. Portia ignored her. She must have seen something.

  Over a year and a half earlier, Lena and Portia had met at the door of their apartment. They’d just begun their first year of studies at the University of Florence.

  Their dormitory wasn’t your typical university residence. The small, rectangular edifice overlooked the Piazza San Lorenzo. Designed in classical Roman style, form, and proportion, Lena had paused to marvel at it.

  From the square you could see how the first and second floors were framed with large stones carved into pillars on the right and left sides and topped with a frieze and scroll-shaped corbel.

  Arriving the first time, Lena had loved how the cornice ran along the building’s entire facade, accenting the separation between the second and third floors. She’d also stopped to peer at the large gold seal on the jeweller’s front windows, spanning the entire ground floor.