Where Oblivion Lives

by T. Frohock

  The barrel of a rifle blocked his path and wrenched him from the daydream. The violin’s notes scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind.

  He blinked at the woman holding the gun. Carme, one of Guillermo’s capitáns, stood in front of him. She coordinated Santuari’s border patrols and had probably come to give Guillermo a report.

  “Diago, I’m glad I caught you,” she said, although she didn’t look pleased at all. She wore her scowl like a uniform, and between her Roman nose and overbite, today’s expression rendered her face more equine than usual.

  If horses had shark eyes and a voice filled with murder.

  “I have an appointment with Don Guillermo,” he said. The front porch lay merely two meters behind Carme. So near and so far. “I hope you’ll excuse me.”

  Carme didn’t move. “I wouldn’t worry if I were you. Don Guillermo is tied up with reports from Madrid. You’ll probably have to wait for him.”

  As long as you’re not there. “Still, I don’t want to be late.” He started to move around her.

  She extended the Mauser’s barrel to block him a second time. He briefly considered sidestepping the obstacle. Then again, she’ll have her say, either here or in a more private location. Twice now she had caught him alone and tried to provoke him into a fight. And twice, she has come close to success. Thus far, he’d controlled his desire to strike back, but a breaking point would come, and when it did, he wanted witnesses.

  “What do you want, Carme?”

  “Valeria”—Carme tilted her head toward another nefil at the base of the drive—“said she saw wolves in the western fields this morning.”

  They lived in the country; wolves came with the territory. Curious about where she was going with the information, he held his peace.

  “You might want to keep Rafael’s little cat inside until we take care of the situation. We’re also telling the children not to play out there. It helps if the parents reinforce the warning. Probably best if everyone stays out of the western fields. You know, until the wolves are gone.”

  Her meaning finally resonated with him, and a needle of fear returned to prick his heart. The western fields held more than wolves. An old stone finca that was little more than a two-room shed occupied one corner of the isolated field. Guillermo used it for a gaol, where the screams of the interrogated couldn’t be heard by those in Santuari.

  “Wolves,” Diago repeated numbly.

  She watched his expression closely in an effort to gauge the effect of the news on him. It was an old trick to spring the information on a potential suspect and then observe their reaction. A flicker of concern, a scent of fear, or even a flash of anger might indicate a deeper association with the prisoner already in custody—a connection that could lead to the suspect’s arrest for an interrogation of their own.

  Unfortunately, Carme’s attempt to unnerve him had succeeded, but not for the reasons she intended. Miquel had returned home reeking of blood and secrets.

  Cold now, Diago asked, “And these wolves, are they roaming Santuari or Barcelona?”

  “You never know,” she said. “They travel in packs and range wide.”

  Movement behind Carme distracted him. Suero had ventured to the edge of the porch. The younger nefil was blond in the way of the Spanish, with light eyes and a slight build.

  “Diago.” He lifted his hand. “I thought I heard you. Let’s go. Don Guillermo is waiting.”

  Apparently those reports from Madrid weren’t as time-consuming as Carme thought. Diago pushed the gun barrel aside and stepped around her. He felt her eyes on his back, but he didn’t turn until he entered the foyer.

  Suero lingered at the door, watching Carme’s retreat. “Is she giving you trouble again?” he asked.

  Diago shrugged. “With Carme it’s always hard to know whether she’s picking a fight or just doing her job.” He appreciated Suero’s concern, though, which took a slight edge off his abrupt phone summons.

  “Let me know if it becomes the former.” Suero closed the door on the August heat. “She’s been warned to back off.”

  “That’s good to know,” Diago said as he allowed the younger nefil to take the lead.

  They moved deeper into the house, where the cool white of the entrance hall gave way to bright splashes of color. Talavera tiles accented the baseboards and risers on the various stairways. The inlays were decorated with glyphs, which to the mortal eye were nothing more than the profusion of motifs seen in Spanish architecture. But if one looked closer—and knew how to see past the distractions of the vibrant patterns—they would find Saturn’s sickle, Mars’s shield and spear, or Jupiter’s thunderbolt alongside Enochian sigils of protection embedded in the flowering designs.

  Likewise, the ornate railings—wrought by Guillermo himself—also contained those same symbols, cunningly hidden by the curls of iron and artistic embellishments. For now the glyphs lay dormant, but the vibrations of a specific song would activate their explosive magic to protect Guillermo and his family.

  From somewhere nearby, a radio announcer introduced a listener’s request to hear Carlos Gardel’s rendition of “Mi Noche Triste.” Someone in the kitchen sang along in a clear high voice.

  I could tell them something about sad nights, Diago thought as they reached a set of stairs leading into a square tower. The inlays guarding these risers carried different sigils than those in the main living areas. A mortal might mistake the tiles’ radiant sparkle as flecks of quartz catching the light. To the nefilim, however, the bright flickers indicated the wards were active.

  Thus, as they climbed, the kitchen’s music grew muted until it was finally silenced by the power of the glyphs. Nor would anyone below be able to hear what transpired in the tower’s second level, which housed Guillermo’s offices.

  The antechamber was just off the landing and resembled a war room. A conference table commanded the floor and was piled with files along with a couple of ancient grimoires. To the left of the entrance, a large map of the world covered one wall.

  Scattered across the map were pins with colored heads. Blue represented angelic activity and red the daimonic. While the Inner Guard monitored daimonic activity for the angels all over the world, each country was assigned to a special unit. In Spain it was Los Nefilim, although Guillermo kept his eye on other countries as well, because the borders of mortals meant very little in a supernatural war.

  Diago approached the map and noted a new color had been introduced into the mix. A black pin pierced a town on the German side of the Rhine near Offenburg. Before he could get close enough to read the town’s name, the teletype machine in the far corner burst into a staccato rhythm.

  The clacking keys brought Guillermo from the inner sanctum of his office. He was a big man, built like a bull with broad shoulders and narrow hips. Like most Catalonians, his skin was lighter than the Spaniards from Diago’s home in Andalusia. A smattering of freckles sprayed across his nose and cheeks. Sun washed through a high window, touching his auburn hair and beard and merging with the fire of his aura to implode in violent shades of gold and orange.

  Guillermo hesitated on his way to the teleprinter and removed the cold cigar from his mouth. His eyes narrowed as he scowled at Diago. “Still not sleeping?”

  “It’s getting better,” he lied. When the bigger man’s expression didn’t change, Diago hurried to reassure him. “I’m going to see Juanita on my way out.”

  “That’s good. She’ll fix you up.” Guillermo turned back to the machine and rapped the teletype’s metal casing with his knuckles. The signet ring symbolizing Guillermo’s authority over Los Nefilim flashed red and gold, once more dazzling Diago’s vision.

  “Have you seen this?” Proud as if he’d invented the teletype himself, Guillermo didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s the Creed Model 7. It has an absent subscriber service so we don’t need a receiving operator anymore. This machine”—he warmed to his topic—“can give us around a hundred hours of continuous operation. It’s top
of the line and frees up my people for more important work.” He shook his head in wonder. “The twentieth century is amazing. I love the speed of information.”

  Suero rolled his eyes. Obviously he’d heard the merits of the machine one time too many since its arrival.

  Diago couldn’t help but smile, either at Suero’s boredom, or his friend’s enthusiasm. No matter how old Guillermo became, he retained the excitement of a child when it came to gadgets.

  Suero went to his desk and retrieved a slim book. Diago caught Federico García Lorca’s name on the cover. From the well-worn pages, Diago assumed it was a personal copy. As one of the lesser nefilim, Suero was a child of the duende, the dark spirit of inspiration, which left the artist wounded and bleeding unlike her gentler sister the muse. The duende was an oft-mentioned theme of Lorca’s work, which made him Suero’s favorite poet.

  Suero asked, “Do you need anything else before I go to lunch, Don Guillermo?”

  The teletype finally ceased its racket and Guillermo ripped the sheet free, scanning the information quickly with a practiced eye. “No, thank you, Suero.”

  Suero left them alone.

  Guillermo read the paper with a frown.

  “What is it?” Diago asked.

  “The jury reached its verdict in General Sanjurjo’s trial.”

  Now that was news. In early August José Sanjurjo, a mortal general, had attempted a coup d’état against Spain’s fledgling Republic with a small following of officers. Poorly planned and badly executed, the entire fiasco had been defeated in short order.

  “They found Sanjurjo guilty of treason,” Guillermo said as he pulled an ashtray close and crushed his cigar against the amber-colored glass. “We’ve been watching the trial closely.”

  Diago expected no less. Since the nefilim’s affairs often moved in tandem with those of the mortals, the members of Los Nefilim kept a keen eye on the trial and its verdict.

  Recalling Carme’s talk of wolves, Diago asked, “Do you think this means one of your officers is conspiring against you?”

  “Someone is always conspiring against me.” Tossing the paper to the conference table, he went to his office. “Come on. I’ve got something to show you.”

  Curious now, Diago went to the door and looked inside. The container on Guillermo’s desk could easily be mistaken for an infant’s coffin except for the handle, which was set squarely in the center of the lid and indicated the container’s true purpose. It was a violin case from the nineteenth century.

  My violin case.

  Ivory inlays of decorative glyphs adorned the edges and glowed in the semidark room. The sigils still hissed with Diago’s magic, like the lyrics of a song long gone and half remembered.

  But not forgotten, Diago thought as he hurried to the case. Was this why the song had seemed so near lately? The violin was on its way home?

  A quick examination showed the walnut finish had been polished to a high sheen. Someone had scraped most of the rust from the latches, probably a store owner in an attempt to make the case more attractive to a modern buyer. While the silver handle had been recently polished, the leather hinges were cracked—wounds so long neglected, amputation and replacement were the only cure.

  Better than any drug, relief flooded his veins in a rush of euphoria. Miquel is right . . . I’m not alone. “How did you find it?”

  “We haven’t. Your Stradivarius isn’t in there.”

  Diago’s elation crumbled. Steady. He attempted to maintain a neutral expression. A glance at Guillermo told him he’d failed miserably.

  “I’m sorry, Diago.”

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “It gives us a clue.”

  “That it does.” Guillermo withdrew his lighter from his pocket and rubbed his thumb over the case. “It was discovered in a secondhand store in Strasbourg, France.”

  My instincts were right this morning when I thought the music was coming from the north. “Someone stole it from me in that area.”

  “During the Great War, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Open it.”

  Mindful of the broken hinges, he carefully lifted the lid. A creased photograph rested against the brushed red velvet. It was a publicity shot of a handsome young man, wearing formal attire. He held a violin.

  My violin. Diago lifted the photograph. “Was this here?”

  “Tucked into a side pocket. We almost missed it.”

  Diago studied the photo. The young man possessed a square face and full lips. His pale hair was swept to one side, and he treated the photographer to a sublime smile. At the bottom of the photo was a caption in German.

  Diago read it aloud. “‘Joachim Grier, Concertmaster of the Berlin Philharmonic.’”

  “Do you recall him?”

  “Something about his face is familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen him. Could he have been in France during the war?”

  “Possibly. He fought for the Germans.”

  Diago frowned. “Where does he live now?”

  “Joachim is dead, but his sons inherited his estate. It’s not far from Strasbourg, on the German side of the Rhine.”

  Diago took another kick to the gut. The violin might as well be on the moon, then. A cold war seethed between Los Nefilim and Ilsa Jaeger, the queen of Die Nephilim, Germany’s Inner Guard.

  It doesn’t matter. If the Stradivarius was on the moon, Diago would find an angel to fly him there. At least the trains go to Germany. He met Guillermo’s gaze. “I have to retrieve it.”

  “We have to retrieve it.”

  We. Diago’s heart sank. I have to convince him to let me go after it.

  Guillermo kept talking as he returned to the antechamber. “What’s happening to you is extraordinary. I can’t find a single case where a nefil’s instrument has been used against them like this.” He went to the wall map. “Come here. See the black pin?”

  Diago joined him. “Blue for angel, red for daimon, black for . . . ?”

  “The unknown. Sabine Rousseau’s Les Néphilim reported strange music in the Strasbourg area, near the Rhine. Rousseau sent her people to canvass the French side of the river, but they found nothing. On a hunch, she sent three Néphilim into Germany. The music was the strongest here”—Guillermo’s blunt finger moved to the edge of the Black Forest—“about six kilometers northeast of Offenburg in the municipality of Durbach.”

  Diago considered the area. “Let me guess: the Grier estate is also in Durbach.”

  “You would guess correctly.” Guillermo tapped the map once more before he lowered his hand.

  “Could we be dealing with broken glyphs from the Great War?” Diago asked.

  The massive shelling had been like dropping a boulder in a lake. The sound waves had shattered old glyphs and damaged newer wards. Although the war had ended fourteen years ago, Red Zones of broken magic existed all over Europe. Unlike the French’s slow cleanup of the mortal Zone Rouge, the nefilim had no way to know which glyphs had broken until supernatural activity erupted in an area.

  Guillermo scowled at the map. “It’s possible, especially if it’s an older ward. However, Jaeger claims there is nothing going on. She is still furious that we assisted France during the Great War while the Spanish mortals declared neutrality. We took her off guard and she is bent on revenge.”

  “You think she’s hiding something?”

  “I don’t know, and I can’t push her too hard for information. Rousseau’s Néphilim were spying, so they were never in Germany, if you take my meaning.”

  “I do.”

  “Then you know we need to find out what’s going on.”

  “What do we know about the Griers?”

  Guillermo flicked the lid of his lighter. “Joachim quit the orchestra shortly after his wife’s death sometime in nineteen twenty-eight. He moved his two sons”—Guillermo grabbed a file from the table and read the notes—“Rudolf, who is seventeen, and Karl, who is twenty-four, to the family estate at Karinhall.”


  “Named for his wife?”

  Guillermo nodded and flipped through the file. “Rousseau’s spies found that the older boy, Karl, has applied to be a member of Ordo Novi Templi as a Server, which is the lowest rank, reserved for those who are”—he turned the page—“either under the age of twenty-four, or less than fifty percent racially pure.”

  “‘Racially pure’?”

  “They base their theology on the writings of a mortal occultist”—Guillermo dug through the files to retrieve a bulkier folder—“who calls himself Jörg Lanz von Liebenfels.” He located a thin book tucked within the file. “You’re going to love the title: Theozoology, or the Science of the Sodomite Apelings and the Divine Electron.”

  Diago’s lip curled. “Even for mortals that is so . . . offensive.”

  “It’ll make for some fun bedtime reading for you.” Guillermo found an empty briefcase and inserted the files along with the book.

  Diago’s heart skipped a beat. He’s sending me after my violin. He wouldn’t be briefing me if he wasn’t sending me. He barely kept his excitement from creeping into his voice. “Can you summarize it for me?” he asked, referring to the book.

  “In a sentence? The blond races interbred with the dark races, and in doing so, they diluted the Aryans’ paranormal powers, which can only be rediscovered through selective breeding.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Their race has nothing to do with their psychic powers.” For mortal magic, it wasn’t a question of race but rather a matter of possessing enough willpower to bring their desires into manifestation.

  Angels and daimons had recognized this exceptional ability early on and took corporeal bodies in order to mate with the strongest mortals. The nefilim were born of these pairings, combining the magic of the supernatural entities with the more mundane power of the mortals.

  Guillermo tapped the briefcase. “The point is that if Grier buys into this nonsense, he will see you as one of the ‘Sodomite Apelings’ and believe you are inferior to his superior German intellect and breeding.”

  Diago didn’t need a mirror to know that Guillermo referred to his olive skin and Berber features. “It wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but at the same time, knowing this in advance helps me secure a plan of action. So what’s our next move?”