by T. Frohock
Definitely a Messenger and not a Throne or Principality, whose physical appearances all differed dramatically.
Miquel’s cigarette burned low. He crushed it in the ashtray. “The angel.”
“What about him?”
“We’re looking for a link between Jordi and Diago.” He pointed at Bernardo’s sketch. “Who is the angel? An adviser?”
Guillermo frowned at the sketch. “Suero?”
“The records didn’t indicate an angelic adviser was ever given to Sir George.”
“Now isn’t that interesting.” He made a mental note to check with Juanita as he thumbed the lid of his lighter. “Bernardo told me the brooches were made as love tokens. Sir George wore one, Diago the other.”
“Not Diago,” Miquel murmured. “Yago. His name in that life was Yago. I was Michel and you were Guillaume. Yago found us in Verdun after the war. I remember now. Rumors of a rogue angel led us to George’s estate, and we followed them, because we needed a way to bring down George and return you to power.”
“Good, good, your account matches Bernardo’s.” Guillermo recounted what the priest had told him.
Miquel straightened. “Bernardo, then Bernard, couldn’t get close enough to prove the angel existed. Which is why Yago offered to help us.”
Guillermo stroked the lighter’s warm metal. “It was his way of reaching over the incarnations to undo the harm we did to one another in our firstborn lives.” He focused on the composite of Jordi’s face. “We had to be careful, because George’s castle wasn’t large. It began as a simple house built on the eastern side of a lake.”
As he spoke, the office receded and Guillermo recalled the necessary details of the last time he saw Yago alive.
Throughout the years George added to the original building until the main house looms over the two-story structures that comprise the northern, southern, and western sides of the courtyard. The northeastern and southwestern corners have towers of equal height, and there George’s banners snap in the wind. A moat is the castle’s only fortification. More isn’t needed. The angels and the daimons have engineered a period of peace, and they abide by the treaties still freshly carved in their hearts.
Guillaume observes the castle grounds from the crossroad and marks each building’s location in his mind. Later, he will sketch the layout from memory.
He camps in the hills and waits until he sees George ride out on a hunt without Yago at his side. Wearing a heavy cowl, Guillaume poses as a traveler whose horse needs a shoe. While he waits, Bernard sends his stableboy to bring Yago to the stables on some pretext.
Keeping to the shadows, Guillaume watches for any evidence of the angel. The rogue remains out of sight.
The stableboy emerges from a side door with Yago on his heels. They cross the courtyard and soon reach the barn.
Yago walks past Guillaume without a glance and directs his question to Bernard. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s your mare. She’s not eating.” Bernard heats the shoe for Guillaume’s horse in the fire and gestures for the stableboy to attend the bellows. “Take a look at her and let me know if she’s getting colicky.”
Guillaume notes the brooch Yago wears over his heart. It seems he has made some friends.
Yago goes to the stall that holds his mare. He murmurs to the animal, soothing her with his voice.
Bernard bellows out a hearty drinking song. He keeps the rhythm by pounding on the shoe.
Guillaume wanders away from the forge. His horse is stabled adjacent to Yago’s mare. When the stableboy is distracted by Bernard, Guillaume eases into the stall, speaking in whispers to his mount. He sings a glyph for silence over the door. Through the slats, he sees Yago has placed a similar sigil on his stall.
Yago runs his palm across the mare’s chest. His lips barely move as he speaks. “Christ, but your audacity is astounding. If George finds you here, he will burn you alive for the joy of hearing you scream.”
“Relax. George will hunt until he kills something, and I’ve chased most of the game deep into the forest.” Guillaume strokes his horse’s coat and then murmurs sweetly, “Speaking of my brother, are you sleeping with him yet?”
Yago gives him a vicious side-eye through the slats. “He doesn’t remember me from our previous incarnations if that’s what you want to know.”
“Michel sends his love.”
The malice leaves Yago’s glare at the mention of Michel. “Carry mine back to him.”
“I will. Now tell me what you’ve found so I can get out of here.”
“Bernard is right. There is a rogue Messenger here. He calls himself Frauja. He shows himself to George and to me. No one else.”
Guillaume is relieved. Now Yago can leave George’s castle. “Don’t endanger yourself anymore. Come back to Verdun.”
“Do you want to be like your brother, wearing a paper crown, or would you prefer to hold the secret of the Key?”
Guillaume’s heart stammers. “What are you saying?”
“Frauja has promised to teach us.”
“The angels say nefilim’s voices cannot replicate the Key.”
“That was the point I made, but Frauja proved me wrong. He guided us through the initial chords and I saw into another realm, Guillaume, I felt it. It seemed like a mirror of this mortal realm, but different.”
Guillaume’s breath feels tight in his chest. “Different how?”
“The sky was still blue, the grass green, but the colors were more vibrant, more alive. This”—he gestures to the air to indicate the mortal realm—“feels like an illusion, surreal.” Yago moves closer, his voice dipping low beneath Bernard’s song. “Whatever else Frauja has done, he has given me a beginning.” He leans against the boards that separate the stalls, his dark green eyes sparkling with excitement. “Do you know what this means? If we can control the pathways between the realms, we can affect the outcome of battles, or hide within the creases of time, or even create new worlds where there is no war.”
Outside the stall, Bernard’s hammer rings against the shoe. The blows emulate the steady tick of time. The temptation to ask Yago to stay is heavy. Were Guillaume the one taking the chance, he might go forward, but he doesn’t want to risk Yago’s life. They have come so far from the disaster of their firstborn lives when Solomon’s greed for power destroyed Asaph and himself.
“Take the beginning,” Guillaume whispers. “You can compose the rest later. We’ll let the rogue answer to the Thrones. Keep your eye on the goal: we have enough evidence against George. The Thrones will give me the blessing of the signet.”
“What if the Thrones find Frauja has done nothing wrong? He will leave and make his proposal to another nefil, one who won’t have your best interests at heart.”
The temptation returned. He has Satan’s silver tongue. He knows just want I want and how to dangle the prize before me. “No, it’s too dangerous. Come away in the morning.”
But he doesn’t count on Yago’s obstinance.
“I’m staying. This is my choice. I’ll decide the risks I’m willing to take. If I can solve the mystery of Frauja’s intentions and get the Key, no one will ever again question either my loyalty to the angels, or your rights as king.”
Although Yago’s whisper is barely audible, Guillaume hears his determination loud and clear. Yago intends to overcome the traitorous reputation he earned in his firstborn life when he was Asaph. Nothing will stand in his way.
Guillaume considers the plan. He doesn’t like it, but he sees no way to quickly dissuade his friend. “Three weeks. If you’re not back to us in three weeks, we will come for you.”
A faint smile touches Yago’s lips. “Watch for me,” he whispers, and then he is gone.
Gone from me forever in that incarnation, Guillermo thought as the memory faded. He quickly related the events to Miquel and Suero. “That answers the portion of Christina’s reading where she spoke of rushes on the floor, a red cote, and the banner.”
“But the
dark sounds Christina mentioned . . .” Miquel crushed one cigarette and lit another. “What do those mean?”
Guillermo pointed at the map on the wall. “That goes back to our black pin. Let’s stick with what we know—Jordi is after Diago.”
“Why? Revenge?”
“Jordi wants the same thing I want—the Key. And the one person who holds the secret to that song is Diago.” As he spoke, he realized he should be excited. After all, isn’t that what he’d wanted throughout this incarnation? To initiate the memories that would lead Diago to the Key?
Yet instead of excitement, he felt nothing but dread, because now he recalled the ending of that failed adventure. “I remember now. I was uncomfortable with Yago’s plan from the beginning. You don’t know how many times in those three weeks I almost went back, but I was determined to show him that I trusted his judgment. I didn’t listen to my instincts, and though I regained my sovereignty over the Inner Guard, it came at the cost of Yago’s life. Frauja killed him. I remember Yago dying in my arms.”
Miquel glared at Jordi’s picture.
He remembers, too. Guillermo turned to Suero. “Do you know if Diago has reached Strasbourg?”
Suero nodded. “My French contact said he and Lorelei left the train station this afternoon.”
Too late to stop him. The only other course of action was to send backup. “I need someone I can move in a hurry to go after him. Who do we have?”
Miquel tapped one finger against the back of his chair. “Our nefilim in other countries are in deep cover. I can’t pull them without jeopardizing entire operations.”
He gave Guillermo such a look of naked hope that Guillermo knew all he had to do was speak the word and Miquel would call one of them in. But I can’t speak that word . . . not for Diago, not for anyone. They had too much at risk.
When Guillermo didn’t answer him, Miquel went on, “Sofia asked for more people to hunt Muñoz, so I gave them to her. Until tonight he was the priority. I’ve got Bernardo and Carme working on wards and they’ve each got five nefilim under them. Before Lucia turned traitor, I might have recommended eight to ten more, but they’re closely associated with either her or Muñoz. Until they’ve been cleared, we can’t send them.”
Guillermo listened with a frown. Usually in a situation where they suspected a rogue angel, he would call Queen Jaeger and ask her for help. But this wasn’t a normal situation. Given Rousseau’s espionage and the fact that he’d slipped Diago into Germany under Jaeger’s radar, calling Die Nephilim’s queen was out of the question. “What else?”
“Juanita could take out a rogue angel.”
Oh, yes, she could, but sending her meant leaving Santuari at risk, not to mention Ysabel. Guillermo refused to leave his daughter unprotected. Because it’s only a matter of time before Jordi sees Ysa as a threat. Knowing that Diago would approve of his decision to protect Ysa’s life over his didn’t lessen Guillermo’s guilt. “If Jordi has found some way to free Frauja, they might attack Santuari, so I need Juanita here.”
A muscle ticked along Miquel’s jawline. “I’ll go after him, then. You can afford to lose me.”
Guillermo shook his head. “Bravery and love are mighty weapons, Miquel, but they don’t stand a chance against the power of an angel. No.”
This is mine to do. Diago had no one outside of Los Nefilim to watch his back. And he has watched mine all these centuries. The problem was that Diago was a soldier within the Guard, and Guillermo wouldn’t go after one of the others. I need a reason—one that no one can refute.
Fortunately, the answer to this one was easy. He pocketed his lighter. “Ilsa Jaeger has had every opportunity to inspect the wards in that region, but she hasn’t. Our Treaty of Versailles doesn’t give Rousseau the right to enter Jaeger’s territories; however, with the information we have gathered, I can justify a clandestine review. If I get there and find evidence of Frauja’s presence, I am entitled to summon the judgment of the Thrones on him. This I must do to fulfill my oath to protect the mortal realm.”
In spite of his protest, a measure of hope returned to Miquel’s face. “You’re needed here.”
“You can take care of Los Nefilim for three days. Tell them I’ve gone north to see Rousseau on a matter.”
“But Jaeger . . . she will kill you if she catches you in her territories.”
“She will not dare. My status is my protection. If I die in Germany, Jaeger has to explain what happened to the Thrones, and they will hear the lies in her voice. Then they will destroy her and Die Nephilim.”
Suero cleared his throat. “In spite of the Thrones, kings and queens of the Inner Guards don’t always follow protocol.”
“Thank you for that history lesson.” Guillermo tossed a glare over his shoulder and Suero blushed scarlet. “I know Jaeger. She will make me miserable for a period of time, but she won’t risk killing me. We’ll do it like this: I’ll let you know when I cross the border. If you don’t hear from me within forty-eight hours, Juanita will summon the Thrones.”
Miquel considered the plan. “What if she uses you as a hostage to make demands on Los Nefilim?”
“I would hope that you would be smart enough to free me before you had to concede to any such demands.”
Lifting his hand in surrender, Miquel capitulated, but Guillermo didn’t miss the relief in his friend’s eyes. He won’t admit it, but he’s terrified for Diago.
“How are you getting into Germany?” Miquel asked.
“By stealth. I don’t want to test any of these theories if I can avoid it.” Or risk my own life needlessly. Diago isn’t the only one with a child depending on his guidance. Los Nefilim needed him; Ysabel needed him more. Especially with my brother hovering over us like the shadow of death. “My goal is to get in and out before Jaeger knows I’m there. If things get messy, then my story to Jaeger is simply this: we had intelligence about a rogue angel and conferred with Sabine Rousseau. We agreed that discretion was necessary until we established the facts. Rather than report the disturbance directly to the Thrones, I offered to serve as intermediary so we could determine the truth of the allegations.”
Miquel looked suitably impressed. “Did Diago teach you to lie like that?”
“Yes.”
“We’re still sticking our necks out here.”
“That’s what happens when you’re on the verge of war. The stakes keep rising.” Guillermo paced around the table and placed his hand on Suero’s shoulder. “Have Alfonso fill my Suiza with petrol. She’s fast enough to beat any train.”
12
The Rhine
Diago and Lorelei had the cover of a moonless night, but she showed no inclination to begin their journey until midnight, when she gestured for him to follow her. Silently, they uncovered her boat. Diago helped her push it into the water.
Lorelei rowed with long easy strokes, knowing when to pull hard and when to drift; she guided the boat as if she swam beneath. They were over halfway across when he heard the first siren’s song: a deep haunting sound, like the wind in pain, crying, crying . . .
Lorelei hissed through her teeth.
Another voice joined the first and they harmonized: “Come down, come down, come down into the river, into my arms so sweet . . .”
He felt their song touch his will, but the effort was as tentative as a tug from Rafael on his sleeve. They think I am a mortal. They’re not trying very hard.
Before the sirens could strengthen their song, however, Diago felt another assault on the back of his mind, and it kept him focused. The violin screeched in raw discordant notes.
Someone dropped it. His heart stuttered at the thought. Fine. Drop it, destroy it. He didn’t care as long as the hateful thing finally ceased its hold on his mind.
In the ensuing silence, something bumped against the side of the boat. He tried to convince himself it was flotsam. Then the sirens’ song came again, louder, more intense. He recalled the angel Candela and the golden snake she’d used to enchant him. I wil
l give you a song . . .
He resisted the urge to lash out at either the Rhinemaidens or the ghost-music from the violin. Even a sigil of protection could work against him by alerting the Rhinemaidens to his supernatural nature. On land, he might fight them and win. On the river, he would be helpless as the water filled his lungs.
Under normal circumstances, his voice was his life, but silence was his best weapon now. Lorelei was his protection. He had to trust in her.
“Almost there.” Lorelei’s mutter caused him to open eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed.
No lights burned on the opposite shore. They might as well be floating into an abyss.
He needed something to occupy his mind, something to drive the Rhinemaidens’ insistent song from his thoughts. Shutting his eyes again, he counted backward: five hundred, four hundred and ninety-nine, four hundred and ninety-eight . . .
The first Rhinemaiden whispered, “Come into my arms and I will sing you a song.”
. . . four hundred and ninety-seven, four hundred and ninety-six . . .
The squawk of the violin struck his consciousness. Diago envisioned a hand grasping the neck. Long tapered fingers—lovely hands—took their position on the strings—white so white, could a mortal be so white?
He forgot to count. Lethargy suffused his limbs. It would be easy to slide beneath the waves and sleep . . .
“In my arms,” sang the second maiden. Cold fingers caressed the back of his hand.
Then came the attack and punch against the strings—three quick jabs of the bow: strike, strike, strike—and then a pull, slurring to become the malignant leitmotif Diago now called his own. The violence of the music wrenched him from the somnolence induced by the Rhinemaidens’ song. Arpeggios reverberated blue and deep like the waves sloshing against the side of the boat.
The tempo picked up speed, the beats coming harder, faster, like the slap of fins (oars) on the water. The wind touched his face, and the promise of a melody was whispered to his mind.
Return to me, and I will give you a song, wept the violin with long, sweeping strokes that floated over the night deeply, sadly, moving into a dirge. The notes faded, softer and softer, shifting into a tremolo so that the bow quivered over the strings until the water drowned the last of the chords, and five heartbeats passed with nothing but the splash of oars to fill the quiet . . .
