by T. Frohock
Then the bow resumed its attack and punch against the strings (strike, strike, strike) and the boat hit the opposite shore, and the night came down, and the world went black, and silence descended quick and hard, like the stillness that follows the falling of a bomb.
Diago jerked awake.
Lorelei sat across from him, her hair plastered to her cheeks with sweat. “Don’t move,” she whispered.
Something splashed behind him. River water showered his back and hair. He didn’t turn.
Minutes passed. The Rhinemaidens remained silent. Then came the chirrup of a cricket. A frog answered. The night sounds resumed around them, a clicking whirring chorus of normalcy.
Lorelei’s arms trembled from her exertion. “We can go now.”
He followed her gaze. A few errant waves testified to their passage; otherwise, the current flowed unbroken until a figure surfaced in the center of the river. It could have been a shapely thigh or hip, or perhaps a smooth branch rolling before being pulled under by the current. Without the light of the moon, it was impossible to tell.
Behind him, Lorelei whispered more urgently, “Let’s go before they come back.”
He helped her drag the boat free of the current. She motioned for him to wait, and then she disappeared in the darkness. While she was gone, he retrieved his bag and set it on a rock.
Whatever he might think of Durbach, someone in that house had just used the violin to save his life. Another moment beneath the sirens’ song and he might have slipped bonelessly into the water to be carried below the waves.
Or did he misinterpret their motives? He recalled the savage strikes of the bow against the strings. Did they save me for the sake of love . . . or revenge?
He still hadn’t found an answer by the time Lorelei returned with a tarp. Diago helped her cover the boat. Once they were done, she took the lead. A kilometer later and on higher ground, they reached an old barn. Beneath an overhang was a newer model Citroën—this one a four-door.
“I’ll leave you in the morning.” She passed him the keys and then got into the back, closing the door quietly.
Pocketing the keys, he took off his boots and climbed into the front. “Should we keep a watch?”
“We own the property from here to the river. Rousseau has some of our people patrolling to make sure no one steals the car. We’re safe here tonight.”
“We’re never safe,” he whispered.
If she heard him, she made no sign. She gave a mighty yawn and stretched out on a blanket someone had already spread over the backseat.
As Lorelei’s breathing slowed, the violin began to play again, tugging at Diago’s will like a playful child. Return to me.
Diago gritted his teeth against the urge to turn the key in the ignition and start the car. He stared at his reflection in the windshield and whispered, “Lorelei?”
“Hmmm?”
“Do you remember your past lives?”
“Sometimes . . . in my dreams.”
He fished the brooch from his pocket and ran his thumb over the darkened emerald. “I used to say the past is dead and that we should leave it in its grave. But now I don’t know if that was wise at all.”
“We can’t run from our past, nor can we allow it to consume our present. Make peace with it, Diago.” She turned her back to him, the leather creaking beneath her. “Make peace with it and go to sleep.”
He wished he could, but rather than sleep, all that came to him was a melody, crying like the wind in pain.
1 September 1932
watch for me
13
Avignon, France
13 rue Muguet
It was after midnight when Jordi left the train station. He called Nico to let him know he’d arrived, and then he managed to find a cab. Tossing his bag in the backseat, he climbed inside and said, “Université d’Avignon.”
It was a common destination, not one that would be remembered. As the driver pulled away from the curb, a light drizzle misted the air.
Jordi sniffled and withdrew his handkerchief. He wiped his nose. A few drops of blood spattered the cotton. As soon as he finished this job, he would cut back on his cocaine intake and give his body time to heal. Moderation and good management were the keys to utilizing the drugs properly. Unfortunately, circumstances dictated he remain alert, so cutting back wasn’t an option right now.
Soon, though. Soon.
The French territories under the control of Sabine Rousseau and the members of her Inner Guard weren’t quite as dangerous to him as Guillermo’s Spanish holdings, primarily because Rousseau’s Guard had taken enormous casualties during the Great War. Her numbers were fewer, so she used her nefilim more judiciously. As long as Jordi kept a low profile and everything in Nico’s name, he evaded her scrutiny.
Sniffing again, he daubed his nose and then returned the handkerchief to his pocket. As he did, the brooch reminded him of its presence by pricking his finger. Jordi withdrew the pin and rubbed the pad of his thumb over the angel’s face.
The driver turned on the radio. Jack Hylton’s orchestra rolled through the ever cheerful “Happy Days Are Here Again.”
Happy days were indeed coming his way. Jordi’s trip to Spain had been fruitful in many ways.
The taxi’s wipers slushed back and forth in a hypnotic beat that ran counterpoint to Hylton’s jazzy bounce. As the singers rolled into the refrain, the music grew distant. A thin wave of static seeped in beneath the radio’s signal.
From the radio’s speakers, a chorus of voices murmured, “Stein, strick, gras, grün.”
The driver made no sign he heard the strange words, nor did he adjust the dial. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and hummed along with the song.
He can’t hear the static or the voices. Jordi clutched the brooch and listened.
The voices continued, “Do you remember, George?”
Yes, of course he remembered. He almost answered aloud. A discreet glance at the burly driver told him that would be a bad idea. If the driver suspected Jordi was crazy, he’d put him out, and midnight cabs were hard to find. This wasn’t Barcelona, where Jordi could strong-arm the mortals undetected. Avignon was his home, and a low profile kept him and his Nico safe.
Watching the dark streets, he turned his thoughts to the words stein, strick, gras, and grün. The letters S.S.G.G. were engraved on the Germanic nefilim’s daggers and stood for “stone, string, grass, green.” The word stone represented the jewels that corresponded with the color of the nefilim’s songs; the string their ties of loyalty to the angels; the grass represented the physical plane they guarded; and green symbolized the color of the lights defining the border realms.
A dream clung to the corners of Jordi’s mind. The angel on his brooch smiled and moved his lips in time with the murmuring voices.
“Remember . . .”
George walks to the courtyard gate, his soldiers standing at attention. He recognizes the ceremonial dagger—stein, strick, gras, grün—holding the parchment to the post, because he carries an identical one on his hip. He rips the parchment from the blade. Guillaume has summoned him to vehmgericht, the secret trial by which the nefilim rooted out traitors to the angel-born.
George’s bowels loosen with fear as he reads his brother’s accusations. Guillaume claims Frauja is a rogue angel, who is wanted by the Thrones for war crimes committed during the Carolingian War. He accuses George of aiding the enemy. If the Thrones find George guilty, they will force him to abdicate.
The page shakes in his hand. His fingers tighten around the hilt of the dagger and he jerks it from the post. He’s been betrayed by someone in his ranks. But who?
The ring of the blacksmith’s hammer causes him to turn. The blacksmith, Bernard. A relative newcomer, he had only been at the castle for a year. He made the brooches and obviously recognized the significance of the angel.
Is the smith a spy? Both possible and probable, George decides. Bernard saw anyone who came or went through the cast
le gates. In spite of his size, he remained circumspect about his presence, watching—always watching.
What has our friend Bernard seen?
It wouldn’t hurt to arrest him. Question him. If the blacksmith is innocent, then all will be well for him. But if he is guilty, I will make an example of him before the others.
George gestures to one of his guards. When the man draws close, George tells him, “Arrest Bernard. Take him to the cellars and silence him behind your strongest wards. I will question him later.”
The guard bows and goes to gather enough nefilim to execute the task. George feels better and more in control. Unlike Guillaume, George has an angel on his side. He’ll first root out the traitor and then the information to destroy Guillaume’s credibility with the Thrones.
A man in black strides across the courtyard. It is Yago.
George wonders briefly if Yago might be the spy, but immediately discounts the idea. Yago hasn’t left the castle grounds since his arrival, and except for a few random instances, he is rarely out of either George’s or Frauja’s sight. His heart is in his compositions, nothing else.
No, it can’t be Yago. He calms at the sight of the other nefil. Yago has the cunning George requires to outsmart Guillaume. Yago will know what song to sing.
“Yago turned on you,” whispered the voices through the radio. “He said he would join his song with yours. When the crucial moment came, he forswore himself.”
“No.” Jordi breathed the word through parted lips. He said he loved me.
The driver’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror. “Monsieur?”
Jordi ignored him. Gripping the pin until the metal edges bit into his flesh, he closed his eyes and tried to delve deeper into the memory. Sweat shimmered across his brow. What happened next? What did Yago do?
Not what he did. What he didn’t do.
He was supposed to help us and for some reason, he turned on us. Jordi sat straighter in the seat as the recollection settled in his mind. Bernard was a traitor, but so was Yago.
Diago.
Suddenly the note that accompanied the brooch made sense. We will judge the traitor in vehmgericht.
He was going to Durbach to judge the traitor Diago.
“Monsieur?” A note of exasperation touched the driver’s voice. “We have arrived.” A fact the driver seemed very relieved to announce.
Jordi opened his eyes and blinked. They were at the corner of rue Louis Pasteur and rue de Rascas.
“Are you all right, Monsieur?”
“Yes,” Jordi whispered. “I’m fine. It’s been a long journey.” And I have miles and miles to go.
A quick glance at the meter told him his fare. He shoved the brooch back into his pocket and withdrew the francs. Dragging his bag behind him, he escaped the driver’s bored concern.
Chill air smacked his cheeks and drove his somnolence away as he followed the rue Rascas in the dark. Reaching into his pocket, he cupped the brooch. Now everything made sense. This was why Diago was with Guillermo and Miquel in this incarnation.
He was never loyal to me.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “I’d almost trusted him a second time.” Had it not been for the brooches and the memories, he would have.
Jordi drew the brooch from his pocket and kissed the angel’s face. Frauja had saved him from making a grave error.
But did I make a mistake in giving Diago the other brooch? Under the lingering influence of the opium dream in Barcelona, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Jordi’s pace faltered. “Shit,” he muttered to the falling rain.
Diago would divine the emerald—only a fool wouldn’t, and he would remember . . . what?
Christ, but why didn’t Frauja come to me? Why send brooches and that cryptic note? The answer was obvious. Because he can’t. He’s locked away and the only thing that can release him is . . . the Key.
The realization jolted Jordi to a halt. Frauja had taught Yago the Key. He tried to teach both of us, but it was Yago who best understood the complex arrangement.
“And it is Diago who must remember that song in this incarnation so he can use it to free Frauja.” Whether he damn well wanted to or not.
Jordi exhaled, relief flooding his body with warmth. He started walking again. Sooner or later, he would have given Diago the brooch in order to trigger his memories, so if he did err, it was a minor issue. He couldn’t worry about it now.
Looking up, he realized he had arrived at his destination. Inside, Nico’s rooms were warm, and a kettle whistled cheerfully from the kitchen. The coatrack already contained a fedora and a jacket, both of which belonged to Nico.
Jordi almost forgot the lateness of the hour. He closed the door and shook the rain from his garments. “Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?”
“Not nearly enough.” Nico smiled as he went to the stove and removed the kettle. “Who else would make you midnight dinners?”
Like Diago, Nico possessed a slight build and moved with a dancer’s grace. A full century younger than Jordi, Nico was Michelangelo’s David with black hair that hung in a tousled mess over his pale forehead. The shadow of a beard darkened his jaw. He wore a robe and pajama bottoms, nothing else.
He assessed Jordi with eyes as gray and somber as his song. “Are you well?”
Jordi had no doubt that his bloodshot eyes stared from a face too pale. “I’m fine.”
Nico didn’t argue, though it was clear from his frown that he considered Jordi’s condition anything but fine. Nonetheless, he tactfully changed the subject. “Did you get the package I sent to Barcelona?”
“Yes, everything arrived safely. Were you able to arrange my car?”
Nico nodded. He made the tea and brought the meal to the table. “Stay long enough to eat something. You’ve grown too thin again.”
Jordi tossed his bag to the couch and joined his lover. The sight of the food ignited his hunger. A manila envelope beside his plate kindled his curiosity.
He sat and opened the folder, which was thin, but he hadn’t expected much. “What did you find?”
“Not a lot,” Nico admitted as he took the chair across from Jordi. “After I got your telegram, I contacted a friend in Berlin. Fortunately, the Griers were in the public eye, so he put together the story and gave me some dates. Since it was in a major paper, the university librarian was able to make copies from their microfilm records.”
Jordi stopped eating and met Nico’s gaze. “Let me say again how much I appreciate you.”
“You can show me later,” Nico said with the hint of a smile. He reached over and tapped the folder. “It seems that Karin Grier, the mother of the boys and Joachim’s wife, suffered an aneurysm in nineteen twenty-eight. When she fell, she struck her head against a wall in the ballroom at Karinhall.”
A grainy newspaper shot of the family showed Joachim and the two sons standing around Karin’s chair with the stiff formality of knights guarding their queen. A hint of amusement glittered in Karin’s eyes as if someone would soon reveal a joke.
Jordi chewed his food while turning the pages. “That’s a very sad story.”
“Sadder still, the eldest son was accused of murdering her. It seems they were arguing when Karin suffered her aneurysm. The crack in the ballroom mirror indicated that her head hit the wall with quite a bit of force.”
“I bet that played well on the society pages.”
“Be glad that it did.” Nico indicated the article on top of the pile. “They found Karl innocent based on Rudolf’s testimony.”
The clipping showed Karl on the courthouse steps with Joachim beside him. Both father and son stood in poses of righteous vindication. The younger son, Rudolf, had sidled apart from them and stared into the distance.
“That”—Jordi tapped Rudolf’s miserable expression—“is the face of a liar.” His money was on Karl as Karin’s murderer with Rudolf pressured into establishing an alibi.
The comment elicited a small shru
g from Nico as he lit a cigarette. “After the sensational trial, the father sold their Berlin house and returned to Karinhall along with both of the boys. Publicly, Joachim supported his son, but those who attended the séances said they felt a great tension between Joachim and Karl.”
“Séances?”
Exhaling twin streams of smoke through his nostrils, Nico nodded. “Joachim wanted to make contact with Karin to know the truth behind her death. The only spirit he ever summoned was the specter of bankruptcy.”
“When did he die?”
“Earlier this year. Heart attack.”
Jordi closed the file. Heart attack, my ass. A boy who cracks his mother’s skull against a wall isn’t going to patiently wait for his father to die a natural death.
Nico continued, “Karl has taken over the estate, which is in considerable debt. My Berlin source mentioned that Karl meets regularly with an attorney in Offenburg. He’s trying to forestall foreclosure by his creditors.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m afraid not.” Nico finished his cigarette. “Stay the night. You need some rest.”
That he did. He hadn’t slept in more than catnaps since Monday. The meal left him feeling drowsy, and the rain continued to fall. In the warmth of the apartment, he considered the proposal, but the urgency he felt in Barcelona returned. Especially now that I know I’m on the trail of a traitor.
On edge now, he pushed away from the table. “I can’t.”
“Would you like for me to come with you?”
“No. I’m going to take a shower and change. Then I’ll go.” He felt Nico’s gaze on his back as he went to his bag and retrieved his cocaine.
“I’m worried about you,” Nico said.
