Where Oblivion Lives

by T. Frohock

The cocaine turned to fire in Jordi’s sinuses, and his words came out sharper than he intended. “I’m fine.”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t. I just said I’m worried.” Nico lit another cigarette. “I wish you would trust me.”

  Jordi took off his shirt and compared Nico to Diago. The two shared similar personalities. But there is a fire within Diago—something wild and dirty and sweet—that my Nico lacks. Nico was safe. He grounded Jordi. He’s what I need. Diago is dangerous and that is what I crave.

  “Jordi?”

  “What? Do you think I have a lover stashed in Durbach?”

  Usually the accusation won Jordi a scoff or a smile. Tonight, Nico didn’t take the bait. He glared at Jordi’s attempt at humor. “This trip is all very sudden and disconcerting.”

  The cocaine sharpened Jordi’s anger. He didn’t like Nico’s tone. “This is what we must do to remain ahead of my brother.”

  “I understand that. But you’re pushing yourself hard.” Nico’s cloaked reference to the cocaine didn’t go unnoticed by Jordi. “It could affect your judgment in adverse ways.”

  Wadding his undershirt into a ball, Jordi threw it at the couch and whirled on Nico. “Why are you trying to pick a fight with me?”

  “You once told me that you valued my insight. Was that flattery? Or did you mean it?”

  “I don’t say things I don’t mean.” Jordi kicked off his shoes and took off his pants.

  “Then listen to me.” Nico lowered his voice until he was barely audible. “Word on the streets is that members of Los Nefilim are hunting Salvador Muñoz. Further word states that Guillermo knows you’re involved in the murder of three of his nefilim, because you left a calling card stuffed in the larynx of one of the corpses.”

  “How did you find out about that?” Jordi asked.

  “I heard it through one phone call. The dead travel fast, my love. The nefilim faster. What the hell were you thinking?”

  A blast of rage filled Jordi’s chest. “Why are you questioning my judgment?”

  Nico flinched but didn’t back down. “Benito called to check in. He made it to Lisbon. When I asked him why he was in Portugal, he told me about Salvador and the jacinth.”

  “Good.” Jordi calmed at the news. Benito was one of the spies Jordi had planted in Santuari. It was sheer luck that he’d been on assignment in Galicia when Lucia was captured.

  “No word on the other two in Santuari?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “You can relax. Everything is going according to plan. I needed to distract Guillermo to give my people time to leave the country. The jacinth was all I had at my disposal. I’d hoped that he would chase me and leave Salvador alone. Unfortunately, my brother’s web is large.”

  Jordi folded his trousers, running the crease between thumb and forefinger, and offered Nico a smile. “Besides, I’ve been watching Guillermo from the shadows for almost a century now, biding the moments while gathering my forces. We are as ready as we will ever be, Nico. It’s time to bring this fight into the light.”

  Nico winced and turned his gaze to the ashtray. Only then did Jordi realize how full it was. He’s smoking more because he’s concerned.

  Jordi went to his bag and retrieved a file. “I didn’t just go to Spain to harass my brother. The Sanjurjada is over.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “That’s what the Spanish called General Sanjurjo’s coup against the Republic—it just means the Sanjurjo affair.” Jordi sat beside Nico and opened the file to reveal a neatly typewritten report and several photographs. “All that matters to us is that the Spanish courts found Sanjurjo guilty of treason.”

  Nico shrugged. “So they’ll execute him.”

  “No. He’s a decorated general, a hero, awarded the Legion of Honor for his part in the Rif War.” Jordi took one of Nico’s cigarettes and lit it. “As such, President Azaña commuted the sentence to life imprisonment. Sanjurjo is going to the penitentiary at Dueso. I’ve got two nefilim who have offered to work there as guards, and a third, who is going in as a prisoner.”

  “You’re going to help Sanjurjo escape?”

  Jordi shook his head. “That would draw too much attention to him and to us. I’ve got another person in Madrid, who is very close to a politician by the name of Alejandro Lerroux.” Jordi sifted through the photographs until he found the face of a distinguished-looking man with white hair and a thick mustache. “Lerroux has a history of corruption and scandals.”

  “He can be bought.”

  Jordi winked.

  Nico smiled suddenly. “I love intrigues. I think I see where this is going. You intend to have your person persuade Lerroux to free Sanjurjo, because that will put Sanjurjo in your debt.”

  “Brilliant! Then we whisk Sanjurjo to . . .” He brushed his fingers over Nico’s hair. I miss watching him sleep. “Where? Where would you like to live next?”

  “Someplace warm.”

  “We whisk Sanjurjo to Portugal and gather our forces to restage the coup, but this time, we plan carefully to ensure its success.”

  “So Sanjurjo will help us win?”

  “Maybe. Frankly, I’m not as enthralled with him as the mortal generals are. They want to install him as president, but I don’t like him. He’s rash, undisciplined, too convinced of his own invulnerability. The only reason Sanjurjo is valuable to me is because he is my link to another mortal general”—Jordi tapped the photograph of a smug-looking man with a toothbrush mustache—“Francisco Franco. He is cautious and brutal—two qualities that will serve us well against Guillermo. However, Franco won’t move against Sanjurjo, so we suffer the peacock while we groom the lion.”

  “And why would Franco join forces with us?”

  “We have the money along with the German and Italian connections they need to acquire more planes and ammunition. In return, the rebels will destroy the Republic’s forces and their equipment. Then we use the mortals to smash Guillermo and his nefilim.”

  Nico studied the photographs. “How long will it take?”

  “Five mortal years, maybe six. Time is nothing to us. This will be mere days to the nefilim.” Jordi cupped Nico’s chin and gently forced him to meet his gaze. “We’re going to have such a beautiful war. Are you still with me, Nico?”

  “Always.”

  “I know you’re worried about the drugs,” he whispered in Nico’s ear. “You think they’re affecting my judgment. They aren’t.” But that was a lie. Were it not for the opium, he might not have given Diago the other brooch as quickly as he did. Still, Nico didn’t need to know that. “As soon as I’ve finished this task I’ll stop. I promise.”

  Nico nodded, but his gaze slid away.

  He doesn’t believe me. “I will,” Jordi insisted. “For you and for no other reason.”

  “You swear it?”

  “I swear it.” Jordi kissed him gently before he stood and then went to the bathroom. Closing the door, he took a fast shower. By the time he emerged and dressed, Nico had cleared the table.

  Jordi grabbed his bag and met his lover at the door, where Nico gave him a set of car keys.

  “It’s the white Monastella Cabriolet on the corner. I tried to find you something with style.”

  Jordi brushed his fingers over Nico’s throat. “Watch for me.”

  14

  The French countryside

  between Montpellier and Nîmes

  Guillermo chased the night through the rain. During the day, he’d pushed the Hispano-Suiza H6C to speeds over a hundred and sixty, blowing through the Spanish and French countryside. The car was a bullet and Guillermo’s pride.

  Night had slowed him and the rain more so. Somewhere between Montpellier and Nîmes, the steady beat of the Suiza’s wipers lulled him. Sleep threatened to take him. He sipped coffee from his open thermos and cranked the radio’s dial through the static until he found a late-night station playing Duke Ellington’s “Mood Indigo.”

  “Now that’s better,” G
uillermo muttered as he capped the thermos and set it within easy reach.

  Ellington’s work was little known and hard to find in Europe. Guillermo had never heard of the American until Diago recently brought him to the nefilim’s attention. Of course it had been Diago—he was always chasing new sounds.

  Guillermo settled himself in to listen. The tires of his car hissed beneath the beat. A muted trombone moaned through the top of its register. Behind it came a clarinet low and sweet. The trumpet played the middle tones of the piece, inverting the registers listeners were used to hearing and creating the auditory illusion of a fourth instrument.

  A sax, Guillermo thought drowsily as he hummed along. It sounds like a sax.

  The music leaking from the radio groaned and twisted, becoming sharper, more intense. The speakers crackled. An unpleasant buzz drowned the music. The sound resonated through Guillermo’s eardrums, vibrating across his sinuses like a razor.

  Suddenly wide awake, he slowed the car. Beneath the hum of the engine, he heard hushed voices. They murmured in a dozen different tongues—German, French, English, Spanish, Russian—in a babble.

  The only constant was the static, corralling the voices and nudging the syllables together. Like a master puppeteer, the razor sound threaded its way through the other voices until it was finally able to form words.

  “You’re already too late,” they said in unison, a hellish chorus held together with the band saw voice.

  Chills rose across Guillermo’s arms. He gripped the steering wheel until his hands ached. I’m not dreaming. This is real. He reached down and shut off the radio.

  The speech oozed from the speakers uninterrupted. “You murdered Yago with your greed, your lust for power. Now Diago will die for a song.”

  Coils of oily black liquid seeped from the dial and dripped to the floorboard. Something cold brushed Guillermo’s ankle before it slithered beneath the pedals.

  The engine suddenly roared and the Suiza shot forward. White lines rushed beneath the fenders. The road beyond the reach of his headlights became the open mouth of an abyss.

  The speedometer edged over sixty, then seventy kilometers per hour—far too fast for the weather and the road. Guillermo lifted his foot from the accelerator.

  The dial edged over a hundred.

  “Die,” whispered the voices.

  Guillermo jammed his left foot on the brake. The pedal hit the floor. No resistance. The brakes were gone.

  “No. No,” he muttered through gritted teeth. His life would end one day. “Not like this.” He fought to bring the car under control.

  “No, no,” the chorus mimicked him. “It ends like this. Die.”

  “Fuck you.” Slamming the clutch to the floor, Guillermo knocked the gearshift to neutral. In defiance, the speedometer drifted over one hundred and ten.

  The radio popped and spit sparks into the floor. The acrid smell of burnt wires filled the car.

  A wide puddle loomed ahead. No avoiding it. Guillermo held the steering wheel with his left hand and reached over the dash. He traced a sigil of protection on the misty windshield and charged it with the vibrations of his song. Fiery shades of orange and red spread across the glass, seeped down the dash, and turned the interior into a blaze of light.

  The dead radio crunched back to life in another burst of static. Timpani played the opening of Siegfried’s funeral march.

  The car hit the puddle. The front end slewed left. Instinct took over.

  The music soared. The world spun. It seemed like hours. It was less than a minute. Guillermo turned into the skid, wrenching the wheel left, then right as he fought to correct the car’s trajectory. With every spin, the blaze of his sigil flamed brighter, making the car seem as if it was on fire. On the radio, Valhalla burned.

  Guillermo’s foot found the brake again and this time it responded. He pumped the pedal. The tires grabbed the road. The car skidded to the right. The passenger side struck a hedge. Leaves showered the air in his wake, and with a thump, the slide finally came to an end.

  The engine died. The radio gasped in short bursts of static reminiscent of dying flames before it fell silent. The only sound was Guillermo’s ragged breathing. He clutched the steering wheel as the fires from his sigil faded into the night.

  Through the open window came the sound of rain and the tick of the cooling engine. Guillermo took the keys from the ignition, grabbed his torch, and got out to inspect the damage. He walked around the car until his knees stopped shaking and his step was firm once more.

  Opening the hood, he moved the light over the motor. Remnants of his sigil sparked and popped around the cylinders. It was impossible for him to see whether his wards had killed . . . What? What the hell was that thing? After centuries of fighting both fallen angels and daimons, he’d never encountered anything quite like this.

  Back in the car, he restored order. The thermos and bag had fallen to the floorboard. He rooted in his case until he found a flask of orujo. Two hefty swallows of the liquor quieted the last of his nerves.

  That was luck. Another hour on the road, and his reflexes would have been too slow. He lit a cigar, drawing the nicotine deep into his lungs. Glaring at the radio, he tried to resurrect the creature’s voice, but it was the accusation that returned to rattle him.

  Your greed, your lust for power. It drives you now . . .

  Was that why he’d allowed Yago to convince him to wait three weeks? Had his reluctance been because he wanted—no, hoped—that Yago would be successful?

  “Maybe,” he conceded. “But that’s the past, and there is nothing I can do to change it.” The present was his to control, and he damn well intended to avoid the mistakes he made as Guillaume.

  But I’ve just made one by underestimating my adversary. He needed to understand how the attack happened and who, or what, initiated it. He quickly eliminated Jordi. His brother couldn’t have engineered an assault like that with a legion of nefilim.

  “Frauja?” Guillermo whispered the angel’s name with a nervous glance at the radio. Of the two, the angel remained the most logical choice. Angels commanded the principle of fire and could channel their voices into radio waves.

  Fine—but we locked Frauja away in another realm. That I do remember. The sigils binding that realm should have the same effect on the angel’s magic as if he was imprisoned behind a soundproof wall.

  Somehow he has managed to get through.

  Guillermo needed to talk to Juanita.

  Turning the key, he pumped the gas. The Suiza resisted, but he coaxed the vehicle back to life.

  The radio’s light remained out. Take no chances. He warded the radio and dash with protective sigils. Then, just to be safe, he did the same with the accelerator, brakes, and clutch.

  He put the car in gear only to have the back tires spin. “Shit and bitter shit.” Clamping the cigar between his teeth, he rocked the car between reverse and first gear until the vehicle gained purchase.

  Back on the road, he remained especially attentive as to how the Suiza handled until he was certain no internal damage was done. Picking up speed again, he watched for the lights of Nîmes.

  He had to make a phone call.

  It was close to dawn when Guillermo finally found a service station. He parked beside the pumps. The attendant sauntered out of the building with a yawn.

  “Do you have a public phone?” Guillermo asked.

  “Inside.” He nodded to the station office.

  “Good. Fill it up and check the lines. I skidded in the rain, and I want to make sure nothing is damaged.”

  The man nodded and went to work.

  Guillermo entered the station. An announcer’s voice rolled through the radio on the counter. Assured that the station’s mechanic was out of sight, Guillermo eased around the counter, switched the radio off, and then placed a protective ward over the speakers.

  With that threat nullified, he turned to the public phone, which was in a narrow closet against the opposite wall. He squeeze
d his bulk inside and dialed the operator.

  Juanita answered and accepted the charges.

  Guillermo didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Help me, my angel.” Conscious of the operator on the line, he switched to Old Castilian—a medieval form of Spanish that bore the same relationship to modern Spanish as Old English did to English—and recounted the accident. “In my last incarnation with Diago, we shut Frauja away in another realm. I am certain of it. So help me understand how he can send his voice into my radio.”

  Juanita was silent for a moment. Then she said, “If the resonances from the Great War damaged a glyph in the area, as we suspect they did, then he might have garnered enough of an opening to transmit his voice into the mortal realm. From what you described, he is not using sound waves, because they wouldn’t carry over such a great distance. The only way he could project an attack into France is by using radio waves. And this angel, who calls himself Frauja, is likely one of the Firstborn, so light would be his natural state of being.”

  “Yes, but conducting his voice over such a distance to direct it at me . . .”

  “You don’t understand, Guillermo. He’s not using his voice. He designed an angelic glyph using electromagnetic waves, which he then channeled across mortal frequencies. He couldn’t do that without help.”

  The mortals. That would explain the Griers and their involvement. Guillermo held the suspicion close. He didn’t want to interrupt his wife’s train of thought.

  Juanita continued, “For angels to throw a spell of that magnitude across such a vast space is like shooting into the dark, hoping you hit the right target. That’s why we rarely utilize mortal electronics—it’s an imprecise technique that is more often a waste of energy.”

  “Then how did he make it work?”

  “He must have something connected to you. Otherwise he is simply broadcasting to every radio tuned to that frequency.”

  An idea occurred to him. “Could he be using the Stradivarius?”

  She made a sound of assent. “It would explain how he channeled the sigil directly at you. The violin belongs to Diago, and it carries a portion of his aura and his song. You’ve performed with Diago while he played the Stradivarius, so a measure of your aura would be entwined with his on the instrument.”