by T. Frohock
“Okay,” Guillermo muttered and shifted his position in the booth, “this is bad.”
“Anything Frauja does on this realm will be intermittent,” she tried to reassure him. “If I was in his place, my focus would be on shattering the damaged wards.”
“So the odds of him striking Santuari?”
“Are slim. I’ve already begun to design sigils that will protect us. Now that I have a better idea of how he is working, I can strengthen them even further.”
Guillermo exhaled with relief. That was one less thing to worry about. “Have you managed to find anything about this angel?”
“Nothing. The name is a generic word for god. It’s a common alias used by several Firstborn angels.”
Guillermo rubbed his eyes. Shit and bitter shit again. That was the second time she’d referenced Frauja as one of the Firstborn, who were the oldest and most dangerous Messengers. “Okay, okay. None of this is good. Any word from Diago?” Guillermo glanced over his shoulder.
Outside the attendant popped the hood.
Juanita said, “He met his friend. We’re guessing they have crossed over by now.”
And shit again. It’s definitely too late to stop him. “How about our lost servant?” My good lost servant Salvador Muñoz.
“Still missing.”
The attendant lifted his torch and shined the beam down into the engine. His body tensed.
“I’ve got to go,” Guillermo whispered. “Kiss Ysa for me.”
“I will, my love,” said Juanita.
“Watch for me.” Guillermo hung up and went outside. Although the day had brightened somewhat with the coming morning, pockets of shadows retained the night.
The attendant remained poised at the fender, playing his light over the engine.
“Is something wrong?” Guillermo asked as he neared.
The man gestured with the beam. “I don’t know. Something down there is glowing. I’m worried you might have an overheated rod.”
Guillermo took the attendant’s light and shined it in the vicinity of the accelerator. A tentacle, wrapped in one of Guillermo’s dying sigils, jabbed the air weakly.
The attendant said, “Can you keep an eye on it while I get my creeper? I want to slide under and take a look.”
“Sure.” As soon as the attendant disappeared into the garage, Guillermo leaned over the engine. He traced a curve, three sharp lines, and joined them with a ligature. He charged the ward with a soft growl. A thread of gold from his ring entwined with his song. He cast the glyph at the tentacle.
The new ward flashed once when it touched the creature. Ichor fell to the pavement beneath the car, curling in on itself before dissipating in a hiss of steam as Guillermo’s sigils burned it. That, he hoped, is the last of it.
The attendant returned with the board under his arm. He reclaimed his light and dropped the creeper with a rattle of wheels. “It’ll just take a second.”
Guillermo nodded and stepped back.
Within minutes, the attendant rolled from beneath the car. “Must have been a trick of the light. You’ve got some dirt where you dug ground, but nothing appears to be broken or hot.”
Guillermo thanked the man and paid him.
Behind the wheel again, he drove north and he drove hard.
15
Germany
A soft click undercut the cacophony of gunfire in Diago’s nightmare. It sounded like the bolt of a rifle drawn back to insert a round into the chamber. His eyes snapped open, but he didn’t move. If someone has the drop on us, we’re dead already.
Everything was quiet. A moment passed and then two. No other noise accompanied the click that had awakened him.
His position limited his range of vision. Ignoring the protest of his sore muscles, he sat up and looked over the seat to see that Lorelei was gone.
A note rested on the folded blanket. He snagged the paper, which consisted of a few lines in her graceful hand.
When you get to the road, turn left. I will see you on the other side. Watch for me.—L
He slouched in the seat with relief. I heard the car door closing.
From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the brooch on the floorboard. Snatching it up, he caught the distant sound of drums (bombs).
Then the last vestiges of the nightmare receded into his subconscious. But they’re becoming more intense again. A sense of gloom washed over him. He pocketed the piece and checked his watch, which had stopped, because he’d forgotten to wind it.
“This day isn’t starting well,” he muttered as he rubbed his eyes. They felt swollen and full of sand. I need coffee and food, and I’ll get neither of those things here.
He tucked Lorelei’s note in the pocket of his bag before he retrieved his shoes and socks and put them on. The boots remained beside the car where he’d left them the previous night. After stowing his bag and the Wellingtons in the trunk, he started the car and drove into the field.
Sunlight washed over a narrow path through the weeds, where the Citroën’s tires had obviously bent the grass on the drive to the barn. Diago followed the trail to the road.
By the time he reached Kehl, he’d gotten a good feel for the bulky vehicle. He located the Angel’s Nest but avoided the inn. If the German nephilim found him in their territories, he didn’t want his steps traced back to any of Rousseau’s establishments.
Instead, he chose a busy café and parked the car. No one gave him a second glance as he slipped into the lavatory. After a brief toilet, old habits from his days as a rogue took over, and he found a table at the back of the room.
At this hour, the patrons were mostly businessmen and a few women, all grabbing a bite before heading to work. A radio played folk music in the background.
As he set his watch, Diago realized it was early enough that he should be in Durbach by noon. If everything went well with the Grier brothers, he would have time to search for Guillermo’s anomaly.
They’d planned for him to stay in Germany, at the most, forty-eight hours. If he managed to procure the violin today, that left him tomorrow to investigate the disturbance in the Black Forest. Not even Carme could argue against Diago’s value to Los Nefilim if he cracked the mystery signified by the black pin. The idea lifted his spirits.
While he ate, he studied his map, noting alternative routes between Durbach and Kehl in case events went bad. Feeling somewhat fortified by the coffee and meal, he folded his map and went to the counter to pay.
On the radio, the lament of Johannes Brahms’s “In the Still of the Night” played like some dark premonition. The café’s door opened and two men wearing Sturmabteilung uniforms entered the restaurant.
Brownshirts. The fact that members of the Nazi Party’s paramilitary wing wore their uniforms openly in the town disturbed Diago. The waitress’s warm greeting did even less to reassure him. It seems I’ve stepped into a snake’s nest.
A mirror behind the counter allowed him to surreptitiously measure the duo. The shorter, dark-haired man was mortal. His companion was a large nefil with white-blond hair and eyes the color of a mountain lake.
The nefil’s cheek was pitted with shrapnel scars, which disappeared beneath his collar. On his right hand, he wore a heavy ring inscribed with sigils of power and an angel’s tear of blue and ivory in the setting.
Noting the ring’s dominant glyph, Diago realized the nefil was one of Ilsa Jaeger’s Nephilim. If he read the insignia on the nefil’s collar correctly, he wore the rank of sturmführer—the equivalent of a second lieutenant.
No need to wonder about Jaeger’s political affiliations, then. If she had seeded him into the Brownshirts as a spy, like Guillermo kept Bernardo in the church, the nefil wouldn’t be openly wearing her glyphs.
That was the kind of detail Guillermo would be most interested in knowing. As long as I can get out of here without being discovered. It was a trick he intended to perform without magic.
Mercifully, the waitress was so taken with the blond nefil she made s
hort work of settling Diago’s bill before grabbing her pad and hurrying to the men’s table.
Good, now to make for the door. Diago pulled on his gloves—both to cover Prieto’s tear and to disguise his maimed right hand. Men with nine fingers were remembered. Knowing that, he always chose his clothing with care, and today, the habit served him well. His black gloves blended with the dark fabric of his coat so that anyone who glanced his way wouldn’t immediately notice his missing pinkie.
If the lieutenant glimpsed the fire of the nefilim in Diago’s eyes, then he would demand to know what brought Diago onto German soil. And that will lead to questions I don’t want to answer.
He took his sunglasses from his breast pocket and slipped them on. As he stepped casually past the Brownshirts’ table, he lifted his hat to shield his face. Just beyond them, he settled the fedora on his head and tugged the brim over his eyes. Each movement was perfectly natural and precisely timed.
He had almost reached the door when a hard hand landed on his shoulder. “Do I know you?” It was the lieutenant.
I didn’t even see him rise. Diago tried to ignore the hammering of his heart. Christ, what have I done to give myself away? Had they detected the slightest Spanish accent beneath my German?
No, that couldn’t be it. He mastered languages the way nefilim mastered songs, and he’d worked hard to make sure his German was flawless. Maybe that was the problem, maybe it was too flawless.
Too late to do anything about it now. He turned and faced the nefil. Relying on the sunglasses to obscure his eyes, he pretended to study the other man’s face and then shook his head. “No, I don’t think we’ve met.”
“You’re familiar to me. Something in the way you move.” He edged closer.
That means he saw me from a distance. Diago relaxed somewhat. Probably from a trench during the war.
The nefilim had been like wraiths, flitting through the smoke on one deadly errand after another. Those quick movements distinguished them from the lumbering mortals.
Diago jerked himself from the memory. “I must apologize”—he glanced at the nefil’s insignia again—“Sturmführer . . . ?”
“Heines.”
The mortal Brownshirt rose and maneuvered behind Diago.
“Sturmführer Heines, but you’ve mistaken me for someone else. If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment in Frankfurt and I am already behind schedule.” He turned to find the mortal blocking his path.
The man leered at him. “Are you a movie star, you wear your sunglasses indoors?”
“Doctor’s orders.” Diago offered the man a smile, glad the dark lenses hid his murderous glare. “I’m sensitive to sunlight.”
“I think you’re lying,” said the mortal.
A hard note edged into Diago’s voice. “You can think what you please.”
Heines tapped Diago on the shoulder. “Do you have papers?”
Diago turned back to the deadlier of the two threats. As he did, he scanned the faces of the other diners. Most made no secret they were watching to see what Diago would do next. Nor did anyone seem motivated to intervene on his behalf.
He considered Heines’s request. Legally, he didn’t have to give the lieutenant the time of day, but to refuse might invite a visit by the local police. And I can’t rely on Guillermo’s money and influence to bail me out of here.
Diago reached into his coat with his left hand. He carried two sets of papers, and he was careful to give Heines the set with his German alias.
Heines scanned the documents and his frown deepened. “Herr Jacob Schwarz?”
“That is me.”
Heines gave Diago a long suspicious look before asking, “What business do you have in Frankfurt?”
“I am an appraiser.”
“What do you appraise?”
“Things of value.” Diago held out his hand for his papers.
One of the diners snickered.
Heines’s lip curled.
The other Brownshirt wasn’t amused. “He’s a slippery little Jew, isn’t he?”
“I’m Catholic,” Diago said. Not that he was, but it was his usual cover and matched his papers.
Heines sounded amused as he returned the documents to Diago. “Tell me, Herr Schwarz, do you believe in angels?”
He is toying with me, hoping I’ll give myself away. Diago scoffed. “I believe I have to go.” He nodded to both of them. “Gentlemen.”
Heines followed him onto the street. The mortal remained in the café.
Of course, because Heines doesn’t want a mortal to witness any altercation between us. Diago forced himself to maintain an unhurried pace. He reached his car and turned to face the nefil. “Is something wrong, Sturmführer Heines?”
The lieutenant drew close. His gaze flickered to the car’s German plates and then back to Diago. “You’re familiar to me, and I will place you.”
If I’m lucky, not until I’m long gone from here. Diago got inside the car.
Before he could close the door, Heines grabbed the frame and leaned down, his gaze sweeping the interior and lingering on the blanket in the backseat. “This is your last chance. Who are you and why are you in Germany?” He punctuated each question with a tap of his finger on the vehicle’s roof.
He’s tracing a sigil. Diago made no sign that he noticed the nefil’s spell. “My name is Jacob Schwarz. I am an appraiser on my way to Frankfurt to value a violin. That is all, sir. I bid you a good day.” Diago tugged on the door handle, hoping Heines would get the hint.
The lieutenant smirked and slapped the roof with his palm before he stood back. “Fine. Have a pleasant trip . . . Herr Schwarz.”
Diago yanked the door shut and started the car. As he pulled onto the street, he noticed the colors of Heines’s song following his vehicle.
It was a tracking sigil. Although he’d expected no less, rage flooded his chest.
“Damn it!” He shoved the gearshift to second.
A quick glance to the rearview mirror assured him that Heines remained on the sidewalk. Blue sound waves spooled from his palm up and over the rear window to the roof of Diago’s car.
The Brownshirt was clever: to counter the spell meant revealing his true nature as a nefil. I’ve got to transfer it to a different vehicle.
He started toward Frankfurt, sure that Heines and his mortal would eventually follow. He just hoped he could do this quick enough. Looking for a neighborhood where he could work undisturbed, he kept his eyes peeled for an opportunity. On the outskirts of town, he finally found an empty shed on the back of an industrial lot.
Highly conscious of the time, he pulled the car beneath the shelter and parked. He looked hard behind him, expecting the other nefil to show up any second. When no other car arrived, he took in his surroundings. From the next block came the sound of heavy machinery.
Perfect. The noise would mask Diago’s song from other nefilim.
Sliding across the bench seat, he exited via the passenger door. Across the roof, the glyph crackled and writhed like an octopus.
“Goddamn it!” He smacked the hood with frustration as he circled the car. This was going to cost him time. Just deal with it.
He forced himself to calm. This was a problem that required finesse, not brute force.
The ward didn’t appear to be a complex spell, but that made the lines no less potent. Strengthened by the magic of Heines’s angel’s tear, the threads glowed with malevolence. Were it not for his own signet with Prieto’s tear, Diago would have no way to disable the ward.
Miquel will be so pleased when he finds out how his gift saved the day, Diago thought as he removed his gloves. There will be no living with him.
Resigned to his task, he nudged the outer band of the glyph with his fingernail. The ward’s tentacles swirled and chittered in soft C notes.
Outside the shed, life moved on with a steady rhythm. Diago let the beats soothe his rattled nerves. He needed to work with care. An error on his part might trigger the equivalent o
f a tripwire, which could entail anything from maiming to death.
Minding the colors of Heines’s ward, Diago sang a counternote and edged a thin spiral of his aura beneath the veins of light. Strands of silver from Prieto’s tear joined the deep green and black of Diago’s magic.
Working slowly, he manipulated the threads of his aura until they came between a strand of indigo and ivory. The silver of Prieto’s tear gently loosened the hold of Heines’s glyph from the car’s roof.
Diago chose the next thread and repeated the process. It was like defusing a bomb with a hair-trigger mechanism. The going was tedious, but Diago memorized each note within the sigil and eventually managed to work the tracking sigil almost free.
He checked his watch. Nine o’clock. The job had taken far longer than he liked, but Heines seemed to be taking his time beginning his hunt. He probably can’t slip away from his mortal without arousing his suspicion. Besides, why hurry, when he can stalk me at his leisure?
But he wouldn’t wait too long, of that Diago was certain. Removing his handkerchief, he wiped the sweat from his face and got back inside his vehicle. Now to find another car to place it on.
He took the road to Frankfurt. At least this way if Heines caught up to him, his alibi was intact.
An hour and a half later, he found a vehicle that matched his at a roadside inn. Parking beside the other Citroën, he got out and sang a sharp note as he swiped his hand beneath Heines’s ward. Then he tossed the sigil onto the other car’s roof, waiting to make sure it adhered to the metal.
Without missing a beat, he returned to his car and traced sigils on each of the windows to tint them with a smoky haze. The glyphs would lie dormant unless he charged them with his song. Then anyone looking into the car would simply see his silhouette.
Behind the wheel again, he continued toward Frankfurt for several more kilometers. He didn’t want to return the way he had come. The chances were too great that he might pass Heines on the way back to Kehl.
