by T. Frohock
Juanita took the seat across from him. “You mentioned the voices spoke to you. What did they say?”
Times like these, he wished he had his husband’s penchant for brusque retorts. But that’s not my way. Besides, the more she knows, the better she’ll be able to diagnose the problem.
He sighed and said, “They called me Michel. That was my name in my last incarnation. They said Yago betrayed me and Guillaume—that he sang with our enemies.”
“Do you believe that?”
He lit his cigarette and avoided her gaze. “The voices didn’t lie. I remember that day.”
“And you believe Yago betrayed you and Guillaume?”
Miquel took a fraction too long to respond. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Miquel. Really? Do you think Diago betrayed you?”
He exhaled a cloud of smoke and rubbed his eyes. “You don’t understand.”
She leaned forward and rapped the desk with her knuckles. “I understand better than you think. Those voices you heard colored Yago’s participation to fit a certain narrative, and now your imagination and doubts are doing the rest.”
“It’s not that I doubt him. I’m worried about what the others will think if they hear of this.” Or was that a convenient lie he told himself?
Juanita settled back in her seat and considered him with her cool gaze. “So that explains his behavior.”
“Who?”
“Diago.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Diago went for centuries in this incarnation without using his natural abilities. I suspect that had more to do with appeasing you than any excuse he tells me or himself. If he denied his song, then neither angels nor daimons could accuse him of treachery, and that made you happy, not him.”
Miquel scoffed at her. “Do you really think I have that kind of power over him?”
“Have you ever seen his face when you speak harshly to him?”
Miquel’s incredulous smile faded. Against his will, he recalled Diago’s hurt when he’d accused him of deliberately not working on the Key. He was exhausted and afraid and I berated him like he was a child. Nor was that the only incident during their long relationship.
“You’re right,” he whispered. “Jesus. I’ve treated him badly. I owe him an apology.”
“You’re missing the point. You’re also endangering yourself and Diago. Frauja couldn’t have exacerbated your insecurities unless that anxiety was already seeded in your heart.”
Miquel’s gut clenched as if she’d punched him. Because she did, only instead of using her fist, she hit me with the truth. For one fleeting moment, he had believed that Yago betrayed him, and if Yago betrayed him, wouldn’t Diago eventually do the same?
But he wouldn’t. Not Diago. “How could I think such a thing about someone I love?”
“This is why the angels are forbidden to instigate the nefilim’s memories. It’s too easy to manipulate vague impressions into facts.” Her smile grew gentle now that she saw he understood her concerns. “Besides, Diago has hurt you in the past. He is no saint, but he is not half the sinner some of our nefilim believe him to be.”
Miquel sighed. “I am so afraid . . . no, that’s wrong.” He met her gaze. “I’m terrified for him. Especially with this business with Lucia and Muñoz. Do you know what it will do to him if he’s accused?”
“You’re not the guardian of his virtue. You have to learn to step back. Give him the freedom to make mistakes. Otherwise, you force him to adhere to impossible standards of conduct, and when he becomes stressed, he backs away from you, from us.”
In the past, they had parted ways when Diago needed space to breathe. And that is what he always called it: space to breathe. Only now there is Rafael to consider, and as a member of Los Nefilim, Diago can’t simply walk away. “Okay. I see what you’re saying. I’ll back off.”
“Good.”
The sigils chimed, indicating that someone was on their way up the stairs. Miquel went into the conference room and Juanita followed him.
Sofia Corvo entered the room. Like Juanita, she favored loose trousers and soft-soled shoes, and there any resemblances ended. Where Juanita healed, Sofia killed and she enjoyed her work. Her chestnut curls escaped her bun and clung to her pale forehead, framing a face that projected the cunning of a cat.
“Please tell me you have good news,” Miquel said as he circled the table.
“We found Muñoz.”
Finally, he had a situation within the realm of his control. “Great work, Sofia. Thank you. Is he at the finca yet?”
Her scowl told Miquel he wasn’t going to like the next part. “He had cyanide.”
“Oh fuck.”
“And a ticket to Lisbon in his pocket.”
“Who does he know in Portugal?” Miquel went to the wall map, but instead of Lisbon, his eyes kept following the lines north to Durbach. “Sofia, do you have counterparts in the Portuguese Inner Guard who might be helpful?”
She shook her head. “The Portuguese Inner Guard keep stalling me when I ask for information. They know something, but they’re not willing to share.”
“Do they say why?”
“General Sanjurjo’s attempted coup spooked them. Since mortal events often mirror ours, they fear the Spanish Inner Guard will soon be challenged from within its ranks. They want to maintain neutrality until they’re sure Sanjurjo’s rebellion is an isolated incident constrained to mortal affairs.”
“Do they want to remain neutral, or pick up the pieces and broaden their territories if the Spanish Guard falls?” He turned and pinned her with his gaze. She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. “I want to know the names of every nefil in Los Nefilim who has had contact with our Portuguese friends, and then find any correlations in their activities. Start with military records, the church, bank accounts. This might be a time to follow the money.”
“Is that all?”
“For now.” Miquel nodded. It was a slim lead, but he’d take anything he could get. “Thank you, Sofia.”
Sofia nodded and left them.
The door had barely closed when the staccato beats of the teletype startled them.
“Christ. What now?” Miquel went to the machine. His blood turned to ice as he read the type: He doesn’t love you, he never loved you. He is here with us now . . . here with us now . . . here with us . . . with u—
Miquel reached down to unplug the machine. Juanita grabbed his wrist. She motioned for him to stand back. When he was nearly at the door, she placed her palms on the clacking machine and closed her eyes.
Thin lines of electricity popped around her fingertips to encompass her arms. Her mortal body fell away and she stood before the machine in her angelic form. Three sets of wings spread wide and almost touched the ceiling. Midnight fire coiled around the otherworldly orbs that were her eyes.
She gave a sharp cry and shaped a sigil over the teletype. A surge of power flowed from her hands to envelope the metal casing with indigo flames.
The flash was so bright, Miquel covered his eyes. When he looked again, Juanita’s fire shot downward, through the wiring and into the electrical socket. The house lights flickered from the surge.
A loud bang erupted from the Creed Model 7 followed by the acidic smoke of burning wires. As the house lights brightened, the blue flames receded. Juanita’s mortal form coalesced around her again.
Miquel hurried to the machine and ripped the casing open. He jerked the roll of paper out to prevent it from catching fire.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell did you do?” He went to the window and threw it open.
“I gave him a taste of his own medicine.” She stepped back and folded her arms as she frowned at the machine. “I wonder what’s happening in Durbach right now.”
20
Karinhall
Diago stared at the telephone. Hesitantly, he lifted the receiver to his ear again. Not even a dial tone hummed through the earpiece. He hung up. I’ll call them tomorrow
from the Angel’s Nest.
The silencing glyph still burned bright over the door. Take advantage of it. Opening one of the desk’s drawers, he searched through the receipts and papers, looking for any connection between Karl, Jordi, or Heines.
The checkbook indicated the house was running in the red. No surprise there.
A quick search through another file labeled “Correspondence” produced no evidence that Karl was in touch with any nefilim Diago knew. All he discovered were several terse notes between Karl and Haldane, and these outlined a relationship fraught with disagreement and discord. Nor did he find any indication that Karl knew that Sir George Abellio had reincarnated as Jordi Abelló.
On a more mundane level, a letter from Karl’s solicitor suggested having someone test Karinhall’s wiring, because the house seemed to use an abnormal amount of electricity.
I’m hitting dead ends. With nothing else of interest coming to light, Diago returned the documents to the drawer. He looked around the room. Rotating bookcases were the stuff of films, and although he checked any and all cabinets that might conceal a violin, his search turned up empty. As he eased the last drawer shut, he noticed the edges of his sigil were beginning to fray. Time to go.
At the threshold, he paused and listened. Cracking the door, he saw no one, so he stepped quickly into the corridor. The lights flickered. An electrical whine hummed through the house, sounding almost like a thing in pain.
Diago looked up at the light over the entryway. A power surge and a strong one at that. Karl’s solicitor was right in suggesting an electrician should check the wiring.
The hall tree’s mirror flashed, almost as if someone had fired a flashbulb directly at the glass. The glimmer of a shadow passed across the surface. A closer examination revealed only his reflection.
Jesus, I’m spooking myself. He backed away and went upstairs.
He still hadn’t investigated the rooms in the wing to the right of the stairs. Do I dare risk it?
To his left, Karl’s door was shut, and the light was off. Diago assumed he was still occupied somewhere downstairs.
Light spilled from Rudi’s open door.
Rudi’s voice floated into the hall. “I miss you so terribly.”
A search of the other wing would have to wait.
“Please come out. Just for a moment. Please?” He sounded lost, like a child. “Stop being angry. This is the last time I’ll help Karl. I promise.”
Now he had Diago’s undivided attention. Help Karl do what?
Another pause. “I know I promised before, but this is different. I really mean it this time. He said that if I help him, he’ll let you go and stop the voices in my head.”
Is the boy actually psychotic? It was possible, yet something about the diagnosis left Diago troubled. The explanation is too pat, too easy . . . too . . . what? he mused as he reached into his pocket and touched the brooch.
Too mortal.
And didn’t Juanita warn me against relying on mortal remedies?
Psychosis was a mortal diagnosis, and the situation in this house was definitely supernatural. Possession, on the other hand . . .
The brothers were descendants of lesser nefilim, and as such, both Karl and Rudi would have been ripe for possession during their prepubescent years. The chemical imbalances in their brains opened channels that either an angel or a daimon might exploit. Once the malignancy gained a grip, it would hold on until the boys aged enough to reclaim their minds.
Rudi was seventeen, so the spirit’s hold on him was probably fading. But it still retains some power. He recalled the unpleasant buzz in Rudi’s voice when he denied knowing Harvey.
Diago made a slight noise to alert Rudi to his presence and paused at the youth’s door. “Hello.”
Rudi wiped his eyes. “Hi.”
“I don’t mean to intrude. I just wanted to see if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.” The flirtatious youth from the dinner table was gone. “And I’m not insane,” he whispered.
“I know,” Diago said.
Rudi sniffled and faced the wall for a moment, struggling to master his emotions. When he turned again, he attempted to resurrect his former jocularity. “Did you finally get tired of Karl’s ridiculous posturing?”
“Your brother has some interesting ideas.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Rudi held the compact and turned it over in his hands. When he noticed Diago watching him, he explained, “It was Mother’s.”
“I see.”
“It’s all I have of her now.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Do you believe in hell, Herr Alvarez?”
Diago thought of the Great War and the no-man’s-land at the front. “Yes, though I often believe it is a place of our own making.”
The youth’s eyes shined. “If we make our own hell, can we unmake it?”
He feels guilt about something, and if he feels guilt, he has a conscience. Whatever this spirit manipulated him into doing, Rudi wasn’t a willing participant.
Diago realized the youth was waiting for an answer. “I think . . . no, I believe these . . . hells . . . become a part of us, but they don’t have to be the only part. If we examine how we have wronged others and accept responsibility for those actions, then we can work toward repairing the damage. It’s not the same as unmaking it, but it’s better than allowing it to consume us.”
“But hell can also be a place.”
Diago thought of the western front. “Sometimes.”
Rudi was very still and quiet for a moment, and then he said, “You know, my mother wanted to sell Karinhall. She claimed that something evil walked in this house—that it was a little piece of hell.”
If he had any doubt about the anomaly being inside the house, he lost it now. The boys most likely inherited their angelic nature from Karin Grier, and as a female descendant of the nefilim, her power would have eclipsed that of her sons. “Were you angry at her for wanting to sell the house?”
“No, not me. But Karl was furious.”
Diago recalled the information from Guillermo’s files. “Is that why the constables accused him of killing your mother?”
“It was Father. He was in such a state of grief when he found her . . . both of us were.” His voice trailed off and he was silent for a moment, consumed by memories Diago couldn’t see. “Anyway, Father made all sorts of wild accusations. When he blamed Karl for Mother’s death, a constable heard him, and events spiraled from there.
“Once Father regained his senses, he was mortified and did everything he could to ensure Karl’s exoneration. Of course, Berlin’s society pages delivered the scandal to the masses, and the locals in Durbach embellished even the most insane rumors. Karl has never forgiven them. That’s why he travels to Offenburg to conduct his business.” Rudi shrugged and touched the corner of his swollen lip. “The end.”
“The end,” Diago murmured.
Rudi rose and came to the door. “I must apologize, Herr Alvarez. I’m not feeling well all of a sudden. I hope you won’t think me rude if I retire.”
“Of course not.” Diago bowed his head. “I wish you a good night.”
“Good night, Herr Alvarez.”
Before Diago reached his room, he heard Rudi’s door snick shut behind him. He paused, noticing that Rudi’s shadow remained beneath the threshold. He’s waiting to hear my door shut.
Was it so he could continue his one-sided conversation, or did the brothers have a more perverse reason for retiring so early? Karl’s warning not to wander the halls after dark was still fresh in Diago’s mind. Was the caveat meant to keep him in his room, or to incite his curiosity?
Only one way to find out. Diago shut his door and locked it.
He fashioned a sigil of protection over the lock and charged it with his voice. Feeling somewhat safer, he removed his tie and shirt, and then drew one of Miquel’s favorite sweaters from his bag, inhaling his husband’s scent as he pulled the garment over his head.
Christ but I miss him and Rafael. He envisioned them back in Santuari, going through their evening rituals. He wished he was home, preparing to sleep in his own bed with Miquel sprawled next to him and Rafael across the hall, telling Ghost about his day.
Rudi’s radio burst into life, jerking Diago from his pleasant reverie. The static hissed until the dial found the ninth movement of Berlioz’s Requiem. A tenor, singing the “Sanctus,” was echoed by other voices. The chorus sounded odd, nothing like the cohesive performances Diago had heard in the past.
The radio signal is probably picking up interference from other stations, he mused before turning his attention back to the business at hand.
Rolling the sweater’s too long sleeves over his wrists, he planned his next move. Once the brothers were asleep, he intended to slip into the other wing and have a look inside those rooms. If he managed that without waking either of them, then he would break the lock on the pocket doors and inspect the third floor.
And the minute I find the violin, I’ll get out of here. He packed his bag and set it beside the door. As he did, he found his eye drawn back to the armoire.
“It’s time to see what they’re hiding under my nose,” he whispered.
21
Diago examined the armoire’s lock. Something appeared to be jammed in the keyhole. He tested the doors, but they still didn’t give. Fine. A sigil then.
He formed a glyph over the metal plate.
Across the corridor, static growled as Requiem came to an end. Rudi must have fiddled with the dial, because the radio squalled and then homed in on a new station’s signal. The announcer introduced the Royal Albert Hall Orchestra’s recording of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture.
The violas and cellos moaned through the opening hymn, soft and plaintive as a prayer. Diago waited for the brass to enter the piece, so the horns would cover the sound of his song. When the music segued to the underlying melody of “La Marseillaise,” he gave a sharp cry. The colors of his aura charged the ward and shattered the lock.
