Where Oblivion Lives

by T. Frohock

  Karl obviously had no idea what that act truly entailed; otherwise, he wouldn’t be so blasé. Jordi, on the other hand, stifled a shudder. Frauja is murdering nefilim and eating their souls. For a nefil to die in such a way was worse than the second death, the final death from which no nefil could reincarnate, because unless the angel was destroyed, the nefilim’s souls were forever bound to him. And angels are notoriously hard to kill.

  “Is that what this is?” Jordi tapped the brooch. “A lure to draw me into Frauja’s mirror?”

  Karl gaped at Jordi in shock. “No! Frauja loves you. He says you are the only nefil who can free him. It’s why he instructed me to guide you here.”

  Maybe, Jordi thought. He didn’t trust Karl, but he needed him for a little longer. Besides, if he is trying to trick me, he wouldn’t have related Frauja’s techniques for ensnaring the nefilim. The cocaine is making me paranoid. Which in and of itself wasn’t a bad thing, because mortals were capricious creatures.

  At the same time, this is the opportunity of an incarnation.

  If he was careful, he could help Frauja escape the oblivion realm where he was imprisoned, and then use the angel to destroy Guillermo’s soul. Maybe in the end, Frauja would help me accomplish my original goal after all. Taken by a soul-eater, Guillermo would never reincarnate, leaving Jordi’s claim as king forever untouched. It’s just as good as locking him in a prison realm.

  Yet he could almost hear Nico’s voice in the back of his mind, urging caution. But a soul-eater . . .

  This wasn’t the Middle Ages. The nefilim were more numerous now. If Frauja proved difficult to control once Guillermo was out of the way, Jordi could enlist the aid of Queen Jaeger to call down the Thrones on the angel.

  Karl gripped his coffee cup. “Please, Sir George, you must believe me—I’m on your side.” A note of apprehension crept into his statement.

  Let him worry. Jordi crushed his cigarette in the tin ashtray. “What’s in it for you, Karl?”

  “I told you—Frauja will give me the song of a nefil.”

  Jordi stared at him.

  It took merely a moment before Karl broke beneath the weight of that glare. “With the song of a nefil, I will be able to take over all the branches of Ordo Novi Templi and bend them to my will.”

  “And then?”

  Karl leaned over the table, his eyes wild with hate. “I will show them what it means to be pure, and then I will force them to endure every humiliation they have given me.”

  “I see,” said Jordi. Well acquainted with the desire for revenge, he finished his coffee and signaled for the check. “Then it’s fortunate our paths crossed, because I can help you . . . if you like.”

  The rage faded from Karl’s eyes but not the fanatical gleam. “I would be honored to fight at your side.”

  And I’ll tolerate your presence until I don’t need you anymore. “First things first then. If Diago isn’t dead, you’re going to have a very powerful, angry nefil on your hands when you go home.”

  “I am not afraid.”

  Jordi leaned across the table and hissed, “Well, you should be. Frauja is where he is because of Diago.” Again he saw the mirror bound by Yago’s song. Why in the hell can’t I remember what he did to us?

  For the first time, the young man seemed uncertain. “What should we do?”

  “Tell me, Karl, do you own a gun?”

  Karl opened his jacket just enough for Jordi to see the shoulder holster he wore. It was clearly a German military issue Beholla from the Great War.

  “Excellent. Now listen closely, because there can be no mistakes . . .”

  24

  Karinhall

  Diago awakened hours later to the sound of Rudi playing the piano. He recognized the music: act three of Wagner’s Götterdämmerung: the burning of Valhalla.

  He pushed himself free of the settee. Stiff muscles checked his every move. He felt like he’d been in a brawl. Because I was, he thought groggily as he stretched each limb, attentive to the slightest twinge.

  Years of dancing attuned him to his body’s signals. No bones were broken, no tendons torn. “Fine,” he whispered. “I’m fine.”

  Okay, not quite fine, but limber enough to get moving. “And still in the mortal realm.” Thanks to Harvey and Prieto’s tear.

  Rolling to his feet, he staggered through the debris and went to the window. Dust rained down on him when he pushed the curtain aside. In spite of the cloud cover, he guessed it was about midmorning, maybe noon.

  Across the yard, wooden stakes marked the rectangular outline of a shallow pit. That must be the chapel excavation Karl spoke of last night.

  As Diago’s gaze roved the grounds, he knew that if Karl continued to dig, he would find foundations that belonged to other buildings. To his left and out of sight would be the bakehouse. To the right, the gate, which was beside the coarse wooden buildings where the soldiers were housed. Directly opposite would be the inn.

  For one blurry moment, Diago envisioned the structures superimposed over Karinhall’s grounds. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. When he looked again, the castle courtyard disappeared.

  That’s the past, a grave that never should have been disturbed.

  Turning from the window, he assessed the room’s destruction and tried to decide what to do next. Stay and hunt for the violin or leave?

  He’d been through enough battles to know that winning was one part skill, three parts luck. In his current state, he doubted he could replicate last night’s reflexes, and luck was a fickle diva who didn’t always sing her part.

  Staying would be a gamble, but insane risks weren’t his to take anymore. I promised my Rafael I would come home.

  The thought of his son led to the jagged memory of Harvey’s agonized face behind the mirror. His old friend had given himself so Diago could flee. And I won’t squander his death.

  Besides, Guillermo had been adamant that Diago should take no unnecessary risks. Part of proving himself to Los Nefilim meant following orders, and Guillermo would see this as a prudent move.

  In spite of all that, leaving still felt like failure. It’ll feel more so if I get myself killed, though.

  Before he could find a reason to stay, he grabbed his bag and opened the door. A dagger’s hilt almost hit him in the face. The blade pinned a sheet of paper to the door.

  Diago ripped the document free. The rusty brown ink was the color of old blood. Written in archaic German, it was a summons to appear before the vehmgericht to be tried for treason.

  Diago crumpled the paper and threw it in the mirror’s direction. “Fuck you and your courts, Frauja.”

  Across the hall, Rudi’s door was open. The radio still squatted on the night table, only now it was no longer a benign appliance.

  A flush of rage hit Diago’s chest as he once more saw Harvey struggling to speak. Striding across the hall, he picked up the radio and smashed it on the floor. The crystals shattered and one of the knobs flew beneath the bed.

  Downstairs, the piano fell silent.

  Diago struggled for calm. If he went down now, he wasn’t sure he could control himself. Pacing back into the hall, he stalked into the lavatory and splashed cold water on his face.

  Rudi is just a boy, a mortal, and Frauja is using him. He can’t possibly understand the ramifications of Harvey’s death. Repeating the mantra to himself, he waited until his breathing evened. Harvey was gone. Killing the Griers wouldn’t bring him back or free his soul.

  Getting to the border alive is the goal. Stay focused. He drank from the tap to soothe his sore throat and then left the lavatory to collect his bag. As he descended to the first floor, he noted the ceiling stains in the entryway had broadened. Eight lines were joined by two ligatures and overlaid the rune Fehu.

  Just as Karl had drawn in the photograph.

  Diago almost made it to the front door before Rudi said, “Herr Alvarez, you’re—” He abruptly stopped talking.

  Clenching the handle of his bag, Diago tu
rned and met the boy’s bewildered gaze. “Alive?”

  Hysteria touched Rudi’s laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous! Of course you’re alive.” He twisted something in his hands and Diago noticed he carried his mother’s compact. “I’m afraid there is no lunch for you. Karl sent Frau Weber home this morning as soon as she arrived.”

  I’m sure he did. He wouldn’t want her to see daggers buried in the doors. “Where is Karl?”

  “Offenburg.”

  “He was supposed to take me with him to use a phone.”

  “He must have forgotten. Karl gets like that sometimes. He has so much on his mind, he forgets things.”

  “I see.” Diago debated how much longer he wanted to play this game.

  “You have your bag. Are you leaving?”

  Diago nodded.

  “But you haven’t seen the violin yet. Don’t you want to see it?”

  See it, hold it, take it away, yes to all those things. “Do you know where the violin is, Rudi?”

  The youth shook his head. “Karl moved it.”

  Which meant Rudi had searched but hadn’t found it. “You should leave, too, Rudi. Get out while you can.”

  Rudi twisted the compact in his hands. “I . . . I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Karl will report me to the authorities. He said he won’t let them take me to the sanitarium this time. He said he’ll declare me incorrigible and that I will go to prison.” Rudi shook his head. “I can’t do that. I don’t belong there.”

  “You could leave Germany.”

  “And go where? And how would I live? Can you see me working like a common laborer?” Rudi gave an incredulous laugh and shook his head. “As long as I don’t . . .” He hesitated and fumbled with the compact.

  As long as you don’t profess your love for other men, Diago thought. Come on, Rudi, say it. Give me an opening.

  Rudi’s voice dropped to a whisper. “As long as I don’t get sick again.”

  “You’re not sick, Rudi. And I understand your fear—”

  “You are a good person, Herr Alvarez, but I belong here. Karl will fix things. He’s promised. He’ll make everything right. He will.”

  Something about the hope in Rudi’s expression diminished Diago’s loathing. The boy truly felt that everything would be all right if he pleased his brother.

  But Karl would never be pleased. That was the part Rudi didn’t understand. If Diago had time, he would have shared some of the lessons Miquel had taught him: that change was frightening only at first; or maybe tell him that love was precious and shouldn’t be squandered on abusers. But time wasn’t his and he couldn’t say any of those things without jeopardizing himself and his mission. And besides, even though the boy didn’t believe his own lie, he was too afraid to change.

  And there’s nothing I can say that will alter his attitude.

  In the end, he turned and walked away, listening in case Rudi decided to follow him. The youth remained by the music room door, clutching the compact against his chest.

  Shifting his attention to the hall tree, Diago grabbed his hat and coat. He moved swiftly past the mirror, which reflected the room, as mirrors were meant to do.

  Outside the icy air sucked the wind from his lungs. It’s far too cold for September. He still didn’t bother with either his hat or coat. A sense of urgency suddenly touched him and added speed to his movements. He’d delayed long enough. Every minute here was one minute closer to the next zero hour.

  He tossed his things on the front seat and then slid behind the wheel. The engine hummed to life on the first turn of the ignition.

  The sound of approaching cars caused him to glance into the rearview mirror. Karl’s Mercedes roared down the drive, followed by a white Cabriolet.

  Who is in the Cabriolet? Sturmführer Heines? Diago wasn’t waiting to find out. He put his Citroën in reverse and wheeled it around. The sedan was about as responsive as a tank, but at least he was pointed in the right direction.

  The driveway was just wide enough to allow his car room to pass. Hitting the gas, Diago picked up speed and shifted from first to second. The speedometer drifted higher. He shifted into third. He was going too fast for the rutted drive, but the thought didn’t slow him.

  As he neared the other vehicles, Karl edged the Mercedes into the Citroën’s lane. The Cabriolet drew alongside the Mercedes. They gave him no space to pass.

  Around them, then. Diago waited until the last possible moment before he swerved.

  He saw the deep ditch too late. The Citroën’s tires left the ground. The chassis bounced hard, wrenching the steering wheel from his hand. He grabbed it again and overcompensated.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught the impression of a sigil flying toward the driver’s door. Diago had no time to counter it. The glyph hit the Citroën, and the car skidded through the pine needles to broadside a tree. The passenger side took the brunt of the accident. The engine stalled.

  Diago smelled blood. He touched his scalp and his fingers came away wet. A web of cracks intersected the driver’s window. He didn’t remember hitting his head. The steering wheel blurred and became two before merging back together again.

  Reaching down, he groped for the keys and tried to start the car. “Come on,” he whispered as the engine coughed and then died.

  Two shapes moved toward him. For one horrible moment, he thought it was the corpses from his nightmare. Then he recognized Jordi.

  Karl positioned himself in front of the Citroën’s hood. He held his arms out stiffly and pointed a pistol at Diago.

  A military issue Beholla. He recalled wondering what had happened to Joachim’s guns. Now I know.

  Diago didn’t move. He sat with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the ignition. His heart hammered against his chest. Karl blurred and turned into twins and then became one again. I took a hard knock.

  Karl grinned like he’d won a prize. “Herr Alvarez. Why are you leaving? We haven’t concluded our business.”

  Diago wasn’t sure it was possible to hate Karl any more than he already did, but he found a dark part within himself that managed the task. I’m going to kill him. It’s just a matter of time.

  Jordi arrived at the door and jerked it open. He squatted beside Diago.

  The first thing Diago noticed was the polished brooch pinned over Jordi’s breast. The second was the Browning’s pistol grip poking just over Jordi’s hip.

  Just as he knew I would. Their gazes met. His eyes are like knives—like they were when he was Sir George. He was thinner than Guillermo, hard and hungry and full of need. Anger radiated around him like a malignant corona.

  Diago knew that rage, the kind that hovered just below a veneer of calm. When he was Yago, he’d felt it burn within his own soul. That was the difference between them in this incarnation. Jordi still held tight to his anger while Diago had conquered his.

  Jordi kept his tone casual. “Car trouble, my friend?”

  Diago noted a thin crust of blood rimmed Jordi’s nostrils. He’s using drugs again. The thought dropped into Diago’s mind with the same banality as he sometimes recorded other everyday facts:

  It’s raining, the trains are running late, Jordi is using drugs again.

  It would be funny except it wasn’t. Coupled with his fury, drugs always increased the hostility in Jordi’s song, making his magic unpredictable . . . and more dangerous.

  Play his game until the world stops spinning. “I seem to have had an accident. Maybe you can give me a ride into town?” He drew his tarnished brooch from his pocket and offered it to Jordi as he switched to Spanish. “My friend.”

  Jordi’s gaze flickered to the brooch and then back to Diago. He replied in Spanish. “We’re not friends, Yago.”

  “And that’s not my name.”

  “No. No, but it was. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.” Jordi’s smile was pleasant, as if they were two old comrades discussing bygone days. He placed his hand over Diago
’s and said, “I recall how we exchanged songs and passed the long cold nights with an angel between us. Do you remember that incarnation?”

  “A little.”

  “A little.” Jordi’s hand tightened around Diago’s until it became a vise. For Karl’s benefit, he repeated the phrase in German. “‘A little,’ he says.” A shrill edge tinged his laughter.

  Even Karl seemed uneasy about Jordi’s sudden glee. The barrel of the mortal’s gun wavered.

  Diago remained perfectly still. He had lived around enough abusive men and women to understand the hair-trigger tempers that accompanied a laugh like that—and that meant Jordi was no longer playing a game. Don’t provoke him. Not that he could do much anyway—Diago was in no condition to fight. Stall him until the vertigo passes.

  “How long have you and Karl been working together?” he asked in Spanish.

  Jordi scoffed and replied in kind. “I don’t work with mortals.”

  “Then he’s using you like a whore to get what he wants.”

  Jordi leaned into the car and spit in Diago’s face. “No one uses me.”

  But I did, and that’s what burns you, isn’t it, Jordi? I used you and I won. Except that was during their last incarnation. A lifetime away.

  “It’s cold,” Karl said, nervousness raising his voice an octave. His gaze bounced from one nefil to the other. “Let’s go inside.” He nodded toward the house. “We can discuss the violin.”

  The violin. Does he still think that will work on me? And yet . . . how much does Jordi even know about it?

  Diago looked down at the tarnished brooch in his palm. The angel leered at him and clenched the broken emerald as if to break it in half.

  Then Jordi spoke Diago’s fears aloud. “I understand Herr Grier has a Stradivarius for sale. A very special violin.”

  Here was Diago’s nightmare come to life. The Griers possessed enough magic between them to rob Diago of sleep and ignite his fears. Jordi had the power and will to bring those terrors into the realm of reality.

  That goddamn violin is a fetter around my soul. “They’re killing nefilim, Jordi—”