Where Oblivion Lives

by T. Frohock

  “Let’s go inside,” Jordi whispered. His tone grew conciliatory again as he took the brooch from Diago’s hand and pinned it over his heart. “My friend.” He drew his pistol and stepped back. “Get out of the car slowly. Hands on your head. Good, now follow Karl.”

  Diago obeyed him. He was too weakened from last night’s battle with Frauja to take Jordi in a fair fight. Fight dirty, then. And that meant waiting for the right moment to attack.

  He considered the guns: Karl’s Beholla probably held seven rounds, as did Jordi’s Browning. That’s fourteen bullets too many, but Karl is overconfident with Jordi here, and Jordi is unbalanced by the drugs. An opportunity would come. Diago just had to be ready to act when it appeared.

  Because I will not give up. While there was breath in his body, he intended to do everything in his power to get home to his husband and son.

  The beats of Siegfried’s funeral march greeted them. Rudi had obviously returned to the piano the moment Diago left.

  “Where are we going, Karl?” Jordi asked.

  “Upstairs,” Karl said before he shouted at his brother. “Rudi! Go up and turn on the lights!”

  The piano fell silent and Rudi appeared at the music room’s door, his mother’s makeup case clutched in one hand. “What’s going on? Herr Alvarez? What’s happening?” He stared at Jordi. “Who are you?”

  Jordi ignored the question. He stepped to the wall and ran an appreciative hand over the molding.

  The barrel of his gun never wavered from Diago’s torso.

  He’s testing me, expecting me to run, especially this close to the door. Patient as a cat, Diago made no overt sign that he noticed Jordi’s feigned distraction. He kept his head bowed, his shoulders slumped.

  Karl gestured for Rudi to move and only answered the last question. “This is Sir George Abellio, the rightful owner of the Stradivarius.”

  “And Karinhall,” Jordi said, giving Rudi a wolfish grin.

  The comment took Karl off guard. An expression of uncertainty flickered across his features.

  Little fool, you’ve invited the devil into your house. Diago seized the moment. “He’s not joking, Karl. He’s going to kill you.” And if he doesn’t, I will.

  Karl didn’t respond to the threat. Instead, he attempted to regain control the only way he seemed to know how—by ordering Rudi around. He turned to his brother and snapped, “What are you waiting for? Go upstairs and turn on the lights.”

  With one last desperate glance at Diago, Rudi turned and ran up the marble steps, his slippers whispering against the stone.

  Karl followed him.

  Jordi gestured with the barrel of his pistol. “Let’s go.”

  Clenching his teeth, Diago climbed the stairs. Jordi kept several paces between them. Unbalancing him with a fast kick was out of the question. Patience. The time will come.

  At the second-story landing, the pocket doors to the third floor stood open. A foul scent drifted on a chill draft. The ornate light fixtures that once decorated the ceiling were gone and replaced with naked bulbs. The walls were bruised and battered. The stains of more sigils bled across the shredded paper.

  The next landing revealed an open area, much like a lobby. A door at the end of the hall, probably the servants’ entrance from the kitchen, was shut. Rudi and Karl waited before a much more formal entrance that consisted of a pair of doors with brass handles.

  Karl unlocked the doors and swung them wide. Inside, he touched a switch and a damaged chandelier blazed to life. The broken glass cast more shadow than light over the expansive ballroom with mirrored walls.

  Diago’s heart seized. Fissures ran through the glass, cracks that spanned from one panel to the next to form sigils. As his gaze traveled from a broken line to a full ligature and then to three jagged lines, another wave of dizziness washed over him, but this episode had nothing to do with the blow to his head.

  The design was made incomprehensible by disjointed glyphs that seemed to contradict one another. It was like trying to read a book with each word written in a different language . . . and out of order.

  To further complicate the patterns, portions of the mirror were dented as if someone’s head had been driven into the glass. Diago recalled the bits of hair and bone in Laura Howe’s hat.

  A savage flash of anger surged through his body. Karl. It had to have been Karl, getting the drop on her.

  Diago dragged his gaze from the broken glass to a table in the center of the room. A modern violin case rested on it.

  The Stradivarius.

  Next to the table was a standing microphone, which was plugged into a huge homemade transmitter that stood against the back wall. Tubes and batteries lined the floor. More wires stretched from the transmitter to the baseboards.

  There, the scuffed wax was darkened with veins of blood. They reflected the same designs that marred the ceilings and downstairs walls.

  “Blood sigils,” Diago whispered.

  Even Jordi appeared uneasy at the sight of them. Maybe he wasn’t as far gone into his addiction as Diago first surmised.

  The glyphs formed lacy patterns on the floor and spread about two meters from the walls into the ballroom itself, like a boundary marking the line between two worlds. Wires erupted from the sigils and snaked across the floor to the transmitter.

  Three thick cables ran from the transmitter to a wide pair of French doors on the western wall. The doors were cracked to allow the cables to pass through, probably to reach the electrical box on the side of the house.

  That explains the power surges. Diago considered the doors and the balcony.

  Although they were on the third floor, a nefil could survive such a fall if he anticipated the descent just right. The trick would be grabbing the violin as he sprinted past the table and then landing without injury.

  From the door’s position, Diago guessed they were over the haunted guest room he had occupied last night. If that was the case, a jump would lead him to a clear area.

  And with the rain, the ground will be soft.

  Jordi must have read Diago’s mind. “Don’t even think about it. I’ll take you down with a bullet before you’ve gone three steps. Get on your knees and keep your hands on your head.”

  Once more Diago obeyed him. He caught a glimpse of Rudi’s angry features as he did. He promised he wouldn’t help his brother anymore, yet here he is, helping Karl . . .

  Jordi waved the barrel of his gun at the transmitter. “What the hell is this?”

  “I built it,” Karl said proudly. “It’s how we played the violin in your dreams, Herr Alvarez.” He waited a beat as if hoping for a compliment on his ingenuity. When none came, he holstered his gun and went to the transmitter. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

  One less gun, Diago thought as he calculated the distance between him and Jordi. They were too far apart. For now.

  Jordi kept his attention riveted on Diago but he addressed Karl. “I know how a transmitter works. Why do you need one this size?”

  Karl flipped a switch. A hum filled the room as the tubes glowed to life. “To give Frauja his voice in the mortal realm.”

  The radio and the phone. Diago’s eye followed the cord leading through the French doors. Could it be that simple? Unplug him? That would certainly stop Frauja from projecting his song into the mortal realm . . .

  But those sigils. Diago scanned the dizzying patterns on the mirrors. There were almost enough cracks for Frauja to punch through, and if the angel freed himself, transmitters would be the least of their worries.

  Blissfully ignorant of what he was about to unleash on the mortal realm, Karl returned to the table and removed the Stradivarius from its case. The wood gleamed in reddish hues, as well maintained as if it had never left Diago’s care.

  Diago’s fingers twitched. He could almost feel the instrument in his hands.

  “You see, Rudi stands here and plays the violin.” Karl positioned himself in front of the microphone. Then he used the bow to point out t
he wires leading into the blood sigils. “Then Frauja adjusts the frequency before he sends his sigil into the power lines, where it interferes with the transmission from a local radio station.”

  Jordi’s eyes lit up. “And from there, it goes from antenna to antenna until it finds its prey.”

  Karl glowed. “Yes! The transmitter never worked properly until my father died—”

  “You murdered Father,” Rudi blurted. “Just like you murdered Mother. Tell them the truth, Karl. You shoved her into that panel.” He pointed to a starburst pattern on the opposite wall. “That’s how all this started. When you murdered Mother!”

  Because she was a lesser nefil, Diago thought. And when her blood seeped through the cracks, it nourished Frauja in his oblivion realm.

  Karl didn’t acknowledge his brother’s outburst. This was his performance, and it was obvious he wouldn’t be cheated of his moment. “But with Father’s Stradivarius—”

  My Stradivarius, Diago thought.

  “—we were able to send the music into Frauja’s realm.” Karl replaced the instrument in its case.

  It was like the perfect storm arrived: the resonances of the Great War damaged the glyphs; the Stradivarius retained enough of Diago’s magic to alert Frauja that he had been reborn; and then Joachim stole the violin and brought it to Karinhall, where Frauja managed to possess first Karl and then Rudi to do his bidding; and so on and so on until one event led to another and now . . .

  Here we all are.

  “The violin was the solution to the equation,” Karl went on. “Alvarez had carried it for so long his essence and the auras of nefilim who’d performed with him were entwined in the instrument. Frauja knows how to isolate the strands he needs. With the right frequency, one could take out an entire battalion of nefilim simply by targeting the one nefil who had performed with Alvarez.”

  “Or a town,” Jordi murmured. “You could destroy a town.” He smiled at Diago. “Like Santuari.”

  It was a nightmare. Diago thought of Rafael and Miquel, Ysa and Juanita and Guillermo. Suero with his book of poetry and Bernardo with his little school. They would never know what hit them.

  Escaping the ballroom was no longer his priority. I’ve got to smash that transmitter.

  “Karl, you promised.” Rudi held out the compact.

  Karl returned to the soundboard and lifted a pair of headphones, pressing one to his ear. Occupied with his work, he adjusted a dial on the transmitter. “Not now, Rudi.”

  “I’ve done everything you asked, Karl. Now you keep your promise. You said when Sir George returned, he would free Mother’s soul.”

  Jordi’s eyebrows shot upward, but he said nothing, waiting instead to see what Karl would do.

  Karl glanced from Jordi to Rudi. “Sir George is busy right now.”

  Jordi met Diago’s gaze and grinned. “Tell me about it, Rudi.”

  “Christ,” Diago muttered. “You’re still a bastard.”

  Jordi ignored the accusation. “Where is your mother’s soul, Rudi?”

  “Here.” He opened the compact and pointed to its broken glass. “She had this in her pocket when Karl murdered her. Now I can see her in Frauja’s realm. We have to get her out. She’s frightened.”

  Jordi gestured for Rudi to go to Diago. “Show Herr Alvarez. He can see dark sounds. If she’s there, he’ll know.”

  The youth came and knelt beside Diago. Taking great care, he tilted the mirror at an angle. “See? There she is. You can see the top of her head.” His features relaxed and he smiled at his reflection. “Don’t be frightened, Mother. This is Herr Alvarez, and Sir George is here. They are nefilim. They will help you.” Rudi touched the glass tenderly.

  Diago looked into the mirror. The compact reflected only Rudi and himself.

  His guilt places her behind the glass, and she will haunt him forever. “She’s not there.”

  “No, you’re mistaken. Look, here”—he pointed in the lower left-hand corner of the mirror.

  Diago shook his head.

  Rudi’s expression dissolved from hope to anger. “You’re not trying. Or maybe Karl’s right: you are one of the weaker ones.” He rose and went to Jordi. “What about you, Sir George? Are you strong enough to see her?”

  Go ahead and look hard, Jordi. Diago remained relaxed. And while he’s distracted, I’m going to make my move. He peered through his lashes and gauged the distance between him and Jordi. Go low, take him at the knees. This might be my only chance.

  Much to Diago’s disappointment, Jordi barely glanced at the mirror before pinning his gaze back onto Diago.

  And why wouldn’t he? The angel-born couldn’t see the dark sounds.

  Jordi winked at Diago as if they shared an inside joke. “Of course, I see her. She’s in the lower left-hand corner.”

  Rudi smiled. “Then you can help her?”

  “Certainly.” Jordi circled the room until he was behind Diago.

  “You will?” The hope in the youth’s face broke Diago’s heart.

  Diago whispered, “Stop lying to him, Jordi.”

  “I’m not lying. I’m going to help him free his mother.” He pointed to the mirrored wall beyond the blood sigils. “Rudi, I want you to go over there and stand with your back to the glass.”

  Karl pushed a switch on a cannibalized radio. A low whine squealed through the room.

  “A little to the right.” Jordi motioned the youth into position between two starlike indentations in the mirror. “That’s it, stop there.”

  Diago followed the pattern, noting how the lines connected. “Oh, Jesus.” When Rudi’s head hits that section, the broken lines will enjoin. His blood would seep into the cracks and charge the sigil with power. “Rudi, he’s going—”

  Jordi fired the gun.

  Karl’s transmitter hummed to life.

  The bullet ripped through Rudi’s skull and smashed his head into the mirror. The blood seeped into one long line, connecting the other starred patterns.

  Rudi’s body slumped to the floor. He fell on his right side. The compact skidded across the floor and stopped at Diago’s knees. He barely noticed it.

  The dark song of Rudi’s death rode a trickle of blood that slipped through his parted lips. Pale and blue, like the icy irises of his eyes, the song rose, delicate as a moth. The sound floated around the room, calling out in anguish: “Herr Alvarez? I’m blind! I can’t see! Help me! Are you here?”

  Diago wanted to close his ears to the plaintive cries, but he couldn’t. Nor could he answer the dead youth. His gaze was locked on the blood sigils throbbing along the baseboards. The wires connected to the glyphs pulsed like veins. The transmitter crackled.

  From a crack in the mirrored wall a tendril of fog seeped through one of the clefts.

  Not fog, Diago thought. The smell of cordite was too strong in the air. “It’s smoke.”

  Rudi’s soul paused and then dived toward Diago. “Herr Alvarez? I heard you speak. I am here. Help me, please.”

  Diago barely breathed. “Hush, Rudi. Stay close to me and be quiet.”

  “You can hear me! Am I dead, Herr Alvarez? Is this death?” Rudi’s aura hovered near Diago’s shoulder.

  Pinned under Jordi’s eye, Diago couldn’t answer. He merely bowed his head and watched the mirrors through the fringe of his hair.

  All around the room, the mirrors darkened until the walls no longer reflected the occupants. A power surge blew more of the chandelier’s lights to dust, leaving the room deeper in shadow.

  Not the least concerned that his brother lay dead on the floor, Karl adjusted dials and monitored gauges on the soundboard. On the other side of the mirrors, magnesium flares dropped from a black sky. Bombs burst in the distance.

  Diago’s nightmare rose up to throttle him with terror. Only this time it’s real. And it’s coming for me.

  A figure emerged from the smoke. Frauja. The tail of his trench coat flapped and hitched with each limping step. Burned during the angelic wars, two of his wings wer
e missing: the one that once covered the left side of his face and the lower left at his ankle. Without those limbs, he couldn’t fly.

  So he became an earthbound angel full of hate . . .

  Thick keloids marred his left cheek and ear, as well. The German officer’s uniform that he wore hid more scars—blemishes that covered his body from shoulder to heel.

  When I was Yago, I gave him a Persian mirror to assuage his vanity. In the small glass, Frauja could turn his face so that his scars were hidden and he was perfect once more. Delighted with the gift, the angel had spent hours admiring his snowy hair and alabaster skin.

  But he’s changed, Diago realized. His flesh, once so white, is now darkened and bruised. Colors writhe under his skin, giving him the same mottled look Karinhall’s mirrors wore. His long snowy hair had turned brassy and yellow. Eyes once the color of tourmaline were now muddy and gray.

  Diago stared at the angel in horror. It’s the dark sounds of the souls he’s taken.

  Rudi’s soul cowered near Diago’s hip.

  Although Diago couldn’t see Jordi’s face, the uncertainty in his voice was loud and clear. “Frauja?”

  “My beloved,” the angel growled with the voices of the dead pouring through Karl’s speakers. His gaze swept first over Jordi and then Diago.

  Jordi moved back into Diago’s line of vision. His face was pale, but that old familiar determination also reigned supreme in his eyes.

  He’s having second thoughts about Frauja, but he won’t admit he’s wrong. Diago knew the nature of both beasts all too well.

  From his place by the soundboard, Karl crowed, “Our court is convened!”

  The gun spasmed in Jordi’s hand. His head turned and the barrel twitched upward before zeroing in on Diago’s chest again.

  He almost shot Karl. If the mortal is smart, he’ll shut up. Diago’s tension locked his fingers on the top of his head. He forced himself to relax. He’d need to be limber to move fast.

  Jordi’s grin was more like a grimace. “Yes,” he echoed the mortal. “Our court is convened. Let us begin.”

  Frauja pointed at Diago. “Name his crimes.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Jordi glared at Diago. “I remember: after Guillaume summoned me to vehmgericht, we devised a sigil to lock him away into another realm. The plan was simple: lure Guillaume and Michel into the courtyard. Once their guard was down, Frauja and George would sing the oblivion sigil.”