by T. Frohock
Diago remembered the glyph rising between the two groups of men with angelic lightning flashing through the complex series of lines and ligatures. The ward was designed to create a new realm, one that magnified and reflected all of earth’s wars, hence its name: the oblivion sigil.
Jordi continued, “Yago’s job was simple: he was to remain in the chamber overlooking the courtyard so none of Guillaume’s people could kill him before he finished his song. When the sigil rose, Yago was to sing Guillaume’s death so that his soul would be taken into the new realm. But you didn’t.” Jordi’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”
He could stall them with lies, but for what? The sooner he told them the truth, the sooner they would decide his fate. And if Jordi allows me to stand, I will have to fight or die.
Feigning defeat, Diago said, “After you left Yago in the room, he took the Persian box he’d given to Frauja and wrenched the mirror free of its casing. By the time Frauja and George reached the courtyard, Yago was back in his assigned place. He positioned the mirror facedown on the windowsill.
“When the moment came, Yago drew on the darkness of his soul. He reversed the chords of Frauja’s song and threw the mirror from the Persian box into the oblivion sigil. The glass reflected the fire of the angel’s glyph back on him, reversing the ward.”
Except Yago’s trick wasn’t enough. Frauja maintained a tenuous hold on the mortal realm with his song. Like Heines’s tracking sigil, the shimmering streams of light gave him a pathway back into the earthly realm. No matter how Yago sang, he couldn’t shatter those gossamer threads.
Then Guillaume’s troops attacked George’s nefilim. Mortals were caught in the crossfire. The dark sounds of their terror and death rose into the air. They blinded Yago’s vision and clung to his throat.
In a flash of inspiration, Yago wove those dark sounds into a piercing sigil. He cast the ward at Frauja’s song and severed the notes holding the angel to the mortal realm.
The maneuver took Frauja off guard. His song faltered, and when it did, the mirror shattered into a million shards, and the wards snapped shut, locking him in the oblivion realm.
Then I died with those dark sounds still ringing in my voice, and I managed to forget . . .
Diago had buried the trauma of those dark songs deep, hoping never to experience the touch of them again. And he’d been successful until the Great War—with its terrible destruction—resurrected them.
Because no matter how I try, I cannot escape myself.
Jordi took a step closer. “And then?”
He doesn’t remember what I did. Diago glanced at Frauja. The angel leaned forward, watching intently. And Frauja suspects but doesn’t know for certain either.
Diago chose his words with care. “Instead of Guillaume and Michel, the ward takes Frauja. By the time Guillaume kills George, the sigil has closed, so that your soul”—he nods to Jordi—“remains in the earthly realm.”
With the memories came another realization: Yago didn’t compose the Key. While Frauja had allowed Yago to assist him in writing the song, the composition itself belonged to the angel. Likewise, it was Frauja’s ethereal voice that opened the realm, not Yago or his music. I merely reflected his song back at him. It was an act of mimicry, like Rudi playing by rote.
Frauja’s tainted voice filled the ballroom. “I sentence you to death, Yago. But you are mine. I will take your life with my hands.” He reached out. “Come to me, Yago. Come to me of your free will and I will make your death quick. If George must push you through the glass, then you will suffer for eternity. You decide.”
When Diago didn’t move, Jordi took two steps toward him. Diago rolled to his feet.
Jordi halted.
Frauja smiled. “Quickly now.”
Diago walked toward the mirror.
Rudi’s soul fluttered by his ear and whispered, “Don’t go, Herr Alvarez.”
Diago picked up his pace, snapping his heels against the floor. As he drew parallel to Jordi, he executed a vuelta quebrada, a broken turn—a rapid flamenco step that spun him toward the other nefil. His right leg crossed behind his left and then he whirled hard to the right.
Surprised by the sudden move, Jordi jumped backward, but he wasn’t fast enough.
Diago kicked at Jordi’s knee. His blow landed low and caught the taller man’s shin, but it was enough to send him to the ground.
Karl fumbled for his pistol, accidentally discharging it before he cleared the holster.
Six bullets, he is down to six bullets, Diago thought wildly.
Frauja lifted his hand and released a sigil, charging it with his voice. The ward oozed through a crack in the glass and sped across the ballroom to hit the brooch over Diago’s heart.
He stumbled backward. The sweater smoldered and he remembered dying. When Frauja knew he’d lost, he retaliated against Yago with a final murderous ward. The spell struck the brooch over Yago’s heart and ate through his flesh.
In that incarnation, Yago couldn’t stop playing. Lost in the depths of his spell, he’d sang while the brooch chewed through muscle and bone, to wrap itself around his heart.
But this incarnation was different. Diago wasn’t singing a spell, and Frauja’s glyph was weakened by its journey through the mirror.
The past doesn’t have to repeat.
Diago ripped the brooch from his chest and flung it away. It struck the mirror and rolled against the wall.
Jordi regained his feet and aimed his pistol in one fluid motion. Karl finally freed his gun. The mortal squeezed off a shot. Diago heard the bullet whiz by his ear.
25
Guillermo gunned the truck up the hill. It was midday, but there wasn’t a car in sight. Clouds the color of steel suddenly opened and dumped rain onto the road. The truck’s windshield wipers scraped his nerves raw.
The Griers’ driveway had to be close. He glimpsed a flash of silver in the ditch. It’s a sigil. Guillermo pulled the truck off the road and got out.
Jogging to the spot, he kicked the pine needles aside and found the fading lines of a glyph designed to detect traps. It smoldered in hues more black than green. The curl of the glyph ended in Diago’s signature flourish.
Guillermo followed the direction of the ward and saw the drive. He hurried back to the truck and climbed inside. Within moments, he’d maneuvered the vehicle between the stone pillars. Pine limbs, heavy with ice, lowered their arms before him and slapped the cab as if to say: Turn back, turn back, turn back.
The storm grew heavier, the rain churning the warmer ground to mud. The driveway widened and he picked up speed—which was how he almost rear-ended the white Monastella Cabriolet parked on the road. Slamming on the brakes, he drew the truck to a halt. Then he saw the Citroën against the trunk of a pine and the Mercedes parked just beyond it.
Rousseau said she’d given Diago a Citroën.
He left the truck and went first to the Cabriolet with French plates. A bag rested on the seat. Guillermo checked it and found Jordi’s papers.
Becoming increasingly nervous, he moved to the Citroën. The remnants of the sigil glowing on the door carried his brother’s amber aura. Jordi had obviously struck the car with a glyph to give the wreck a little extra force.
Diago’s bag had been thrown to the floorboard. The cracked driver’s window and the blood on the glass alarmed Guillermo even more.
It took him only a moment to ascertain that the Mercedes belonged to Grier, which meant the mortal was most likely working with Jordi. Guillermo returned to the truck and parked it beneath the ice-heavy limbs of a pine. He designed a quick sigil to hide the truck from the casual observer, sang it to life, and then walked toward the house.
A great gust of wind rushed through the trees. Guillermo removed his gloves and drew his gun. He hunched low and circled the yard to approach the house at an angle. The lower level appeared deserted. The lights spilling through the entrance were the only illumination. The other rooms were dark.
The front doo
r was unlocked. Guillermo squeezed inside to find the entryway from his nightmare.
In spite of the electric lights, the room seemed to be full of shadows. The wallpaper rustled and then quieted. The hair on Guillermo’s arms shot straight up.
All I’m missing is timpani playing a death march, he thought as he sidled past the hall tree. Fear gave his stomach a hard bite. Fear is good, though. It’s a warning.
That said—I’m thoroughly warned.
Moving slower now, he reached the marble stairs.
The percussion of a distant bomb striking the earth sent Guillermo into an instinctive crouch. The lights remained steady. The earth didn’t shake. It’s like an echo from another time. Another realm.
He stood and climbed swiftly but no less cautiously. It was evident that the second landing was as deserted as the first.
A gunshot rang out. It came from somewhere above. He recalled his dream of Diago clutching the banister with blood spreading across his shirt. Guillermo hugged the wall and climbed, hoping he wasn’t too late.
26
Diago fashioned a sigil. He whirled and snapped his heel against the floor, throwing the glyph at Jordi with all his might. Hoarse from last night’s battle with Frauja and exhausted beyond measure, Diago’s hurried spell misfired and Jordi easily deflected it.
From the corner of his eye, Diago saw Karl take aim again. He won’t miss this time.
Then the small dark sound of Rudi’s soul left Diago’s side. It flew toward Karl with the savage energy of an angry bee.
Diago heard Rudi’s shriek. The frustrated scream was the screech of iron against rock.
Karl flinched and slammed his palm against his ear.
How can he hear his brother’s dark sound? The question ran through Diago’s mind with the speed of light. They’re angel-born.
The answer came almost immediately. They were also mortal, their auras tied through their blood. Jordi won’t hear the noise, but Karl will.
Rudi’s aura easily streamed into Karl’s ear canal. The screeching resumed. Seventeen years of frustration and hate poured from Rudi’s aura in a cacophony of rage. The sound increased in pitch, rising until it became a siren wail.
And that noise must be a direct hit on Karl’s auditory nerve.
Karl’s eyes went wide. He dropped his gun and beat the side of his head with his fists. “What is this? What’s that noise? Can you hear it, Sir George? Frauja! Help me! Get it out of me! Get it out!”
Karl was right, Diago had time to think. Rudi is the more powerful of the two.
Shocked by Karl’s sudden contortions, Jordi backed up a pace.
That was all the distraction Diago needed. He dived for Karl’s gun, grabbed it, and spun. His double vision returned. He staggered sideways.
Karl’s screams turned into inarticulate howls.
Two reports ripped through the room in rapid succession. Karl dropped like a stone, his cries suddenly extinguished. The dark sound of his soul shot through his lips and flew straight into Frauja’s realm.
The angel opened his mouth and swallowed Karl’s soul.
Rudi’s aura emerged from his brother’s ear and joined Diago once more.
“Thank you,” Diago whispered.
The faint blue light touched his cheek.
Diago blinked his watering eyes and squinted at the new threat standing in the ballroom’s doorway. He expected to see Sturmführer Heines and his Brownshirts. Instead, he found a big man in workman’s clothes.
It can’t be. But it was. “Guillermo?”
Rudi’s voice shouted in Diago’s ear. “Herr Alvarez! Look out!”
Diago whirled to find himself looking down the barrel of Jordi’s gun. He raised his own weapon and fired. The shot went wide. The bullet hit the mirrored wall and further shattered the glass.
Jordi ducked and rolled. When he rose, he faced his brother. “Guillermo! You’re just in time!”
He could only mean one thing. Diago looked at the mirror.
Frauja worked on the other side. He took his time, designing a sigil with ligatures Diago now recognized. He’s going to free himself while we’re distracted with each other.
A quick glance in Jordi’s direction assured Diago the other nefil was focused on his brother. Keeping his body low, Diago moved to the transmitter.
While Guillermo and Jordi faced each other, Diago examined Karl’s creation. The profusion of switches and dials bore no resemblance to the soundboards he knew. He might shut off Frauja’s voice, or he might accidentally end up amplifying the angel straight into the mortal realm.
“Show me how to kill the sound on both sides, Rudi,” he pleaded.
Rudi’s aura hovered over a dial before it flitted to a switch.
Diago switched off both connections. A subtle change washed over the mirrors. The glass partially reflected the room while still showing a dimmer version of Frauja’s realm. It was like looking through a two-way mirror.
Rudi’s dark sound hovered by Diago’s shoulder. “Is that better, Herr Alvarez?”
No, but Diago didn’t say so. That pallid reflection between the worlds was the worst sign, because it meant the glyphs were too damaged to completely shield Frauja from the mortal realm. Fear gnawed Diago’s gut. How long those wards might hold against Frauja’s assault was anyone’s guess.
Red light flashed in the glass as Guillermo sent a fiery glyph barreling into the room. The sigil headed straight for Jordi. The nefil ducked and rolled, coming to his feet after the ward flew over his head.
Jordi aimed his gun at Guillermo.
Diago raised the Beholla, but even as he did, he saw he was too late.
Jordi’s finger squeezed the trigger. The dry click was loud in the sudden quiet. The Browning had jammed.
Guillermo trained his revolver on Jordi. “Drop it.”
From behind the mirror, Frauja forced his sigil against the barrier. The house shook from the furious blow.
Just as it did last night, Diago had time to think.
Splinters of glass trickled to the floor.
Guillermo gave the enraged angel an uneasy glance. Shit. I don’t remember him looking like that.
“Guillermo!” Diago shouted again. “He is close to breaking through!”
“We’ll get to him,” Guillermo growled. But first he had to deal with the more immediate threat of his brother. “Damn it, Jordi. Don’t make me kill you.”
“Then give me what’s mine.” He nodded to the signet on Guillermo’s finger. “It’s my birthright.”
“See, this is why you keep fucking up.” Why can’t he stop this madness? “You’re locked in the past, Jordi. Birthrights and kings and queens—these things are dying before our eyes. Let’s look to the future.”
“What future?” Jordi sneered as he backed toward the balcony. “That little socialist enclave you’ve carved for yourself in Spain? Is that the future you want for me? To be a worker among workers when I am meant to rule them all?” His voice rose on the last question, belying his rage at the unfairness of it all.
Diago moved away from the transmitter. His finger tensed ever so slightly on the Beholla’s trigger.
Guillermo lifted his hand, palm up. “Don’t do it, Diago! He’s mine!”
Diago didn’t lower the gun, nor did he fire.
Focusing on his brother again, Guillermo said, “We can make a different future, Jordi. One in a world without war.”
Jordi’s laugh came as harsh as a blow. “Have you forgotten what you are? The nefilim were bred to be soldiers.” He gestured at the demented angel behind the mirrors. “Why do you think I sought Frauja in our last incarnation? He is the Destroyer. He offers us the one thing that gives the nefilim meaning: eternal war.”
As if in answer, Frauja struck the mirrors again. The floor shuddered beneath them. It was all Guillermo could do to keep his feet.
Jordi threw the useless pistol in Guillermo’s direction. He traced a hurried glyph and tossed it after the gun. Then he ran f
or the French doors.
The pistol exploded midair. Guillermo gave a roar and charged a sigil to shield Diago and himself from the shrapnel. Jordi’s chaotic spell died without harming either of his targets.
He’s going to jump, Guillermo had time to think. After he murdered three of my nefilim—damn near four with Diago—the son of a bitch thinks he can just walk away.
“I made you an offer of peace. You’ve slapped my hand. We are at war.” Guillermo aimed his pistol at his brother’s back. “This is for Valeria Soto and Enrique Rosales,” he whispered as his finger tightened on the trigger. “I will watch for you, my brother.”
Frauja struck the mirrors again.
The tremors hit just as Guillermo fired. His arm jerked to the right. The bullet struck Jordi and took him down, but it wasn’t a clean kill. Rolling to his feet, Jordi formed another sigil and gave it jagged edges, charging it with his pain. He flung the ward in Guillermo’s direction.
With barely enough time to counter it with a glyph of his own, Guillermo worked fast to produce a ward. The sigils struck each other in a blaze of crimson and orange, like a dying sun. When the light evaporated, Jordi was gone.
Guillermo ran to the balcony. The rain lashed the ground and stung his face, or maybe it was tears. When it came to his brother, he no longer knew.
The yard was empty. A trail of bent grass led to the woods. Guillermo considered following him. He wanted to end this—he couldn’t afford a protracted battle with his brother.
A concussion shook the ballroom. Guillermo crouched and covered his head. Pieces of the mirror fell from the wall. An icy wind blew through the cracks.
Diago shouted, “Guillermo!”
His brother’s reckoning would have to wait. Guillermo whirled and hurried to Diago’s side. He looks ready to collapse, and his voice is almost gone. Reaching into his coat, Guillermo retrieved a flask of liquor and handed it to Diago. “Take a drink.”
