Where Oblivion Lives

by T. Frohock

  Diago took three long swallows, and then he passed the container back to Guillermo.

  “Jordi called him the Destroyer.” But Guillermo knew how to sing a more intimate name for the angel. “He is Abaddon.”

  The angel paused before a break in the mirror. He ran his fingers over the fracture and smiled. Although Guillermo couldn’t hear him, the angel’s lips moved as he formed another glyph on the glass.

  Guillermo quickly assessed the ballroom floor. The two mortals were dead. He recognized the Grier brothers from their photographs. “Bring me up to speed.” He gestured at the body nearest the transmitter. “Karl’s death looked supernatural. What happened?” And can it kill us?

  “Jordi shot Rudi”—Diago gestured to the body of a youth with hoarfrost hair—“and Rudi’s dark sound murdered Karl.”

  That isn’t good. Guillermo scowled. “I thought mortal dark sounds couldn’t kill.”

  “The mother was a lesser nefil. Rudi apparently inherited her power. They were bound by blood.”

  “Where is this dark sound now?” Guillermo scanned the room even though he knew he wouldn’t see the manifestation of Rudi’s death.

  “With me,” Diago said.

  He couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “You made a friend.”

  Diago nodded and gestured toward Abaddon. “And a very powerful enemy.” He tucked the Beholla in his belt.

  His voice is stronger, but not nearly where he needs to be in order to defeat Abaddon. Guillermo studied the transmitter. “How does it work?”

  “Rudi would play the violin, and as he did, Karl channeled the sound into Frauja’s realm. Once there, Frauja manipulated the frequencies until he found the right pitch for his sigils. Then he would send the sound back through the speakers and into the wiring. He can reach Santuari.”

  “He already has,” Guillermo muttered as he evaluated the wires hooked into the blood sigils, and then followed them back into the transmitter. “Juanita is protecting them.” He examined the dials and meters and soon found the homing circuits. “Okay, I think I see how he accomplished it.” That doesn’t mean I can reverse it.

  “We’re beyond using mortal means to stop him.”

  A flash of light accompanied the latest crash reverberating through the room. They turned to see Abaddon’s ward throwing sparks over the glass. When the last of the fire died, the crack had lengthened by a meter.

  Diago whispered, “I never knew the Key, Guillermo. I reflected Frauja’s song on him. That’s all. I can’t stop him.”

  The defeat on his friend’s face tore Guillermo’s heart. He gripped Diago’s shoulders. “We’re going to get out of this. Now listen to me. This is what we must do.” He pressed his mouth close to Diago’s ear and whispered.

  Diago listened carefully to his friend’s instructions. “Okay.” He nodded. “I can do that.”

  Guillermo turned him toward the violin. “Get to it.”

  Rudi’s aura remained by Diago’s side as he went to the table and lifted the Stradivarius from its case. The instrument felt like an old true friend in his hands. He tucked the chin rest beneath his chin and ran through the scales. The bow felt unbalanced in his right hand with its missing pinkie. He adjusted his grip and played again. Yes, that’s better.

  Everything suddenly felt right and familiar. I kept thinking the composition was written for a violin, but it wasn’t. The music was written for a lyra. Like the violin, the lyra had no frets, but instead relied on the musician’s muscle memory.

  Whether or not he possessed the ability to carry the memory of those movements from one incarnation into another remained to be seen.

  There is only one way to find out.

  He lifted the bow to the strings and faced Abaddon. Playing through the scales a second time, slower now, Diago evaluated the glyphs. Suddenly he understood why they seemed so strange.

  When Yago threw the mirror into Frauja’s original ward, it shattered and sent glittering variations of the spell to surround and imprison the angel. It became not one oblivion realm, but millions. Because the glass fragmented, no two pieces were alike. Each time Abaddon destroyed one variation of the mirror, he was met with another. To break free of the oblivion realm, he had to decipher each shard separately and then formulate a new ward to shatter Yago’s spell.

  And he’s almost succeeded in finding each piece. Only a few shards prevented him from reaching the mortal realm.

  Diago had to find one of the original slivers of that Persian mirror and break it again. Pulverize it to dust, so that Abaddon must decipher each particle, like the legends of witches who must count each grain of salt before entering a house.

  And he had to do it before Abaddon reached the mortal realm.

  While Diago worked through the puzzle of glyphs, Guillermo went to the blood sigils Abaddon had created on the floor. He hummed a sonorous note and formed a banishing glyph with his knife. At the final flourish of the ward, he used his blade to open a wound on the palm of his right hand—the same hand on which he wore his signet. With a snap of his wrist, he sent spatters of his blood across the floor and sang his sigil to life with an ominous chord.

  The fire of the Thrones joined with the blaze of Guillermo’s aura. A scorched odor filled the ballroom as Abaddon’s sigil was extinguished. Guillermo moved to the next one.

  The falling rain and Guillermo’s song gave Diago his beat. He rapped a series of steps in three-quarter time and spun. Halting himself with his right foot, he lifted the bow to the strings.

  As Abaddon’s blood sigils died, the lines and ligatures on the mirror became clearer. Diago began to play—three quick jabs of the bow: strike, strike, strike. The power of his aura thrummed through his hands and into the violin.

  With his own voice ragged from exertion, he let the violin sing for him. Executing a pull to slur the chords, he lifted the bow so that it barely touched the strings—softer, softer—he sent vibrations of green and black to sweep across the ballroom’s walls.

  Watching for a matching spark among the profusion of glyphs, he performed a slow turn. The toe of his shoe brushed close to the fading blood sigils.

  Rudi’s aura stayed with him, spinning around the bow and across the strings as if he could somehow join the nefilim’s haunting duet. The brightness of his aura lifted Diago’s flagging spirit.

  Behind the glass, Abaddon brought another glyph to life. He threw it at the wall, and when it struck, the colors in the ballroom became faded and gray. Diago smelled cordite and the wet sharp scent of death. The muffled thunder of a bomb exploded in the distance. Magnesium flares fell like stars.

  Abaddon’s sigil swept over Rudi’s corpse, drawing Diago’s gaze to the body. Shadows played over the cadaver’s face.

  Diago remembered another battlefield of the Great War. A mortal boy, no more than seventeen, writhed in the mud—gut shot and dying. No one could reach him. The boy begged someone to kill him . . . anything to end the pain.

  I shot him, Diago thought. With Harvey’s hand on my shoulder. A head shot.

  Just like the one that took Rudi’s life.

  The bow faltered over the strings.

  The next explosion sounded nearer. The ballroom floor rumbled beneath their feet. The air turned pallid and gray as Abaddon dissolved the barriers between the oblivion realm and the mortal world.

  Guillermo’s head came up. A glimmer of light caught his pupils and turned his eyes into twin embers. “Stay with me, Diago!”

  With a gasp, Diago jerked free of the memory and pulled the bow across the strings. The Stradivarius wailed.

  I’m too tired. I can’t focus and Abaddon knows it.

  The angel smiled as if acknowledging the thought.

  “Herr Alvarez?” Rudi’s voice suddenly spoke next to Diago’s ear. “Do you remember you said that we couldn’t unmake hell but we could work toward repairing the damage?”

  “Yes,” he murmured as he fought to find his way back into his song.

  “How do ne
filim say good-bye?” Rudi asked.

  “We say: watch for me.”

  “Watch for me,” Rudi echoed, and then he shot toward the mirror. The dark sound slithered through a crack still wet with his blood. He disappeared into Abaddon’s realm.

  Rudi’s small spark of courage reawakened Diago’s resolve.

  I can do this. Summoning his son’s face into his mind, he reminded himself of his promise to return to Santuari. I must do this. He struck his heel against the wood and left a spark of silver in his wake.

  Guillermo nodded and went back to his work. He formed another glyph. This one he threw at the mirrors. His aura’s fire crackled with the celestial light of the Thrones and burned across the glass, eroding another series of Abaddon’s wards.

  The ballroom brightened and the colors deepened, becoming true once more. As the war sounds faded, Diago increased his tempo. He found the beats again—they came harder, faster, as he gazed at the profusion of sigils writhing over the mirrors.

  One spark finally answered his violin’s call. It came in a single flash. There. Diago glared at the juncture of stars where Rudi had died. A thin sliver of the Persian mirror glittered and turned.

  Abaddon saw it too. His ward was already formed. He only had to sing it life.

  Terror settled in Diago’s chest. There is no way I can beat him. His ward will disentangle the spell before I form the first line to break the mirror. We’ve lost.

  Then Rudi’s pale blue light buzzed into view. He flew straight into Abaddon’s ear. The angel opened his mouth in a silent scream. He clamped his hands against the sides of his head.

  Rudi must have used the same banshee wail he’d used to destroy Karl, because Abaddon went to his knees.

  Except Rudi wouldn’t find the angel so easy to kill. Maybe not, but he has bought me time. Don’t waste it.

  “Guillermo! I found the sigil!” Bending his body into the music, Diago made the violin weep with long, sweeping strokes. The notes lingered in the air as he used the violin’s bow to make four straight lines intersected by eight vertical links and enjoined them all with a crescent stroke.

  In desperation, he channeled the sigil to shatter the fragment of the Persian mirror. Silver fire from Prieto’s tear followed Diago’s magic, spinning the glass into splinters of light, rejuvenating the old wards and giving them new life. They multiplied and spread across the borderlands between the realms.

  Diago gave a savage cry and tasted blood in the back of his throat. Guillermo sang with him. Their voices moved together, merging their songs as one.

  Guillermo sent rays of golden light from his signet into Diago’s glyph. The Thrones’ celestial tones filled the room and enflamed the wards with a bank of light, like an aurora borealis flowing across the glass.

  Diago continued to play. The chords floated over the room, deeply, sadly, moving into a dirge. Then he resumed his attack and punch against the strings (strike, strike, strike) and the Stradivarius shuddered in his hands, the body buckling, sending viridian glyphs spinning into the mirrors, shooting like lightning across the glass, and as the light died, the notes faded, softer and softer, shifting into a quiet that yawned throughout the room, a terrible sound that was no sound, interrupted only by the occasional crackle of sigils before they faded into the glass . . .

  The mirror solidified. No longer did it reflect two worlds. Not a single crack marred the ballroom walls. Abaddon’s war-torn world had disappeared.

  A spark of light hit the silver brooch and sent it spinning across the floor.

  The emerald rolled free of the angel’s grip.

  Free at last.

  27

  Diago swayed on his feet.

  Guillermo caught his arm. “What the hell happened? Abaddon was winning.”

  “It was Rudi.” Diago gently extracted himself from his friend’s grip and searched the floor until he found the compact. Taking it over to Rudi’s body, he placed the makeup case in the corpse’s hands. “He flew into the oblivion realm and entered Abaddon’s ear. Just like he did with Karl.”

  “Dark sounds can’t kill an angel . . . can they?”

  “Probably not. But Abaddon took the auras of the daimon-born. Because of that, he could hear the dark sound of Rudi’s voice through their souls, and that was something an angel wouldn’t expect. It didn’t hurt that Rudi was a lesser nefil.” A white lie, but the youth had certainly died bravely in the end. Let it rest. “We should honor his song.”

  “We will,” Guillermo said as he turned back to the transmitter. He formed a sigil of destruction and sang it life. The ward struck the soundboard. Sparks flew through the wiring and the odor of burned circuitry filled the room.

  Turning to Diago, he said, “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here before someone comes and sees this mess. And let’s not forget my brother is still out there somewhere.”

  Diago gathered the brooch and the emerald and placed them in the case with his broken violin. “I don’t think Jordi is near,” he said. “I’m sure if he was, he would have come to Abaddon’s aid, or burned the house down around us.”

  “We’re still going downstairs carefully.” Guillermo drew his pistol. “You got a gun?”

  Diago drew Karl’s Beholla.

  Guillermo reloaded his revolver. “You look like a strong wind will blow you down. I’ll go first.”

  Diago didn’t move. “We talked. We said this assignment was about trust . . .”

  “No, you said this was about trust and you were worried about what the others would think.”

  “Why did you come?”

  Halfway to the door, Guillermo halted but he didn’t turn. “We had intelligence that you were up against a rogue angel. You’re one of us now. We watch each other’s backs.”

  All that was fine and based on Miquel’s constant assurances, Diago expected no less, but Guillermo was king. Diago pressed the question. “Yes, but why did you come?”

  Guillermo turned and met Diago’s gaze. “Because you’re my friend.” He shrugged and looked away. “Besides, even tough guys need saving sometimes.”

  Diago nodded and whispered, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Guillermo motioned to the door with the gun. “Now be quiet and keep your eyes open in case Jordi is waiting for us.”

  “I’ve done this before, you know.”

  “Ya, ya, ya, come on, tough guy.”

  28

  Offenburg, Germany

  By the time Jordi made it to Offenburg, the bleeding had almost stopped. Thanks to Frauja’s intervention, Guillermo’s shot had torn through the flesh at Jordi’s hip and missed the bone.

  It was a bleeder, though. The Cabriolet’s seat was slick, but the wound had already started to heal.

  Jordi parked the car near a public phone. Pulling his dark coat around him to hide the bloodstains, he limped to the booth and stepped inside. The rain and cold kept most people in their homes, so he wasn’t worried about being seen.

  Lifting the handset from the hook, he dialed the operator and gave her Nico’s number. Counting the rings, he watched the rain cry down the booth’s glass doors.

  Nico finally answered and accepted the charges. “Jordi? Where are you?”

  “Offenburg.” He peered through the rain and gave Nico the street name. “I have a problem, and I need some help.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Jordi leaned against the booth’s wall to take the weight off his injured leg. “I’m functioning. I need a place to rest for a few days.”

  “Erich Heines is nearby. I’ll call him. He’ll take you to a safe house. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Call Heines, but you stay in France. I’m coming home. I’ll contact you as soon as I know my train schedule.” He licked his lips and bowed his head. “You wanted to go someplace warm. I want you to find us a house in Estoril, Portugal. It’s on the Portuguese Riviera with a close proximity to Lisbon.” General Sanjurjo would see it as an exile worthy of his status. More
importantly, Nico would love it.

  “Is that all?”

  A couple ran past in the rain. They huddled close beneath their umbrella. The man’s arm was around the woman, and they laughed as they jogged by the phone booth.

  Jordi licked his lips and wished Nico was close. He is the safe harbor I need after a storm. “Have I told you how much I appreciate you?”

  “Every chance you get. Ring off now so I can call Erich.”

  Jordi hung up without another word. He stumbled back to the car and got inside. As he sat watching the rain fall, he held the brooch in his hand and formulated a plan.

  An hour passed before a car parked in front of him. A large nefil with white-blond hair exited his vehicle and came to the driver’s door of Jordi’s Cabriolet. The man’s right cheek was pitted with shrapnel scars, which disappeared beneath his collar. He knocked on the window.

  Jordi noted the heavy ring with its dominant glyph and angel’s tear. One of Queen Jaeger’s Inner Guard. He rolled down the window. “Herr Erich Heines, I presume?”

  “Herr Abelló, please come with me.” He signaled to someone in his car. A young nefil with reddish hair hurried toward them. “This is Julius. He will follow us in your car.”

  Jordi allowed Erich to help him. Erich’s driver, an older man wearing a cap favored by the Brownshirts, held the door as Erich maneuvered Jordi into the backseat.

  Once the driver put the car on the road, Jordi allowed himself to relax. “I am in your debt, Herr Heines, but I fear I must ask one more favor. Can you arrange a meeting between me and Queen Jaeger?”

  “I can assure you, sir, Queen Jaeger is already on her way. She is very interested in what happened today.”

  “What happened today, Erich, is that I was forced to forfeit the battle in order to win the war.”

  29

  Karinhall

  Guillermo took the lead as they went downstairs.