by T. Frohock
Diago insisted on stopping at the second floor. “There is something I have to get.”
Guillermo didn’t have the heart to tell him no. He guarded the landing while Diago went down the corridor and into the room next to a lavatory. When he returned, he carried a red silk scarf, which he slipped into his pocket.
“We are alone,” he said as he joined Guillermo. “I can feel it. Can’t you?”
He’s right, Guillermo thought. Nothing stirred. Jordi’s fled. I’m sure of it. He relaxed somewhat but still wanted to be on his way.
Diago wasn’t in as much of a hurry. “I need to check one more thing.”
Guillermo sighed and nodded. “Let’s do it together.”
In the opposite wing, they investigated the rooms. As they did, Diago told Guillermo about the previous night and his discovery of the dead nefilim’s clothing. The first two rooms contained dusty furniture. The third held the dead nefilim’s instruments.
Diago searched until he lifted a battered violin case with a thick strap from the pile. “This was Harvey’s.” He opened the case, brushing his fingers across the strings. “We fought together in the Great War.”
It’s almost like he’s in shock. Determined to keep him moving, Guillermo put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Bring it with you. We’ll honor his song, too.”
Diago nodded and lifted the case. He almost toppled from the weight of the two violins. Guillermo took the Stradivarius from him and led him outside.
Jordi’s Cabriolet was gone.
So much for the hope that he’d crawled into the woods to die. “Aw, fuck,” Guillermo muttered. “He’s on the move.”
The cold air must have rejuvenated Diago, because he seemed more aware of his surroundings, less lost in dreams. “Were you hoping to find him dead?”
“I’m hoping he didn’t sabotage our vehicle, smart guy.” To his relief, the truck started without a problem. He retrieved a screwdriver from under the seat. “Get your things and the papers for the Citroën.”
“What about the car?”
“We’re leaving it. If it’s traced back to Rousseau, she will claim it was stolen.” He went to the bumper and removed the license plate.
“She’ll give the car up that easy?” He gathered his things and took the papers from the glove box. His movements were slowing again.
He’s exhausted. “No, I’ll have to pay her for the goddamn thing.”
“This is a newer car. That’s going to be expensive.”
“Stop trying to make me feel better.” He gave the plate and screwdriver to Diago. “Wait for me in the truck. I’m going to start a fire.”
Returning to the house, he found a couple of kerosene lamps and broke them in the library. A single match set the room ablaze. Then he rejoined Diago, who waited beside the truck.
Guillermo asked, “How are you holding up?”
“I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t look fine. As Guillermo passed the Citroën, he retrieved the blanket from the backseat.
Diago got in the truck, cradling Harvey’s violin case in his arms.
Guillermo draped the blanket over Diago’s lap before he took the wheel and cranked the truck.
Behind them, the flames glowed through the house’s windows. Guillermo pulled onto the drive, alert for any sigils Jordi might have left for them. Fortunately, there were none and within minutes, they were on the main road, headed toward Kehl.
They had traveled less than a kilometer when Diago said, “I remembered something, from my death as Yago.”
“What was that?”
“I died in George’s bedchamber. I remember you came into the room and grabbed me. Why were you angry?”
“I’d wanted to leave earlier to get you out of there, but I’d promised you three weeks. I waited too long. You died in my arms.”
“I’m sorry,” Diago murmured.
“It’s okay, just don’t do it again.”
Diago gave him a weary smile. “I’m just tired. My throat hurts, and I’m cold. Christ, but I’m cold.”
Because his mortal body has been stressed to the limit. Guillermo drove down the mountain as fast as he dared. The Angel’s Nest would have a doctor familiar with a nefil’s physiology.
“Was he upset with me?” Diago asked.
“Who?”
“Michel. We never got to say good-bye. Was he upset with me?”
“No, no, he wasn’t. But something in him died with you that day.”
“He said I took his heart.”
And mine, too, Guillermo thought. “Don’t take it again.”
30
Santuari, Spain
9 September 1932
As Guillermo guided the battered Suiza up the drive to his house, Diago clutched the box of watercolors he’d purchased for Rafael in France. Excitement stirred in his stomach and soon reached his breast. They were finally coming home.
“Do you think he will like the paint?” Diago asked as he glimpsed the children playing fútbol in the yard.
Guillermo chuckled. “He’ll love whatever you bring him.”
Ysabel looked their way. She turned and said something to Rafael. He beamed and waved at the car as Guillermo parked.
Diago grinned at the sight of his son. He barely got the door open before Rafael was in his arms. He embraced the child, inhaling the familiar scent of the Catalonian sun in his hair. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you, too, Papá.” Rafael pulled back and gave Diago’s face a critical examination. “You got in a fight, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I’m okay.” From the corner of his eye, he saw other nefilim were coming into the yard to greet Guillermo. They surrounded him and chattered like magpies. No one seemed to notice either Diago or Rafael.
Which was just fine with Diago.
“Look,” he said, suddenly remembering the gift. “I brought you something from France.” He presented the watercolors to his son.
Rafael ran one finger over the metal case. “Oh, Papá, they’re beautiful.”
Glancing at the crowd around Guillermo, Diago whispered, “Let’s sneak home and you can paint me a picture.”
The car door widened, and Miquel looked down at them. “There will be no sneaking home.”
His husband’s face was like cool water after a drought. Diago stood and Miquel embraced him. Rafael pressed himself close to Diago’s side, and he reached down to put his palm on his son’s head.
Someone patted him on the back. “Welcome home, Diago.”
He turned to find Suero grinning at him. Carme walked behind the young nefil. She gave Diago a nod in a rare display of acceptance.
As his small family moved away from the car, more nefilim paused to speak to him. For the first time since he’d taken his oath to Guillermo, Diago finally felt that he was a part of the community.
Bernardo gave them a ride home. All the way, Rafael regaled Diago with the adventures of living in Guillermo’s big house for a week. Diago nodded and made all the right sounds, barely listening to the words as he enjoyed the happy music that was his son’s voice.
Miquel sat beside him, holding his hand with a grip that promised he would never let go.
At the house, they unloaded Diago’s bag and the two violin cases. While Miquel paused to speak with Bernardo, Diago carried Harvey’s case into the bedroom and placed it on the bed.
Rafael followed him, hugging the watercolor kit to his chest. “Is that your violin, Papá?”
“No. It belonged to a very special friend.”
Miquel came into the bedroom and put Diago’s bag on the bed. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Give it to Bernardo. Guillermo said we will honor Harvey’s song. I saved it for the service.”
Rafael asked, “What happened to your violin?”
“It got broken.”
“Ysabel said there was a soul-eater angel. She said they are very evil and strong. But you fought it, didn’t you, Papá?”
/> “Don Guillermo and I both fought it. We worked together, like a team.”
Rafael leaned on the bed. “Did the soul-eater attack you? Is that how you got in a fight? Were you scared?”
Diago nodded and only answered the last question. “Oh, yes. I was very scared.”
“How did you stay brave?”
Diago looked down into his son’s eyes. “I thought of you.”
Epilogue
Santuari, Spain
2 December 1932
Diago sat at the upright piano and considered the heavily revised intro. The dark emerald rested beside his pencil on the music stand. Taking the jewel in his hand, he closed his eyes, and thought back to his past incarnation as Yago when an angel sang to him of shifting realms.
I might not have mastered the Key in my last incarnation, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try in this one. Replacing the gem on the piano, he played the movement again, more softly this time. “Quiet now,” he whispered.
Someone knocked at his door, startling him. Miquel was in Barcelona and Rafael was in school.
With a sigh, he left the composition and went to the door to find Guillermo. He carried Diago’s old violin case.
“Got a minute?” Guillermo asked.
“Sure, come in.” Diago stood aside. “Can I get you something?”
“No.” Guillermo dismissed the offer with a wave. “I’m fine. I felt bad about your Stradivarius, so I . . . um . . . brought you a gift.” He thrust the case at Diago, giving him no choice but to drop it or accept it.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Diago murmured as he set the case on the couch and opened it. The violin’s body gleamed in golden hues. He stroked the strings. The sound was pure. “It’s beautiful.” Protective sigils glittered along the sides, warding the instrument so that no one could ever use it against him. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I could do.” Guillermo went to the upright and pressed two keys. “I heard you burned your Stradivarius. We could have repaired it.”
Diago shook his head. “I did the right thing. The instrument was tainted by Abaddon. Too many nefilim died because of it. If he used it against me once, he or someone else might do so again.”
Lifting the emerald from the music stand, Guillermo tilted the stone in the morning light. Then he withdrew the jacinth from his pocket and placed the gemstones side by side on the top board.
He walked his fingers across the keys. “There is no easy way to say this. Rousseau’s spies have reported that Queen Jaeger purchased the Grier estate for one of her lieutenants. A nefil named Erich Heines.”
Sturmführer Heines. “I made his acquaintance in Kehl on the way to the Grier household.”
“I heard about that.” Guillermo treated Diago to a fleeting smile. “Anyway, that’s the bad news. The good news is they are finding it difficult to free Abaddon.”
“I take it Jordi is somehow involved in all this?”
Guillermo nodded. “He’s maintaining contact with them.”
That explained why he left them so quickly at the Grier house. He’d sacrificed a short-term victory for a more abiding gain. Classic Jordi. “Even if they free Abaddon, do you think they can control a soul-eater?”
Guillermo shook his head. “But that won’t stop them from trying.” He didn’t bother with platitudes. “We’re not out of options. I’m petitioning the Thrones. Based on what happened, we’re hoping they will remove Jaeger from command, but we’re not counting on them doing it soon. Jaeger has a great deal of support. It doesn’t help that petitions before the Thrones aren’t evaluated in what we would call a timely fashion.”
No, because the angels didn’t experience time in the same manner as either the mortals or nefilim. A mortal year was but a minute to them.
Guillermo sat on the bench and read Diago’s score. His fingers danced through the scales as he warmed up, and then he played the intro on the piano. “This is beautiful. What is it?”
“The intro to the Key.”
Although he tried to hide it, that old hungry light sparkled in Guillermo’s eyes. “You’ve found it?”
Diago hedged. “I don’t know if it will work.”
Guillermo examined the score more closely. He played it again, but the music sounded flat.
Diago joined him at the piano and tucked the violin beneath his chin. “Together.”
“On three,” Guillermo whispered as he counted them off.
They played the song, and suddenly the chords, which never seemed quite right when Diago played alone, took on a new life. The music fell with the hush of an angel’s voice, or the sound of stars falling. Everything grew still, like the world held its breath.
Then the colors shifted and grew brighter. The walls were still warm and golden, the leather of the couch deep and red, but the hues seemed somehow brighter and more intense. As the last note faded, the air shimmered as if dawn’s soft light flowed over them. At the end of the song, the colors dulled and became plain once more.
Diago let the bow fall from the violin’s strings. His pulse hammered in his ears. We did it.
“That was a glimpse into another realm.” Guillermo sat with his fingers poised over the ivories.
They exchanged a look.
Diago nodded at the score. “Frauja sang me his beginning in our last incarnation. I remember how he wove the sound of anguish into all his sigils. His music encompassed the sorrow of the angels driven from their homes and all that they knew. Had they not been banished, they never would have learned to shift the realms as they did.”
Guillermo took up the pencil and made a notation on the stave. The note’s tail wavered beneath his trembling hand. “So interpreting the Key begins with understanding loss.”
“Yes. We must begin at the ending, and then go forward.”
Guillermo experimented with a series of chords and then stopped. He kept his gaze on the keys. “I’ve missed composing with you.”
“And I with you,” Diago whispered.
A moment passed and then two. Guillermo said, “Okay.” He stared at the score. “What comes after sorrow?”
“Healing. Trust. No. Wait. I’m going too fast.” Diago lifted his bow to the violin’s strings. “Before those things can come, one must first surrender.”
Guillermo met his gaze. “Surrender is hard. It’s lonely.”
Diago shook his head. “Not when you have friends.”
Acknowledgments
Writing a novel is rarely a solitary endeavor. People help in ways both big and small. Special thanks always goes first and foremost to my family, especially to my husband, Dick, who does so many things to make sure I have time to write.
To Courtney Schafer and Lisa Cantrell for all your help and numerous suggestions. To my fabulous first readers: Rhi Hopkins, Glinda Harrison, Vinnie Russo, and Sarah E. Stevens. To Josep Oriol for his early assistance on Barcelona and his beautiful photography. To Ollivier Robert for help with French addresses. To my copy editor Laurie McGee, who filled in my missing words and kept me from looking like an idiot with her mad editing skills.
To the Extraordinary Fellows of Arcane Sorcery: you know who you are. You probably don’t know how many times you saved my sanity. Also, to Beth Cato, John Hornor Jacobs, and Dan Koboldt for riding to my rescue more times than I can count.
To Mark Lawrence, Ed Ashton, and Andrew Hopkins for helping me understand basic physics, which I’m still not sure I entirely understand, but that’s okay. Special thanks to Michael Mammay for firsthand information on howitzers and trenches and for reading Diago’s nightmare scene for technical assistance. If I made a mistake in the facts, it’s mine, not theirs.
To Lisa Rodgers, who is one powerhouse of an agent and who always has my back. And to David Pomerico and the team at Harper Voyager, who believed in this series and made it happen.
My deepest gratitude goes to my readers. This book couldn’t have happened without you and your support. Thank you for giving this story your time. I hope yo
u enjoyed it. Read on . . .
About the Author
T. FROHOCK has turned her love of dark fantasy and horror into tales of deliciously creepy fiction. She currently lives in North Carolina where she has long been accused of telling stories, which is a southern colloquialism for lying.
www.tfrohock.com
Twitter: @T_Frohock
Instagram: tfrohock
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By T. Frohock
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
where oblivion lives. Copyright © 2019 by Teresa Frohock. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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first edition
Cover design by Richard L. Aquan
Cover photographs © Paolo Martinez/Arcangel (man); © Mark Owen/Arcangel (wings); © goodcat/Shutterstock (gates)
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