by T. Frohock
“Prieto gave us two hours. How long was the train ride?”
“Too long,” Diago said. Every moment wasted on that train worked against them, but that was what Prieto wanted. Any advantage he gave to Diago and Miquel would be seen by the daimons as an attempt to cheat Moloch of his prize.
Miquel sniffed the air. Diago did the same and wrinkled his nose. Rafael mimicked them. Beneath the oily scent of industrial smoke and sewage was the distinct odor of decay and death.
“I’ll go down first.” Miquel lifted the pistol.
Diago shook his head and retrieved his knife. “No.” He lowered his voice. “If there is anything down there, I will deal with it.”
Rafael was pale beneath the dirty florescent light. He stared at the concrete steps, his lips pressed together.
Diago squatted in front of him and finally managed a believable lie. “It’s going to be okay. Will you trust me on that?”
Rafael touched the pocket that held Candela’s teardrop. He nodded.
“Not much choice, huh?” The jibe won Diago a weak smile. “Stay with Miquel and do exactly as he says.” He took off his coat and wrapped it around the boy like a cloak.
Rafael clenched the collar at his throat and gave Diago another nod.
Diago kissed his cheeks and rose. As he moved to the stairwell, he paused in front of Miquel. “If I call out, take your chances on the tracks. Watch out for him.”
“You know I will.” Miquel linked his pinky with Diago’s.
They were close enough to kiss, and Diago considered it. They never knew when the last time might come, but he was also acutely aware of Rafael’s presence. In all probability, Sister Benita had rendered her opinions on homosexuals, too, and Diago had no doubt those judgments encompassed the proverbial trinity of hell, fire, and damnation.
So with regret, he slipped away from Miquel and stepped onto the concrete steps, watching the shadows for any movement. Water dripped nearby and the hiss of steam curled through the air. He held the knife close to his body and out of sight. From this point forward, he intended to be the one giving out surprises.
He reached the base of the stairs without incident. A single bulb sputtered weakly and illuminated a door no taller than Diago’s hips. Graffiti covered the door and the surrounding wall. A crude drawing of a red-lipped mouth with oversized canines opened around the words “TENGO HAMBRE.” I AM HUNGRY. Someone else had scratched profanities into the paint with a rock or knife.
With his hand on the latch, Diago listened for any movement on the other side. He detected nothing. Time to take a chance.
The metal door groaned in protest as he forced it open. He hunched over and stepped across the threshold, quickly turning first left, then right. He was alone.
Feeble light revealed that he was in a sewer. The entire tunnel was no more than two metres wide. A trough ran between two narrow walkways. Judging from the amount of debris—newspapers, random pieces of clothing, stuffed animals, and abandoned toys—this sewer hadn’t been flushed in decades. A heavy coating of sludge had accumulated in the gutter, probably the combination of a recent rain and seepage from a storm drain farther away.
The brickwork indicated this section had been around since the Romans had occupied the city. Like all of the old Nefilim, Diago knew the tunnels and tombs beneath Barcelona. They had used them to hide from the Church during the Middle Ages, and well into the eighteenth century. Even so, there were portions of the city where Los Nefilim dared not go, and this, like other sections, was one such place.
Diago quickly took stock of his surroundings. A square sign hung from one rusting bolt on the opposite wall. The street name had been scratched out, and someone (or something), had written: “THE WAY TO PEACE.”
If you find peace through death, he thought as he looked to his right. There, the tunnel disappeared into blackness so thick it could be felt. He couldn’t navigate in such darkness. Although his night vision was far superior to that of mortals, he still needed a small measure of light to see.
He shifted his attention to his left, where the passageway continued for several metres before it branched into two separate tunnels. A narrow concrete footbridge linked the walkways across the troughs. The passage on the left disappeared into complete darkness. Within the right-hand tunnel, a few scattered ceiling lights blinked and flickered.
The slow steady throb of industrial machinery mimicked the pounding of drums. The sounds were disorienting, seemingly pouring from all directions at once, and Diago didn’t discount that possibility. The sewer was most likely a labyrinth of side passages that amplified and distorted the acoustics.
Hypnotized by the beat, he stared down the tunnel and remembered. They pounded the drums to cover the cries of the children as they burned. Those horrors had come during Solomon’s last days, when his mind had succumbed to the terrors of the night, and I lived in banishment from the palace and all that I knew.
Diago shuddered and forced the memory away. The past was done, and lingering over ancient incarnations was the route to insanity. Besides, it was the future that needed saving.
Keeping Rafael’s face in his mind, Diago sheathed his knife in his belt and got busy. Within moments, he had scavenged through the muck to find a few sticks of wood, an armful of clothing, and a couple of shoes.
Back upstairs, he motioned for Miquel and Rafael to move as far away from the stairwell as they could. Diago deposited the items he’d collected against the far wall. Miquel wasted no time sorting through the refuse for the parts he needed. He used the wood to assemble a makeshift body for their golem. While Miquel worked, Diago made another trip down into the sewer and found an abandoned coat. He filled it with sludge that he hoped was mud, and several newspapers and handbills. When he passed the door on the way back upstairs, he pushed it shut behind him. Hopefully, it would be enough to block their conversations from anything that might be listening below.
By the time Diago reached them the second time, Miquel had already lashed together the sticks, using one of the old shirts. He took the mud and paper that Diago brought and shaped a crude head.
Rafael cast furtive glances at the stairwell and chewed his lower lip as he handed the mismatched shoes—one black, the other brown—to Miquel. Miquel tied the shoes to the sticks and inspected his work.
Diago’s heart sank. “No one is going to believe that’s a child.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Miquel muttered as he concentrated on his work. “Give me a few locks of his hair.”
Diago exhaled slowly and gestured for Rafael to come to his side. He took out his knife and cut three locks from Rafael’s curls. The boy watched with interest as Diago handed the hair to Miquel, who sprinkled the shorn tresses over the golem’s head.
“Now his blood. Not too much. Feed them too much and they take on a will of their own.”
“Give me your hand,” Diago whispered.
Rafael clenched his fingers into fists and backed up two steps.
Diago couldn’t blame him. The knife must seem huge to him. “Please trust me, Rafael. It will only sting. Just a little.” He held out his hand and was surprised when Rafael returned to him with no further coaxing. Diago took the stuffed horse away and set it aside. He opened Rafael’s hand and hummed a short spell against his palm to numb the nerves. The song was too quiet to relieve all of Rafael’s pain, but it would keep him from feeling the worst of the cut. “I’m going to prick your hand, and it might hurt. Don’t cry out.” He held Rafael’s palm over the golem’s head.
The child’s face was white, but he gave Diago a tight nod nonetheless. As quickly as he could, Diago sliced a shallow gash across Rafael’s palm. Tears leaked from the boy’s eyes, but he made no sound.
“You are my brave child,” Diago said as he moved the boy’s hand back and forth over the golem’s head. Rafael’s blood dribbled over the misshapen
brow.
Miquel used a sliver of wood to carve the symbols for life in the golem’s forehead. The strands of hair took root, and grew until they were an exact replica of Rafael’s thick hair.
Rafael was so intent on the changes within the golem, he barely noticed Diago binding his hand.
Miquel put his mouth on the golem’s and hummed a low note. The pearlescent hues of his aura divided the air and flowed between the golem’s mud lips. The golem lifted its eyelids and blinked slow and heavy.
Rafael gasped and took a step backward.
The hair on Diago’s arms went up and he fell back with Rafael. “Jesus, that’s creepy.” He could have sworn the creature looked hurt by the pronouncement. The lopsided mouth merely amplified the eerie expression.
Miquel examined it critically and kept his voice low. “It’s missing something.”
“It’s missing a lot.”
Miquel took Rafael’s hat and carefully adjusted it on the golem’s head. “There. That’s better.”
Only because it shadowed the eyes, but Diago didn’t say that. The sand was slipping through the hourglass. He had to hurry. “I have to carry it, don’t I?” he asked, dreading the answer.
Miquel sat back on his heels and studied his handiwork. “Of course you do. He doesn’t have knees.”
“Jesus.”
“Will you stop whining?”
“All right, all right.” Diago stuck the knife in his belt and knelt before the golem.
The golem turned its bulbous head and looked from Miquel back to Diago. It whimpered.
Diago gritted his teeth. “What’s wrong with it?”
“He senses you don’t like him.”
“Jesus.”
Rafael glanced at the stairwell. “Sister Benita says we shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”
Miquel made a face. “I hate Sister Benita.”
“Everyone else does, too.” Rafael came to stand beside Diago and held out his stuffed horse to the golem. “I’m sorry you’re ugly and have to die for me. This is Aurelius. He is my friend. Hold him and he will comfort you.” He tucked the stuffed horse into the crook of the golem’s arm.
The golem snuffled at the horse’s mane and rewarded Rafael with a grimace that Diago assumed was supposed to be a smile.
Rafael reached into his pocket and withdrew Candela’s teardrop. He clenched it in his fist and glanced at the stairwell. “Did you mean it when you said I could live with you?”
Diago didn’t have to think about his answer. “Yes. I promise.”
Rafael nodded and twisted Diago’s finger until Diago got the hint. Rafael pressed the tear in the center of Diago’s palm. “Hold still,” he said.
Miquel craned his neck to see what was happening.
“Mamá said, ‘Gólpe, gólpe, vuelta.’ ”
. . . strike, strike, turn. . .
Rafael tapped the teardrop twice with his index finger before turning it clockwise. At first, nothing happened. Keenly aware of the time, Diago almost pulled away. Then the teardrop pulsed against his skin. Any thoughts of withdrawing from Rafael’s touch left him. Golden light swirled up from the depths of the stone and became the veins of color within an angel’s eye.
The teardrop split neatly in half, like a pair of carmine eyes. Diago half expected them to magically twinkle with Candela’s mischief. Rafael hummed a mellow note. His aura passed through his lips in shades of green and amber. The breath of his magic swirled around the ruby eyes and became a small golden snake.
Rafael kissed his finger and pressed it to the snake’s head. “Watch over my papa.”
The snake slithered up Diago’s arm to encircle his throat before it tickled his neck and coiled behind his ear. He felt the soft scales against his skin and realized this tiny spell didn’t have the sophistication of Candela’s magic, but Rafael’s enchantment didn’t need that level of refinement. He wasn’t trying to deceive or lure Diago into acting against his will. This was a friend to carry, much like he had given up Aurelius to comfort the golem.
Impulsively, Rafael threw his arms around Diago’s neck and kissed his cheek. Diago felt the warmth of a child he barely knew touch his soul, and that gave him the courage he needed to pick up the golem and stand.
Rafael hugged Diago’s coat around him and returned to the far wall where he squatted with his back to the cold concrete. He gave Diago a small hesitant wave.
If we survive this, I’ll do the best I can by you. I swear it. Diago returned Rafael’s shy wave with one of his own, before he and Miquel descended back down to the sewer.
The thin slats that formed the golem’s legs bounced limply against Diago’s thigh. One of the shoes fell off. Miquel quickly reattached it and made sure the laces were knotted more firmly.
The golem was heavier than the sticks and clothes made it appear. Miquel had given it weight in order to fool Moloch, but it also meant the thing would be a burden to carry.
At the door, Miquel held the golem while Diago slipped through first. Miquel passed the creature back to Diago, who stood and gazed down the lit passageway again.
Miquel joined him on the walkway. He scanned the filth and discarded toys with contempt. “Moloch must lure them somehow. Look.” He nudged a porcelain doll’s head with his foot; the painted face wept tears of mud. “I haven’t seen one of those since the sixteenth century.” He glared down the tunnel. “How long has he been down here?”
“Want me to ask him?”
“Don’t be an asshole.” Miquel turned back to Diago and caressed his ear where Rafael’s snake curled around his earlobe. “I’m not worried, you know.”
“I’m glad one of us isn’t.”
“We’ve been through much worse than this.”
“You always say that, and I’m always hard-pressed to remember just when.”
Miquel slipped his hand behind Diago’s head and kissed him hard and fast. Just as their lips parted, he whispered, “I love you.”
Diago nodded, because for a moment, he didn’t have the breath for anything more. “I’ll be back for you.”
“I know you will.” He offered the gun.
Diago shook his head. “The knife will do. There’s another magazine.” He nodded at his left hip and Miquel liberated the silver tips from Diago’s pocket. They didn’t say good-bye. They never did. It always seemed so final, and Miquel feared “good-bye” might jinx them, so Diago said, “Watch for me.”
“I will.”
Without another word, he settled the golem firmly on his hip, and set off toward the lights. The golem leaned its head on Diago’s shoulder. The stink of the thing roiled his stomach.
Where the tunnels branched, Diago used the narrow footbridge to cross. He didn’t want to risk stepping across and losing his footing. If he stumbled and shattered the golem, there wasn’t time to make another.
Several minutes later, he reached a bend in the tunnel. He glanced back. Miquel was gone. Diago licked dry lips and started walking again.
The passage seemed to go on forever. Overhead, the lights sputtered and left thick pools of darkness where the footing was treacherous. Diago lost all track of time—other than to know it was passing for Miquel—as he negotiated the narrow walkway and followed the lights. The pounding drums began to sound like the second hand of a clock, ticking away in the night.
Eventually, the scent of smoke tickled his nostrils as he drew close to Moloch’s lair. The tunnel developed into a gradual incline and grew wider. The trough became shallow and soon disappeared, leaving a smooth floor beneath Diago’s feet. All around him, hues of orange and yellow supplemented the harsh electric light. The air grew warmer until it became as hot as a summer day. The stench of rotting corpses gagged him. Diago found it hard to pull a clean breath into his body.
The golem squirmed in his arms. “I love you,”
it mumbled with a hoarse voice.
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” Diago put his palm over the golem’s face, not so much to shield it from what was to come, but to prevent Moloch from seeing it clearly. Regardless of his intentions, the motion seemed to soothe the golem. It clutched the stuffed horse and shivered less. If Diago merely glanced at the creature, he almost believed that he held Rafael. Maybe it would fool Moloch after all.
Diago held onto that hope as he rounded another bend. The passage opened into a cavernous room. Fire and electric light joined together to cast hellish shadows against the walls. Narrow stairs led up to a catwalk over seven metres off the ground. The catwalk spanned the greater part of the room and ended at an iron stage on the far side of the chamber.
Mounted in the center of the stage was a bronze statue with a bull’s head and a man’s torso. Twin tanks took the place of lions at either arm of the figure’s throne. The wings of biplanes curved upward from the effigy’s back. A string of hollowed bombs formed a necklace, and machine-gun turrets fashioned the crown. In the center of the statue’s chest was an open door. Flames burned inside the cavity. The arms were held out, palms up, ready to accept the offering.
Through the metal latticework of the stairs and platform, Diago saw two ‘aulaqs near the statue. He recognized the shorter male and the one-armed female from the train. The male’s flesh had been burned from his back and thighs, leaving puckered scar tissue instead of skin. He pushed a coal cart filled with the severed limbs of corpses, which had probably been scavenged from Barcelona’s tombs and graveyards. The male stopped next to the statue’s massive hands. The female helped him load the body parts onto the upturned palms. When the hands were full, the two ‘aulaqs pulled the chains that lifted the sacrifice into the open furnace.
Moloch needed to feed, and while the dead did not give him the same energy as a living sacrifice, the corpses prevented him from starving to death. The daimon was out of sight, but Diago had no doubt he was somewhere near the effigy, where he could inhale the smoke from the burning corpses.
The tall scarred ‘aulaq that had almost followed them off the train was absent. Diago looked around the room. The missing vampire bothered Diago. The ‘aulaqs traveled in packs, so the third one should be somewhere close. But where? Diago stared into the darkness. Nothing moved but shadows. If the third ‘aulaq had backtracked to Miquel and Rafael, Miquel would deal with him; of that, Diago had little doubt.
