by T. Frohock
When the Principalities warred with one another, their conflicts were echoed by the mortals in the earthly realms. Guillermo believed that Spain’s conflicts mirrored a greater conflict within heaven’s realms. Was he right? Were the angels at war and if so, whose side was Engel on?
And which Principality had ordered Amparo’s death? Diago knew he wouldn’t get an answer from Engel—the angel was too in love with his own plans. But even in his predicament, Diago couldn’t help but wonder.
“Listen carefully, Herr Alvarez. In the name of science, we tried Professor Cerletti’s electric shock treatment on this animal. We broke her mind. Then note by note, I learned her death song. That is how you render the second death. You must know another Nefil’s death song and sing it against them.”
Diago closed his eyes against the hot wave of nausea washing over him.
“Open your eyes, Herr Alvarez. There is a lesson here for you.” Engel put his hand over Amparo’s face. “I want you to see what awaits your son if you fail.”
“Stop. I told you I would summon Prieto. There is no need to do this.” He tried to rise, but Garcia’s hand landed on his shoulder. Diago’s teeth clicked together and he bit his tongue. The sharp taste of his own blood stung his mouth.
Engel shook his head as if dealing with a stupid child. “Summoning Prieto and bringing me the idea for the bomb are two different things, Herr Alvarez. Daimons are slippery with their promises. Amparo took Don Guillermo’s hard-earned money with every intention of serving the daimons. And you, during your days as Asaph, were deceitful, too.” Diago winced at the use of his firstborn name. “Asaph promised to help Solomon, only to turn his back on his king. Do you see the message here, Asaph?”
“Asaph is dead. I am Diago.”
Adler giggled from his place in the corridor. Garcia’s fingers tightened on Diago’s shoulder and sent a flash of pain down into his back.
“You are Asaph.” Engel’s mortal form shimmered. Spectral flames engulfed his arms. “Look upon my works and tremble.”
He chanted a song in the angel’s language while channeling his fire at Amparo’s head. Small grunts passed through her lips as the flames consumed her. Her hands waved in the air, and her heels thumped against the mattress, like a blind woman running in a panic.
The smell of burning hair filled the cell. Amparo’s face melted beneath Engel’s hand. Her soul rose from her body. Colors of umber and gold shot upward, but the notes were broken. Her song scattered and ended before it truly began. She swirled in frayed chords. Unable to fight Engel’s angelic fire, she tried to escape.
Amparo’s soul swooped toward the door. Adler sang a harsh chant with guttural syllables. He carved a sigil filled with bars and threw it in her path.
Falling back into the cell, she sought a corner, a crevice, some place to hide.
Garcia clamped his hand over Diago’s mouth to prevent him from singing.
Engel sent his flames around the umber colors of Amparo’s soul. He sang her death song and tore the chords of her soul until she burned a second time. The force of her anguish rattled Diago’s teeth and sent blood spurting from his nose to run across Garcia’s knuckles.
And suddenly . . . silence. The deep quiet of the grave filled the room. Amparo was gone. Her song forever smothered. Traitor or not, the world seemed colder without her magic.
Engel panted heavily. He produced a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. He had paled significantly.
Diago’s breakfast rolled heavily in his stomach. All that was left of Amparo were bones bleached white from the angel’s fire.
Outside the door, Adler moaned and gibbered prayers to Engel. Garcia released Diago’s mouth and wiped his hand on Diago’s sweater. The Nefil’s face was as rapt as if he’d witnessed the Christ’s second coming rather than a second death.
Diago bowed his head. A drop of sweat hit his thigh. Or maybe it was blood. Or tears. Rage seeped into his veins and he let it come. He clenched his jaw and said nothing. There was nothing left to say.
Engel approached him. “You say you are not Asaph. You say your incarnations have changed you. Prove it to me. An hour, Herr Alvarez.” He unlocked the cuffs. “I free you to work whatever magic you need in order to summon Prieto. You can’t escape, so don’t waste time trying. One hour, and I will return. I expect you to hand over the idea.”
He and Garcia left the cell.
“The clock is ticking,” said the angel. Then he slammed the door shut. “Show me whose side you are on.”
Diago was barely aware of them locking the door. The blood rushed back into his fingers and brought stinging agony in its wake. He hugged his hands to his chest, listening as their footsteps receded. Minutes passed before the pain slowed, then stopped.
Somewhere overhead a door slammed.
Another rush of nausea shuddered through Diago’s body. The cell had no toilet, only a bucket in the corner. Diago barely reached it in time.
When he finished, he wiped his mouth and examined the cell. The bed, the bucket, and Amparo’s bones were all that they’d left him. That, and the fear of whatever might happen to Rafael.
He went to the door. Adler had shut the little flap over the grill and bolted it from the other side.
Diago slid down until he was eye level with the lock. He sent a soft questing note into the mechanism. An angelic ward flashed, knocking him backward.
The ward on the lock wasn’t a surprise, but the force of the glyph was extreme. Diago rubbed his eyes and looked up. No windows, no vents—not even a crack in the mortar.
“Rafael,” he whispered his son’s name. Where was he? Had he managed to free himself? Or was he, too, locked in a cell somewhere—alone and afraid, feeling as if his father had abandoned him? “Hold on. Hold on,” he said, although he wasn’t sure whether he chanted the assurances to calm Rafael or himself.
Diago paced the cell from the door to the back wall, then to the door again. He avoided the charred remains of Amparo’s body.
There had to be a way to circumvent Engel’s demands. Diago was no fool: Prieto wouldn’t sacrifice the bomb for Rafael’s life—no matter how important the child might be to the angels—but perhaps Diago didn’t need Prieto. He looked toward the bed and Amparo’s bones as he formed the outline of a plan.
The trick would be to form one song with two distinct melodies. Not normally difficult with other Nefilim, or with instruments to use in lieu of voices, but all Diago possessed for this song was the instrument in his throat. And while doing so, he needed to make Engel think he was trying to summon Prieto while he simultaneously sang down into the daimonic world.
Because it wasn’t Prieto who would save Rafael.
If Diago expected to dupe Engel, he needed Moloch, for only the originator of the bomb could forge a convincing facsimile.
Diago went to the bed. “Of course, Moloch will be very happy to see me.”
Amparo’s bones made no comment on his sarcasm.
“No matter. We do what we have to do.” He gently retrieved Amparo’s skull from the pile. Some members of Los Nefilim would see what he was about to do as sacrilege. Then again, some members of Los Nefilim saw him as sacrilege, so what could he do? “Dark choices call for dark magic,” he murmured to her empty eye sockets.
Running his fingers over the bone, he listened carefully. He soon detected the faintest hint of her contralto, sweet as honey and soft as summer. After death—even the second death—a Nefil’s song remained in her bones; the stronger the Nefil, the clearer the notes.
Amparo’s soul might be destroyed, but her bones still held traces of her magic and would for many thousands of years. Diago intended to tap those notes, and even though she was dead, she would live again in his composition. He brushed pieces of the charred mattress from her eye sockets and carried the skull to the center of the room. Carefully, reve
rently, he placed it on the cold concrete, facing the door.
Now what should he use for a sigil? He thought back to the advertisement Prieto had initially used to lure him to the Scorpion Club.
Was it only a month ago? It felt like years. Yet Diago clearly saw the scorpion drawn on the flyer, its tail wrapped around the logo. Prieto hadn’t created that advertisement. The angels never used scorpions in their communiqués. But the daimons do.
Engel probably saw Prieto as a traitor, too. Prieto had negotiated with the daimons for the idea for this bomb. But Prieto was working on instructions from a higher authority—possibly even Sariel, the Princess of Spain.
The thought didn’t cause Diago to hesitate. He answered to no higher authority than Guillermo. His friend had been careful to take that precaution when Diago had sworn his oath.
Swear your oath to me, no one else.
Now Diago understood why. To avow himself to one side or the other would have constrained his song to either the daimonic or the angelic side of his nature. Guillermo had wisely left him free to administer his music as he chose.
One by one, Diago gathered Amparo’s bones and formed the crude outline of a scorpion with her skull serving as the head. Handful by handful, he placed her smaller bones and each vertebra to form the details of the scorpion’s body.
When he had used every piece of Amparo’s remains, he examined the glyph from each angle. Twice he walked the perimeter, occasionally pausing to nudge a finger bone to the left or right, adjusting a vertebra until it was flawlessly aligned with its mate.
When he finally judged the sigil to be perfect, he looked down at his maimed right hand. This morning Miquel had rewrapped the bandage over Diago’s missing finger, not that he needed the wrapping. The skin had healed. Yesterday and the day before, he’d worn the bandage as a disguise to better fit Guillermo’s story that he’d lost the finger while trying to stop an anarchist’s bomb.
But there was no further need for subterfuge. No, I hide from myself like I’ve always done. As the thought flitted across his mind, his fingers reached for the corner where Miquel had tucked the gauze to hold it in place. He unwrapped the bandage and forced himself to look at his hand.
The ‘aulaq had bitten Diago’s pinky off at the knuckle. The puckered scar appeared to be healed. He rubbed the skin gently. Then why does it still hurt?
The pain was probably the result of the ‘aulaq’s poison, which still roiled through his blood. Yet the venom hadn’t interfered with his song last night. Nor will it now. But his gestures might be stiff, and that worried him.
Diago flexed his fingers. He needed dexterity for this spell, which depended as much on form as song. He held up his arm over his head and twisted his wrist, wincing at the pain, which shot into his shoulder.
Damn it. He stretched and concentrated on each muscle. Again he forced his arm high and rotated his wrist. The discomfort wasn’t as bad this time. “Come on . . .” Time was slipping from him. Shaking out his hands, he extended his arms again. The movement was easier. The pain was still there, but it was manageable now.
Just as pain tends to be, given enough time.
Diago took two short steps, twice striking his heel against the concrete. He turned, raising his arms over his head, wrists touching back-to-back, hands open, fingers joined close together. Where he was supposed to extend his pinky, he extended the ring fingers of both hands so the gesture was uniform.
He held the pose and disregarded the ache in his right shoulder. His body had moved into the dance, muscles remembering what the brain had forgotten. On the third practice move, an electric smell entered the cell. Diago felt the charge snap from his heel on the second strike.
Almost there. How much longer did he have? How many minutes had passed?
“Too many,” he murmured. Don’t think about it.
Closing his eyes, he forced himself through the dance. His flesh warmed with the exercise. The next strike produced a spark.
Before he could doubt himself, Diago took his place in front of the skull. “And now, my beautiful Amparo, you will knock on Heaven’s door while I break down the gates of Hell.”
She grinned sweetly as he raised his arms over his head. He cupped his right hand and used the fingers of his left to strike his palm. His wedding band flashed streams of silver in the air. The beats grew faster as he closed his eyes. Reaching deep within himself, he thought of the stars and the endless void. He sent forth a cry, both wild and sweet, and as he did, he kicked his heel against the floor.
Green fire flew between the skull’s teeth. Amparo’s bones vibrated with the fury of Diago’s song. As they clacked against the concrete, the last remnants of her magic flew free and took the form of a glyph. The music rose upward through the floors until it reached the upper levels of the asylum—high-pitched like whale song, the perfect tone for an angel’s ear.
With the remnants of Amparo’s voice entwined with his, Diago danced around her bones. His feet moved him without disturbing the arrangement. And as he leapt, he drew on his daimonic nature and sang a lament aimed at the caverns beneath the earth. His voice resonated through the vaults.
The power of his desperation blew out the naked bulb overhead. In the corridor, the other light exploded in a shower of sparks.
Other than the silver glow of Diago’s wedding band, the basement cells were plunged into darkness. Diago didn’t pause. He danced by the light of Miquel’s love and sang for his son’s soul.
Chapter Four
Rafael pulled against Jaso’s grip, but the Nefil held him tight, dragging him down the corridor. Inspector Garcia and the bad angel had disappeared through another door with Papa. Jaso was going the wrong way.
“Where did they take Papa?”
“To a quiet place,” Jaso said.
Moreno laughed like it was some kind of joke, but this wasn’t funny.
Rafael knew about Holy Cross’s quiet places. His mother had hidden him in the asylum. She had enchanted Sister Benita into taking Rafael into the children’s ward. Likewise, he had learned how to charm his way into every nook and cranny of the hospital. During his first days in the asylum, he was sure Mamá hadn’t gone far, so he had looked for her everywhere. As he’d grown older, and realized she wasn’t coming back, he had wandered the grounds out of boredom.
Rafael knew about the quiet rooms where Papa’s screams wouldn’t be heard. This was the ward where they put the bad men who hurt people.
The farther they went, the longer it would take him to get back to Papa. And I won’t be able to find him. Rafael dug his heels in and threw his weight backwards. “Let go!”
Jaso jerked Rafael forward and flung him at Acosta. “Here, you drag him for a while. I’m sick of the brat.”
Acosta caught Rafael’s arm. “Why me? Fucking Alvarez busted my knee. Look at me!” He gestured at his leg. “I can barely fucking walk.”
“You were ugly and crippled before Alvarez ever touched you,” said Fierro, who was nothing but bones and teeth.
Moreno picked at a scab under his chin and grinned. “You better watch him, Acosta. The little daimon might kick your other kneecap.”
Fierro giggled and slapped the back of Rafael’s head.
Rafael hated them and their mean laughter. He struck like a snake and sank his sharp teeth into the flesh just above Acosta’s wrist. The Nefil tasted like bitterness and sweat, but Rafael didn’t let go. He clamped his jaws and chewed.
Acosta stumbled into a row of chairs lining the hall, dragging Rafael along with him. “Christ! He’s biting me! Get him off!”
The other Nefilim stopped laughing. Maybe it was the blood running past Rafael’s mouth and onto the floor. Rafael worked his teeth into the Nefil’s muscle. A blow to the side of his head sent bright lights spinning across his vision, but he didn’t release his grip. Acosta howled.
Fierro
grabbed Rafael’s hands and growled at Acosta. “Stop jumping around!”
“Fucking Christ! He’s eating my flesh, little fucking devil!”
Moreno edged between them. He pinched Rafael’s nostrils. Unable to breathe, Rafael released Acosta so he could inhale.
Acosta jerked free and collapsed into a chair, mewling and cradling his injured hand.
Rafael took a deep breath. Then he bit Moreno’s arm. Moreno was skinnier so Rafael had to bite harder.
Moreno shrieked.
Fierro flinched at the sound. “God damn it, Moreno! You sound like a toddler!”
Jaso entered the fray. He grabbed Rafael by the waist and tried to wrench him off Moreno.
Rafael snatched double handfuls of Moreno’s sleeve and chewed on the Nefil’s arm. Moreno was sweeter—his blood was wine and copper—and he kept making that interesting noise, somewhere between a squeal and scream. But he isn’t laughing. None of them are laughing now.
Footsteps came from both directions. Men and women shouted in their flat mortal voices.
Someone ordered the officers to watch their language. Rafael’s heart accelerated. He’d know that screech anywhere. It was Sister Benita, coming at them with God’s righteous fury in her eyes. Her flesh hung loose on her sinewy limbs. Her lips, which always reminded Rafael of liver, were pulled back over her thick teeth. A curl of dark silver hair had worked free of her veil.
A new round of anxiety almost blinded him. Would Sister Benita recognize him with his fine clothes and his combed hair? Of course she would. Nothing escaped her piercing scrutiny.
The memory of his days in the children’s ward and Sister Benita’s sharp fingers were still all too fresh in Rafael’s mind. If she caught him misbehaving, she might lock him in that dark room behind her office where she said she could keep an eye on him.
He never quite understood how she could see him behind the closed door in the dark.
Quick and supple as a mongoose, Rafael released Moreno’s hand and kicked Jaso’s knee like he’d seen his father kick Acosta.
