Los Nefilim Book 4

by T. Frohock

  Of course, like Diago, Suero had suffered from the Nefilim’s distrust. Born of one of the minor spirits, his song was good, but not as strong as the higher-­born members. Garcia and others had questioned the assignment, worried that a lesser Nefil coordinated their actions, but Guillermo had stood by his choice. A Nefil with a powerful song was invaluable, but a Nefil with a sharp mind was just as treasured. He assigned them according to their talents. So far, whether from gratitude or allegiance, Suero had yet to let him down.

  Then where did I go wrong with Garcia? He chewed the thought like a cigar, but couldn’t identify a specific clue for the inspector’s betrayal. Not only why, but when? Who else have I missed?

  “What are you thinking?” Miquel watched him with eyes blacker than the storm hovering over them.

  “When did Garcia begin working with the Germans?”

  Miquel shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  “Guess.”

  “When Diago took his oath?”

  “You think all of this was set up within a month?” He nodded at the dome of sigils that encompassed the sky over the asylum. “Look at that song, Miquel. It’s been rehearsed for longer than a month.”

  Miquel became as still and quiet as a pool of water. “This doesn’t have to do with Diago, does it? It’s Rafael. They’re after Rafael.”

  Guillermo considered the theory. “ ‘The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world,’ ” he quoted. He wanted a smoke but didn’t light one of his cigars. He needed that edginess now. “It’s plausible Engel wants both of the bombs—­the one that Prieto guards and the one that Diago guards.”

  “Greed is a deadly sin.” Miquel kissed Rafael’s button and pocketed it.

  “You’ve gotten attached to that kid in a short amount of time.”

  “He’s a sweet boy, and Diago loves him. They are trying so hard to be good to each other, and they are so afraid of loss, it breaks my heart to watch them.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  Miquel shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. I’m trying to be patient with Diago while he works through what happened with Candela. I’ve talked with Suero some.”

  Suero would know. Like Diago, Suero had suffered a rape; although he had been abused by another man. Guillermo nodded. “I wish the others knew to rely on one another like you do. If you ever need to talk, you can come to me, too. Or Juanita. Anytime. You understand?”

  “Yeah. I will.” Miquel nodded. “Thanks.”

  They fell silent as they neared the back entrance to the asylum. The hair on Guillermo’s arms rose. He downshifted the truck and leaned forward to look out the windshield.

  Miquel evaluated the dome over the asylum. “How are we going to sneak past that?”

  “It doesn’t appear to be designed to keep anyone out. Besides, it may work in our favor.” The vibrations were rigid and were dictated to a specific function. “What are the odds of us being heard in all that noise?”

  “What are the odds of us finding Diago and Rafael in all that noise?” Miquel countered.

  Guillermo was almost sorry he’d asked Juanita to remain at Santuari. They could have used an angel’s help, but she was of more value to him at Santuari. If anything happened to him, Juanita would guide Los Nefilim until Ysa was old enough to step into her place as queen.

  He pulled the truck beside the curb. A thin line of jade-­ and umber-­colored sigils rose over the rooftops. Rather than become entangled with Die Nephilim’s wards, the glyphs filtered outward and spread like fingers into the buildings.

  “Look.” Guillermo pointed.

  Miquel frowned. “That’s Diago’s song, and it looks like the other glyphs belong to Amparo, like they’re singing together. Maybe she hasn’t turned traitor, after all.”

  “She gets the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise.”

  They watched the song in silence. Amparo’s colors were wrong, almost sickly in appearance. Then the umber tones strengthened. They overtook the jade vibrations until the green was but a pale reflection within the golden hues.

  Miquel said, “I’ve never seen Diago create a song like that. It’s almost like he’s using her as a microphone for his own spell.”

  Guillermo nodded. That was a good summation. Diago’s song was prominent. It is and it isn’t.

  Before he could grasp what made the vibrations feel so wrong, he was distracted by movement at the hospital’s gate. He shifted his attention to the two guards. They were watching the truck and talking to one another. Guillermo couldn’t immediately tell if they were mortal or Die Nephilim.

  “We’ve got eyes on us,” Guillermo muttered.

  Miquel followed his gaze. He unbuttoned his coat and placed his hand on the butt of his Luger. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “If they are mortals, let me handle it.” Guillermo put the truck into gear and eased it forward. “Remember, they break easily, and if we kill one, other mortals will come looking for us. Don’t make more problems than we already have.”

  “Understood.” Miquel caressed the grip of his pistol. “But if it’s Die Nephilim, let’s give them the righ­teous­ness of our silver.”

  “In abundance,” Guillermo replied as he dropped his lighter into his pocket. He reached beneath Diago’s coat and slid his revolver within easy reach.

  When the truck reached the gate, Guillermo saw the guards were mortal. The one on the right had only one eye, his scarred visage a testament of artillery fire. He was apparently a veteran of either World War I, or the Rif War. The conflict didn’t matter. He possessed an aura of bravado the younger guard lacked, and that might be trouble for them.

  Guillermo lowered his window. “Which way to the kitchens?”

  “What are you delivering?” One-­eye appraised the empty bed.

  “Sacks of almonds are in the bed.” Guillermo crooned the words.

  The other guard hung back, fingering the black baton he carried. He cast an uneasy glance from the one-­eyed guard to the empty bed.

  The one-­eyed guard nodded and gestured to a lane. “Take the road to the left. You’ll see the kitchens just before the wards.” He stepped back and waved them forward.

  Guillermo smiled and sent a small veil of illusion over the younger guard’s vision, too. Then he put the truck into gear and drove them through the gate. He cranked up his window and growled, “That was too easy.”

  “You think Engel is overconfident?”

  “Or he wants us here.” Guillermo pulled in behind the kitchen and shut off the engine.

  The truck didn’t appear out of place among the other ser­vice vehicles. A mule, which was hitched to a worn wagon, turned a baleful eye on them. Overhead, unobserved by the mortals who went about their business, Die Nephilim’s sigils rose and fell, vibrations entwining to form a pulsing net over the grounds.

  “Do we have a plan?” Miquel asked as he assessed an open door where the kitchen’s steam poured into the cool air.

  “The plan is to find Diago and Rafael, and then get the hell out of here. Sofia and her group will take care of Die Nephilim.” Guillermo retrieved his revolver and placed it in his pocket. “Could you tell which building Diago’s song came from?”

  Miquel pointed. “That one.”

  Guillermo recognized the barred windows. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “That’s bad.”

  “Why, what’s there?”

  “The ward for the violent inmates. It’s where we found José.”

  “We need a disguise to get in. Neither of us will make fetching nuns.”

  “I don’t know.” Guillermo assessed Miquel’s dark lashed eyes and full lips. “You’d make a pretty nun.”

  Miquel rubbed the dark shadow of his beard. “I shaved this morning. Can you tell?”

  “I’ve s
een nuns with worse.” He reached under the seat and withdrew a clipboard with a dirty pencil attached to the clip.

  Strung tight as a guitar string, Miquel slammed the door hard enough to rattle the window. “Who do we try to find first, Diago or Rafael?”

  “The vulnerable one here is Rafael. Once we find him, we eliminate Engel’s hold on Diago. Likewise, we limit any chance that Diago might act against his own best interests. Understand?”

  “Are you implying that Diago might go against his oath to Los Nefilim?”

  “I am saying, were it me and my daughter, I would. No one wants a child to die early in their firstborn life.” Such an experience subverted a clean transition to their next incarnation and stunted the Nefil’s emotional growth. More than that, though, even knowing a child would have another life made the loss no easier for the parent to bear.

  Miquel produced Rafael’s button from his pocket. “Let’s see if we can find him.”

  Guillermo put his hand over Miquel’s fist. “No magic. Not yet. They might sense our presence and we’re outnumbered. Give Sofia and her Nefilim time to work. Let’s take a walk. If anyone challenges us, we’re here to make a delivery.” He raised the clipboard. “And we got lost.”

  Avoiding the busy kitchen, Guillermo walked deeper into the complex. The sigils overhead grew louder and more disorienting with every step. At times, the sound of Die Nephilim’s thunderous song almost drowned the voices of mortals.

  Guillermo found a door and turned the doorknob. It was locked. He pulled a thin wire from his pocket and quickly picked the flimsy mechanism. That one was easy. He doubted he’d find the inside locks as simple to navigate, but complex problems had never stopped him in the past.

  He and Miquel slipped inside and found themselves in a storage room. Bedding and pillows rose from the darkness—­neatly folded rectangles of blankets and sheets occupied every shelf. Inside, Die Nephilim’s song was muted, the chords dampened by the mortal thoughts that whispered through the walls.

  Guillermo wound his way past rows of shelving until he found the door that led into the corridor. He waited for two nuns to pass before he stepped into the hall with Miquel right behind him. He turned left, walking as if he knew exactly where he was going. No one challenged them.

  He and Miquel wandered the halls for over a half an hour, pausing intermittingly to send out a questioning song. No answer came, either from Diago, or Rafael.

  Guillermo moved in the direction of the wards for the criminally insane. Following his instincts for the shortest route, he led Miquel through the geriatric ward. A ­couple of patients shuffled along, holding onto the wall. Others sat in wheelchairs, staring out the tall windows onto a small courtyard.

  Miquel touched Guillermo’s arm.

  “What?”

  “There.” Miquel pointed to an elderly man with long silver hair and small sharp teeth. He sat in a wheelchair. A heavy blanket covered his lap, and he twisted the folds of the fabric in his long elegant hands.

  Unlike the ten fingers of a mortal, this man had eight. His thumbs were almost as long and dexterous as his fingers. He wasn’t mortal, he was angel.

  Miquel leaned close and whispered, “Prieto.”

  Guillermo hadn’t even realized he’d grasped his lighter until he heard the first click of the lid. Prieto smiled at the sound, but otherwise made no sign he knew they were there. But he knows. Guillermo didn’t kid himself. Prieto wanted to be found; otherwise, Miquel wouldn’t have seen him.

  Guillermo went to the angel’s side and squatted beside the wheelchair. Miquel put his back to the wall so he could watch the corridor.

  “A lot of ­people are looking for you, Prieto,” Guillermo murmured.

  Prieto gave Guillermo a feral grin. “The party never truly begins until I arrive.”

  “Are we going to dance now?” Guillermo saw the insanity in the angel’s eyes wasn’t entirely feigned.

  “I’m afraid not. No time for subtleties. I’m late for a very important meeting.” He kept his fingers moving over a section of the blanket. Strands of sound whispered over a silk bag.

  Guillermo fixed his gaze on the small purse. The idea.

  Prieto noted the direction of Guillermo’s stare and said, “It seems that I can’t leave the asylum. The chords”—­he waved at a nearby window where the notes of Die Nephilim’s sigils covered the metallic sky—­“of Engel’s song, seek me. It has taken all of my skill to remain invisible to Engel and his pack of Nephilim. If I try to move past their song, Engel will immediately know where I am. He was always stronger than me. Now, in my weakened state, he will easily take the idea from me.”

  There was more to it than that, Guillermo thought as he assessed Prieto’s pale features. In his efforts to remain hidden, the angel had expended his own song to the point of depletion. He was dying.

  Prieto must have seen the knowledge in Guillermo’s eyes. “I am trapped, Guillermo, trapped well and good.” A shaky laugh trembled through his lips.

  Even coming from the half-­mad angel, the laughter brightened the dim hall. Several mortals nodded and smiled as if their hearts were lightened in the wake of the angel’s mirth.

  Guillermo was reminded that the angels had once brought only joy in their wake, but some had remained in the mortal realm for too long. While the archangels rarely descended from their heavenly home, the Messengers were becoming tarnished by taking the flesh, which sullied their spirits until they, like the daimons and the mortals, grew more caught up in worldly concerns than those of the spirit. Guillermo sometimes wondered if he wasn’t wrong. Perhaps it wasn’t the affairs of angels that affected the mortals—­perhaps it was the other way around.

  Prieto’s laughter trailed into silence. He glared at the window where the net of sigils turned the sky the color of mercury.

  Guillermo’s lighter clicked softly in the hush that had fallen over the hall. “What’s going on, Prieto?”

  The angel breathed heavily and tracked the vibrations of Die Nephilim’s song with deep brown eyes. “Yellowcloud was delayed. I was forced to linger here in the asylum longer than was wise.”

  Guillermo glimpsed the claw of a talon at the foot of the blanket. Certain that if he pulled the blanket away, he would find the feet of a raptor, Guillermo reached down and adjusted the blanket so that Prieto’s talons were hidden. That would explain the wheelchair. Moving on these polished floors would be treacherous—­not to mention conspicuous—­especially with all his power focused on keeping Engel at bay.

  “Talk to me, Prieto.” Guillermo spoke quietly.

  “Where do you want to begin?” Prieto asked.

  “Start with Garcia, end with Yellowcloud.”

  Prieto nodded and fumbled with the silk bag. “Engel has been working on Garcia for years. They’re friends. That is why Garcia flagrantly disobeyed your command to bring any angelic orders to you before obeying them. Engel swears he is not ordering Garcia to act. He merely makes suggestions—­innuendos and intrigues. Garcia believes he is acting of his own volition. In truth, his motivations are provoked by his own prejudices. He has long believed that you are too lenient with the daimons. Engel tells Garcia what he wants to hear and strokes his intolerance—­and ego—­into hate.”

  “That makes Garcia stupid,” Miquel said.

  “No argument from me.” Prieto picked at his blanket as if pulling fleas from the fabric. “But this goes higher than Engel and Garcia. The Principalities are involved.”

  Guillermo’s stomach did a slow somersault. “Which ones?”

  Prieto said, “Aker.”

  Miquel whispered, “The Prince of Germany.”

  “Who else?” Guillermo asked.

  “Poyel.”

  The Prince of Italy. Guillermo and Miquel traded a guarded look.

  “What does Aker want with Spain?” Guillermo asked, though he suspected he
knew the answer.

  Prieto toyed with the silk bag. “Aker believes that Sariel is unable to govern.”

  This was news to Guillermo. As far as he knew, Sariel, the Princess of Spain, was in firm command of her realm.

  Miquel articulated Guillermo’s thought. “That’s a lie,” he said.

  Guillermo raised a finger and Miquel fell silent. “How do you fit into all of this?”

  “I am a spy for Sariel.” Prieto’s eyes changed. They turned into identical orbs of crimson and silver as the angel’s power slipped again. “Sariel has experienced . . . conflicts.”

  “Conflicts?”

  “Ideological intrigues within her own court. She needed to know where Los Nefilim stood.”

  Which explained Prieto’s questions to Diago each time he encountered the Nefil. Prieto probably thought that Diago was far enough outside Los Nefilim’s circle of trust that he could observe them objectively. In the angel’s mind, Diago would have nothing to lose by informing Prieto of Guillermo’s allegiances.

  Prieto turned his horrible eyes on Guillermo. “Well? Do we trust you?”

  “My allegiance is where it has always been—­with Sariel. She is taking us in a new and welcome direction. I’ve made no secret of my support for her.”

  “Good, because you are about to acquire an entire cadre of enemies, some of whom—­you know, but still not fully comprehend—­are within your own ranks.” Prieto allowed his warning to hang in the air for a moment before he continued. “This new direction, what the Spanish call their Second Republic, is what Aker sees as weakness. He is sending members of his own court to advise Sariel’s enemies. He wants to wipe out Los Nefilim so he can bring his Messengers and Die Nephilim into Spain.”

  Miquel looked like he had tasted something bitter. “There are angels within Sariel’s court working with Aker?”

  That would explain the impunity of the Messenger, Engel, and his Nephilim.

  Prieto scowled and the mortals around them frowned. “Three generals in her army have made no secret of their contempt for her. She has banished them from her realm.”

  The angels were preparing for another war—­ideological or not, the conflict would overtake the mortal realm—­but none of Prieto’s comments answered Guillermo’s biggest question. “Internal politics I understand. But why are the daimons working with the angels?” he asked.