by T. Frohock
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, reverently, 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 c
losed 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 4
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.
Surprised by the sudden move, Jaso dropped Rafael.
Moreno flailed. “Mother-fucking-Christ! My fucking hand—look at my fucking hand!”
Sister Benita bellowed loud enough to rattle the windows. “God will strike you dead for that language!”
Moreno leapt backward, whether to get away from Rafael or Sister Benita, Rafael didn’t know. Nor did he care. This was the time to go. He ran back the way they had come, keeping his head low just in case God decided to strike Moreno dead. He kind of hoped it would happen, and then felt a little guilty, but not too much. Moreno was a bad Nefil.
Rafael easily dodged the adults who were running toward the commotion. A man stepped into his path and tried to catch him, but Rafael threw himself flat and skidded between the man’s legs. An orderly with mean eyes reached down, but Rafael regained his footing and took off again. He had always been the fastest boy in the children’s ward.
Rounding a bend, he saw a stairwell door closing. He put on a burst of speed and barely slipped through in time. Something big hit the door. Rafael whirled to see Jaso’s enraged face on the other side of the mesh window. He rattled the door in its frame. Rafael smiled. He knew the doctors locked the stairwell doors to prevent the inmates from accidentally falling down the stairs.
Turning his back on Jaso, Rafael ran. He clamored down two flights of steps and into the tunnels beneath the hospital. Here, the hospital’s staff could move quickly from one wing to another without having to navigate locked wards.
Here he knew he could lose them.
Staying near the wall, he kept to the shadows and sang his quiet hiding song. The orderlies, nuns, and doctors who used the wide corridor didn’t see him. Dodging from one shadow to the next, he soon found the mesh grill that led to a vent.
Working his small fingers behind the metal frame, he quickly dislodged the grill and scooted into the opening. He had just replaced the grate when he heard Jaso shouting at the other Nefilim.
Rafael slid backward until the darkness enveloped him. The metal popped beneath his weight and he froze. Now was the time to become very still and quiet. Like a mouse, he thought. He would become a mouse, all brown and silent, not even twitching his whiskers.
He sat perfectly still and watched the legs of the various peopl
e as they moved toward Jaso’s shouts.
A man wearing fine trousers stopped in front of Rafael’s vent. “Inspector! What is all this noise?”
Rafael recognized his voice. It was the mortal doctor his papa had spoken to outside. What had Papa called him? Vales. Yes, his name was Dr. Vales.
Jaso was still out of sight but approaching fast. “We’ve lost Alvarez’s son.”
“Do you know which way he went?” Vales sounded alarmed. “This is no place for a child!”
“We understand,” Jaso said. “We’re looking for him.”
“This low profile arrest of yours is getting out of control, Inspector.”
“Everything is under control.” Jaso’s voice lost its edge and became soothing. He stopped in front of the doctor. Rafael was gratified to see blood spatters on Jaso’s trousers. “As soon as Dr. Engel has evaluated Alvarez, we will remove him from your institution.”
“I don’t think you have the right man for the Ferrer murders. I spoke with Alvarez yesterday. He is as sane as I am.”
Rafael smiled and loved Dr. Vales. He was a nice mortal. Maybe he would help Papa.
“We’ve been through this, Doctor,” Jaso said gently. “Alvarez was seen at the Casa Milà the day before the Ferrers were killed. Inspector Garcia has enough evidence to prove that Alvarez and the maid were seeing one another. His hypothesis is that they murdered the Ferrers in order to rob them.”
Rafael glared at Jaso’s legs. He wanted to tell Vales the truth. Papa wasn’t seeing a woman. He was married to Miquel, but Rafael didn’t say anything. Papa thought the mortals wouldn’t understand his relationship with Miquel, and Rafael didn’t want to make life hard for Papa. If he did, then Papa might send him away. Rafael worried that thought like a loose tooth while Jaso continued talking.
