by T. Frohock
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 seen 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 a
sylum. 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.
“They want to create a new race of Nefilim to stand against the angel-born. They lost Diago’s allegiance, so Moloch wanted to begin again. He thought that if the angels turned the child directly over to the daimons, the boy’s loyalty would be secured. Moloch approached Sariel. He promised to design a bomb that would end all wars, but his price was the child.”
“Rafael.” Miquel’s eyes went hard.
Prieto confirmed their suspicions. “Rafael. Sariel knows that whoever holds this new bomb of Moloch’s will control the eventual outcome of the war. She thought one child was a small price to pay for the lives of millions. She also suspected that Diago wasn’t as easily manipulated as the daimons thought. As he so often says, he is angel, too.
“Candela didn’t want to give Rafael to either Diago or Moloch. She fled and hid the child. When she died, we found Rafael, but I made Diago’s involvement a part of the deal. I didn’t believe Diago would simply hand Rafael to Moloch. I had hoped that he would take the child and raise it apart from the daimons. Not in my wildest dreams did I see him joining Los Nefilim.”
Prieto turned to Guillermo, his countenance severe. All around them, the mortals assumed pensive expressions. The angel patted the silk pouch. “My American counterpart is Betty Yellowcloud. She was supposed to be here days ago, but she was delayed. Had she arrived on time, I never would have been ensnared by Engel. I must get this idea to her, and she will transfer the idea to the mortal who will create the bomb.”
“Will it leave Spain?” Miquel asked.
Prieto nodded. “Yes, and once it’s gone, we will be done with it.” He held out the purse to Guillermo. “We had arranged to meet at La Sagrada Família today at one. She is wearing the skin of her spirit animal.”
Guillermo remembered the woman in the fox stole. No wonder she had caught his eye—she was angel. “She is already there.”
“As you c
an see, I am . . . otherwise engaged and cannot elude Engel’s trap.”
Dying. He had almost said dying, Guillermo thought. Because that is what is happening. We thought it was something designed simply to imprison, but whatever this song is, it is also slowly killing him.
Prieto leaned forward and grasped Guillermo’s wrist. “If I don’t get this idea to Yellowcloud, all of this has been for nothing. You’ve got to help me.”
The mortals all mimicked the angel’s posture, reaching out and grasping one another’s wrists. Prieto had been on this ward too long. If one of the nuns saw their patients exhibiting this strange behavior, they would set about to determine the reason.
“Let’s take a walk.” Guillermo extracted himself from Prieto’s grip and released the wheelchair’s brakes. He debated telling Prieto about Sofia and the others, but he didn’t. If the angel suspected that Sofia would help him get free, he would forget Rafael, and Guillermo didn’t intend to let that happen. “Help us find Rafael. Then we will get you out of here.”
Prieto turned to Miquel, who walked beside the chair. “Tell him, Miquel. Make him understand.”
“He understands. So do I. Rafael first.”
A few of the mobile patients shuffled behind them.
Guillermo picked up his pace. “Come on, Prieto. You trust me, then I might trust you.”
“I have a higher stake in this than you think,” Prieto retorted. “Candela was . . .” He hesitated, groping for a way to give them a comparable experience. “We were created from the same spark.”
Guillermo jerked the wheelchair to a stop. “What?”
Prieto regained his verve. “Diago is my—how would you say it?” He pursed his lips. “Brother-in-law.” He beamed at Miquel. “That makes you and me—”
“Nothing,” Miquel snapped. “We are nothing to one another.”
Prieto clucked his tongue. “We didn’t get off to a good start, Miquel.” He readjusted his blanket, smoothing his palms over the bag. “But your relationship to Diago makes us . . . kin.” He grinned wetly and displayed a row of sharp teeth.
