by T. Frohock
Dedication
For Glinda Harrison
constant reader, constant friend
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
Acknowledgments
Glossary
Sourcebooks and Inspirations
About the Author
Endorsements
Also by T. Frohock
Copyright
About the Publisher
Author’s Note
A quick note on the spellings used: the accepted spelling of the word is Nephilim. However, in Spanish the ph sound is replaced by the f, hence Los Nefilim.
This novel is primarily told from the points of view of my Spanish characters, so whenever I need to use the generic term Nephilim to indicate the species of Nephilim as a whole, I use the spelling nefilim (the lowercase n is intentional for plural nefilim as well as the singular nefil).
I also needed a way in which to distinguish the various nationalities of nefilim within the Inner Guard. Whenever you see capitalization—Los Nefilim, Die Nephilim, or Les Néphilim—I am referring to the Inner Guard’s different divisions—the Spanish, German, and French, respectively.
While each of the Los Nefilim novellas and the novels can be read as stand-alone works, several characters and themes do recur. Likewise, those keeping up with the series might enjoy a mild refresher, as well.
The novellas (In Midnight’s Silence, Without Light or Guide, and The Second Death) all served as an introduction into the world of Los Nefilim, as well as forming the basis for discovering the Key—the song that will enable the nefilim to open the realms as the angels do. The novels, which began with Where Oblivion Lives, concern Diago’s actual composition of the Key. Somewhat like an opera in three parts, the story follows the crucial points that lead our heroes to the next act of the movement.
I understand that people might not remember the terminology from one story to another. With that in mind, I included a glossary in the back of this novel.
To remedy any memory gaps the reader might have, I’m also including a very brief, spoiler-free synopsis of the events from previous episodes. Again, to be clear: each of the novellas and novels can be read as stand-alone works.
However, I always imagined Los Nefilim as a serial, much like the old Shadow radio serials. In keeping with that tone, here is the story so far . . .
1931 (The Los Nefilim omnibus contains the novellas In Midnight’s Silence, Without Light or Guide, and The Second Death)
Diago Alvarez, a rarity among the nefilim in that his mother was an angel and his father was a daimon-born nefil, discovers that he has a six-year-old son named Rafael. Having never officially joined Los Nefilim—the Spanish Inner Guard—Diago has always lived as a rogue. He maintains a superficial connection to Los Nefilim through his husband, Miquel de Torrellas, who is Guillermo Ramírez’s second-in-command.
Rafael’s presence changes Diago’s priorities. The only way he can protect his son from his daimonic kin is by joining Los Nefilim. Diago swears an oath to Guillermo Ramírez, the king of Los Nefilim, who wants Diago to try and compose the Key—the song that will enable the nefilim to open the realms as the angels do.
1932 (Where Oblivion Lives)
Now a member of Los Nefilim, Diago leaves Spain in order to solve the mystery of his missing violin, which torments his dreams. It’s his first official mission as a member of the Inner Guard, and he succeeds in both solving the mystery and confronting his PTSD from the Great War. During the course of these events, Guillermo discovers traitors within his own ranks that are working for his brother, Jordi Abelló, who has returned to undermine Guillermo’s right to command Los Nefilim. At the end of 1932, Diago and Guillermo work together and finally compose the first notes to the Key.
1939 (Carved from Stone and Dream)
Guillermo’s forces have lost the war, and in a desperate attempt to escape, Los Nefilim flees to France. Diago is with Guillermo when a coded notebook is stolen. Together, they follow the traitor into the caverns beneath the Pyrenees only to find that Guillermo’s brother, Jordi, is running a covert site that engages in medical experiments. For subjects, he is using the members of Los Nefilim that his soldiers find in the French concentration camps, including Diago’s husband, Miquel, and his son, Rafael. Jordi has also uncovered one of the Grigori, a group of angels that committed such vile crimes against the mortals, they were cast out of the angelic realms. Jordi wears the Grigori’s tear in a signet and has sworn himself to the fallen angels. Guillermo and Diago manage to recover the notebook and rescue Miquel and Rafael. It is Rafael who discovers the next movement of the Key.
Now the year is 1943. The Germans have invaded France and Los Nefilim have been ordered to lead the resistance. Our story begins in France . . .
Prologue
Top Secret
Inner Guard Division: Los Nefilim
Don Guillermo Ramírez, Capitán General
Servicio de Investigación Militar
17 June 1940
SIM Report No. 708399
To the Honorable General Jonathan Lauer, United States Nephilim:
I file this report in the name of Madame Sabine Rousseau, Capitaine Général, Les Néphilim. She asked that I inform the American division of the Inner Guard regarding the situation in France. Madame Rousseau likewise requested that I extend her gratitude to the United States Inner Guard for persuading the mortals to sell weapons to the French and British governments during their ongoing conflict with the Germans.
A pity this same munificence wasn’t offered to save Spain, but like you, I understand the difficulty of influencing mortal decisions. Unfortunately, the very world war you hoped to avoid is now at our doorstep.
As you probably already know, the German forces led by the rogue nefil, Jordi Abelló, and Queen Ilsa Jaeger of Die Nephilim, have conquered France in forty-six days. The attack was an unprecedented success primarily due to the drug Pervitin.
Based on Abelló’s experiments during the Spanish Civil War, the mortal generals dosed themselves and their soldiers with this form of methamphetamine to create an army of berserkers. Utilizing Pervitin in the field, the German soldiers were able to remain awake for days at a time. The speed of their attack allowed their panzer units to raze France at great cost to the French and British armies.
Nor did Abelló and Jaeger limit their Pervitin experiments to mortals. The drug gives a nefil the strength of an angel. According to my second-in-command, General Miquel de Torrellas—who was an unwilling subject in those tests—such medically augmented power comes at a terrible price, both physical and mental.
In spite of the consequences, Abelló and Jaeger found volunteers and medicated four of their oldest nefilim with the drug: Irma Koch, Gustav Frank, Hermine Bothe, and Ernst Zweigelt. Bothe went insane and destroyed herself. Frank and Koch died of heart attacks within a month of one another. I dispatched a team of assassins, and as of 5 June 1940, Zweigelt is no longer a threat.
We will
watch for them.
The severity of the side effects appears to have made an impression on Abelló and Jaeger. They have abandoned further measures to enhance their nefilim’s songs, whether through choice or due to a lack of willing participants, we don’t know.
The Nazis currently control northern France and the western coast; Vichy France is merely a puppet government with the elderly mortal, Marshal Philippe Pétain, as its figurehead and another mortal, Pierre Laval, pulling the strings for their Nazi masters.
While not as aggressive as the Germans, the Vichy government is rounding up members of the Jewish, Roma, and Sinti populations for deportation. Spanish Republicans, who had taken refuge in France, are likewise placed on ghost trains and sent to concentration camps in the east.
As I indicated earlier, Madame Rousseau and her angelic consort, Cyrille, have accompanied the French government to London. Please forward any replies to this missive to Madame Rousseau’s attention in care of General Elizabeth Cromwell, Special Operations Executive, British Division of the Nephilim, in London.
Rousseau continues to advise Charles de Gaulle, the leader of Free France. We received a transmission on the wireless this afternoon that both Rousseau and de Gaulle landed safely in London. It is our hope that Churchill will give de Gaulle time on the BBC to rally the French.
Los Nefilim has established a temporary base in the Free Zone, close to the Pyrenees, so that we can assist refugees fleeing the Nazi regime’s policies. Members of Los Nefilim escort the evacuees over the Pyrenees into Andorra. My people can go no farther, because the Spanish nefilim remain under the command of Abelló’s lieutenant, Benito Espina.
Communiqués with nefilim in Poland and Russia indicate the daimon-born nefilim are taking advantage of the angel-born nefilim’s disarray. Our intelligence suggests the distinct possibility of the nefilim’s war opening on another front.
Los Nefilim stands in a unique position, because we have a member who is half-angel, half-daimon. I authorized Diago Alvarez to initiate contact with his daimon-born kin; he now serves as a double agent under the code name Dragonfly, and he reports directly to me. Should anything happen to me, or to my council, let this letter serve as exoneration of his interactions with the daimon-born while under my direction.
We remain in touch with London via wireless and coded letters. Rousseau and her British counterparts are kept up-to-date with any intelligence we are able to send, and she will forward those missives to you as she sees fit.
This is not our first guerrilla war. We played this game in Spain to drive the French from our territories during the Peninsula War. We’ll use the same measures to push the Germans back across the Rhine.
It’s merely a matter of time.
And time is nothing to the nefilim.
1
15 July 1943
Vichy, France
Diago sat at the café’s rear table, his back against the wall. He wasn’t hungry; not for food. Regardless, he made sure to eat, pretending to linger over his lunch and a book. He’d read the same paragraph five times and still couldn’t recall the meaning of the words. Nonetheless, he finally turned the page with his left hand so that no one would notice the missing pinkie on his right.
As he did, he kept his ear attuned to the radio on the counter, which played Radio Paris and its Nazi-approved propaganda. The reliability of the café’s signal was the primary reason Diago had chosen the restaurant.
He gave the room another glance. Other than the waiter attending the tables, no one seemed to notice him—a well-dressed man dining alone on a hot summer evening. His clothing was neither too ostentatious nor too modest, and in shades of blue that were popular among the mortals.
His only jewelry was the wedding band on his left hand, and a large signet on his right. The setting of the latter contained a crimson jewel threaded with silver streaks.
Another nefil would recognize the gem as an angel’s tear, yet he couldn’t bring himself to part with it. The very item that might give him away could also augment the magic within his song to save his life. Besides, wearing the ring allowed his husband peace of mind. And Miquel has too many worries as it is.
Only during this war had Diago come to fully appreciate his husband’s concern for the lives under his care. As a rogue, Diago had been responsible for no one but himself. Now that he was a member of Los Nefilim, he oversaw three lines of spies in occupied France—one of which he feared was compromised.
His Parisian contact, who went by the code name Nightingale, was supposed to relay a message over Radio Paris this afternoon: Mozart’s Requiem in D minor meant their line of spies was compromised; an original composition indicated they were safe.
Diago checked his watch. It was almost time for the Nightingale’s program.
Remembering his meal, he took another bite of pasta, barely tasting it. He chewed and swallowed with mechanical precision.
His stomach clenched around the food. Stress . . . it’s only the stress of waiting. Once he knew his people were safe, he’d be fine.
Maintaining his posture, he kept his discomfort from showing on his face. That was a trick his abusive family had taught him when he was a child. Never let anyone see your pain. Under their violence, he’d learned to remain in a state of constant vigilance, hyperaware of the moods of the people around him and his surroundings.
One would almost think they’d trained me to be a spy. The thought twisted one corner of his mouth into a wry smile. How poetic that he’d managed to turn those very skills against his kin.
The announcer’s voice purred through the speakers and introduced the next program. Diago forced another bite of food down his throat.
A moment of static and then the Nightingale, whose real name was Nico Bianchi, spoke in French of the upcoming entertainment. Diago’s practiced ear caught the faint Italian lilt still lurking within Nico’s accent, but he doubted the mortals did.
Without much ado, Nico directed his string quartet to play an original composition. Diago’s stomach cramps eased. His people were safe. At least for one more day. He took two more bites of his meal but made no move to leave. Nico composed elegant arrangements, and Diago wanted to enjoy the music.
As he listened, he noted a subtle change insert itself under the main melody. The violinist faltered as if unsure of the notes before him.
And then the music segued from an original composition to become Mozart’s Requiem.
A door slammed within the studio. The cello squawked as the bow raked the strings. An instrument cried out as it dropped to the floor.
A few diners turned to look at the radio as if suddenly noticing its presence. The speakers hissed with static.
Dead air. Diago’s throat tightened. Someone had cut the transmission. They were compromised. Fuck, fuck, and fuck.
Without missing a beat, the waiter reached over and twisted the dial, shutting it off. The other diners returned to their meals, hesitantly at first, but soon the murmur of conversations resumed amid the clatter of silverware.
Diago’s fingers spasmed around his fork. He forced himself to swallow. Bite by bite, he cleaned his plate, closed his book, and took his leave of the café.
Bright sunlight mocked the dark news he’d just received. He turned left and started walking.
The cell of spies they’d code named the Machiavelli line was lost. One nefil and at least eight mortals were now at the Gestapo’s mercy.
And how many, in turn, will they implicate? Could he trust the information coming from his other two cells? Or were they, too, giving him disinformation at the Nazis’ direction?
Christ . . . Christ. All our work gone as quickly as the compositions had changed. Diago forced himself to stroll until he reached a vacant alley. Stepping into the shadows, he leaned over and vomited his meal to the stones.
Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths until his nausea passed. Then he drew his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow.
Nico
, Jesus Christ. We’ve got to get to Nico. If Jordi Abelló found his former lover in the hands of the Gestapo . . .
Diago shut down the thought before it could take legs and run. Nico knew the risks. He’d asked for the assignment.
To prove himself to Los Nefilim. And no one understood that desire more than Diago. Even so, he’d tried to talk Nico into an easier role, but the Italian had been adamant. And now it is too late.
Diago folded his handkerchief and tucked it back into his pocket. Holding his head high, he stepped to the alley’s mouth and looked both ways. No one was on the street.
Unobserved, he continued on his way, doing the only thing he knew to do: put one foot in front of the other and keep going. Just keep going.
He had a train to catch and an appointment to keep.
Later that afternoon, he left a village train station and hurried down a deserted lane. By evening, he reached the dilapidated cottage where he’d left his gear.
He crept through the door. A shadow moved. He froze. His pulse hammered in his ears. Slowly, so as not to be conspicuous, Diago drew his pistol and aimed it at the shadow.
“Ya, ya, ya,” murmured a familiar voice in Spanish. “It’s me, Papá.”
Rafael stepped from the gloom and held up his hand. He wore a signet similar to Diago’s; except the angel’s tear within his band was the carmine-colored stone bequeathed to him by Candela, his angelic mother.
While he had Diago’s green eyes, he favored Miquel with his black curls and his dark skin. Fault the angels for their intentions, but their knowledge of genetics is impeccable. Candela could have passed for Miquel’s sister, and the choice she made in her mortal form showed on his son.
In October he would turn eighteen, but his gaze already seemed far older as it flickered to his father’s pistol.
Diago tried to ignore the trembling in his hand. How close did I come to shooting my son? “What are you doing here?” The question snapped from his lips sharper than he’d intended.
Rafael didn’t flinch. Diago felt bad nonetheless. He wouldn’t be here without cause.
