by T. Frohock
“The Shepherd sent me.”
Code names, dozens of code names. They rattled in his head, except this one he knew without having to search too deep: Guillermo. “And?”
“He needs you back at the farm.”
Diago exhaled and holstered his gun. The farm was Guillermo’s main base of operations, situated between Tarerach and Perpignan. Diago wasn’t due to return for another week. Something is up.
Guillermo wouldn’t have sent Rafael on a whim, not with the Germans looking for workers his son’s age. He might easily be picked up by the Nazis and shipped to any number of factories. Or to the Russian front.
They all knew the danger.
Diago paused beside Rafael and kissed his son’s cheeks. “I’ve got one more stop.”
Rafael shook his head. “The Shepherd says now. Rousseau is coming with de Gaulle. The Allies have a plan, and we’ve got to prepare. He wants you to begin work on the Key again.”
The Key—the song that could enable the nefilim to shift the realms as the angels did—was almost complete. With it, Los Nefilim might be able to turn the course of the war.
Maybe.
Nothing was certain at this point. For one thing, they had yet to compose the arrangement’s final movement, although Guillermo, Diago, Miquel, Rafael, and Guillermo’s daughter, Ysabel, had all worked on the composition at some point. Diago didn’t hold a lot of hope of them unlocking the chords. Even if they did, so much depended on the calculation of the right glyphs activated by the proper vocal shifts. And with only one angel to assist us, we’ll need to supplant the vocalizations with instruments.
For another, they still weren’t sure it would work anyway.
With their own survival in such a state of flux, and the Key being such a long shot, the song was often secondary to more pressing concerns. For Guillermo to shift the composition to a major priority meant he intended to leave nothing about this invasion to chance.
“I hope he doesn’t intend to rely entirely on the Key?”
Rafael shook his head. “No. He just wants every angle covered. Ysa is going on a special mission to retrieve information from his grimoires.”
The news should have brought Diago hope; instead, he felt nothing but more terror. Once the Allied forces touched French shores, the fighting would begin in earnest.
Still, what is better? This secretive deadly war of wits, or enemies in plain sight? He no longer knew the answers. His body moved of its own accord, marching forward, always forward.
Diago found his bag and changed clothes. Gone was the urbane gentleman and his fine suit. Now he resembled his son, with his rough shirt and trousers. He hoisted his old service bag over his shoulder. “I’ve one stop to make.”
“Where?”
“The less you know—”
“The less they can drag from my lips. I know. I know. Maybe I could speak to your contact in your name?” He was eager to step into his father’s role as a spy.
He’s still so young, he thinks this is a game. Diago glanced across the sunny field and then back to his son. Or does he?
The faint scars on Rafael’s cheek were barely visible in the ruined cottage’s soft light. Like Miquel, Rafael bore the mark of the Grigori they’d fought in the Pyrenees at the end of the Spanish Civil War.
The demented angels known as Grigori were feared by the daimon- and angel-born alike for their ability to possess nefilim and mortals. Cast out of the angelic realms for their crimes, their wings torn from their bodies, they were buried deep beneath the stones of the earth.
Except Jordi Abelló uncovered one in 1939. A vile creature that almost destroyed Miquel and Rafael.
Surviving an encounter with a Grigori was considered a badge of honor. Unlike Miquel, who wished his wartime scars would fade, Rafael wore his disfigurement like a medal. He was a capable youth and good in a fight. Already he’d made a name for himself in the maquisards, the rural guerrilla bands of French youths, who fled into the hills rather than be dragged to Germany’s factories.
No. He doesn’t think this is a game. But if he is seen too close to my spies . . . It wasn’t that Diago feared his son would make a fatal error, he simply feared for his son. And I’ve not been able to protect him, no matter how I’ve tried. These wars have stolen his innocence.
“Papá?”
“The Machiavelli line has fallen. When our cells are captured, we ask them to try and hold out under torture for at least forty-eight hours. If they can do so, it gives us time to warn others and secure any supplies we have. We can’t waste a moment. We don’t know who will break or when. This is a message I have to deliver.” He had to own his failures and make the others understand the danger. “Keep your distance from me just in case.”
Rafael frowned. “In case of what?”
“We don’t know who betrayed the Machiavelli line, or whether they’ve implicated me.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you, Papá. I promise.”
Diago turned toward the bright day. He pretended the burning in his eyes was caused by the sun, but he knew in his heart it was pride. “I don’t deserve you.”
Rafael grinned and bumped shoulders with Diago. “I love you, too.”
Using the uncanny speed of the nefilim, Diago hurried through the encroaching darkness. He made his stop at an outlying farm, where he passed the information about the fallen Machiavelli line to the inhabitants. He was barely inside the cottage before he was out again. His message to the mortal occupants was simple: The Gestapo knows about you. Destroy evidence, move the ammunition, and flee.
When he left them, he walked south, taking a back road until he could slip into the forest unobserved. He felt his son’s presence as Rafael followed him.
Several kilometers from the farm, Diago finally deemed it safe enough for them to travel together. They met on a hill that overlooked the trestles. A train of cattle cars snaked along the rails.
Although he and Rafael were almost a quarter of a kilometer from the tracks, Diago tasted the despair of the train’s occupants. Their misery floated upward, leaving the bitter scent of anxiety rank on the air. Diago’s tongue flicked between his lips, and he tasted their panic, tangy and sweet. A pleasurable warmth spread across his chest and down into his stomach.
The physical response, caused by his daimonic nature, was purely involuntary. Touching the angel’s tear of his signet, he called on his angelic nature and squelched his daimonic desire to feed on the prisoners’ terror. To imbibe initiated a craving that demanded ever-increasing dosages, stripping him of his humanity each time he indulged.
Miquel had taught him control. With empathy and understanding, Diago’s husband gave him the tools to resist his daimonic passions.
Diago glanced at Rafael, who wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something bad, but otherwise showed no sign of his daimonic ancestry. Rafael was only a quarter daimon—his mother had been an angel, and Diago was merely half-daimon himself.
None of that mattered to their kin. Diago’s father, Alvaro, wanted Rafael and Diago to serve the daimons. That demand was as intense now as it had been when Rafael was a child. And a good thing that it is.
Diago had exploited Alvaro’s greed to gain a toehold in the Scorpion Court’s ranks. Not that they trusted him. Diago had switched sides before, with disastrous results. It was a dangerous waltz and one misstep could bring them all down.
“Ghost train.” Rafael’s whisper pulled Diago from his thoughts.
Probably leaving the concentration camp at La Vernet for Drancy. “I’m sorry for them.”
“Why can’t we help them?” The righteous anger in his son’s voice ripped Diago’s heart. If Rafael had his way, they’d raise their voices in defiance.
And we would die like flies. “We’re too few.” The Spanish Civil War had decimated the ranks of Los Nefilim, and Rousseau’s Néphilim, who had never fully recuperated from the Great War, were now scattered due to Germany’s invasion. He didn’t need to reiterate these facts
to Rafael. Just cool his hot head so he doesn’t do anything rash. “We’ll help them more by putting a definitive end to this war, and that takes time.”
“They don’t have time.”
“Patience.” Diago’s murmur was almost drowned out by the train’s distant horn. “Rousseau is coming with de Gaulle. We must move with care.”
Rafael began to walk again. “Then we should get going.”
Before following his son, Diago turned north one last time and looked toward the horizon, where Paris lay. He wondered if Nico survived, and if he did, what secrets would he tell?
“Papá?”
Diago tore his gaze from the dark skyline and caught up to his son. He put one foot in front of the other, moving forward. Always forward.
2
30 November 1943
Fresnes Prison
Someone was screaming. The long wail rolled through the prison’s cellar, turning into an ululation, piercing the frigid air.
Nico sat on the floor of his cell and tuned out the mortal’s pain, not from callous disregard, but because he had other worries. He focused on his hand. Three fingers were broken and if he didn’t set them soon, he risked being maimed.
Unlike mortals, who took months to heal, a nefil’s body rejuvenated at an accelerated rate. New threads of bone cells were shaped within days or weeks to form blood clots around a fracture. If the cells reached bone splinters, the result was the creation of new bone structures. Untended, the growths had the potential to leave a nefil deformed, or dead.
The older the nefil, the faster the healing. At only two hundred years in this incarnation, Nico was barely an adult by the nefilim’s standards. But his youth didn’t mitigate his danger.
He gingerly tested the middle finger of his left hand. The proximal phalanx was crooked and didn’t move with the flexibility of a recent break. In normal circumstances, a broken finger—or two or three—wasn’t a problem. Except losing consciousness cost me time. He had no idea how long he’d been out.
His last session with his interrogators had been one of the most brutal since his arrival several months ago. When he’d kept to his lies, the Gestapo major shrieked his questions at Nico before going icy calm. His last clear memory was seeing the white-hot poker as the major jerked it from the coals.
It’s like they’re losing patience with me. If he held even the slightest masochistic tendencies from his days with Jordi Abelló, the Gestapo had beaten him free of them. But I deserve this. He’d helped Jordi create this monster during the Spanish war. Now karma is here and it’s a motherfucker dressed in swastikas.
Beneath his shirt, his flesh writhed and struggled to heal around the blisters on his back, spiking his nerves with constant flashes of pain. The healing was almost as bad as the initial injury.
Nico bit his lower lip and shuddered through another wave of agony. When it passed, he forced his attention back to his fingers.
I’ll break them again if necessary. He tore a strip of cloth from the tail of his shirt and draped it across his lap. With a shaking hand, he touched the swollen finger. Begin with the middle, then the ring finger, then the pinkie. But first, the middle.
Rolling the sleeve of his jacket into a gag, Nico stuffed it in his mouth and bit down hard. He might never play a guitar again, not with his left hand on the frets.
Doesn’t matter. I can learn other ways to play, other instruments. Diago plays the piano with nine fingers . . . this is nothing. He closed his eyes and jerked the bone into place. As he did, his back struck the wall behind him.
Blisters exploded from the contact. He screamed behind his gag. A sob racked his throat. His body flushed with heat. A wave of nausea rolled through his stomach. Shadows blurred his vision. Don’t pass out, don’t pass out . . .
The nausea gradually receded and the room brightened again. He looked down. The finger was still crooked, but not as bad. It’s better.
Before he could think too much about the pain, he moved to the ring finger, and finally managed to set the pinkie without losing consciousness. He had nothing to serve as a splint, so he bound them together with the strip of his shirt.
Nico relaxed his jaws and let the jacket fall to his thighs. If he lived through this, even Miquel would have to admit Nico’s silence came at a price.
Not that he expected any such admission from the older nefil. Miquel held on to his grudge over the events during the winter of ’39 and probably would for the next five incarnations. Nothing Nico did seemed to appease him.
So fuck him, just fuck him. At least I’ll be able to look him in the eye.
Outside the cell, the other prisoner’s screams faded to silence. Dead or unconscious? Nico wondered vaguely. Was he a member of my group?
Maybe. Anything was possible. Nico only hoped that Diago had heard Mozart’s Requiem before the Gestapo stormed the radio studio.
The memory still troubled him. The Machiavelli line had gone down like a house of cards. Nico never imagined the ring of spies to be impregnable, but the speed at which it crumbled had almost taken him off guard. Who betrayed us? Mortals or nefilim?
He had to assume it was a mortal. A nefil would have paid more attention to the compositions. But his captors hadn’t.
Sheer impulse had caused him to grab the sheet music he’d designed to disguise the Requiem that day. Impulse or premonition? Or maybe just good luck.
While good fortune might explain bringing the Requiem, it was Diago’s research and attention to detail that gave Nico his edge. Diago had passed along photographs of undercover Gestapo agents, which helped Nico recognize the man smoking a cigarette by the studio’s entrance.
That was when Nico knew his luck had run out. He snapped to a decision on a moment’s notice. To leave without entering the studio might draw the Gestapo to him before he could alert Diago. He’d chosen to carry on; warn Los Nefilim if he could. Besides, the agent’s presence didn’t necessarily mean the Gestapo were there for him.
Nico had a thousand reasons for what he did, and he was satisfied with all of them. Diago would be proud.
Inside the radio station, Nico had faced another choice: Should he give his quartet the unmodified original composition, the full Requiem, or the modified sheet music that began with an original composition and then segued into the Requiem? The answer came sooner than he expected.
He glanced up when the studio door opened and his musicians filed inside. Standing just outside was the Gestapo agent, who led the station manager into an adjacent office.
Nico gave his quartet the modified composition. He pretended nothing was wrong and began his program on cue.
The agent entered the studio just as Nico guided the muscians into the Requiem. Was Diago listening? Nico had no way to know. But for once in my life, I did the right thing.
That knowledge had carried him through the torture. When he did talk, he gave the Nazis prepared lies; facts honeyed with just enough truth to make them stick. They, in turn, kept him clinging to life.
Who was it that told me nefilim were notoriously hard to kill? Jordi? Maybe Jordi. Maybe Benito. They both derived so much pleasure from another’s pain.
It hadn’t always been that way. Not for Jordi, anyway. When Nico had first met him, Jordi was a caring lover. But as he accrued power, his true nature revealed itself.
I thought he’d be a better person without the drugs. Instead, he’d grown more callous by the day, and Nico started to look for a way out of the relationship. But he was in too deep, and Jordi’s enemies were suddenly his enemies.
Strangely enough, it was Jordi’s brother, Guillermo, who gave Nico a shot at redemption—one he never expected to receive. Being a member of Los Nefilim offered him a slim prospect of safety from Jordi’s revenge.
At least, it had. He shuttled the thought aside. If the Gestapo intended to give him to Jordi, he’d already be on his way. I’ve got enough trouble without conjuring more.
More than anything, Guillermo’s act had given Nico a chance
to make amends. Unfortunately, only Diago seemed to appreciate Nico’s efforts. And that is because Diago knows about mistakes . . . how one bad decision easily leads to another and another and suddenly the pit is too deep to escape.
The sharp rap of boots marching down the hall jerked him from his thoughts. The footsteps stopped suddenly at his door.
Nico dragged himself upright and got to his feet.
The bolt turned.
A spasm of terror almost drove him back to his knees.
Was this how Miquel felt in that lonely cell? Fear of the unknown eating his soul? Nico sniffed and tasted blood in the back of his throat. No, I don’t wonder that he still hates me.
Nico never forgot the first time he saw Miquel. He was on his feet and thinking. He never buckled under the pressure. He never begged.
Nico straightened his back. Nor will I.
The door swung open.
Nico’s gaze flickered first to the German’s eyes. He searched the officer’s gaze for the reflection of light that indicated a nefil. The man’s irises were leaden, the color of cold.
Mortal.
Still dangerous, though. He wore the Waffen-SS’s gray uniform; the black collar carried the insignia of SS-Obergruppenführer. With a curt gesture, he waved at Nico’s jacket. “Bring your things.”
My things. He almost laughed at that. All he had were the clothes on his back and the jacket. He struggled into the coat, pulling it on as quickly as he dared. Even taking care, he felt more blisters rupture across his back.
A thin line of anger lanced his pain. The rage kept him on his feet.
The officer nodded to two subordinates. The soldiers entered the cell and grabbed Nico’s arms, hauling him forward. He offered them no resistance. The pain would come soon enough. He didn’t need to antagonize them into making it worse.
Instead of turning toward the interrogation cells, however, they forced him toward the gate at the end of the corridor. Hope burst through his chest and warmed his chilled bones.
I’m leaving. They’re done with me. At the very least, they were moving him to one of the upper-level cells. Had Diago found me? He said Los Nefilim never forget one of their own. Has he sent someone to the rescue?
