by T. Frohock
Sir Devil. He wondered if Herr Teufel was counting on him getting the joke.
Nico stared at the back of the chauffer’s head. “Why me?” The coat slipped from his shoulder.
Teufel adjusted the garment and fastened the top button. “I have a job for you, Nicolas Ruiseñor.”
“And if I say no?”
“I didn’t say you had a choice.” Teufel grinned with his long, long teeth and placed the pink triangle assigned to homosexuals on Nico’s thigh.
The blood drained from his face. He felt it happen. His pulse thundered through his veins, and he wondered how much fear his heart could stand before it stopped beating. And then he recalled Jordi . . . or maybe it was Benito . . . saying that nefilim were notoriously hard to kill.
3
10 January 1944
The Farm
Ysabel perched on the edge of her chair and watched Guillermo move the oil lamp closer to the parchment. He bent his head and squinted at the grimoire’s page.
It was all she could do not to point out the beginning of the glyph to her father. “Do you need a magnifying glass?”
Guillermo’s gaze snapped up. “There is nothing wrong with my eyes.”
Except they are bloodshot from so much reading in the dark. She kept the thought to herself. The farmhouse had a generator, but they used it only in emergencies. Stealth was their objective in the so-called Free Zone.
She forced what she hoped was an innocent expression to her face. “I didn’t say you needed glasses.”
“Good. Because I don’t.”
“It’s a tiny mark, and I had difficulty finding it.”
He gave a low murmur that was more like a growl. “Yes, but I put it there, so I know exactly what I’m looking for.”
She leaned back and snapped, “Fine.”
The retort won her a concerned look from her father, and she immediately regretted her tone. It wasn’t his fault her patience was short this evening.
The trip home from Toulouse had been long and exhausting. She’d endured delay after delay only to find herself sharing the bench on the last train home with a member of the Milice. The policeman’s hands kept creeping to her thigh, his wedding ring glinting on his finger, as he tried to engage her in conversation. She’d finally popped him with a hard sigil so he’d sleep. She hoped he missed his stop.
Guillermo’s fingernail traced the faint curl of ink that indicated the first loop of the ward. “I found it. See? I’m not going blind.”
“Stop teasing. I’m worried about you.” And that was no lie. Losing Spain to his brother’s Nationalists had been a hard blow to her father’s pride. And to mine. “You need to rest.”
“I’ll rest when the war is over.”
“Any news regarding when the Allies will attempt their crossing?”
“Spring at the soonest, summer at the latest,” he mumbled as he followed the twist of ink across the parchment.
In order to reinforce the Atlantic Wall, Die Nephilim had placed deadly sigils along the French coast to repel an invasion. Los Nefilim’s job was to find a way to get the Allied forces past those wards without alerting Die Nephilim.
And the maritime song hidden beneath the grimoire’s sigils would do the trick. It was a complex arrangement designed to manufacture a supernatural weather system that worked on two levels.
The first series of glyphs would interfere with the vibrations of protective wards, such as the ones used by Die Nephilim. The second wave of sigils created a veil of mist, which enabled the attackers to see clearly, while keeping the approaching fleet hidden from the enemy’s view.
Like the mortal governments, the various divisions of the Inner Guard jealously secured their secrets. The glyphs and chords of Los Nefilim’s maritime song were so guarded, Guillermo had hidden the pages of the composition in five separate grimoires. To further confound discovery, he placed each of the grimoires in a different library—first in Spain, and when Spain fell to Jordi’s Nationalists, within French universities.
As a final deterrent, each of the five pages was guarded by violent sigils. Only Guillermo and Ysabel possessed the tonal range that would unlock those glyphs to reveal the composition hidden beneath the text.
Culling the pages from the grimoires while navigating the Nazis’ and Milice’s tortuous obstacles had been daunting enough. Dodging both daimon- and angel-born nefilim, who were also interested in acquiring the song, had turned the assignment into a dangerous game of cat and mouse.
But we’re almost done. Leaning forward again, Ysa watched her father hum a low note.
Flashes of light sparkled across the gold lettering. The wards protecting the page fell away. Musical chords emerged across the parchment—the sound of a fog that moved like a veil.
The tension left her shoulders. “Four down. One to go.”
Guillermo lit a cigar and peered at the page through the smoke. “The last page is the most difficult.”
They’d agreed he would tell her where each one was hidden as she brought them in. That way if she was captured, she couldn’t reveal the whereabouts of the other pages.
She leaned forward expectantly. “What am I looking for next?”
He watched her carefully. “We need Le Livre d’Or.”
“The Book of Gold.”
“Tear out Psalm 60.”
She didn’t write down the information. She would remember. “And where is it?”
“Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève.”
“Why there?”
“Rousseau advised me it would be safe from the daimon-born.”
She thought about the location, and it made sense. The library had been designed with exposed iron arches. Over the years, members of Les Néphilim had reinforced the lacy patterns with subtle glyphs that magnified the effect of iron on the daimon-born nefilim. Even Rafael walked blocks out of his way to avoid the library.
One thing troubled her, though. “Saint-Geneviève might deter the daimon-born, but what about the angel-born?”
The lamp’s glow set Guillermo’s irises alight with sparks of supernatural fire. “They’ll see the warning wards.”
“You’ve cursed it?”
“They’ll lose a finger if they’re lucky, their hand if they’re not. My curse will follow them into their next incarnation. They will not know a day’s peace.” He flicked the ashes of his cigar into the ashtray and the firelight sent orange and red streaks through the Throne’s tear in his signet.
As a king of the Inner Guard, her father’s song carried the authority of the Thrones themselves. Ysabel didn’t pity the nefil that crossed him. They’ll get what they earn. “I can pretend to be a student.”
Guillermo shook his head. “They’ve taken women out of most of the universities. Your cover story is that you’re helping your invalid father with his research.”
Her lip quirked upward in a smile. “You’re not an invalid.”
“I feel like one some days.” He turned his head as if ashamed of the admission. “You’ll have to request the grimoire from the librarian. Suero will give you his name.”
Her father’s secretary knew precisely how to cut through the Nazis’ bureaucratic snarls. “When do I leave?”
“In the morning if you like. Suero has new papers for you. I want you to be very careful. We lost Nico in Paris.”
“Any word on his whereabouts?”
Guillermo shook his head. “No. By the time we finally got someone into Fresnes, he’d been transferred, or shot. We’re not giving up, though. Not until I have proof of his death.”
Ysa had no doubt. He left none of his nefilim behind if he could avoid it, and his loyalty to them cemented their devotion to him.
Even those like Nico, who swore their allegiance to the Inner Guard under duress, often wound up being some of Los Nefilim’s most faithful soldiers. Ysa hoped that she would one day command the same respect when she became queen.
But that day is long in the future. For now, she simply wanted t
o learn as much as she could from her father.
Guillermo opened a drawer and withdrew a bottle of orujo and two shot glasses. “I don’t want to lose anyone else, especially you. If I had another nefil whose voice could unlock those wards, I’d send them in heartbeat. I’d go myself if I could.”
She accepted the glass he offered her. “I doubt you would make it far. Things are happening faster than the news can travel. I overheard a pair of soldiers talking about Korosten.” West of Kiev, the city of Korosten held a major railway node that supported the Ukraine. “They said the Nazis were forced to retreat.”
Guillermo held the bottle suspended over the glass. That piece of good news won his rapt attention.
“Interesting.” He poured them both a round and then raised his glass. “Salut.”
“Salut.” She threw back the shot. The warmth of the alcohol seeped into her chest.
He leaned against the desk and looked down at her. “Tell me more.”
“There are rumors that the Soviets have pushed the Germans back across the Polish border. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know. But I can tell you this: the rank and file here in France are nervous. I can see it in the soldiers’ eyes at the checkpoints.”
She kept talking as her father poured them another round. “The Germans and the Milice are suspicious of men, especially anyone not clearly attached to a wife or mother, because the maquisards are becoming bolder. Women, on the other hand, are questioned less. The Nazis don’t believe we’re capable of thinking strategically. I say let’s keep using their misogyny against them.” She lifted her glass. “Salut.”
“Salut.” He drained the shot. “I remember when you were but seven or eight and you kept playing that spy game . . . do you remember that?”
She smiled as she recalled facing down her father and demanding that he train her to be a spy. “I remember.”
“And you remember I said that if you wanted to be a good member of Los Nefilim, then you had to learn to follow orders? Do you remember that?”
“Yes, Papá.”
“Then I order you to come home safe to us. Because if I lose you, I’ll lose my heart.”
She was surprised to see him blink away a tear. Or maybe he is just exhausted. The circles under his eyes looked blacker in the office’s near-dark. “You need to rest,” she said again, more gently than the first time.
He ignored the statement and took her hands in his. “I know you’ve spent a few days at each of the universities.”
“I wanted to look at several grimoires so no one would guess which one I defaced.”
“And that was smart. But not in Paris. You get in, get that psalm, and get on the first train home. Understand?”
She didn’t argue. “I will.”
He kissed her cheeks and released her. “See your mother before you leave.”
“You know I will.”
“And come back to us.”
She blew him a kiss. “You know I will.” As she closed the door, she glimpsed him one last time as he poured himself another shot. He’s working too hard.
But it wouldn’t be for much longer. All she needed was one more grimoire, and then she would be here to help him. They’d finish this war together.
4
12 January 1944
The Farm
Diago glared at the composition on the piano’s music stand. He picked up his pencil and set it down again. The Key’s complex series of notes mocked him. It’s not the arrangement of chords but something simple, something basic, something that is right before my eyes and I cannot see—
Someone closed a door in the farmhouse, interrupting his train of thought. Voices from the kitchen floated toward the music room as the other nefilim went about their daily activities.
Sound. Too much sound, intruding on the quiet he so desperately needed.
Christ, don’t they realize I’m trying to work? In his anxiety, he snapped the pencil in half.
“I can’t do this.” He had to go upstairs to Guillermo’s office and simply tell him the truth: I can’t compose the Key. Not under pressure. Not like this.
The music room door opened, and Rafael poked his head inside. “Do you want some lunch, Papá?”
“What I want,” he said with exaggerated care as he placed the broken pencil on the stand, “is some goddamn quiet.”
Rafael considered the statement. “Lunch would be easier. Take a break, come back to it fresh.”
“No time.”
“Maybe Juanita could help?”
To her credit, Guillermo’s wife had spent weeks with him, but in the end, they realized the collaboration wasn’t working.
“She is an angel.” With three sets of vocal cords that allowed for complex tones. “And nefilim don’t have the same range. Everything she composed would have worked beautifully for angels, but when the nefilim tried to sing her compositions . . .” He brushed the air with his fingers as if waving away a bad smell. “It was like taking an arrangement designed for a flute and playing it on a kazoo.”
Rafael laughed.
“It’s not funny.” But his son’s laughter eased the tension in Diago’s chest. A smile crept to his lips in spite of himself.
Still chortling, Rafael came into the music room and closed the door. “If you’re not hungry, let’s take a walk. We can come back in twenty minutes. It’ll still be here.”
Diago glanced toward the terrace, where the snow hid the broken stones. The flagstones were one of the many cosmetic repairs the nefilim neglected due to the war.
They’d found the three-story farmhouse abandoned shortly after the Germans drove them from northern Paris. Whoever owned the property had vacated the area long ago. Guillermo’s secretary, Suero, found the appropriate papers; money they could scarcely afford to lose changed hands; and the titles were transferred into one of Guillermo’s many aliases.
The house itself had been a wreck when they first occupied it. Wallpaper peeled from the plaster, the floor tiles buckled, and the stairs were barely usable. They’d repaired the interior defects, and then the barns, where they hid their petrol and guns.
Furniture had been scavenged from trash heaps, or they’d simply made what they needed themselves. The upright piano had been a recent purchase.
And here I sit, squandering it. Diago touched an ivory key.
Rafael scooted onto the bench beside him just as he used to do when he was small. He was barely six and marveled over every extravagance in our little house.
The piano had been his favorite instrument until he learned the violin. Diago smiled at the memory as Rafael gently pressed the keys to cover the sound of their conversation.
He whispered, “Miquel sent me. He said you haven’t checked for messages in a week.”
Rafael meant messages from Diago’s daimon-born cousin, the Condesa Christina Banderas. Diago kept his voice low. “I haven’t been able to get away. Violeta is beginning to notice that I walk after each snowfall.” Christina sent her sigils through the storms. “She tried to follow me the last time.”
Rafael played a bagatelle. “Maybe we should tell her what’s going on.”
“No. Too many people know already.” He pressed the keys and added a few notes of his own to his son’s jaunty song. “Aren’t you the Three Musketeers or something?” He recalled that when they were young, Ysabel, Rafael, and Violeta would run around their Spanish compound with sticks for swords and chicken feathers in their hats. They read Dumas together, passing the book around so that each could read their Musketeer’s dialogue. “Can’t you call her off?”
“She listens to Ysa, and Ysa is in Paris.” Rafael ended the bagatelle and lowered the fallboard. “I’ll walk with you. It’ll give you some cover.”
“Okay, you win. This time.”
Rafael grinned. “You say that every time.”
They left the music room and passed the kitchen on their way to the mudroom. The Corvo twins, Eva and Maria, were having lunch with Guillermo’s secretary
, Suero.
The Corvo sisters were old nefilim, who’d been with Guillermo’s household since his firstborn life as Solomon. Through their rank and allegiance, they were part of Guillermo’s household and his inner council. Eva had served as Rafael’s governess, while Maria watched over Ysa. Now that the children were grown and no longer in need of bodyguards, the twins had settled into the task of monitoring Guillermo’s supply of ammunition and guns.
Suero kept the details of Guillermo’s day-to-day business in constant motion. A lesser nefil, he made a very complex job appear easy. He looked up from his soup and gestured to the chair next to him. “Want something, Diago?”
“Rafael has persuaded me to take a break. Maybe after our walk.”
Maria rose and grabbed a metal lunch box from the counter. “Good, walk to the northern field. Violeta didn’t come in for lunch.”
Rafael intercepted the box. “I’ll take it to her.”
They went past the kitchen and into the mudroom for their boots and coats. Outside, the day was blindingly bright with sunshine and snow.
Heading in the direction of the northern field, they kept walking until they were out of sight of the house. Then they ducked into the dense pines that bordered the farm’s outer edges.
Rafael dragged the heel of his boot across the snow and murmured a soft song. A breeze carried snow over their tracks.
“That’s a very good trick,” Diago said.
“I use it whenever I’m working with the maquisards. I have another one to confound any dogs that pick up our scent.”
“War forces us to improvise.”
“I wish we could be inspired without so much killing.”
“I agree.” The path turned steep, so they saved their breath for walking until they reached the summit.
From there, they took a circuitous route through the forest until they reached a ravine. One boulder jutted over a straight drop, forming a ledge. Thin cracks marred the stone’s surface. Within the cracks, pools of ice and snow glittered like veins of pyrite.
Diago followed the lines and saw hints of indigo and lighter shades of blue threaded throughout. Christina’s song. She had sent a message during the last storm. “Okay, stand back and keep watch. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
