by T. Frohock
Diago waited until Rafael withdrew to the tree line before he eased onto the boulder and examined the labyrinthine fissures. He removed his glove and tapped the surface. A spark of green fire emerged from his fingertip and turned into a cyclone of scorpions. They writhed over the surface and took the form of a tarot card: the High Priestess.
Of course—Christina would consider herself no less. The figure’s mouth moved and spoke with his cousin’s voice. “Come to the manse at rue Émile Zola as soon as you can. I have urgent news.”
A chill went through him. That was right into the scorpion’s lair. Is this a trick to lure me to my death? Do they suspect I’m working as a double agent? He waited for more, but the figure didn’t speak again. The scorpions faded under the sun and disappeared.
Rafael returned and squatted beside Diago. “Was there a message?”
Diago nodded.
“What does she want?”
“To meet with me. She wants me to come to her house. I have no idea why.”
“Then it could be a trap.”
Everything in war was a trap. “Maybe.” He backed away from the stone and started walking toward the farm again. “I won’t know until I go.”
Rafael didn’t argue, but Diago could tell he wasn’t happy about the situation. “Is she really our cousin?”
Diago picked his way carefully through the wet pine needles. “She is a collateral relative, a cousin five or six times removed. Cousin is just less of a mouthful and close enough to the truth.” He glanced at Rafael from the corner of his eye. “You don’t usually like to talk about the daimon-born. Why this sudden curiosity?”
Rafael shrugged. “Ever since you’ve become involved with them again, you’ve started having bad dreams.”
Diago kept his gaze on the ground. The resurgence of his childhood traumas was no secret to the small household. Even so, it wasn’t a subject he was comfortable discussing, especially with his son.
“We suspected my contact with my family might cause some . . . issues.” It was as if associating with his cousin had inadvertently unlocked the door to Diago’s most caustic memories. With each visit, his childhood wounds opened in increasingly larger increments. In many ways the daimon-born still owned him. The handprints of their blows had faded from his flesh to become invisible tattoos inked into his psyche. “Juanita is helping me with it. Besides, I’ve always had bad dreams.” He tried to sound nonchalant, to put his son at ease.
“Not like these,” Rafael whispered, clearly not mollified. “I hear you in the night, walking. Sometimes I wake and find your protective sigils on my door.”
Sometimes I forget he’s no longer a child. “The movement soothes me. That’s all.”
“You once told me that not all of the daimon-born are evil.”
Curious to see where Rafael intended to take the conversation, he conceded, “That’s true.”
“What about Christina? Where does she fall on the spectrum?”
“Christina . . .” What can I say about her? He shrugged. “Christina is . . . ambitious.”
“Then she’s not a good person?”
“Jesus, I don’t know if she’s good or bad. The daimon-born are like the angel-born and mortals. There is a lot of nuance in people . . .”
“You’re prevaricating.”
“Oh, what big words you’ve learned.” He teased his son.
Rafael didn’t smile back. “I’m serious, Papá. Don’t change the subject.”
“Okay.” He’d once promised himself that he’d always be honest with his son. And this is one of those times—uncomfortable though it may be. “I can’t tell you if she is good or bad, only my experience with her. She and I have encountered one another many times through the centuries. We’ve sometimes even helped one another. She has, on occasion, shown me compassion. That quality tends to mitigate her more ruthless schemes, and it’s why I approached her when Guillermo gave me this assignment.”
“And if she discovers you’re spying on them?”
“She will look to her own interests. She is ambitious,” he repeated. “She believes she should be Moloch’s priestess.”
“I still don’t understand how Moloch survived. I know I was only six, but my song tore his flesh from his body. I saw it happen.”
“Do you still have nightmares about that night?” Diago asked gently.
Rafael pressed his lips together as if he might hold back, and then he blurted, “I had one this morning.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Rafael shrugged. “I dreamed the whole scene all over again. It was the day you found out about me, and I was so happy. I didn’t have to live in the orphanage anymore, because you promised to let me live with you.”
Diago recalled the shock of finding that he’d fathered a child with the angel Candela. Rafael’s birth was the product of a deal with the devil. Moloch, who used his daimonic skills to create weapons of mass destruction, had offered the angels the blueprint of a bomb that would stop all wars. In exchange, he wanted Diago’s child.
And the angels complied, because they’re merciless bastards, who will stop at nothing to get what they want. Candela’s assignment had been simple: seduce Diago and, once she gave birth, to hand the child over to Moloch. But somewhere along the line, the angel fell in love with her son, and she refused to part with him. When her kin closed in on her, she’d hidden Rafael in an orphanage and died the second death rather than disclose his location.
Except to her brother, Prieto. Diago realized his son had stopped talking. “What happened in your dream after we found one another?”
“The angel Prieto put us on the train and ordered you to give me to Moloch.”
So far, Rafael’s dream held to the facts. Candela’s brother, Prieto, found a way to give Diago a chance to save Rafael.
Diago encouraged his son to go on.
Rafael didn’t need much prompting. “While we were on the train, you and Miquel decided to make a golem that looked like me. You carried the golem to Moloch and tricked him into taking it, and he gave you the blueprint for the bomb. But as you were running away, Moloch realized he’d been deceived. He sent his vampires after you, and they caught you, and beat you, but you wouldn’t give up that bomb . . .”
Because Prieto said he would kill Miquel if I didn’t make the exchange. Diago didn’t speak, though.
Caught up in the telling of his dream, Rafael’s breath quickened. “And I heard you scream . . . and I knew I had to save you, because I had waited so long for you to come, and I remember I had a little mirrored box in my hands.”
The casket was an angelic gift from Prieto. It was made of mirrored panels, and the lid had a triptych etched in the glass: a woman dancing on the first panel; on the second, she and Diago standing face-to-face; and on the third, the figure of a child, representing Rafael.
“I held up the box and ran down the stairs as fast as I could. When I got to the sewer, I saw you on the ground between two vampires. They’d beaten you and broken your arm and bit off your finger . . .”
Diago automatically clenched his right hand into a fist, feeling the phantom pain of the vampire’s venom rush up his arm again.
Rafael didn’t seem to notice. He stopped walking, lost within the dream. “And I held up the box and sang . . . I sang for the memory of my mamá and for you and for Miquel, and the mirrored box shattered and a thousand golden snakes spun through the air.”
Rafael’s chest rose and fell as if he were running, or even standing in that sewer again, singing for their lives.
Diago didn’t like the glazed look in his son’s eyes. “And all those things happened,” he whispered.
“Except in my nightmare, the snakes didn’t tear into Moloch’s body. In my nightmare, he brushed them aside and laughed at me. He grabbed my throat, and when I screamed, he turned into mist and rushed into my mouth and suddenly he was me.”
Jesus.
“Could the dream be a prophecy?”
&
nbsp; Diago faced the fear in his son’s eyes and didn’t lie to him. “Maybe.” He certainly hoped not. “I don’t know. Prophecies are fickle. I don’t put much stock in them. Given our circumstances and the stress you’re under, it could just as easily be anxiety.”
“Did Moloch force himself on Alvaro like that?”
Not my grandfather or your father but Alvaro. Rafael didn’t even see himself as related to the daimon-born. And that is definitely for the best.
Diago took his son’s arm and started walking again. “No. Alvaro allowed Moloch to possess his body. He let him inside. It’s a . . . benign possession.”
Rafael considered the explanation. “The same way Jordi allowed the Grigori to possess him in 1939?”
“It’s a similar process. The difference is that the Grigori’s spirit never left his own corporeal body. He simply needed a physical link to Jordi in order to infect him with his commands.”
“And the Grigori’s tear in Jordi’s signet was that physical link.” Rafael kicked a pine cone.
“Exactly. When Guillermo shattered the tear within the signet, he broke the connection, and freed Jordi from the Grigori’s influence.”
Rafael considered the scenario. “Alvaro wears Moloch’s signet. If the stone is damaged, will that break Moloch’s hold on Alvaro?”
“No. The ring is simply a symbol to the daimons. It doesn’t function like the signets of the Inner Guard’s kings and queens. Moloch is a god, not an angel. He doesn’t require a superficial link. His soul essentially cohabitates with Alvaro’s soul in a single body.”
As they walked, Rafael seemed to leave the nightmare behind, and Diago felt some small sense of relief at that. “And having Moloch within him works to Alvaro’s benefit, because the other nefilim see him as a god.”
Diago patted his son’s shoulder. “Now you’ve got it.”
“What does Moloch do when the nefil’s body begins to age? I mean, we’re long-lived, but we’re not immortal.”
“That’s why the position of high priest is so important. When Alvaro’s body eventually dies, the high priest becomes Moloch’s next host.”
“So Christina doesn’t just want to become high priestess . . . she wants to be a goddess.”
“Now you understand.”
They reached the edge of the forest, emerging close to the northern field.
Rafael paused to hide their tracks once again.
Diago caught movement in the distance and nodded.
A woman walked at the edge of the field. Diago recognized Violeta, the head of their guard unit. The young nefil had the same black hair as Diago, but where his skin was olive, hers carried the lighter coloring of a Catalonian. She’d been spared her mother’s long face and stern features, but then again, Violeta was only in her firstborn life . . . she had plenty of time to develop the distrust and rage her mother had worn straight to the grave.
Rafael followed Diago’s gaze. “I’m going to deliver her lunch and stay with her for a while. She’s always morose while Ysa is gone.”
“It’s because she loves Ysa.”
“Yeah, but Ysa’s heart belongs to Los Nefilim. Violeta has a hard time with that.”
“I know you’ll help them work it out.”
“That’s what friends do.” Rafael touched the tip of his cap. “I’ll be in later.”
Diago lifted his hand and walked back to the house. He put one foot in front of the other, each step heavier than the last. He needed to see Guillermo and Miquel. They had to make plans for a trip into Perpignan.
5
17 January 1944
Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève
Ysabel sat on the edge of the rooming house’s bed and tied her shoes. Her packed suitcase waited by the door. A quick trip to the library, get the psalm, back here to retrieve the suitcase, and then catch the next train.
“Let’s hope it goes that easy,” she whispered. It was the closest thing she had to a prayer. She retrieved a pair of glasses from the nightstand and traced two small glyphs over each lens. Humming a soft chord, she activated the sigils.
And now the test. At the blotchy mirror by the door, she adjusted the ugly black frames on her face. The sigils were designed to magnify her eyes and change the color of her irises from light brown to blue. Instead, the wards made her eyes seem green.
I’ve got to work on that. Regardless, it wasn’t a bad disguise.
Her suit was conservative but fashionable—Parisians might forget a face, but they never forgot a bad outfit. Violeta had suggested the skirt, which was neither too long nor too short and was pleated to give her a full range of movement.
My Violeta always has her eye on clothing that works well in a fight. Which, when Ysa thought about it, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing from a tactical viewpoint.
The dull brown coat made her auburn hair seem more vibrant, so she pulled her curls into a low bun and covered her head with a cheap cloche hat. Her shoes were sensible with low heels, in case she had to run. Other than her watch, she wore no jewelry.
This is it. She checked the time. The library should be open, and most of the students would be in class this early in the morning. It was time to meet the librarian, Pierre Fronteau.
Although Los Nefilim still had a few safe houses left in Paris, Ysa avoided them. Her father had lost enough people, and she wanted no one to be able to trace her movements back to their nefilim.
She opened the door and listened. Quiet. Most of the house’s occupants had left for the day.
Grabbing her satchel from its hook, she slipped out of her room and down the stairs. The mortal landlady, Madam Tillet, was busy in the kitchen.
Ysa waited until the woman disappeared into the pantry. Moving quickly, she sneaked past the kitchen and outside.
The overcast sky kissed the air with a light mist. Hopefully, the weather would keep people inside.
The library was only a few blocks away, so she decided to walk. She disdained public transport unless it was absolutely necessary, because there were simply too many ways to be trapped. Too, on her feet she could run with the speed of the nefilim and lose any mortal in Paris’s winding alleys.
She wasn’t as fast as Rafael, but she could hold her own. No one is as fast as Rafael. The thought of her friend usually brought a smile to her lips, but not today. Rafael had become withdrawn lately—not unfriendly, but they’d drifted apart.
Five years ago, she’d forbidden him to spy on the traitor Carlos Vela, at the end of the Spanish Civil War. Instead, he disobeyed her, wound up in a portal realm with a Grigori, and almost died at Jordi’s hand.
It was an experience that left scars on Rafael far deeper than the ones he wore on his face. Although he claimed he didn’t harbor resentment over his punishment for violating her order, Ysa sensed subtle changes to their relationship.
He kept her at an emotional arm’s length, as if he no longer trusted her with his secret thoughts. And I don’t know how to reach him anymore.
According to the nefilim’s hierarchies, Rafael was her subordinate; within her heart, he was still her little brother. The balance between their interactions often required finesse, and Ysa was the first to admit, she sometimes blundered in that regard.
Maybe once she returned to the farm, she’d liberate that bottle of orujo from her father’s desk and talk to Rafael. Better yet, she might just listen.
But first she had to get home.
She turned the corner and saw the library’s entrance. Retrieving her card from her bag, she hurried up the stairs and into the lobby.
The line for students was short. She joined the queue as three young women passed her on their way out of the library.
The clerk checked the cards of the two men in front of her and then hers. With a smile, he motioned for her to proceed.
A few meters away, two German soldiers in Wehrmacht green stood by one of the many busts lining the corridor. They carried German-to-French phrase books, consulting them frequently as they read t
he plaques.
Soldiers from the front, probably enjoying a week’s leave. Each of them looked up at the click of her heels and then almost immediately discounted her huddled form as unworthy of romantic pursuit, which was perfectly fine with her.
Even on her best days, she wasn’t what the mortals would call a classic beauty. Her power, according to her mother, came from the confidence in her stride and the directness of her gaze—two distinct qualities she sought to downplay in her undercover role.
Lifting her head slightly, she scanned the corridor. The rest of the mortals were a mix of men and women, all moving to and from the library’s main reading room.
A secretary walked toward the staff’s wing. The soldiers watched the woman’s slender calves and enjoyed a lewd exchange in German.
Ysa rolled her eyes. Christ, do they ever think of anything else?
Too bad the Inner Guard wasn’t interested in the thoughts of randy soldiers. Ysa could have filled their dossiers for days.
Falling into step behind the secretary, Ysa passed the decorative iron railings by the stairs. She stopped at Pierre Fronteau’s door and knocked.
“Come in!” called a voice that was quite tuneful for that of a mortal.
She turned the knob and entered. “Good morning, monsieur. My name is Francine Proulx. I believe I am expected?”
Fronteau, a dignified man with compassionate eyes and a receding hairline, looked up from a tattered book he’d been transcribing. His smile faltered, but he quickly pasted it back into place. “Good morning, Mademoiselle Proulx. I didn’t expect you so early.”
Ysa picked at the flap of her satchel. “I hope to be quick, monsieur. I’d like to be back with my poor papá as soon as possible.”
His fingers fluttered against his tie before he reached for his log. “Please sign in for me.”
She leaned forward and wrote her alias neatly on the numbered line.
Fronteau stood and adjusted his demeanor as one would a hat, leaving aside his nervous smile for a more professional deportment. “Your father’s letter said that he required Le Livre d’Or.” He retrieved the key from his desk.
