by T. Frohock
A nail-biter. Either she wasn’t comfortable with Ysa’s arrest or she was nervous by nature. It wasn’t a good sign. Ysa’s father had taught her a jumpy nefil made mistakes.
She shifted her attention to the sergeant on her right. If it was possible to remain at parade ease for an entire car ride, this woman intended to do it. She was a professional soldier—her nails were immaculate, her shoes shined as bright as Jordi’s boots.
Ysa didn’t need a second look into her eyes to know that, like Jordi, she was a killer. The woman would be careful but efficient. She was an older nefil, in both years and experience. Not someone to trifle with.
Likewise, the driver was a soldier, a member of the Inner Guard. His gaze took in not just the road, but the sidewalks and the crowds on the streets. Every eight seconds, he gave the rearview mirror a glance to see if anyone followed.
Ysa was immediately reminded of Suero, who often served as the family’s driver. He gave their route the same attention and care as this nefil.
The nervous woman on Ysa’s left might be duped at some point, but first she’d have to be separated from the others. The driver and the sergeant were both seasoned nefilim, probably in their second- or third-born lives.
And Heines. He was a nefil to be feared. During the Great War, Miquel and Heines had met on the battlefield. At Amiens? Was it at the Battle of Amiens?
When her father was deep in his cups, he’d told her how Miquel’s small unit had held their position against Heines’s greater numbers and superior firepower. Some nefilim called their encounter a stalemate, but others said that even Heines conceded Miquel’s prowess during that fight. They’d emerged with a deep respect for one another.
But that had been over twenty-five years ago. And Heines respects Miquel, not me.
The streets began to fly by faster than her thoughts. They were leaving Paris.
She glimpsed her face in the rearview mirror. Her fear marked her with splotchy white marks on her cheeks. Already her body betrayed her by showing emotions she needed to keep hidden.
Taking a measured breath, she concentrated on relaxing her facial muscles. For the last five years, she’d practiced in the mirror at home until she could mimic the calm she saw her father exude. Even under duress, he managed a manner that was both engaged yet slightly distant in tone.
When she opened her eyes again, she noted that her color had evened. Just thinking of her father soothed her. Make him proud.
They left the city behind, traveling south. An hour later, they reached the Fontainebleau Forest. Winter had stripped the trees bare. A light dusting of snow covered the ground.
A chill went through Ysabel when she saw the first sigils. To a mortal’s eyes, the sharp-edged notes glittered like icicles in the trees, but the glyphs were deadly to the nefilim. The bands of light hummed around the trunks and glinted with barbed spikes.
The lead car turned right onto a service road and halted before iron gates. The drive was flanked by guardhouses at the base of twin pillars, which had once been decorated with Les Néphilim’s crest and the name of the estate: Château de l’Entreprenante. The property had served as Queen Sabine Rousseau’s main base of operations.
Similar to her father’s former town of Santuari in Catalonia, Château de l’Entreprenante also functioned as a sanctuary for Les Néphilim. While Santuari had undergone Guernica’s fate when Jordi ordered the town bombed, Château de l’Entreprenante suffered a less devasting but equally humiliating defeat. Jordi had apparently taken over the estate and renamed it Schloss des Ewigen Reiches.
Castle of the Eternal Realm, indeed. Ysa glared at Les Néphilim’s plaques, which were gouged and scarred with powerful wards. Die Nephilim’s sigils—the sun rune represented as twin lightning bolts, or SS, and the Totenkopf—were now seared into the pillars. Twin banners in the familiar black and red hung on either side of the iron gates, their swastikas prominently displayed for any passersby to see.
A soldier left the guardhouse beside the gate and approached the lead car. The same deadly glyphs that Ysa had seen in the forest writhed over the metal gates.
The guard conferred briefly with the driver of Jordi’s car before gesturing to two other soldiers. The nefilim neutralized the wards with their song and then opened the gates.
Their small convoy started rolling again.
The grounds were familiar to Ysa. She had accompanied her father to the estate many times, and Rousseau had taken her hiking on those occasions.
A small thread of hope twisted inside her. If she could escape her captors, she could hide in the forest, maybe even find her way around the terrible wards.
The woman on Ysa’s left shifted restlessly in her seat. Like the sergeant, Ysa remained perfectly still and focused on their destination.
The château loomed into view. It was a palace with twin towers, one on either end of the structure. Across the main entrance, Les Néphilim’s great seals had been replaced with Die Nephilim’s runes. Nazi banners hung from the windows and fluttered gently against the bricks.
The drive encircled the château. Jordi’s car stopped at the front steps. Ysabel’s car continued to the rear of the house.
She knew exactly where they were going. At the base of one of the towers was a set of stairs that led underground to Les Néphilim’s gaol.
Her pulse throbbed in her ears. A quick check in the rearview mirror assured her that her face remained calm, and she took what little pride she could in that.
When the car stopped, the other nefilim exited. Ysa slid across the seat and stepped between the two women. To her relief, her knees didn’t buckle and her steps were steady.
They escorted her to the stairs and down into the château’s basement. From there, they turned left and followed a short hall, then down another set of stairs.
The chauffer unlocked a door. The windowless room contained two chairs and a desk. The women escorted her inside and made her strip. Ysa didn’t let herself think. She moved when they said move and stood still when ordered. They searched her body and each seam of her clothing before they finally allowed her to dress again.
The nervous woman took her coat. The sergeant cuffed Ysa’s hands behind her back. A bolt of fear shot through her chest as the metal snapped around her wrists. The woman led her to the chair in front of the desk and forced her to sit.
They weren’t gone long before Heines entered the room and sat at the desk. He carried her satchel and a file.
And now it begins. In the back of her mind, she heard Miquel’s voice as clearly as if he spoke in her ear.
You’ll be scared, but that’s okay. We all get scared. Keep your wits about you for as long as you can. Joke with them, ask for a smoke, just don’t blink. If they want to skin your mother and castrate your father, you’ll be good with it, because if you say ‘stop,’ or ‘no,’ or ‘please,’ that counts as a blink, and when they see you blink, they’ll know they have your weak spot. That’s how they make you talk. So your job is to tell them lies, and if they hit you, thank them and ask for another, smile through your tears, and never, never let them see you blink.
Ysa met Heines’s gaze over the desk.
Flipping through the grimoire’s leaves, he stopped at the torn section. “Where is it?”
She blinked. “What?”
“The psalm, fräulein. Where is Psalm 60?”
“I don’t know.”
He slammed both palms on the desk. Ripping open the file, he removed a photograph and held it up for her to see. It was a picture of the grimoire’s missing psalm. “I want to know who you’re working with.”
She met Heines’s gaze evenly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And that was the truth.
Heines rose and stalked to her chair, forcing her to look up. “We received this photograph two weeks ago. A nefil promised to tell us where to find the psalm in exchange for a favor from Herr Abelló.”
Only someone who knew the worth of that psalm to Los Nefilim would wor
k so hard to tear it from the grimoire. To the best of her knowledge, Jordi had no idea what kind of song Psalm 60 hid. So why would the blackmailer approach Jordi and not my father? What could they hope to gain from Jordi?
Those were questions she had no way to answer in her current predictment. All she knew for certain was that Jordi and Heines had taken two weeks to find the psalm’s location. Just my rotten luck to be there when they showed up.
Or had it been a trap? She recalled Monsieur Fronteau’s nervousness when she’d requested the book. Suero had made arrangements with him two days ago. That gave Jordi plenty of time to arrange his little greeting party. And I walked right into it.
Heines confirmed her suspicions. “We tracked the psalm to The Book of Gold at Sainte-Geneviève, and then contacted the librarian to let us know if anyone requested it. We were ready for you.”
“I thought you were there for a security check.”
He slapped her.
She licked the blood from her lip. “Apparently I was misinformed.”
He raised his hand again.
She glared with fire in her eyes. “You’ll do well to remember who I am.”
His mouth twitched. He lowered his hand.
I’ll take that as a blink. Time to lie and see where it leads. “Our interests might be joined, Herr Heines. My father was sent a similar photograph. He wanted me to see if the grimoire was intact.”
Suspicion rimmed his eyes. “And what demands did the blackmailer make to your father?”
Oh fuck me; he would ask. “My father wouldn’t tell me. He’s grown paranoid and . . . addled.” That should make Jordi happy. She lowered her head and looked away as if ashamed.
“Addled, you say.” Heines perched on the edge of the desk and folded his arms. “How do you mean?”
She shook her head. “I’ve said too much.”
Heines watched her for several moments. Twice he looked from the grimoire to the photograph, and then back to her. “Do you love your father, Ysabel?”
Ysa thought of the last time she’d seen him. Do you remember that spy game you used to play? The tenderness in his expression as he’d taken her hands in his. She’d give anything for five more minutes with him. Tears cascaded down her cheeks.
Heines retrieved the desk chair and sat directly in front of her. “You can help him, Ysabel. Tell me the truth. What do you mean when you say he is addled?”
She sniffled and began haltingly. “He doesn’t remember what year it is. Sometimes he thinks we’re still in Spain. His nefilim no longer trust his judgment. Worse, I suspect Diago is working with the daimon-born.” Precisely as he is supposed to be, but Heines doesn’t need to know that.
When she peeked at him through her lashes, she couldn’t be sure, but she thought she noticed a flash of compassion in his gaze. Miquel respects him as an adversary. That says something positive about Heines’s character. Stay the course. “Please, Herr Heines. I need to speak with my uncle.”
Heines considered her request and finally nodded. “We’ll see.” He stood and left the room.
Ysa heard the lock click and then there was silence. I’ve threaded the hook, now let’s see if Jordi takes the bait. If he did, then it would be the first verse in a very dangerous song.
Her arms grew numb and no matter how she shifted her position, her back ached. She had no idea how much time passed before the lock clicked again.
Instead of Jordi or Heines, a round nefil entered the room. He carried a black bag and wore a white coat. Without a word, he deposited his bag on the desk and opened it.
The sergeant entered and rolled Ysa’s sleeve up. The doctor tied a rubber tube around her upper arm.
Ysa recalled Miquel talking about his time in Jordi’s pocket realm, where Nico had performed experiments on the nefilim. Is that what this is? An experiment of some kind?
“There’s been a mistake,” she said.
The man didn’t answer. He filled a syringe from a vial.
“Herr Heines has gone for my uncle.” Ysa glared at the doctor, trying to summon the same rage that had stayed Heines’s hand earlier. Nothing but fear rose to her voice. “What is that?”
The matron stood behind her chair and held her still. “Relax, fräulein. Everything will be over soon.”
“What the hell does that mean? Where is my uncle?” Panic rippled around her questions. She swallowed hard. Blinking. Shit and bitter shit. I’m blinking at them. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out.
She felt a pinprick. Something hot entered her vein. She closed her eyes and waited.
The doctor and matron left her again. The door locked.
All Ysa heard was her heartbeat, loud in the sudden silence.
7
20 January 1944
Rue Émile Zola, Perpignan
Diago tugged the brim of his fedora low over his eyes and stepped into a pool of shadows. Although the rue Émile Zola was almost deserted, he didn’t believe he moved unobserved.
Several meters away, a maid swept a doorstep on the opposite side of the street. Her busy strokes sent puffs of dust into the gutter. She kept looking up, nervously assessing the encroaching shadows as she went about her work.
The bitter scent of her anxiety wafted on the air, inciting the familiar warmth that spread across Diago’s chest and down into his stomach. He fought the urge to approach her, knowing the presence of an unknown man on her street would only heighten her fear.
Touching the heavy silver ring he wore beneath his glove, Diago called on his angelic nature and squelched his daimonic desire for harm. He would wait a few minutes so as not to distress the woman even more.
Or was he just being a coward, using the maid as an excuse to put off his inevitable visit with Christina? Probably a little of both, he admitted to himself. Regardless, he’d wait for her to go inside before he continued.
Besides, the less he was seen, the better. Especially here.
Farther down the street, a pair of workers scraped away at German propaganda posters covered in graffiti. The print’s faded colors and missing patches showed a French mother hugging her child while the father stood behind them in a worker’s coveralls, factory equipment at his back.
Finís les mauvaís jours! proclaimed the poster. Papa gagne de l’argent en Allemagne!
Bad times are over! Papa makes money in Germany!
Someone had painted a red V over the poster—part of Radio London’s campaign, which encouraged the French to defy their German occupiers. V for victory. In case there was any doubt as to the graffiti artist’s intent, they’d added one last line: Patience, de Gaulle will come!
One of the workers drew Diago’s attention. His movements were more measured than those of his companion, as if he intentionally stifled an intrinsic grace the mortal beside him couldn’t possibly replicate.
He’s nefil. Though whether the man was angel-born or daimon, Diago had no way of knowing from this distance. All he could see was the man’s back and his clumsy attempts to mime the mortal’s rough gestures.
The nefil could simply be a rogue, attached to neither side, and scrambling to make ends meet in the wartime economy. Or it was possible that Christina had stationed some of her daimon-born nefilim to guard her home.
Looking over the street with renewed interest, he focused on the doorways and shadows, searching for more of his cousin’s people. He saw none.
The maid finally tapped her broom against the stoop and went inside. The two men working on the poster had their backs to Diago’s route. It was now or never.
He started walking again. Two doors down, a man and woman emerged from a building. The man wore a double-breasted coat and leather gloves; the woman’s fur-lined coat was accessorized with a fashionable hat.
Only the rich managed to endure a war without privation. Their clothing inoculated them against the cold just as their money protected them from the food shortages faced by the less fortunate.
The couple strolled in Diago’s directi
on.
He swore under his breath. To duck into a doorway would arouse suspicions. Nothing to do but continue as if he had every right to be on the street. With the brim of his hat already low over his eyes, he pretended to check his watch.
Humming a soft a tune, he used his right hand and touched the colors of the darkness that lived against buildings. He pinched a small amount between forefinger and thumb.
As he drew parallel with them, Diago lifted his hand. He twisted his wrist so that the dull sunlight caught the band of his watch, and then he tossed the darkness at the man’s eye. The shadow took the shape of a scorpion and scuttled across his iris, obscuring his vision.
It was a daimonic trick, one that allowed Diago to cast a minor spell over the mortals to cloud their minds. With supernatural speed, he created a second scorpion for the woman and flicked it at her eye. The couple gripped one another a little more tightly and hurried on their way without acknowledging Diago’s presence. They might remember seeing a man, but neither of them would be able to describe him with any clarity.
The workers down the street made no sign that they noticed either the couple or Diago. If the nefil was one of Christina’s people, he was either exceptionally sloppy or damn good.
Diago went with the latter. It never hurt to be overcautious. Lengthening his stride, he passed the Hôtel Pams, easily distinguishable by the JOB logo on the lintel. Christina’s manse was merely a few doors down.
He assessed her building for possible escape routes. On the ground level, two window bays were covered with grilles similar to those on the Pams. The thick bars prevented anyone from breaking into the mansion while serving the dual purpose of making a quick getaway next to impossible.
The second floor consisted of a long balcony. Wooden shutters covered the three doors that opened to the street. The drop to the pavement wasn’t so high as to present a problem for a nefil.
If I land properly. An escape from that level gave him a better option . . . one he hoped he wouldn’t need.
