by T. Frohock
He looked at Diago as if he weren’t quite sure he believed him. Finally he said, “Go and get some rest. We’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.”
“Sure.” Diago rose and turned toward the door. “Oh, and we never had this conversation. You know, in case Miquel asks.”
“That sounds like a plan to me. If you see Suero, tell him I need him.”
“I will.” Diago left the office and headed downstairs. He found Suero in the kitchen, nursing a cup of tea. “How are you?”
The answer was in the dark circles under Suero’s eyes. He avoided Diago’s question with a question. “He needs me, doesn’t he?”
“He does.” Diago patted Suero’s shoulder as he passed.
As the younger nefil left, Diago proceeded deeper into the kitchen. The boiserie at the back of the pantry was carved with sigils for concealment. With a low hum, Diago sang the counter-notes to neutralize the wards. The panel became a door that opened to reveal a set of rough stairs, leading down to the servants’ quarters.
The faint illumination rising from the basement’s depths gave his daimonic vision enough light to see. He descended the winding steps to a narrow hall.
Two rooms, each with four beds apiece, flanked the corridor. Whenever refugees fleeing the Nazis were sent Guillermo’s way, he kept them here until they were able to make the perilous trip over the Pyrenees and into Andorra.
Currently, the rooms were empty. The last group of “packages”—which had included a Canadian airman and three OSS operatives—had been led over the mountains by Guillermo’s nefilim last week. From there, they would enter Spain and then Portugal before returning to England.
At the end of the corridor was the clinic. The small room gave Juanita a place to tend to sick nefilim or mortals, whichever the case might be.
The soft glow of lamplight fluttered beneath the threshold. Suddenly someone cried out with an animalistic sound, a series of short yips, high-pitched and filled with pain and fear.
11
20 January 1944
The Farm
Diago threw open the door. The man’s cries immediately ceased.
Juanita sat on a chair beside the bed. She bent over the patient and softly began a death song to ease the nefil’s transition from this incarnation to another.
Miquel perched on a stool opposite her and shifted his position uneasily. Diago knew it was because his husband still hated infirmaries, even small units like the one they were forced to keep. The rooms reminded him too much of lost battles, fallen comrades, and needles filled with experimental drugs.
Given his experiences at the end of the Spanish Civil War, no one blamed him. Diago pretended not to see Miquel touch his chest, an unconscious gesture that communicated his discomfort louder than any words.
Picking his way around a table and a cart, Diago stopped at the foot of the bed. He bowed his head and waited respectfully until Juanita finished her song.
She traced a sigil over the dead nefil’s forehead and blessed his journey. “May you find peace and a gentle transition from this incarnation into your next.”
“We will watch for you.” Diago and Miquel murmured the nefilim’s promise together.
Juanita tied off the saline drip and removed the needle from the patient’s arm. “I’m sorry we couldn’t ease his suffering.”
When she moved back, Diago got his first good look at the man. His cheekbones were sharp and high, and his arms were bare sticks with knobs for elbows. His rounded belly testified to the fluid buildup associated with starvation.
Diago looked over the emaciated form. “Christ. How did he even live long enough to get here?”
Juanita shook her head. “I have no idea. He claimed to know you.”
“I don’t recognize him.”
“He had two sets of identity papers, but when I asked him his name, he said it was Petre.” She met Diago’s gaze. “Of course, that name wasn’t on either set of papers.”
“Petre,” Diago murmured. “Could you tell his ethnicity?”
“He was daimon-born,” Juanita said. “A rogue.”
Diago raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t exactly what he’d meant, but then again, he considered the source. Because she was an angel, Juanita’s mind didn’t immediately rotate toward mortal connections.
“I meant his country of origin.”
“Ah.” Juanita shook her head. “He was delirious and used several languages, sometimes mashing them all together.”
Miquel added helpfully, “He predominantly used Polish and Russian.”
Diago peered more closely at the dead nefil. A small scar curved from the corner of his eye to touch his cheek.
And he used to wear stage makeup to hide it. The face and name snapped into place. “Petre Balan,” Diago said with confidence. “We met with three other daimon-born rogues at the Moika Palace in Saint Petersburg to judge Rasputin.” How odd that Guillermo would ask about Rasputin’s trial and suddenly Petre was here.
Miquel turned the blanket down to reveal a large sequence of numbers tattooed on Petre’s chest. “I haven’t seen a tattoo like this before.”
The numerals were distinctive due to their size and placement in the center of Petre’s chest.
Diago recognized the technique. “It’s an early form of tattooing they employed at Auschwitz. The Germans used a metal stamp with needles about a centimeter long. It punched the entire sequence of numbers into the flesh in one blow. Then they rubbed ink into the open wound.”
“Jesus Christ.” Miquel lifted his hand as if he intended to touch his chest again and caught himself before he could complete the gesture.
“You don’t see it often. The process was quickly abandoned. The camps were filling fast and the process took too much time. Most of the people with these tattoos are dead.”
Juanita reached down and gently extracted an amulet from the corpse’s fingers. “He said this was only for you to open. No one else.” She passed the necklace to Diago.
He held it up to the light. The pendant was a dented white oval with no decoration; the chain was black with tarnish. He didn’t recognize the piece. Why would Petre want me to have this?
Miquel touched the pendant. “Let me check it for wards before you open it.”
“Aren’t you being a bit overprotective?” He bit down on again before the word could tag the end of the question.
Unlike Guillermo, Juanita never had any difficulty stepping into a disagreement between them. “It’s not a bad idea, Diago. The daimon-born make no secret of wanting to sow distrust among us. It could be a trap.”
“From a rogue?” Diago tangled the chain around his fingers and didn’t relinquish the necklace to his husband.
Miquel gave the pendant a gentle tug. “Why not? They’d use someone you know and trust—someone who isn’t blatantly connected to one of the daimonic courts.” Warming to the topic, he outlined his case. “The locket might carry a spell. If it does, and I trip it, then no one in Los Nefilim can say you augmented it with your song.”
And with me playing double agent, I don’t need to give anyone ammunition. “Okay.” Diago opened his fingers. “You win.”
“It’s not about winning,” Miquel retorted.
Something in his smile said otherwise, but Diago let it go. He’d learned long ago that sustaining a relationship meant picking his battles, and this simply wasn’t a hill he wanted to die on.
His husband carried the locket to one of the lamps and tilted it first one way and then the other.
Resisting the urge to follow him, Diago turned to Juanita. “Did Petre have anything else with him?”
“Very little.” She gestured to a table that contained the nefil’s clothing and a rucksack. “A pair of underwear and two pairs of socks. His identity papers and a few reichsmarks.”
“The latch is stuck,” Miquel murmured.
Diago barely heard him. “May I?” He gestured to the rucksack and clothing.
“Of course.” She followed him to the table.
“What are you looking for?”
Running a finger along a seam, he felt for any telltale lumps. “Rogues carry their possessions with them. It would be strange if Petre carried no mementos at all, so I’m looking for hidden inseams or pockets.” He lifted the shirt and then the pants, checking the hems and lining.
He found nothing. Strange. Surely he’d accumulated something on his journey from Poland.
Behind them, Miquel formed a protective sigil and sang it life. Pearlescent colors of pale blue and pink and ivory floated between him and the pendant. He shaped the ward until the lines of his song were bright and strong.
Diago turned to look.
Miquel pried at the locket’s catch.
“What are you doing?” Diago stepped toward his husband.
“Checking it.”
“I think that’s going a bit too far.”
Juanita caught Diago’s arm. “Let him.”
“Did it occur to either of you that someone might say Miquel is covering for me?”
Juanita was quick to resolve that complication. “Not with me as a witness.” She nodded to Miquel.
To his credit, he didn’t smirk over the victory. All business, he opened the locket. A folded piece of paper fell to the table. He unfolded the fragment and scowled. Moving closer to the lamp, he lifted the scrap. As he did, the lamp’s wick sputtered and sent up a column of smoke that struck Miquel’s eye.
He cried out and dropped the paper.
Damn it. Diago hurried to his husband’s side. “Are you all right?”
“The lamp flared and I caught smoke in my eye. It’s nothing.”
Diago hoped that was all. “Petre said the locket was for me. It’s possible he placed a ward on the note to stop anyone else from seeing the message.”
Miquel didn’t seem worried. “My protection sigil should have deflected that kind of spell.”
“Maybe. Or it could be that your glyph simply blunted the damage. Come and sit so I can take a proper look.”
“It’s okay,” Miquel protested verbally but allowed himself to be steered to the chair Juanita had used. “It stung for a moment, but I’m fine now. Get the note. There was writing on it.”
Juanita examined it. “There is nothing here.” She held it up.
Even from where he was standing, Diago could see the paper was blank. He grabbed a penlight from one of the trays and gently pushed Miquel’s head back. “Look up.” He shone the narrow beam in his husband’s eye.
Juanita creased the paper along its fold and inserted it back into the locket. “Do you see anything?”
Diago shook his head. “No, but I want you to look.” The fact that Miquel was the only one who’d seen writing on the paper bothered him.
She accepted the light and examined Miquel’s iris and pupil. “Everything seems fine.” She frowned suddenly and tilted her head.
Diago forced himself to stay back. “What?”
She took her time and spoke to Miquel. “Look up at the ceiling . . . now left, right. Hmmm.” She flicked the switch and straightened. “I thought I saw something that looked like a shadow, but it must have been the angle of the light. I can’t find any trace of a ward.”
Diago sighed with relief. “Thank you.”
Miquel went to the sink and splashed his face with the cool water. “There.” He toweled himself dry and blinked a couple of times. “I’m okay.”
Though the eye remained bloodshot, the tearing had stopped. Dropping the towel beside the basin, he picked up the locket and gave it to Diago. “It’s been a long day. Let’s go upstairs.”
“Go ahead.” Juanita drew the blanket over Petre’s face. Turning to the metal tray beside the bed, she began to put items away. “I’m going to stay here and clean up.”
Diago followed his husband, gripping the locket in his fist. Why would Petre go to such lengths to bring me something so worthless? He’d obviously been in terrible pain at the end. Between his starvation and agony, he must have suffered delusions.
Surely that had to be it. Yet even as Diago rationalized the incident, the thought that he’d missed something important nagged him all the way upstairs.
12
20 January 1944
Château de l’Entreprenante
Fontainebleau
Ysabel tried to open her eyes. One had swelled shut, the other took in the blurred room.
Something awakened her. The key in the lock?
Such a small sound, but one that had come to strike primal fear in her heart. First the key, and then the questions.
Sometimes it was Heines, who’d overcome his reluctance to strike her; sometimes it was the doctor . . . Jimenez . . . Dr. Jimenez with his nasty shots. On rare occasions, the sergeant entered with them, but her visits were brief, perfunctory, and she rarely spoke.
Ysa saw no rhyme or reason to their comings and goings, but Miquel had warned her about that, too. However, knowing how the system worked and actually living it were two different things.
The questions blurred together with her answers, but she kept her lies close enough to the truth so they were easy to remember. Occasionally she blinked. Sometimes she cried. Pain was no one’s friend.
A door shut somewhere in the distance. That was it. That was the sound she’d heard.
Her arms were numb. She couldn’t feel her hands. She pushed her heels against the floor and tried to sit up straight. A shock of pain wrung an involuntary cry from her lips. Her damp panties and skirt stuck to her skin. Christ. Did I piss myself again? Or is it blood?
Approaching footsteps silenced her chattering thoughts. The key turned in the lock.
Her mouth was suddenly dry with her fear. Steady. Hold steady. She steeled herself for another round of questioning.
She heard the door open, but she didn’t twist to see who was there. They’ll make their presence known soon enough.
The scent of cologne preceded the man. It was a subtle musk, slightly masked by cigarette smoke.
Definitely not Heines. He smells of spearmint gum and a floral aftershave.
A pair of polished boots drifted into her line of vision. Jordi. She raised her gaze and met his eyes.
She couldn’t read his expression.
He held a blanket in his hands.
My shroud? Unsure what she should say or do, she remained silent. This is his song. Let him sing the first verse.
The brush of fingertips against her wrists caused her to start with surprise. The cuffs were unlocked. Ysabel moved her arms for the first time in days.
She reeled forward from the pain, but caught her scream before it could crash the silence.
Jordi enveloped her in the blanket. He wrapped the wool tight around her body and gently lifted her, as if she were a child.
He carried her into the hall. As he turned toward the stairs, Ysa glimpsed the sergeant pocketing the cuffs and then trailing several paces behind them.
At the end of the corridor, two soldiers snapped their heels together and saluted. Then one of the men opened the door.
A set of stairs led upward to the next level. Once there, they passed through another door, another hall, at the end of which was an elevator, where two more soldiers awaited. Like the previous pair, they bolted to attention at the sight of Jordi. One man opened the elevator’s gate.
Jordi stepped inside and the matron followed. Gears churned and the car began its ascent. Ysa closed her eyes and rested her cheek against Jordi’s chest.
His arms tightened around her.
The elevator stopped. A liveried servant met them.
Heat kissed Ysa’s cheeks and brought color to her face. She tried to mark the route, attempted to note the statuary and the delicately shaded lamps, but her vision blurred until the world became nothing more than shades of gold and pale green, outlined in shadows that passed from gray to black.
The sharp clack of heels snapping together brought her from the precipice of sleep. Jordi carried her past a pair of armed sentries and into a room
.
Where the bright corridor had blinded her, the bedroom soothed her sore eyes. Gray light filtered through the heavy drapes. Ysa had no idea whether it was early morning or late afternoon.
Or maybe it’s just a gray day. She allowed her listless gaze to take in her surroundings. A canopied bed big enough for four took up the center of the chamber. A dressing table and wardrobe were stationed along two different walls.
Jordi placed her on her feet but he didn’t release her. “These women will see to you.”
One of the nurses took her hand. The other hovered nearby, waiting to take Jordi’s place. He hesitated for just a moment before releasing her. Then he was gone.
The nurses helped her out of her filthy clothes and bathed her. She remained submissive as they dressed her wounds, massaged the feeling back into her sore joints with healing songs, and then pulled a silk gown over her head.
The sergeant stood in one corner, monitoring the entire process. Ysa kept her gaze on the floor.
Wait, Diago had said. You’ll know the time.
And the time was not now.
Comfortable for the first time in days, she let them ease her into the bed. The sergeant finally left the room, only to return moments later with Dr. Jimenez.
Fuck, fuck, fucker. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to remain limp as Jimenez took her pulse and gave her a cursory examination. Then he reached into his poison bag and withdrew a syringe. She barely felt the pinprick of the needle, but its effects were immediate.
The world faded away. When she woke again, it was night. But which night? The night Jordi brought me here, or have I slept through a day and night? She had no idea. Time had become fluid, moving with no end, no beginning.
All she knew for certain was that the house was still. She felt the silence around her, soft like snow.
Only one nurse remained. She slumped in her chair, an open book in her lap. Beside her, the lamp gave off quiet light in the quiet room.
Sitting up, Ysa touched her bruised cheek. The swelling in her eye seemed to have diminished. At least she could see out of it. Her shoulders and joints still ached and probably would for a couple more days.
