by T. Frohock
A glass of water sat on the bedside table. Ysa lifted it to her lips and sipped, forcing herself to drink slowly. The last thing she needed was to be sick.
Is this the moment that Diago told me to watch for? No way to know unless she moved. Easing her legs over the side of the mattress, she found a pair of slippers on the small round rug. They fit her perfectly.
The nurse didn’t stir.
A silk robe was draped across the foot of the bed. She pulled it on and fastened the tie.
If they were smart, they’d burned the suit she’d worn during her interrogation. She certainly didn’t want it back.
Opening the wardrobe to search for outdoor clothing might awaken the nurse. She decided to investigate first.
The woman gave a soft snore and shifted slightly in her chair before falling deeper into her slumber.
Ysabel tiptoed to the door and turned the latch, wincing at the click. To her surprise it was unlocked. A single lamp lit the corridor. The sentries were gone. This is too easy.
Pulling the bedroom door closed behind her, she knelt on the floor and looked for traps in the form of sigils. Nothing. Nor did she see any threads that indicated a more mundane type of wire trap.
None of this made sense. Her father would never allow a captive to roam freely in his house.
Rising again, she stood too fast and experienced a mild episode of vertigo. Jimenez’s shots.
That explained the lack of security. They expected the medication to bind her to dreams. Obviously, Jimenez underdosed her, undoubtedly thinking her exhaustion would do the drug’s work. That probably means they’re experiencing supply issues. With most narcotics being funneled to the front, it made sense for him to conserve stock.
Happy news for me. Ysabel proceeded down the hall. If she was stopped, she would feign confusion and simply plead a visit to the lavatory.
She encountered no one and reached the stairs without incident. At the landing, she looked upward to the next level. Dark shadows moved along the walls.
A discordant melody thrummed down the marble steps—a piano, yes, she was sure of it, a piano, groaning beneath hard hands on the keys. The notes pulsed with the intensity of distant bombs.
Someone laughed a lonely, mirthless laugh. The sound rippled across Ysa’s flesh and left her disconcerted.
Keeping her back close to the wall, she descended to the main floor. The great entry hall spread out before her and retained its French opulence. The high ceilings were still painted in Rousseau’s favorite colors of pale gold and gray. Otherwise, any reference to Les Néphilim had been scoured from the chamber.
The Inner Guard’s celestial banner now joined Nazi emblems on the walls. Die Nephilim’s runes marked the walls in great plaques made of crimson and black.
Another wave of dizziness caused her to hesitate by the balustrade. She waited for the episode to pass—hoped it would pass.
Down here, the discordant piano and mad laughter were faint, almost nonexistent. Outside a nearby window, flecks of white fluttered through the night. It was snowing.
That wasn’t good. The silk gown afforded her no protection from the cold; her slippers would be equally ineffective. No wonder they haven’t bothered with guards. If the drugs didn’t keep her in her room, the weather would prevent her from going outside.
For now that was true. I need to see what my options are and then make a decision. If she had to risk a run into the night, she would.
Leaving the steps, she hurried across the open space of the entry hall, a plan formulating in her mind as she did. She needed a weapon, no matter how small. The kitchen would have knives.
Prowling through the corridors, she left barely a shadow as she reached the state-of-the-art kitchen. A massive refrigerator hummed against one wall, every surface gleamed, and to Ysa’s frustration, every drawer was locked.
Shit. It was a problem, but a minor one. Her father had taught her to pick locks when she was five. The difficulty before her was which drawer to choose.
Her father loved to cook when he had time. She recalled him in their kitchen in Santuari, humming as he taught her the art of fine cuisine. And like his forge, he kept his tools organized where he could reach them quickly.
The sharpest knives would be at the butcher’s block. She found the heavy table near the range.
A flash of light through a window caught her eye. She ducked and froze. The light disappeared.
Ysa remained still and counted. At fifty, she rose and crept toward the back door. Another wash of light flooded the yard.
Spotlight on the roof. No sentries moved on the grounds. That I can see.
With a sigh of relief, she returned to the butcher’s block, which had a single drawer secured by a hasp and padlock. She examined the lock. It was a simple thing that could be easily opened, but she needed a couple of hairpins or paper clips. She had neither.
And how long can I creep around before the nurse wakes or someone stumbles on me? Time was against her.
Searching for an office risked discovery. Kneeling on the floor, she pressed her forehead against the drawer and resisted the urge to smash her fist on the table. Frustration would get her nowhere. Anger tightened the vocal cords and ruined a nefil’s song.
Take a moment. She remembered her father beside her, calming her when she grew impatient with herself. He always brought himself to her level so that they were equals. She felt his presence as keenly as if he were there, kneeling beside her, talking her through her doubts.
Take a moment and calm yourself, he would say. Most problems require finesse, not a hammer.
She even smelled the combination of scents that always followed him: the hot Catalonian sun in his hair, smoke from his forge mixed with his cologne, and the thick Cuban cigars of which he was so fond. His hair, grown shaggy from lack of attention, framed those golden eyes so like her own.
She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, she saw his shadow next to her. He placed his large hand on her shoulder and whispered, Sometimes, all you have is your song.
The searchlight swept the yard and illuminated the kitchen.
No one squatted next to her. She was alone. I’m hallucinating.
That wasn’t good. What the fuck is Jimenez putting in those shots? She had to get a grip. Focus.
Her father’s encouragement echoed in her mind. Sometimes, all you have is your song.
She lifted her head. The lock’s tumblers moved on pressure and the right vibrations could trip the mechanisms.
With trembling fingers, she lifted the padlock and hummed a hard note. Before the vibrations of her voice disappeared, she shaped a sigil designed to push the cylinders and sent it into the keyhole.
Soft clicks rattled through the metal, springing the lock. She quickly opened the drawer and was relieved to find an assortment of knives. After she chose a small blade that she could easily conceal, she returned the lock to its hasp.
The light illuminated the kitchen’s back door again. A heavy coat hung on a peg and a pair of wooden shoes were placed neatly on the mat.
Staying low, so that if there were any sentries they wouldn’t glance in and see movement, she lifted the coat from the peg and wrapped it around her body. It was two sizes too big. She cinched the waist. The shoes were also too large, but she found rags that helped cushion her feet. Blisters were a small price to pay for freedom.
Squatting by the door, she checked the latch for sigils and found none.
Fine. Let Jordi’s overconfidence be my key to getting out of here. Ysa slipped outside and quickly pulled the door shut.
The cold took her breath away. She might as well be naked from the waist down, for all the protection the silk gave her.
The searchlight swept the perimeter once more. She flattened herself against the wall. One section of open yard lay between her and the woods. Still no sentries.
The light made another sweep. The moment it passed, she ran toward the forest. The clumsy shoes hampered her speed.
Nonetheless, she made it into the first line of trees by the time the light crossed the area in front of the kitchen again.
Crouching low, she remained perfectly still until the beam circled past. Then she tucked the knife into the coat’s sash and moved as fast as she dared.
The snow fell harder, which was good. It would cover her tracks.
Remembering the barbed sigils she’d seen on her ride in, she moved carefully. The wards would be almost invisible in the night.
This was one of those times she envied Rafael’s daimonic night vision. As if summoned by her thoughts, she felt him beside her. Her little brother, her dark rose.
She heard his voice in her head, and he said, It’s all right, Ysa. I’m here. I’ll help you see.
“You’re not,” she whispered back. “You’re not here.” Yet she definitely sensed him there, moving beside her. He wore his heaviest coat and his curls mingled with the wool of his shearling hat. The muzzle of his rifle poked over his shoulder and a band of ammunition rode on his hip.
Christ, he looks so real. She forced herself to pick up her pace and pinched her wrist. When she looked again, Rafael was gone.
A quick glance over her shoulder told her the searchlight no longer swept the yard. It had halted in front of the kitchen door.
Someone shouted.
Ysa ran. Boulders loomed from the darkness, some as high as her waist. She dodged them, but the wooden shoes rendered her footing treacherous.
The trees, shorn of their leaves, let the snow fall between their trunks. No animal stirred, not even an owl.
Then, from behind her, she heard another shout—this one louder, closer. Dogs barked in the distance, obviously roused by their handlers.
Gasping in the icy air, she paused beside a boulder and listened until she thought her ears would bleed. Another voice called out, this one with urgency, followed by a third and a fourth. The dogs grew excited.
They’d discovered her trail.
Ysa pushed away from the boulder and started moving again. Her panic lent her speed.
She slid down a steep incline. The gown ripped and rode up over her hip. The stinging on her thigh was nothing compared to the pain she’d already endured. She regained her feet and ran.
Shadows flitted among the tree trunks. Nefilim, old ones, moving fast, but none veered to stop her.
Ysa zigzagged through the forest, keeping to the deeper patches of darkness, hoping the pale material of her gown would be taken for the falling snow.
Footsteps crunched behind her. She ducked behind a large rock and drew her knife.
Four nefilim ran past her hiding spot. Waiting, she counted to sixty. She stood and turned.
A tall figure blocked her path.
Jordi.
He offered his hand. “Come home, Ysa.”
She held the knife close to her side. Hold it close, she heard Diago say. But keep your stance loose. With a blade you must be quick. Strike for the arteries.
Which meant she had to get closer to him. Too close. He was older, faster, stronger.
The snow blurred between them and instead of white flakes, she saw wards: clefs and quavers, beamed notes, ghost notes, caesuras, glissandi and portamenti, all floating white around her.
“Ysabel?” Jordi took a step toward her. “Are you all right?”
Lifting the knife, she impaled a bass clef and shaped it into an icy spear. With her contralto, she charged the glyph and forced it toward Jordi.
He effortlessly raised a shield of fire. Ysa’s spear melted in the heat, but not before it stopped mere centimeters from his heart.
His eyes widened and his mouth twitched.
I surprised him.
He smiled. “You should have been my daughter.”
The wistfulness in his voice sounded heartfelt, but she didn’t trust him. He’s trying to lure me into a sense of security. She wasn’t having it. They were several days and too many beatings from forming a loving relationship.
Taking a step closer, he tried to reason with her. “You’ll never make it past the barrier. Why do you think the other nefilim ran past you? To keep you safe. One wrong move and those sigils will cut you in half. How will I explain to my brother that I murdered his daughter? I cannot have it.”
She retreated, raising the knife. “Then let me go home.”
“Don’t be a child. You know this is war. You were trained to be a queen. Act like one.”
The admonishment struck her like a slap. The ghostly notes continued to fly between them and yet he made no move to restrain her.
Then she saw Miquel. He stood just beyond Jordi. Flakes of snow caught in his black hair and his eyes were almost invisible in the night, but his voice was clear. Don’t trust him, but don’t be a fool. Save yourself until we can find you.
She blinked the mirage away in time to see a concussive sigil aimed at her. With a sharp cry, she formed a protective ward but her sore arms failed her and she couldn’t raise it in time.
Jordi’s glyph slammed against her, hard enough to knock her out of her wooden shoes. Her head struck something, whether a rock, a tree, or the ground, she didn’t know. But the world went black and the silence came down . . . quiet, like the falling of snow.
13
20 January 1944
The Farm
Diago reclined on their settee and snuggled deeper beneath his quilt. Their third-floor rooms usually retained the heat of the day a little longer than the lower levels, but today’s overcast skies robbed them of that extra layer of warmth.
Their small stove pushed back feebly against the cold. Diago didn’t dare add more coal. He worried they might not have enough to get through the winter.
Holding the locket by its chain, he watched his husband undress. “How do you feel?”
Unbothered by the chill, Miquel tossed his shirt over the back of a chair. “I feel fine.” He came to the divan and gently extracted the amulet’s chain from Diago’s fingers. Turning to one side, he placed the locket on their night table. “Look.” He lifted his hair from his forehead. “See? It’s not even bloodshot anymore.”
Diago had to admit, his husband’s eye had cleared. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“That’s because I’m an honest guy.” Miquel kissed him gently. “Now, what did I promise you this afternoon?”
Diago thought back to their ride home. “To wine me and dine me and whatever comes next.” Noting how the shadows played over Miquel’s torso, Diago traced a pattern across the dark skin of his husband’s abdomen. He looks so chiseled, but his flesh is soft . . . tender. Diago hooked a finger in Miquel’s waistband before releasing him with a sigh. “But a bottle of beer and a cold sandwich are poor substitutes for wining and dining.”
“There is a war going on, comrade.”
Caught up in their game, Diago allowed the day’s tension to fade. “Excuses, excuses.”
A wicked light gleamed in Miquel’s eyes as he straightened. “I see you’re going to play hard to get.” He went to the wardrobe and bent over to withdraw his bag.
Muscles rippled beneath the curves of his shoulders as he sought whatever prize lay within. His pants were loose and exposed the dimple at the small of his back—a ticklish spot that sent shivers over him whenever Diago found it with his tongue.
Miquel glanced over his shoulder and seemed pleased that he had his husband’s undivided attention. “While I was meeting contacts in Perpignan this afternoon, I took the liberty to acquire something nice for us.” He returned to the divan with a bottle, a corkscrew, and a wineglass. “Hold this for me.”
Diago pushed himself upright on the seat and accepted the empty glass. “Is that—”
“Château Margaux.” Miquel poured. “Say you love me.”
“I love you,” Diago murmured as the deep red liquid filled the glass. He swirled the wine gently and inhaled the aroma. The vintage was perfumed with an earthy scent accompanied by subtle hints of violets and oak.
“You don’t need
this.” Miquel peeled the quilt away from Diago’s body and sat beside him on the settee. “It’s about to get very warm.”
“Is it, now?”
Miquel watched him hold the glass of wine with a smile. “Are you going to sniff it or drink it?”
“It should breathe.”
With his fingertip, Miquel traced a seductive line along Diago’s throat. “Don’t make me wait.”
Barely able to breathe himself, Diago lifted the glass to his lips and allowed himself a single sip. The sweetness flowed over his palate and filled his mouth. He closed his eyes and relished the luxurious flavor.
Warmth spread through his chest. The wine resurrected the memory of their days in Santuari. In Catalonia, they had spent their evenings outdoors in the lingering heat of a setting sun. Their music flowed between them, binding them more closely with every chord.
Diago opened his eyes and noted Miquel held no glass of his own. “Aren’t you going to have some?”
“I’d rather taste it on your lips.” Without waiting for a response, he bestowed the gentlest of kisses on Diago’s mouth before withdrawing. He licked his upper lip and pretended to evaluate the flavor. “Hmm, sweet, not overly so. There is just a hint of acidity, but I can’t tell if that is you or the wine. Have some more.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
Miquel brushed his thumb across Diago’s mouth. “Hush and play the game.”
More intoxicated by Miquel’s presence than the wine, Diago obeyed. With a smile, his husband leaned close.
It was game that lasted deep into the night.
Abomination!
Diago woke. His heart raced; he couldn’t move. The word faded from his brain—the echo of some violent incident from his past.
The room was bathed in darkness, though he detected pinpricks of gray around the blackout curtain. They were in the gloaming just before dawn.
I’m home. In bed. Safe.
He didn’t remember the dream, only the terror that shook him to his core. His mind usually protected him by blocking out the most traumatic episodes of his early life, unless some event triggered a memory.
