by T. Frohock
Yesterday’s visit to Christina was most likely the cause of this morning’s disturbance. Reaching out for something solid, he felt Miquel beside him. He recalled their lovemaking, and his fear backed away in the face of his husband’s love. His heart rate gradually returned to normal.
Miquel snored softly. The lines of his face, which lent his countenance an authoritative cast when he was awake, had softened. He smelled of cigarettes and wine and their sex—a heady mixture that filled Diago’s senses.
Feeling calmer, he smoothed a black curl from Miquel’s forehead, wishing all their nights could be so decadent.
Miquel’s eyes opened. He gripped Diago’s wrist.
Unprepared for the sudden movement, Diago instinctively jerked backward. “Miquel?”
His husband’s dark eyes swiveled frantically, as if trying to take in the entire room at once. It could be a nightmare, but if it was, it was something new. Diago was as used to his husband’s bad dreams as he was his own. Miquel tended to thrash and cry out. He never experienced this sudden stillness, nor the rapt horror with which he observed his surroundings.
Treat it like a nightmare. “Miquel.” He kept his voice even and calm. “You’re having a bad dream. I need you to wake up.”
“Something went wrong,” he whispered in an agitated mix of Italian and Castilian.
The hair on Diago’s arm went straight up. The inflection sounded just like Nico’s.
“Miquel?”
“Miquel is here! With me. He doesn’t want me in his mind. He fought me. This was the only way.” His eyes went wider still and he sat up, gripping Diago’s shoulders. “Petre was supposed to say the locket was for you. Why would Miquel open it?”
“You wanted to open it.”
“No. Goddamn it. It’s me. Nico! What did Miquel do?”
Diago gaped at his husband. But this isn’t my husband, it’s Nico. The smoke in his eye . . . it wasn’t from the lamp—
Miquel’s muscles locked in terror. “Herr Teufel is coming for me—” He shook his head. When he met Diago’s gaze, his eyes were clear. He said in Catalonian, “What the hell is happening to me?”
Before Diago could answer, Miquel switched to Italian again. “. . . wants me to wake. I’m too late . . .” Miquel blinked. His gaze became unfocused again, and his breath puffed in short bursts. Diago felt his husband’s pulse accelerate. His voice went up two octaves with Nico’s terrified cry. “Pietà, pietà!”
The room’s gray light grew brighter. The gloaming passed to become the dawn. Miquel’s body slumped on the mattress. He panted in short ragged breaths.
“Miquel?”
His husband’s eyes narrowed. “What in the fucking hell just happened to me?”
Before Diago could respond, the floorboards outside their room creaked. A soft tap came at the door. “Papá? Miquel? Are you all right?” It was Rafael.
He sounded groggy, as if he was still half-asleep. He probably thinks I’ve had a nightmare. Unwilling to leave Miquel’s side, Diago called softly, “We’re fine. What time is it?”
“Five or so. I think.”
“Go back to bed. Everything is fine.” The deceit rolled out his mouth with the ease of a thousand parental lies.
“Okay.” But the shadow beneath their door hesitated as if Rafael detected Diago’s guile.
Miquel started to speak, but Diago pressed his fingers over his husband’s lips. He watched the threshold until Rafael finally moved away, his footsteps retreating to his room.
When he was sure their son was gone, Diago lowered his hand from Miquel’s mouth. “Tell me what you remember.”
Miquel rolled away and found his cigarettes on the night table. Kicking against the mattress, he pushed his back against the headboard and didn’t speak until he’d filled his lungs with nicotine three times. “I had a nightmare.” Miquel picked at the sheet with two fingers as if plucking a guitar string.
“Tell me.”
He sighed and smoothed the sheet. “I was . . . in a square. And it was cold. So cold. I was naked.” He frowned and stared at the door without truly seeing it. His gaze seemed to be turned inward, concentrating on the images in his mind’s eye. “No. I wore an undershirt, but it was in shreds.”
“What kind of square?”
“It was in a compound . . . there were barracks in three neat rows. I can’t see to the end of the lanes, but somehow I know that there were fifteen buildings, five in each row . . . there were watchtowers, one in the center of the square.” He shuddered. “It’s a camp, a prison.”
Mauthausen, maybe? Diago didn’t ask. He didn’t want to influence Miquel’s memory of the dream. “What happened?”
“I’m facing row upon row of men.” He stopped and closed his eyes. “They’re little more than skeletons . . . hungry and cold. I’m cold. My hands are lashed behind my back. There is a rope around my neck and I’m standing on a stool. Christ, it’s awful, and the cold . . . it is in my bones.” His breathing quickened. “There is a small orchestra of prisoners playing violins and accordions. They’re playing ‘J’attendrai.’” He paused and shook his head as if confused by the selection.
It was a song Rina Ketty recorded in 1938 and had remained popular throughout the war. People reinterpreted the melancholy lyrics of one lover awaiting the arrival of another as every person’s longing for the end of war.
Diago couldn’t imagine what the music meant in the dream. “Keep going.”
“Someone walks up to me.” Miquel’s dark eyes glittered. “He kicks the stool from beneath my feet, and when he looks up, he wears your face.”
“And then?”
“I died. I was dead. There was nothing. No sound. And then I heard someone speak in Italian, but it was me, but it wasn’t me.”
“Okay.” Except it wasn’t okay. “Go back to last night. When you opened the locket. What did you see on the paper?”
“A sigil, but Juanita said it was blank.”
Writing that appeared and disappeared. It made no sense, unless . . .
Diago got out of bed and grabbed the locket. He snatched Miquel’s matches and went to a lamp. As the wick gained luminance, Diago removed the scrap from the pendant and held it over the flame. Moments passed and then faint brown lines emerged on the paper.
It was a sigil.
“I can’t believe it,” Diago whispered.
“What?” Miquel slid out of bed and joined him.
“Is this what you saw?” He held up the note.
Miquel nodded. “How did you . . .” He glanced at the lamp and then understanding dawned. “Invisible writing?”
Diago sniffed the paper. “Onion juice, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You rarely are.” Miquel put out his cigarette. “But what kind of sigil is that?”
The pieces fell together and suddenly he understood exactly what had happened to Miquel. “Do you remember at the beginning of the war, we experimented with astral projection?” They’d hoped that instead of relying on mortal means to communicate, their angel-born spies might relay secrets through one another’s dreams. “We abandoned the project because of its unpredictability.”
Miquel shrugged. “So?”
“Nico excelled at it.”
Miquel became very still. “I dreamed of Nico,” he whispered. “Before I dreamed of the square, Nico and I were in a café. It was the same one where you two used to meet when we lived in Paris. You know, that shabby little place on the corner—”
“I remember it.”
“Nico wanted to talk to you and I told him no. I told him to go away and not come back. He kissed me, and then the dream switched—”
“To the square and the hanging?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Nico had to simulate your death so that his consciousness could take over your body. Don’t you see? His sigil was meant for me—”
“Wait. Wait. Go back to the part where he killed me.”
“It was the only way to make you los
e control, so he made you think that you died in the dream. With your consciousness out of the way, his spirit could then reach me with your voice.”
“I’ll strangle him.” Miquel grabbed his pants.
“Think, Miquel. Nico is with Herr Teufel. The daimon-born are going to the camps to feed on the prisoners’ misery, and somehow, Teufel has taken Nico. If he’s keeping Nico close to him—”
“Oh, no, I see where your mind is going with this.”
Diago gathered his scattered clothing and dressed quickly. “We’ve got a spy embedded right next to Herr Teufel. We need to see Juanita and Guillermo.”
Someone knocked at the door.
Diago answered and found Suero there.
“Oh, good, you’re dressed,” the young nefil said. “Don Guillermo wants both of you to come to his office.” Without another word, he turned and went to the stairs.
Miquel grabbed Diago’s arm and drew him back into their bedroom, though he didn’t shut the door. Keeping his voice to a whisper, he said, “Will Nico be able to speak through me anytime?”
“No. He can only communicate with you through your dreams.”
Miquel nodded and brushed his lips against Diago’s cheek. “Okay. Let’s go down and talk to Guillermo and Juanita. We’ll see if we can use this to our advantage.”
“I’ve got to speak to Rafael. I just want to let him know what’s going on. I’ll be right behind you.”
Miquel left him, and Diago hurried to his son’s bedroom. He knocked twice and opened the door.
An easel stood near one of the room’s two windows, the beginning lines of a sketch already shading the canvas. It was a portrait of Ysabel and Violeta, drawn from one of their favorite photographs. They sat on a hillside together; Violeta leaned against Ysa, who had her arms protectively around her friend as she stared off into the distance.
Toward Spain, Diago recalled. They were both looking toward home. He knew because he had taken the snapshot for them.
Though Rafael hadn’t been present when the photo was taken, he’d managed to give both the women the same longing Diago had sensed in them that day. They’d left Catalonia as children and now they were determined to reclaim their home.
Rafael looked up from pulling on his boots. “Do you like it?”
Diago nodded. “It’s very good. You’ve captured their souls.”
Rafael made a face. “It needs a lot more work.” He stood and grabbed his sweater. “Did you have a nightmare?”
“Not me. It was Miquel.” Diago noticed a small box beside his son’s bed. A shard of glass was cushioned by a piece of velvet. It was the only remaining image from the glass box Prieto had given Diago—the same casket Rafael had held in his fight against Moloch when he was six.
The edges were jagged and a crack touched one corner, but the image was untouched. It was the silhouette of a woman poised to dance, her arms raised over her head, her face turned upward as if looking at the sky. She was dressed in rags that rose behind her and gave her the illusion of wings. Around her throat was a small serpent with golden scales.
“Hello? Papá?” Rafael waved his palm in front of Diago’s face. “Is Miquel okay?”
Startled by the gesture, Diago focused on his son. “Yes. He’s fine.” He quickly explained the situation.
Rafael frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the development. “Do you think that means we’ll have some answers soon?”
“I hope so.” Diago’s gaze was drawn back to Candela’s image.
His mind conjured the hard scent of tin—and carnations, she kept carnations by the bed—and he recalled Candela lazily tracing the scars on his chest. The golden snake slid from her hair to coil over his heart, cool like water, soft like silk. The serpent had watched him with ruby eyes, but Diago had barely been aware of anything other than Candela’s voice, murmuring the name she would call her song. Rafael.
And that was all she had left her son: her angel’s tear and a shard of glass.
Noting the direction of Diago’s gaze, Rafael wrapped the shard in velvet and placed it in the little box. “I’m sorry.” He gently closed the lid. “I know the memory of what she did brings you pain.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that she was your mother and you love her.”
He cradled the box. “Sometimes I don’t know how I feel about her. She put you under a spell so she could become pregnant, knowing that whatever child was born would be given to Moloch in exchange for the blueprints of a bomb. I wasn’t conceived in love. It was an act of deception. But at the same time, I love her, because she did try to protect me. And sleeping with her image beside my bed tends to keep the nightmares at bay. It’s confusing.”
“We can’t always control our emotions, especially about family. It’s okay to love her and question her motives. You can do both without disrespecting her memory.” He couldn’t believe he actually stood there defending his rapist. Talk about confusing.
At the same time, he refused to discount his son’s feelings. “If we look at the positive side of things, she gave me you, and I’ve never regretted having you in my life.”
“Hey!” Miquel called up the stairs, startling them both. “Diago! Are you coming?”
Ignoring his husband, Diago nodded at the box in his son’s hands. “I’ve made my peace with Candela. There is no need for you to hide her presence.”
Miquel shouted again. “Diago!”
“He’s getting grumpy, I’d better go. We’ll talk more later if you want.”
Rafael grinned. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Diago quickly left his son and approached the stairs. “Yes! I’m here!”
“Good, because Bernardo is on his way with a package.”
Diago hurried down the stairs. Carlos Vela had gotten his wish. He had an audience with Don Guillermo.
Diago reached the second-floor landing to find Miquel leaning on the banister. “Everything okay up there?”
“Everything is fine.”
“Then let’s go. Guillermo is waiting for us.”
They went down the hall and found the door ajar. Miquel gave the frame two raps and went inside.
Juanita was already there, drawing the drapes. “Let some light in here, corazón.”
Guillermo rubbed his eyes and rocked back in his chair. Diago wondered if he’d been to bed at all.
“Knock, knock.” Suero brought in a serving tray and set it on a side table. A coffee urn, cups, and some of Eva’s croissants caught everyone’s attention. “Breakfast.”
No one waited for a second invitation. They helped themselves and retreated to various points in the office.
Miquel carried his to an easy chair by the bookcase and took a sip from his cup. “Chicory.” He grimaced.
“Mmm,” Guillermo grumbled as he winced at the taste. “Nothing like a cup of ersatz coffee first thing in the morning to turn the stomach.” He added some saccharine tablets before addressing Suero. “Have you been able to reach Ysa’s rooming house?”
“Not yet, Don Guillermo. The phone lines are down this morning. I’ll keep trying throughout the day.”
“Thank you. You don’t need to stay for this.”
The lesser nefil bowed his head and retreated, closing the door behind him.
Guillermo ate his croissant in three bites and then cradled his mug. “Okay, Miquel gave us the highlights. Let’s see if I understand this: Petre Balan brought a pendant that held a disappearing sigil; Miquel opened it, took a mysterious hit to the eye, and then this morning was possessed by Nico’s astral projection . . . what the fuck is going on?”
Juanita glanced at Diago from her place behind Guillermo. “Diago, would you mind explaining?” She mouthed the words, No sleep.
Diago nodded and took the chair closest to Guillermo’s desk. “Do you remember at the beginning of the war, we experimented with astral projection in the hopes that the process would enable our spies to communicate with one another?”
Guillermo’s
bleary gaze cleared with understanding. “Right. I remember now. You and Juanita and Nico were working on some way to eliminate communiqués that could be intercepted by the enemy.”
“Exactly. The method we finally developed entailed drawing a sigil with invisible ink—we used either onion or lemon juice on a piece of paper. The ward was designed to link two nefilim through their dreams. Then we’d find a discreet way to deliver the note. The person who received the paper would hold it over a flame, the heat of which would reveal the glyph, and activate the link.”
“Okay, I’m with you now.” Guillermo lifted the lid of his cigar box and drew one out. “And you think that Petre delivered such a message to you last night.”
“From Nico. Except Miquel opened it and held the paper over the flame. So instead of me, Nico connected with Miquel’s dreams this morning.”
Guillermo chuckled at Miquel over his cigar.
Miquel scowled at him. “This isn’t funny.”
The big nefil struggled to compose himself. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not funny. Maybe a little poetic . . .”
Miquel’s glare intensified.
Guillermo stood and cleared his throat. “Okay. I’m sure Miquel formed a protective ward before he opened that locket, so riddle me this: How did Nico’s ward skirt it?”
Diago answered the question. “It wasn’t an attack, so Miquel’s shield didn’t react. Nico’s spell bounced around Miquel’s ward and went directly into his subconscious. That’s why neither Juanita nor I saw any reflection of a sigil when we examined his eye.”
Guillermo paced up and down the room once before stopping in front of one of the windows. He stared into the distance.
He’s looking for the plume of dust that will announce Bernardo’s arrival.
Guillermo finally lit his cigar but he didn’t return his lighter to his pocket. “The astral projection experiments failed, because the nefilim can’t sustain the link for long periods of time. We also found it difficult to untangle real events from the dreamers’ projections or opinions.”
Juanita refilled her cup. “Nico was actually quite good at it.”
Guillermo flicked the lid of his lighter with three measured clicks before he turned to face Miquel. “Last night, Diago informed me that you found Nico had been transferred to Mauthausen. Is that true?”
