by T. Frohock
A set of stairs loomed ahead. On the right was a padded door. That probably leads to the theater. “Where’s Alvaro?”
The theater door opened. Christina stepped into the hallway and almost walked into him. She wore a simple day dress, yet she gave the garment an air of careless glamour. Her lipstick was the color of fresh blood.
She halted and stared at him as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
Maybe she can’t. He cleared his throat. “There’s been a problem.”
Getting her wits about her, she closed the door and glared at Francisco. “Get on the street.”
The monstrous nefil treated Diago to a final glare and retreated outside.
Christina waited until he was gone before she spoke. “I thought you were going to send a postcard. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Circumstances have changed. I’m no longer with Los Nefilim.”
She looked at him as if noticing his rumpled clothing for the first time. “What? What’s happened?”
“My little excursion to your house was noticed. Then on the way home I was accosted by Carlos Vela.”
Her eyes narrowed at the name.
“Carlos had a picture of one of Guillermo’s grimoires and tried to blackmail him with it. So Guillermo sent his nefilim to bring Carlos in, except Carlos was found with this jammed into his throat.” He withdrew the ruby cuff link and showed it to her.
She tried to snatch it from his palm.
He was quicker. Closing his fingers around the cuff link, he returned it to his pocket. “They found out that you were giving Carlos his morphine. Guillermo thinks you have his grimoire, and that I’ve been covering for you. I barely escaped with my life.”
“And Rafael?”
“He chose Los Nefilim over his father.”
“That apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
Her claws are out today. “I need to see Alvaro.”
“Why?”
“I want to join the daimon-born.”
“Why can’t you just be a rogue again?”
“Because Guillermo has declared me a spy and put a price on my head.” He pushed his sleeve up so she could see the injury on his forearm. “I have a matching one on my chest. Want to see it?”
“No.” She wrinkled her nose and turned her head. “How do I know that’s not self-inflicted?”
“Touch it.”
She placed her fingertip against the wound’s outer edge, and then jerked her hand back against her chest. A thin curl of smoke drifted from her fingertip.
“I need protection.” He lowered his sleeve. “Please, Christina. I need my family.”
She studied him. “Do you sincerely believe Alvaro will take you back?”
“Of course he will. Because my cousin will speak for me.”
She arched an eyebrow at him and folded her arms. “Oh, really? And what makes you so sure that I’m going to put my head on the block for you?”
“Because I helped you escape the Sun King’s court during l’affaire des poisons.”
She scowled at him. He was sure it wasn’t because she didn’t remember the incident, but because she did.
Having befriended the king’s mistress, a certain Marquise de Montespan, Christina found herself entangled with the infamous Catherine Deshayes, known more commonly as La Voisin. When Montespan was implicated in l’affaire des poisons, Christina was imprisoned with the other ladies of Montespan’s court.
Montespan herself was never tried. Being Louis’s courtesan came with a few perks, the most important being that the king had no desire to appear the fool. A lengthy trial for Montespan promised to be precisely the kind of fiasco Louis wanted to avoid. So rather than the burning court, Montespan found her way into a convent.
Using his own considerable influence within the court, Diago helped Christina avoid a hearing of her own. As soon as he was able, he facilitated his cousin’s escape to Barcelona. They never again spoke of his assistance to her, but Diago pocketed that event like a valuable coin.
And now it’s time to spend it. “You’re alive today because of me.”
“You give yourself a lot of credit.”
“Deserved credit. I saved your life. All I’m asking is that you pay me back.”
“And then we’re even. Forever.”
“Forever.”
“Follow me.” She opened the theater’s door and led him into the shuttered lobby.
Though the carpet was faded and frayed, this area seemed to be in better condition than the corridor they’d just left. The wallpaper had been pinned in several places, and the chandeliers were in need of a good dusting, but otherwise they could open the doors for a performance at any time. Two sets of stairs on each side of the wide room led upward to the balconies.
From the direction of the theater doors came the muted strains of a cello playing “J’attendrai.”
Christina pointed toward the lavatory. “Clean yourself up.”
The imperiousness of the command made her sound as if she’d already assumed the mantle of high priestess. And my best course of action at this point is to obey.
He went into the men’s room and scrubbed the worst of the road dirt from his face and hands. As he washed, the instrument’s mournful wail floated through the vents to serenade him.
Diago listened with the practiced ear of a teacher. The musician seemed competent. It was obvious the person understood both technique and style—the accents landed in all the right places, the chords were precise—but the cellist’s execution seemed to lack spirit and emotion, which left the interpretation flat.
The cellist suddenly stopped playing. Silence prevailed for five beats. Then the piece began again.
Diago finished washing and toweled himself dry. When he emerged, he was somewhat less disheveled than when he arrived. “How do I look?”
She opened the theater door and whispered, “Like a ruffian.”
“That is part of my charm.” Diago adjusted his collar and stepped inside.
The entrance brought them to the center aisle. The house lights were up. Other nefilim were scattered throughout the seats. All of them most likely armed with pistols or knives and songs that killed.
Diago guessed that roughly twenty of the daimon-born were present for the rehearsal. Probably a fraction of their forces, but far more than he could take on alone.
The cellist was the only person on the stage. He was a young nefil, fourteen, maybe fifteen, with black hair that fell into his eyes as he sawed the bow back and forth over the strings. Sweat stains darkened the armpits of his shirt and his collar had come undone. His forearms trembled as he began “J’attendrai” from the beginning.
The painting Herr Teufel sent to Christina stood on an easel just behind the cellist. The dark sounds of grief churned across the canvas with every chord.
Near the orchestra pit, a lone figure stood at attention. He wore the striped uniform of a camp prisoner. A metal bracelet encircled one wrist. The wooden shoes on his feet didn’t seem to be the same size.
His glassy eyes were surrounded by dark circles that gave him the look of a cadaver. When his gaze noted Diago, his body gave a little jerk of recognition.
Diago frowned. He recalled Miquel’s description of Nico from his nightmare. Could it be?
As he drew closer, he saw only the faintest resemblance to the nefil he’d once known. He’s like Petre. Starved and not just from lack of food.
And didn’t Miquel mention “J’attendrai” from the nightmare, as well? The camp orchestra had played the song as the prisoners were taken to the gallows. What had Nico said to Miquel? Something about Teufel hanging around the camps to feed. He says my tears are sweet.
Diago noted the blood streaking the cello’s neck. The determination in the youth’s eyes said that he didn’t care how much of his blood spilled, he’d play until he learned to wring every ounce of emotion from Nico.
This wasn’t a rehearsal. The daimon-born were waiting to feed. Oh, Nico. I
’m so sorry.
But if Nico was here, then that meant the mysterious Herr Teufel was likewise nearby. Diago scanned the audience. Sure enough, seated front-row center were two men.
Their proximity to Nico didn’t necessarily signify either of them were Teufel. But the devil is close.
Christina led Diago toward the pair, and he immediately recognized his father by his posture. Alvaro sat straight, his palm on a knobbed walking stick. His only attire was a song of scorpions, a glistening coat of blue and black that rustled around his nude body, revealing his withered penis and thin legs.
At Alvaro’s right sat another nefil. The man wore an SS uniform. His long hair touched the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. The unfashionable hairstyle and his languid pose made his attire seem more a mockery than an attempt to assimilate.
It’s a costume to him, because he enjoys ridiculing mortal pretensions. Diago recognized him: Alessandro Strzyga. He was Alvaro’s first cousin, though they were more like brothers in affections.
When he makes a point, he has a habit of rapping his palm on the table to punctuate each word. And that hand had a disquieting tendency to strike out hard and sharp.
If Diago had to guess, he’d put his money on Alessandro as Herr Teufel. It was a hunch. Guillermo would demand proof. Then get it for him.
Alessandro looked right through Diago, as if he weren’t there. The elder nefil’s disrespect was the equivalent of a slap.
Diago pretended not to notice.
Alvaro lowered his dark glasses and examined Diago with eyes the color of smoke and nickel. He lifted the walking stick and gave the floor two sharp raps.
On the stage, the nefil’s bow halted midsweep.
Christina broke the sudden silence. She curtsied to Alvaro and, as a sign of respect, tilted her head toward Alessandro as she rose. “I beg your pardon, my lord. Diago has come with an urgent request.”
Alvaro held out the hand that bore a heavy signet. He didn’t appear happy to see Diago.
Not a good sign for me. Diago stepped forward and knelt before his father. He kissed the puce and gray stone set within the ring’s band.
Alvaro pulled his hand away as if something nasty had touched him. “Why are you here?”
Christina spoke for him. “Diago has been assisting me. He has spied on Los Nefilim from within, and his work has been above reproach.”
Alvaro kept his stare locked on Diago. “I’ll ask again: Why are you here?” Christina started to answer, but Alvaro lifted his hand. “My son has a voice. Let him speak.”
Diago licked his lips. “Guillermo found out I was spying on him. I barely escaped with my life. I need sanctuary.”
Alessandro finally looked down at Diago. “Kill him, and when the Inner Guard comes to our door, give them his head.”
Diago locked gazes with his father, but he didn’t beg for his life. He’d be damned if he’d give Alessandro the pleasure.
From somewhere nearby, Diago heard the snap of metal. Someone had just inserted a round into the chamber of a gun. His heart picked up speed. I’ve died before, I’ll die again. He mentally prepared himself to search out a new incarnation.
“Kill him,” Alessandro whispered.
“No.” Alvaro’s glare hardened. “This time we do things my way.” He pointed at Diago. “If I allow you to stay, I want Rafael as a member of this court.”
Diago had expected such a condition. “I understand. Give me the time necessary to bring him to our cause.”
“Is this an oath I hear?”
“It is a plea for your forbearance while I do what needs to be done.”
Alvaro laughed. “Oh, you have become a master of useless words.” With uncanny speed, he lifted his walking stick and snapped it against the side of Diago’s head.
The blow was hard enough to knock Diago to the sticky floor. Blood filled his mouth but the cut inside his cheek seemed superficial. The bruise forming on the side of his face was a more substantial injury.
Still, coming from his father, it was a mere tap. He’s testing me to see if I’ll lash out. Diago spat blood to the concrete.
Not a nefil moved in the auditorium. It was like they held their collective breath, waiting for the play’s climactic scene.
Alvaro settled back in his seat. “Get up.”
Diago stood and faced his father.
Alvaro examined Diago with a calculating gaze. “We found something that belongs to Guillermo. A document that seems to be very important to him according to Carlos Vela. Do you know anything about a psalm?”
Time to mix the truth with lies. “The only one I know of is Psalm 60 from The Book of Gold. Beneath Guillermo’s protective wards, there is a song for a weapon. His daughter, Ysabel, can unlock those wards, and she is nearby, at Jordi’s estate in Fontainebleau.”
Alvaro’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Well, well. Something of value has finally rolled through your mouth.”
Alessandro turned his gaze to Diago. “He’s lying. I was there recently and didn’t see her.”
Diago regarded the old nefil. “Would you even know her?” He turned back to his father. “Are you working with the angel-born now?”
A faint smile touched Alvaro’s mouth. “We’re supplying Jordi with morphine. That’s all.”
The cunning on his father’s face said otherwise. “I know Ysabel. She grew up around me. She trusts me.”
Alessandro scoffed. “You betrayed her father. Why would she trust you?”
“She can’t possibly know I’ve been forced out of Los Nefilim, because she was in Paris when I was accused of being a spy. I’ve been around her since she was an infant. She’ll trust me. I’ll even convince her to sing Guillermo’s protective glyphs away from the page. Then we’ll know the details of the secret weapon behind Guillermo’s plan. The trick will be getting into the estate and back out again.”
Alvaro tapped the head of his walking stick with one restless finger. “Play for me.”
He wants to measure the worth of my song. Diago glanced at Nico. And he wants to feed on Nico’s despair. “I have no instrument.”
Alvaro gestured to the young nefil with the cello. “Gael will loan you his.”
The youth stood and bowed his head.
To refuse would indicate weakness. He had no choice other than to hurt Nico or admit his desire to return to the Scorpion Court was a ruse.
Diago ascended the stage on numb legs. Forgive me, Nico. Please forgive me for what I’m about to do.
Gael handed Diago his bow and the instrument. His stiff posture and abrupt movements conveyed resentment over lending his instrument to a stranger, but it was merely a performance for the nefilim in the audience. Unlike the others, Diago was close enough to see Gael’s relief at being dismissed from his endless lesson.
Diago waited until the youth left the stage before taking the seat. He ran through the scales to get a feel for the cello, making minor adjustments as he did. When he felt sure of the strings’ response, he launched into “J’attendrai.”
He recalled Miquel’s description of Nico’s nightmare. Closing his eyes, he imagined the camp’s gates opening. The sound of a tumbrel’s wheels clattering along to the beat of a drum; the wail of violins. He conjured the figure of the bandleader grinning and bobbing as he weaved among the horrified prisoners.
He felt their humiliation and turned it into chords. Wringing the descant from the cello’s throat, note by note, he re-created the helpless despair his husband had depicted.
The cello wept, and suddenly Nico cried out.
Diago tasted the other nefil’s sorrow and fear. The pleasurable warmth he usually denied himself flooded his chest and left him light-headed.
Looking down into the theater, he noted the contentment on Alvaro’s face as his father inhaled Nico’s grief. Beside him, Alessandro tilted back his head, his gaze rapt with pleasure.
Diago finished the last notes and let the bow fall from the strings.
Behind him, the dark
sounds of the painting cracked like thunder. He whirled and glimpsed the colors billowing toward him. What the hell is happening?
Ashes soured on his tongue. The bitter-almond scent of cyanide coupled with the stench of charred flesh. A million voices keened a litany of terror, falling sharp like chords from bitter strings . . .
. . . I’m better off dead than on the road . . .
. . . my brother . . . no not my brother . . .
. . . is there water do you have water please . . . a gold watch for water . . .
. . . leave it Mother leave it you must come away . . .
. . . my child my child my child . . .
. . . goddamn you Nazi pigs . . .
And the dark sounds of their dying rolled on, growing louder, rising to become a crescendo, measured by the tempo of gunshots, and the faint whisper of gas hissing through pipes.
From somewhere behind him, the vibrations of footsteps thundered across the stage. Then something hard struck the back of Diago’s head and the world went black.
It was a mercy.
20
23 January 1944
The Theater of Dreams
Diago came to in painful stages. He shifted his position and realized he sat in the same seat Alvaro had recently occupied. His head ached. A sour smell told him he’d vomited on himself; although someone had gone to the effort to clean him up.
The memory of the portrait’s dark sounds clung to the edge of his senses. He wanted to rush the stage and release those poor mortals from their torment.
An attempt to stand failed. Something held him against the seat. He tried to move his arms, but his hands were lashed to the chair’s struts. A rope stretched across his chest, binding him to the backrest. Panic infiltrated the fuzziness in his brain. What the hell?
The steady click of heels against the stage echoed throughout the auditorium. It was Christina. His anxiety receded somewhat. At least it wasn’t Alessandro.
She descended the stage stairs and came to sit beside him. “How do you feel?”
“Sick. What happened?”
“Edur had to knock you out.”
