by T. Frohock
“I bet he enjoyed that.”
“Somewhat.” She touched the bump on the back of his head and withdrew her hand when he winced.
“Why did he hit me?”
“To save your life.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You were about to see something that you’re not ready to see. Anyway, you’re safe now. Alessandro reinforced the sigils that hold the sounds against the canvas. You won’t break through again.”
Alessandro only could have performed that act if the painting was his. He is Teufel. But as one question was answered, another popped up in its place. What are they hiding?
Diago’s gaze flickered to the stage. The psalm? It had to be. Documents had been concealed within canvases in the past.
Just to see what she would do, he deliberately referred to Teufel as Alessandro in his next question. “Something I’ve wondered . . . why did Alessandro ship the painting to you?”
She didn’t appear to notice, or she didn’t care that he’d made the connection between Teufel and Alessandro. “The Allies are bombing railway lines throughout Poland and Germany. Everything was a risk, but the route through Italy didn’t carry quite the same hazards, and he was determined that it should arrive safely.”
“Because . . . ?”
“That is on a need-to-know basis and you don’t need to know. Let’s call it classified information and leave it there.”
The theater felt empty but for the two of them. “Where is everyone?”
“Sated and sleepy. They’ve gone to dream Nico’s dream.”
And Nico? Diago’s gaze automatically went to the orchestra pit where the other nefil had stood. Probably with Alessandro. Miquel said he was Teufel’s servant.
“Why am I tied up?”
“Because no one trusts you enough to let you run loose while they sleep.” She lifted her black cigarette holder and inserted a cigarette. “Including me.”
“Then why are you here?”
“You and I must come to an accord.” She lit the cigarette and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke over the orchestra pit. “Do you know what happened at Houska Castle?”
“No.” Not the pertinent details.
“Alessandro went to the chapel.”
Diago doubted he was there to pray. The castle’s chapel had been erected over an abyss, which the mortals swore was a pit to hell. If only they really knew. “Did he find God there?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
That didn’t bode well.
Christina tapped her cigarette’s ashes to the floor. “Early in the war, Alvaro ordered Alessandro to take a platoon of daimon-born nefilim to secure the Houska gate. He wanted to beat the Nazis to the area. Alessandro used the opportunity to enter the chapel. Instead of positioning his troops and patrolling the area, he had his nefilim lower him into the abyss.
“While Alessandro disobeyed his orders and neglected the perimeter, a troop of Die Nephilim pushed back the daimon-born platoon and took over the entire area. Alessandro barely escaped with his life. He tells a very exciting version of the story whereby he is the hero.” She took a long, angry draw from her cigarette and huffed the smoke through her nose.
From behind them, distant laughter echoed from the direction of the lobby. A door opened and shut and then silence reigned again.
Christina touched Diago’s knee, and then she stood and strolled to the auditorium door. Diago heard her open it to check the lobby. She returned to him, apparently satisfied they were alone again.
Resuming her seat, she continued her tale. “One of the troops from Alessandro’s platoon made it to Perpignan before we left. He said that Alessandro descended into the pit for three days. While he was there, he made a deal with a devil, and when he came out, he was sharing his body with Beleth.”
Beleth? Diago had been prepared for bad news, but not for anything this terrible. Beleth was one of the most ferocious daimonic kings, a god of war. With eighty-five legions of daimons under his command, he’d smash through the Inner Guard’s broken divisions with the efficiency of a panzer unit crushing infantry.
“Are you sure?”
“Based on the signs I’ve witnessed, yes.”
He couldn’t accept that, though—it was too scary. Christina is wrong. She has to be wrong. “What kind of signs?”
“Some of the daimon-born claim that at times he appears to have no face. Others have noticed a thin tail that curls around his ankles.”
The descriptions matched Miquel’s account of his dream-meeting with Nico. Diago said nothing.
Christina talked faster, breathlessly outlining both her deductions and her plan. “Alessandro and Beleth have been trying for weeks to get an audience with Jordi Abelló. Beleth intends to possess Abelló’s body, as he has taken Alessandro’s, in order to command Die Nephilim. Beleth wants to use the angel-born nefilim to shatter the wards at Houska and open the gateway.” Christina put out her cigarette. “We must stop him.”
“What?” The statement made no sense. Moloch wanted nothing more than for the daimons to regain the mortal realm.
“We must stop Beleth.”
Everything was moving too fast, but it didn’t take him long to work out why she wanted Alessandro out of the way. Christina intended to become Moloch’s high priestess. And she doesn’t want competition for the mortals’ affections.
Diago glanced at the stage. “Is this some sort of test?”
“Shut up and listen.” Christina squeezed his shoulder and quickly confirmed his suspicions. “Once Beleth opens the gateway and floods the mortal realm with daimons, they’ll enslave both the nefilim and the mortals, demanding our adulation and sacrifice, just as they did in the old days. I say good riddance to them.”
“Do you really think you can murder a daimon?”
“Everything dies, Diago, even the daimons.”
The angel Prieto had once expressed a similar sentiment to him. Everything dies, Diago . . . even the angels. And while the statement held true, Christina’s plans were ambitious beyond imagination.
She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “Beleth chose his host wisely. As an elder of the Council of Nine, we can’t openly assassinate Alessandro without being seen as traitors to our own court. But he needs to disappear. Forever and discreetly. His demise cannot be traced back to us.”
Us? Was she already implicating him in her plot?
Diago tried to twist in the seat to see if anyone else was in the theater. Had she let someone in when she went to check the door? The ropes held him firmly in place. “You’re testing me and my allegiance to Alvaro, aren’t you? It’s got to be a test, because Alvaro seemed fine with Alessandro.”
“That’s because Moloch wants to open the gateway, and what Moloch wants, Alvaro wants.” When he didn’t immediately respond, her glare darkened. “Let me make this personal. Alvaro can’t take you back into the ranks of the daimon-born without bringing it before the Nine.” She leaned close until she was almost in his lap. “The same council that listened to Alessandro at your Gloaming.”
“I told you before: I didn’t have a Gloaming.” Or had he? What had Alvaro said earlier? No, this time we do things my way. This time.
“Stop lying to yourself, Diago. You had a Gloaming. You just don’t want to remember it.” Her words snapped through his brain. “I was there, I saw it. All of six years old, and you performed like a maestro. You were so proud of yourself. They tested your knowledge of instruments and tone. You didn’t forget a single lyric of the old ballads.”
Because I wanted my father to love me. Diago wrenched his gaze from hers and stared into the darkness of the orchestra pit.
Her voice dropped to a sibilant hiss. “They should have accepted you, but Alessandro called you an angelic abomination. He said you could never be one of the daimon-born, and went so far as to intimate that you be given the second death.”
If he could have leapt from the chair and fled his cousin’s words, he would have.
Her voice shattered his concentration. “Moloch refused to entertain the idea of giving you the second death, but he wanted peace with his nobles. He acceded to their demands to expel you from the court and decreed you’d be enslaved with a minor family. Alvaro bowed to them then, because Moloch hadn’t chosen him at that time. He was only a nefil, and a lower member of the court, at that. He didn’t even speak in your defense. He left you, because he is a coward. You did nothing wrong. Do you hear me?”
Diago’s breath came in short bursts.
Christina brushed a tear from his cheek and licked it from her finger. “You did nothing wrong.”
That wasn’t what he had thought at the time. Certain he’d made some critical error, some faux pas he couldn’t fathom, he’d run after his father, begging him not to leave . . . I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I’ll be good . . .
Except his father didn’t return. He left Diago with some woman who claimed to be an aunt. And maybe she was a distant relative. But her family didn’t want him in their house, so they sold him to a brothel. Do what they say and you will eat.
That, too, was a lie. He was forced to fight the other boys for his bread, and though he was small, he discovered viciousness trumped size. And when the strangers who visited the brothel touched him, he learned not to cry. He taught himself to smile with his mouth, and never let them see the hate he buried in his heart.
Now he remembered.
His cousin kissed his tears and drank his grief. “Hear me, Diago, once you’ve served your purpose for them and encouraged the Ramírez girl to remove her father’s wards, Beleth will destroy you. They will give you the second death and then they will hunt Rafael. I’m your only friend here.”
And this is what my family does . . . they drive nails of grief into my heart and then claim that no one loves me like they do. All to force me to perform whatever acts they’re too craven to commit themselves.
Except Christina’s scenario wasn’t entirely contrived. Especially if Beleth possessed Alessandro in the same manner that Moloch shared a body with Alvaro. What Moloch wants, Alvaro wants. Wouldn’t it be the same for Beleth and Alessandro?
Diago didn’t have to consider the issue for long. No sooner had I arrived than Alessandro ordered Alvaro to kill me.
The threat to him and Rafael was real, especially if something happened to Alvaro.
An ember of rage touched his heart, but Diago didn’t give it oxygen to grow. He shoved his anger deep. This wasn’t the time. “Why do you need me?”
“A king or queen of the Inner Guard possesses the power to kill a daimon. I want you to be present when Alessandro meets with Abelló. Beleth will attempt to possess the angel-born nefil. We’ll let Beleth’s arrogance be his downfall, because I doubt he’ll be successful.
“You and I both know that Abelló will call down the power of the Thrones and either destroy Beleth, or force him back into the daimonic realms. Still, the distraction works in our favor. While Abelló deals with Beleth, you can shoot Alessandro, and once Beleth is subdued, shoot Abelló. That will eliminate all three threats and give me dominion over Spain and France when Alvaro makes me his high priestess.”
He noticed her grand plan incorporated no escape strategy for him. Don’t bog her down with details. Because it didn’t matter. He had no intention of murdering a king of the Inner Guard for his daimonic kin.
“But that leaves other divisions of the Inner Guard to be dealt with.”
“The Inner Guard is almost shattered from infighting. It’ll be centuries before they regain what they’ve lost. By then, my territories will be secure. Are you with me?”
“Yes.” Because if I can take down Alessandro and pin his murder on the Nazis, then I’m all for that plan.
“I knew I could count on you.” She gave his shoulder another squeeze.
“Good. Untie me.”
“I can’t.” She ran her finger between the rope and his chest. “If I do, they’ll suspect I did it, because I spoke for you.” She kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry. We won’t forget you.” She stood and walked away, humming “J’attendrai.”
Diago smiled at her back. And there it was: a full confession. Christina had implicated herself. Guillermo could move on that information alone to raid the theater.
Except for one small problem—Diago had no way to tell him. Twisting his wrists against the heavy ropes, he began the difficult task of working himself free. He needed to get out of the theater and to the café.
The time had come to set fire to the Scorpion Court, and Diago had no problem striking the match.
21
23 January 1944
Château de l’Entreprenante
Fontainebleau
Ysabel curled on her side and blinked at the clock across the room. The dial blurred and wouldn’t swim into focus.
Another of Jimenez’s endless shots had stolen her morning. She remembered calling her father, and then breakfast with Jordi . . . and then back to my room for another shot.
Jimenez was giving her morphine. Of that she was certain. She guessed he diluted her doses with saline, because while the drug slurred her thoughts, it wasn’t always enough to knock her out.
Until today. “Fuck this.” She needed her brain moving on all cylinders. Forcing herself out of bed, she crossed the room and checked the clock.
She’d missed lunch. Esser had probably come to rouse her, found her sleeping soundly, and then crept back out. They knew she’d ring for food if she grew hungry. Obviously, Uncle Jordi is busy today.
Next to the clock, the Virginia Woolf book lay open to “A Haunted House.” The words doors go shutting were underlined until they were almost blacked out.
Did I do that? Touching the page, she vaguely recalled taking a pen to the book. It had been late last night when the morphine wore off and left her anxious and afraid.
Outside her room a door slammed. Ysa’s skin crawled. She resisted the urge to drag her fingernails over her flesh.
Concentrate. For the love of the Thrones, concentrate before the bastards kill me. Taking slow, deep breaths, she considered the problem.
Jimenez retained the bulk of the morphine for Jordi. Ysa had noticed that the vials he used for her were clearly labeled with a red dot. If she could find some empty vials and fill them with saline, then she could switch them out when Jimenez wasn’t looking.
Put a red dot on the label and he’ll never know. But that meant she needed vials. She would never get past the guards at Jimenez’s clinic door. Not that she needed to. His bedroom was in the next wing.
She recalled the day Strzyga brought Jimenez the morphine. Jimenez had moved the vials into his bedroom, and Ysa doubted he’d relocated it. Why would he?
His room was close to Jordi’s third-floor suites. And right down the hall from me. That way, if either of them required a shot, he had their medication at hand.
She looked at the shoes beside her wardrobe and left them there. Now was the time for stealth.
She padded barefoot to the door and peeked outside. The corridor was empty. Sergeant Esser wasn’t visible. Everyone seemed to be downstairs going about their day.
Of course they are. I’m supposed to be asleep. Slipping outside, she eased her door shut and walked down the hall, staying away from the balcony.
At the landing, she checked both ways, making sure she didn’t stumble over a servant. A quick glance assured her the library was empty. She paused at Jimenez’s door and listened. No one moved on the other side.
It’s now or never. She reached into her hair and removed a couple of hairpins, bending them into shape as she knelt before the lock. No sigils protected the door. With a quickness that would have drawn approval from her father, she picked the lock and stepped inside, shutting the door softly.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but the disarr
ay of the room surprised her. A jacket was thrown carelessly over the back of a chair. The bed remained unmade. Vials, both empty and full, were clustered on a table against the back wall. The space was shared with a Bunsen burner and Erlenmeyer flasks of various sizes. Piles of notes were stacked in no particular order and written on everything from notepads to napkins.
Christ, he’s a pig. Ysa ignored the rest of the debris and pocketed four empty vials. As she did, a stack of notes cascaded to the floor. Kneeling, she gathered the pages, reaching deep under the table for one errant sheet.
Her fingernail snagged a wire. She moved a grimy undershirt and found a homemade radio. Another cord led her to the headset, which was squirreled behind a set of medical texts.
What is our good doctor listening to? Careful not to jostle the dial, Ysa moved the radio closer and lifted the headset. She noodled the switch. A British announcer read the news. As much as she wanted to listen, she snapped the unit off and returned it to its hiding place, hopefully undisturbed.
The radio itself wouldn’t get Jimenez in trouble, but if Jordi knew Jimenez was listening to Radio London, Jimenez’s life might get complicated quickly.
He wasn’t in the French Resistance. Of that she was certain. A nefil so close to Jordi wouldn’t have escaped Los Nefilim’s attention.
Then what is he doing? Ysa stood and waited for a wave of dizziness to pass before placing the notes back on the desk in a rough semblance of their earlier arrangement.
Curious, she read the top page. It was an arcane mixture of astrology and biology, none of which made sense to her. From what she could cobble together, Jimenez wasn’t working on newer or better drugs to further Jordi’s Reich. Rather, he was trying to predict the future, and not for Die Nephilim, but for himself.
He’s trying to figure out how to align himself. Jimenez was busy looking out for number one.
The door opened. Ysa whirled.
Jimenez stood there with his mouth open. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”
Well. If nothing else, she’d managed to knock that oily smile off his face. She smoothed her dress and cleared her throat. “I . . . um . . . wasn’t feeling well, so I thought I would come and find you.”
