by T. Frohock
Her gaze appraised him and it was clear she liked what she saw. “Monsieur. Have the Spanish come to invade?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He winked at her.
She gave him an obligatory titter.
Only Heines didn’t seem to be amused by their banter. “Would you pardon us for a few moments, Édith? I’d like to reminisce a bit with my . . . old friend.”
“Of course.” She excused herself and, with a final head-to-toe review of Miquel’s body, she left them to return to the dance floor.
“De Torrellas.” Heines was obviously deep in his cups, far from his first drink. “I should have heard you come through the door, because you’ve got balls that clang to be walking around Paris right now.”
“I’m not sure if you’ve just complimented me or insulted me.”
A moment of clarity broke the alcoholic haze in Heines’s eyes. “I should have you arrested.”
“But you won’t. At least not until you’ve heard what I have to say.”
“Really, and why is that?”
“Because I’ve been known to take risks, but nothing in my behavior ever indicated that I’m suicidal. And you know that if I’m here, it’s because of trouble that goes over and beyond divisional squabbles.”
“Is that what you call this war, a squabble?”
Miquel refused to be baited. “We have intelligence of a possible daimonic uprising in Paris.”
A change washed over Heines’s countenance. Whereas before he was drunk and irritated, he now seemed less drunk and more attentive, although far from convinced. “And who told you? That little daimonic bitch that you’re fucking?”
He’s still using his pet slur for Diago. Miquel ignored the insult—this time. “Alvaro is in Paris to choose Moloch’s high priest. The Scorpion Court is gathering. We suspect they plan to attack the Houska gate.”
Heines stared at him for almost a full minute. “Suspicions. But no proof.”
“Yet. Guillermo is taking it seriously.” Miquel lit a cigarette. “It seems that the mortals’ hatred and thirst for killing have generated the very situation we were created to repress. We might as well march into Alvaro’s court and hand him the keys to the mortal realm.”
Heines signaled the bartender and raised his glass. He held up two fingers and indicated Miquel.
Either that’s the signal to have me arrested, or he’s buying me a drink. Neither of them spoke until the waiter arrived with two tumblers.
Miquel felt a headache creep up from his neck and into his scalp. He didn’t allow his tension to echo through his voice. “This is a matter for the Inner Guard. Guillermo himself is coming tomorrow to speak with Abelló about it.”
“Ramírez is coming to save his daughter. Now, isn’t that true?”
“No one can fault him that, now, can they? And while he is here, he will speak to Abelló about the daimons.”
Heines sniffed and shrugged. “Ramírez will find his brother in the Scorpion Court’s debt.”
“How so?”
“What do you know about the Strzyga family?”
Miquel swirled the liquor in his glass. “They’re one of the more prominent branches of the Scorpion Court. Not low-level dealers by any stretch of the imagination—they’re coordinated and connected. Why?”
“Abelló’s doctor, Jimenez, has been dealing with a Doctor Strzyga to procure Abelló’s morphine.” Heines turned his head as if he wanted to spit. “Ilsa never wanted this.”
Not Jaeger, but Ilsa. At some point in this ugly mess, something had shifted in Heines’s relationship with Die Nephilim’s queen, Ilsa Jaeger.
Heines didn’t seem to notice his slip. “She never wanted the camps; and she would never throw troops at losing battles to placate a madman.”
Miquel wasn’t sure if the reference to a madman was directed at Abelló or at Hitler. Doesn’t matter—they’ve somehow become one and the same in terms of philosophies. “Then why did she go along with it for so long?”
He fortified himself with the liquor before speaking. “At first she thought she could control Hitler through Abelló. When she realized their goals were opposite hers, she spent the last two years trying to change course.”
Miquel wondered if that new direction included involvement with the German resistance.
“Things came to a head last year. Abelló wanted a scorched-earth policy; Ilsa was adamantly opposed.”
“How did she die?”
Heines drained his glass and curled his fingers into a fist. “Ilsa and I had become lovers. Shortly after Ulrich’s death, she grew depressed . . . they’d been together for so long . . . she said it felt like an amputation within her mind, as if someone had lopped off part of her soul.
“Around this time, I began to notice needle marks on her arms. Jimenez gave her shots—vitamins, she said, to give her energy. Then she began having seizures. Violent ones. Within days, she was dead.
“This morning, I threatened Jimenez. He revealed that in exchange for certain protections, he’d testify regarding Abelló’s involvement in Ilsa’s treatment.” Heines’s lip curled around the word treatment as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.
Probably because it does. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine your loss. If Abelló orchestrated Queen Jaeger’s death, he should be brought to justice through the Guard’s tribunals.”
Miquel savored the whiskey’s sweetness, letting it linger on his tongue. Honey this next part . . . “You said yourself she wanted to change course. So here’s your chance. Let’s work together, come up with a way to stop the daimon-born. Then maybe we can negotiate an end to the war before our divisions are completely destroyed. Will you come with me tomorrow to meet with Guillermo?”
“We’ll meet at Fontainebleau.”
“We need to meet with Guillermo before he arrives at Fontainebleau.”
Heines stared into his drink, but his answer wasn’t long in coming. He grabbed a cocktail napkin and jotted down his number. “Call me in the morning. I’ll send my car to pick you up. I’ll make you no promises other than to listen.”
“How do I know this car won’t take me to Fresnes?”
Heines’s mouth twitched. “Because you have my vow.” He gestured to the door. “Now get out of here before one of my nefilim shows up and notices us together.”
Miquel knocked back his drink and left. Either he’s playing me so he can summon the Gestapo, or he’ll sober up in the morning and realize he made a terrible mistake.
It was going to be a very long night.
24
23 January 1944
Dark Sounds
Hotels were like subways, a maze of corridors and doors, differing only in size and scope. Rafael took the stairs to the first floor, but rather than turn toward the lobby, he used his instinctive sense of direction to exit the building through the servants’ corridors.
The alley outside was deserted. He hurried to the street and headed for the Argentine station. With the memory of Miquel’s hug fading, his fear returned, but he didn’t feed it. Keep your focus. Do like Papá says: complete one objective, take a deep breath, then move to the next. Get to the subway station.
Pulling his cap low over his eyes, he watched for soldiers as he walked. That was his biggest obstacle to getting underground—arriving without encountering the police. It was all he could do to restrain his pace.
But he did, because he had to. As dangerous as the mortal soldiers were, a nefil would quickly spot him if he forgot himself.
Move like a mortal. He measured his pace to reflect those of the people around him, careful not to step too fast or too slow. Mingling close to groups was another way of avoiding an alert nefil’s eye, and Rafael took advantage of the street’s congestion whenever he could.
He managed to get to the station without encountering an obstacle. The maintenance entrance wasn’t guarded. He opened the door and went inside as if he had every right to be there.
Stopping in the semidarkness, he liste
ned. He wasn’t safe here. The Nazis, as well as resistance fighters, used the underground passages. He’d be just as likely to encounter an enemy as a friend.
Then move with care. Walking quietly, he started down the corridor.
Although it had been years since he’d used the Paris metro for clandestine operations, little had changed. The smell of the trains and dust gave him a nostalgic rush and made him long for his home in Barcelona. That was where he’d learned to use the subways and sewers to carry messages between the fighters.
But Barcelona was a long way away. Like his fear, he silenced his longing for home. Stay focused.
He stepped into a service tunnel and got his bearings. The passageways were strangely quiet, nothing like the days before the war when the trains rumbled almost constantly.
Creeping along the tracks, he stayed close to the wall. Only a few electric lights illuminated the rails, but like his father, Rafael’s daimonic vision enabled him to see in all but complete darkness, and this was far from complete.
In the process of avoiding metro workers and the busier stations, it took him almost the full two hours to reach the Saint-Martin station. As he approached the platform, a woman stepped from the shadows.
Tall and thin, she had a face like a chisel, all angles and sharp edges. Wisps of her long red hair escaped the scarf she wore.
Rafael supposed that before the war the wrinkles around her eyes might have been laugh lines, but no more. Like us all, she is weary.
“Halt.” She pointed a pistol at his chest.
“Ay, ay, ay, Monique. It’s me, Rafael.” He took off his hat so she could see his eyes.
She visibly relaxed. Quickly holstering the gun, she nodded to the platform. “Louis is over there.”
Papá would say breathe. Rafael allowed himself a small smile as he followed her. They passed the grille that blocked the stairs going to the surface. Rafael noticed the lock was missing. Probably in Monique’s or Louis’s pocket.
A couple of broken chairs sat side by side. Several cigarette butts littered the ground.
Louis stepped from a booth and holstered his own gun. He was a small man with soft features and a receding chin. His nose seemed to be the largest part of him.
Disappointed with his prowess, Rafael whispered, “I must have made a lot of noise.”
Louis offered him a smile. “Not much gets by Monique. She’s got the hearing of a bat.”
“And we’ve been watching for you.” Monique retrieved a pack. “Have you eaten?”
Rafael shook his head. “Has anyone heard from my papá?”
She produced a bit of bread, some cheese, and a dried pear. “We know he arrived and went in. But he hasn’t emerged yet.”
Rafael’s stomach lurched with fear. In his anxiety, he touched the jewelry box in his pocket. Even though he knew she couldn’t hear him, he called his mother’s name and asked her to watch over Papá. To Monique he said, “Then we don’t know what’s going on in there.”
Monique didn’t appear concerned. “Guillermo wants us to prepare for a raid as if we have evidence. Then, if he gets confirmation from Diago, we’re ready to take them down.”
That sounded like Don Guillermo. He never made a move unless all his pieces were in place for success. “It’s easier to disperse an army than to gather one.”
“Smart boy,” Louis muttered. “Go on and eat, then. I’ll show you the maps.” Under the nearest light, he spread the papers on the floor. The illustrations disclosed the sewer lines that led to the Theater of Dreams and the adjacent hotel.
Louis pointed at the map with a dirty fingernail. “We believe the daimons have traps set along this line, and here.”
A match flared and was soon followed by the scent of cigarette smoke. Even sitting, Monique seemed tall.
Louis nodded at the grille blocking the stairs. “Go back out to the street. Half a block on the left, you’ll find the entrance to the sewers. Follow this tunnel. It will bring you to a door. We’ve not been able to get close enough to break the sigils around it, but we believe it leads to the basement of the old hotel beside the theater.”
Louis laid a different map over the first. He ran his finger down a narrow corridor. “This hallway is the only connection between the hotel and the theater. We suspect the daimon-born are using the basement exit for an escape route.”
Rafael wolfed down his food as he memorized the lines. “And this door?”
“Leads to the theater lobby. Don’t go in if you can avoid it, but if you’re caught out, there are a few exits. Through the front, of course, or the way you came in. Backstage, stage right, is another door. It opens on the alley behind the café.”
“How crowded are the streets there?” Rafael didn’t mention mortals, but they knew what he meant.
Monique answered, “Not very. The café closes at nine and reopens at seven. If you get the sigils cleared, go to the café and order coffee with milk. If you don’t think it’s safe for the angel-born, order black coffee and a roll.”
“Do we have nefilim working there?”
“We do. They’ll know what to do with the information.” She exhaled twin streams of smoke from her nostrils, looking for all the world like an ancient and weary dragon. “Once Louis gets you to street level, we’re leaving to take our positions near the theater.”
“Thank you, Monique.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Watch for me.”
“We will.” She nodded to Louis.
He opened the grille and took Rafael to the street, looking both ways before giving him the all-clear. Back in the open, Rafael followed Louis’s directions and found the sewer entrance.
Once inside, he consulted the map and then followed the narrow tunnel. Now for the next phase. But this would be the hardest part.
Bricks and bits of broken concrete littered the path. Rolling the soles of his boots toe to heel along the uneven surface made his going tedious but prevented him from turning an ankle in the rubble. He moved with the grace of a ballet dancer, a master thief, one who was as at home beneath the ground as above.
The skills learned as a child of soldiers always at war.
He watched for the first intersection, hoping he wouldn’t come across any collapsed portions. What he didn’t have time for were multiple detours.
Rafael reached the other side of the street in less than an hour. He stopped and considered his next move.
After their adventure beneath the Pyrenees during those last days of the Spanish Civil War, his father had taught Rafael how to wield his daimonic song. Whereas angelic sigils relied on the manipulation of light and sound, daimonic spells combined emotion with pitch to achieve the same effect. The more negative the emotion, the more powerful the ward.
Maybe it was because of his past, but Rafael’s papá was exceptionally skilled in creating deadly daimonic sigils. Because that pain never leaves him.
The problem was that Rafael’s experiences didn’t quite have the same intensity. But this spell requires darkness. The light of his angelic song might trigger any daimonic traps within the tunnels. In order to pass unheeded, he needed to draw on his negative emotions.
So terror and rage it is. He’d spent the long drive to Paris thinking about which memory to use, because the success of the spell rested in the interpretation of the chords. That meant he had to rouse the feelings and experience them in his heart before channeling them into his song.
Closing his eyes, he summoned the memory of his captivity in Jordi’s pocket realm. He remembered sitting on a hard chair in a cold concrete room. Carlos Vela was there. Sly-eyed and arrogant, he’d tried to scare Rafael and keep him off-balance. How’d that work out for you, Carlos?
But that thought brought him bitter elation. Not the emotion I need. He concentrated harder.
He reimagined the pain of the Grigori’s sigils gnawing into his wrists. With forefinger and thumb, he traced the scars that had yet to disappear.
In that memory, Rafael found his fear.
Almost immediately, the image of Miquel hit his mind’s eye. Too thin and ashen, his father had barely been alive. He’d lifted his head. His eyes were so unfocused. A string of bloody drool escaped the corner of his mouth.
And in that memory, Rafael found his rage.
He coughed a harsh note into his palm. A black scorpion wiggled to life and flicked a drop of gold from its tail.
Mamá’s tear. Looking down at his signet, he saw the stone glow softly. Oh shit, if the daimon-born sense me before I even start, I’m lost.
His new fear fed the scorpion, turning it black against his palm. The gold faded but didn’t quite disappear. Rafael calmed somewhat. Papá had once assured him that as long as the negative emotions composed the dominant chords, the daimons wouldn’t notice the minor angelic notes.
Rafael lowered himself to one knee and hummed. The scorpion rolled off his palm and scuttled forward. It had gone no more than two meters before it stopped and shivered, pointing upward with its tail.
A thin line of shadows, which were a shade darker than the blackness surrounding him, were interlinked at ankle-level—a line that most people would have walked through without seeing. Within the blue-black hues, Rafael detected the faint outlines of interwoven sounds.
Dark sounds. The souls of dead mortals vibrated around one another, bound together by a nefil’s wards. Had Rafael touched the trip wire with his ankle, the howls of a thousand voices would have filled the sewer and warned the daimon-born of his presence.
Creeping closer, he knelt in front of the daimonic trap and examined it. Teasing apart the chords of an angelic song required snipping the intricate lines of light that formed clefs, quavers, ghost notes, caesuras, glissandi, portamenti . . . a veritable catalogue of symbols and sound.
Extricating dark sounds relied on distinguishing one voice from another, separating it from the chorus, and releasing the tormented souls. More than technical skill, working with dark sounds necessitated compassion.
The first step was simply to call out and then listen. Rafael hummed a soothing note and touched a strand.
