by T. Frohock
He heard a youth crying. I’m not ready to die. I’m not ready— A gunshot silenced his sobs.
Rafael located the beginning and the end of the sound. Delicately, as if plucking a string for the softest of chords, he untangled the youth’s pleas from those of the others.
The boy was mortal, but that didn’t matter. Even the nefilim are mortal, too. Opening his palm, he set the dark sound free. Peace, brother.
The next one was a woman’s voice. She screamed in a mix of terror and rage. Let me go, damn you! Let go! Let go— The wet sluice of a knife plunging into flesh stopped her cries.
As he had with the gunshot victim, Rafael separated the woman from the others and released her spirit into the night. Peace, sister.
More awaited him: a homeless woman, disoriented in the tunnels, who died weeping for the daughter she lost; a soldier full of anger and regret, who’d held his service revolver to his temple and pulled the trigger one last time; a child, wandering away from a broken home; the sounds multiplied and wove together to form a lament for innocence lost.
By the time Rafael finished, their grief became a part of him, and for the first time in his life, he realized why his papá’s daimonic magic was so strong. It wasn’t because of self-pity, or the terrible things the daimons did to him when he was a child.
It’s his empathy for others. He feels their pain as his own and translates it into song. A tear slid from his eye and trailed down his cheek.
It’s okay to cry, he heard his papá say. It’s okay.
Then Miquel’s voice rang through his head: You’re in the moment . . . put your whole mind and your whole heart into your task.
Except he didn’t say what to do when Rafael’s heart was breaking.
No. It was Papá who knew that solution. He never said it out loud, but his actions spoke volumes. Just keep going, putting one foot in front of the other.
Exhaling softly, Rafael collected himself, and then released his scorpion again. Five meters later, he came across another trap, this one more complex. Settling down, he reached out and touched the first dark sound. An infant’s terrified wails filled his head, the cries already weakening from hunger and the cold.
Three hours later, Rafael released the last dark sound and rubbed his eyes. Looking back the way he’d come, he realized he cleared thirty meters of daimonic traps.
At least the dark sounds are no longer bound to the mortal realm. Freed of the daimon-born’s spells, they would eventually fade and become silence. As for their pain, Rafael now carried it in his song. And they won’t be forgotten.
Wiping his nose with the sleeve of his coat, he turned back to his goal. The theater’s metal door lay just ahead.
A single bulb hung from a cord. The filaments flickered and buzzed as if they were almost ready to blow. The tunnel dead-ended just beyond the light. Not a good place to get caught.
Streaks of rust and mold darkened the door’s veneer. The dented doorknob threw a long shadow against the floor.
That’s the perfect spot for a trip wire. Rafael sent his scorpion to check the floor, the walls, and the ceiling for any traps. The arachnid scuttled forward, feeling the bricks with its chela.
Rafael glanced over his shoulder again. The wait became excruciating.
His imagination turned each ping of water into a footstep—every echo became a voice. Shivering in the cold and damp, he forced himself to focus on his scorpion, watching for the telltale shiver that indicated the arachnid had found another booby trap laid by the daimon-born.
His patience was rewarded. The scorpion found a trip wire in the spot he’d suspected.
Unlike the dark sounds in the tunnel, these sigils were crafted entirely from a nefil’s song and were fashioned to kill with electrical shocks. He knelt beside it, searching for the telltale loop that indicated the beginning of the ward.
This process was similar to finding the wire that activated a bomb. For the better part of an hour he studied the glyph, before he found the line he needed. At least, it looked like it might be the right one.
If I’m wrong . . . In spite of the cold, a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. Before he could second-guess himself, he hummed a high note and sent it at the thread.
The sigil popped. Then it sizzled, leaving a scorched scent in the air.
Rafael stood and looked at the door. What he’d initially taken for rust and mold were actually sigils. Viridian lines that were more black than green teemed and slithered over the metal, cascading downward and then back up in a continual loop.
Something familiar in those lines . . . It took him another moment before he saw the similarity between these wards and those made by his father . . . and me.
A splash of water startled him. He looked back the way he had come. When nothing moved after a count to sixty, Rafael returned to his examination of the half-familiar patterns. These weren’t made by just any nefil . . . these glyphs were fashioned by Alvaro.
The click of a heel striking the floor caused Rafael’s heart to stutter. He whirled.
For the first time in years, Rafael froze. Both mind and limbs refused to move. All he saw was his nightmare come to life.
He grabbed me by my throat . . .
Alvaro’s grin revealed yellowed teeth filed to points. The daimon widened his white eyes dramatically. “Boo!”
Before Rafael could form a glyph, Alvaro’s ward struck his forehead . . . and he felt himself falling against the wall . . . then the world went black.
25
24 January 1944
The Theater of Dreams
Diago awoke to someone pounding on his door. He blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings. Two seconds passed before he remembered where he was . . . and why. Paris . . . the Theater of Dreams . . .
They’d given him a bedroom on a heavily guarded floor. He had no chance to slip away. His every move was being watched. Whether his guards were acting on Christina’s instructions or Alvaro’s, he had no way of knowing.
Last night he’d pushed the bureau in front of the door so he could sleep with both eyes shut. He’d been more tired than he thought and had fallen into a deep sleep.
The knocking continued unbated. Diago rolled out of bed and bumped against the nightstand, upsetting a glass of water. The glass hit the floor and shattered.
Ignoring it, he straightened the rumpled clothing he’d worn to bed. “Coming,” he muttered at the incessant knocking.
At the basin, he poured water into the bowl and splashed his face and hair. Finally, in some semblance of order, he shoved the dresser away from the door and opened it.
It was Nico. The nefil appeared relieved. “They want you to come.”
Diago glanced outside the door. The corridor was empty. Should I make a run for it? He could take Nico with him, get to a safe house, and then send a message to the café.
Nico must have read his mind. “Don’t even think about it,” he whispered. “If you ring for the elevator, it’ll arrive with two nefilim in the car. Two more are guarding the stairwell.” He winced as if in pain. “They’re hoping you’ll try to escape. Alessandro has ordered them to shoot to kill.”
Fine. Although it wasn’t. He pulled Nico into the room and shut the door.
The terrified nefil chanted, “Don’t. Please don’t. I’ve already said more than I should have.”
“Shh, shh, Nico, listen to me.” He cradled the other man’s face between his palms and forced him to meet his gaze. “Listen. Will you listen?”
“No. You can’t say anything to me.” He unbuttoned his shirt and jerked it open.
On his chest, just over his heart, his skin bulged in the shape of a scorpion. The arachnid took the form of a purplish bruise. The chela and walking legs squirmed beneath the skin’s dermis. The tail wasn’t visible.
Because the stinger is buried in his heart. Diago immediately recognized the spell. Whenever one of the daimon-born commanded a slave, they made a cut in the nefil’s flesh and sent a note o
f their song into the wound. The chord then turned into a scorpion that wrapped itself around the victim’s heart. If Nico defied Alessandro’s orders, the scorpion released its venom.
That explained why Nico hadn’t tried to escape. To do so meant an agonizing death.
“Forget me. I am dead.” Nico struggled for composure.
“No.” Diago took Nico’s arms. He’s so thin. How does he even keep standing? The image of Petre lying in Juanita’s infirmary haunted Diago. “You’re not dead. Not yet. The spell can be broken.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying to you. Rafael did.”
“Rafael is part daimon, too. This is different.” Nico buttoned his shirt. “It doesn’t matter. They want you to come upstairs.”
Diago wasn’t done, though. “We’ve been searching for you since July. By the time we found out you’d been sent to Mauthausen, you managed to contact Miquel through his dreams. We haven’t given up, and you shouldn’t, either. I’m going to get you out of here.”
“Alessandro intends to murder you.” Nico tightened his lips and shuddered beneath a fresh round of agony.
He shouldn’t have said that. “Don’t endanger yourself. I know what I’m dealing with here. I can trust no one—no one but you.”
Calmer now, Nico wiped his eyes.
“I’ll be back for you.”
“What do you need me to do?”
He placed his palm over Nico’s heart. “Keep yourself safe.”
“Then please come upstairs. They want to leave.”
Diago opened the door. “Lead the way.”
Nico took him to Alvaro’s suite on the fourth floor. Alessandro and Alvaro were having coffee.
Nico immediately went to one corner of the room. He stood far enough away from Alessandro that the daimon-born nefil didn’t have to see him, but close enough to respond if he was needed.
Alessandro watched Nico with a raised eyebrow. “He’s upset. Were you feeding on my nefil?”
Knowing that Beleth now possessed Alessandro made his abuse of the angel-born nefil even more perverse. And I’ll find a way to make him pay for that. But first this morning’s job had to be done.
Smiling with his mouth to hide the hate in his heart, Diago said, “After yesterday, I thought he was community property.”
Alvaro glanced at him. “You look like shit.”
“Well, I’m supposed to be a prisoner, aren’t I?”
Alessandro placed his cup on the table. “Remember our story: we captured you and are giving you to Abelló as a token of our goodwill.”
Diago didn’t wait to be invited. He poured himself a cup of coffee. Real coffee. Since it might very well be his last meal, he savored it. “And what is my role?”
Alvaro watched him carefully. “Just do as you’re told and keep your mouth shut.”
Alessandro snapped his fingers. “We should gag him.”
If they gagged him, they’d take away his ability to sing a glyph to life. “No gag.”
Nico came forward and snapped to attention beside Alessandro. “Inmate 35222 is obediently present.”
It was a humiliating routine. Diago’s gut clenched with anger, but his rage didn’t show on his face.
Alessandro gestured at Diago. “Cuff him.”
Diago balked. “No cuffs. No. No one said anything about gags or cuffs last night. We go in, take down Abelló, and get out. How can I help if I’m restrained?”
“We’ve got to get them to drop their guard.” Alvaro tapped one restless finger against his thigh. “No gag, but you’ll wear the cuffs.”
“Deal’s off.” Diago set the coffee cup on the tray and turned to leave.
Alvaro struck the floor with his walking stick. “Stop!”
Diago froze. When he turned, he let them see the cunning in his eyes. “How about this for a story, since the whole affair is something of a farce? Rather than subdue me, you lied to me and made me a part of Alessandro’s escort.”
Alvaro considered the idea.
Alessandro immediately discounted it. “No. He wears cuffs.”
“No,” Alvaro said. “We do it his way.”
Is he just being contrary to piss off Alessandro? Or does he suspect Alessandro means to kill me?
Alessandro’s lip curled. “If you say so. But he carries no gun.”
“Fine.” Diago adjusted his tie. “I don’t need a gun to be scary.”
Alessandro flicked his wrist at Nico.
The nefil returned to his corner.
Alessandro stood and stretched. “Francisco will drive us.” He gestured absently at Nico and spoke to Alvaro. “Feel free to amuse yourself with him while I’m gone.”
Nico made no sign that he heard. Diago wondered how high the wall around the other nefil’s heart had grown. And whether we’ll break him free again.
But that concern was contingent on all of them staying alive.
As Diago followed Alessandro out the door and down the hall, he wondered if Guillermo had arrived at l’Entreprenante. Because if anything goes wrong, or if anyone is late, I’m dead.
26
24 January 1944
Paris
Miquel glared at the silent phone as if he could force it to ring by sheer willpower alone. He checked his watch again in what was becoming a nervous ritual. Phone, watch, and then a walk to the window, where the dawn had become the day.
And still no word from Rafael.
“Come on, osito,” he whispered. Though they called Rafael little bear less and less as he grew older, the pet name still slipped through Miquel’s lips when he was stressed. “Call me. Tell me you’re all right.”
The phone mocked him with its silence.
And I can wait no longer. It was time to follow his own rules. Keep your eyes on the job. He’ll be all right. He’s been through worse than this.
Miquel picked up the receiver and dialed the number Heines had given him. Five rings later, he heard Heines’s voice in his ear. “Hello?”
The other nefil sounded as chipper as if he hadn’t been slightly drunk the night before. Something else I’d forgotten—he has an amazing tolerance for alcohol. “Heines? It’s General Rosales.” He hadn’t given Heines his alias last night, but the name wasn’t important. Heines would recognize Miquel’s voice.
“Are you ready to go?”
No, not until I hear from my son. “Absolutely.” He gave Heines the hotel’s address.
“My car will be there in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll watch for you.” Miquel hung up and checked the time. He’d wait fifteen more minutes before he went downstairs. Come on, Rafael. Call me.
27
24 January 1944
Undisclosed location
Everything was going wrong.
Guillermo paced on the roadside while Bernardo changed the car’s tire.
“How much longer?” Guillermo checked his watch.
“A few more minutes,” Bernardo drawled, as sanguine as if they had all day.
“Christ, you said that an hour ago.”
Bernardo shrugged with casual disregard for Guillermo’s impatience. “It was a long walk to the service station and back.”
Guillermo knew a rebuke when he heard one. “I could help you. I’ve changed a few tires in my day.”
“I can see you impressing Abelló with tire black on your hands.” Bernardo’s eye went to Guillermo’s Nationalist uniform with the stars of a capitán general on his epaulets and hat. “Stay put. I’m almost done.”
Without another word, he went back to work and fifteen minutes later, he gave the lug wrench one final twist. “There. Finished.” He returned the tools and luggage to the trunk. Taking his uniform jacket from the front seat, he buttoned his coat and settled his hat on his head. With a flourish, he opened the back door.
Guillermo settled himself in the backseat and toyed with his lighter. Bernardo took the driver’s seat and got them back on the road. The Spanish flags on the fron
t fenders snapped merrily in the wind as the car picked up speed.
Another half hour passed before they reached a dirt lane that ran between two hedges. Guillermo sat up and tried to discern whether another car had been here before them. He saw no indication that anyone had beaten them to the rendezvous point.
A kilometer later, they were parked in front of an abandoned farmhouse. It was the one Diago had often used as a stopping point on his way north. Bernardo unholstered his gun and went inside to make sure the building was empty.
Guillermo checked his watch. They were twenty minutes late. Had Heines gotten tired of waiting? No, he quickly discounted the idea. Even if Heines had left, Miquel would have stayed behind. The only other answer was that Miquel had failed his mission.
Guillermo flicked the lighter’s lid four times. His stomach lurched when he considered that he might have killed his best friend’s husband. That they’d all willingly gone to their assignments remained irrelevant. Their lives were in his hands.
“The house is clear,” Bernardo announced as he walked toward the car. “And I saw a trail of dust from the upstairs window. Someone is coming.” He pointed to the lane.
It was another four minutes before the Mercedes was visible.
Guillermo didn’t relax. They still had tricky ground to cover.
Putting his hands behind his back, he straightened.
The Mercedes stopped behind their car, and the driver, a young Nazi, got out and opened the rear passenger door for Heines.
Miquel emerged from the other side. He still had his pistol and appeared unharmed.
Guillermo felt a fraction of his tension recede. Heines had at least listened to their proposal.
Miquel moved to stand just behind Guillermo’s right shoulder. His features were inscrutable, but that was Miquel. He could be positively jubilant that Heines agreed to work with them, or devastated that they’d just tipped their hand to Jordi, and his face wouldn’t belie his thoughts.
