by T. Frohock
Without warning, he flung himself at Rafael.
Rafael ducked and spun. As he did, he felt something scrape the back of his hand; whether it was the ward or Alvaro’s knife, he didn’t know. He just kept moving and ran past Alvaro to reach Diago’s side.
His father took Rafael’s wrist and examined the back of his hand. “It’s just a cut.”
Alvaro shouted and flung a ward over their heads. Before either of them could respond, the gate slammed shut, cutting off their exit to the street.
Turning his open palm downward, Alvaro smiled. Scorpions flowed from his hand to the floor. Millions of the arachnids scuttled across the platform.
With the knife, Alvaro pointed to the cut on Rafael’s hand and then to the scrapes on Diago’s cheek. “If one gets in, it’ll wrap around your hearts.”
Hearts. Alvaro meant to enslave them both. “Papá?”
Diago formed a protective ward and charged it with his voice. Rafael moved in tandem with his father, designing a glyph of his own. They joined their shields to establish a single barrier of crackling energy between them and Alvaro.
With a snarl, Diago growled, “Send them.”
It was a challenge. It was a command.
To Rafael, he murmured, “Hold the shield.”
Rafael didn’t answer. He didn’t need to, because his father trusted him. This wasn’t the first time they’d fought side by side. He concentrated on the shimmering wards.
Unbothered by their defenses, Alvaro shouted a command of his own. The scorpions surged forward.
Beside Rafael, his father sang a different song—this one an attack. He lifted his hands. Viridian fire shimmered over the first wave of arachnids, leaving them to smolder and die. The survivors climbed the backs of the dead.
Rafael held their shield and watched the coming tsunami. Sweat trickled across his scalp.
The first scorpions touched the edge of the shield. They crackled as they died.
Rafael caught movement near the tracks. Another wave of scorpions rushed over the platform to attack their exposed flank.
“Shit!” Rafael whirled and hastily erected another ward. Three lines within the glyph glimmered weakly. The scorpions clambered into the cracks, forcing the threads of light apart with their claws. “It’s not going to hold.”
A single scorpion broke through. With a curse, Rafael crushed it beneath his heel and repaired the ward. But as soon as he fixed one line, another broke. It was like plugging the cracks of a dam—soon it would explode.
Behind him, Diago began to sing, his voice gaining strength with every lyric. The sound became a hymn, a lament, a dirge, sang in a key so sharp, Rafael wondered why his father’s tongue didn’t bleed.
Diago sang for the child he was; he sang for the broken man he became; he sang for a hundred years of loneliness and pain; for the dark nights that left him walking . . . walking . . . walking . . . placing sigils on the doors and windows, one for the father, one for the son, and one to drive away the ghosts.
Throughout it all, Alvaro stood immobile, unmoved by the anguish in his son’s song.
He’s not feeding on it, Rafael suddenly realized as he repaired another line in his protective ward. Because if Alvaro drank his son’s heartache, then he’d have to admit it was real. He’s gaslighting him. Just one more cruel blow to add to all the others.
Diago reached into the gloom and drew out a black shadow, forming a jagged sigil. The fire from his signet sent glittering silver edges along the borders. It was a circular saw of mourning, designed to cut to the bone. Lunging forward, he threw the blade at Alvaro’s heart.
On the other side of the platform, Alvaro twirled his cane and spun a wave of darkness into a shield. Diago’s glyph smashed against it, driving Alvaro three meters backward before his grief evaporated, bleeding into the tunnel’s darkness.
Then Diago whirled again and kicked the floor. A final wave of fire shot from his heel and encircled them, blazing through Alvaro’s scorpions, killing all but a few.
Rafael couldn’t hold the protective barriers any longer. He allowed his song to fade as he stamped on the remaining arachnids squirming at his feet. When he finished, he turned to his father.
“Are you ready?” Diago croaked the question, his voice almost spent.
“Yes.” The word slipped through Rafael’s lips with the ease of a thousand childhood lies. He tried not to let his fear show as he faced his furious grandfather.
With a shriek of rage, Alvaro straightened and flung his cane. The stick flashed through the air and became a spear aimed at Diago’s heart.
Rafael snatched a beam of electric light and shaped it into a new protective ward. Placing himself in front of his father, he crossed his arms behind the shield and stood firm.
Alvaro’s spear struck the glyph. It was like being hit by a truck.
Gritting his teeth, Rafael felt himself pushed backward. He bent his knees and dug in, but his efforts were useless. The toes of his shoes slid over the floor. Pinpoints of light skittered over the ward until cracks appeared.
I’m losing my hold on it. At least it will take me and not Papá. That is, until his father shoved him aside.
Alvaro’s spear punctured the shield and rushed forward. Diago threw himself to the left. He wasn’t fast enough. The spear went sideways and caught him across his chest, driving him back against the grille. His head struck the metal bars. He slumped to the foot of the stairs.
With a groan, Diago tried to stand. His hand slipped and he went down again.
Rafael exhaled with relief. At least he’s alive. He’ll be okay. He’s got to be okay. He stumbled to his feet and faced his grandfather. I just need to buy us some time.
Alvaro lifted his hand and barked a harsh note. A glyph burst from his fingertips.
Christ, it’s fast, it’s coming too fast. Rafael moved his hands, but Alvaro’s ward smashed against him before he could establish another barrier.
The force of the blow lifted him off his feet. His body flew backward. His back struck the tiles. For two seconds, he couldn’t breathe. He gasped and air suddenly rushed into his lungs.
His hand was empty. The shard! As he scrambled to his knees, he searched the filthy floor. Please don’t let it be broken, please, please, please . . .
Alvaro found it first. His lip curled into a sneer.
“That’s mine!” Rafael bit his tongue before he could say more.
Alvaro brought his heel down on the glass.
Rafael didn’t try to stop the anguished cry that tore from his throat. Twice now, he had lost his mother, first to the angels and now to the daimons. Tears blurred the image of Alvaro grinding the glass to dust.
“No! Stop! Stop it! Please!” He filled the station with the dark sound of his grief.
Alvaro whirled and closed the distance between them. He grabbed Rafael and slammed him against the tiles.
Grasping Rafael’s neck, Alvaro lifted him until his toes barely brushed the floor. Shadows drifted over his grandfather’s countenance. Shades of puce and gray leaked from the corners of his eyes. Moloch’s wizened features superimposed themselves over Alvaro’s face.
My grandfather isn’t here anymore. Rafael fought to breathe. This is Moloch.
“Come back with me and willingly take your vows to become my high priest, and I’ll let your father live.” Moloch pressed his lips against Rafael’s ear. “Or I can take you right here. Right now. The choice is yours.”
Rafael could barely inhale. He pried at Moloch’s fingers and kicked out. His foot found only air.
“Fine,” Moloch whispered. “Open your mouth.”
Rafael heard footsteps. Just as he turned his head, Diago hit them, hard. His forward motion split them apart. Rafael tumbled across the concrete and landed on his side.
Diago shoved Moloch against the wall. The daimon squirmed free.
He slammed his fist against Diago’s chin, knocking him to the floor. “You’re useless.”
Diago st
ruggled to his knees.
Moloch kicked him in the stomach hard enough to lift his body from the floor. “Crying, whining wretch!” With every word he delivered another blow.
He’s going to kill him. Glancing in the direction of the crushed shard, Rafael caught the glimmer of light against glass.
Mamá. She’s still there. A piece of her is still there. He recalled the warmth of her touch. We’ve been doing this wrong.
Papá had given him the secret. Don’t turn your heart to hate.
They’d never defeat Moloch with their grief and fury. That was what the daimon wanted them to feel. He knew how to meet their angst and turn it against them.
It’s love that he doesn’t understand. And because of that, Moloch would be defenseless against the tenderness they felt for one another.
Carefully, so as not to attract the daimon’s attention, Rafael eased himself to his knees. He closed his eyes and reached past his rage and frustration to touch his first memories.
Moloch’s shouts faded until Rafael resurrected the scratch of a needle against vinyl. He remembered his mamá playing records and teaching him his first flamenco steps when he was barely able to walk. He’d stamped after her, reaching for her skirts, and she’d swept him into her arms, swinging him high to hear his delighted squeals.
And later, his father tucking him into bed at night, never objecting to Rafael praying over his mother’s tear; Miquel guiding his fingers through the letters as he taught Rafael to read.
In his mind’s eye, he saw Juanita patiently leading him through the design of an angelic ward; Guillermo showing him how to measure the heat of a fire in a forge; and Ysabel—who pronounced herself his big sister—giving him her toys and championing him at every turn.
Rafael drew the breath of their love up from his diaphragm and through his throat. As he did, he realized his mother’s magic didn’t reside in a piece of glass. She’s here, with me, within me—all I have to do is remember.
He exhaled and released the love from his soul. Mist traveled through his lips and turned into a mighty golden serpent. The light within the angel’s tear of his signet merged with the snake’s vibrant scales. He guided the serpent into the splinter of glass.
Moloch’s voice roared through the station. “We should have strangled you at birth.”
Rafael swallowed hard. His throat was raw. What if I can’t reach the right pitch?
His father’s lessons came back to him in a flash. Sometimes the interpretation of the song was more important than hitting perfect notes. It’s the feeling that gives a song power.
Rafael staggered to his feet. He hummed a broken chord. The strands of his ward responded with a shimmer of golden light.
Moloch kicked Diago again. “Don’t you die, don’t you dare die, because I’m dragging you back, and we’re giving you the second death.” Leaning forward, he spit on Diago’s face.
A tear slid from Rafael’s eye as he watched his father curl into a fetal position on the filthy floor. Oh, Papá, they don’t deserve you.
Rafael gave a wild cry. In his heart, the stars sang their lonesome song, and he caught the notes one by one. Striking his heel against the floor, he forced his love for his father into his song and found the hope that sustained him through his grief.
He channeled his will into the snake. A million glittering serpents rose from the broken mirror.
They flew like bullets at Moloch, who turned just in time to take the brunt of the spell right in the face. Wisps of smoke rose from the holes in his cheeks.
The daimon opened his mouth and shrieked.
Rafael directed the largest snake directly into Moloch’s maw. The daimon’s white eyes went wide. Clawing at his lips, he tried to dislodge the spell, but the serpent worked its way into his throat and ate his voice.
Golden light infiltrated the daimon’s body and shot from his pores. Bright scales ripped the flesh from his hooked black bones.
Only this time, Miquel wasn’t there to sweep Rafael out of danger and carry him away before his song was done. Now he had all the time he needed. He brought the full power of his aura against Alvaro and Moloch. In doing so, he sang their death.
Alvaro’s body jittered to the edge of the platform and fell, breaking the link to Rafael’s song.
The quiet descended hard and fast.
Too quick. Is it a trick? Rafael cautiously advanced to the ledge and looked down.
Alvaro’s aura seeped through his lips in shades of green and entwined with Moloch’s hues of puce and gray. The vibrations of daimon and nefil ultimately evaporated in the dank air.
“I will watch for you,” Rafael rasped.
It was a promise. It was a warning.
Turning from the tracks, he staggered to his father.
Diago groaned and rolled to his back. He looked up at the ceiling. A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.
“Papá?” Rafael knelt beside him.
“It’s okay,” he gasped. “I think I’m okay.”
He didn’t look okay. Rafael daubed at the blood. “I don’t like this. You could have an internal injury.”
His father rubbed his jaw. “It’s all right. I lost a tooth. Maybe two. That’s where the blood is coming from. Help me.” He held out his hand and Rafael hauled him to his feet. Diago paused and leaned against the wall. “That might have been too fast.” He scanned the platform. “Where’s Alvaro?”
Rafael licked his lips. How am I going to tell him I killed his father? “He fell.”
“Is he unconscious?”
“He’s not going to bother us anymore.”
Diago gave the platform a confused look. “What?”
Rafael guided him to the ledge and showed him the body. “I’m sorry, Papá.” But in his heart, he wasn’t sorry—he would never be sorry that Alvaro was gone.
Diago said nothing. He stared at his father’s body and leaned on his son.
The moment stretched out for what seemed like forever. Then Diago’s arm tightened around Rafael’s shoulders. “I loved him when I was young.”
“And now?”
“Regret. But no grief.” He sighed. “He killed my love for him so long ago . . .” He took another moment to gather himself. “You’re not to feel guilty. He gave you no choice. Do you understand?”
Rafael exhaled with relief, not realizing until then how much he craved his father’s absolution. “I thought only a king or queen of the Inner Guard could kill a daimon.”
“Alvaro wasn’t daimon. He was a nefil possessed by the spirit of a daimon. When your song shredded Moloch’s flesh in that sewer in Barcelona, you left his spirit . . . homeless, and Alvaro let him in.”
His father swallowed hard and nodded at the corpse. “I don’t think I can get down there and come back up. On his finger is a ring. Can you get it?”
“Sure.” He descended to the tracks and retrieved Alvaro’s signet. The stone had turned a milky white.
Rafael climbed back to the platform. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Nothing. You’re going to give it to Guillermo as proof of Alvaro’s death.” He squeezed Rafael’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”
They walked back to the grille. Alvaro’s spell barring the gate had disappeared at his death. His walking stick lay on the steps. Diago kicked it out of their way.
As they climbed back to the street, Rafael asked, “How did you know I was down here with him?”
“Your grandfather left a trail of scorpions for his nefilim to follow.”
Rafael took the brunt of his father’s weight. “Why didn’t they come?”
“They had other worries.” A weary smile creased his lips. “Let’s go back to the café. I’m hungry.”
Rafael didn’t bother to ask if it was safe. His father never willingly led him into danger. Besides, he wanted to see if Nico had made it. And Miquel.
He wanted his family.
His real family.
31
; 24 January 1944
The Theater of Dreams
Diago’s body began to mend as they walked back to the Theater of Dreams. Though he was sore and exhausted, he didn’t think anything was broken. With time, he would heal; he might begin to feel more like himself. Physically, anyway.
Emotionally, he wasn’t so sure. None of this had turned out like he’d planned. Rafael was supposed to grow up safe in Santuari, not be forced to commit parricide. He’d wanted his son to learn the art of dance, not the art of war.
Though he seems to be suited to it. While it wasn’t a thought that made him happy, Diago was determined to support his son however he could.
They left the alley and Rafael finally spoke. “I don’t understand something.”
“Just one thing? And so young . . .”
“Papá . . .”
“What don’t you understand?”
“How—with him as a parent—did you become such a good father?”
“Well.” Diago swallowed past the lump in his throat. “In every situation, I always tried to think of what my father would do, and then I did the exact opposite.”
Rafael chuckled. “That’s a good philosophy.”
“I think so.”
It took them a half hour to return to the rue de la Ville Neuve. By the time they arrived, uniformed members of Los Nefilim and Les Néphilim had established cordons around the theater.
Three staff cars were parked on the street. Diago searched the nefilim for Ysabel but didn’t see her. Please let her be safe.
Miquel squatted beside the rear passenger door of one of the cars, speaking earnestly to the occupant. As Diago drew closer, he saw it was Nico in the backseat.
The Italian sat quietly, picking at the metal bracelet he wore on his wrist. Someone had found a heavy coat and decent shoes for him.
Miquel reassured Nico. “Bernardo is going to take you to l’Entreprenante. Right now I want you to rest. I know it’s hard, but try and relax. Okay?”
“Sure.”
