by T. Frohock
Pink foam appeared on José’s lips. Dark red spots speckled his cheeks. His lips took on a blueish tint. Cyanosis. He didn’t have enough oxygen in his blood.
José grinned at Diago.
No. He’s not grinning. “Risus sardonicus.”
“What?” Garcia stepped closer to the foot of the bed. “Speak Catalan! Or Spanish! What the hell is risus sardonicus?”
“Muscle spasms in the face.” Diago explained. “Risus sardonicus gives the mistaken impression that the victim is grinning.”
“Heart rate is rapid.” Vales jerked the earpieces away and jammed the stethoscope back into the pocket of his white coat. “I don’t understand.”
José’s back arched, rising off the bed. His heels dug into the mattress and his body bowed. The strap across his chest barely held him down.
“Jesus Christ.” Garcia crossed himself. “He’s possessed.”
“Don’t be a fool.” Diago snapped. He cataloged the symptoms and quickly arrived at a diagnosis. “It’s strychnine.”
“What?” Guillermo advanced into the room.
“Poison.” Diago was sure of it now. “He’s been poisoned with strychnine.”
“No,” Vales said. “That’s impossible.”
The seizure finally ended and José’s body went limp. His head lolled on the pillow.
“You’ve got to get him to the infirmary.” Diago motioned for Vales to go. It was a fool’s errand. Nothing in the infirmary could save José’s life, but he needed to confer with Guillermo without Vales’s mortal ears to hear. “Get a gurney!”
The order was enough to break Vales’s stupor. He ran from the room, shouting for orderlies and gurney.
Guillermo came to Diago’s side. “How bad?”
Diago didn’t sugarcoat the news. “If he’s at this stage, he’s going to die. And I can’t delve his mind, not without the risk of losing part of my soul to him when he succumbs to the poison. I won’t take that chance, not even for you.”
“Nor would I ask you to.” Guillermo turned on Garcia. “Why didn’t you have guards posted?”
Garcia cheeks were florid. “Vales said there was nothing to worry about. The cell was locked at all times.”
“You let a mortal make a decision for you?” Guillermo took a step toward Garcia.
Garcia fell back, his face blanched with fear. “Mieras made the decision. Not me. I counseled him to use guards. He said we couldn’t spare the manpower. I had no say in it.”
Liar, Diago thought. Neither of Garcia’s reasons presented a sufficient explanation for the lack of guards. If ever there was a time for a Nefil to exert his influence over a mortal, Garcia should have recognized that moment and pressed either Vales or Mieras into doing his will.
Diago kept his suspicions to himself. Not that he needed to say anything. Judging by Guillermo’s glower, he had arrived at the same conclusion as Diago.
“Fucking hell.” Guillermo’s hands opened and closed at his sides. He looked ready to strangle someone. “We’re right back to square one.”
Garcia flinched and backed toward the door.
Diago saw his opportunity. Now wasn’t the time to criticize. He had to offer a solution while Garcia remained paralyzed. “Maybe not,” Diago said as he thought of the nun and her little metal tray of death. “There was a nun, who carried a tray of syringes. If we find her, we can question her.” Diago looked to Garcia. “Did you get a look at her face?”
“I’ll recognize her if I see her again.” Garcia fingered the grip of his gun.
Another lie. Diago detected the doubt in Garcia’s voice, but calling him on his deception would only lose them more time. “Help me find her. Question every nun on this floor if you have to.”
“Move!” Guillermo bellowed at him.
From another cell, a man screamed. “Move! Move! Move! Move! Move! Movemovemovemove!”
Whether Garcia fled Guillermo’s rage, or the madman’s cries, Diago didn’t know. He asked Guillermo, “Do you trust him?”
“No. He’s up to something, but I haven’t figured out what.” Guillermo grabbed the folder off the table and rapped it against his thigh. “I’ll stay here. Go. Keep an eye on him if you can, but finding that nun is the priority.”
“Understood.” Diago slipped past Guillermo and almost collided with Vales as he returned to the room. He caught the mortal’s arm. “I’m going with Inspector Garcia. We need to find the nun who poisoned José.”
“Should I lock down the ward?”
Diago shook his head. “Too late. We were with José long enough for her to have left this floor. She could be anywhere.”
“Do you want me to send some orderlies with you?”
“No.” Nor did he have time for more questions. “It would be better if you had them search independently. Enlist the sisters, too. We can cover more ground.”
Vales nodded. “Meet me at my office when you’re done.”
Diago made no promises. He released Vales and went to the room of the bawdy singer. The man slept peacefully. Both of the nuns were gone. Another dead end. He left the room and walked fast to catch up with Garcia, who was already halfway down the hall.
“You mentioned you were at the Ferrers’ apartment,” Diago said.
Garcia’s lips were thin and white with his rage. “What are you implying?”
“That you would recognize the maid, Elena, if you saw her again.”
“You think it was her?”
Could it have been? Diago decided to hedge his answer. “Someone who looked like her.”
The corridor ended in an intersection. Four nuns walked down the hallway on the right, and two were moving in the opposite direction on the left. Garcia pointed left.
Diago couldn’t question the nuns and watch Garcia. One crisis at a time. He nodded and followed the nuns while Garcia went right.
Word must have spread fast, because orderlies were ushering patients into their rooms, trying not to panic them. Diago kept his pace quick and marked the face of each nun he passed. None of them fit the description of the woman he’d seen.
Three winding corridors and five angry nuns later, he still hadn’t found her. Of course not. If it had been him, he would have already ditched the habit for street clothes and be on the next train out of Barcelona. This was fucking futile. But necessary, an inner voice warned him. He didn’t want to return to Guillermo without having made a thorough search of the floor.
Diago turned right. The long dim corridor was empty but for him and a single nun. “Excuse me, Sister.”
She neither acknowledged him, nor stopped walking.
Diago picked up his pace. “A moment, Sister! I need to speak with you.” He grabbed her shoulder. The veil came away in his hands, and the habit fluttered to the ground. Empty.
“What the hell—?”
From an adjacent corridor, a patient’s shriek cascaded down the hall in streams of purple and gold. Diago had enough time to think, No. Please. Not now. Then the colorful sound waves exploded around him.
Diago staggered backward. Whispers fluttered down the hall in rivulets of gray and green. Streams of pale yellow oozed through the air. The wails increased in volume. Violet shades of rage and fear flooded the air.
“Chromesthesia,” said a nearby voice in hues of crimson and gold. “I haven’t seen a Nefil undergo such a violent attack in centuries.”
Diago recognized the voice. He shielded his eyes and tried to look through his fingers, but Prieto’s light was blinding. He was in his angelic form and didn’t bother with the trappings of the flesh. The brilliant colors sent tears streaming down Diago’s cheeks. He ducked his head and shadowed his eyes with his palm.
“How is Miquel?” The angel asked conversationally. “Is he happy that you’re sucking Guillermo’s dick alongside him?”
Prieto
’s irreverence enraged Diago. Did he think playing with their lives was some kind of joke? Diago’s fury fell in sound waves as black as soot. “Fuck you.”
“You’re still angry.”
“Jesus Christ, you almost murdered my son!”
“Don’t be wearisome, Diago. If I’d wanted Rafael dead, I would have given him to Alvaro. I made your presence a part of my conditions for Rafael’s surrender. Alvaro hasn’t proven himself. His allegiance has always been to the highest bidder. You, on the other hand, have always remained faithful to your morals. I knew you would fight for Rafael, and that’s what he needs—a father who will fight for him. Moloch only agreed to my game because I gave him no choice.”
The colors of Prieto’s speech grew more urgent with shades of vermillion. “But your oath to Los Nefilim surprised me. Now that you belong, we can trade information.”
Diago tried to retreat. Prieto gave him no escape. The angel surrounded him with the vibrations of his essence.
With his back against the wall, Diago asked warily, “What kind of information?”
“An answer for an answer. You have a daimon on the loose in Barcelona, and I know her name. I want to know about Los Nefilim’s allegiance. You scratch my intellectual itch and I’ll scratch yours. Guillermo isn’t following orders like he used to . . . why?”
Diago found that if he tilted his head and gazed at the tiles just beyond Prieto, he could stand to look in the angel’s general direction. “This daimon is your concern. She is hunting you. Moloch wants to take back his idea for the bomb.”
Prieto exhaled, and his breath hissed across Diago’s face in a wave as cold as the stars. “If all I had to worry about was Moloch, then I wouldn’t be here. Moloch doesn’t give a damn about the idea, but others do. Entities far more dangerous to me than the daimons.” The angel’s light wavered, and then grew strong again. “Again: why isn’t Guillermo following orders?”
Diago felt time slipping around them. He needed the daimon’s purpose, but he couldn’t put Los Nefilim at risk. How much did the angels already know? Compromise. Give him the obvious and let him draw his own conclusions. “Guillermo has lost two Nefilim to angels and their contradicting orders. Your bargain with Moloch and the ensuing stunt with Miquel, Rafael, and me did nothing to reassure him the angels are working together. He’s become cautious.”
The vibrations of Prieto’s essence paled as he considered Diago’s information.
Diago held his breath. Had he given him enough information for an exchange?
Prieto said, “You’re the one who is in danger. The daimon you’re seeking is Lamashtu. She is a minion of Sitra Akhra.”
Sitra Akhra, the darkest of the daimons’ realms, where only the most wicked survived. “Samael’s kingdom.” Samael, the fallen angel, had defected from the angelic realm in order to create Sitra Akhra. There, he ruled the corrupt daimons, and they worshipped him as a god.
“None other,” Prieto said. “Beware that bridge, Diago. Moloch seeks to lure you close to it.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Lamashtu’s power is greater when she is near the bridge. She has been sent to make sure the son follows the father.”
“I won’t follow Alvaro.”
“Christ, Diago, stop thinking like a mortal. Your son will follow his father.”
Diago went cold. Now José’s mad writings made sense. The son will follow the father. It wasn’t a prophecy.
It was a plan.
Lamashtu was an old and powerful possessor. If any had the ability to successful take over the mind of a Nefil, it would be her. “They mean for Lamashtu to possess me.”
“Now you’re thinking like a Nefil. Have you taken Guillermo’s mark yet?”
Diago shook his head. “No. The ‘aulaq’s poison is still in my blood. Guillermo fears the venom will taint his seal of protection.”
“He’s right. Pity. Without his mark, you’re still fair game to the daimons. You should leave Barcelona.”
Diago wanted nothing more than to flee and take his vulnerable son with him, but flight wasn’t the answer. The daimons would find him no matter where he went. Better to stay on familiar ground and fight the devils he knew.
“I’m staying here. I’m daimon, too. I know their patterns.” Yet Prieto’s explanation missed one vital factor. “Lamashtu tortured those mortals for a name, and it isn’t mine. I think she is looking for you, too.”
“I never said she wasn’t looking for me. She seeks my name,” Prieto admitted. “The daimons believe I revealed the true song of my name to the mortals in order to gain their compliance. Sometimes it’s necessary; this time it wasn’t. Lamashtu wants to sell my song to the angel who is hunting me so he can summon me against my will.”
“What angel?”
“He calls himself Engel. He is the one who seeks the idea Moloch gave me. He wants it for the Germans.”
That explained the German angel Garcia had conferred with in the arcades. Except with Prieto, it seemed one answer begat eight more questions. The most important of which had to do with Garcia’s involvement with Engel.
Prieto’s colors merged and shifted until he took on the greenish whispers of the insane. He was like a chameleon, changing colors to camouflage himself against his surroundings. “I’m out of time.”
“Wait!” Diago reached out blindly in a futile attempt to stop the angel. “Whose side are you on?”
Prieto leaned close, his breath soft against Diago’s ear. “Mine.” Then he was gone.
Diago sagged against the wall. The sounds settled back into their usual shadows as the chromesthesia faded. So Prieto was on the run and hiding in the asylum. But why hadn’t he dispensed of the idea to the mortal destined to create the bomb? Or to an archangel? Or even another Messenger? Why the intrigue?
Unless Prieto wasn’t supposed to have Moloch’s idea, or the mortal destined for the idea wasn’t yet in Spain. Either way, Prieto was on his own.
Diago had the more immediate concern of Lamashtu. And the daimons. Samael working with Moloch? That was unheard of. Somehow Ba’al, the king of daimons, had managed to focus the daimons on a common course of action.
All so Lamashtu could possess Diago. And what if she was successful? What then? Lamashtu would raise Rafael while Diago watched helplessly from some vacant corner of his mind. If the daimons intended to execute such a plan, now was the time. Rafael was at a critical crossroads. Whatever happened to him over the next few years would shape his attitudes and allegiances. The daimons wanted the child badly enough to take Diago by force if necessary.
We’ll see about that. He wasn’t running, though. He was done running.
Guillermo’s voice echoed down the corridor and jarred Diago from his thoughts.
“There you are.” Guillermo strode toward him. Anger burned in his tawny eyes.
Dear God, what now? Diago straightened.
“We have a problem.” Guillermo paused and registered Diago’s features.
“Oh, we have a whole host of problems,” Diago said. Still shaken from his encounter with Prieto, he ran his hand through his hair.
Guillermo’s frown deepened. “You don’t look good.”
“I had another attack of chromesthesia. And I saw Prieto. He offered to exchange information. He gave me our daimon’s name. Lamashtu. She is a minion of Sitra Akhra.”
“Samael’s realm,” Guillermo muttered. “And what did you give him in return?”
“Only the obvious: two Nefilim have died due to conflicting orders from angels. He’s extremely concerned about your allegiance. I told him you were simply being cautious.” Diago’s tension eased with Guillermo’s nod.
“Don’t worry. It was bound to come out sooner or later. I wish we knew more about his intentions.”
“For now I’m worried just as much about Garcia.” At Guillermo’s raised
eyebrow, Diago told him about seeing Garcia talking to the German angel, Engel. They conversed in hushed tones and used Old Castilian to prevent any mortals, who strayed down the corridor, from understanding their discussion. By the time they finished, Guillermo had his lighter out and was furiously flipping the lid open and shut.
“Engel,” Guillermo muttered. “It’s German for angel. He’s mocking us.”
A pair of doctors ventured in their direction as they conferred over a patient’s chart.
Guillermo said, “Let’s get out of here.”
Diago fell into step beside the taller Nefil. “You said we had a problem. What did you discover?”
“The Ferrers are dead.”
“Jesus Christ.” He stared at Guillermo. “When?”
“Last night. It looks like they died in their sleep.”
“You said Amparo was the best. You said she’d get the fragment. What happened?”
“Strychnine.” Guillermo snapped. “Sound familiar? They suspect it’s the maid, Elena. They can’t find her.”
Horror settled like a noose around Diago’s throat. He recalled Señora Ferrer’s penchant for sherry and music teachers. She had been young. Too young to be married to a man twice her age and forced to mother a child that resented her.
The Ferrers were like a grotesque reflection of Diago’s family. Miquel, so much younger than me, suddenly forced into raising a child that wasn’t his, and Rafael . . . did he resent us taking the place of the mother he idolized? Worse still, was this how they would end up? Poisoned, murdered in their sleep, and left as carrion for strangers to pick over their bones?
Diago cut off the thought. This was how the mortals stroked their fears, and he had plenty of complications without imagining more.
Guillermo paused in front of the elevator and stabbed the button like he had a vendetta against it. When the car arrived, he opened the gate and Diago followed him inside. A doctor and two orderlies hurried in their direction. The doctor called out for them to hold the car.
Diago stepped forward, but Guillermo slammed the gate shut and punched the button for the ground floor.
The maneuver didn’t bode well. Diago put his back against the wall and listened to the whirr of machinery. He tapped a quick rhythm against the wall, hoping he was wrong. “Please don’t stop the car—”
