by T. Frohock
Guillermo was silent for a moment, clearly disturbed. “That isn’t easily done. We’ll talk about it at Santuari. Not here.”
Diago looked over his shoulder. “I will end him.” It was a threat. It was a sacred vow. “I will.”
Guillermo hoisted him onto the walkway. “Let’s get out of here before Moloch sends us company.”
“I lost the dagger.”
“It’s all right.” Guillermo got his arm around Diago’s waist. “Lean on me.”
They wobbled along like a pair of drunks to the next junction. Guillermo guided them back the way they came. When they reached the ladder, he propped Diago beside the cold metal. “Can you stay awake?”
Diago nodded. “But I can’t climb.” His arms were like jelly.
Guillermo patted Diago’s shoulder. “You let me worry about the climbing.” He ascended the ladder.
While Diago waited, peace suddenly descended over him. The morphine. He had no idea how long the euphoria would last before it was followed by the next round of panic. He would cycle like this for several hours—his emotions rolling up and down with a velocity that terrified him. Might as well enjoy the good while it lasts. Diago’s eyelids slipped shut and he fell into a light doze.
“Diago?”
He started awake. Disoriented, he tried to remember where he was. From the cold and damp, he wondered if he’d drunk too much and stumbled into an alley. He looked up at a disheveled handsome man staring down at him with concern.
The man spoke with a low rumble. “Put your arms around my neck.”
Diago blinked at him drowsily. “I would, but I’m attached to someone else.”
Guillermo’s shock last for merely a second. He grinned. “That’s good, because so am I.”
Consciousness came forward in a rush. Horrified, Diago realized what he’d said. He noticed the gray light and the open manhole cover overhead. Put your arms around my neck. Guillermo intended to carry him up the ladder.
A blush set Diago’s cheeks on fire. “I’m sorry. I was . . .”
Guillermo turned his back and simply stared over his shoulder.
Diago coughed. “I realize what you meant . . .” He put his arms over Guillermo’s shoulders and closed his eyes. “It’s the fucking morphine.”
“Ya, ya, ya,” Guillermo murmured as he used his belt to lash together Diago’s wrists. “You’re just trying to let me down easy.”
“Can you please forget I said that?”
Guillermo chuckled. “Never.”
Diago buried his burning face against Guillermo’s sweater. He managed to hold on to consciousness until they were only four rungs from the top. When he awakened again, he was lying on the ground with the rain falling against his face.
A ragged girl not much older than Rafael stood near the wall and assessed Diago with eyes far too cunning for a child her age. “Did you kill him?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Guillermo’s voice came from Diago’s left. He moved the manhole cover back over the hole. “If I’d killed him, I’d be putting him down there, not bringing him up.”
The girl asked, “Did he get drunk and fall down in the sewer?”
“Yeah. That’s what happened.” He tossed a couple of pesetas at her as he hummed a song of forgetfulness. “You found some money on the ground. Buy yourself some shoes.”
She caught the coins and dashed off.
Guillermo pulled Diago to his feet. “Feel like walking, lover?”
Diago smoothed his rumbled sweater in an attempt to regain his dignity. “Stop teasing me.”
“Never.” Guillermo took Diago’s arm and steered him in a more or less straight path.
“Where are we going?”
“Home. Where we belong.”
“Are we going to walk?”
“I’m not calling Suero to bring the car. Not after we’ve been wallowing in a sewer.” Guillermo gave Diago’s arm a gentle squeeze. “The walk will do us good. It’ll be like old times.”
“Fuck old times.” The edginess had returned. His nerves were on fire. “I hated walking everywhere. It was always cold. Or raining. I hated shitting in the woods. I want indoor plumbing and furnaces.”
Guillermo laughed. “I’m taking you to those luxuries now.”
Diago stared ahead. Black as a vulture, depression swooped down on him. He was suddenly weary, so very weary. “I’m scared. What if I’m not strong enough to be a member of Los Nefilim?” He leaned on Guillermo, who merely supported him just as he always had.
“You? Not strong enough?” Guillermo scoffed at the statement. “You’ve always eaten your fear and spit it back at them. You’re strong enough, Diago. After all you’ve lived through, you are strong and wise, and I need you at my side.”
The depression didn’t immediately fade away, but it was made slightly more bearable by Guillermo’s faith in him. They walked in silence through the winding streets and cut across empty lots. When they reached a construction site, they found an outside spigot and managed to wash the worst of the stink off themselves.
By the time they left Barcelona behind, the clouds had departed and night had fallen. Guillermo led Diago into a field. There, he called down an owl from the sky. He cooed to it in the language of birds and sent it off.
“What did you do?” Diago asked.
“I told it to fly ahead and tell Juanita we are safe, and that we’re coming home.”
Home. Tranquility finally chased away Diago’s depression. Just the thought of their little house with its cramped rooms warmed his heart.
As they walked up the country road, Diago told Guillermo about his encounter with Alvaro and all the things he learned about his father. He left out nothing, especially not his pain. Guillermo is right. I’ve carried too much alone for too long.
And Guillermo, for his part, listened with his customary patience. He kept his hand on Diago’s arm, not because Diago’s step was unsteady, but as a friend. His touch lent Diago the strength he needed to get through his tale.
It was late by the time they reached the lane to Diago’s house. He had sweated most of the morphine out of his system. Peace, which had nothing to do with the drug, settled over him.
Guillermo paused at Diago’s door. “Come to the church tomorrow at nine. That will give me time to call a small council. I want you to tell them about Alvaro. I’ll break the news about Garcia and Engel. Then we’ll figure out what to do. Get some rest.” Guillermo started to walk away but when he saw Diago lingering by the window, he paused. “Do you want me to go in with you?”
“No,” Diago murmured. “I just want to look at them for a moment.”
Inside, Miquel stretched out on the couch, his arms around Rafael. The child rested his head on Miquel’s shoulder, his stuffed horse clenched under one arm, and his thumb in his mouth.
Rafael’s body heaved with hiccups. A few tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Miquel wiped the child’s nose and murmured to him.
“Diago?” Guillermo whispered.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself.” Diago opened the door and went inside.
Miquel sat up and smiled. “See? I wasn’t worried.” The dark circles under his eyes testified otherwise. He placed Rafael on his feet. “Look who is home.”
Rafael blinked at Diago. His lower lip trembled, and he pointed at his drawing, which was on the table. The ghost-Diago was vibrant and brightly colored again. All three of the figures held hands beneath the angel sun and smiled.
“You started to disappear and you scared me, Papa.” Rafael stumbled and bumped into the table. “You shouldn’t scare me like that. I thought you were dying.” Then he started to cry.
“Hey.” Diago shut the door. “Don’t cry, Rafael.” He went to his son and picke
d him up. “Ya, ya, ya,” he sang the soothing words. “Everything is all right. I’m home.”
“You scared me.” Rafael hiccupped his way through a sob, but his tears were slowing. He made a face. “And you smell bad.”
“Ew, Jesus, yes.” Miquel rose. “I’m going to run a bath. Get out of those clothes so I can burn them.”
Rafael wrinkled his nose, then put his arms around Diago’s neck and kissed his cheek anyway. “I don’t care if you stink. I’m glad you’re home.”
“I am, too.” He carried Rafael to his bed and tucked him under the covers. No crumbs surrounded his pillow this night. He’d been too worried to steal a slice of bread.
“Ysa said you were fighting daimons with her papa. She says I worry too much. She says we are Los Nefilim and we always win, but you weren’t winning, because you started to disappear in the picture, and Miquel and Doña Juanita helped me bring you back, and then an owl came, and Doña Juanita said it was okay for us to come home. Did you fight a daimon, Papa? Is that why you stink?” Rafael paused for a bone-cracking yawn. “Do Los Nefilim always win?”
Diago found a handkerchief and wiped Rafael’s nose. “Yes, I fought a daimon.” He skirted the other questions for now. “And I will teach you how one day.”
“Then I won’t be afraid anymore, right?” Rafael’s eyelids drooped.
The time to indoctrinate his son about life’s realities would come soon enough. For now, he deserved to be a child. “You don’t have to be afraid now. Miquel and I are here, and we won’t let anything happen to you. Go to sleep, and when you wake up, we’ll have breakfast together.”
Rafael closed his eyes, and within moments, his breathing deepened.
Diago brushed back his son’s curls. “And I will not let them hurt you. I will not let them take your sweetness away.”
Miquel returned and touched his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Diago rose and followed him into the bathroom. With Miquel’s help, he peeled off his clothes and slipped beneath the warm water.
Miquel took off his own shirt and knelt beside the tub. He soaped the washcloth. “Lean forward.” His words fell as white as almond blossoms into the water.
Drowsily, Diago touched the soft vibrations before they dissolved. Water trickled down the side of the tub in shades of silver and blue.
“What happened?” Miquel moved the washcloth in slow circular sweeps across Diago’s back.
Haltingly at first, then with increasing confidence, he told Miquel about the day. By the time he reached his meeting with Alvaro, his eyes burned with the tears he’d dared not shed in front of either his father or Guillermo.
Miquel passed the wet cloth over Diago’s forehead. “Let yourself weep, my star. It’s all right to mourn.” Concern tinged his words in shades of brown. “It’s only when you hold your grief in your soul does it turn into poison.”
“I’ve had enough poison for one lifetime.” He drew his finger across the vibrations of Miquel’s voice and allowed his tears to come. With his thumb, he caressed Miquel’s lower lip. “Stop frowning, my sweet Miquel. I’m all right. I am.”
Miquel took Diago’s wrist and kissed his palm. Their wedding bands touched—Miquel’s gold against Diago’s silver, and the tingle of his lover’s magic wrapped Diago in warmth.
“Your colors are so beautiful. Sing to me.”
“Quietly though,” Miquel said. “So we don’t wake Rafael.”
“Quietly,” Diago murmured.
Unlike his other attacks of chromesthesia, this one was almost languid. These were the gentle sounds. Shades of peace . . . and love. Miquel swirled the cloth in the water and hummed a soft song filled with saffron and gold. The sound spun over Diago’s skin. Miquel’s tenderness drove away the dark, one melodious note at a time, and wrapped Diago in the silken colors of home.
END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Always and always to my family, first and foremost, always gets my deepest gratitude. For my husband, Dick Frohock, who has to share me with so many people, and for my beautiful daughter, Rhi, and her husband, Andrew Hopkins. I couldn’t do this without their love and support.
Special thanks continues to go to Josep M. Oriol for reading horribly rough drafts and helping me with terminology and places in Barcelona. As with In Midnight’s Silence, if there any mistakes regarding history, street names, or metro stops, those mistakes are mine and mine alone.
For those who read the manuscript, sometimes two and three times, and caught my many errors: Anne Lippin, whose advice transcended both the structural and the medical. Peter Cooper, whose sage advice is always on the money. To Glinda Harrison for reading it so fast and giving me such excellent comments. Thanks to Richard Auffrey for helping me pick the right drink for the right moment.
Thanks to Mark Lawrence, ML Brennan, Courtney Schafer, Mazarkis Williams, Alex Bledsoe, and Helen Lowe for their support, not to mention reading countless whiny emails from me about how hard it is to make up stories.
To my dear friend Lisa Cantrell for all of our Friday afternoons, and for reading all the different versions—ALL FIFTY VERSIONS—of my opening scene. Okay. It wasn’t fifty, but it was damn close. Thank you especially for helping me bring Garcia to life.
Special thanks goes to David Pomerico for his excellent editorial direction. He nailed the troublesome plot issues in the first draft of this story and guided me back on track. The story you see here is much better than the one I produced on my own. I said this last time, I’ll say it again: I’m very lucky to have such an excellent editor.
Most special thanks to Marlene Stringer, my literary agent, who puts up with me swooping in at the last minute with my story and merely nods sagely at my enduring promises to do better next time. You should have an award just for dealing with clients like me.
And thanks goes to the most important people of all: you, the reader. Without you, all of this wouldn’t be half as much fun as it is.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
T. FROHOCK has turned her love of dark fantasy and horror into tales of deliciously creepy fiction. She currently lives in North Carolina where she has long been accused of telling stories, which is a southern colloquialism for lying. Check out more of her works and news at www.tfrohock.com.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
ALSO BY T. FROHOCK
Los Nefilim
In Midnight’s Silence: Los Nefilim, Part I
Without Light or Guide: Los Nefilim, Part II
The Second Death: Los Nefilim, Part III (forthcoming)
Hisses and Wings: A Novelette, by Alex Bledsoe and T. Frohock (featuring Bledsoe’s Tufa and Frohock’s Los Nefilim)
The Broken Road: A Novella
Miserere: An Autumn Tale
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WITHOUT LIGHT OR GUIDE. Copyright © 2015 by T. Frohock. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition NOVEMBER 2015: 9780062428929
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