by T. Frohock
Diago laughed before he could stop himself. He’s worried about the police . . . Unnerved by his own hysteria, he covered the sound with a cough. Were it not for Guillermo, he would have fallen to the pavement.
With Miquel’s help, Guillermo maneuvered Diago into the backseat.
Suero was in the driver’s seat. He watched them in the rearview mirror. “Do you need help?”
“No,” Guillermo and Miquel answered simultaneously.
Diago tried to see beyond Miquel. “Rafael. Where is he?”
“Who’s Rafael?” Guillermo asked as he squeezed in beside Diago.
“I’m here, Papa.”
“Come quickly.” He held out his hand and Rafael approached the car as if it might bite him.
“Is this your car?” Rafael climbed into Diago’s lap and curled up against him.
Guillermo’s mouth dropped open. “You want to explain this, Diago?”
“I’ll explain.” Miquel leaned inside and gathered Rafael into his arms. “Ride up front with us, Rafael. It’s a bumpy trip, and Papa’s hurt.”
Guillermo took off his coat and spread the heavy garment over Diago. Careful of Diago’s arm, he shifted his bulk sideways in the seat, and placed his palm over Diago’s forehead.
As they pulled away from the curb, Guillermo growled. “Talk to me, Miquel.”
So Miquel talked, and while he spun their tale, Diago passed into fever-dreams. He dreamt of a fire that burned white-hot, and a city reduced to ashes. He dreamt of people running through the streets, their bodies blackened by the flash that incinerated their homes. The dream-fires morphed into sigils, wards that spun and guarded the lanes leading into the town of Santuari, where Guillermo’s Nefilim lived.
Diago felt the magic of Los Nefilim wash over him and cool the fire in his veins. He dozed fitfully and awoke when gentle fingers brushed against his forehead.
Juanita spoke to him, but her voice was distant, like Rafael’s had been at the train station. He wanted to ask her if she ever regretted taking her mortal form. Did she ever wish she was angel again, and could she find Candela?
Before he could form the questions, Juanita spoke to someone behind her. “Bring him to my examining room. I’m going to go wash up.” Then she left them, her black hair flying behind her as she ran toward the house, her bare feet skimming the ground as if she weighed no more than air. Maybe she still had her wings. Maybe they just couldn’t see them anymore.
Guillermo picked Diago up as if he was a child and carried him to the side entrance that led to Juanita’s small clinic. Miquel opened the door. Guillermo managed to get Diago inside without bumping his arm. He placed him on a cold white table.
Juanita had already scrubbed up and was filling one of her vicious needles.
Diago found his voice. “No morphine.”
Juanita ignored him. “Cut off his sweater for me.” She capped the needle and set it aside.
Miquel grabbed a pair of scissors and went to work.
Guillermo kept his hand on Diago’s forehead. “He’s burning up.”
“One thing at a time, corazon. First the arm. He is healing too fast and I’m going to have to break it again before I can set it.” She opened a bottle. “The fever is coming from an infection. I’ll deal with that next.”
Miquel peeled away the sweater and breathed a curse. Diago didn’t bother looking at the bruises that covered his torso. He winced at the smell of alcohol. “Where’s Rafael?”
“I’m here, Papa,” he said from the doorway.
Lucia nudged the boy aside with her hip as she came into the room, carrying a pot of steaming water. “Where did he come from?”
“He’s Diago’s son,” said Miquel.
Lucia did a double take and set the water on the counter. “You see, Miquel? You can’t trust daimon.” She fixed her vicious glare on Diago. “Are your lies catching up to you, Diago?”
“Shut up, Lucia.” Miquel shot her a murderous look.
“All of you shut up.” Juanita didn’t spare Rafael a glance. “Take the boy out of here, Lucia. He doesn’t need to see this.”
Lucia shrugged and started to go.
Diago grabbed Guillermo’s wrist. Not Lucia with her caustic mouth and jealous eyes. She made no secret of her dislike of Diago, or her love for Miquel, and she would gladly sacrifice the one for the other. She would torment Rafael with questions and twist his answers to suit her gossip. All these thoughts crystalized in Diago’s mind in a flash, but he couldn’t push the sentiments past his dry tongue. All he managed to say was: “Not her.”
Guillermo nodded. “I’ll take care of him, Lucia. You see to Ysabel and make sure she doesn’t wander down here. Come on, Rafael.”
Rafael looked up at Guillermo and held his ground. “I want to be with my papa.”
“We’ll come back when the doctor has set his arm.”
“But—”
Diago caught Rafael’s eye with a small wave of his hand. “Do as you’re told.”
And Guillermo, intuitive to others as he always was, reached down and picked up Rafael as easily as if he was a puppy. He brought the child to Diago. “Say good night. My wife is the best doctor in the world and she’ll have him up and about in no time. Your papa will see you when he wakes up.”
Rafael leaned down and pushed Candela’s tear against Diago’s palm. “Do you remember how to do it? Gólpe, gólpe—”
“Vuelta,” Diago whispered. “I remember.”
White gauze hid Rafael’s worried face as Juanita draped the loose bandage over Diago’s cheek. She gave Miquel a mask and instructed him to hold it over Diago’s mouth. She asked, “Are you sure you don’t want the morphine?”
He nodded. The sickness that accompanied the drug brought him worse agonies than the pain of a broken arm.
“Breathe deep.” She turned a dial on a small tank and he smelled ether flow into the mask. “Count backwards for Miquel. Diago?” Her palm rested against his face. “Count for Miquel. Ten . . .”
“ . . . nine . . .”
“That’s it,” Miquel murmured.
And at seven, the pain receded beneath the veil of sleep.
DIAGO AWOKE TO moonlight creeping across the bedroom’s floor. He wore someone else’s pajamas. Judging from the size alone, the shirt belonged to Guillermo, which was just as well, since it easily fit over the plaster cast that hugged his arm. His cheek was swollen and stiff. He probed the gauze and felt the stitches beneath. Thousands of aches assailed his body, and he would have remained perfectly still, except a wave of nausea cramped his stomach. He tried to sit up.
Guillermo’s large hand came out of the darkness to grip Diago’s bicep. He helped him sit on the edge of the mattress and held a bucket while Diago vomited. With nothing in his stomach, Diago suffered through a few minutes of dry heaves before the sickness passed.
Guillermo handed him a handkerchief and set the bucket aside. “You’ve got a nasty infection. Here.” He poured a glass of water and added a white powder. “Juanita said to drink this. It will settle your stomach.”
He took the glass and tossed back the mixture like a shot. He didn’t even ask what it was. The soapy aftertaste made him wince.
“That’s one of her nastier potions.” Guillermo took a flask from his pocket. “Chase it with this.”
Diago took a long pull from the flask and tasted sweet red wine. “You have a bottle of this somewhere?”
“Trust me. You’re not ready for the bottle.” He fixed the pillows and helped Diago sit up before he took a second glass and poured water in it. “Sip. If you hold all of that down, I’ll give you some aspirin; although I recommend the morphine.”
“Aspirin will be fine.”
“Tough guy.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Three days in and out of consci
ousness. It’s not the break but the infection. It looks like the fever has passed, though, and that’s a good sign.”
“Where’s Rafael?”
Guillermo sat back in the chair and pulled a cigar from his pocket. “We put him in with Ysabel for now. He was exhausted the first night. Fell asleep standing up while I bathed him. But he was in top form today and full of himself. He asks about you all the time. You can see him in the morning. Miquel wanted to stay with you, but he wasn’t in much better shape than Rafael, so I pulled rank. He takes the days and I take the nights.” He offered Diago a cigar. “Want one?”
Diago shook his head and pressed the cool glass against his chest, quietly absorbing all that Guillermo told him. Rafael was safe for now and that was all that mattered.
“Congratulations, by the way. I have to admit I’m a little jealous. I wish I could have skipped the diapers and the teething and the tantrums, and just had a five-year-old deposited on my doorstep.”
“He’s six.”
“Really?” Guillermo snipped the end off his cigar. “He’s what the Scottish would call a wee one.” The flare of his match sent spirals of light through the stone in the large signet ring that he wore. “Want to talk to me about what happened?”
“What if I don’t? You’ll pull rank?” He instantly regretted his tone—that was the pain biting. He leaned his head against the headboard and tried to wish the words away.
Guillermo seemed to take no offense. He tilted back his chair and opened the window. His tone remained mild, but he cut to the bone nonetheless. “Don’t be angry with me. I’m not the one biting your fingers off in exchange for your oath.”
“That’s not how it happened.”
“Don’t tell me Moloch didn’t try to bring you under his banner.”
“He tried.”
“And you said no.”
“That’s why I’m here and not there.” Diago sighed. He didn’t want to fight. “What do you want to know, Guillermo?”
“Miquel says that an angel took advantage of you in Triana.”
“I’m not sure which of us took advantage of the other.”
“Miquel seems certain.”
“She said she had a song.”
“And she gave you one. I delved his soul. This is his firstborn life, Diago. He has no past, only a future.”
“Then does it matter which of us was the aggressor?”
“It matters to Miquel, because if Candela raped you of your will before she raped your body, he doesn’t have to face the question of your infidelity.”
Diago took a nervous sip of water. He hadn’t thought of that, not in the rush of Prieto’s accusations and Rafael’s fears.
“Likewise, if you assert that you had a hand in your own seduction, you don’t have to face the question of your vulnerability. Given the two scenarios, I’d say Miquel’s is closer to the truth. Candela enchanted you.”
Diago’s throat was on fire, but when he tried to drink, he choked on the water. He swallowed the truth hard. Guillermo was right, but that didn’t mean that Diago had to love him for it. “Sometimes I hate you.”
“I’m your friend, not your dog.”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“You should get one. They always love you and never question you.”
“Call it rape if you want. It doesn’t change how I feel about Rafael.”
“And it shouldn’t. It’s not his fault.” Guillermo drew on his cigar. He added softly, “Or yours.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Diago tapped the glass with one restless finger. He sidestepped Guillermo’s compassion by changing the subject. “Did Miquel tell you about Alvaro?”
“Your father?” Guillermo nodded. “Yes. What happened to Alvaro isn’t your fault either. Whatever his reasons, he made his choices.”
“I have some decisions to make, too.” He stared at the opposite wall.
“What do you want, Diago?”
“I want Rafael to be safe.”
“He can’t be safe and be Los Nefilim. We are born to fight for one side or the other.”
“Except for me.”
“Except for you.” Guillermo exhaled a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke into the air. “How’s that working out for you?”
Diago remembered Alvaro words: You fought the world, Diago, and you fought alone. You sustained yourself on anger, and you forgot how to love.
Guillermo tapped the ashes from his cigar into a saucer. “This is the part where you usually say ‘fine.’ ”
Jerked from the memory, Diago started. “What?”
“Fine. I say: ‘How’s that working out for you?’ And you always respond with: ‘Fine,’ like you’re biting the word in half. But now you’re not saying that it’s fine to be a loner.”
“I’m rethinking my position.”
“I see.”
“Rafael changes things.”
Diago glimpsed Guillermo’s crooked teeth as he smiled. “You’re right about that. Ysabel is why I’ve settled here and let the younger Nefilim be my eyes and my ears across the land. One day, she’ll be old enough to take care of herself. For now she needs protection.”
“So does Rafael.”
Guillermo nodded. “Yes, he does, more so than you know. Miquel told me what that child can do. He’s powerful, Diago, and the daimons will try to take him while he is young so they can shape his allegiance to their needs.”
“I know.”
Guillermo lifted the cigar to his lips and took two puffs before he realized it was out. “Stay here at Santuari as long as you need to.”
“Because of Miquel.” The others wouldn’t protest Miquel’s place in the small town Guillermo had spent years building with his most trusted Nefilim, and they tolerated Diago for Miquel’s sake.
Guillermo seemed to read his thoughts. “You know if anything ever happens between you and Miquel, I will make a way for you to stay here.”
“I make my own way.”
“There’s that fucking pride of yours,” Guillermo muttered. He found his matches and relit his cigar. Again the flame illuminated his ring. He met Diago’s gaze before he shook out the match and plunged them back into semidarkness. “What do you want to do?”
On the bedside table, tucked between two bottles, was Candela’s tear. Diago relinquished the glass and took the carmine teardrop in his hand. A thin line of gold flashed once from the depths of the stone, and it brought to mind Rafael holding up the mirrored box. Guillermo was right. Once Moloch spread word of the child’s power, the daimons would come for his son as they had come for him.
“It’s time I picked a side.”
Guillermo frowned in the glow of his cigar. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes. If I swear allegiance to you, Los Nefilim will have to watch over Rafael, too.”
“You don’t have to swear your fealty to me so I’ll watch over your son.”
“I trust you, but what about the others? What if something happens to you, or me, or Miquel? What then? The daimons and angels will treat him like they treat me: a battleground in the flesh.” He raised his fist to his lips and clenched the marble so hard, he feared it would break. “They’ll manipulate him and maim him because the end justifies the means.” Diago wiped his mouth, uncertain how the rage that normally burned so deep within him had suddenly risen up like molten lava.
Guillermo extinguished his cigar in the saucer and leaned forward to touch Diago’s shoulder. “Hey. You need to rest.”
Diago got out of the bed.
“What are you doing?” Guillermo started to rise.
Diago held his hand up, staying him. “Don’t move. I can do this.”
“You don’t have to do it tonight.”
“Yes, I do.” He knelt before Guillermo and almost lost his balance beneath a wave of dizziness.
<
br /> Guillermo caught his arm and steadied him. “You are proud and stubborn, Diago Alvarez.”
“You should know. They’re your qualities, too.” Diago pressed Candela’s tear between his palms and waited.
Guillermo sighed in defeat and placed his hands over Diago’s, so that they looked like a priest and supplicant praying together. “Pledge your magic to me. No one or nothing else.”
“I pledge my body and my magic to you, Guillermo Ramírez de Luna, the one true King of the angel-born Nefilim. I swear to uphold your laws and remain true and faithful to you and the angel-born Nefilim in this life, and in all my lives to come. This I do swear.” He took Guillermo’s hand and pressed his lips against the signet ring that bore the multicolored stone.
Guillermo leaned down and kissed Diago’s cheeks, careful of the bandage that covered his stitches. “And I accord you, and your family, all of the protections and privileges and rights of Los Nefilim.” He kissed Diago’s cheeks again. “Now please, for the love of Christ, get back in the bed before my wife comes in and kills us both.”
“You will arrange a formal ceremony. With witnesses. They all must know.”
“Yes.” Guillermo helped Diago back into the bed.
“And Los Nefilim will watch over Rafael.”
“Yes.”
“And you and Juanita will be his godparents.”
“We will be honored.”
“I need Miquel.”
“I’ll get him. Now rest. We will talk more tomorrow.” He drew up the quilts to Diago’s chin. “You’ve done the right thing, Diago.” He turned, and for such a large man, left the room without a sound.
Moments later Miquel slipped inside and shut the door. He came straight to Diago and took his hand. “Christ, you’re frozen.” He went to the open window, pulled the shutters closed, and shut the window before he returned to the door.
Diago heard the lock click into place. “What are you doing?”
“Giving us some privacy.” Miquel slid under the quilts and wrapped his arms around Diago.
He smelled of cigarettes and soap and beneath it all, a fragrance all his own, a scent both hard and sweet for which Diago had no name. Diago rested his head on Miquel’s chest and closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of him.
