Carved from Stone and Dream

by T. Frohock

  Nico inhaled sharply. The answer wasn’t what he expected. “You don’t understand. Jordi has changed.”

  Miquel lowered his voice. “Jordi hasn’t changed. He just stopped hiding his true nature behind caresses and compliments, because now he’s gotten everything he wants out of you. That is how Jordi works. You knew what he was when you went to his bed.”

  Nico straightened. Miquel expected rage.

  Instead, Nico’s lips were white with fear. “I’m begging you.”

  Voices drifted down the hall. With a nervous glance to the door, Nico pulled a short rubber tube and a syringe filled with cloudy liquid from the bag. “You leave me no choice. Remember that.” He tightened the tube around Miquel’s biceps and made quick work of the injection, jerking the tube free as he depressed the plunger.

  Miquel jumped when the needle pierced his skin, but he didn’t struggle. The last thing he needed was a torn vein. From the heat suffusing his body, he assumed it was the same substance they’d injected him with during the trip here. The warmth turned to fire as the drug entered his bloodstream. He felt flushed and hot. A cramp twisted his stomach. He gritted his teeth and sweated through it.

  The door opened and a familiar voice said, “Are you done?”

  The metallic taste of fear filled Miquel’s mouth as a name jumped into his mind. Benito Espina.

  Nico removed the syringe and quickly taped a piece of gauze over the wound. “Just finishing.” He restored the items to his bag and didn’t glance at Miquel as he left.

  Benito waited until the door shut before he moved again. A large nefil with a congenial manner, he lumbered to the rolling chair and tossed a file to the desk. The springs squealed beneath his weight and then fell silent.

  Benito grinned. “Miquel, how are you doing, my friend?”

  “I’m not friends with traitors.”

  “You just fuck them, right? By the way, how is Diago? Better yet, where is Diago? Because the last time he was seen, it was with Guillermo, and we need them both.” Benito lit a cigarette, squinting at Miquel through the haze.

  Miquel stared back, projecting a calm he didn’t feel. This was another interrogation trick: mention a loved one and watch the source carefully for a twitch, or a tear, or a blink. Anything to indicate the jab hit a nerve. Miquel knew that if he showed the slightest interest in Diago’s welfare, Benito would use Miquel’s fear as a cudgel. Don’t blink.

  Benito exhaled a cloud of smoke and sighed. “I didn’t expect it would be that easy.” He tapped ashes onto the floor. “I’ve got to admit, for several years I thought I’d be the one sitting in that chair, pissing myself, while you smoked and asked questions.”

  Miquel felt his cheeks warm with his humiliation. He hadn’t exactly pissed himself yet, but if Benito mentioned it, Miquel was sure it would eventually happen. Don’t blink. “Who knows? You might still find our roles reversed in the near future.”

  Benito guffawed. “Oh, I’m glad you still have your sense of humor.” Still chortling, he sniffed and opened the folder. “You’re going to need it.”

  “What happened to make you leave Los Nefilim, Benito?”

  The other nefil looked up. His eyes went hard like hate. “You don’t ask questions, Miquel. Today, you just answer. Entiende?”

  Miquel nodded. He understood.

  Benito dropped the cigarette to the floor and crushed it beneath his heel. Removing a notebook from the file, he nudged it across the desk. “Recognize this?”

  Miquel glanced at the composition book. “You’re going back to school?”

  Another grin, but this one was tight. Benito held up the book so Miquel could see the sigils glowing across the cover. “Answer the question, Miquel. Do you know what’s in this book?”

  His heart went cold as he recognized Carme’s glyphs. She was supposed to be with Diago. Had they been separated somehow? He had to assume yes. They wouldn’t be wasting time with him if they had Guillermo. All he knew for certain was that Carme was dead. She never let that notebook out of her sight, much less her possession.

  Goddamn it, not our Carme. He clenched his fists behind his back. Don’t. Blink.

  Sick with fear, he shrugged and stared at the desk’s leg, waiting for Nico’s injection to compel his answer. But it didn’t. Why give me that drug prior to an interrogation? Was it a placebo? Judging by the way it had burned through his body, it couldn’t have been.

  Yet I’ve got complete control of my faculties. As a matter of fact, his brain leapt from subject to subject so fast, he could barely keep up with his own thoughts.

  “Answer me, Miquel.” Benito broke through the raging chaos in Miquel’s head.

  He considered giving Benito a false answer, but it wouldn’t be believed. Not this soon in the game.

  The silence ticked between them. Benito gave him a full minute to answer. “Don’t make it hard, Miquel.”

  “What do you want, Benito?”

  “We need you to break these sigils so we can read the book.”

  “Decipher them yourself.” That would be fun to watch, because Carme was the master of landmine wards. She’d probably planted enough death in that book to take out an entire regiment.

  Benito slammed the notebook onto the desk. “Do you want to see your family again, Miquel?”

  He’s not as good at this as he thinks he is. “Fuck you, Benito. You and I both know I’m never leaving here alive.”

  “Okay.” Benito went to the door. “Cabello! Losa! Get in here.”

  The guards who’d accompanied Nico earlier stepped into the room as Benito resumed his seat. They took positions just behind Miquel’s chair.

  Someone else moved into the room with them. “Don’t you want me, as well, Benito?”

  Miquel twisted in the chair. He knew that voice. “Feran?” Had they captured him, too? No, that didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t be wandering the compound if he was a prisoner.

  Cabello, or Losa—Miquel wasn’t sure who was who—put his hand on Miquel’s shoulder.

  Beneath the sharp odor of Feran’s cologne was the distinct smell of rot.

  Stopping behind Benito’s chair, Feran ran his palms over his new Nationalist uniform. It was a slow, deliberate move meant to impress Miquel.

  In other circumstances Feran’s preening would have merely aggravated Miquel. In here, to know someone like Feran had power over him was terrifying. Just don’t show it. Don’t blink.

  He was too late. Feran had obviously seen his fear, because he grinned a hungry grin fed with his bile. Bright red sparks flashed through the whites of his eyes. A thin sheen of blood coated his upper teeth.

  Holding Miquel’s gaze, he reached into his mouth and plucked a needle from his gums. He held it up to the light and examined it curiously, as if he’d found a piece of spinach stuck between his teeth but couldn’t quite make out how it got there.

  Miquel watched him curiously. That’s a new one.

  Noting Miquel’s stare, Feran’s grin grew more feral. He pretended to pick his teeth with the needle, and then tossed it to the floor. “I’m a hero. I killed Carme Gebara.”

  A boil erupted on the side of Feran’s neck. Thin crimson fingers of mold wiggled beneath his skin.

  Now, that one Miquel knew. The Devil’s Fingers. “It looks like she killed you back.”

  Feran blustered, but he failed to cover his fear. “Quit stalling. Decipher the book, and I’ll talk Benito into letting Diago live.”

  They didn’t have Diago. If they did, Benito would have gleefully dragged him into the interrogation room and cut his balls off just so Miquel could watch him bleed. “Carme hit you with the Devil’s Fingers, didn’t she?”

  Feran stiffened.

  Even sitting bound, I made him blink. “Do you know how the sigils mutate? I do.”

  Feran’s eyes went wide. “Then you know the counter ward.”

  If one existed, Carme had taken it into her next incarnation, but Miquel would be damned if he’d say that. He shrugged.
“I’m in no condition to counsel you.”

  Hope flickered in Feran’s gaze.

  But is it enough to entice him into helping me? Miquel wouldn’t know until later.

  Feran opened his mouth.

  Benito silenced him with a glare. “Get out, Feran. The stink of you is giving me a headache.”

  “But I—”

  “Out. He’s bluffing you. If there is a cure for Carme’s spell, you’ll have to find it yourself.” When Feran didn’t move, Benito pointed to the door. “Go see Nico. Maybe he can help you. Go on.” He said the last almost gently, as a commander would console a dying soldier.

  Benito’s sad inflection seemed lost on Feran. As he passed Miquel, he leaned down to whisper, “I’m a hero.”

  Miquel couldn’t summon enough saliva to spit on Feran, otherwise he would have hurled more than words at the smirking nefil. “You’re a traitor. And I will watch for you.”

  Feran lifted his fist, but Benito caught his arm. “No. He’s mine. Now go.” He maneuvered Feran toward the door. “Go see Nico.”

  Miquel heard the latch snick shut. Then Benito returned to the desk and lifted the hood, smoothing the canvas with a gesture that was simultaneously gentle and threatening. “See? Nobody smart fucks with Carme. That’s why we sent Feran. We knew he was ambitious enough, and dumb enough, to provoke her. But we’re not stupid. What we need you to do is spare us Feran’s fate. Tell us how to break the sigils in the notebook, Miquel.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “We’ll see.” Benito settled the hood over Miquel’s head and cinched the drawstring tight around his throat.

  Miquel’s pulse raced. He closed his eyes, waiting for the blows he knew would come next. The torture relied on not knowing where or when the strikes would land. It was brutal and surprisingly effective.

  Benito’s chair gave another shrill cry as he lowered his bulk onto the seat. The smell of sulfur followed the scratch of a match, and then the pungent odor of cigarette smoke drove the last of Feran’s stink from the air.

  Benito gave a contented sigh. “Carme was a vicious bitch, but she trusted you. Sing me the counter sigil to unlock it.”

  Miquel barely heard him. The canvas was hot. He found it hard to breathe. Sweat prickled his scalp.

  One of the guards shifted his weight. Miquel tensed, anticipating the first blow. Nothing happened. Yet. Nothing yet, but it’s coming.

  Benito’s question interrupted Miquel’s low-grade panic. “What key is the sigil in? B? C? Come on, Miquel, give me a clue.”

  Miquel licked his lips and tasted grit. He heard the whisper of sand slithering across the hood’s fabric. No, this isn’t happening.

  His heart accelerated until it became a piston, hammering his chest with quick hard blows. Too fast, it’s beating too fast, and I can’t make it slow.

  The terrible flush from the drug filled his veins with fire. Silt irritated his nose and clung to his cheeks. The insidious hiss of sand began to fill the hood.

  “No.” Shit. I blinked. Miquel bit his tongue to keep himself from giving them another twitch to indicate his discomfort.

  “‘No.’” Benito mocked him. “No isn’t an answer, my friend. Tell me how to break Carme’s codes. Then I’ll take it off. You’ll be able to breathe. You like breathing, don’t you, Miquel?”

  Miquel whipped his head to the right. Wet sand stung his cheeks and matted his hair. The drawstring didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened. He twisted in the chair. Hands landed on his shoulders, startling him. The guards held him firmly in place.

  “What’s the counter sigil, Miquel?”

  The sand reached his chin. Miquel bucked against his bonds. “Take it off!” He flung his head to the left. Sand stung his eyes and clogged his nose. A sob scraped through his throat.

  “You’re disappointing me, Miquel. I thought you’d last longer.” A hint of amusement touched Benito’s voice. “Say you’ll decipher it for me, and I’ll take off the hood, give you a chance to win my trust. What do you say?”

  Miquel parted his lips. His mouth filled with sand and choked off his scream.

  Day

  los exilios

  (exiles)

  8

  49, rue Gabrielle

  Paris, France

  Beneath his winter quilts, Rafael drifted between wakefulness and a light doze. He stretched until his toes poked over the mattress’s edge. At the first nip of cold air on his flesh, he immediately curled up again, drawing his coltish legs deep beneath the covers.

  Sleep reclaimed him, dragging him down with dark wings. This time, he dreamed of Miquel.

  His father sat on a chair, and for some reason he kept his hands behind his back. Shadows covered his face, obscuring his features . . .

  Miquel whispers, “You’ve been through worse than this, my little bear. You can do it.”

  Rafael shakes his head. He knows he cannot. This thing Miquel wants him to do is too hard. It shreds his heart and breaks his voice. He cannot.

  But Miquel doesn’t relent. He never yields. Papá will change his mind, but never Miquel. “You must do this, Rafael. Remember your lessons. All the things your papá and I taught you. Your voice is the key to all your power. Move the breath of darkness from your diaphragm up through your throat and into your song. Remember the steps . . . you must dance close to the border before you can cross over, but once you go, you must never look back.”

  Over Miquel’s head, a dark mirror as black as his eyes spins in time to his words. He looks up, and then he smiles a sad smile. “I’m so sorry, my osito, but this is how it must be. Watch for me.”

  The mirror cracks. A darkness deeper than any known in the mortal realm leaks over Miquel’s face, erasing first his forehead, then his eyes, and then his mouth.

  Rafael rushes forward. If he’s fast enough, he’ll save Miquel. He grabs his father, but instead of saving him, they’re both dragged down below, where nefilim sing, their eyes hollow, their fingers bleeding as they dig, dig, dig down into the dark . . .

  Rafael sat up, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Miquel,” he murmured to the empty room. “Oh shit, Miquel, where are you?”

  Outside his bedroom, Juanita spoke to Ysabel. The closed door muted her words. The click of heels on the floor meant they were already dressed for the day.

  How late have I slept? The urgency of the nightmare pushed him out of bed. Sunlight speckled the floor as he crossed the narrow room and went to the wardrobe. Digging through his clothes, he found a clean shirt. He snatched a pair of pants from the back of a chair and pulled them on before reloading his pockets with his money and identity papers. His only homage to his homeland was his lucky scarf, a bright yellow neckerchief that he wore tied at a jaunty angle at his throat.

  Pausing at the desk that held their radio, he rooted through the wires between the transmitter and microphone to work Suero’s notepad free. He checked the pages. The last notation indicated Suero had taken a report at 00:18.

  The transmissions were coming further and further apart. As the war dragged to an end and the nefilim fled, the bursts of static and disembodied voices fell silent.

  Soon we’ll all be ghosts.

  Suero’s slanted handwriting revealed no mention of Don Guillermo, Papá, or Miquel. Rafael tapped the paper with one restless finger. The deep red angel’s tear nestled in the setting of his ring winked in the light. Just beneath the stone’s surface, veins of gold swirled in agitated streaks. The tear was all his angelic mother left him before she died, and Don Guillermo had made Rafael a ring that matched the one his papá wore.

  Papá will know how to find Miquel. Except his papá traveled incognito with Don Guillermo. They should have let me stay with them in Spain. He tossed Suero’s pad to the desk and glared at the microphone. It stood at attention, tempting him to break the rules and check in with the nefilim in southern France.

  Except radio silence was the rule unless a crisis demanded communication, and this was no emergency
.

  Besides, what do I tell them? I had a nightmare and now I am afraid? They’d admonish him for being a child. Nonetheless, his fingers itched to press the mic’s button. Surely someone has heard something by now.

  Maybe this was the time to break the rules. No one would know if he dialed in for a moment. He could always say he knocked the mic over and when he picked it up, he touched the button, accidentally opening the line.

  Rafael reached for the microphone.

  A knock on his door caused him to jerk his hand back. His blood pounded in his ears. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply and counted to ten, waiting for his heart rate to slow. Then he went to the door.

  Juanita stood in the short corridor outside his room. Her black hair was smoothed into a bun and she was dressed in her usual flowing pants and blouse. She examined his face for a long moment, as if she could read the guilt in his eyes.

  The idea of breaking the rules always felt brave until he found himself face-to-face with the angel. Her mortal form did nothing to extinguish either the threads of gold burning through her irises or the subtle lines of her aura, which smoldered around her in shades of midnight blue.

  “Are you all right?” she finally asked. “You’re flushed.”

  “I’m fine,” he blurted a little too quickly. “I just thought I’d . . . overslept, so I hurried.” Rafael twisted the ring on his finger. “Did I? Oversleep?”

  She looked beyond him to the radio.

  She suspected something. It took every ounce of his willpower not to look over his shoulder.

  “No,” she said at last. Meeting his gaze again, she smiled, but the effort at normalcy seemed strained. “You’re not late, but you want to come now before Carlos gets here. We’re hoping he’ll have news of Miquel.”

  “Do you think he will? I mean, the last three members we’ve spoken to all said they hadn’t seen him.” And I just had a dream, a terrible dream . . . “What makes you think Carlos is different?”

  “He is one of Miquel’s capitáns. They would have come across the border together. Now comb your hair and come out when you’re ready.”