by T. Frohock
“Three, we’re supposed to go to level three.”
“Right.” Guillermo reached the confused doctor in two quick steps and shoved him back inside the office. “But first we have a few questions.”
The shocked nefil knocked Guillermo’s hand off his shoulder. “You do what you’re told, soldier. Now go to Choral Room Two and get that body down. The rest of the crew will be here any minute for cleanup.”
Diago’s heart skipped. A crew. Taking out the doctor was one thing. A crew was another matter entirely.
He followed Guillermo into the office and shut the door. “We can’t take long.”
The German reached under his lab coat, fingers scrambling for the holster at his hip. He opened his mouth to shout for help.
Guillermo’s fist shot out and caught the German on the side of his face. The man went down.
Diago disarmed him and stood back.
The doctor didn’t move.
“I think you hit him too hard,” Diago whispered.
Guillermo reached down and jerked the nefil upright. The German’s eyes rolled backward until only the whites showed beneath his parted lids. An ugly bruise spread across the side of his head.
“What’s wrong with him?” Guillermo asked.
Christ, he really doesn’t know his own strength. “I’m guessing a concussion.”
Outside, someone shouted so he’d be heard over the alarms. “I’ll ask Dr. Bormann.”
“That’s too bad.” Guillermo snapped the German’s neck. “Dr. Bormann isn’t available.”
The dark sound of the doctor’s soul flickered and was gone.
Diago frowned. “Something very unnatural is happening here.” He quickly explained the bizarre way the dark sounds were disappearing. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Guillermo dragged the body behind the desk and muttered, “We’ll get answers.”
Someone knocked on the door.
Diago tucked the doctor’s pistol under some files and tapped his sleeve to indicate his rank. A doctor might not distinguish between a private and a sergeant major, but a soldier would.
Guillermo motioned that he understood. He went to the door and opened it, stepping into the hall. Diago locked the door and pulled it shut. Together, they faced six young Germans.
Guillermo took the lead. “Dr. Bormann isn’t feeling well.” He tapped his temple. “Headache from all these damned alarms.”
One of the youths smirked. Guillermo glared the sneer off the boy’s face and began giving orders. “You”—he pointed to the two biggest youths—“take down the body. The rest of you get to work on neutralizing those sigils. Did anyone bring bleach?”
One enterprising youth snapped his heels together and lifted a bucket filled with rags and cleaning supplies. “Yes, sir!”
“Good. Take it to the walls and clean up that blood. We’ve got orders to have that choral room functioning again as soon as possible. Which one of you is the electrician?”
They looked at one another in confusion and then back to Guillermo. The shortest one said, “None of us are, sir.”
“Well, goddamn. Didn’t I ask for an electrician, Martinez?”
Diago played his role. “You did, sir.”
Guillermo’s cheeks reddened. “Mother of Jesus. I have to do everything myself.” He whirled and took three steps before he roared over his shoulder, “Move it, soldiers!”
Diago tilted his head toward the choral room. The soldiers took the hint and scrambled down the hall, eager to flee Guillermo’s wrath.
Guillermo slowed his stride and gave Diago a chance to catch up. “Do you think I overplayed it?”
“No, you were perfect.”
“Really?”
“A perfect asshole.”
“Coming from the master, that’s quite the compliment.”
They fell silent as they rounded the corner and entered the next corridor. The short hallway reached a dead end.
It’s like a warren. Gesturing to Guillermo, Diago signaled that they should keep moving. The big nefil didn’t argue.
The next ramp they found led upward. Without hesitating, Guillermo took it. The sound of approaching footsteps sent them into another deserted section.
Three doors lined one side of the hall.
“Shit,” Guillermo muttered.
Diago noted the metal plates on each door. One of them bore the name of Lieutenant Benito Espina.
He nudged Guillermo and pointed. “We may not need to go to the next level.”
Guillermo followed his gaze. “Oh goddamn. This is too good to be true.” He went to the office and examined the latch, checking it for sigils. Finding none, he picked the lock and opened the door.
13
Rafael sat on the hard chair, desperately trying to curb the tremors shuddering through his body. Ribbons of dried blood caked his wrists and splashed his forearms. His fingers tingled with the numbness of damaged nerves. But that could have been caused by Carlos, who’d slammed Rafael’s arms onto the metal desk and held him while Cabello’s hard hands violated every secret place of Rafael’s body.
Fuck them. Fuck both of them. He clenched his jaw and glared at Carlos, who sat behind the desk. I didn’t scream. It was a point of pride that he’d made it through the search without crying out. Stop thinking about it.
Unable to remove the jacket and shirt because of the cuffs, Cabello had simply cut them off. They’d left Rafael his undershirt and pants, but Cabello disappeared with the rest of his clothes, including his shoes.
Still, the room wasn’t cold. I shouldn’t be shaking. Concentrating on his breathing, he inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly until he managed to regain control over his body. Get calm. That’s the first step.
Carlos lit another cigarette and dropped his match to the floor. The room was blue with smoke. It was worse than a cabaret on a Saturday night.
Rafael’s cheek itched horribly as his flesh tried to heal around the Grigori’s deep scratch. He recalled his papá’s illness when an ’aulaq bit off his finger. The vampire’s toxic bite had nearly killed Papá.
And Juanita said only an old nefil such as Papá could survive so much poison. But angels’ claws didn’t carry the same venom as a vampire’s bite. Thus far, the swelling on his cheek turned his words lopsided, and he had to be careful not to slur; otherwise, he seemed okay. Even the tremors were beginning to subside.
Carlos watched him through slitted eyes. “They say a nefil’s transition from their firstborn life into their second incarnation is the most dangerous. Did you know that?”
He’s trying to spook me, keep me on edge.
And it was working.
Fear curdled in his stomach and left a pain as sharp as hunger. Stop it. He had to quit letting Carlos scare him. Papá deals with the here and now.
Rafael suddenly understood why. If he dealt with the problem before him, he didn’t give his fear the power to debilitate him. What is it Miquel always says? Don’t blink. Don’t let them see you scared or they’ll keep using your fear against you.
Keeping his voice low, Rafael met Carlos’s gaze. “I’m not dead.”
“Yet.” Carlos puffed and grinned through the smoke. “If Samyaza has his way, you won’t get any further than the second death.”
The death from which no nefil can reincarnate. Rafael touched the angel’s tear in his ring. Although the nefilim usually reincarnated, their souls could die. The lonely sounds heard in abandoned places were said to belong to nefilim too weak to be reborn. Others were murdered, their songs unraveled by angels. Even his angelic mother, a high-ranking Messenger, had been given the second death by her kin. And what is a Grigori but an angel?
“Who is Samyaza?”
“The Grigori. We only call him Sam when he goes among the mortals.”
Rafael’s heart thumped faster in his chest. This is bad. Really bad. He caught his runaway thoughts before they could scatter his wits. Think, damn it. The angels created the Inner Guard to prote
ct mortals from the fallen as well as the daimons. Miquel would remind Carlos of his duty.
Rafael summoned the righteous tone he’d often heard his father use when confronted with another nefil’s misdeeds. “If you think the Thrones will look kindly on this transgression, you are sadly mistaken. They’ll punish Jordi and all who follow him.”
Carlos actually paled.
I’ve made him afraid. Rafael didn’t believe Carlos would change his allegiances, but he took courage from the fact that he’d made the older nefil blink. This is why Papá says knowledge is power.
Carlos’s fingers trembled slightly before he plucked the cigarette from his lips with forefinger and thumb. “You’re the criminal now. That’s what happens in wars, whether they’re just or unjust. Winner declares the laws. You’ll be questioned and tried. If you’re lucky, the generalissimo will have you shot. A quick death is the kindest mercy one nefil can give to another. Otherwise, he’ll turn you over to the Grigori, and you’ll go to the pit. And if you think those hurt”—Carlos pointed at the sigils binding Rafael’s wrists—“you wait until Samyaza chains your song.”
Against his will, Rafael looked down at his bound hands. The shards of black ice widened and throbbed with more power each time his blood touched them. They left him feeling filthy.
To imagine the Grigori with that kind of control over his song sickened him. But he couldn’t stop them. He was helpless here. No one in France knew where he’d gone, much less how to find him. Panic infiltrated his newfound confidence.
A slow smile spread over Carlos’s mouth.
Shit. I blinked and he knows it. He had no threats to use against Carlos. Rafael touched his ring. Except maybe the future.
Rafael met the other nefil’s smile with a glare. “Those tables turn, too, faster than the Thrones will notice. And the nefilim’s memories are long; it is our blessing. It will be your curse.”
Carlos’s smile froze and then hardened. Rafael counted the blink as a victory, but he didn’t let it inflate his ego. Prevailing in a skirmish wasn’t the same as winning the battle, or even the war. I’ve got to find some way to gain his trust.
He thought back to Carlos’s flush of shame as he accepted the medication from Juanita. “Help me understand why you hate us.”
Carlos shrugged. “It’s not about hate. It’s about watching out for me and where my interests lie. I’m casting my lot with the winning side. You might want to consider thinking the same way.”
“We watch out for each other in Los Nefilim—that is our way.”
“That’s Miquel’s way, and it’s dying.”
“No . . .”
Carlos slapped the desk with his palm. “Do you see him here? Or Ysa, or Juanita? Where are they? They’ll abandon one nefil for the common good. That’s not watching each other’s backs.” He relaxed in his seat and spread his hands. “They’re not coming for you. You’re alone.”
A loud crash startled them. The light bulb flickered and swung from its cord as if someone had dropped something heavy on the floor overhead. A hairline crack zigzagged from one corner of the ceiling to another.
“What the hell is going on up there?” Carlos extinguished his cigarette and rose.
The door opened.
“Generalissimo!” Carlos snapped a hasty salute.
A bolt of fear shot through Rafael’s chest. He kept his gaze locked on the wall behind Carlos. His papá warned him the day would come when his only weapons would be his cunning and his tongue. Carlos had merely been the warm-up act. The real test of his skills was finally here.
“Get out, Carlos.” Jordi sounded perfectly at ease. That meant whatever was going on upstairs must be under his control.
Carlos saluted again and then gave Rafael a nod as he passed. Rafael heard the lock click into place. Clasping his hands in his lap, he waited. His papá rarely spoke of his association with Don Guillermo’s brother, which left Rafael at a disadvantage. I’ve got nothing on him.
Jordi didn’t move for several moments. The silence stretched long between them. Finally, he asked, “How is your father?”
The question was soft, melodious, and Rafael immediately thought of Don Guillermo’s voice. But he’s not Don Guillermo.
He looked down at his white knuckles. Consciously, he forced his hands as far apart as the cuffs allowed. His tongue felt loose, ready to wag in an effort to delay any pain. Unsure how to respond, he remained silent and waited.
An edge seeped into Jordi’s tone. “I expect an answer.”
Why doesn’t he move where I can see him? “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know how your father is?”
“I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen or heard from him since April last year.” Not entirely the truth, not entirely a lie.
“The war has caused many causalities.” Jordi’s perfectly manicured fingers slid onto Rafael’s shoulder.
Rafael started at the sudden touch.
The signet with the Grigori’s malignant tear winked into view. “I hope he isn’t one.” Jordi tightened his grip. “It is my wish”—he leaned close to whisper in Rafael’s ear—“that he lives to see his son again.”
The scent of the nefil’s strong aftershave filled Rafael’s nose and mouth. He remained still.
Jordi’s fingers released their hold as he circled to perch on the edge of the desk, forcing Rafael to look up at him.
He’s trying to intimidate me. It was working. Rafael tilted his head and met Jordi’s gaze.
The older nefil’s eyes were light brown and flecked with gold. Centuries of knowledge burned in those bright irises. It was like looking into the countenance of a hungry dragon.
Where Don Guillermo was freckled and worn by the wind, Jordi’s unblemished skin was the color of cream. While his nose was less prominent than Guillermo’s, his cheekbones were more pronounced, giving his features a rapacious cast. His aura sparked around him in a savage nimbus of orange and red, quelled at times by deep golden hues.
In contrast to Don Guillermo’s coarser features, Jordi possessed both the refinement and grace that his brother lacked. Don Guillermo looked like a soldier, Jordi a king.
“Has your father frightened you with stories about me?”
“No. He rarely speaks of you at all.”
“Interesting.” Jordi didn’t seem offended by his lack of popularity. “Maybe he feels guilty.”
“About what?”
“His lies.” Jordi lit a cigarette. “Do you lie like him?”
Only when it suits me. “No.”
Jordi’s palm struck Rafael’s face. It happened so fast he never saw the blow coming. His head rocked and his cheek stung more from humiliation than from pain.
Jordi continued smoking as if nothing had happened. “You address me as Señor General. Do you understand?”
Rafael licked the blood from his lips. “Yes, Señor General.”
Jordi nodded. “How old are you now, Rafael?”
“Fourteen, Señor General.”
Jordi pursed his lips thoughtfully and in doing so he resembled Don Guillermo in one of his reflective moments. “Fourteen, that’s a hard age. You’re still a boy, but you’re trying to be a man.”
He’s trying to establish a bond with me. Rafael wasn’t sure how to play the moment, so he did as his father often counseled him to do: when in doubt, wait for a clear direction to emerge and then move accordingly.
“Do you love your parents?”
He’s talking to me like I’m four, not fourteen. Rather than risk another slap, he kept up the game. “Of course, I do . . . Señor General.”
“Even when they’re wrong?”
“They’re not wrong.”
Jordi lifted his hand.
Rafael hated himself for flinching. “Señor General,” he blurted, and relaxed along with Jordi.
Jordi gave him a parental smile that didn’t touch the rage burning deep within his irises. “Perhaps, misguided is a better word. My own father was be
guiled into passing my birthright to Solomon in our firstborn lives. Did you know that?”
Rafael considered his answer. If he said yes, then he validated Jordi’s position. But according to Don Guillermo, their father wasn’t fooled into naming Solomon as his successor. King David had known Adonijah would abuse his power over the nefilim, so he’d skipped over his firstborn son and bequeathed the signet to his last son, Solomon, who in this incarnation became Guillermo.
“It’s not a rhetorical question, Rafael.” Jordi glowered at him.
And what will the wrong answer provoke? Another slap? Or something worse? It was time to be careful. Measure every word. “I’ve heard the stories.” He waited two beats and then added, “Señor General.”
To his relief, Jordi seemed satisfied with the answer. “Diago was called Asaph in his firstborn life. You knew this?”
Rafael nodded.
“And Miquel was called Benaiah in those days.”
Another nod. “And Don Guillermo was called Solomon and you were his brother, Adonijah.” The carmine angel’s tear in Rafael’s ring caught the light and flashed like a warning. “Señor General.”
Jordi seemed pleased. “Very good. You are the little historian, aren’t you?”
The patronizing tone rankled Rafael. Rebellion seized his tongue and he forgot himself. “You died hugging the altar, begging for your life, Señor General.”
Jordi’s right eye twitched and a muscle jumped along his jawline.
Shit. Went too far. Rafael held his breath, waiting for another slap. None came.
Nonetheless, Jordi’s tone carried a hint of restrained violence, and Rafael heeded it. “But Adonijah is dead, as your father likes to say.” He took a slow, deliberate drag from his cigarette and observed Rafael through the haze.
He’s reevaluating me. The game is about to change. Careful not to twitch, Rafael held the old nefil’s stare.
“Do you know why the other nefilim don’t trust your father?”
“Because he is half daimon—”
“Because he betrayed Solomon and Benaiah. He stole the signet from Solomon, and he gave it to the king of daimons, Ashmedai.” Jordi crushed the cigarette against the corner of the desk. Sparks melded with his aura as they descended to the floor. “When Asaph’s deeds were discovered, Solomon had him imprisoned, and Benaiah turned his back on Asaph. Benaiah left him to die. Alone. So much for their true love.”
