Carved from Stone and Dream

by T. Frohock

  “Miquel.” He whispered his father’s name before he bit his lip. I’ve blinked three times now and it’s like I’m driving spikes into his heart, because he’s as helpless as I am. But . . . but I cannot stop. He held his breath, craving a miracle.

  None came. All Miquel had was words, and even they sounded weak beneath the nefilim’s constant chants. “You’ve learned nothing, have you, Samyaza? You and your kin were like parasites, coupling with mortals and taking their minds. You turned them into slaves.” His voice broke on the last word. “For those sins, the Thrones damned you. They tore off your wings so you could never again ascend to the heavenly realms. They banned you from drinking the healing flames from the river of fire. And to silence your song, they covered your mouths with stones. Do you think they’ll turn a blind eye to your games with the nefilim?”

  “It doesn’t matter what the Thrones do.” Samyaza reached Rafael in two strides. “It’ll be too late for this one.” His claws snatched a handful of Rafael’s hair. He pulled his head backward until Rafael thought his neck would snap.

  The Grigori lifted a vicious-looking syringe filled with cloudy liquid, holding it high enough for Rafael to see. “Where do we give it to him, Miquel? In his throat?”

  The needle dipped out of sight. Something cold touched Rafael’s neck. His pulse filled his head.

  “Stop.” Miquel took a step forward before his guards grabbed his arms.

  “No?” The needle moved again until Rafael felt the tip resting on the soft flesh beneath his eye. “Or his eye . . . such dark-lashed eyes.”

  Rafael choked back a sob. His terror froze his brain and stole his will.

  “Stop!” Miquel’s calm assurance was gone. He bucked against his captors’ grip, but his guards held him back. “Jordi Abelló, if you’re a party to this, then you can forget ever seeing the king’s signet on your finger again.”

  Jordi shook his head. “No, Miquel, this is on you. Give me a promise to break the sigils in that notebook. Do it and I swear I’ll keep Rafael from the pit. I’ll see to it that he reaches maturity.”

  Rafael closed his eyes. Miquel will say no. He has to say no, and then Samyaza will drive that drug into my body . . . unless . . . He opened his eyes again. Unless I jam the needle into my brain first. Suicide was his only option. He wondered if he would die before the drug took effect. Before the Grigori can take over my body.

  He couldn’t get his breathing under control. On three. Do it on three, don’t think, just do it. He had to ram his face down hard. When he tensed, he glimpsed Miquel again. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Papá . . .

  “Okay.” Miquel sagged in his captors’ hands. “Okay. I’ll do it, but I need your word, Jordi.”

  As if sensing Rafael’s suicidal thoughts, Samyaza jerked the needle away, but he didn’t relinquish his grip on Rafael’s hair.

  In spite of himself, Rafael retched a sound that rang somewhere between relief and sorrow. Too late. I’m too late again. Miquel never gave up, he never relented . . . until now. I caused him to fail.

  He was strong until me.

  Jordi’s grip tightened, as if he expected Miquel to renege on his offer. “I swear to you Rafael Diaz will live at my side. And if you successfully decipher that notebook, I’ll see to it that he reaches maturity.”

  Miquel looked down in defeat. “You have a deal.”

  “Let the boy go,” Jordi said to Samyaza, who obeyed him. “Now I need an oath from you, Rafael.”

  He shook his head. What will Papá think of me? That I betrayed his husband to save my life. Worse, what will the other nefilim think of Papá? They’ll say he raised me to be a traitor.

  “Do it, osito,” Miquel said.

  Rafael forced himself to meet his father’s gaze. “I can’t.”

  Miquel didn’t relent. “You can. You must.”

  And here was Rafael’s nightmare come true. It was a prophecy. But can I change it?

  Miquel held his gaze. Speaking in Caló, he said, “Come on, now. We’ve been through worse than this. Keep your head.”

  “Castilian, Miquel.” But Jordi’s command held no teeth.

  “Find the elevator to the surface. That’s your way out.”

  “Castilian, Miquel.” Jordi nodded at the guards.

  Cabello drove his fist into Miquel’s stomach.

  Miquel wheezed around the words, but he continued in Caló. “You’ve got to warn Los Nefilim about what’s going on here. Now humor him and leave the rest for me. Find the elevator to the surface. That’s your way out.”

  He’s got a plan. Rafael gaped at him, astounded by his father’s ability to think under pressure. But if I go, will I be able to bring Los Nefilim back in time to save him?

  “Last time, Miquel. Speak Castilian.” Another gesture from Jordi sent Cabello’s fist into Miquel’s jaw.

  Miquel spat a mouthful of blood to the cavern floor. When he spoke again, it was in Castilian. “Trust me, Rafael. You said you trusted me. Prove it. Do as I say.”

  “I will.” Anything to make them stop hitting him. They had a miracle; a small, frail thread of hope. Nurture it and make it strong. “I promise.”

  Jordi released Rafael and forced him to turn. He held out his hand. The Grigori’s tear throbbed and pulsed in the signet’s setting. “Submit yourself to me, Rafael, and I will honor my word. I will even free Miquel once he translates the notebook.”

  Rafael licked his lips. He didn’t believe that. All his promises are barbed with lies. Revulsion twisted in his gut.

  Jordi held out his hand. “Swear you will submit yourself to me.”

  “Do it,” Miquel whispered in Castilian.

  “I swear . . .” Rafael hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. What do I say?

  Jordi encouraged him with a smile. “Repeat after me: I, Rafael Diaz, do hereby pledge my body and magic to you, Generalissimo Jordi Abelló, a true king of the angel-born nefilim’s Inner Guard. I swear to uphold your laws and remain faithful to you and the angel-born nefilim in this life, and in all my lives to come.”

  No. That wasn’t what he intended to say. Remember your lessons. Papá taught him that oaths were sacred and that he should be careful never to say what he didn’t mean.

  He met Jordi’s gaze and said, “I, Rafael Diaz, swear to submit myself to you, Jordi Abelló, in exchange for the life of my father, Miquel de Torrellas. If you forswear your part of this bargain, I will hunt you in this life, and in all my lives to come.”

  The nimbus of Jordi’s aura pulsed around his body as he considered Rafael’s oath. A slow smile spread across his lips. “I will accept that oath, Rafael Diaz. Come.” He held out his hand. “Kneel and kiss the ring.”

  Wincing with his revulsion, Rafael went to one knee. He barely brushed his lips across the stone. As he did, he saw heavy flakes of black snow . . .

  . . . not snow, but ashes . . .

  . . . drifting over a street, coating the pedestrians with soot . . .

  . . . the dead are falling from the sky . . .

  . . . where chimneys glowed red against the dark, and the trains kept rolling, rolling, rolling all night long . . .

  Rafael gasped and jerked back so fast he sat hard. His teeth clicked together painfully and he tasted blood. What the hell did I just see? A vision of what’s to come? He didn’t dare ask. He was afraid of what the answer might be.

  Jordi, for his part, merely smiled. Something gray slithered across the iris of his left eye, dimming the fire of his gaze, and then it was gone.

  A trick of the light? Rafael had no idea.

  Suddenly Samyaza’s body was between him and Jordi. The Grigori touched the cuffs. The sigils chaining Rafael’s wrists fell away, leaving angry raw circles of chewed flesh.

  But I’m free to move unhindered. He got to his feet and walked to Jordi’s side. The taller nefil clamped his hand on the back of Rafael’s neck before he turned to Cabello. “Take Miquel to the interrogation room. Give him whatever he needs. I expect those sigils to b
e broken within twenty-four hours.” He shifted his attention to Miquel. “Keep your end of the bargain, and maybe one day you’ll see him again.”

  Rafael met Miquel’s gaze. “I will watch for you.”

  “And I for you.” His father smiled grimly. “Now go. Don’t look back.”

  Jordi shoved him toward the stairs. Rafael blinked hard to keep the tears from spilling over his cheeks. He loathed the relief flowing through him. I’m a coward. I don’t deserve to call myself his son.

  The walk back to the interrogation rooms took less time than going down. At the top of the stairs, Jordi shut the door. “Face the wall.”

  Is he going to shoot me, after all? It wouldn’t surprise him. They extracted information from the nefilim and then gave them to the Grigori in the pit. It wasn’t that Rafael didn’t expect to be betrayed; he just didn’t anticipate it happening so soon.

  After the horror he’d seen below, the thought of a quick death actually relieved him. Still, he hesitated. Why make it easy for him?

  The back of Jordi’s hand caught the corner of Rafael’s mouth. The signet tore into his lip. His head rocked back and struck the wall. Shadows clouded his vision.

  Jordi’s voice reached through the darkness. “You swore to submit yourself to me. Now face the wall.”

  Swallowing the blood in his mouth, Rafael obeyed him.

  “What did Miquel say to you?”

  “He said I was to tell Papá that he died honorably and to give him his love. That is all. He was saying goodbye.” Rafael’s voice caught on the last word. The first part might have been a lie, but the second part was true. He was saying goodbye.

  Jordi remained silent for close to a minute. The seconds ticked by painfully slow. “Two steps behind me at all times. Do you understand?”

  Rafael nodded.

  Another punch, this time to his kidney. Rafael cried out and twisted. Jordi grabbed his shoulders and jerked him upright. “Your father coddled you to uselessness.”

  Rafael gritted his teeth against the pain. If by coddling Jordi meant that his fathers never raised their hands to him, then yes, they coddled him. But neither parent hid him from the ugliness of the world.

  Jordi’s breath drifted over the back of Rafael’s neck. “But that’s okay. I’m going to teach you. The first lesson: You don’t nod or shake your head to me. You speak, and when you do, you speak to me with respect.”

  Rafael glared at the wall. “Yes, Señor General.”

  “Very good. How many steps behind?”

  “Two, Señor General.”

  “Fuck up again, and I’ll send Miquel straight to the pit.” Jordi whirled and started down the corridor.

  Rafael knuckled his anger under control and hurried to catch up. Falling exactly two paces behind Jordi, he considered his options. Miquel wanted him to flee and tell Los Nefilim about Jordi’s black site. Except Rafael had no intention of leaving his father behind.

  With his oath to Jordi, he should have some freedom of movement. I don’t need a lot. Just enough to find that elevator and plan a way to break out Miquel.

  He didn’t have a gun, or even a good idea of the compound’s layout. But I’ve got twenty-four hours. It would have to be enough.

  15

  Miquel turned his head to watch Rafael climb the stairs. It’s all right, osito. You won’t have to submit yourself for long. If his plan worked, Rafael would be free of his oath by dawn, and their souls well on their way to a new incarnation. Diago would have to understand. Forgive me, my bright star, but this is the only way.

  When the door at the top of the stairs shut, Miquel turned his attention to the pit. He saw his milicianos—the men and women who’d fought by his side. They followed me. Even when I led them surely into death, they kept their faith and followed me.

  And now I’ve murdered them with their allegiance.

  He named their names, said them aloud, and suddenly he understood why Héctor . . . Héctor-something from Málaga, relentlessly packing and repacking his suitcase, suffering from la arentitis, but somehow never giving up the hope he’d be reunited with his family . . . said the names of his wife and daughters over and over in that hovel on Argelès-sur-Mer. Names held power. Say their names and he made them more than shadows. “Vicente, Alejandra, Juan, Luciana, Remedios, Indalecio, Gaspar . . .”

  Yet no matter how loudly he called them, he couldn’t bring them back from the dead. All he could do was bury them in his heart. But I will not forget you. I will not let Los Nefilim forget you.

  It tore him apart that he couldn’t say he’d watch for them.

  Samyaza followed his gaze and grinned. “You can’t save them. They’re already dead. They just don’t know it yet. Like you.”

  And you. Miquel smiled at the Grigori.

  The angel clicked his claws together in slow ticks, apparently unnerved by Miquel’s smile.

  How about that? I made him blink.

  Finding his balance again, the Grigori stepped forward. “You must understand, the Messengers have beguiled you with their propaganda. They’ve enticed Los Nefilim into a military rebellion against the Thrones. You’re about to find out what it means to be on the losing side of those lies.”

  Miquel shook his head. “You’re twisting the truth. This isn’t the first time the angels have warred. We’ll put this rebellion down, too.”

  Samyaza’s gaze traveled from Miquel’s face to his bound arms and back again. “Forgive me if I doubt your boast.”

  Warmth flushed Miquel’s cheeks, but he didn’t retort. Let him have his little jab. It’ll damn well be his last.

  Retrieving his portrait mask, Samyaza brushed the dust off the tin and tied it back into place. “Or you can change sides. Like your son. You’ll be able to watch over him. Keep him safe from Jordi.”

  Miquel pretended he believed Jordi would keep his oath. “Jordi said he’ll reach maturity.”

  “Do you believe that?” Samyaza laughed. “Fool. Jordi will make that boy pay for his father’s sins, and to Jordi, Diago’s crimes are legion.”

  And now for the biggest bluff of all. Miquel shrugged, as if Rafael’s fate were no matter for him. “I have twenty-four hours to decipher that notebook, Samyaza, and you’re taking my time.”

  Samyaza turned back to the pit. “Give him whatever he needs.”

  Miquel turned toward the stairs. The pain in his chest flared, an ugly reminder of his own mortality, but he didn’t resist either the discomfort or Cabello’s hand.

  Let them believe they’re in control. From this point forward, subterfuge was his only weapon—that and his rage. The fury was all that kept him on his feet, because the Pervitin was wearing off. Exhaustion crept into his muscles and then his bones.

  I need those pills, but will they give them to me? He wouldn’t know until he asked.

  When they returned to the interrogation cells, Cabello guided him to a different room. In this one, a straw pallet was on the floor beside a D-ring, which was embedded in the cement. The short chain led to a cuff. Carme’s notebook rested on the pallet.

  They knew I’d say yes in order to protect Rafael. But did they guess the rest? Could they?

  Only one way to find out.

  Cabello pressured Miquel to the floor. “On your knees.”

  He obeyed the guard. Cabello latched the cuff attached to the short chain to Miquel’s right wrist before he removed the other restraints.

  Bound this way, he could still form sigils, but he wouldn’t have the range of motion necessary for an attack. “I need paper and a pencil.”

  Cabello turned to Losa. “You heard him. The generalissimo said to give him whatever he needed.”

  “Are you okay alone?”

  Cabello waved him off.

  When Losa left, Miquel said, “I haven’t slept for a long time. Do you have any Pervitin?”

  Cabello hedged. “I don’t know if we should give you that.”

  “Samyaza gave me two to bring me around earlier. The generalis
simo said to give me whatever I need. If you want me to stay awake, I need the Pervitin.”

  Cabello sighed and tapped eight pills onto his palm. “That’s all you’re getting. It’s not the same as the shots, so if you’re thinking of taking them all at once and re-creating your upstairs performance, you’ll be sadly disappointed . . . and dead.”

  Miquel put the pills on the floor, just under the lip of the pallet.

  Losa returned. “Mora wants you upstairs. Go ahead, I’ve got it here.”

  Cabello nodded and left the cell.

  Losa tossed the pencil and paper to the mattress. “Anything else?”

  “Pervitin. I haven’t slept in days, and I’ll need all my faculties to get past Carme’s sigils.”

  Losa didn’t question him. He found his bottle and tossed it at Miquel. “You’ve got twelve in there.”

  Miquel caught the container. He waited until Losa left the cell and snapped the bolt into place. When the guard’s shadow moved away from the threshold, he slipped the bottle into his pocket.

  Cabello’s eight with Losa’s twelve gave him twenty, but he didn’t put them together. Instead, he took four of the pills he’d hidden beneath the pallet and left the other four within easy reach.

  Within minutes, the stabbing pain in his chest momentarily took his breath. His heart rate kicked higher. Four might have been too many. Too late now. He turned his attention to the items before him.

  Sigils writhed across the cover of Carme’s notebook, and he had no doubt more were embedded within. He also knew Carme. She had two or three favorites. One was the ward killing Feran. The other worked like an explosive. The unfortunate party who tripped that particular glyph set off a chain reaction that caused the notebook to explode with the intensity of a bomb.

  And that’s just what I need. Because once he found that ward, he could design a second one to amplify it, and with the Pervitin, he intended to bury Samyaza, his fucking Grigori, and Jordi’s whole operation.

  If the Grigori in the pit managed to catch his and Rafael’s souls before they fled the mortal realm, then they would die the second death here. But that was a chance he had to take. The Grigori couldn’t be allowed to escape. “Forgive me, my Diago. Please forgive me.”