Carved from Stone and Dream

by T. Frohock

  Miquel took a deep breath and opened the notebook.

  Night

  les bêtes angéliques

  (angelic beasts)

  16 February 1939

  16

  Folies Divine

  26, rue Pierre-Fontaine

  Paris, France

  It was after midnight. Ysabel stood by the bar and watched the club’s entrance. “Where is he?”

  Juanita nursed a glass of wine and shook her head. “I don’t know. He’s just like his father. Diago will disappear for a good sulk whenever he doesn’t get his way.”

  “But Rafael never misses a night at work. Even if all he does is spend the evening throwing dark looks at me, he comes to the club and stays to closing.” She signaled Bernardo for a drink.

  As big and ugly as a bear, Bernardo reached for a bottle of wine, but Ysa shook her head. She pointed to the whiskey and indicated that she wanted two fingers.

  He frowned and glanced at Juanita, who nodded for him to give Ysa what she wanted. “If she’s old enough to lead, she’s old enough to drink. She has her father’s tastes.”

  “Would she like a cigar, too?” Bernardo quipped but otherwise didn’t contradict the angel.

  Ysa almost said yes, but she feared she’d give the old nefil a heart attack. She couldn’t blame him for being overprotective. In Santuari, Bernardo had served Los Nefilim as the village priest, but when the majority of clergy followed the Nationalists, he found himself hunted.

  Knowing Bernardo’s talents as a compassionate priest easily transferred to bartending, Guillermo suggested that Ysa employ Bernardo in the cabaret when they arrived in Paris. As usual, her father was right.

  Because Papá knows his nefilim’s strengths and how to assign them to jobs they’re good at. Unfortunately, that was a learned skill, one she had yet to acquire.

  Bernardo placed the drink in front of her. “Do you think something has happened to our Rafaelito?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not.” She forced herself to meet his gaze and projected as much confidence as she could. “Suero is looking for him, and if anyone can find him, he will.”

  Bernardo nodded and patted her arm. “I’m sure you’re right. He’ll be fine.”

  When Bernardo moved to serve a mortal customer, Ysa touched the cool glass and lowered her voice. “I should have given him a job, any assignment.”

  Juanita lifted her finger in a warning gesture. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. Rafael is responsible for his own actions. I know you think of him as a sibling, but he’s not a child anymore. Neither are you.

  “You must distance yourself from him, and treat him like the other members of Los Nefilim. All good leaders love their followers, but you cannot become too emotionally attached to them.”

  “You mean the same way that Papá isn’t emotionally attached to Uncle Diago?”

  Juanita exhaled sharply and shook her head. “Your papá . . . made many mistakes in his firstborn life, and his guilt follows him from one incarnation to another, because he will not let go. I’m trying to prevent you from suffering the same fate. Listen . . .”—Juanita twisted on the stool until she and Ysa were face-to-face—“Rafael, like his father, is part daimon, and the daimons are more . . . temperamental than the angel-born. They don’t have our singleness of purpose. The angels know how to work together, and so do our nefilim. The daimons are more independent of one another—they’re moody and base. It’s why we were able to defeat them.”

  Ysa gaped at her mother. While she’d always known that Juanita held on to many of the angels’ prejudices, this was the first time her mother had actually vocalized her biases so bluntly in front of Ysa. It’s like our relationship has moved to a new level. “And you think Uncle Diago is base?”

  “Diago is the exception, not the rule. He fights his daimonic predispositions, keeps them under control, as he should.”

  Ysa killed her drink with one shot. Jesus. She had no idea how to respond to her mother. Did she feel the same way about Rafael? Ysa didn’t ask. She knew the answer, although she didn’t agree. It seemed very unfair to demand that Diago and Rafael deny their heritage simply because their songs were more resonant of the daimons’ shadow worlds.

  Yet she knew her mother would never back down from her stance. Perhaps if she spent more time trying to understand the daimons, she might not find them so different from the angels. Ysa didn’t make the suggestion, though. Not tonight. Not with Rafael acting from the very impulsivity that Juanita derided.

  And not without Papá to back my argument.

  On the club’s stage, the jazz band finished their last number with a flourish and saved Ysa from having to respond.

  A few groups of mortal patrons still occupied the tables, their boozy laughter loud in the sudden quiet.

  “We’ll talk about this more later.” Juanita finished her wine and gestured to Bernardo. “It’s time to close for the night.”

  As Juanita joined Bernardo, Carme’s daughter, Violeta, left the stage and came to the bar.

  A young nefil well into her first incarnation, she wore her sleek black hair clipped short and slicked against her head. With her pants and bolero jacket, she was sometimes mistaken on the street for a man, an occurrence that never ceased to delight her.

  She poured herself a drink. “Rafael still hasn’t shown?”

  Ysa shook her head.

  Violeta downed her drink and glared at the club’s door. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “We’ll find him. We’re the Three Musketeers. Remember? We took the oath.” She raised her glass.

  Ysabel swallowed past the lump in her throat. “We were children.”

  “Some of us still are,” Violeta said with a grin. “But we love him, anyway.” She bumped shoulders with Ysa. “All for one. We’ll find him.”

  Ysa offered her friend a wan smile.

  Bernardo gently urged the mortals still perched on the stools to finish their drinks and settle their tabs. Once he finished at the bar, he proceeded to the tables, and one by one the last of their patrons weaved and bobbed into the night.

  Eva Corvo emerged from the kitchen with an empty tray, followed by her twin, Maria, who carried a bucket. Like Bernardo, Eva and Maria had been with the family’s household since the early twenties. Eva had served as Rafael’s governess, and Maria watched over Ysabel when she was younger. In some ways, she still did.

  Maria busied herself wiping down the scarred tables. “No one has seen Rafael?”

  “Not yet.” Juanita tied an apron over her evening dress. “Suero is looking for him. He’ll call as soon as he knows something. While we’re waiting, the rest of us have work to do. Ysa, it’s time to count the till.”

  “Of course.” Mamá is right. Keeping busy will keep our minds off his absence. She went to the register and opened it. Taking the cash drawer to an empty table, she sat facing the entrance.

  Violeta poured two more drinks and brought them to Ysa’s table. She sat next to Ysa and lit a cigarette, while Ysa busied herself with the sodden francs.

  Eva shot Violeta a nasty glare. An old-school nefil, she didn’t believe in becoming too familiar with either Don Guillermo or his family. “You think yourself high and mighty, Violeta Gebara? What would your mamá say about your behavior?”

  She’s so old-fashioned. Ysa’s love for Eva was all that prevented her from saying so in front of the others. “It’s all right, Eva. We don’t stand on the old formalities here. The world is changing.”

  Eva sniffed. “And not for the better.”

  Unperturbed by Eva’s reproach, Violeta smoked and relaxed. “My mamá was with Don Guillermo in his firstborn life. We are one of the old families.”

  Which made it easier for Ysa to overlook Violeta’s friendliness. “Let’s not argue tonight.” She entreated Eva with her eyes.

  The older nefil shook her head, joining her twin to wipe down the tables.

  Ysa glanced at Violeta. “You were good tonight.”

  “I’m
good every night.” Violeta winked. Opening her silver cigarette case, she offered one to Ysa. “Smoke? They’re American.”

  “Maybe later.” Ysa tallied the numbers in her account book. It amounted to short work tonight. They’d taken in barely enough to cover the liquor. And we need the money. Spain’s war had cost them in both nefilim and finances. While she couldn’t do anything about the loss of life, she could certainly find ways to increase Los Nefilim’s coffers, and she intended to recoup as much money as she could before her father arrived.

  The club’s doors opened. Ysa felt, rather than saw, Violeta stiffen beside her.

  Bernardo, whose back was to the door, called over his shoulder, “We’re closed.”

  “I know,” said Sabine Rousseau, the queen of Les Néphilim. A heavy-bodied woman, she sported a thin scar from her right brow to her chin—a souvenir from the Great War. Like Ysa, she was dressed in the evening clothes she wore when hosting guests at her club, the Bal Tabarin.

  Rousseau’s dress sparkled with sequins and intricate embroidery; the white stole around her neck was definitely mink. Ysa smoothed her palms over her own, less extravagant silk dress, which looked like a gunnysack next to Rousseau’s rich gown.

  Violeta crushed her cigarette in the ashtray and practically jumped away from the table. She might be comfortable sitting with Ysa among the other members of Los Nefilim, but she possessed her mother’s sense of protocol and knew that overfamiliarity might make Ysa seem weak in Rousseau’s eyes.

  That’s what makes her my friend, my Musketeer. Ysa rose more sedately and approached Rousseau.

  Beyond Les Néphilim’s queen, the door opened to a rainy winter’s night and the shiny black car parked at the curb. Merely a block away, and she had her driver bring her. Ysa nursed a mild stab of jealousy. Los Nefilim had commanded such wealth in Spain.

  Biting down on her resentment, she took the other woman’s hand as she’d seen her father do so many times. “Madame Rousseau, you honor us. Please, come and sit. Bernardo, would you bring madame something to drink?”

  Rousseau caught Bernardo’s attention with a graceful motion. “Coffee, if you have it, monsieur.”

  Bernardo bowed his head to her. “I’m afraid that all we have is chicory, madame.”

  Rousseau smiled. “Chicory will do.”

  Bernardo hurried into the kitchen.

  As they walked to the table, Rousseau’s angelic consort, Cyrille, entered the club. Like Violeta, Cyrille’s short red hair was slicked against her skull. She, too, wore a man’s suit.

  Utilizing all three sets of her vocal cords, Juanita greeted Cyrille in the language of angels. Cyrille’s answer was equally respectful and just as melodic. Their songs conjured images of fiery oceans and springtime moons.

  Everyone paused to listen. Even passersby on the street slowed their step to revel in the heavenly tones.

  The angels spoke at some length before they embraced. Then, arm in arm, Juanita led Cyrille to the table.

  As if awakening from a trance, the room burst into movement again. Violeta held Rousseau’s chair for her and then hurried to do the same for Ysa.

  Rousseau took a long moment to admire the club’s décor. “You’ve done well with this place, Mademoiselle Ramírez. Your father will be pleased.”

  “Thank you, madame. We’re hoping he will join us soon.”

  Rousseau lit a cigarette. “Wars are messy. It may well be another month before he can get to France.”

  Ysa smiled and nodded, because that was what Rousseau expected her to do. But why does she say so with such certainty? Does she know something I don’t? Although Juanita didn’t believe Rousseau was involved with Los Nefilim’s missing members, Ysa still wasn’t entirely convinced of Les Néphilim’s innocence. But I’ll never get one as old and wily as Rousseau to slip.

  Bernardo returned from the kitchen with a tray. He placed four cups on the table and poured for the group. “I’m afraid all we have is saccharin and milk.”

  Rousseau waved the apology aside. “When the mortals are done with their useless wars, we’ll indulge with sugar and cream again.”

  Bernardo bowed and left them.

  Rousseau withdrew a flask from her bodice and splashed a shot of liquor into the cup. “That’ll sweeten it.”

  Ysa waited until Rousseau took a sip and then asked, “What may I do for you this evening, madame?”

  “See?” She wagged one finger at Cyrille. “I told you. Guillermo, he spends time chatting, feeling out the other person, but Ysabel—she is straight to business. I like that.”

  Ysa wasn’t sure if Rousseau had just complimented or insulted her. “Forgive me, madame. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s been a very long day.”

  “It has been for me, as well, which is why I appreciate your tendency to dispose with banalities.” Rousseau placed her cup on the table. “To the point, then: I need your help with a somewhat delicate matter.”

  Oh, Rafael. Please don’t let this be about you. “Of course, you know I am ever at your service.”

  “Pierre Loutrel came to see me this evening.”

  Fucking Crazy Pete. Ysabel raised her eyebrows. “Are we remiss in a payment?” She knew damn well they weren’t, and she had the books and receipts to prove it. Or does this have to do with Blondie’s beating?

  Rousseau shook her head. “It seems that one of Loutrel’s men, some punk that goes by the moniker of Blondie, was killed on the metro this morning. Rafael was involved.”

  Ysabel didn’t have to feign her astonishment. Oh, my dark rose, what did you do? “Excuse me? You think Rafael killed Blondie?”

  “We’re not precisely sure what happened. My people are still questioning witnesses, but it seems there was an altercation between Blondie and Rafael on the platform. Rafael jumped to the tracks and Blondie followed him.”

  Juanita frowned. “Then how does Loutrel connect Rafael to Blondie’s death?”

  “It seems Blondie was hit by the train.”

  “I’m quite sorry to hear that,” Ysa responded. She wasn’t, but her platitude sounded reasonably sincere even to her own ears. I’m getting better at this. “Did Rafael push him in front of the train?”

  Cyrille shrugged and inserted a cigarette into a long black holder. “All we know for certain is that they’re still scraping bits of Blondie off the number twelve line.” She lifted the cigarette holder to her lips.

  Violeta stepped forward to light the cigarette for her, trading a frown with Ysa as she did.

  The angel barely noticed their expressions. “Thank you, lovely.” Cyrille took two puffs and then said, “Frankly, no one cares about Blondie. Loutrel is more worried over the loss of face in the matter.”

  Mortals. Male mortals and their wounded masculinity would be the death of her someday. “I don’t understand. How does Loutrel lose face?”

  “One of your people was involved,” Cyrille said through a cloud of blue smoke. “And because it seems like a small-time Algerian has wiped out a Frenchman in Loutrel’s gang, Loutrel is in fits. Mortals.” She sneered the word with the same contempt Ysabel heard royalty use when discussing the nouveau riche.

  “Indeed.” Rousseau sipped her chicory. “My concern, and that of some of my ranking officers, is that Rafael might have given in to his daimonic nature and sang Blondie onto the tracks, thereby facilitating the mortal’s death.”

  Ysa’s blood turned to ice. “Rafael would never do such a thing.” She gestured to Violeta, because she definitely needed that cigarette now. Her friend didn’t disappoint her. She stepped forward and snapped the case open. Ysa retrieved a slim cigarette, proud that her hands didn’t tremble as she allowed Violeta to light it for her. “Rafael is far too conscious of the ramifications of such an act, especially given his heritage. Have your people check with witnesses, but I’ll stake my reputation on the fact that Rafael did not sing Blondie onto those tracks.”

  Rousseau accepted Ysabel’s defense with a nod. “I hope you’re right; however,
his lineage complicates matters. I have a detective on the mortals’ police force. He is looking into the incident for us.” She placed her cup on the saucer with a slow, deliberate movement. “Understand me, Ysabel, I have a great deal of respect for your father.”

  But not for me. Though Rousseau didn’t say it, the point was clear. Nor did Ysa expect Rousseau to give her deference based on bloodlines. Like Rafael, my youth works against me.

  Rousseau added another dollop of liquor to her chicory. “I also have people within my own ranks who are looking for any excuse to push the Spanish nefilim out of France. Unfortunately, we are now experiencing the same political . . . upheaval . . . your father suffered in Spain. These officers of ours feel you are interlopers, who are intent on taking France and merging Les Néphilim with Los Nefilim. I’m telling you this not to frighten you, but to make you aware of the vulnerability we both face.”

  “I understand.” Frightened nonetheless, Ysa reconsidered the untouched shot on the table. She casually poured the liquor into her own cup. Taking a sip from the liquid courage, she hazarded into territory she’d hoped to leave for her father. “My own nefilim are fractured and frustrated, as well. We’ve had reports today that some of the incoming refugees have disappeared after reaching the French border.”

  Rousseau raised an eyebrow. “And you think members of Les Néphilim have something to do with it?”

  “We don’t know who is involved. It could be mortals, and since you’ve asked us to follow French law, I have been hesitant to intercede.”

  “I see.” She clearly wasn’t pleased, nor did she immediately discount Ysa’s concerns. “I will look into that on your behalf.”

  Heartened by the response, Ysa allowed herself to trust the older woman. “Thank you, madame. Meanwhile, I can assure you Rafael often used the metro in Barcelona to flee from pursuit, especially when outnumbered. He’s small and quick and has an innate feel for the tunnels.” And suddenly, now that he’s gone, I’m beginning to see his strengths. “He probably didn’t expect Blondie to follow. It sounds to me like the mortal was too slow.”