by T. Frohock
Rousseau nodded. “I believe you. My detective’s investigation is merely a formality to clear Rafael’s name among my own nefilim. Loutrel, on the other hand, presents another problem for us. He suffers from the misperception that Rafael successfully conducted a hit on Blondie. No matter how indirect you and I understand that hit to be, it makes Loutrel appear weak.”
“That sounds like a mortal problem to me.”
“Yes, but we want to keep the mortals happy.”
Because if they grew unhappy and discovered the nefilim’s supernatural nature, they might turn on us as they did throughout the Middle Ages and during the Inquisition. Only now we’d be studied like insects under a microscope. Ysabel didn’t need those basic facts explained to her, and she was gratified that Rousseau didn’t instruct her like she was a child.
Ysabel took a sip of her drink, allowing the heat of the liquor to flow through her chest before she asked, “What can I do to make this right, madame?”
“Loutrel wants a bigger cut from your take.”
Fucker. “How much?”
“Twenty-five percent.”
Fuck, fuck, fucker. “For how long?”
“A year.”
“Blondie couldn’t possibly be worth that much. Six months.”
“I didn’t come to barter with you, Ysabel. If you truly want to make this right, twenty-five percent for a year.”
Ysabel glanced at her mother.
Mouth tight with her own anger, Juanita nodded.
Shit and bitter shit. Ysa sighed and lifted the cloth from the cash drawer. Counting out Loutrel’s extra take, she covered the till again so Rousseau wouldn’t see the bare drawer. “My apologies for your trouble, madame.”
Cyrille scanned the room. “And where is Rafael?”
“We don’t know. Suero has been looking for him all evening. It’s not like him to disappear.” Her voice caught and she covered the lapse with a sip of her tepid, bitter chicory. Not even the liquor took the edge from her apprehension. Her hand trembled as she eased the cup back to its saucer. “He never misses work. Never.”
Juanita covered her hand with a reassuring touch. “I’m sure it’s nothing. He’s fourteen and struggling to find his place in the world.”
“Our firstborn lives are the hardest.” Rousseau pushed the stack of cash back toward Ysa. “Keep your money. I’ll cover the amount this week. Next week, you pay.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t. I offered.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Thank you, would be a good start.”
“Thank you.”
The club door opened. Bernardo looked up from his place at the bar, but he didn’t admonish the newcomer. It was Suero. He was filthy, covered from head to foot with the black soot from the metro.
Ysa stood, pushing her chair backward so fast, it tilted over. “Did you find him?”
Suero bowed his head to Rousseau and Cyrille. “Madame Rousseau, Madame Cyrille. Forgive me for interrupting.” He placed a soiled yellow scarf on the table.
Ysabel would have known it anywhere. It was Rafael’s.
Suero wasted no words. “You need to come, Doña Ysabel.” His gaze swept over the others. “All of you must see this.”
Ysa picked up the scarf and held it to her lips. It still smelled of Rafael. Where are you, my dark rose?
Violeta came forward and stood by Ysa’s side. Even Eva and Maria, who in their respect for the nefilim’s royalty would never encroach on a private conversation between two queens, drew close to the table. Eva looked as if she wanted to snatch the scarf from Ysa’s hand.
Oh, she loves Rafael as if he were her own child. Ysa didn’t banish either of them back to the shadows. Instead, she held out her hand to motion them closer.
“Where did you find it?” Eva asked.
“In the metro. You’ll all want to change clothes. We’re going into the tunnels. There is a strange sigil there, and I believe it leads to a portal realm.”
Rousseau rose from her seat and towered over Suero. “What?”
“Coordinates for longitude and latitude were embedded in the glyph.”
“That is definitely a portal realm.” Cyrille put out her cigarette and joined Rousseau. “Where is it?”
“Close to the station at République.”
Had Ysa been in Spain, she’d have no doubt what to do, but Paris wasn’t her territory. She looked to Rousseau. “Madame?”
Rousseau flexed one gloved hand. Ysa had the distinct impression that the impracticality of the gown was all that kept her from immediately charging into the metro. “I keep a change of clothes at the Tabarin. We’ll meet you back here in an hour.”
“Should I alert my nefilim?”
Rousseau paused, obviously considering the situation. “We don’t want to arouse the mortals’ suspicions if we can avoid it. Put your nefilim on stand-by. Do you have twenty you can call in on short notice?”
Ysa glanced at Bernardo. He nodded.
“I do.”
“Go ahead and post five nefilim aboveground and five in the station at République. Have the rest of your people meet us here. We’ll begin at the ward Suero found.”
Ysa nodded to Bernardo. He bowed his head and lifted the phone from behind the bar. His soft bass rumbled like the percussion of war drums as he issued orders into the receiver.
Rousseau acknowledged Suero as she passed. “Good work, Suero.” She lifted her hand to Ysabel. “In an hour, mademoiselle. Tell your people to come armed.”
After Rousseau and Cyrille left, Juanita turned on Suero. “And Carlos?”
“Carlos seems to have disappeared, as well.”
That was definitely not what Ysa wanted to hear. “Do you think Rafael followed Carlos?”
Juanita’s eyes flashed in the dim light. “After we told him not to? I certainly hope not.”
Ysabel twisted the scarf between her fingers. Damn it, Rafael, what have you done? He should have known better than to follow an old nefil into those tunnels. And I should have known better than to think he wouldn’t. “He wanted to prove himself. This is my fault.”
“The hell it is.” Juanita whirled and walked toward the back room. Her heels cracked against the floor. “Rafael Diaz has brought this on himself.”
Violeta came to Ysa’s side. “We’ll find him. All for one.”
“And one for all.” Ysa tied Rafael’s scarf around her wrist. Hold on, my rose. I don’t know where you are, or what is happening, but we’re coming.
17
The Black Site
Undisclosed location in the Pyrenees
At the main level, Jordi set a grueling pace. Climbing the hills of Paris to the clubs in Montmartre had strengthened Rafael’s legs, but now he suffered from the lack of both food and sleep. He struggled to keep up with the generalissimo.
As they entered a new corridor, soldiers stopped and snapped their heels to salute Jordi. Their stares burrowed into Rafael from all sides.
A youth, who didn’t appear to be much older than Rafael, gave Jordi a smart salute before making eye contact with Rafael. The soldier waited for Jordi to pass, and then he swept his foot at Rafael’s ankle.
Rafael danced sideways and whirled. He kept his balance, but barely.
Jordi halted at the soldiers’ laughter. He turned his head and snapped his fingers. Rafael moved forward cautiously.
“Did you do something to amuse them?”
Rafael’s heart hammered in his chest. “I almost tripped, Señor General.”
“Because?”
The older men grew silent.
The young soldier paled.
Rafael shifted his gaze to the floor. Getting the other youth in trouble wouldn’t help his cause. And right now I need friends. “Because I am clumsy.”
Jordi struck him without warning. The slap landed on the same cheek Samyaza had clawed.
Rafael’s head whipped back. Blood flushed his face, reawak
ening whatever poison lay beneath his flesh.
“That’s good. Because I haven’t given anyone permission to touch you.” Jordi glared at the young soldier who’d attempted to trip Rafael. Ten seconds ticked by before he started walking again.
Numb from his pain and humiliation, Rafael followed. He didn’t look back.
Miquel said to find the elevator to the surface. He held on to that thought as his life preserver. He had to get away from Jordi long enough to secure the elevator’s location, but the twisting labyrinth of corridors now all seemed the same. Stairways led up and then down as if the entire structure had been molded against the mountain’s contours. Before he could formulate both a plan for breaking out Miquel and getting them to the elevator, he first had to learn the layout. A task that grew more daunting with every step.
Keeping his head lowered, he watched each area for distinguishing characteristics. No signs indicated the floor they were on, but colored squares marked some sections as blue and others as green or gold.
They turned down another corridor, which was more deserted than the others. A white square with a red cross indicated the universal sign for medical care.
The infirmary. The sectors are color-coded. Of course. It made sense given the mixture of German, Italian, and Spanish soldiers. The older nefilim might be fluent in all the languages, but not the younger ones.
The realization was a small victory, but an important one nonetheless. He felt a little more in control.
Turning his attention back to his surroundings, he noted several doors lining the hall. A short, round nefil wearing a white lab coat slipped out of one room and consulted a paper on his clipboard. The sign by his shoulder designated the chamber as Choral Room 5.
Rafael wondered how many choral groups it took to maintain the portal realm. Are they willing participants, or are they forced to sing? He thought again of the nefilim in the pit and shuddered.
The short nefil looked up and saluted Jordi, snapping his heels together. “Generalissimo!”
Jordi returned the salute without pausing.
“This is very fortunate.” The nefil hurried after them. “May I have a word, please, Generalissimo?”
Jordi halted so suddenly, Rafael skidded and barely kept from crashing into the taller nefil. From the glare Jordi threw at him, Rafael suspected making Jordi look like a fool would earn him a few more kidney punches.
Or worse. He edged behind Jordi, careful to stay out of sight and at the requisite two steps.
“Forgive me, Generalissimo, but I’m sure Lieutenant Espina notified you that one of the singers expired this morning.”
“You mean died?”
The round nefil waved away the distinction as if it were a bad odor floating between them. “An unfortunate occurrence, but between the loss of that nefil and the melee in Choral Room Two, we are in desperate need of replacement singers.”
“I understand that, Dr. . . . ?”
“Jimenez. Doctor Jimenez.”
“Well, Dr. Jimenez, I’m sure Lieutenant Espina can find you a replacement.”
“I’m sorry, Generalissimo. I had hoped this was our new singer.” He gestured to Rafael. “I mean, he’s young, so he’ll last a bit longer than some of our older nefilim.”
“He’ll be useless to you. His voice still breaks. Find someone else.” Jordi turned and continued down the hall.
Jimenez produced a cigarette and lit it. As the hall filled with the smell of nicotine, Rafael felt the nefil’s eyes on his back.
That’s twice now I’ve practically been inducted into the horrors of this place. He had a bad feeling his razor’s edge of luck was about to run out. Rafael twisted his ring and touched the angel’s tear in the setting. Mamá, give me strength.
But it wasn’t his mamá’s voice that he heard in his heart. It was Miquel’s. Don’t blink. Find the elevator, warn Los Nefilim, but whatever you do, don’t blink.
Jordi wanted to keep him off balance, because that kept him compliant. And I keep blinking. Damn it.
At a nondescript door, Jordi didn’t bother to knock. He turned the knob and entered, surprising the occupants.
It was an examining room. A nefil with thick black hair and soft gray eyes whirled at the intrusion. He opened his mouth, most likely to admonish whoever was so bold as to barge into his lab. When he saw Jordi, his demeanor changed.
Clearly unnerved by the interruption, he dropped a scalpel into a metal tray with one shaking hand. “Jor—Generalissimo. What a surprise.”
Lavender sigils washed the walls and covered the odor of rotting meat that wafted from the nefil sitting on the table. Red fingers spotted in black peeked from the boil on his neck. Judging from the placement of the towel on the man’s shoulder, the doctor was preparing to remove the lesion.
The nefil shot to his feet and saluted Jordi. “Generalissimo!”
Jordi returned the salute. “What have we here, Nico?”
“An interesting case.” Nico pointed to the patch of protrusions that resembled curving fingers. “If you’ll remember, Feran brought us Carme’s notebook.”
Traitor. Rafael glared at Feran.
Feran didn’t seem to notice. His eyes smiled with pride and he saw no one but Jordi. Before speaking, he fished in his mouth and withdrew a thin needle about two centimeters long. Blood coated his teeth. “Generalissimo, I am proud to suffer in your name.” Red spittle dotted his chest.
Before Feran could move, Jordi drew his pistol and shot him between his eyes.
Rafael backed against the wall in shock.
The dark sound of Feran’s death blinked out of existence as soon as it appeared.
The Grigori ate him, Rafael thought wildly as he put his hand over his mouth and choked on his cry.
Nico glanced at him.
Rafael lowered his hand and tried to compose himself. Don’t blink. Don’t die.
Jordi holstered his pistol. “You couldn’t save him, Nico.”
Nico stared at the body slumped on the examining table. “He was trying to . . .”
“It doesn’t matter what he was trying to do. He failed. I can’t abide failure.” Jordi’s gaze locked on the doctor. “You came close this afternoon.”
Nico paled. “What?”
“With Miquel. Samyaza was ecstatic with the results of your experiments with the Pervitin. And to think we nearly missed viewing it.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Nico retrieved Feran’s towel from the floor and used it to cover the dead nefil’s face.
“Operation Red Soldier.” Jordi watched him as dispassionately as if Nico were mopping up spilled wine. “You released our Red a day early.”
Typical rebel, assuming we’re all Communists. Rafael resisted the urge to spit.
Jordi continued. “It was merely a stroke of luck that Samyaza and I hadn’t left for Barcelona when we did.”
Understanding dawned on Nico’s features. His countenance darkened. “You can blame Benito and his thugs for that. They beat Miquel so badly, he was dying. I had no choice but to begin when I did. Once I applied the dosage, I couldn’t stop. I knew that even if we cleared the compound, you’d find us.” He met Jordi’s gaze evenly. “I wasn’t worried.”
A spark flashed across Jordi’s aura at the last sentence. He’s piqued? Interested by the subtle change, Rafael tried to figure out precisely what instigated Jordi’s umbrage. Then it came to him: Jordi had no way around Nico’s calm assurance. If he objected, then he admitted to the possibility that he lacked control over either Nico or the experiment, a concession Jordi Abelló would never verbalize in front of someone like Rafael.
But later, in private, this discussion will continue. Rafael had witnessed such moments between his fathers. Except the undercurrents between Jordi and Nico lacked the layer of the love and respect shared by Miquel and Papá. Nonetheless, Nico didn’t seem too afraid of the likelihood of answering to Jordi, which meant he either told the truth or his alibi was irreproachable.
Jordi didn’t pursue the matter. Instead, he snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot on the floor. “Diaz. Here.”
He probably calls dogs with more respect. Regardless, Rafael stepped forward. He was fast learning that Jordi Abelló considered himself the only person of value in the room.
Nico turned his gaze to Rafael. “Diaz. You’re Diago Alvarez’s son?”
Nico’s assessment felt less intense than Jordi’s; Rafael was beginning to understand that each nefil measured him differently. Jordi, so far, had been right about one thing: Rafael stood on that perilous brink between childhood and maturity.
Cabello had treated him as he would any other male. Carlos saw him more as a boy and spoke to him as such. Nico would also consider how close Rafael stood to adulthood.
Can I win his empathy, or does he see me as a man and deserving of Jordi’s scorn? Rafael lowered his gaze and observed Nico through his lashes. He detected a hint of pity in Nico’s soft gray eyes. That small trace of compassion was all he needed. There’s a possibility I can win his protection.
Jordi traced a small sigil and snapped, “The doctor asked you a question. Don’t be rude.”
The ward popped against Rafael’s arm, leaving a slash of singed hair in its wake. Rafael swallowed his squeak and resisted the urge to rub the wound. “Yes, Señor Doctor, Diago Alvarez is my father.”
Nico’s face reddened as he acknowledged the answer with a nod. He didn’t ask any more questions.
Jordi gestured to Nico. “This is Dr. Nico Bianchi. He’ll tend to your hands and clean you up. Then he’ll bring you to our quarters for our evening meal.” Turning back to Nico, Jordi said, “Just have them burn his clothes.”
Nico raised his eyebrows but didn’t seem to mind the assignment. “What kind of uniform should I find for him?”
“He won’t need one.”
“You want me to parade him naked through the compound?”
“Do you have a problem with that, Nico?”
