by T. Frohock
Jordi instinctively caught it before he realized that it wasn’t the ring.
With a shout, Guillermo clapped his hands and activated the glyph.
The lighter exploded in Jordi’s fist.
Jordi’s signet, still on his severed finger, landed at Guillermo’s feet. Guillermo brought his boot down on the ring, crushing the tear beneath his heel.
Jordi screamed and bent double, cupping one bloodied hand with the other. Before Guillermo could stop himself, he took a step forward, reaching out to his brother.
Jordi’s head snapped up. The fury in his eyes slapped Guillermo like a blow.
His brother wept tears of pale green and umber. Vomit spewed through his lips as Samyaza’s poisoned magic left his body. He gasped. “What have you done?”
Guillermo looked up. Samyaza lurched forward.
The troops by the platform lifted their weapons. The snipers fired.
Diago gave a terrible scream and flung the shadows into the air. As Guillermo watched, the darkness turned into a wave of scorpions, rising to catch the bullets destined for their small group. The cloud slowed most of the projectiles and dragged them to the tracks.
Diago’s head whipped to one side. A thin line of blood appeared on his cheek.
Grazed him. Lucky bastard, Guillermo thought wildly as another bullet snapped by his ear.
More shots seeped through Diago’s barrier, puffing the dust around them, ricocheting off the tunnel walls.
Diago spun in a circle. His aura deepened, pulsating in midnight hues. Then he stamped his heel against the ground. A spark of green fire ignited a second wave of the scorpions, bringing them to life. He sent them surging toward the platform with an ominous growl.
Threads of silver and gold snapped like lightning through the cyclone of scorpions. The click of claws filled the tunnel. The arachnids skittered over the soldiers, crawling into their ears.
Some of the men ran screaming. Others cowered and wept. A few formed protective sigils and stood their ground.
“What did you do?” Guillermo shouted over the cacophony of gunfire and screams.
“I sent them their worst fears,” Diago replied. He pointed at the advancing Grigori. “But that I cannot stop.”
Samyaza, undaunted by the cresting scorpions, continued to run toward Jordi.
No, he’s mine. Guillermo returned his attention to his brother, meeting Jordi’s glare. “I know you’re angry! But think about this: I could have killed you. Instead, I’ve freed you. I’m sincere. I want your forgiveness. And to prove it, I’ll make sure the Grigori doesn’t take hold of your mind again.”
Without waiting for Jordi to respond, Guillermo traced a blazing glyph, like the one he’d used in the corridor above. Made more vibrant by the Thrones’ tear in his signet, sparks flew from his fingertips. He charged the ward with his voice and flung it at the advancing Grigori.
Helpless without Jordi’s voice to shield him, Samyaza skidded to a halt when he saw Guillermo’s sigil flying at him. Whirling, he fled back toward the platform.
Terrified soldiers clogged the stairs, blocking the angel’s path. The flames engulfed both the angel and the nefilim. The Grigori writhed and danced across the tracks. Shrieks filled the passage and almost drowned Rafael’s song.
Guillermo reached out for Jordi one last time. “We will talk again, brother! In better times! Watch for me!”
Jordi made no answer.
Red and gold light suddenly flooded the tunnel. Guillermo glimpsed Diago running toward him. Though he was smaller, Diago hit Guillermo low, around his hips. His forward motion carried them toward the flaring sigil.
The last thing Guillermo saw was his brother, rising and running back toward the platform, where his angel burned.
23
The colors swept over them, carrying them through the portal. Diago’s tackle sent them both to the ground. Guillermo landed on his back. Diago skidded beside him. Carme’s notebook fell from his pocket and landed on the tracks.
The world gradually stabilized around them. They were still in a tunnel, except this one was more brightly lit. Excited voices rang through the passage.
French. Diago’s stunned mind sifted through the language. They’re speaking French.
Guillermo stood and helped Diago to his feet. “Okay?”
Diago nodded as he staggered to one side, looking for Miquel and his son. He found them a few meters away.
Rafael struggled to hold Miquel upright. He’d looped Miquel’s arm over his shoulder, and Diago could tell by the way Miquel leaned on their son that he was in trouble. Nico reached out, but Miquel knocked the Italian’s hand aside. Rafael staggered under his father’s weight.
“Let him help!” Diago shoved past two nefilim he didn’t recognize.
Miquel looked up at the sound of Diago’s voice and smiled, but his face was ashen.
Diago reached them. Draping Miquel’s arm over his shoulder, he took his husband’s weight. As he did, Miquel whispered in his ear, “I lost my ring, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my bright star, I lost my ring and my nefilim and now my heart . . .”
“It’s all right.” Diago held his husband. “Just hold on, hold on, hold on . . .”
Miquel sagged in their arms. They eased him to the tracks as gently as they could.
Rafael kept his hand behind Miquel’s head. “Papá? What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know.” Diago lifted his head. “Is Juanita here?” He shouted in Castilian, and then Catalan, before he called once more in French. “Please! Someone find her!” Then he returned his attention to his husband. “Miquel? Miquel, wake up. We’re here. We did it. Come on, wake up.”
Miquel didn’t answer. His skin was icy.
He’s too cold. Diago took off his coat and covered his husband.
Nico came to his side. “The Pervitin . . . it weakens the heart. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”
Rousseau shouted, “Someone get me a stretcher. Charles, we need a train to get everyone out of this tunnel, and then arrange for cars on the surface. Make one of them an ambulance.”
Guillermo pushed through the crowd. “What’s wrong?”
Cool hands gripped Diago’s shoulders and Juanita was suddenly there. “Let me see him.”
Diago rose and backed away. Although he was terrified of the answer, he asked, “Can you help him? Like you did me? Can you?”
“Quiet, now,” Guillermo murmured as he touched Miquel’s brow. “Stand back.” He positioned his hands on either side of Miquel’s face and bowed his head until their brows touched.
Rafael came to Diago’s side. Diago held him close and prayed, but not to any god. He silently urged his friend to save his husband. In their firstborn lives, Solomon had caused their deaths, but now Guillermo stood a chance to save them. So take him to your river of fire, please, take him and bring him back, because he is my heart.
A soft glow suffused the trio. Juanita kept her hands on both Guillermo and Miquel. The light grew brighter . . .
Suddenly Miquel sputtered and coughed as if surfacing from a deep dive. The terror constricting in Diago’s chest loosened. Beside him, Rafael gave a soft sob.
Guillermo leaned back on his heels, his own face pale, his freckles stark across his nose.
Juanita stroked Miquel’s hair and smiled at him. “There. Your family is waiting for you.” She kissed his mouth and gave him her breath. Then she rose so they could join him again.
Diago knelt at Miquel’s side as Rafael removed his coat and folded it. He lifted his father’s head and placed the makeshift pillow beneath him.
Miquel tried to rise. “Did we make it?”
“Yes,” Rafael whispered. “Just lie still and relax. We’re safe.”
Remembering the notebook, Diago looked for it on the tracks. The book was gone.
Ysa saw Violeta reach for something on the tracks. When the young nefil stood, tears spilled over her lashes and struck the tattered notebook in her hands.
Ysa hurried to her side. “What is it, Violeta?”
Scrubbing her cheeks angrily, Violeta sniffed and met Ysa’s gaze. “My mamá . . .” She held the notebook like an offering. “My mamá . . .”
Ysa recognized the book. Carme never let that notebook out of her sight. Cold with the realization of Carme’s death, Ysa embraced her friend. Violeta folded with her grief, taking them to their knees together.
When Ysa heard Miquel gasp for air, she turned in time to see her own mamá and papá rise. I’m so lucky. She rocked Violeta but offered her no platitudes.
Guillermo’s smile faltered when he noticed the book in Violeta’s hands. Still pallid from his own exertion, he came to their side and knelt beside them.
“This isn’t how I wanted you to find out,” he murmured to her. “Your mamá was one of the bravest nefilim I’ve ever had the honor of commanding. And because she gave her life for Los Nefilim, my debt to her is great. You will live in my household until you are ready to find your own way. Do you understand me, Violeta?”
Violeta nodded and struggled for control. “We will sing for her?”
“Of course we will sing for her. We will watch for her.” He reached out and stroked Ysa’s hair. “Can you take her home, Ysa?”
His heart is so great, it might shatter one day. “I will.”
“Good. Good. We’ll be there soon. Take care of that notebook, Violeta. Your song will be as great as hers.” He saluted her. “Capitán.”
débuts
(beginnings)
18 March 1939
24
36, rue Victor-Massé
Bal Tabarin
Only a few people moved through the Pigalle at dawn. The great clubs stood silent and shuttered against the day’s gray light.
Miquel refused to stay in bed. Although he was still too pale and thin, he insisted on accompanying Rafael to his hearing. Diago didn’t have the heart to deny either of them the comfort of each other’s presence, so he hired a cab to take them to the Bal Tabarin.
Rafael rode with Miquel in the back seat, looking out the window apprehensively. He twisted his ring and glanced at his father anytime he moved.
As the cab drifted to the curb, three nefilim emerged from the nightclub. Two flanked the door while the third approached their car. The tall, reedy nefil with angular cheekbones and milky skin was none other than Jean Marchand, Rousseau’s second-in-command. His well-fitted black suit did little to hide the pistol strapped to his shoulder holster.
And that is deliberate, Diago thought as he paid the fare. The gun and the reception underlined the severity of the situation.
Diago glanced at his family. He hoped Rafael was paying attention. To his relief, he noted that his son’s mouth was tight as he helped Miquel to the sidewalk and gave him his cane.
He needs to know this is no game. Diago exited the car and went to Rafael. He adjusted his son’s tie. “You go in, you tell the truth, and if they decide you must be reprimanded, you take your punishment, and just move on.”
Rafael nodded. “I love you, Papá.”
“We’re not saying goodbye.” Diago kissed his cheeks nonetheless.
Miquel stood on the curb and nodded to the French nefil. “Jean.”
“Miquel, it’s good to see you.”
“Likewise.”
Rafael went to Miquel, who winked at him and indicated that he should go inside. “Don’t make them wait on you.”
Rafael squeezed Miquel’s hand as he passed.
When he reached the door, the two nefilim fell into step on either side of the youth. Jean waited for Diago and Miquel to enter before he followed them inside.
The immense ballroom was dimly lit and possessed a different kind of magic from the kind that graced its halls during the night. The long tongue of the stage held no dancers, but instead a table that was occupied by Rousseau and Guillermo, who were both busy reading files. Cyrille and Juanita stood behind their respective partners. A plump young woman with chestnut hair and lively eyes sat next to Rousseau with a pad and pen ready to take notes. Suero kept his place near Guillermo.
On the floor in front of the stage, Guillermo’s sigil for Los Nefilim glowed against the burnished wood beside Rousseau’s glyph for Les Néphilim. The linked edges of the wards symbolized that, while both remained independent, they worked together for the common good of the Inner Guard.
At a nearby table, Nico sat alone with two of Guillermo’s nefilim behind him. He wore a borrowed suit that was slightly too big for him. After a nervous glance at Miquel, he lowered his eyes again.
Just beyond him, Ysa sat with a dour French nefil in a rumpled suit. She pretended not to notice Rafael. Her expression told Diago that she was still piqued with Rafael. Guillermo hadn’t reprimanded her, but like her father, Ysa hated making mistakes. She saw them as a reflection on her own abilities.
Rafael’s guards escorted him to Nico’s table. Rafael, for his part, pointedly didn’t look Ysa’s way. Diago knew his son still hadn’t forgiven her for not supporting his request to help find Miquel.
Both of them are full of pride, just like we used to be before the world taught us to treat each other more kindly. He put his palm on Miquel’s back, not so much to steady him, but because he simply wanted the comfort of touching him.
Jean cleared his throat and announced them.
Juanita looked up, her gaze going straight to Rafael, who possessed enough grace and humility to bow, first to her and then to Cyrille. He didn’t take his seat until Guillermo acknowledged him and told him to sit.
The move seemed to mollify Juanita, though Diago knew she wasn’t pleased with the rash decisions that led his son on his adventure. Then she turned her attention to Miquel. Another wave of displeasure washed over her countenance at his presence today. Though she pursed her lips, she said nothing to embarrass him.
At least now she can see where Rafael learned the art of insubordination.
Guillermo, on the other hand, had no problem shaming his second-in-command for attending the hearing. “Suero, would you please bring a chair for Monsieur de Torrellas, who should have kept to his bed this morning?”
Suero was moving before Guillermo completed the command. He quickly took a chair from one of the tables and offered it to Miquel. Rather than protest, Miquel sat.
Diago put his hand on his husband’s shoulder, noting the rapid rise and fall of Miquel’s chest. He’s overexerting himself. All he could do was hope that Miquel’s condition might speed the proceedings.
That prospect was dashed when Suero called Nico forward first. He indicated that the Italian was to stand in the center of Guillermo’s sigil.
Miquel stiffened. Diago gave his shoulder a warning squeeze. Easy.
Guillermo opened a file. “Nico Bianchi, you are here to swear an oath to Los Nefilim and the Inner Guard, that you will honor and obey me as king for the rest of your life in this incarnation.”
Nico’s mouth dropped open. “You said I only had to serve until the war was over.”
Guillermo met his gaze evenly. “No. That’s what you heard. No one ever walks away from the Inner Guard. We cannot take the chance that you will sell our secrets to our enemies. Once you take the oath, it’s for the rest of your life in this incarnation.”
Nico looked physically ill.
A slow smile spread across Miquel’s mouth. He was enjoying Nico’s discomfort entirely too much.
The Italian’s aura popped in shades of gray and blue. Guillermo’s sigil burned hotter around him.
Breathing rapidly, Nico made a visible attempt to get himself under control. “And if I refuse?”
“Then you remain a rogue. And I put a price on your head for the murders of my nefilim. You will be hunted for all the days of your life, in this incarnation and all that follow.”
The weight of Guillermo’s pronouncement caused Nico to stagger. He wandered to the edge of Guillermo’s glyph as if he might step over the line and attempt to flee.
> They’ll cut him down if he does. Diago lifted his hand.
Nico halted, teetering on the edge of that fiery sigil, and locked gazes with Diago.
Careful to keep his expression neutral, Diago lowered his hand and waited. Whatever decision came next had to come from Nico.
The silence stretched through the cavernous room. They all knew Jordi’s men hunted the Italian. Add Guillermo’s nefilim into the mix, along with any rogue who wanted to cash in on the bounty, and Nico wouldn’t survive a week on his own.
They all knew it—no one more acutely than Nico. He turned a slow circle, gauging the expression of each person in the room before he faced Guillermo once more. “Then I have no choice.”
Miquel gripped his cane. “You always have choices, Nico.”
Diago muttered through clenched teeth, “Don’t be an asshole.”
Miquel took the hint and quieted, but his smile didn’t fade.
Nico shot Miquel a dark look worthy of Diago himself. Straightening his tie, the Italian paused for another moment and gathered his thoughts. When he spoke, his voice was even and the colors of his aura calmed. “By all rights, you should put me to death, but you honor your word by giving me a place in Los Nefilim. I accept your proposal and the generosity with which it is given. I offer myself”—his voice broke, but he recovered himself quickly—“to the Inner Guard and will take an oath to serve.”
Guillermo rewarded the speech with a curt nod. “Does anyone object to Nico Bianchi taking an oath to Los Nefilim?”
Miquel rapped the tip of his cane against the floor. “I do.”
“Noted. Do you wish to speak?”
“I’ll say what I have to say during his oath-taking ceremony.”
Guillermo exhaled a resigned sigh. “Of course you will. Nico, I will formally take your oath in a fortnight. Meanwhile, Diago will help you prepare.”
Diago ignored his husband’s sharp stare. Miquel never needed to know that Diago had asked Guillermo to make that assignment. Being Nico’s handler meant Diago would oversee Nico’s every move, and Diago’s close proximity to Miquel gave Nico added incentive to quickly find a cure for Miquel’s withdrawal symptoms.
