Carved from Stone and Dream

by T. Frohock

  Diago bowed his head. “As you will, Don Guillermo.”

  Guillermo leaned over and conferred in whispers with Rousseau. When he finished, she said, “That can be arranged.”

  “Excellent.” Shifting his attention back to Nico, Guillermo said, “While you’re waiting to formally take an oath to Los Nefilim, you will brief our chief intelligence officers, Sofia Corvo and Lise Fourcade, regarding the Pervitin experiments you conducted for Jordi Abelló and Ilsa Jaeger.”

  Nico hesitated. “I . . . it’s not that I don’t want to help. Please don’t misunderstand. But I don’t have my papers, my notes . . .”

  Rousseau appraised him coldly. “You have your memory, monsieur. We need to know everything in order to help the mortals against the Nazi threat, and to protect our own nefilim. Abelló and Jaeger are creating an army of berserkers. We must know what we’re dealing with.”

  Nico rubbed his forehead and glanced at Diago.

  Diago gave him the only thing he could: an almost imperceptible nod.

  Turning back to Rousseau and Guillermo, Nico bowed his head. “I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  “Good. See? That wasn’t so hard.” Guillermo’s sigil flared once before returning to its soft glow. He gestured to his nefilim. “Escort him back to his apartment.” Pointing to the taller nefil, he said, “Alfonse, make arrangements with Mademoiselles Corvo and Fourcade to meet with Monsieur Bianchi. Keep him under close guard for his own safety.”

  Alfonse snapped a closed-fist salute to Guillermo and gestured for Nico to follow. When the door shut behind them, Suero stepped forward and called Rafael’s name.

  Rafael rose and took his place within the wards. He stood in the center of Guillermo’s sigil.

  Rousseau closed the file in front of her and looked at Rafael. “State your name.”

  Rafael stood with his back straight. “Rafael Diaz de Triana.”

  “Very good, Monsieur Diaz. Do you understand why you are here?”

  He bowed his head to her. “To answer accusations that I sang a mortal to his death.”

  Guillermo reached into his pocket and withdrew a lighter. Unlike his old one, this one was shiny with the engravings for wisdom sharp and bright.

  All ready for new decisions.

  Guillermo flicked the lid, one soft click after another. “Tell us what happened on the morning of 15 February 1939.”

  Rafael recounted the day, pausing only to answer Rousseau’s questions. His voice remained strong and his aura pulsed in soothing shades of amber and green. As Rafael spoke, Diago found himself suffering from both sadness and pride. He missed the child who used to touch him so hesitantly and talk himself to sleep each night.

  But Miquel and I must have done something right. Because a self-assured young man replaced that shy child, and it was wonderful to see.

  When Rafael finished testifying, Rousseau nodded. “Monsieur Ramírez, do you have anything to add or ask?”

  “I’m satisfied.”

  But then again, Guillermo had been from the beginning, going out of his way to reassure Rafael that the entire proceeding was to soothe grumblings from within Les Néphilim.

  Rousseau turned to the nefil in the rumpled suit. “Inspector Bisset?”

  He stood and bowed. “I, too, am satisfied, madame. Diaz’s account is consistent with my findings. The mortal pursued him of his own volition.”

  Rafael glanced their way and winked.

  Oh, he thinks he has gotten away with something. Neither Diago nor Miquel smiled back.

  Unsettled by their lack of jubilance over what he clearly saw as his vindication, Rafael turned back to Rousseau.

  She made a notation in her file. “Then we move to the matter of restitution for the mortal’s death. Monsieur Ramírez?”

  Guillermo’s demeanor turned grave. “As I’m sure you heard, Los Nefilim is now responsible for reimbursing Monsieur Pierre Loutrel for the loss of his . . . employee, for lack of a better word. I think you should bear some of the burden for those costs, Monsieur Diaz. Therefore, we will be docking twenty-five percent of your pay until such a time as you have compensated Los Nefilim for your error in judgment that day.”

  Rafael’s mouth dropped open. He glanced at Miquel and Diago. Miquel signaled to him that he was to accept the conditions.

  To his credit, Rafael gritted his teeth and bowed his head. “Of course, Don Guillermo.”

  “Very well, then.” Rousseau nodded to Jean. “Do we have any other business before us today?”

  Jean stepped forward. “No, madame, that is all.”

  “Excellent! We stand adjourned.” With a flick of her wrist, Rousseau extinguished her sigil.

  Guillermo did the same.

  Rising, she stretched. “I’m famished. Juanita? Guillermo? Will you have breakfast with us?”

  “Of course.” He pocketed his lighter and stood. “Rafael, we will see you tonight.”

  Rafael bowed his head again before turning his back on Ysa and walking to stand before his fathers. “Are we ready to go home?”

  Miquel remained seated. “You should go thank Inspector Bisset for his thorough investigation.”

  Rafael glanced toward the inspector, who chatted with Ysa. “I can thank him later. We should get you home.”

  Miquel made no effort to rise. “Now. And while you’re over there, speak to Ysa.”

  Rafael lowered his voice. “She’s the reason for my poverty. She was mad that Loutrel wanted twenty-five percent of the take from the cabaret, so she had her papá take it out of my pocket.”

  Diago motioned for Rafael to draw close. He’s a man, yes, but there’s still a bit of the boy left. Sternly, he said, “You have received a very light sentence. This hearing could have resulted in expulsion from Paris, or even France, for you. What you did was wrong.”

  “But everything came out all right.”

  “That is not the point.”

  “Your papá is right.” Miquel nodded. “And there is a huge difference between twenty-five percent of a cabaret’s income and your meager salary. So go thank the inspector and make up with Ysa; however you see fit to do so.”

  Rafael opened his mouth for a rebuttal, but Miquel cut him off before he could begin. “This conversation is over.”

  With an exasperated sigh, Rafael turned. Diago, though, had had enough of his petulance.

  “Rafael.”

  Sullenly, Rafael turned around. “Yes, Papá?”

  “If you want to be treated like an adult, then you need to act like one. There is no shame in making a mistake. Learn from it. And be responsible enough to admit your error. Then I will believe you have matured.”

  Rafael glanced at Ysa. “She’ll think less of me.”

  “You might find that she’ll respect you more.”

  Rafael twisted his ring and considered the situation. “Okay. I’ll try it your way. But if you’re wrong . . .”

  “I’m not wrong.” He gave his son a gentle nudge. “Now go, make amends and earn back her trust.”

  Squaring his shoulders, Rafael walked over to the pair and waited for the inspector to finish his conversation with Ysa.

  Miquel watched them carefully. “They have to get past this. These little digs begin early and escalate fast. I don’t want them to waste their firstborn lives like we did. If I could go back . . .”

  “You can’t. Even in your heart, you cannot go back and change it.” Neither you, nor Guillermo. “All we can do is move forward.”

  “Even so, we can use our bad experience to help them.” Miquel nodded at Rafael, who had managed to work his way into the conversation.

  When Rafael finished speaking to the inspector, Ysa touched his arm and drew him aside. As they watched, the tension eased between the youngsters. After a few more words, Rafael returned to them.

  “Ysa has gone to get Suero. He’s going to drive you home.”

  Diago raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “If it’s okay with you,
Ysa has invited me to breakfast with her and Violeta, and I’d like to go. For Violeta’s sake, you know.”

  “Of course. For Violeta,” Miquel teased. “I suppose I can take care of your papá until you get home.”

  “Give Violeta our love.” Diago slipped his son a few francs. “Go and be good to each other.”

  Rafael pocketed the money and saluted them.

  Miquel returned the salute with a faint smile.

  Diago merely lifted his hand. He, for one, was glad to return to civilian life. For now.

  25

  Plaza de Cataluña

  Hotel Colón

  Barcelona, Spain

  Safely ensconced in the haze of morphine, Jordi watched Dr. Jimenez unwrap the bandages on his right hand. A nurse plumped the pillows on his bed while a mortal servant entered the bedroom to draw the heavy drapes.

  Spring sunlight flooded the room. Beyond the window’s glass, Barcelona’s bones rose against the sky, her buildings hollow and starved like the mortals the war left behind. The people remaining in the city were those who couldn’t bear the thought of what leaving meant, or those who supported the Nationalist advance.

  Regardless, they all belonged to Jordi now. With Franco stamping out the last of the Republicans, the prisons were overflowing and the rivers were red with blood. Soon Jordi’s soldiers would locate any nefilim who remained loyal to Guillermo. They’d be weeded from the mortal chaff and sent into their next incarnation.

  Dr. Jimenez murmured appreciatively over the color of Jordi’s healing skin. “This is looking much better, Generalissimo.”

  Guillermo’s little trick had severed Jordi’s ring finger and the upper segment of his middle finger, but his loss was minimal considering what might have been. For once, he found himself in his brother’s debt.

  A brother who wants forgiveness.

  All Jordi needed to do was figure out a way to exploit Guillermo’s guilt. And that shouldn’t be hard.

  Jimenez opened a fresh strip of gauze and proceeded to rewrap the wounds. “How are you sleeping?”

  Sleeping. Now, that was another matter altogether. After eschewing drugs for four years, he found himself sleeping so much better with Jimenez’s morphine shots. Why had he ever allowed Nico to wean him from the drugs? Why had I ever allowed him into my life? The traitorous fucking queen.

  Nico had been a mistake—one that Jordi didn’t intend to repeat. But all those were thoughts to muse on another day. Certainly none of them were any of Jimenez’s business. “I’ll need a shot before I sleep tonight.”

  “Very good, Generalissimo. I’ll be here to deliver it personally.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” he murmured. “That is all.”

  Once Jimenez packed his black bag and left the room, one of the servants entered. “Lieutenant Espina is here, Generalissimo.”

  “Send him in.”

  As the others filed out, Benito entered. He snapped a sharp salute and waited for Jordi to speak.

  As soon as all the mortals had left the room, Jordi acknowledged his lieutenant. “So tell me, Espina, what news?”

  “Ilsa Jaeger, the queen of Die Nephilim, requests to visit Spain and meet with the nefilim’s new caudillo, Generalissimo Jordi Abelló. She says that your experiments were a success and she is ready to implement a new plan for France.”

  “Magnificent.” Jordi smiled. “Please convey to her that I am most pleased to receive her. I trust you’ll make the appropriate arrangements.”

  “Of course, Generalissimo.” Benito closed the bedroom doors. “Permission to approach, Señor General.”

  Jordi nodded and gestured for Benito to draw near.

  The nefil placed a plain white envelope on the table beside Jordi’s chair. “As you requested, we destroyed any indication that we were ever at the black site. Fortunately, Guillermo’s ward removed any evidence of the Grigori without requiring further effort from us.”

  Another small favor from his brother. Jordi didn’t dwell on it.

  Espina continued. “I retrieved the personal effects you requested.”

  “And that is all he had on him?” Jordi indicated the envelope.

  “Yes, Generalissimo.”

  “And of that other matter, the one involving my former personal physician?” Jordi forbade them from mentioning Nico’s name. That one is dead. He simply doesn’t know it yet.

  Benito started to say Nico’s name before he caught himself. “The Italian is being hunted. We think he is in France, and our people are drawing close.”

  “I thought he wanted to go to the Americas.”

  “It’s possible he still does. We’re watching the ports. We’re also finding evidence that Los Nefilim have moved their operations to France.”

  Let Guillermo hide behind Rousseau’s skirts. Death would soon march on both of them from the east. Even if Franco continued to prove impervious to Jordi’s counsel to join Hitler’s cause, the mortal still managed to serve his purpose. Franco would honor his arrangement with the Führer, and Spain’s natural resources would continue to flow into Germany to build planes and bombs, while Republican soldiers hiding in France would eventually find their way into concentration camps.

  It’s simply a matter of time. I’ll bring a war to Guillermo’s doorstep that he will never forget. “Very good. You’re dismissed, Lieutenant. Close the door behind you.”

  Benito saluted again and backed from the room.

  Always with the proper respect, Jordi thought as he watched him go.

  Settling in the comfort of his bed, he took the envelope and opened it. Wrapped in a piece of velvet was a golden wedding band, carved with sigils. Miquel’s most prized possession.

  “It’s just a ring,” Jordi whispered. Turning the band to catch the light, he noted a scratch on the sigil for trust. Humming a tune, he formed a ward of his own and erased a little more of the line. “But rings are potent symbols . . . and some even have power.”

  He smiled as he settled back into the pillow, knowing his dreams tonight would be of Los Nefilim’s end.

  Epilogue

  51, rue Gabrielle

  Paris, France

  2 April 1939

  The scent of cigarette smoke filtered past the apartment’s door. Diago wrinkled his nose as he set down a basket of bread and vegetables. Retrieving his keys, he unlocked the door and picked up the groceries.

  His husband sat at the kitchen table. Although it was well after noon, Miquel still wore his pajamas. His skin no longer carried the ashen shades of gray that he’d worn for weeks after their arrival, but he had yet to fully recover. While Juanita remained confident the damage to his heart would heal, it would take some time.

  And the more he smokes, the longer it will take. Diago narrowed his eyes at his husband.

  Rafael emerged from the kitchen, all innocence and smiles. A cigarette in his hand.

  Diago had no doubt that his son had taken the cigarette from Miquel when they heard the key turn in the lock. They think they’re slick, these two.

  Two files were open on the table next to a pad of paper, a pencil, and a newspaper. Miquel moved a file over the newspaper, but not before Diago saw the headline. Franco had finally declared the Spanish Civil War over.

  Jordi must be jubilant. Diago fixed his glare on his son. “I thought we agreed: no newspapers.”

  Rafael blushed and exhaled twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. “He threatened to go himself and actually had his coat on, so I went.”

  The statement had the cadence of a prepared lie.

  Miquel attempted to deflect Diago’s attention from both the paper and the cigarette in Rafael’s hand. “Were the markets crowded?”

  Rafael put out the cigarette in a tin ashtray. “Do you need help, Papá?” Rather than wait for an answer, he reached for the basket.

  Diago turned slightly and looked at the ashtray, counting four cigarette butts. And I was gone less than an hour. “Rafael, I thought we also agreed you’d smoke outside.” He m
et his husband’s gaze. “Especially since Juanita said Miquel needed to refrain from smoking while he healed.”

  “It’s okay.” Miquel bit his lower lip and pretended to scan a report. The page trembled in his hand. “He’s been helping so much at the club, I didn’t want to make him run up and down the stairs.”

  “Except for newspapers, right?”

  Rafael commandeered the basket. “Really, Papá, Miquel wasn’t smoking and the newspaper isn’t going to hurt him.”

  No, but it will make him angry. “You’re both terrible liars.” Picking up the ashtray and emptying it in the fireplace, Diago returned to the table and sat across from his husband. “What’s making you so upset that you’re smoking more?”

  Miquel thumped the report in front of him. “This one. Jordi is back in Barcelona.”

  Down on the street, a lorry backfired. Rafael spun and flinched at the sound, his eyes searching for a threat before his brain had time to tell him there was none. Diago knew the reaction well. He’d experienced it often enough during his own postwar days.

  Diago held out his hand and without a word, Rafael came to him. “It’s all right. It’s just noise. You’ll get used to it again.”

  Rafael offered him a tremulous smile and squeezed Diago’s fingers.

  “Don’t get too used to it.” Miquel slammed the paper to the table and clenched his fists. “We’ll be at war again soon enough. Why didn’t Guillermo kill Jordi when he had the chance?”

  Reaching across the papers, Diago covered Miquel’s fist with his palm. Good thing I have two hands. “He has his reasons.” But Miquel wouldn’t understand those reasons, not now. His husband’s wounds were still too fresh. “We have to trust him. Okay? What is it you told me all those years before I joined Los Nefilim? We’re stronger together. Right? So we trust.” He kept his voice even and didn’t stop talking until he felt Miquel’s tremors diminish.