Carved from Stone and Dream

by T. Frohock

  Miquel nodded. “Okay. Okay . . .” He drew a shuddering breath and fought to calm himself. Another moment passed and then he said, “You’re right.” He reached across the table and took a cigarette from the silver case Diago had given him.

  Diago struck a match and lit the cigarette for him. As he withdrew, he palmed the case from the table and tucked it into his breast pocket. “There. That’s the last one for a few hours.”

  “You’re a miser with them,” Miquel grumbled.

  “And our son is far too generous.” He shot Rafael a withering look.

  “I’m sorry, Papá,” he mumbled at his shoes without sounding the least bit sorry. His feigned remorse lasted until the clock chimed two. “Is it two already?” He hurried to Miquel and then Diago, kissing both of them on the cheek as he passed. “I’ve got to get to the club. We’re having a rehearsal, and I promised Ysa and Violeta I wouldn’t be late.”

  Miquel fiddled with the pencil. “We’re singing for Carme tonight?”

  Rafael put on his hat and coat. “Yes, and Violeta is taking her oath so she can step into her mamá’s rank.”

  Fortunately, he didn’t mention that Nico was taking his oath to Los Nefilim tonight, as well. Of course, now that Diago thought of it, that also explained why Miquel was so keyed up.

  It was never one big thing but a thousand tiny cuts.

  Grabbing his guitar case, Rafael opened the door and practically ran into Guillermo.

  Rafael stood aside. “Don Guillermo, come in.”

  “French, Rafael.”

  “Oui, monsieur. Au revior.” He stepped smartly around Guillermo, and then he was gone, clattering down the stairs, out the door, and onto the street.

  Where, hopefully, no more lorries would backfire and send him diving for the pavement.

  Guillermo shut the door and headed to the table. He carried a bulging accordion file, which likely held another thousand cuts.

  Diago met him halfway and took the file. “He needs to rest.”

  Guillermo relinquished the file without breaking stride. “You’ve put on weight,” he said to Miquel. “Juanita is going to be pleased.”

  “I’m ready for the field.” Miquel smoked and watched the accordion file in Diago’s hands.

  “No, he’s not, and he’s worked enough for today.” Gathering the other files and the newspaper, Diago deposited everything on a side table. “It’s time for him to rest.”

  “I’m having a cigarette.”

  “When you’re finished.”

  Guillermo sat beside Miquel. “It’ll only be for another month. Your age saved you. A younger nefil would have died four times over with that much Pervitin in their system. So let your body heal.”

  “For the sake of Los Nefilim, I’ll endeavor to carry on.” Miquel finished his smoke and stood. In spite of his best efforts to appear alert, his few hours up had taken more of a toll than he would ever admit. He brushed his fingers across the back of Diago’s hand as he passed. “Want to come tuck me in?”

  “I’ll be there in a moment.” Diago waited until the bedroom door shut before he joined Guillermo. “Can I get you something?”

  Guillermo shook his head. “I can’t stay long. Is Nico ready for tonight?”

  “I think he is. He seems to have resigned himself to his oath. In some ways, I don’t think he regrets it. He’s used to France. He spent some time here in the past, which helps.”

  The bedroom door opened and Miquel glared at them from the doorway. “He lived with Jordi in Avignon. He’s a goddamn Italian and fought with the Black Shirts. He should be shot for what they did in Trijueque back in ’37.”

  Diago reached deep for his patience. They were becoming used to these odd outbursts, but that made them no easier to bear. Taking a slow breath, he modulated a calm tone. “Nico wasn’t in Trijueque, and he had nothing to do with the Black Shirts shooting those Internationals.”

  Miquel wasn’t satisfied. Breathing heavily, he jabbed a finger at Diago. “They pulled those men out of a hospital, dragged them to the wall, and massacred them. That’s what the fucking Italians do. They wait until you’re down and then they shoot you in the back. Mark me.”

  This isn’t my husband talking—it’s his fear turned to hate. Diago caught Miquel’s gaze and held it. “Miquel, please. Nico may be Italian, he might have served the enemy, but he saved our son’s life, and he did that willingly. There is something good within his song. Let’s help him nurture it. Like you did with me.”

  Guillermo cleared his throat. “And he’s given us quite a bit of useful intelligence in these last few days. The Germans are preparing to invade France. They’re giving Pervitin to the mortals and a select group of nefilim. If we intend to stop their advance, we need to be ready. And united.” He shot Miquel a meaningful look. “We must be united.”

  Though said gently, the admonishment was cold water on Miquel’s rage. He lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry.” He touched his chest, an unconscious gesture. “I . . . I don’t know what comes over me. It’s like my brain snaps from one topic to another. It happens so fast—”

  “It’s okay.” Guillermo waved his hand as if the outburst were nothing. “It’s the Pervitin. It’s why we’re not giving it to our nefilim.”

  “Right.” Miquel sniffed and allowed his gaze to flicker to Guillermo before landing again on Diago. “And you’re right, too. But Nico is yours. I can’t work with him . . . not now.”

  “I know,” Diago whispered. “It’s too soon.”

  Mollified, Miquel nodded. “Good. I won’t even speak against him tonight. How’s that?”

  “Thank you.”

  Stepping back into the bedroom, Miquel closed the door and muttered, “The fucking queen.”

  Guillermo winced and whispered, “I’ve never heard him call anyone a queen.”

  Diago shot the door a concerned look. “Nico and I meet at the café on the corner for breakfast every morning. I can’t bring him here . . . for obvious reasons.” He lowered his voice. “Even when Miquel is quiet, he makes Nico so nervous I can’t get him to open up, so I keep them apart for now.”

  “Smart move.” Guillermo toyed with the ashtray. “How about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “How are you?”

  “Busy taking care of Miquel and Rafael, and now Nico. And that’s good.” He tapped his temple. “Keeps me out of my own head.”

  “Really?”

  Diago met his gaze. “Really. As a matter of fact”—he rose and went to his violin case, retrieving the satchel that rested next to it—“Rafael and I have been working on the Key. Coming through that portal realm gave us the clue to the next movement.” He spread the composition on the table in front of Guillermo. “See? The arrangement begins with the sound of the angels’ exile and anguish, but as the song progresses, it builds on the sound of—”

  “Trust,” Guillermo murmured.

  “Yes. On trust. That was Rafael’s idea.” He gathered the score and returned it to the satchel. “Take it with you. I’m eager to hear your thoughts. Maybe tomorrow we’ll work on it some more.”

  “Sounds good.” Guillermo rose and patted his pocket. “Oh, and that thing you asked me for.” He removed a small box from his pocket, placing it on the table. “It’s finished.”

  “Thank you.” Diago didn’t bother opening the package. He knew it would be perfect. Palming the small container, he carried it with him as he followed Guillermo into the hall and closed the door.

  Guillermo whispered, “How is he doing? Really?”

  “He has more bad nights than good ones.” He won’t truly fall asleep unless I’m holding him, because that is the only time he feels safe. But Diago didn’t say that to Guillermo. That is Miquel’s to tell when he feels ready. “Once he gets back in the field, he’ll feel more in control again. Right now he’s a terrible patient.” Diago shrugged. “But so was I.”

  Guillermo withdrew a cigar from his pocket. “Juanita wants to come and see him ag
ain.”

  “Tell her to call. I want it to be his idea. He doesn’t want to seem weak in front of her. Like I said . . .”

  “Control. Okay. I’ll see you tonight at the club?”

  “You’ll see us both. He wants to sing for Carme and the nefilim he lost to the Grigori. Frankly, so do I. Carme might have hated me, but I miss her nonetheless.”

  “I don’t think she hated you,” Guillermo said. “She was . . .” He sighed at his loss for words.

  “Carme. She was Carme, and there will never be another like her until she is reborn.”

  “You’re right about that.” Guillermo smiled sadly. “Tonight, then.”

  “Tonight.” Diago waited until his friend stepped onto the street before he slipped back inside the apartment.

  He went straight to the bedroom, where he knew Miquel would be awake, trying to catch their every word. His husband didn’t disappoint him.

  Reclining on his side, he pretended to be absorbed in a novel. With his thumb, he rubbed the ring finger of his left hand, where his wedding band had left a permanent mark on his flesh. Even though the ring was gone, his skin remained indented with the memory of the metal that encircled his finger for so long.

  Diago kicked off his shoes and eased onto the bed next to his husband. Reaching over Miquel’s shoulder, he gently closed the book and whispered the only magic words he knew. “Talk to me.”

  Miquel shrugged. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “You don’t call people queens, or rage about war atrocities over which you had no control. Wasn’t it you who told me that anger is poison and that it will kill the soul as surely as arsenic will destroy a body?”

  Another shrug, but this one was less robust than the first.

  “All this resentment, this is not you.” Diago stroked his husband’s hair. “Talk to me.”

  Another minute passed before Miquel spoke. Pressing his lips together, he swallowed hard and then asked, “Do you remember when we first met? How I saved you?” He swallowed hard, his eyes glassy in the soft shadows wafting through the room. “Do you remember?”

  Diago recalled the taste of blood and grit between his teeth. Then a hand had emerged from the darkness, gently brushing his hair from his brow. “I remember.”

  “You always said I saved you, but I didn’t. It was you who saved me. When I saw you, I knew I wasn’t insane. All those memories tumbling through my head abruptly made sense. I remembered our firstborn lives, and how I abandoned you to die alone. And suddenly here you were again, and I knew I had a chance to win you back, and I swore that if I ever did, I would stand by you, nothing would ever part us, not the angels, or the daimons, or even the Inner Guard. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Diago?”

  He’s saying he’s sorry for something that happened five incarnations ago. Diago drew his husband close, wishing he could stop Miquel’s pain with the force of his own body. And his guilt for that firstborn life is why he always tries to be so strong for me in this one. Now it’s my turn to be strong for him.

  “I understand,” Diago whispered. “We can use the past to change the present, and then we must let our firstborn lives go.” He took the jewelry box from his pocket and placed it against his husband’s palm.

  Miquel frowned. “What is this?”

  “A gift.”

  Miquel lifted the lid. He said nothing for a full minute. “How did you find it?”

  “I didn’t. Guillermo made a new one for you.” Diago removed the wedding band from the box and placed it on his husband’s finger.

  Miquel smiled, and for just a moment Diago saw the gentle husband he recalled from before the war. Such dark eyes, but when he smiles, he fills my heart with the sun.

  Holding up his hand, Miquel admired the gold ring. Like the one he’d lost, the band was inscribed with the sigils they’d chosen to represent their love. “I know you think I’m a fool for putting such stock in these things, but I feel complete again.”

  “I don’t think you’re a fool. Our love is greater than any band of gold or silver, but rings are symbols, and symbols have power.”

  “Like our love,” Miquel murmured, his eyes already closing. “Our love has power.”

  Diago drew him close and stroked his hair. “Like our love.”

  Glossary

  angels Creatures from another dimension that invaded the antediluvian earthly realm. They warred with the daimons for control of the mortals. The angels caused the Great Flood in order to force the daimons to capitulate to their demands. Rather than watch the mortals destroyed, the daimons surrendered. While no daimonic uprising has occurred in centuries, the angels sometimes engage in civil wars. These conflicts often bleed down into the mortal realm.

  angel-born nefilim (often shortened to angel-born) Nefilim who can claim direct lineage to an angelic ancestor.

  daimons The old earth gods who resided in the mortal realm before the invasion of the angelic hordes. Most have retreated to homes deep beneath the earth and have removed themselves from mortal affairs. Others, like Diago’s grandfather, Moloch, work toward reasserting themselves and their presence in the mortal world.

  daimon-born nefilim (often shortened to daimon-born) Nefilim who claim direct lineage to a daimonic ancestor.

  Die Nephilim The German Inner Guard, led by Ilsa Jaeger. Her second-in-command is Erich Heines.

  Fallen The Fallen are angels who have been cast out of the angelic ranks and forced to live in the mortal realm.

  Grigori Also known as the Watchers. A group of angels that committed vile crimes against the mortals. The Grigori were cast out of the angelic realms. Their wings were torn from their bodies and they were buried deep beneath the stones of the earth, where they live in eternal torment.

  Il Nephilim The Italian Inner Guard, led by Matteo de Luca. His second-in-command is Chiara Ricci.

  Inner Guard The Inner Guard functions much like a central intelligence agency for the angels. The Inner Guard is comprised of angel-born nefilim that monitor daimonic activity for the angels. Each mortal country has a division of nefilim to serve in this capacity. During times of war, they often fight alongside mortals.

  Los Nefilim The Spanish Inner Guard, led by Guillermo Ramírez. His second-in-command is Miquel de Torrellas.

  Les Néphilim The French Inner Guard, led by Sabine Rousseau. Her second-in-command is Jean Marchand.

  Messengers (also known as Malakim) These angels are the closest in form to the mortals, and because of this, they serve as messengers between the Thrones and the nefilim. They also mate with both the mortals and the nefilim in carefully orchestrated breeding plans designed to produce powerful nefilim.

  nefilim/Nephilim The nefilim are often distinguished as either angel- or daimon-born. All nefilim reincarnate and retain memories of their past lives, with their firstborn and current lives being the most important.

  Ophanim An angelic species, the Ophanim have thousands of eyes and are the lords of fire that float just beyond the river of fire’s shore. Shaped like blazing wheels, they spin in place and maintain the complex glyphs that are portals from one dimension to another.

  pocket realms Unlike angelic realms, which create pathways to completely separate dimensions, pocket realms remain just under the veneer of the mortal realm, like a body beneath a blanket. Such realms are often used by nefilim as bunkers or covert black sites, but they are extremely difficult to maintain.

  Principalities Angels that rule over specific countries in the earthly realm. The kings and queens of the Inner Guard report to their respective Principality through the Messenger angel assigned to their division.

  rogues Nefilim who do not join the Inner Guard are known as rogues. Rogues move independently among the mortals. While they lack the networks and structure that enable the Inner Guard to move freely during mortal wars, rogues have been known to organize to protect their own interests. They have their own set of arcane codes and rituals, which dictates their behavior among both the mor
tals and other nefilim.

  Thrones Probably the closest thing that stands as a collective godhead to the nefilim. The Thrones are fiery angels that are never seen in the mortal realm.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks always go first and foremost to my family, especially to my husband, Dick, who does so many things to make sure I have time to write.

  To Michael R. Fletcher for reading and rereading my opening sequences until I got the action just right. To Michael Mammay for his military expertise and assistance with military terminology.

  For my fabulous first readers: Rhi Hopkins, Glinda Harrison, Courtney Schafer, and Vinnie Russo. To Josep Oriol for his early assistance on Barcelona and for pointing me toward period Catalonian resources. Likewise, to Ollivier Robert for helping me navigate the Paris metro and for sending me links to French resources I wouldn’t otherwise have been able to locate on my own.

  If I made any mistakes in the facts, they are mine and certainly not theirs.

  To the Extraordinary Fellows of Arcane Sorcery: you know who you are. You’re a magnificent lot, and I’m proud to say I’ve been a part of your group.

  To Lisa Rodgers, who always has my back and whose mad editing skills help me to be a better writer. And especially to David Pomerico and the team at Harper Voyager, who believed in this series and made it happen.

  My deepest gratitude goes to my readers. This book couldn’t have happened without you and your support. Thank you for giving this story your time. I hope you enjoyed it.

  I will watch for you . . .

  Source Books & Inspiration

  Where Oblivion Lives

  Andalusian Poems, translated by Christopher Middleton and Leticia Garza-Falcón.

  The Battle for Spain: The Spanish Civil War, 1936–1939, by Antony Beevor.

  The Battlefields of the First World War: The Unseen Panoramas of the Western Front, by Peter Barton.

  The Dictionary of Homophobia: A Global History of Gay & Lesbian Experience, edited by Louis-Georges Tin and translated by Marek Redburn.