by T. Frohock
“We’re going to play Grier’s game and see where it leads. Suero placed a call to the brothers earlier today, and the housekeeper said Karl would be in touch this afternoon.” Guillermo inserted two more files into the briefcase. “I’m pretending to be a buyer for the Stradivarius. If they bite, and I think they will, I’ll send you as my appraiser before making an offer. I just need to find someone to send with you.”
“No.”
Guillermo frowned and withdrew his lighter. Two clicks of the lid and then, “What?”
“I need to do this alone.”
“You’ve got nothing to prove, Diago.”
“The hell I don’t,” he said with perhaps more heat than he intended. “I know you’ve got people close to you who still don’t trust me. If you send someone with me, regardless of your intentions, you’re signaling that I need to be watched. This is precisely the kind of chance I need to prove my worth to Los Nefilim. Help me earn their trust. Let me go alone.”
Guillermo caressed the lighter with his thumb and considered the issue. “Okay, tough guy, you go alone. Find the violin, get whatever information you can, and get out. But”—he lifted the briefcase, holding it just out of Diago’s reach—“if you need help, pull out, and call for reinforcements. Understand?”
“Yes.” Diago grabbed the briefcase before Guillermo could change his mind.
“If Grier follows through like I think he will, I’ll set things up with Rousseau to get you into Germany under Jaeger’s nose.”
“You forget that I spent most of my life as a rogue.” His longtime refusal to join Los Nefilim was not unusual among the nefilim. Many others, belonging to the ranks of both the angel- and daimon-born nefilim, roamed outside the martial confines of the Inner Guards and either worked as mercenaries or abjured the supernatural wars altogether. “I know how to circumvent the Inner Guards.”
“And you forget that those days are gone. You’re now a member of the Inner Guard and officially linked to Los Nefilim. Rousseau is an ally, and we want to keep our relations with her on good terms. So we follow her lead and make sure nothing trickles back to her side of the border, or down to ours.”
“Understood.” Playing by the Inner Guards’ terms of engagement made his job more difficult, but not impossible. Diago glanced into Guillermo’s office. “What about the violin case?”
“I’ll send it to your house later.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes—you and Miquel and Rafael will have lunch with us today. Don’t say no.”
“Will Lucia and her viperish tongue be in attendance?” The governess for Guillermo’s daughter, Ysabel, made no secret of her hatred for Diago, and by extension, Rafael. “I don’t ask for myself, because I can sling barbs back at her, but she has taken to insulting Rafael, and that I will not tolerate.”
“Ah. Lucia is on business elsewhere. So now you must say yes.”
“Then I say yes.”
“Excellent.” Guillermo steered Diago toward the landing. “So tell me: any progress?”
“With?”
“The composition for the Key. How is it coming?”
The eagerness in Guillermo’s voice almost robbed Diago of his ability to answer. The truth. Tell him the truth. He took a deep breath. “I haven’t been working on it. At all. I can’t seem to get focused.”
Guillermo toyed with his lighter, thumbing the lid up and down for two beats as he considered the confession. His disappointment was palpable, and Diago felt sick.
Three heartbeats passed before Guillermo asked, “Any reason why?”
Diago fumbled with the briefcase’s straps, not wanting to mention the nightmares for fear Guillermo would change his mind about sending him alone. “I feel overwhelmed, and I don’t know . . .”
“Trapped?”
“Yes.” He exhaled the word as a relieved sigh, because it was true. “Yes, I feel trapped by Los Nefilim, the Inner Guard, codes of silence I barely understand”—unable to meet his friend’s eyes, he looked away—“by fatherhood. Isn’t that a horrible thing to say?”
“No. It’s not,” Guillermo said. “Rafael is a good child, eager to please, but he also came to you with problems of his own. Those issues use your mental energy the same way working on a composition might.”
Exactly. And there’s more, of course. “He wants his mother. He always wants his mother.” But his mother is dead, because everything dies, even the angels. “It’s the one thing I can’t give him.”
“That’ll never change. He’ll always want her.” Guillermo didn’t reassure him with platitudes. That wasn’t his way.
Diago winced. “Couldn’t you lie to me just once?”
“I’ll get you a dog. Dogs always love you.”
“I don’t want a dog.”
“Then you get the truth. Look, none of this is your fault,” Guillermo hurried to assure him. “But the fact remains that you missed some formative bonding years with Rafael. You didn’t find him until he was six. You’re working hard to make up for lost time and help him accustom himself to life in Santuari, just like you’re learning to adjust. So I understand, it’s just—”
“We need that composition.” Diago finished the thought for him. “I know that, and I’m frustrated because I haven’t found the triggers to stimulate the right memories. And maybe it’s because I need to ask for help.”
“You tell me what you need and it’s yours.”
“Well, we were in our last incarnation together. It could be that you’ll remember something I’ve forgotten. So once I’ve returned from Germany, maybe we could collaborate?”
Guillermo locked the office door and clamped his hand on Diago’s shoulder. “Nothing would please me more than to compose with you again.”
“Yes, it’ll be just like we used to be before . . .” Diago caught himself before he completed the sentence with before we destroyed each other in our firstborn lives when you were Solomon and I was Asaph.
In that firstborn life Asaph had sworn his fealty to Solomon only to betray him. They had been like brothers until the daimons drove them apart with lies. Pride and a desire for revenge had turned their final days to ashes.
But that is the past, and the past is as dead as Solomon and Asaph. We’re in an incarnation far, far from those dark days.
Guillermo seemed to feel the same way. “Before we grew apart?”
Relieved, Diago whispered, “Exactly.”
3
Lingering over wine and empty plates, a pleasant silence fell over the two families—at least until Ysabel nudged Rafael. Diago absently wondered what she had put him up to now. Over the last several months, Guillermo’s daughter had adopted Rafael as the sibling she’d always wanted, and the two had quickly become friends. Unfortunately, that also meant Rafael was often dragged into Ysabel’s many schemes. Neither acorn fell far from the trees that spawned them.
“Go on, ask him,” she whispered.
“Okay, okay.” Rafael chased the last almonds of his dessert around his plate with his spoon. “Papá, may I play fútbol with Ysabel after lunch?”
“That depends on Don Guillermo and Doña Juanita.”
Guillermo traded a calculating look with Juanita. “I don’t see the harm in it.” Before Ysabel could move, he pointed at his jubilant daughter. “But it had better be fútbol and not that spy game you’ve started playing. No more of that. I don’t want you creeping around the compound listening under windows. Do you understand me?”
With her round face and thick auburn curls, she was an eight-year-old version of her father, right down to the way her face belied her guilt when caught flat-footed in a scheme. “How am I ever going to be a proper nefil if I don’t learn how to gather information?”
“If you want to be a proper nefil, you’ll follow orders and I’ve just given you one.”
Ysa showed no sign of letting the argument go, however. “You said you learned on the streets when you were younger than me.”
“That was a
different time.”
“Not that different,” Juanita said.
Guillermo’s cheeks flushed pink. “Whose side are you on?”
As cool as her milk-pale skin, Juanita rested her chin on her hand and met her husband’s glare. “It’s not about sides. If she was a boy, you’d be complimenting her on her acumen.”
“That’s not fair,” Guillermo shot back. “I give my experienced female Guards the same respect and assignments as I do the males.”
Ysabel seized the opening. “How did they get their experience?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “By doing the work.”
“They weren’t eight years old.”
“I want to learn, Papá.”
Seeking to help his friend, Rafael said, “Ysa is really very good at it, Don Guillermo, and she is very careful.”
High praise indeed, given that Rafael spent his first six years on the streets. Nonetheless, Diago touched his son’s arm and whispered, “Be still.”
Miquel, meanwhile, lit a cigarette and developed a sudden keen interest in the Picasso hanging on the opposite wall.
Guillermo ignored everyone but Ysabel. “This has nothing to do with your gender. You’re my daughter. If something happens to you, my heart will die.”
An appeal to the emotions. Nice save, Diago thought, taking mental notes in case Rafael developed a sudden interest in proving his value to the Inner Guard through espionage. Fortunately, his son seemed more intent on picking the almonds off his plate with his fingers.
Ysa stood her ground and retorted, “I’d be in a lot less danger with your guidance.”
And touché. Diago wondered what prompted her to challenge her father today. A quick glance at Juanita told him that whatever the reason, she supported Ysa’s cause, because she assessed her daughter’s attitude with the eye of a maestro watching her student deliver a master performance.
Guillermo sighed and reclined in his chair, studying his daughter, who didn’t flinch from the examination. Reaching for a cigar, he took his time preparing it. The only sound in the dining room was the snip of his cigar cutter, followed by the click of his lighter’s wheel.
Once the cigar was lit, he puffed a cloud of blue smoke over the table. “I’ll think about it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That means the answer is no.”
“It means I’ll think about it.”
“Today?”
He enunciated each word slowly to make himself plain. “When I get time.”
Stalemate. Diago took Rafael’s napkin from the boy’s lap and nodded at his sticky fingers.
Getting the hint, Rafael licked his fingers and then wiped them with the napkin.
Diago frowned but said nothing this time. Definitely no spying for him until we get his table manners under control.
Ysabel glanced at her mother, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
Ysa’s disappointment was palpable, but she followed her mother’s advice and retreated. “Okay, Papá.”
A wise move. Pushing Guillermo into a corner was never a good idea.
“Good. Now go play,” said Guillermo. “You want to grow up too fast. Be a child while you can. You have a guest”—he nodded at Rafael—“be a good host.”
She reached over and tugged Rafael’s sleeve. “Come on, we’ll go—”
“To your room,” Juanita finished for her. “Rafael is still in his school clothes. You can play fútbol later.”
Diago folded his son’s napkin. “Go on. We’ll call you when it’s time to go.”
“Okay.” He put his arms around Diago’s neck and whispered in his ear. “She’s going to be mad now.”
“Be a good friend to her then,” he murmured back and then kissed his son’s cheek.
When Rafael drew alongside her, he took her hand and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. Diago noted that Guillermo watched his daughter’s back with equal parts trepidation and admiration.
After the children were out of earshot, Juanita said, “She has your craving for knowledge, Guillermo, and she is ready to begin learning about the family business.”
Guillermo’s cheeks reddened again, but this time from chagrin rather than anger, because everyone at the table knew Juanita spoke the truth.
She continued, “Besides, she’s right: it’s better she work under your supervision rather than running amok on her own.”
“I said I would think about it.” Guillermo waved his cigar in Diago’s direction. “Do Miquel and Rafael gang up on you like this?”
“All the time.”
Miquel crushed his cigarette in the saucer. “Not all the time.”
“And you stand your ground, right?” Guillermo asked.
“Actually . . . um . . . they usually win.”
Guillermo bit down on his cigar. “You’re not helping me.”
Diago shrugged. “You have to admit, Ysa handles herself exceptionally well.”
Guillermo raised his hand for peace. “Okay, okay. I’m thinking about it. Now if you two will excuse us, I need to talk to Miquel in my office.”
Diago glanced at his husband. Whatever it was, Miquel wasn’t surprised. In fact, he appeared relaxed, even a little excited about the meeting, so the conversation probably bore no relation to wolves and the gaols in which they were kept.
“Take your time,” Diago said.
“I will. You talk to Juanita.” Miquel leaned close. “Like you promised.”
She tilted her wineglass to him. “I am at your service.”
Diago forced a smile to his lips. He hoped it didn’t look as painful as it felt. “Wonderful.”
Miquel stroked the back of Diago’s hand as he rose. “Did you think I was going to forget?”
“I had hoped.” In vain, he thought. We know each other far too well.
Miquel tipped him a wink before he followed Guillermo out of the room. Once they were gone, Diago leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “He knows what you’re saying is true.” He glanced at her. “About Ysa, I mean. He’ll come to terms with it soon.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” she said with more resignation than anger. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to give him a strong push in the right direction regarding her upbringing.”
An easy silence fell between them. Juanita was the first to break it. “You look like a man in need of a nap,” she said.
“Between the esqueixada and Guillermo’s wine, it shouldn’t be hard. Unfortunately, I have to delay my sleep in order to talk to you about my inability to sleep. But I may fall asleep doing it.” He raised his glass. “A paradox.”
She smiled at him as one of the cook’s assistants entered the room and began stacking the dirty dishes.
Juanita stood and tilted her head toward the door. “Let’s go to my office.”
Diago didn’t argue. If Carme hunted traitors, even the most innocuous comments had a way of becoming incriminating when passed along as hearsay.
Juanita waited until he joined her in the corridor, and they walked together to her clinic. When she closed the door of the examining room, he said, “This doesn’t have to take long. I just need the proper dosage of Veronal, or some other barbitone, to drown the dreams.”
She unlocked her office door and went inside. Having never seen her inner sanctum, he satisfied his curiosity with a peek. Her desk sat between a sideboard and a bookcase filled with medical texts, which all seemed very mundane until he noted some of the titles were in ancient Greek. Along another wall was a divan with a chair beside it.
“Why is your first suggestion a mortal remedy?” she asked.
Diago lingered at the threshold. “Because I hate you prying around in my head.”
Juanita went to the couch and gestured for him to sit. “I love you for your honesty, Diago. However, your reliance on mortal remedies cripples you.”
“How so?”
“Come in and close the door.”
“I thought we were just going to talk.”
“We are.” She patted the divan again. “And then we are going to see if we can solve your problem.” When he still didn’t move, she lowered her voice. “I’m not going to strong-arm you into this, Diago, but I need your cooperation. If you don’t want my help, then we can tell Miquel we talked and couldn’t find a solution. That’s all.”
Except that would be a half-truth, a lie of omission, and how many of those had caught up to him over the years? Too many. Miquel deserved better. And I promised him that I would let her help me.
“Okay, okay, you win.” Whether he meant Juanita or his conscience, he wasn’t sure. Determined to see the procedure through, he summoned his courage, shut the door, and went to the couch. As he sat, he asked, “Now I get my answer: How have I crippled myself?”
She brought him a pillow. “The dreams are a good example. Your first impulse is to drown them with drugs, instead of using your abilities to probe deeper into their meaning.”
“I see you’ve been reading Freud again.”
“Freud is a quack. Jung is closer to the mark.”
In spite of his nervousness, he laughed.
“Now lie back and let’s talk about these nightmares.”
“I can talk sitting up.”
“Work with me, Diago.”
“I don’t remember them,” he said as he reclined. “The moment I awaken, the images are gone.”
“And the music?”
He thought back to this morning’s exercise on the piano. “I recall a few chords, but even those are distorted.”
She sat beside him and combed his hair from his forehead with her fingers. “The first thing I want to do is diagnose why you can’t remember. We need to see if there is some supernatural reason, or if you’re subconsciously blocking an emotionally painful memory. What I will do is open the channel between the subconscious and the conscious, so that you can recall the nightmare. Then you should be able to interpret the significance of the images.”
“This is the part where you go into my brain, isn’t it?”
“Only with your permission. But yes, I do want to establish a mental connection with you.” As she spoke, she allowed her glamour to slip and wore her mortal body loosely. The light filtering through a window shimmered around her three sets of wings.