by T. Frohock
“Theozoology, or the Science of the Sodomite Apelings and the Divine Electron.”
He wrinkled his nose and thumbed through the pages. “What is it about?”
“It’s an assimilation of biblical scriptures, apocrypha, and archaeological findings all mingled together with Jörg Lanz von Liebenfels’s racist theories. His gnosis is that the blond and dark races represent good and evil, respectively. He also believes that the blond races interbred with the dark races, and in doing so, they diluted the Aryans’ paranormal powers.”
Miquel’s already black gaze darkened even more. “So what does that make me?”
Diago caressed his husband’s cheek and smiled mischievously. “Between the sheets, you are the devil incarnate.”
Grinning, Miquel leaned over Diago’s lap to drop the book into the open briefcase. “Enough work. It’s time to play.”
Diago didn’t want Rafael stumbling onto the documents, so he closed the briefcase and locked it.
When he looked up again, Miquel held a jewelry box between two fingers. “Something for you.”
A moment of panic ensued as Diago tried to remember what occasion he might have forgotten. It wasn’t their anniversary, or a saint’s day. “Have I missed something?”
“Nothing at all,” Miquel assured him as he pressed the box against Diago’s palm. “It’s a very special gift that I commissioned for you and it was just finished today. I thought about saving it for Christmas, but given your upcoming journey, I decided to make it a going-away present.”
“You spoil me.”
“I know.”
Diago lifted the lid to find a silver ring. The wide band, adorned with sigils carved into the metal, accented a crimson angel’s tear marred by jagged streaks of silver that glittered hard as sorrow.
“Prieto’s tear,” Diago murmured as he tilted the ring to catch the light. The angel, who called himself Beltran Prieto, had given Diago the tear last year. Caring nothing for Prieto or his gifts, Diago had placed the tear in his bureau and forgotten about it.
Apparently Miquel had not.
“Guillermo made the band for you, and Juanita designed the sigils of protection.” Miquel took the ring from the box.
Diago automatically clenched his fist and fought to keep his voice low. “Prieto used us as pawns to further the angels’ war. He is just as bad, if not worse, than his sister, Candela. I want nothing of his.” He turned from Miquel’s steady gaze. “I’m sorry. It’s not that it isn’t beautiful, but every time I look at it, I’ll think of Prieto.”
Miquel took Diago’s right hand and massaged his wrist. “I want you to listen to me.” He ran his thumb over the skin of Diago’s missing pinkie and kissed his knuckle. “I didn’t do this to bring you pain.”
“I know that, but—”
“You can’t listen if you’re talking.”
Diago sighed and bit his lip.
“The other nefilim will only see that you wear an angel’s blessing. This”—he held up the ring—“is a sign of celestial favor, and it was a gift to you, Diago.”
“I didn’t say it—”
“Ay, ay.” He shook his head and pressed one finger to Diago’s lips. “Listen. An angel’s tear carries a portion of their magic and it’s a powerful token. Why do you think Candela gave Rafael her tear?” He didn’t wait for a response but answered his own question. “Because like you, he is part daimon and she wanted him to be accepted unconditionally by the angel-born. Prieto gave you his tear for the same reason. You say he used you, but he was under orders. He took a bad situation and gave you a chance to save Rafael. You did that and so much more.”
Miquel slid the ring onto Diago’s finger. “He was grateful to you and this is your reward. Do you know how hard it is to win an angel’s gratitude?”
Diago said nothing, nor did he remove the ring. While he disdained Prieto’s motives, he wasn’t so obtuse as to completely disregard the angel’s position. Miquel was right. Prieto couldn’t have simply refused an order. To do so would have jeopardized his life. Instead, he’d applied his wits and mitigated the damage, and in doing so he enabled Diago to save his son.
Whispering now, Miquel slid close, the smell of his musk overriding the scent of lavender in his hair. “If you openly wear Prieto’s favor, the others will be confident, not just of you, but that you are instructing Rafael in accordance with Los Nefilim’s values. In this way neither Rafael’s place nor yours will ever be questioned.” He pressed his lips against Diago’s palm. “Bad things are happening, my star. We need to be very careful.”
Diago recalled his conversation with Carme. “Is this because of the wolves in the western field?”
Miquel’s grip tightened and his eyes went dark. “Who have you been talking to?”
“Carme mentioned that we should keep Rafael out of the western fields. Has someone accused me of being unfaithful to Guillermo?”
“No . . . ,” Miquel said. “Not yet.”
“But they could.”
Miquel nodded.
Diago whispered, “Someone with a grudge.”
“Someone who wants you out of the way.”
Someone close to Guillermo. Swiftly on the heels of that thought came a name. Lucia. She was Ysabel’s governess and had her own room in the main house. She never missed a meal with the family.
And she loves Miquel.
She believed that he would love her if only Diago would disappear from their lives. The facts finally clicked into place. She’s the wolf at the western finca.
“It’s Lucia, isn’t it? She’s being interrogated.”
“Yes.”
“How long has she been there?”
“Since dawn.”
Diago recalled Guillermo’s quip about Lucia being on business elsewhere. And what a bloody business it will be.
As far as the leaders of the Inner Guards went, Guillermo was more lenient than most, but he would not suffer a traitor, especially one who endangered his daughter. “Was Lucia caught by Ysabel playing her spy game?”
“Yes.”
Now Guillermo’s reaction to Ysa’s demand to be a spy made sense. If Lucia had caught the child eavesdropping, Ysa might have suffered an accident—a deadly one. Guillermo is scared. He’ll also make an example of Lucia so that others don’t follow her path.
“Was Rafael involved?”
“No, but we’ve increased security on both of the children just the same.”
Relieved, Diago exhaled and looked down at the ring. It was going to take more than the symbolism of an angel’s tear to prove himself to certain members of Los Nefilim. Then I have to demonstrate that I’m above suspicion, not just for my sake, but for Rafael’s as well. And that is why a successful conclusion to this assignment in Germany is so important.
Even so, he didn’t discount Miquel’s concerns about the ring. “If I wear Prieto’s tear, will you relax?”
The relief in Miquel’s eyes told him the answer before his lover breathed, “Yes. Because these wolves, they are not just in the western fields. They are everywhere.”
Diago remembered Carme’s warning. They run in packs. Which meant Carme and Miquel were looking for a cell of traitors within Los Nefilim’s ranks. “Okay. I’ll wear it for Rafael.”
“For you,” Miquel murmured. “Wear it to protect you. Because if you die, you will take my heart with you, and if you take my heart, how will I live?” His lips brushed Diago’s earlobe.
Diago caught his breath as a shiver went through his body. “For us then.”
Miquel left a trail of kisses along his throat. “For us,” he whispered before he covered Diago’s mouth with his own.
28 August 1932
chasing dragons
5
Barcelona
Carrer de la Riereta 31
In El Raval the sun went down on the slums of Chinatown, where the last thin rays of light did more to deepen the gloom than expel it. Three addicts conferred in the recesses of a doorway. Mere shad
ows in the vague twilight, the men showed no overt interest in the tall stranger with red-gold hair, who stood before the narrow gate at Carrer de la Riereta 31.
Jordi Abelló had no doubt the men had marked his presence. He kept them in his peripheral vision. They might be mortal, they could be nefil. Nothing was ever as it seemed in Ciutat Vella, the old city. If they were mortal, so be it. But if they were of a supernatural realm, then evasive measures would be necessary. He couldn’t afford to be caught here by Guillermo’s Inner Guard.
A few meters down the street, one of the addicts giggled. His companion shushed him, glancing at Jordi as he did. The third blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air while feigning the studied calm of a predator.
Jordi’s left hand twitched, itching for the feel of a pistol grip against his palm. He found himself hoping the three men were nefilim. A fight would do him good, release his tension and clear his mind, but the addict’s eyes neither reflected the last of the day’s light nor absorbed the darkness of the shadows—they were indeed mortal and hardly worth his time.
He opened the gate and stepped inside the building. The corridor was dark and the wooden steps sagged beneath his shoes as he climbed. On the second floor, the reek of mortals clotted his sinuses. Voices murmured from behind the doors. A baby wailed with loud angry sobs.
The stairwell constricted like a throat. At the third floor, he stepped off the landing and went to the second door, the one that was red.
Jordi knocked.
Someone shuffled forward and two locks turned before an eye peered through the crack. The door opened.
Jordi stepped inside.
Salvador Muñoz glanced into the hall before shutting the door. He was a wiry nefil who looked more at home slinking through the brush than waiting in an apartment. “You’re late.”
Jordi didn’t like the insolence in the other man’s tone; such impertinence was a sign of lax leadership. That will change when I’ve regained my place as Los Nefilim’s king. For now, though, he let the comment slide. He needed Muñoz.
“Don’t you listen to the radio?” Jordi snapped back. Ever since José Sanjurjo was sentenced, rumors abounded of a second monarchist plot to overthrow the Republic. The entire country was on high alert. “The mortal police and the Civil Guards have patrols everywhere.” He didn’t need to mention that Guillermo had members of the Inner Guard embedded in both.
“We have other problems,” Salvador hissed. Moving away from the threshold, he drew Jordi to the center of the room before he spoke again. “They’ve taken Lucia to the gaol in the western field.”
“Goddamn it. How did it happen?”
“No one knows.”
Jordi moved to the window. “Has she talked?”
“Not yet. Or if she has, Guillermo is waiting until he gathers all the names before he makes more arrests.”
“No, he won’t risk them disappearing in the night.” Jordi knew his half brother’s tactics well. “He’ll move swiftly.”
“She’ll break. Lucia isn’t as tough as she wants us to think.”
“Kill her.”
“I can’t. Two nefilim are with her at all times. They radio in every hour on the hour. Both guards have to be killed, or they’ll raise the alarm. Once the guards are dead, then I’ll have to deal with the wards surrounding Lucia’s cell. It will take time to neutralize those glyphs.”
Jordi didn’t doubt Salvador’s assessment. Whatever sigils guarded Lucia’s cell would be strong, and while Salvador was angel-born, he was merely in his second-born life, lacking both Guillermo’s and Jordi’s experience with complex glyphs.
Salvador continued, “Alone, I’ll never get out of Santuari in time, and I’ll be the gaol’s next resident. I need a partner.”
“Poison her.”
“Please,” he said, sneering. “All her food is monitored and Juanita prepares her meals herself. Guillermo is leaving nothing to chance.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. And everything had been going so well. Jordi rubbed his brow and looked down onto the street. From here, the alley seemed empty. Then another cloud of cigarette smoke emerged from the doorway where the addicts stood.
“Did you just come to me with problems, or do you have a plan?” Jordi drummed restless fingers on the sill.
“I’m in charge of the wards in that sector. I can take them down long enough for another nefil to slip through. We can meet at the finca on the hour, but this is where the timing gets tight. The moment after the guards radio the base, we must take them. That will give us at least thirty minutes to weaken the glyphs, so that one of us can slip inside and kill Lucia. We’ll also need enough time to get away from Santuari before the bodies are discovered.”
It did sound tight, but Jordi had worked under harsher circumstances. “We can’t afford to have this botched. I’ll send her into her next incarnation myself.”
Losing the spies he’d embedded in Guillermo’s ranks would burn, but if he didn’t move fast to pull the other three, he’d lose experienced nefilim as well. And those are more precious than gold right now. “Did you bring a map?”
Salvador went to the room’s sole table and spread a heavily creased piece of paper across the scarred surface. “Here”—he pointed to a gray line—“is the trail that leads behind the property, and here”—he pointed to another area about a kilometer away—“is the finca.”
Jordi calculated the distances. “When are you on duty again?”
“Tomorrow night.”
Monday evening. Now that Sanjurjo’s trial was over, Jordi had planned to leave for France in the morning. I’ve already pushed my luck by staying in Madrid for the duration of the proceedings. But the mortal was a necessary component to Jordi’s long-term plan to regain his rightful place as Los Nefilim’s king, just as Lucia’s capture represented the potential destruction of that objective.
Jordi really had no choice in the matter. He’d have to delay his return to France for another day. “All right, I’ll play mother bird and find some way to draw Guillermo’s attention to me. That should give our people time to cover their tracks. Tell them to abandon Santuari and move to safer ground. We’ll regroup in Portugal.”
“I’ll put out the word.” Salvador seemed relieved.
“When should we meet at the gaol?”
“The best hour to strike is at four in the morning. We can be in and out by five. By the time we reach Barcelona, we’ll be able to blend in with the morning workers so Guillermo’s people in the city won’t notice us.”
“Then it’s a plan.” Jordi nodded. “Any other news?”
“They’re sending Diago to Germany.”
“Do you know why?”
“They found his violin, the Stradivarius he lost during the Great War. It belongs to a pair of mortal brothers named Karl and Rudolf Grier. Diago is going to retrieve it.”
“Do you have an address?”
“Durbach, Germany. That’s all I know. Diago leaves tomorrow morning.”
“Estació de França?”
“Yes. The six o’clock train.”
Jordi had no idea how the information might prove useful, but gathering every stray fact was how he’d managed to stay ahead of Guillermo so far. “Get me more details if you can but don’t jeopardize yourself.” Not until we’ve taken care of Lucia. “Anything else?”
Salvador shook his head. “That’s all I have.”
Jordi folded the map and tucked it into his breast pocket. “Once we’re done, get out of Spain.”
“I’ll contact you again once I’m safe.”
“Good, I’ll see you in the morning.” Jordi didn’t wait for an answer. He went to the door and left the building. Church bells rang as he reached the street. The addicts were gone.
It was a nice evening, so he walked, keeping his head low. If he chanced upon another nefil, he didn’t want them to see the preternatural light in his eyes.
At the Hotel Colón, he slowed when he saw two policemen strolling by the front doors.
They continued past the hotel and stepped around the corner.
Jordi hurried across the street and checked the lobby before entering. A few mortals chatted with one another while others sat and read the newspaper. No nefilim were in sight.
The desk manager perked up when he saw Jordi coming. “Señor Abellio,” he called, using the alias that Jordi had registered with the hotel. The manager waved one hand and then smiled the ingratiating smile that he must wear to bed.
Jordi swerved to reach the desk before the man could call more attention to him. “Yes?”
“A package arrived for you.” He went into the office behind the desk and returned with a small box wrapped in plain brown paper.
The address on the wrapper was to the Avignon apartment Jordi shared with his lover and confidant, Nico Bianchi. The label was addressed to Sir George Abellio. Jordi didn’t recognize the handwriting.
On top of the box was a white envelope with the name George Abellio written in Nico’s distinctive slant. But why had Nico forwarded it here?
Jordi tipped the man and walked toward the elevator, a sense of urgency adding length to his stride. The lift attendant stared impassively at the panel when Jordi barked his floor number at him.
At his floor, Jordi stepped off and went to his room, tossing his key to the desk before he closed the door. Placing the box beside the key, he opened Nico’s envelope first.
J,
The package arrived by courier, who said the contents were for your eyes only and quite urgent. I sent it via a trusted friend on their way to Valencia.
Yours,
N
Jordi doubted the “trusted friend” was on the way to Valencia. Nico was far too careful to give away a tactical position in a note.
Glaring at the package, Jordi removed his coat and loosened his collar. Nico’s apartment was known among many rogues as a contact point for Jordi, so it wouldn’t be unusual for Nico to receive mail for one of Jordi’s aliases.
But why that one? And why Sir George? Sitting at the desk, he turned the nondescript box over. No return address, but several postmarks stamped the package’s route to Avignon.