Where Oblivion Lives

by T. Frohock

  Guillermo reversed the ward over the lock and opened the door. He stepped onto the porch, the dread from his nightmare following him into the day. “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve lost three nefilim,” Bernardo said with no preamble, gesturing toward the hulking shape of a lorry parked in the yard.

  “Oh, goddamn,” Guillermo muttered, following Bernardo from the cool flagstones to the rocky soil.

  In spite of the weak light, Guillermo recognized Carme squatting on the tailgate. Her motorcycle leaned against the lorry. She and Bernardo must have cut the engines and coasted into the yard to keep from waking his family.

  As he and Bernardo neared, she moved to one side so he could see the three bodies laid side by side on the bed. The trio was covered by tarps. Without waiting to be asked, Carme pulled back the canvas on the first body and shined the beam of her torch over the face.

  It was Lucia. From the angle of her head, it was clear her neck had been broken. The binding glyphs Juanita had seared into her flesh were now nothing more than charred shadows on her throat and arms.

  While her death gave him no pleasure, Guillermo likewise found no grief in his heart for her passing. She had given information to his enemies. In a final act of treachery, she had taken the names of her coconspirators into her next incarnation.

  Guillermo had nothing for the passing of Lucia Urbina other than the cold rage burning in his chest. “Who are the other two?”

  Carme answered him. “Valeria Soto and Enrique Rosales. It was their shift to guard her.”

  “Shit and bitter shit.” Guillermo’s stomach clenched. “There will be blood for this.” Valeria and Enrique had been as loyal and trustworthy to him as they were to each other. And right now I need nefilim like them at my back. “What the hell happened out there?”

  Carme jumped down. “We found Enrique’s body outside, so he must have gone to investigate. The intruder garroted him. Then one of them shot Valeria before she could radio the situation to us.”

  Guillermo turned to Bernardo. “Get Miquel.”

  The priest didn’t move. “Eva is already on her way to wake him. She’ll stay with Rafael.”

  Guillermo lifted the tarp from Valeria’s face. A bullet hole pierced the center of her forehead. Another had torn through her larynx. The shot to the head had killed her. The other was a more ancient gesture, symbolic of silencing an enemy’s song. He kissed his palm and rested his hand over her throat. “We will watch for you, my good servant Valeria Soto.”

  It was the nefilim’s prayer and served as a good-bye, or a blessing, or a curse. To watch for another meant they would search the eyes of every soul until they found each other again, either in this incarnation or the next.

  He repeated the motion and the promise with Enrique’s corpse while noting his severed larynx. “Our killer is bringing ancient tactics into the twentieth century.” He showed the others the crushed larynxes. “We’re dealing with an old nefil, one who has been through at least three incarnations, maybe more.”

  When he came to Lucia, he noticed her larynx remained intact. “And with this one: any doubts about her guilt should be assuaged.” He touched her throat. “The killers didn’t steal her voice, so we know she worked for them.”

  “Still, they silenced her,” Carme said.

  “Yes, they did.” He leaned over her body and growled, “Carry my curse into your next incarnation, Lucia Urbina. You will pay for your treachery. I will watch for you.”

  He jerked the tarp over her face just as Miquel reached them. Unlike Guillermo, he had taken the time to dress.

  At least one of us is ready for the day. He nodded a greeting. “Did Eva brief you?”

  Miquel tossed his cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel. “We’ve got three dead.”

  “Good. We can forgo that part of the report. Now that you’re here, Carme can tell us how someone slipped past our wards.” He turned his glare on her.

  She didn’t flinch. “Salvador Muñoz was in charge of the sigils in that sector,” she said. “He’s missing. I found two sets of footprints around the finca. One of them is his, the other I didn’t recognize. Both pairs led east. I’ve got my people searching the area now.”

  “There’s an old trail there,” Miquel said. “It goes from the backside of our property to the road to Barcelona.” He glanced to the house. “Here comes Juanita.”

  Guillermo turned in time to see his wife slip out the front door. Like Miquel, she had taken the time to dress. She joined them and climbed into the back of the truck to examine the bodies. Holding out her hand, she said, “Give me the light.”

  Carme passed the torch to her.

  She squatted beside Enrique’s body and touched his chin, tilting his head backward. “Miquel, come here and give me your knife.”

  He hoisted himself onto the bed and then passed his pocketknife to her.

  “Hold the light for me.” She indicated the open wound of Enrique’s throat. “Point it here.”

  While they worked, Guillermo turned on Bernardo. “What is our time frame?”

  “According to Alfonso, Valeria radioed in on time at four. When she didn’t check in at five, he contacted Carme, and then he came to get me.”

  That wasn’t too bad. They were just over an hour behind the killers. Guillermo checked his wrist and realized his watch was still beside his bed.

  Juanita rocked back on her heels. “Guillermo.”

  “What?”

  She held a faceted gemstone, which was about the size of his thumbnail, between her fingers. “Jacinth. And it was inserted in Enrique’s larynx.”

  Guillermo held out his hand and she passed the jewel to him. The jacinth triggered his memory of another gem: a dark emerald with an identical cut because it was the mate to this one. But where have I seen them?

  He rubbed his thumb over the face of the gem and slowly became aware of four pairs of eyes watching him. His people awaited his instructions. He needed time.

  Time I don’t have.

  Clutching the jacinth, he turned to Carme. “Go to the trail Miquel mentioned and see if you can examine the tire tracks. Try and figure out what kind of vehicle the killers used. Get someone on the road and question every goat herder and farmer between here and Barcelona. If anyone saw the killers, I want their names. Understand?”

  At her nod, he continued, “But I need you to stay here and double the wards. See to it personally. Set up checkpoints on all the roads surrounding Santuari. I want to know who leaves and who returns down to the minute.”

  “I will, Don Guillermo.” She went to her motorcycle and mounted the bike. With one kick, the engine roared to life and she took off with a plume of dust trailing in her wake.

  Miquel and Juanita covered the bodies again. They jumped down, and Miquel secured the lorry’s tailgate.

  Guillermo turned to the priest. “Take the corpses to the church. There will be no school today or tomorrow.” The day had brightened enough for Guillermo to notice lipstick on Bernardo’s collar. He pointed to his own neck. “Did you cut yourself shaving?”

  Bernardo pulled the white tab free of his collar and examined it. “Um, I was busy taking confession when Alfonso came to me.”

  Miquel raised his eyebrows. “Taking confession at five in the morning? I didn’t realize you were so dedicated, Bernardo.”

  “Maribel, she is a troubled woman.” He coughed and glanced uncomfortably at Juanita’s bemused expression. “I confer with her often over the nature of her”—he cleared his throat and stuffed the clerical collar into his pocket—“the nature of her soul.”

  Guillermo put his hand on Bernardo’s shoulder and guided him toward the driver’s side of the lorry. “Personally, I don’t care if you’re in bed with half of the village. What I do need is my spy inside the church.” He opened the lorry’s door and squeezed Bernardo’s shoulder until the priest winced. “Sometimes mortals do come to the village, so I need for you to act with a modicum of discreti
on. If others see you bleeding in shades of lipstick, they might ask questions, and those questions might reach the cardinals, and then I will have to find another nefil, who I trust as dearly as you, to become our priest. Do you understand how quickly these things can escalate?”

  Bernardo flushed red and nodded. “I do, Don Guillermo. It won’t happen again.”

  Guillermo released him and patted his back. “Good.”

  “I’ll call Esteve to prepare the bodies,” Bernardo said as he got into the cab. “We’ll need coffins.” Still muttering to himself, he started the lorry. The stink of diesel fuel filled the air.

  Guillermo rapped the driver’s door. “I’ll be at the church later.”

  Bernardo raised his hand in acknowledgment and then grinded through the gears.

  A thin brow of gold peeped over the horizon. It wouldn’t be long before members of his staff began to arrive.

  “Come on. I should get dressed.” Guillermo led the way into the house with the jacinth in his hand. Once inside, he went to the kitchen and cleaned Enrique’s blood from the gemstone. Holding it up to the light, he said, “I need to know who owned this.”

  Juanita frowned. “It’s a pity Diago isn’t here. He could divine it for us.”

  “We can’t wait for him to return. We keep taking hits.” That bothered him more than anything. Centuries of hard work were unraveling before his eyes. “We’ve got to find a way to go on the offensive.”

  Miquel eyed the jacinth. “Should we call on the good condesa today?” He meant Christina Banderas, the daimon-born Condesa of Barcelona. “She’s helped us before.”

  “Not from the goodness of her heart, though. She barters with us.”

  “Of course she does.” Miquel shrugged. “Everything has a price.”

  “Her price is always more than I’m willing to give,” Guillermo grumbled. “She wants Catalonia to herself and the daimon-born nefilim. I’ll be damned if I’m giving it to her.”

  Juanita washed her hands in the sink. “I don’t disagree that’s a high price for the lives of three nefilim, but Christina is not unreasonable. It’s one reason why we’ve been able to work together in the past. She knows your position. She will ask for the moon, because it’s her nature, but that doesn’t mean you have to give it to her.”

  “Juanita is right,” Miquel said. “And consider this: whoever murdered our nefilim is not in their first incarnation. That means we all have a history together. We’ve got to have a name.”

  “Okay. We’ll try the condesa. Tell Suero to call Christina as soon as he gets here and arrange a meeting between us. I also want him to call Sofia Corvo.” Sofia coordinated Guillermo’s covert operations throughout Spain from her base in Barcelona. “I want her people to canvass the local rooming houses and hotel registries for weekend guests. If anyone is using a known alias, we might be able to narrow our list of suspects.”

  “You think the jacinth might be a red herring?”

  “I’m assuming nothing until I have evidence in front of me.”

  The phone in Juanita’s clinic began to ring. “I’ll be up to take care of Ysa in a moment,” she called over her shoulder as she hurried down the hall.

  Guillermo jabbed his finger in Miquel’s direction as he walked to the stairs. “Be ready. You’re going with me today.”

  “Good choice,” Miquel said. “I’ll make some coffee.”

  “Coffee will be useful.” Guillermo went to the stairs. He reached the second-floor landing and found his daughter waiting for him in the hall.

  “Papá?” Auburn curls slipped from her braid and gave her a fiery halo. He noticed she’d left the comfort of her stuffed horse in her bedroom. “I dreamed of blood on the walls of the finca.” A hint of fear touched her eyes. “Our sigils were broken and our nefilim were dead.”

  Her words sent a chill through him. His first thought—she is too young for this—died before it truly took root in his mind. A mortal child might not comprehend the violence of her dreams, but Ysa wasn’t mortal.

  With his heart sinking, he knew Juanita was right. I’ve got to teach her. Although doing so would rob Ysa of the last vestiges of her innocence. No matter how badly I want to spare her, I can’t deny what she is, or the potency of her dreams.

  “Well . . . it . . .” He caught himself before he could soften the news as he’d always tried to do in the past. “You dreamed true,” he blurted. “That was Bernardo just now with the bodies.”

  She twisted one of the ribbons on her gown between her fingers. “I saw Enrique and Valeria . . . in my dream.”

  He nodded. “You are right about that, too.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. Her lower lip quivered. “Is it my fault that they’re dead, because I told you about Lucia?”

  “No.” And here, in comforting her, he found his footing again. Although the day is coming when she won’t need me, he thought with a pang.

  Kneeling in front of her, he looked her in the eye and clasped her hands in his. “Never think that. The fault belongs to whoever killed them, but not to you. You saved more lives than you lost, and sometimes, Ysa, that is all you can do.”

  She hugged him, and as he held her, he wished he could stop time . . . just hold this moment and keep her forever unsullied by Los Nefilim’s violence. Yet, in spite of all his power, he knew he couldn’t, nor could he afford to shackle her with ignorance.

  Ysa’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “I’m sorry for Valeria and Enrique, Papá. We will watch for them.”

  “That we will.” He released her and she stepped back.

  She seemed all right. Instead of tears, the fire of her anger rimmed her irises and turned them a deep and violent orange. “Do we know who killed them?”

  Yes, he thought. She’s going to be a fine strong nefil. Guillermo rose and answered her question. “No, not yet, but I have a clue. Now you should get ready for the day. There is no school, but your mamá will need your help.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “Not yet. But soon.”

  “Have you been thinking?” she asked eagerly.

  “Yes, very hard. Now go.”

  For once she didn’t argue with him. He waited until she closed her bedroom door before he returned to his own room.

  Setting the jacinth on his nightstand, Guillermo dressed quickly. When he reached for his watch, the pad caught his eye again. He reread his notes, trying to resurrect both the imagery and feelings from the dream.

  Picking up his pencil, he continued the sketch while glancing from time to time at his notes. The house was old, the wallpaper dark, molded plaster ceilings overhead. Standard, hall tree/angels. He’d underlined the words.

  He filled in the lines around the banner—the eagle, wings spread, clutching a lyre, and then the three fleurs-de-lis surrounding the eagle. Next he added lion’s feet to the hall tree. Working from the bottom up, he fleshed out the angels, drawing their faces from memory. When he finished the sketch, he examined his handiwork.

  The angels’ mouths were open. Open and full of black, he remembered. While examining their faces, he had a sudden epiphany: the angels weren’t rising. The angle of their wings was all wrong for angels ascending.

  “They’re falling,” he whispered, the nightmare’s apprehension enveloped him once more as he thought of Diago. “They are fallen angels defeated in battle . . . but from which war?”

  The Carolingian? The Great War? Each of those conflicts involved the Thrones fighting among themselves, and the fallout had sent more angels plummeting into the mortal world. Some descended into the daimonic realms, carving out an existence within the earth itself. Others went mad and lost their ability to move between the realms; those were the most dangerous of all.

  Could that be the answer to the black pin? Had he sent Diago into the maw of a fallen angel?

  Guillermo lowered the paper and fixed his gaze on the gemstone. No, that theory didn’t fit the facts. The nefilim had encountered numer
ous fallen angels in the past—both the sane and the insane—and none exhibited the ambiguous qualities of Durbach’s entity.

  Downstairs he heard Miquel greet Suero. It was time to go. He folded his notes and put them in his breast pocket along with the gem.

  By the time Suero organized the meeting, it was two o’clock. Christina refused to meet them anywhere except at the Club d’Escorpí at four, most likely on the presumption that the timetable would rush Guillermo and prevent him from arranging an escort into the bowels of daimonic territory.

  On the way out the door, Guillermo paused by Juanita and kissed her cheek. “Tell Sofia I need backup at Club d’Escorpí.” He kissed her on the mouth. “I love you.”

  “And I you. Hurry home.” Juanita picked up the phone.

  “I will.” He fished a cigar out of his pocket as he walked to the car.

  Suero held the door open for him. Miquel was already waiting in the backseat. They stopped by the church and picked up Father Bernardo, who stuffed his bulk into the front seat. He’d left his clerical collar behind and wore a longshoreman’s cap over his unruly hair. “I should be praying for the dead.”

  “Pray we have no more,” Guillermo murmured as Suero turned the car toward Barcelona.

  8

  Barcelona

  Club d’Escorpí

  The Club d’Escorpí nestled on the Carrer dels Flassaders, a narrow street in the labyrinthine neighborhood of La Ribera. Suero was forced to park almost a block away from the club itself. The condesa had chosen her position well. Guillermo’s only way in was on foot through winding alleys that begged for ambush. It was Christina’s way of keeping them humble.

  This was nothing new. She made sure to retain the upper hand in any encounter, and so long as his people weren’t jeopardized, Guillermo allowed her to choose the rendezvous. He hoped if their fortunes were ever reversed, she would offer him the same courtesies.