by T. Frohock
Nevertheless, while he admired her—she was a worthy foe and a fierce tactician—he didn’t intend to walk into her territories without insurance of his own. He scanned the street and noted the presence of Josefina Zavala, one of Sofia Corvo’s lieutenants.
Dressed in a coverall and a flat cap, Josefina could be mistaken for a tall thin man. Her hands were thrust in the coverall’s deep pockets, where Guillermo had no doubt she stored an array of weaponry.
Josefina tossed her cigarette to the gutter and waited as patiently as a spider on her web.
Guillermo tapped Suero’s shoulder. “Stay with the car.” The young nefil gave him a sharp nod. It wasn’t an insignificant assignment. While they were inside, Suero would monitor the sidewalks and be ready to move them out on a moment’s notice if necessary.
“Bernardo, you come with us. Stay in the background, keep your eyes open. Miquel, you’re with me.”
They exited the car. Lean and lethal, Josefina fell into step beside Bernardo as they entered Flassaders.
“I have the list you asked for, Don Guillermo,” she said quietly, seemingly without moving her lips.
“Good, we’ll look at it after we finish with the condesa.”
Despite his wariness, Guillermo walked the street as if he owned it. To show fear invited contempt, and right now he needed their respect.
The surrounding buildings brought an early twilight to Flassaders. The few mortals they passed stepped aside for Guillermo and his people. To them, he was a well-dressed man surrounded by bodyguards. That translated to either a mark or serious trouble in their neighborhood. He felt their eyes on his back as they weighed the odds of staying or finding another street to haunt.
They all decided they had business elsewhere.
Not that their presence meant much to him. Guillermo was more concerned with two scorpions that scuttled out of a drain to watch them from a gutter. A third hung from a gargoyle’s mouth. He noted all three and guessed there were more. The eyes of the daimons were on them.
A poster encased behind broken glass promised an evening of jazz. Over the door were the words club d’escorpí with a scorpion’s tail replacing the letter s.
Josefina touched Guillermo’s arm as she stepped in front of him. She entered the building to announce them . . . and to check for traps. She was gone less than a minute before returning. “It’s clear, Don Guillermo.”
The narrow hall gave way to a wider room. Guillermo stopped at the threshold.
Condesa Christina Banderas stood by the bar. Her hair, normally as black as Miquel’s, had been dyed a stunning platinum blond and marcelled to perfection. Dressed for the evening, she wore a beaded dress and high heels, looking every inch a noblewoman out for a night on the town. She was stunning and well aware of the effect she had on men.
Guillermo’s gaze followed her curves not out of lust but from a sense of self-preservation. He was more concerned about any weaponry she might have concealed under her dress. Although she rarely attacked unless threatened, once menaced she was like the black mamba and would strike again and again until she neutralized the danger.
Five of her nefilim occupied various tables in the room. Guillermo recognized them all as disciplined fighters. Most likely more were nearby, ready to storm the room at the first sign of aggression.
This was what a peaceful meeting looked like between the two groups.
Christina’s dark blue eyes swallowed the light and threw nothing but shadows at Guillermo. She took a black cigarette holder from the bar and casually inserted a slim cigarette. “Don Guillermo . . . or should I say ‘Your Majesty’?” the last coming from her mouth with an ironic lilt.
He ignored the mockery. “Let’s dispense with the formalities. I’m short of time.” He gestured to the threshold. “I will ask permission for myself and my people to enter your establishment so that we can negotiate.”
One of the men rose, languid as a feline, and lit her cigarette. Light skinned with pale eyes, Edur Santxez was a highborn lord within the daimon-born’s echelon and Christina’s lover. While his features weren’t exactly handsome, he was endowed with an abundance of grace and sensuality that accompanied his every move.
From behind a cloud of blue smoke, Christina whispered, “Enter.”
Guillermo strode into the club, motioned to a table, and raised his eyebrows. Christina glided forward and took a seat. He sat opposite her so he could keep one eye on the exit, where Josefina and Bernardo flanked the door. Miquel took the seat between Guillermo and Christina so he could watch the other nefilim.
She acknowledged Miquel. “We’ve missed seeing you in Barcelona, Don Miquel.”
“No, you haven’t,” he retorted.
She smiled.
Now that shots have been fired . . .
Guillermo cleared his throat. “I need to show you something, Condesa.” Acutely aware of Christina’s nefilim and their sudden attention to his movements, he slowly reached into his pocket and produced the jacinth. “I need you to read this gem and tell me who came onto my property to murder three of my nefilim.”
Christina regarded the jacinth in the same manner Guillermo imagined she might appraise a turd dropped on her table. “Where is your pet rogue? I’ve yet to see a stone he cannot read.”
She knew Diago was no longer rogue. Her comment was another dig. She meant to push him. That much he expected. How far he intended to let her go depended on his mood, and he wasn’t feeling affable about delays.
“Diago is currently away on business. That left me two choices: find a rogue to assess the stone or come to you.”
“And we certainly don’t want word to get out that your defenses are down, now do we?”
Jab, jab, jab, he thought. Poke me one more time, and I’ll poke back. “I don’t care if you put it on the wireless the minute I walk out the door,” he lied smoothly. He’d be damned if he intended to give her the satisfaction of scoring points off him. “Heads will decorate my borders when I find the culprits.”
Her eyes narrowed—she knew he was serious now. “Why me?” she asked as she tapped the ashes from her cigarette into an art deco ashtray, which depicted two angels facing each other. It wasn’t lost on Guillermo that the angels’ heads had been removed and their wings broken.
“Rogues don’t have skin in our game. You and I, we have stakes in the outcome of this reading.”
“No one is killing my nefilim.”
“Not yet.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s an observation. Another angelic war is on the horizon.”
She shrugged. “Then it’s in our best interests to sit back and watch you eat yourselves.”
“And if my side loses? Then who gets eaten next? Hmm?” He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “You and I might not like each other, but we’ve reached détente. Yes?”
She smoked and raised one shoulder in a half-hearted acknowledgment of his truth.
Undeterred by her indifference, he went on, “Rest assured you will find no such truce with the side that hunts Los Nefilim. Based on my understanding of the events, one faction of angels wants to wipe the daimon-born from the face of the earth.”
“I have only your word for that, and you want something from me.”
“Check with your people. They know I’m telling you the truth.”
She flicked her ashes into the tray and glanced at Edur. He gave her an almost imperceptible nod.
Rolling the cigarette holder between her fingers, she met Guillermo’s gaze evenly. “What are you offering?”
“Protection. I will bring your troops under my banner to save them. They will be treated with the same respect and dignity that I currently give to my own people.”
“And if I refuse?”
“The other side will carry out their genocide. The daimon-born will find no sanctuary behind my wards, and if I am forced into exile, I will take only my people with me.”
She glared at the gem. “I want our territorial lines re
negotiated, and I want you to take your base of operations out of Catalonia.”
He shot Miquel a raised eyebrow, the equivalent of I told you so.
Miquel made no sign he noticed.
Guillermo shook his head at Christina. “I’ll not willingly pull my operations out of Catalonia for you or anyone else.”
“That’s my offer,” she said. “Take or leave it.”
He felt the gazes of his nefilim on him. Miquel’s dark eyes were inscrutable in the dim light.
Again, Guillermo saw his dream and Diago falling. He fixed Enrique’s and Valeria’s death masks in his mind—their crushed larynxes. I brought all of them to this. He had to know his enemy’s name, or he would keep flailing at shadows until it was too late, but he couldn’t give her what she wanted.
“Well,” he said as he scooped the jacinth into his palm. “A rogue it is, then.” He stood. “But when the war comes, you and your nefilim are on your own.” He gestured to his people.
Her glare turned hard as diamonds. Edur moved to catch her eye.
They were almost at the door when Christina spoke. “Wait.”
Miquel stepped back and Guillermo turned.
Edur had taken his place at Christina’s shoulder.
She motioned for Edur to return to his table. “If this war comes, and I’m forced to seek shelter in Santuari, I will retain my title and holdings.”
“Done,” said Guillermo.
“And I will retain command of my people at all times.”
“Done. Once the war is over, we can renegotiate the port treaties in good faith.”
She made a show of considering his counteroffer and then motioned for him to return to his seat. “I will read for you.”
They took their seats again, and Guillermo returned the jacinth to the scarred surface. “We will have the terms drawn up after I have ascertained the truth of your reading. One thing hinges on the other. Will you take me at my word?”
“We have an agreement. I name Edur Santxez, Cristóbal del Granado, and Iria Mejia as my witnesses to this oath.”
The named nefilim bowed to her will.
“And I name Miquel de Torrellas, Bernardo Ibarra, and Josefina Zavala as mine.” He nodded at the gem. “Shall we begin?”
Christina exhaled twin clouds of smoke through her nostrils. She crushed the smoldering cigarette between the ashtray’s broken angels and assessed the jacinth. “And how do I know I am not condemning one of my own?”
“The nefil who owned this gem is angel-born. I am sure of it.”
With a grace that belied the difficulty of the gesture, she traced a sigil of protection over the jacinth. Humming softly, she charged the ward with the cobalt vibrations of her song.
“When I look into this stone, I will tell you all the things I see, both good and bad.” Closing her eyes, she reached through her wards to take the gem, rolling it across her palm.
The silence stretched between them. A minute passed and then two. Guillermo frowned, resisting the urge to reach for his lighter. Miquel was still as stone.
Christina flinched as if she heard a loud noise. Sweat glistened on her brow. “I see rushes on the floor . . . a banner . . . an eagle with a lyre and a blood-red cross . . .”
Guillermo’s heart jumped. It was the banner from his dream.
“. . . a nefil with red-gold hair wears a red cote . . .”
Red—the color of kings. Guillermo leaned forward, hanging on her every word. Then a date came to him from nowhere: eleven hundred and forty-five.
Christina cocked her head, listening to a sound only she could hear. “. . . I hear voices . . . drums . . . no, not drums but bombs . . . like echoes . . . dark sounds . . . nefilim crying . . . their souls are shadows . . .”
Guillermo glanced at Miquel. A muscle jumped along his jawline. His knuckles were white.
Christina fell silent. Her hands trembled. A thin line of blood leaked from her nose. Foam speckled her lips, bleeding over her lipstick and onto her chin. A seizure gained force and rattled her body. The beads of her dress shimmered like a thousand tears as her heels clacked against the floor.
Edur rushed to her side, but he wasn’t as fast as Guillermo, who reached out and knocked the jacinth from her hand. The seizure stopped the moment she released the jewel.
Edur caught her in his arms.
Miquel slammed his palm on the gemstone to prevent it from flying onto the floor.
Guillermo slowly became aware of drawn weapons on all sides. He kept his hands on the table.
“Put the guns away,” he said to Josefina and Bernardo.
Neither of them appeared happy about the prospect. Guillermo repeated the order, and, slowly, they complied.
Edur murmured to Christina and traced a protective sigil over her brow.
Her eyelids fluttered. She straightened in her chair and smoothed her dress. “Get me a drink,” she whispered as she stroked his arm.
The thin line of a headache fingered its way into Guillermo’s head. “You said you heard voices . . . nefilim crying . . .” He recalled his dream. “Did they sing? Could you see them?”
Christina’s hand shook as she accepted a tumbler from Edur. She sipped the amber liquor and took her time answering him. “Do you understand what I mean when I say dark sounds?”
“Death-songs,” said Miquel.
Christina raised her glass to him. “When either mortals or nefilim suffer a violent death, the frequencies produced by their auras manifest to become black songs, shadows that cling to the mortal realm. They are visible to certain daimons—those of us who know how to look for them.”
Guillermo leaned forward. “And these nefilim who were crying . . . these were the dark sounds you saw?”
“I heard them, but I couldn’t see them. They were behind a veil of gray. When I tried to penetrate to the other side, something attacked me. I’ve never sensed anything like it.”
The black pin. “Can you tell me anything . . . a name, a place . . . ?”
“I sensed trees. Great heavy firs. If I had to guess, I would say the Black Forest.”
Durbach, Guillermo thought. She’s just seen straight into the black pin, where I’ve sent Diago. He deliberately avoided Miquel’s gaze. “Thank you, Condesa. I’ll have my man call Edur when the terms have been drawn. If there is anything I can do—”
“Don’t hurry back.” She tilted her glass toward the door, clearly inviting him to get the hell out of her establishment.
Guillermo took the hint. He turned and strode from the room, his people following him back onto the street.
Miquel returned the jacinth to Guillermo before he lit a cigarette. “If whatever is in Durbach can reach Christina here in Barcelona—”
“Diago will be fine,” Guillermo said with more confidence than he felt. He strode toward the main avenue as if he could leave his misgivings behind. “Christina is only fifty years old and in her second-born life. She doesn’t have Diago’s experience. Let’s work on our problem: the banner, the rushes, the cote. I remembered a year.”
“Eleven hundred and forty-five,” Miquel said.
“Yes. That was the trigger I needed. We were together in that incarnation. Now we’ve got to figure out what happened.”
When they reached the car, Suero opened the back door.
Guillermo gestured to Josefina. “Come with me. Miquel, up front. The rest of you, give me a song of silence.” He got into the backseat, sliding across the bench seat to give Josefina room, and waited for Miquel to take his place in the front.
Bernardo shut the door and traced a sigil of silence over the window, charging it with his song. Suero sauntered around the car as if checking the tires, creating dozens of smaller sigils and sending them shooting beneath the chassis. Soon the car was bedazzled with glyphs. Mortals who glanced their way saw an empty vehicle. Nefilim would only hear the buzz of a distant song, like a radio playing from another room.
Josefina withdrew an envelope from her breast pocket. �
��Look under the Colón. I think you will find a familiar name.”
Guillermo scanned the list. George Abellio. Room 220.
And there it was: that familiar feeling of having an important piece of the puzzle ratchet into place. “My half brother has finally decided to make his move.”
“We should have known.” Miquel spat the words.
“Not necessarily. I’ve made many enemies over my incarnations. It could have been anyone.”
Except Jordi wasn’t anyone.
In their firstborn lives as Solomon and Adonijah, it was Adonijah who was the elder soul, the one in line to inherit command of the nefilim from David. At least until Solomon’s mother, a Messenger angel who called herself Bathsheba, interceded to establish Solomon as the priest-king of the newly formed Inner Guard.
Then I let my arrogance overtake my good sense, betrayed my best friends, and died broken and alone. The Thrones had revoked their blessings on Solomon’s kingship and forbade him from ever reassuming his firstborn name. For his next three incarnations, he had lived as Gilen, Guillem, and then Guillaume, either serving the Inner Guard as a soldier or living as a rogue.
It wasn’t until his previous incarnation, when he was Guillaume, that he had earned the right to be restored to power. I’ll lose command again if I’m not careful. Guillermo remained under the same probation his brother had endured in his last incarnation. He had to watch his step.
Then mind the matter at hand. He checked the dates of Jordi’s stay in Barcelona. The timeline fit. He handed the list to Miquel and spoke to Josefina. “What else have you found?”
“We talked with the maids and got a general description of Abellio.” She handed Guillermo another piece of paper—this one a sketch of his brother’s face.
Lupine eyes stared from a hungry face made craggy and hard. His cheekbones were high, and he wore a light beard. The sketch was in pencil, but Guillermo knew Jordi’s hair was a slightly lighter shade than his own auburn curls. They shared a father; light skin and eyes more orange than brown.
Josefina continued, “He was initially scheduled to leave on Monday, but he extended his stay. So we checked with the train station. Our contact said a man fitting Abellio’s description had tickets to leave Monday morning, but he came early and changed his departure date.”