Where Oblivion Lives

by T. Frohock

  Early Monday morning. Christ. They were all very likely in the station at the same time. “Let me guess, he changed it to the Tuesday train.”

  Josefina nodded. “His original ticket was to Paris, but on Monday, he switched his last stop to Portbou at the border.”

  “See if you can find out which train he took in Portbou.”

  “We’ve already got people on it.”

  “Can you connect Muñoz to Abelló?”

  “Three mortals saw Abelló enter a tenement where Muñoz has been keeping a room.”

  “Okay, good work, Josefina. Thank you. What about Muñoz?”

  “He served during the Rif War, so we’re expanding our search south. If he wants to lie low, he’ll head back to the Moroccan hills. He knows his way around the area. We’ll find him if we have to turn every stone between here and the Algerian border.”

  “You make him a priority. I want him alive and ready to answer questions.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew his lighter. “He is going to be an example to us all. Do you understand me?”

  Josefina nodded. “Yes, Don Guillermo.”

  “Questions?”

  “No, Don Guillermo.”

  “Get to work.” He leaned back in the seat.

  Josefina left the car, and the others got in.

  Suero glanced in the rearview mirror. “Where to, Don Guillermo?”

  “I want to go to the Hotel Colón to talk to the manager.”

  Suero nodded and put the car into gear. As he pulled away from the curb, the sigils blew away from the vehicle like leaves in the wind.

  Shadows lengthened over the Plaza de Cataluña, where the Hotel Colón dominated the square. Suero parked the car and started to get out.

  Guillermo shook his head. “You and Bernardo wait with the car. This won’t take long. Miquel, come with me.”

  As they walked up the Plaza’s stairs, Guillermo ran a soldier’s eye over the Colón’s façade. It took him a mere moment to realize what drew his brother to this particular hotel.

  Put a machine gunner in that window beside the last O and they’ll command the square.

  Miquel’s gaze flickered upward before he turned to look over the Plaza. They were thinking the same thing.

  Guillermo paused and drew a cigar from his breast pocket. He snipped the head and took his time lighting it. “Can you get a few of our people on the staff here? Lesser nefilim if possible. Jordi will look right over them.”

  Miquel nodded. “Consider it done. We’ll trace his movements in the major cities and find what other hotels he has frequented. If they have strategic value, we’ll put them under surveillance.”

  “I’ll leave that to you.”

  They continued on their way. In the lobby, the desk manager ran a practiced eye over their clothing. He adjusted his tie and offered them a professional smile. “How may I help you?”

  Guillermo opened his coat and removed Jordi’s sketch. He slid the page across the desk along with a banknote worth a hundred pesetas. “Have you seen this man recently? I understand he was in room 220. George Abellio.”

  “Are you with the police?” The manager palmed the money.

  “Pretend we are,” Miquel said.

  The manager examined the sketch. His smile locked into place.

  He knows something.

  Miquel traced the sketch’s hair with his fingertip. “His hair is coppery. Not as auburn as Don Guillermo’s”—he tilted his head toward Guillermo—“but still a very deep red.” He withdrew his hand, and as if by magic, another bill appeared on the paper.

  The manager’s eyes widened at the banknote. He pocketed the money and then released the sketch. “Yes, yes, I seem to remember him now. He had a rather brusque personality. He didn’t tip very well at all. I recall he received a package while he was here.”

  Now that is interesting. “Do you remember anything about the package?” Guillermo placed another banknote onto the desk. “Big? Small? Maybe where it’s from? Who it was addressed to?”

  “Small enough to conceal in a pocket.” The manager swiped his palm across the counter and the money disappeared. “I wasn’t here when it was delivered, but it seems to me that the postal stamps were German.” He frowned and stared at the ceiling as if the answer might be written overhead. “Yes, the address is right there on the tip of my memory.”

  Miquel rolled his eyes and pushed a fourth banknote onto the counter.

  The manager’s smile broadened. “I remember now. It was addressed to Sir George Abellio in Avignon, France, and the package was mailed from Offenburg.”

  Six kilometers from Durbach. “Thank you, sir. You’ve been most helpful.”

  He and Miquel didn’t speak until they were outside once more.

  Miquel said, “Our last intelligence indicated Jordi was in Belgium, but it seems he has moved to France.”

  “Who could possibly be sending Jordi packages from Durbach?”

  “The Grier brothers? But how the hell would they know about him? Or how to find him?”

  “That’s a damn good question.” It was a riddle. A riddle with a loose end, and he had but one clue. He fingered the jacinth in his pocket as they reached the car.

  “Take us home, Suero.” Guillermo got inside. He withdrew the gemstone and leaned forward, tapping Bernardo’s shoulder with his knuckles. “You didn’t get a good look this morning. Does the stone trigger a memory for you?”

  Bernardo held out his hand and Guillermo passed the jewel to him. He turned the jacinth first one way, and then another as if he intended to fashion a bezel for the gem.

  A flicker of recognition lit his gaze. “I was a blacksmith in that incarnation. I fashioned the jewelry for Sir George. He wanted two brooches.” His profile was as hard as granite. “The jacinth represented George, the emerald represented his lover.”

  Brooches could be mailed in a small box. “And who was his lover in that incarnation? Lucia?”

  Bernardo turned his head toward the window. “I don’t remember.”

  Guillermo narrowed his eyes. Liar.

  31 August 1932

  and the night came down

  9

  Santuari, Spain

  Guillermo and Bernardo buried Lucia in the middle of the night at a crossroad so she couldn’t find her way back to them. Like crushing an enemy’s larynx, it was an ancient custom, one that Guillermo wasn’t sure would work, but he didn’t care. An ample number of his nefilim were superstitious enough to be frightened by the act, and if that kept some of them on edge, it was worth it.

  When they were done, they loaded the shovels into the bed of the lorry. Bernardo drove. As the truck rattled along the road, he said, “I remember when Jordi was Sir George and I was Bernard. Sir George came to me and commissioned the brooches.”

  Guillermo lit a cigar. “Go on.”

  “He was very specific as to how he wanted them to be designed. They had to be identical.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “The center was a Messenger angel with open hands. I was told to set the emerald in the angel’s left palm and the jacinth in his right.”

  “Can you sketch it for me?”

  “I think so. Probably should have young Rafael do it. He’s quite the artist.”

  “He is very talented. We’re going to leave him out of this.”

  “Of course, Don Guillermo.”

  “You said the jacinth represented George, and the emerald represented his lover.”

  “I remember seeing Diago wear one of the brooches. Except in that incarnation, he called himself Yago. The names are very close, so I didn’t want to say anything in front of Miquel. He gets jealous.”

  “An astute observation on your part, but you’re not Miquel’s keeper. Next time I ask you a question like that, tell me.”

  In the glow of the truck’s instrument lights, Bernardo flushed a dark red and nodded. “I’m sorry, Don Guillermo.”

  “You thought you were doing the right thing,
and your loyalty to your friend does you justice.” He patted Bernardo’s arm as the priest pulled into Guillermo’s yard. “Do you remember anything else about that incarnation?”

  “George was king of the Inner Guard. I was in his retinue as a spy. So was Yago. He worked for you. I served as your liaison to him.” He paused and thought for a moment. “That’s all I can remember for now. If anything else comes to me, I’ll call you.”

  “You do that.” Guillermo got out and closed the truck’s door as softly as he could. Leaving his boots on the porch, he slipped into the house.

  Once in his bed, he fell into a deep dreamless sleep. He woke to Juanita bending over him. She gave him a sad smile and stroked his hair. “It’s late.”

  He rubbed his eyes and checked the time. Nine. She’d let him sleep in. He had enough time to get dressed and have breakfast before they would have to leave for the funeral.

  She kissed his forehead. “I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  “No,” he said, his voice gruff with sleep. “Just coffee. Coffee will be useful.” He sat on the edge of his bed and rested his head in his hands.

  After she left, he grabbed his robe and went to take a shower. The house was silent. As she normally did when such a catastrophe struck, Juanita had dismissed the staff so they could attend the funeral.

  Twenty minutes later, Guillermo had donned a suit. He went downstairs to find Ysabel in the dining room with a cup of warm milk. Her unruly curls had been tamed into braids and a small black veil was pinned to her hair. Like her mother, she preferred pants, but this morning, she wore a plain dark dress.

  “Let me see you,” he said as he cupped her chin and tilted her face upward. So young, yet she takes her role so seriously. He adjusted one of her hairpins and said, “I need you to be my eyes and ears today.”

  She grew still beneath his touch.

  “Everyone from town should be at the funeral. I want to know who doesn’t come. Likewise, I want to know if someone attends the funeral and leaves early. Do you understand?”

  A nod. “Why is it important?”

  “It could mean they are making their escape while everyone else is distracted, or they might have a legitimate reason for being absent. We’ll check them all to be certain.”

  “You think there are others like Lucia and Salvador?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. This evening, come upstairs to my office and you can give me your first official report.” He straightened her veil and stood back to examine his handiwork. “There. That’s better.”

  Someone knocked at the door. Juanita emerged from the kitchen and took off her apron. Like her daughter, she wore a dress and a black veil pinned to her hair. “I’ll get it.”

  Guillermo pointed to Ysa’s glass. “Finish your milk. I’m going to get some coffee.”

  By the time he returned, Juanita had escorted Miquel and Rafael into the room.

  Guillermo raised his cup. “Have you had breakfast?”

  Miquel nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

  Rafael toyed with a button on his dark jacket. The child hadn’t seemed this fragile since he’d first come to Santuari a year ago. He’s so lost without Diago.

  Nonetheless, he met Guillermo’s gaze and offered a shy smile. “Good morning, Don Guillermo. I’m sorry your friends died.”

  “Thank you, Rafael. They are your friends, too. You just didn’t get a chance to know them in this incarnation. They will come again. Watch for them.”

  Ysabel left her chair and took Rafael’s hand. They were a miniature bride and groom. Only in dark clothes, and off to mourn instead of celebrate.

  “May we walk together, Papá? Rafael has never been to a funeral before.”

  “Of course you may.”

  Ysa gripped Rafael’s hand in hers and led him to the foyer. “Don’t worry, Rafael. I will show you what to do.”

  Guillermo had no doubt she would. When he was sure they were out of hearing range, he whispered to Miquel, “Bernardo talked to me last night.” He quickly relayed his midnight conversation with the priest.

  Miquel winced when Guillermo mentioned Yago and George, but otherwise made no sign the information bothered him. Of course, he’s a professional to the bone.

  Guillermo continued, “You and I are meeting after the funeral. Grab Suero this morning and whisper in his ear that I want him and Bernardo to search our archives for any information they can find on the nefilim during the twelfth century. Then you and Suero meet me in my office at six.”

  Miquel nodded. “I will.”

  “We should go,” Juanita said.

  “Okay. Okay. I hate these things.” He followed his wife to the front door, where he took his hat and put it on.

  They left the house and walked toward the church, their pace slow to accommodate the children. It was a short walk and the day was pleasant with the seeds of autumn in the air. If they hadn’t been off to a funeral, it would have been a lovely outing.

  They soon reached Santuari’s church, L’Església de la Mercè. The structure possessed none of the elegance of her Barcelona sisters, but her beginnings as a Christian edifice no longer mattered. Now she served Los Nefilim. The grottoes beneath her floors stored their relics and their manuscripts. Their guns. L’Església de la Mercè was old.

  Los Nefilim were ancient.

  The nefilim parted somberly for Guillermo and his family. He went to Enrique’s wife to offer his condolences before moving to Valeria’s lover, and then to her sister. He escorted each of the family members to their seats himself before he took his place with his family behind theirs.

  After the church and graveside services, small groups lingered on the lawn. Guillermo walked among them, wondering how many more of his people were connected to Lucia, Salvador, and Jordi.

  Who will be the next one to stab me in the back?

  One he felt sure of in his loyalty, Miquel, wandered over to him. “I talked to Suero and Bernardo.”

  “Good. I don’t know how late we’ll be tonight. Bring Rafael. He can spend the night with Ysa.”

  “He’ll want to bring his cat.”

  “That’s fine. Cats are nice. They catch rats, and we seem to have a few.”

  10

  Strasbourg, France

  Place de la Gare

  Diago left the train in Strasbourg and stepped aside to let the crowd pass as he got his bearings. With his back against a column, he watched the mortals hurrying to their next destination. Their murmurs ebbed beneath a squall of brakes and the tick of massive engines to momentarily drown the faint ghost-music in his head.

  Although his nightmares had receded somewhat, the violin still hummed in the back of his mind, reaching into his bones, urging him toward his destination. As he neared Durbach, the composition became clearer, less distorted. His desire to reach the Grier brothers grew intense. He was tempted to brush aside Guillermo’s order and cross the border without wasting time with Rousseau’s people. If he did, he could be in Durbach as early as this evening.

  Then what will that say about me and my ability to follow orders? He steadied himself and tried to think of a plausible reason to circumvent Guillermo’s directive. After working the problem from several angles, all that filled his mind was the mental image of Guillermo’s disappointment.

  Besides, what kind of example would I be setting for Rafael? No, his responsibility both to Los Nefilim and his son was clear—he had to play by the rules.

  When the last of the crowd moved toward the station’s main hall, and Diago was certain he wasn’t being followed, he pushed away from the column. He needed to find his contact.

  The tobacconist’s shop wasn’t hard to locate. Inside, a young woman wearing a red bow tie served a customer. Tall and heavy-boned, her mortal ancestry spoke more of German lineage than that of the French. She possessed long golden hair, which she had twisted into braids and twined around her head. Incredibly blue eyes were set over her ruddy cheeks. While her pupils didn’t reflect as strongly as those
of the angel-born, she possessed enough fire in her gaze to indicate she was nefil. Like Suero, she was one of the lesser nefilim, born of a minor spirit.

  She finished with her customer, and as he exited the shop, she turned her attention to Diago. “May I help you, sir?” Her pleasant voice made him think of water murmuring over stones.

  He took off his glove so she could see his missing pinkie and the ring containing Prieto’s tear. “A pack of Lucky Strikes.”

  She gave his hand a quick glance, followed by a much longer examination of his face. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I’m sold out of that brand.”

  Diago noticed five packs of Lucky Strikes in plain view. She’d given him the correct response. Now it was his turn. “What would you recommend?”

  She placed a pack of Gitanes on the counter. “On the house.”

  “Thank you, but I insist on paying.” He gave her enough francs to cover a day’s pay—part of Guillermo’s arrangement with Rousseau. The Inner Guard took care of their own in more ways than one.

  “Thank you.” She smiled and let her gaze travel over him from head to foot. “I leave work at five,” she whispered.

  He nodded as he pocketed the cigarettes. Leaving the shop, he headed straight for the men’s room. Choosing the last stall, he latched the door and opened the package. Inside, a sliver of a note was wrapped around the first cigarette:

  Hotel Hannong.—L

  He knew the place. Checking his watch, he realized they had over an hour before their meeting. Diago lit a cigarette and then burned the note over the commode. He flushed the ashes and transferred the rest of the cigarettes to a silver case before he left the stall. They would make a nice gift for Miquel.

  Outside the wind carried the scent of the nearby river and tugged at the brim of his hat. After being so long on the train, stretching his legs felt good. He took an extra turn around the block before entering the lobby—both to shake loose any tails, and because it was pleasant to do so.