by T. Frohock
Diago’s heart suddenly constricted in his chest. The pain magnified until it became an agony, but it wasn’t a heart attack, it didn’t feel like a heart attack, no it felt like his heart burned . . . on fire . . . he was unable to breathe . . .
Across the hall, Rudi snapped off the radio, abruptly ending the song.
The brooch slipped free of Diago’s palm and clattered to the floor. Air rushed into his lungs.
“What the hell was that?” he whispered. The anomaly? Was Guillermo’s black pin in the Grier house?
The voice definitely wasn’t angelic, nor was it daimonic.
Yet it feels familiar. Unnerved, Diago skirted the brooch on the floor and walked the perimeter of the room, searching for what, he did not know.
He tried the armoire again: locked.
Under the bed: nothing.
Outside the window: the storm.
Nothing seemed out of place. He knelt and retrieved the pin, rubbing his palm over the discolored silver. The angel’s smile seemed to have broadened.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered. He’d simply rubbed more of the tarnish away.
Someone knocked on his door.
Diago jumped at the sound. Steady.
“Herr Alvarez?” It was Rudi. “Dinner is ready.”
“Just a moment.” Diago pocketed the brooch. Grabbing his jacket, he put it on and wished for a mirror. He would just have to hope he was presentable.
When he stepped into the hall, he noticed that Rudi had changed into more formal attire for dinner. He’d also taken the time to oil his hair into a fashionable style.
Before Diago could stop him, Rudi reached out to straighten Diago’s tie. “There.” He brushed a piece of lint from Diago’s shoulder. “That’s better.”
“Thank you. I couldn’t open the armoire. The key seems to be missing.”
A cloud passed over the youth’s features, but the scowl was there and gone before Diago could be sure whether the frown was directed at him or the inconvenience of a missing key.
Rudi finally whispered, “Be glad.”
Before Diago could question the odd answer, the youth smiled his cat smile and led the way downstairs.
17
The dining room, like the rest of the house, had seen better days yet somehow managed to retain its former glory. A great mirror in a gilded frame hung over the fireplace’s ornate mantel. The oak table was made to seat twenty but was only set for three. A sideboard with a small array of steaming dishes occupied one wall.
Karl stood by the chair at the head of the table, leaving no doubt as to how he perceived his status within the home. “Herr Alvarez, I hope you found your accommodations to your taste.”
Diago hadn’t found anything in this house to his taste, so he opted for diplomacy with a compliment. “You have a very lovely home, Herr Grier.”
“It is our pride.” Karl gestured to the sideboard. “I’m afraid Frau Weber leaves us each day at six so we must serve ourselves. Please help yourself.”
“Thank you.” Diago took a plate and examined the dishes suspiciously. He hadn’t forgotten Harvey Lucas’s missing scarf. Turning to Rudi, he asked, “What do you suggest?”
Flushing with the pleasure of being acknowledged, Rudi lifted the lid of the silver tureen. “I’m having the potato and bean casserole. Frau Weber makes the best I’ve ever eaten.”
Diago followed his lead and portioned a small amount to his plate. He didn’t intend to touch a bite.
Rudi filled his plate and took the seat across from Diago.
Karl returned to the head of the table and continued the conversation. “Did you know there used to be a castle here?”
The image of soldiers loading bodies into a cart sprang back into Diago’s mind unbidden. “Indeed?”
“In the twelfth century, as a matter of fact.”
The twelfth century. The approximate date matched the soldiers’ armor that he’d envisioned on the train. And the workmanship on the brooch. He resisted the urge to reach into his pocket and touch the pin.
Diago picked up his fork. “That’s very interesting.”
That was all the encouragement Karl needed to continue. “We were clearing an area for a garden when I came across a set of foundation stones. Being something of an amateur archaeologist, I began to excavate. Thus far, I’ve uncovered the outline of what appears to be a chapel.”
Diago recalled a red-haired king walking toward a chapel. He holds a dagger in one hand and a piece of parchment in the other. He’s angry—I can tell by the flush of his cheeks. His aura snaps around him in red-gold sparks as he speaks to a soldier and nods at the smithy. My name is Yago, and later I learn that Bernard has been arrested. His detention terrifies me.
The scene disappeared from his mind almost as soon as it arrived, but not the knowledge that Yago’s fear stemmed from the fact that he was spying on that red-haired king. And Bernard was my contact.
Vehmgericht. That ugly word rolled back into his brain. His heart fluttered in his chest.
Diago tried to hide his sudden unease behind a smile. “You must tell me about your findings.”
Enthused by Diago’s interest, Karl continued, “I have it on good authority that Karinhall was built on sacred ground. Local legend has it that a Wotanist priest-king by the name of Sir George Abellio ruled this area in the twelfth century. His rule ended in eleven hundred and forty-five. The church denounced him as a heretic, claiming he was a member of the Antichrist’s army. They murdered him and razed his castle to the ground.”
Diago barely heard him, because now he recalled Sir George and Guillermo’s brother, Jordi, were the same. His mind raced with the implications of this revelation. Was it Jordi who bumped into me and deposited the brooch in my pocket in Barcelona? If so, is he using the Griers to further his own agenda?
No. That didn’t fit Jordi’s methodology—he didn’t trust mortals and never worked with them. Something else was going on here, something deeper.
But what?
Karl carried on the conversation as if Diago hung on his every word. “Sir George is something of a legend here in Durbach—a King Arthur archetype. It is said that he will one day return to reclaim his place as sovereign.” A fanatical gleam touched the young man’s eyes as his voice rose in pitch. “Then he will lead us in a righteous war to cleanse the world of its corruption.”
Diago stirred the tines of his fork through his food. “That’s . . . um . . . quite a story.”
“It gets more ridiculous by the telling,” Rudi said as he tore his bread with slightly more force than necessary.
Karl reined in his enthusiasm for the subject. “As I said, it’s merely a legend.”
It was obvious to Diago that Karl had learned to test other people’s reception to his apocalyptic theories before holding forth too deeply on the subject. Even so, no amount of circumspection could hide Karl’s desire for Lanz’s mythological battle, which would bring about the racist utopia he so desperately craved.
That had to be why he had commandeered his father’s war gear. Except the guns, Diago suddenly realized. Where are Joachim’s guns?
An uneasy silence fell over the table. Diago took a sip of his water, wishing it was coffee. Strong and black enough to wipe this fatigue from my brain. He needed Karl to keep talking, because if Jordi was somehow involved with these mortals, Diago needed to know how and why. Mollify him.
Diago cleared his throat. “I must say, most legends are rooted in truth. Have you located any artifacts?” Brooches engraved with Messenger angels, perhaps?
“Not yet, but since it is just me and my crude implements, the work is slow.”
Rudi curled his lip. “When he’s not sitting in the yard, digging like a farmer, he’s in the basement of the town hall.”
Karl’s jaw tightened in anger, but he didn’t retort. Instead, he gestured at Diago’s right hand with his knife. “Now that I’ve told you about my house, you must tell me about that magnificent piece on you
r finger. What is the story behind it?”
Diago glanced down at his ring and shrugged. “It was a gift from a friend.”
“I’ve never seen a stone quite like it. If you don’t mind my asking, what is it?”
“It’s rare,” Diago hedged, trying to think of an appropriate name for it. Why lie? “I believe the common name is an angel’s tear.”
Rudi pushed his food around on his plate and flicked a coy glance to Diago. “Don’t tears come from the heart?”
Karl ignored his brother. “Do they all have the same coloration?”
“No, they come in a variety of hues. The name seems to have more to do with the hardness of the gemstone. A friend once told me the angel’s tear is equal to the diamond on the Mohs’ scale.”
Rudi sipped from his water glass. “Do you think angels have hard hearts, Herr Alvarez?”
Karl glared at Rudi before addressing Diago with another question. “And the symbols engraved in the band?” he asked. “What do they mean?”
“I don’t know,” Diago lied. “As I said, the ring was a gift from a dear friend. He only told me about the stone. I’m afraid that’s all the information at my disposal.”
“That’s interesting, because the symbols are identical to the ones on the violin.”
Christ, why didn’t I think of that? Because they weren’t identical, at least not to Diago or to any other nefil. Each sigil was as unique as the nefil who created it, but to the mortal eye, they could seem similar. It was the kind of detail that he had never failed to obscure when he lived among the mortals. Santuari had made him lazy. Make the best of it. “Perhaps we could compare them after dinner.”
A smile turned the corner of Karl’s mouth. “You don’t believe me?”
In spite of his best efforts, Diago’s rancor crept into his voice. “I don’t doubt you. I am curious why the whereabouts of the violin are such a mystery.”
Karl shrugged. “It’s a valuable piece.”
“Priceless,” Rudi muttered as he toyed with his food and stared at Diago.
Karl leaned forward. “You must understand that my pursuit of archaeological details about the house has led me to other ancient texts. For example, those symbols”—he pointed to the band of Diago’s ring—“are used by nefilim to work their spells of intent.”
How in the hell had Karl discovered that?
“Spells?” Diago choked on the word. He couldn’t be seen taking this kind of talk seriously. And I have to do it without insulting him. He treated Karl to an incredulous smile and raised his eyebrows. “By nefilim? I thought they were biblical giants, not witches.”
“That is what they have led the mortals to believe. You see, the nefilim controlled the narrative by writing mortal histories. They inserted falsehoods into the myths of ancient beings to disguise their presence among the mortals. Nefilim are actually hybrids, who are the children of angels and mortals.”
Karl was dangerously close to the truth. Nor was it lost on Diago that he used the word mortals in the same context as the nefilim.
Because he thinks he’s one of us.
Diago peered more closely at the brothers. Could that be true? Rudi met Diago’s gaze boldly and it was there that Diago caught the lamplight reflecting in his pupils, giving them the faintest shimmer of luminosity.
Amazing—they are the progeny of lesser nefilim, probably thirteenth or fourteenth generation and definitely angel-born. Far enough removed from their ancestor to have strong psychic abilities for mortals, but according to the nefilim’s laws of consanguinity, the brothers would be considered mortal.
Rudi caught the intensity of Diago’s gaze and winked at him. Suddenly Diago put the coy cat smiles with the wink and realized Rudi’s intentions weren’t nefarious, but amorous.
Christ, I’ve been so busy looking for undercurrents, the waves just rolled over my head. He’s flirting with me.
Diago could just imagine what Karl would think of such a tryst, not to mention the police. Or worse, a judge.
He was almost grateful when Karl redirected his attention back to the subject of nefilim. “I seem to have shocked you.”
Christ, between Rudi’s flirtations and Karl’s sanctimonious blathering, the two of them could keep anyone off balance. Diago returned his attention to Karl. “That’s quite a theory.”
Karl took a bite of food and smiled. “Rest assured, Herr Alvarez, it’s more than a theory. It’s a fact. Nefilim are real and they walk among us.”
“Really? How do you differentiate them from mortals? Do they have wings? Do they soar through the air and work miracles? Are they more beautiful perhaps?”
“No. Their appearance is like you or me; although I believe the nefilim tend to be more charismatic, sexual even.”
“Sexual?”
“Sensuous,” whispered Rudi.
Karl scowled at his brother.
Rudi’s smile withered under his brother’s glare. He bowed his head and nudged his food with his fork.
Diago turned back to Karl. “And is personal magnetism their only supernatural trait?”
With Rudi properly subdued and sidelined, Karl chuckled and ate as if he had not a care in the world. “It’s in their eyes and in their voices.” He tapped his throat for emphasis. “They recognize one another by the way their eyes either reflect light or swallow darkness. And when they sing, they can discern the colors of one another’s songs.”
Karl knew far too much. But does he know everything? Diago’s bemused expression felt like a grimace. Nothing to do now but see this charade to its finish. “There is color in song?”
“Sound waves displace air and produce vibrations, which are invisible to the mortal eye but apparent to the nefilim. It’s a form of chromesthesia, and they use this ability to twist these vibrations into sigils. When the glyphs are in their proper form, the nefilim charge them with the power of their voices to give them a signature that enables them to project their intent onto the ward, which, in turn, is directed toward a unique magical purpose.”
Diago’s mouth dropped open. Christ, he understands it perfectly. Immediately on the heels of that thought came another: and I can’t let him know that. Closing his mouth, he projected a note of suspicion into his voice. “Sigils, you say?”
“Wards, glyphs that are symbols of intent. Like the ones on your ring.”
“I see,” Diago said, feigning curiosity and surprise as he looked at the ring. “And what do they do with these symbols of intent, invoke magical acts?”
Karl brightened as if he had enlightened a particularly difficult student. “Precisely! They use them to make their desires manifest.”
Placing his napkin on the table, Diago said, “That is . . . um . . . an interesting hypothesis, Herr Grier.”
“It’s not a theory. I’ve seen them.”
Who could Karl have possibly seen? Jordi?
No. Jordi might use the mortals to further his own means, but he would never reveal his true nature to them.
Harvey Lucas, perhaps? He had been in this house. Diago was certain of that fact, just as he was certain Harvey, like Jordi, would never reveal himself to mortals.
Diago cleared his throat. “You’ve seen nefilim?”
“Let’s drop this farce, shall we?” Karl nodded at Diago’s ring. “No one but a nefil would wear such a symbol so openly.”
Diago pointed to himself. “And you think I’m a—”
“You’re one of the dark races, so my guess is that your power isn’t very great.”
Diago laughed at him, which wasn’t hard, given the absurdity of Karl’s comments. “Surely you can’t be serious.”
Rudi burst into laughter, too, thoroughly enjoying his brother’s humiliation.
As their mirth dissipated, Diago noticed that Karl’s lip twitched in what was becoming a familiar tic. He’s angry.
Nonetheless, Karl remained resolute in his claims and managed to shift into a conspiratorial tone. “I understand your need for discretion, Herr Alva
rez, but I would wager the Stradivarius that both you and Don Guillermo are actually nefilim. I would even hazard a guess that it was he who gave you that ring.”
“Why, you are positively psychic.”
Rudi’s sharp glance told Diago that the youth had detected his sarcasm.
The derision was lost on Karl, however, who waved the compliment aside with his fork. “I am merely in touch with my true nature, Herr Alvarez. I am knowledgeable about the world around us, both the seen and the unseen.”
“This is all quite . . . disconcerting and amazing.” Diago briefly considered killing the brothers, but that would be messy and bring mortal authorities to the scene. Not to mention members of Die Nephilim. The last thing he needed right now was another meeting with Sturmführer Heines and his Brownshirt goons, who would probably drag him before Queen Jaeger, which would be precisely the kind of incident that would bleed across the border into Rousseau’s territories.
I’ve got to prove to Guillermo that I can work within the confines of Los Nefilim. He needed to find another way to silence Karl.
With a much gentler laugh, Diago wagged a finger at the mortal and said, “I see where this is going. You think that legends of nefilim and angels and mystical glyphs will exaggerate the value of the violin to Don Guillermo.”
Karl’s smile slipped. “What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything, Herr Grier. If you’ve changed your mind about selling the violin, I understand. As Rudi said, the Stradivarius is a priceless instrument, which I am sure has great sentimental value to you.”
Rudi’s shrill laugh startled them. “He could not care less. He hated Father.”
Karl’s face turned a dangerous shade of red. He made a visible struggle to master his rage. “Shut up, Rudi,” he snapped before turning back to Diago. “I’m not trying to influence the value of the violin. And I certainly haven’t changed my mind about selling it. But you have to understand there is much more at stake here than mere money.”
Rudi sneered. “He wants you to take him to this mystical Don Guillermo and present him as a neophyte. He thinks we’re nefilim. He’s swallowed the bunk of that ridiculous Ordo Novi Templi, the New Templars, they call themselves, but they’ve rejected him. Now he’s looking for a new group of fanatics to follow.”