by T. Frohock
After the last board clattered to the floor, the silence grew so intense Diago thought he’d gone deaf. He counted ten heartbeats, then twenty, and then sixty. When he finally peeked over the lip of the settee, he saw scorch marks smoldered on the wood floor. The armoire’s door hung by a single hinge, but the mirror was intact.
Frauja remained in his prison realm.
For now.
In the hearth, the fire burned low, yet the room seemed brighter. It took him a moment to realize that dawn had come, bringing with it another storm.
2 September 1932
free at last
22
Strasbourg, France
Place de la Gare
At the train station, Guillermo entered the main concourse and soon found the tobacconist’s shop. Inside, a young nefil with blond braids and a red bow tie worked the counter.
Based on Suero’s description, she could be none other than Lorelei. He browsed the counter while he waited for her to finish with two young mortals who were flirting with her. On any other day, Guillermo might have enjoyed the show. Today his temper was as short as his time.
Taking off his gloves, he placed his right hand on the glass case. Lorelei’s gaze flickered to Guillermo’s gold signet of office.
He growled, “My train will be here soon. Can I get some service?”
The more ambitious mortal—or, as Guillermo thought of him, the one with a death wish—glared at Guillermo. “Wait your turn, old man.”
His friend measured Guillermo’s dark scowl and got the message. “Let’s go, Louis.” He aimed a protesting Louis toward the door.
Once they were gone, Lorelei asked, “How was your train, Monsieur?”
“I drove.”
She reached beneath the counter and withdrew a cigar with a gold band. “Then you’re free to enjoy Strasbourg at your leisure. Enjoy your stay.”
Guillermo paid for the cigar and returned to his car. Inside the vehicle, he removed the cigar’s band and noted the address.
Twenty minutes later, Guillermo found the warehouse in a business district near the Rhine. He pulled up to the gate and gave the guard the cigar band.
“Very good, sir. Please follow the road to the right and someone will show you where to park.”
“Thank you.” Guillermo rolled up the window and turned onto the narrow lane.
A woman wearing work clothes and a heavy wool jacket gestured for him to park between two lorries. He grabbed his bag and left the car.
The woman was none other than Sabine Rousseau herself, the queen of Les Néphilim. She was a heavy-bodied woman and almost as tall as Guillermo. Her dark hair showed streaks of silver, and the wrinkles around her eyes had deepened since their last meeting. A thin scar ran from her right brow to her chin—a souvenir from the Great War.
“Madame.” He held out his hand, which she shook with a firm grip. “Your graciousness knows no bounds.”
“Don’t make a saint of me, Don Guillermo. I have my limits, just as you do.” Her smile rounded the sharpness from her words. “I’m glad you arrived safely. We were hoping your man would be headed toward the Angel’s Nest by now.” At Guillermo’s raised eyebrow, she explained, “It’s a pub we own in Kehl. So far, we’ve managed to keep it off Queen Jaeger’s radar, and we use it as a rendezvous.”
“But Diago hasn’t returned?”
“No.” She guided him deeper into the warehouse. “I remember him from the war. He’s cunning and quick. What makes you think he can’t handle the situation?”
“He’s up against a rogue angel.”
“Then I won’t keep you long,” Rousseau said as she opened the door to an office.
A set of dirty workman’s clothes were thrown across a chair. Scuffed boots and heavy gloves completed the outfit.
Guillermo took off his hat. “What do I owe you for all this, Sabine?”
She perched on the corner of the desk and answered his question with a question. “You know that the Nazis gained quite a few seats in the Reichstag this summer?”
He nodded. “I’m aware. We’re keeping an eye on the situation.”
“There’s a nasty little piece of work by the name of Hitler, who is gaining political traction. A couple of years ago, the upper classes laughed him off, thinking him a clown. Now they invite him to their salons and make him the talk of the town. He tells the common people what they want to hear: that he’s going to make Germany a great nation again; there will be jobs and prosperity and he’ll achieve this by kicking all the foreigners out of Germany. In lieu of concrete plans, he offers them nothing but rhetoric, and he fills their empty minds with delusions of grandeur. The people are lapping it up like pigs at a trough.”
The chills going down his back had nothing to do with the warehouse’s icy air. “They want someone to come and solve their problems for them.”
Rousseau’s brow creased. “The angels are . . .”
“Uneasy?” Guillermo unbuttoned his shirt.
She frowned and glanced aside. “Something tells me the Great War was a dress rehearsal.”
“You know I’ll have your back regardless of what the mortals do.” He put his pistol on the desk and asked again, “What do I owe you for this trip?”
“Answers.”
“About what?”
“We followed the trial of the mortal general José Sanjurjo.”
Uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken, Guillermo nonetheless feigned nonchalance. “Then you know he was convicted of treason and is on his way to the Dueso penitentiary.”
She nodded. “Have you managed to tie the event to our affairs?”
“Nothing yet,” Guillermo lied and thought of Jordi. Despite his bluster in front of the countess in Barcelona, Guillermo wasn’t eager to admit to Rousseau that Jordi had murdered three of his nefilim. Rousseau would consider it a brazen act of war, just as Guillermo did. She would also question Guillermo’s ability to cover her nefilim while fighting a war within his own ranks.
She frowned at him, obviously sensing that he held information he wasn’t ready to divulge, but she didn’t push the point. “I want a full briefing on your return from Germany.”
“That I can do.” She’s letting me slide today. Tomorrow might be another story. As soon as he finished this business in Durbach, Jordi would become a top priority.
Rousseau stood and went to the threshold. “I’m sending you across underneath a load of hay. I hope you’re not allergic.”
He smiled and shook his head.
“Good. Once my drivers cross the border, they’ll stop in a field. We’ll have a smaller truck for you, and you’ll have to go on alone.”
“I couldn’t ask for more. How long will it take me to reach Durbach from here?”
“Depends on the border crossing. Forty minutes to an hour? Any other questions?”
“May I use your phone?”
“Help yourself and good luck. We will watch for you.” She shut the door and left him alone.
He picked up the handset and rang Santuari.
Miquel answered.
Guillermo waited for the operator to finish and then said, “I’m going to take care of our business now. Any news?”
“All bad unfortunately. Our good servant committed suicide, but he left a short message about Lisbon. We’re following leads now.”
“Shit. What else? Anything from Diago?”
“He tried to call but we had interference on the lines, sort of like what happened to your radio.”
Jesus Christ. “Is everyone okay?”
“We’re fine. Your teletype, not so much.”
“What happened to my teletype?”
In the background, he heard Juanita’s voice. She said, “Tell him I’ll explain when he gets home. It was worth the loss. The new one will be here in a week.”
“Did you catch that?” Miquel asked.
“Okay—try not to break anything else. I’ll be there soon.”
“Listen, thi
s morning . . .” Miquel hesitated.
Guillermo gripped the handset. “What?”
Another beat passed, and then Miquel blurted, “Rafael woke up hysterical around three this morning. He said Diago was digging through corpses and the dark sounds were getting in his papá’s eyes. We finally got him calm enough to go back to sleep at dawn. I don’t know if that means Diago made it through the night or if he’s—”
“He made it,” Guillermo said before Miquel could go on. He made it and I refuse to believe otherwise. “I’m leaving in a few minutes.”
“Bring him home, Guillermo,” Miquel whispered.
“I will.”
They rang off, and Guillermo finished dressing. He opened the door. The clock on the wall ticked steadily toward eleven.
23
Durbach, Germany
It was midmorning by the time Jordi finally reached Durbach. Unable to tell whether his nervous energy stemmed from the amount of cocaine in his system or his apprehension at seeing Diago again, he ground his teeth and searched for the Griers’ drive.
Diago had most likely arrived sometime yesterday. That gave him several hours alone with the Griers. What lies had he told them? Or was he even still there? Without thinking, Jordi touched the brooch pinned just over his heart. The action soothed him. Everything is going to be fine. Frauja is with me. The angel wouldn’t have summoned him to judge Diago in vehmgericht if he didn’t have a broader plan.
Calmer now, Jordi shifted gears and slowed for a curve as a Mercedes Tourer approached from the opposite direction. Both drivers were forced to move their vehicles closer to their respective ditches in order to pass.
The other man kept his attention fixed on the road but not Jordi. As they drew even with one another, he noticed that the Mercedes driver was none other than Karl Grier himself.
That left the other brother, Rudolf, at home. Jordi recalled the newspaper photograph of Karl standing confidently on the courthouse steps and Rudolf’s miserable countenance. Karl is the dominant brother, so he is the one I need.
That meant delaying his meeting with Diago. Cursing, Jordi turned his car around and followed Grier. He consoled himself. If Diago was gone when they returned, there would be time to hunt him later. Right now, Jordi needed to find out how the Griers were tied to Frauja.
Careful to trail the Mercedes at a distance, Jordi wasn’t surprised when Karl took the road to Offenburg. He followed Karl to the business district, where the mortal parked on the street. Jordi continued around the block to position his car out of sight. By the time he returned to the main avenue, Karl had disappeared.
A quick survey of the pedestrians produced no sign of his quarry. Jordi went to the Mercedes. Most mortals parked close to their destination, so in all probability, Karl had business with someone on this block.
A quick glance in a café’s window revealed no one resembling Karl. Three doors down, Jordi noted the name oskar hengeler, solicitor on a metal plate.
Nico’s Berliner mentioned a solicitor. Jordi’s instincts hadn’t failed him yet. He opened the door and walked upstairs. Hengeler’s office was on the right. If Grier wasn’t in the waiting room, then Jordi would pretend to be lost, retreat to the sidewalk, and monitor the car.
A woman’s voice murmured from behind the frosted glass of the attorney’s door. Jordi entered just as the secretary hung up the phone. He barely saw her. Seated in one of the stiff chairs was Karl Grier with a briefcase on his lap.
Karl’s gaze flickered to Jordi. His eyes widened at the sight of the brooch.
Got you, you little fucker. If Karl recognized the pin, that meant he was the one who had sent it to Avignon.
Jordi flashed the secretary a brilliant smile. Someone had once told him the best lie was the simplest one.
Yago. Yago said that to me in our last incarnation.
“Good morning, Fraulein.” He deliberately spoke his German with a slight Spanish accent. “My name is Sir George Abellio. I am seeking to invest in this area, and I was told that Herr Hengeler might know of properties for sale.”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“Yes.” Jordi glanced at the clock, which showed ten forty-five. “It’s at eleven.”
She consulted a book on her desk. “I’m sorry, Sir Abellio, but I don’t have you down.”
“What?” He feigned indignation. “I don’t see how that can be. My secretary assured me that she had secured an appointment with Herr Hengeler.”
The secretary shook her head sympathetically and offered to put Jordi down for tomorrow. He pretended to be mollified and took the card she offered him. As he passed Karl, he nodded to the young mortal.
At the street level, Jordi walked slowly, pausing at a tobacco kiosk. He purchased a pack of cigarettes and lit one as he pretended to read the day’s headlines.
Within minutes, Karl emerged from the building and scanned the street. He immediately strode in Jordi’s direction.
“Excuse me!” Karl held out his hand and introduced himself. “Karl Grier. I couldn’t help but notice the brooch you’re wearing. What an exquisite piece.”
Jordi took the young man’s hand and squeezed hard, drawing him away from the kiosk. “Why, thank you. It was a gift from an unknown benefactor. As a matter of fact”—he tossed his cigarette into the gutter—“the package seems to have been mailed from Offenburg.”
Karl’s face flushed a spectacular shade of red. Excitement radiated off him in waves. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You truly are Sir George, aren’t you? You’ve returned, just as it was prophesied.”
One of the pedestrians gave them a raised eyebrow as he passed. He must have overheard Karl’s statement.
Time to take this conversation off the street. “May I buy you a cup of coffee, Herr Grier?” Jordi took Karl’s arm and steered him toward the café, making it clear the offer wasn’t exactly a request.
Once they were seated in a back booth and had ordered, Karl said, “It’s all right, Sir George. I know what you are.”
What. Not who.
Jordi’s lip twitched. “Excuse me?”
“You, sir, are one of the most powerful nefilim to walk the earth.”
Not quite, but the compliment wasn’t wasted. “And how do you know about nefilim?”
Their coffee arrived and Karl waited until they were alone again before he spoke. “Because I am a nefil, too. Surely you can see it in my eyes.”
Jordi stared at the mortal in disbelief. This day just keeps taking one strange turn after another. He covered his confusion with a sip of coffee, and then decided: What the hell? Play along. “Ah, I see now.” He touched the corner of his own eye and nodded. “You’re a master of hiding your true nature.”
“Well”—Karl glanced around the room and lowered his voice—“it wouldn’t do for the mortals to know about us. Now would it?”
“Of course not.” Which is why I’ll have to kill you, but not before I’m done with you. Jordi smiled and tapped the brooch. “How did you find these brooches and know to send them to me?”
Karl leaned forward with the eagerness of someone who’d held a secret for far too long. “The angel Frauja has spoken to my dreams since I was but a boy. I cherish his wisdom and have followed his advice. He has asked for my aid in restoring him to this realm so he can cure the world of its evil. In return for helping him, he will give me my song.” He waited a beat, and when Jordi made no comment, he elaborated, “He will make me a true nefil.”
Jordi lit another cigarette and hid his contempt behind a screen of smoke. That was impossible. Nefilim were born, not made, but Karl had no way of knowing that. Frauja is using him. “And the brooches?”
“Frauja showed me where to dig so I could find them.”
“Showed you how?”
“Through the mirrors.”
A memory stabbed Jordi’s brain. I died in white light and fire, the sun burning like a thousand mirrors . . . not a thousand mirrors, but one . . . one mirror bound by
Yago’s song.
“That doesn’t explain how you found me.”
“I found your address through a nefil by the name of Rainier Laurent. He gave me your business card.”
Laurent, Laurent—the name rang a bell. Jordi rubbed his temples with his thumbs and recalled a French nefil with a flashy jacket. I courted him to join my cause and gave him a card with Nico’s address. That is how this pretentious little fuck knew where to send the brooches.
But why would a nefil as cautious as Rainier give Jordi’s business card to a mortal? He wouldn’t . . . which meant Rainier was dead. Intrigued now, Jordi leaned on his elbows and asked, “Do you know a man named Diago Alvarez?”
“He is at my house as we speak.”
“And what do you think of him?”
“I think he’s dead.”
“What?” Jordi gaped at the mortal. Diago? Dead? Rather than jubilation, he found himself disappointed. He was mine to kill. “What do you mean you think he’s dead? You’re not sure?”
“We put him in our guest room. Any nefil who has slept in that room joins Frauja in the mirror.”
“Of their own volition?”
Karl nodded. “We lure the rogues into the house with my father’s Stradivarius.”
He means Diago’s Stradivarius, Jordi thought, getting a feel for how loosely Karl delivered facts.
“Then I find some pretext to get them to stay. I offer them food and drink . . . drugged, of course.”
“Of course,” Jordi muttered, liking Karl less and less.
“At first, I had to find some pretext to lure them to the ballroom, but as Frauja grew stronger, he was able to move from mirror to mirror in the house. Now I can give the nefilim the guest room with an old armoire. Deep in the night, Frauja lures them through the glass, and once they step into his realm, they cannot return to the mortal world. The next morning, the armoire door is open and the nefil is gone. Frauja takes their song and makes it a part of him.”