Los Nefilim Book 4

by T. Frohock

  “No. It could be nothing.” The calling card’s warning flashed through his mind: Come alone or not at all. He hastened to reassure Suero. “I’m going to the Villa Rosa and the Club d’Escorpí. Everything is under control.”

  “Until it isn’t.”

  Argumentative little fuck. Diago gripped the phone and glared at the scuff along the wainscoting. While his lack of an oath allowed Diago to move freely between the ranks of daimon and angel, it also created a certain amount of resentment with Guillermo’s Nefilim. They treated him like he might betray them on a moment’s notice, and Suero was the most suspicious of the lot.

  Diago knew one harsh look would intimidate the younger Nefil to his proper place, but the telephone robbed him of the finesse he enjoyed in a face-­to-­face encounter. This gave him a whole new reason to detest the device.

  Suero must have sensed that he overstepped his bounds, though. He broke the long silence and attempted a more conciliatory tone. “How long, Diago?”

  That was better. Not good enough to make Diago forget Suero’s transgression, but better. “Four hours.”

  After another brief pause, Suero said, “The clock is ticking.”

  Of that, Diago had no doubt.

  Chapter Three

  The train rolled into the station just as he reached the platform. Maybe his luck was changing. He joined the other travelers and squeezed into a car. Too restless to sit, he stood and clung to the cold steel bar, watching the passengers with a hunter’s eye.

  They were all mortals. Whoever Beltran Prieto was, he wasn’t following Diago, or having him followed. The fact that Prieto trusted Diago to come to him alone bespoke excellent planning and knowledge of his prey. It was just another detail that increased Diago’s anxiety.

  When the train finally lumbered to his stop, Diago was the first one off. The trip from the Gothic Quarter to the Paralelo cost him almost forty minutes. How long did he have to keep this rendezvous? Diago had no answer to that question, but thought it best not to waste a second. He climbed the stairs two at a time and found the fog heavier here by the sea.

  The street was clogged with the usual evening crowd of pedestrians, cars, and a few horses and carts, all vying to be first along the roadway. Diago shoved his way past the ­people and managed to catch a tram for the final leg of his journey. The tram’s bell sent out one discordant clang after another as the fog slowed everything to a crawl.

  The traffic was no less congested on the Avenue of the Paralelo, but the width of the street eased some of bottleneck. Diago leapt from the car before the tram had rolled to a complete stop. With three quick steps, he caught his balance and pushed his way toward the opposite street corner in the direction of the wharfs.

  Here, Barcelona sang a thousand different melodies, from the refined theaters that catered to the nobles and the bourgeoisie down to the lowest bars near the docks. The Villa Rosa lay in an area that teetered between the extremes.

  Mumbled lyrics and songs half sung trickled into the street as some of the club performers practiced their routines. A door opened, and Diago caught the first fragile notes of a tune. The hesitant chords were followed by more confident strumming, punctuated by rhythmic finger taps against the body of a guitar.

  Someone clapped rapid beats while a woman coached a dancer through her steps: “Gólpe, gólpe, vuelta . . .”

  Strike, strike, turn. . .

  Just as the dancer’s footwork and the guitarist’s melody began to move in tandem, the door slowly descended on the woman’s voice and swallowed her words. The next bar offered a different refrain of the same song, and from one establishment to another, the music rolled on.

  Within another hour, the tributaries of side streets and alleys that streamed off the main avenue would be packed with jostling men and women, all of whom would be looking to make their troubles disappear for an evening. The songs would be wild and sad, but that was all right; the misfortunes of others never bit as hard as one’s own troubles.

  And tonight Diago understood the mortals and their desire to forget, especially with his own dread nipping at his heels. In a past incarnation he might have walked away, rather than try to save his lover and son, but Miquel had changed him. Slowly, inexorably, he had taught Diago that love was worth fighting for. And I will fight for them, he vowed as he shouldered his way through the crowd.

  The fog clung to everything like a second skin, obscuring faces and buildings. ­People passed Diago as shadows made indistinct by the mist, their conversations subdued by the encroaching darkness.

  It was as if the world echoed his mood.

  Diago stepped off the main avenue and followed a circuitous alley. From there, he passed the tobacco shop, which signaled his next turn. Two streets deeper into the maze, and he found the Villa Rosa with her doors open, spilling golden light onto the cobblestones.

  A woman stood just within the tavern’s rim of light. She glanced his way, and Diago recognized her. She called herself Estrella, though he doubted that was her real name. Like every other performer along the Paralelo, she cast herself a new persona made of half-­truths and wishes.

  Diago didn’t blame her. Although she was mortal, she was a kindred spirit to him and Miquel. Their duplicity consisted of passing themselves off as humans and just good friends. Pretenses surrounded their lives, both among the mortals and Los Nefilim. Sometimes the truth was a hard thing best kept close and private against the heart.

  Tonight, Estrella’s carriage was tense, and her foot rapped the cobblestones with her impatience.

  Out of nowhere, the invisible tutor’s voice returned to Diago’s head.

  Gólpe, gólpe, vuelta . . .

  Strike, strike, turn. . .

  He shook the words from his ears and focused on Estrella.

  She pinched a cigarette between her fingers and nipped a vicious toke as she speared Diago with her glare. “Where is Miquel?”

  Diago opened his mouth, but she lifted her hand and cut him off. “He’d better be dead. We were supposed to rehearse this afternoon and he never showed. No one stands me up.” She sucked on the tip of her cigarette, then spat a malicious cloud of smoke into the fog. “I hope you’re here to tell me he’s dead. Then I won’t have to kill—­”

  Diago’s face must have given away more than he intended, because as he neared her, she suddenly stopped talking and stared at him. Her lower lip trembled. “He’s not with you?”

  He shook his head and stepped next to her.

  “He’s . . . not dead, is he?” All traces of anger had left her, and it was clear she regretted her harsh words. The ashes from her cigarette were dangerously close to cascading down her bodice and scorching her dress. Her hand trembled. Diago caught the ashes and flicked them into the darkness. He wiped his palm against his coat. “No—­not dead. But I need to find him, Estrella.”

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  “You might be able to help me. Tell me, did he speak with anyone last night?”

  Estrella tossed her cigarette to the gutter. “He speaks with a lot of ­people. Everyone wants a minute with him.” She picked at one of the ruffles on her skirt. “He listens to them all, and they love him for it.”

  A tear slipped over her lashes, and Diago evinced a level of patience he didn’t feel. He brushed away her tear before the moisture could smear her makeup. “Don’t cry. You’ve got to dance tonight.”

  She sniffled. “Not without Miquel.”

  He sighed and shook his head. Miquel had remained with her for too long; Diago saw it in her longing for him. His lover was still young enough to think himself more human than angel, and he forgot the effect he had on mortals. Estrella, for all her street smarts and toughness, was just as susceptible to Miquel’s allure as anyone else. He had played for her, and she, in turn, had absorbed some of his magic into the art of her dance. She was connected to it now, and felt
his absence more keenly than any of the others at the club.

  Diago had seen mortals who had become too intimate with Nefilim commit suicide when they were deprived of the being’s company. He feared Estrella might be too far gone, and an ache filled his chest. She deserved better.

  He sidled closer until his lips brushed against her ear. “Think for me, Estrella: was there anyone in the audience last night that was new? Anyone who stood out for any reason?” He cupped her chin and caught her gaze with his. No. She remembered nothing, at least not consciously.

  He rarely used his power on mortals, and he never opened their minds against their will. As far as he was concerned, such a violation was an act of rape. “I need to know,” he murmured gently, easing her into a dreamlike state with tender reassurances. Exactly like Candela did to me, he thought bitterly, then quickly absolved himself. Estrella leaves me no choice. Besides, if she knew it was for Miquel, she would offer herself to me. Sometimes the worst lies were the ones he told himself.

  In spite of being acutely aware of the time, he didn’t rush, using every ounce of willpower not to crack open her mind like a gourd. As badly as he wanted to see her thoughts, he forced himself to be patient, and take only what she offered him through her words.

  Anyone passing by might think them lovers, snatching a kiss before the show. A moment slipped between them as Diago deepened her trance, willing her to remember. “Close your eyes for me and think very hard. It’s for Miquel.” He leaned forward until his lips almost touched hers. “Was there anyone new at the club last night?”

  Her heavy lashes fluttered. She murmured, “He came during our final set when Miquel played for me.” She bit her lower lip and smiled. “He always plays special for me.”

  “Shh, who did you see?”

  “A new customer sat near the stage.”

  “Was his name Beltran Prieto?”

  She considered his question. “I heard no name.”

  Damn. “What did he look like?”

  “He had . . . long silver hair. He was old, very graceful, very beautiful. He was angelic.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll think me mad, but I thought I glimpsed three sets of wings descending down his back. One moment they were there, then the next, he was a man again. I was drunk with the music. Sometimes I see things that are not there.”

  Diago wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disturbed by the information. Either way, he didn’t think her mad. At least one question was answered: Prieto was an angel. And while he surely hadn’t intended for Estrella to see him—­he had probably dropped his disguise in order to show himself to Miquel—­she had been caught up in the song, and thus was exposed to it, too. “Did he speak to you, or Miquel?”

  “I turned.” Estrella’s tongue flickered between her lips and grazed his mouth. He tasted nicotine and the salt of the sea. “And I turned and he was gone.”

  Of course Prieto disappeared. Whatever business he conducted with Miquel would have happened after the performance. Miquel hadn’t mentioned the meeting, but that wasn’t unusual. He never discussed Los Nefilim business with Diago. Something must have gone wrong.

  Clearly something went wrong! he said to himself in silent rebuke. His frustration was seeping into his own musings, and he felt his hold on Estrella’s mind slip. He renewed his grip on the spell and asked, “One more thing: the Club d’Escorpí, have you heard of it?”

  She frowned and shook her head. “No.”

  God damn. That wasn’t good at all. The performers always kept a close eye on competing establishments. Did the club even exist?

  Estrella stirred. “Did I help?”

  “Yes.” And no. Either way, she had no other memories to offer him. It was time for him to go. In the way of an amends, he kissed her and warmed her soul with a shield of light that would protect her from feeling Miquel’s loss too deeply. In doing so, he opened himself to her and allowed her to see his true nature—­that he was daimon, a creature borne of the darkness, his soul made of dreams earthy-­sweet and whispers in the night. Yet he was also angel, filled with fire and stardust and eternal light. He was a thousand contradictions, bound to the clay and water of the flesh, but that was his magic, the spell that was his to weave.

  Better she see the true me than lose herself to the lie Miquel’s power has over her.

  He held Estrella’s head steady between his palms and touched his forehead to hers. “Miquel is not coming back to the Villa Rosa, Estrella.”

  She moaned, and her sorrow rose between them as soft and blue as smoke. He inhaled and took her pain for his own.

  “But that is all right. You don’t need him. You have all that you need right here.” He touched her breast, just over her heart, and poured a little more of his magic into her soul. Let her be all right. If there are angels and daimons, surely there might be a god somewhere, and if there is, let her be happy.

  She leaned against the wall and looked upward, her eyes glassy with her trance.

  Diago released her and stepped back. “When you hear my song, you will wake and go inside. Forget that you saw me. I am no more.” He walked until the fog almost hid her from sight. At the street corner, he hummed a mellow tune.

  Estrella jerked awake and glanced up and down the street. Her sadness dissipated. She wore her anger loosely as a shawl. Her gaze passed directly over him as if he was invisible. She went inside the Villa Rosa.

  Tonight she would be angry, and tomorrow she would be melancholy. In the end, she would go on with her life and that was what mattered. Diago wished his worries could be erased so easily.

  The time. What was the time? There were no clocks nearby. Exasperated, he withdrew the playbill and read the address for the Club d’Escorpí. The bar was located three blocks deeper into the Paralelo’s tangled backstreets. At least I’m close. He crammed the playbill into his coat pocket and hurried down an alleyway. The noise of the main avenue fell behind him. Here, the fog thickened until Diago could barely see a metre ahead.

  The quiet was too heavy to be anything other than supernatural. The hair on his arms rose in response to the power around him. Barcelona was behind him, along with the mortals and their everyday worries. Diago had stepped into a different realm. No matter how many times he moved between the spheres of mortal and angel, he never got used to the insidious slide from one reality to another. He paused to get his bearings.

  In the same way that earth was an echo of other realms, this new place was a mere reflection of the Paralelo. On a superficial level, everything seemed the same: the walls were brick, the fog was blue, yet this new place was smaller, paler, less complete than the original. The handbills and advertisements were faded, nearly illegible. The scent of the sea became a memory embedded in the fibers of Diago’s clothes. Sounds of the Paralelo’s revelers diminished until the clamor vanished. Time stood still and soft, like the moments embedded in midnight’s silence.

  Diago drew his Luger and held the gun close to his thigh. Not even silver tips would stop an angel, but holding the weapon comforted him with the illusion of protection. The skin on his exposed hands tingled. He paused, his palm damp against the grip of the gun.

  The distant strains of a guitar drifted out of the fog. In those notes, Diago recognized one of Miquel’s favorite falsetas. This one began por arriba, high along the frets, shifting rapidly through the notes. A wedge of hope pushed back his fear. If it was Miquel, then he might be all right.

  The tune picked up speed. The player missed a chord. The song halted.

  Diago froze.

  The music began again—­louder, closer—­although Diago had not moved. Whatever approached was coming to him. The fog became electric. Drops of moisture sizzled against the black windows and shadow doors that lined the alley.

  The strings hummed when the player missed his next chord. It was Miquel. Any doubt was erased b
y that error. When he grew tired, he always failed to make a smooth transition between F and E. Judging from the screech of his fingers along the strings, he was exhausted.

  But he’s alive. He’s alive, and that’s what matt—­

  The song ended abruptly.

  Diago thought he heard voices. He cocked his head.

  A man spoke a command.

  Miquel answered. “I can’t.”

  The man spoke again. His tone mocked Miquel’s pain. “You will.”

  Miquel began to play.

  Rage flared through Diago’s chest and into his head, almost blinding him. He clenched his jaw and pushed down his anger. He needed his mind clear.

  The sounds drew closer still. Miquel’s ring was warm on Diago’s finger. Diago searched the gloom. Come on. Stop tormenting us and show yourself. As if in answer, a door appeared in the wall on his left. Cold blue light spilled across the threshold and shouldered the fog aside. Over the open door, an electric scorpion writhed and blinked in neon splendor.

  Diago crept toward the entrance and peered inside. The room was gray, like the walls and the floor had been sculpted from the mist. The same lack of color that diluted the details of the bar enhanced the three figures within.

  Miquel played a worn guitar, his fingertips dark with his own blood. Sweat dampened his black curls. Other than a bruise that spread across his left eye like a poison sunset, and his worn fingertips, he seemed to be all right.

  Even so, Diago’s heart hammered at the sight of him. Adrenaline flooded his body with an intoxicating mixture of relief and rage.

  The loud click of marbles striking wooden trays redirected his attention to the table where an angel in his mortal form sat across from a child. Diago focused on the angel first. He was the same one Estrella had described. To any human who happened to glance at him, he appeared as a beautiful man with long silver hair pulled into ponytail that cascaded down his back. A closer look revealed that he had only four fingers on each hand.