by T. Frohock
“No. You have to give him what he wants. I don’t owe Moloch a God damn thing.”
“The parent must give the child. No one else has the right. Those have always been Moloch’s terms. He is as intractable as he is ancient. It’s a small sacrifice. One life for the good of the many. You are the one who is always crying for peace, Diago. Are you willing to pay the price?”
Diago barked an incredulous laugh at the audacity of the question. “No. I refuse.”
Prieto’s humor vanished. He utilized all three sets of his vocal chords. “I won’t be disobeyed.”
The sound plummeted through Diago and into his bones. Rafael clamped his hands over his ears. The stuffed horse flopped in the crook of his arm. Miquel flinched from the sound. He placed his hand over Diago’s and linked their fingers together, giving Diago a gentle squeeze. It was a conciliatory gesture, an old signal between them, one that asked for forgiveness for his earlier harsh words.
Relieved, Diago returned the gesture. Together they shielded Rafael from the angel.
The silver threads in Prieto’s eyes swirled. He was furious. “Candela lied. There is no song, Diago. Not in that child, or any other. He is a sacrifice. Candela was supposed to give him to Moloch, but she wore her mortal body too long. Her emotions interfered with her ability to complete the act. She hid the boy and destroyed herself before we could find him.”
Rafael buried his face in Diago’s coat. A low whine escaped his throat in a melody of grief and fear and anger.
Diago hugged the child against his leg. Hoping to mitigate Rafael’s sorrow, he said, “You’re lying.”
“Everything dies, Diago, even the angels.”
Diago barely heard him. Movement within the hourglass caught his attention. A low rumble pulsed through the floorboards. The base of the hourglass rattled against the tabletop. Yellow sand swirled in miniature tornados, gusts and twirls made to dance to a hidden rhythm. The reverberations beneath Diago’s soles grew stronger. The table shook. The mancala board rattled to the edge and tipped over, spilling the marbles to the floor.
The carmine marble rolled toward them. Miquel knelt and scooped it into his hand. Rafael didn’t notice. The child’s terror held him rigid at Diago’s side. Miquel passed the marble to Diago. He dropped it into his pocket without taking his gaze off the hourglass.
The sand danced, coalescing into a single funnel that spun toward the upper chamber. Prieto stood and unfurled three sets of silver wings that descended down his back. The colors in his eyes whirled like the dangerous clouds before a storm. A great wind filled the room and drove Prieto’s illusions into the mists.
Diago hummed a chord. He thrust it into his throat like a vicious cry. Miquel joined Diago’s voice with his own. Their souls mingled as one, and Diago took courage from Miquel’s presence. He traced a glyph of protection into the air. The sigil glowed with silver radiance to spin like a top. The lines merged to form a shield of light between them and Prieto.
Prieto spoke a word and the sigil over Miquel’s heart blazed. Miquel choked on his song and staggered. Diago caught his arm but couldn’t prevent Miquel from falling to one knee. The protective sigil faded on the strength of Diago’s voice alone, breaking apart and falling like shimmering flakes of snow.
Enraged by his inability to protect them, Diago shouted his frustration at the angel. “Let them go and I will give myself to Moloch!”
“You? What do you have to offer Moloch? Your innocence?” The angel sneered. “Your innocence died in the days of Solomon when you betrayed your king. You have nothing to give Moloch but your son. And that you will do.”
Before Diago could retort, Prieto reverted to the language of the angels, and the ethereal vibrations shattered the realm in which they stood. Diago’s teeth ached from the pressure in his head. His flesh flattened against muscle and bone. All around them, the images of walls and wood bent against time and space, as if they had been thrown into a surrealist painting where the colors bled hot upon the canvas.
Rafael screamed. Diago went to his knees beside the boy and pulled him close, but he didn’t let go of Miquel. To Diago’s relief, Miquel’s strong fingers grasped his wrist. Rafael’s arms encircled Diago’s neck. The little stuffed horse was squashed between them. In spite of the gale threatening to tear the three of them apart, they held onto one another.
The wind sculpted the walls into a tunnel made of steel and concrete. Girders shrieked and the stone groaned. The tempest gradually died. Diago opened his eyes. They were on a subway platform. There were no exits. A train waited on the tracks, hissing as if it was a great silver dragon seething in pain.
Prieto held up the hourglass. The sand had collected in the upper chamber, suspended there by Prieto’s will. “I can go no farther into the daimons’ realm without violating our treaties. The train will deliver you to Moloch. Get on.”
Diago managed to get one shaking leg beneath him. He had no idea what he intended to do, but right now, he wanted nothing more than to be away from Prieto.
Rafael clung to him, forcing Diago to let go of Miquel, or risk falling on them both. He rose slowly. The boy’s heart beat quick and hard.
Diago tightened his arms around Rafael and whispered against his ear, “Trust me.”
The boy shuddered.
Miquel stood and placed himself between them and Prieto. “You can’t ask him to do this.”
Prieto’s smiles were gone. “That’s where you’re wrong—I’m not asking. You have two hours.” He pointed at Miquel. “Or the sigil explodes, and with it, his heart. And should Miquel decide to be noble and sacrifice himself for the child, know this, Diago: if you fail, I will take Rafael from you and keep the boy with me. You can’t hide him. I found him once, I’ll find him again. And we will play this game over and over until I win.” He scraped one long nail against the hourglass. The sand began to run. “The clock is ticking,” he said.
Horrified by the angel’s game, Diago snagged Miquel’s sleeve with his fingertips. The brief contact was enough to get Miquel on the move. The train’s doors shut behind them when they boarded. Diago glimpsed the platform through the window. Prieto was gone.
The train rolled forward. Diago would have fallen with Rafael in his arms if Miquel hadn’t caught him and pushed them into a nearby seat. Still in shock from the encounter with Prieto, Rafael clung to Diago’s neck and made no sound. Diago rubbed his back gently as he used to do for Ysabel when she was afraid.
Miquel dropped onto the seat beside them. He hooked his arm around the pole and stared at the opposite side of the car with glassy eyes. Diago watched his reflection in the window. A long jagged cut severed the bruise where José’s signet ring had caught the side of Miquel’s face. He hadn’t noticed it before . . . and he felt guilt for that failure, too.
Diago groped for the self-confidence that he’d possessed back at the apartment and found it gone. Prieto had slammed them through the realms with no preparation at all, and their bodies bore the shock of the transition. Worse, he didn’t have the slightest idea how to circumvent Prieto or Moloch. When the train stopped, they would be at the daimon’s door.
He and Miquel didn’t speak. The only sound was the wheels clicking beneath them. Diago watched the lights fade, until everything outside the train was in darkness. Another rumble announced a second train passing in the opposite direction. Ghostly figures wandered the aisles of the other train. The creatures stared blankly out the windows, their faces circles of white, their mouths full of black. The images blinked by and were gone.
“Did you see that?” Diago asked Miquel’s reflection.
Miquel didn’t answer. He turned his head to the left and examined the car following theirs. He allowed his head to rest against the window behind them so he could look into the car in front of theirs. “They’re on our train, too,” he said. “Where’s your gun?”
Mention of the
gun restored some of Diago’s equilibrium. He scooted far enough forward for Miquel to lift his sweater and retrieve the Luger.
“Silver tips?” Miquel asked as he slid the weapon from Diago’s holster.
“You know they’re all I use.”
Rafael stirred as Diago slid back again. The boy pulled away from Diago and looked to the car behind them. With slow careful movements, he worked himself down to sit between Diago and Miquel. He made himself as small as he could, and hugged his ragged horse against his chest in a defensive posture that Diago recalled using when he was a child himself. Smaller targets passed unseen.
Rafael’s wide eyes followed Miquel’s hands as he checked the gun’s magazine. “What are they?”
“Nefilim that have been turned,” said Miquel.
“Into what?” Rafael asked.
Diago tilted his head until he could see into the adjoining car. Three of the creatures stood at the window. They were naked, two males and a female, their flesh pale from their days underground. Their heads were unnaturally long, with pointed chins and ears. Dry cracked lips spread around their enormous canines. Eyes like saucers shined with the Nefilim’s preternatural glow. The female’s right arm ended at her elbow. The tallest male bore thick ropy scars across his chest, as if burned with acid. The other male showed no overt injuries, but Diago was sure that he, too, suffered the scars of a daimon attack.
Diago opted for discretion. No use terrifying the child even more, and while he wouldn’t lie, he saw no point in being direct. “They are ‘aulaq,” he said. “They were once Nefilim. Rather than face another incarnation, they choose to serve the daimon that turned them.”
Rafael plucked his pony’s mane. “I don’t understand.”
“If a daimon scars a Nefilim, we regain those wounds in our next life. It is like they scar our souls so that our bodies will remember. We cannot escape the curse of their damage, and some would rather remain dead than endure such agony with each rebirth.”
“How do they stay alive?”
Miquel checked the round in the chamber. “They’re vampires.”
Rafael’s eyes widened and he clutched his horse. He crossed himself three times in rapid succession and mumbled his way through several Hail Marys.
So much for discretion. Diago slipped his arm around his son’s shoulders and spoke to Miquel. “The bullets won’t stop them.”
“Their memories of pain will. And the silver will burn them.” Miquel raised the gun and pointed it at one of the males. “It’s something, at least.”
All three of the ‘aulaq ducked out of sight.
That wouldn’t last long. “Why do they shadow us?”
“They’re making sure you take Rafael to Moloch.”
“I’m not giving him to Moloch.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
“You’re not angry about Candela?”
“No, but you should be. She r—”
“Miquel.” He inclined his head at Rafael. He switched to Old Castilian—a medieval form of Spanish that bore the same relationship to modern Spanish as Old English did to English—so that Rafael couldn’t understand him. “Not in front of the boy. There is nothing worse than to hear you’re not wanted.”
Miquel closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “All right. Later then. We’ll talk. Right now, we need to figure a way out of this.”
Relieved, Diago switched back to Catalan. “I’m open to ideas.”
“It’s simple. We replace Rafael.”
Diago knew Miquel too well to think he meant another child. “But how?”
“A golem.”
“A golem?”
“Exactly. We can make Moloch think it’s a real child by using Rafael’s hair and blood.”
Rafael narrowed his eyes at Miquel and tightened his jaw. Diago knew the incredulous look well because it belonged to him. It was just the first time he’d ever seen it on someone else’s face.
He hurried to reassure the boy. “It will be a small cut and will only hurt for a little while.”
“Mamá said I wasn’t to do magic, that the mortals wouldn’t understand.”
Miquel pointed out the obvious. “There are no mortals here.”
“Sister Benita says that magic belongs to the devil.”
Miquel lifted Rafael’s hat. “Is Sister Benita here?”
“She says that even if she doesn’t see my sins, God will know.”
Diago remembered hearing a similar conversation between Guillermo and Ysabel. “Of course, God will know,” he parroted Guillermo’s explanation. “God gave you that power, and if it came from God, it must be good? Yes?”
Rafael considered this. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Obviously, neither has Sister Benita,” said Miquel. “It’s settled. We’ll use a golem.”
“Except I can’t create a golem. Only the angel-born Nefilim can breathe life into a golem.”
Miquel leaned over Rafael and blew a soft gust of air against Diago’s cheek.
Diago closed his eyes. “You would do this for him?”
“Is he yours?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love him?”
“I want to try.”
“Then how can I not?”
“I don’t deserve you.”
Miquel slid his wedding band off Diago’s finger and put it back on his hand. “No. You deserve better. You just won’t let yourself believe it.”
A loud scraping noise drew Diago’s attention back to the window. The three ‘aulaq had risen. The tall scarred vampire tapped the glass with a long ragged nail. Miquel raised the gun again. They flinched but did not hide.
Diago turned his face away from the ‘aulaq and said, “Moloch will expect a trick such as that.”
Miquel shrugged and lowered his voice. “How is he going to know? He cannot touch the boy without destroying the child’s innocence. Such an act would render the sacrifice impure. He must rely on the parent to validate the gift.” Miquel rested his hand on Diago’s shoulder. “He is so hungry he is bartering with angels. You are half daimon. You can convince him the sacrifice is real.” He gave Diago’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze then released him.
Rafael tugged at his pony’s mane. “Am I angel or daimon?”
Diago ignored him and spoke to Miquel. “I’m not sure I can.”
“Of course you can. Our lives depend on it.”
The train slowed and, in counterpoint, Diago’s pulse picked up speed.
“Papa?” A low whine crept into Rafael’s voice.
Diago closed his eyes and made a conscious effort not to snap at the boy. “What?”
“Am I angel or daimon?”
“You are like me.” Diago stood and tugged Rafael’s hand. “You are both.”
Rafael refused to budge. Diago couldn’t help but wonder how so small a child could gain such weight on a moment’s notice. He tugged harder, but Rafael resisted him. “Are we going to hell?”
Diago opened his mouth, then immediately shut it again. The fear in his child’s eyes sapped him of any reassurances. I have nothing to offer him but lies that even I don’t believe anymore.
Miquel stood as the train slowed to a stop. He took Rafael’s elbow and slid him off the seat. “We’re here.”
That seemed to answer more than one question.
Chapter Four
Diago followed Miquel onto the platform. The tall scarred ‘aulaq stuck his head outside the door. Miquel raised the gun and took three steps forward. The ‘aulaq ducked back onto the train. No others emerged. Moments passed before the doors shut. The train rumbled away.
“Why didn’t they get off?” Diago watched the lights disappear around a bend.
“They didn’t need to. We are exactly where they want us to be. Where are we going to go?” Mi
quel asked, looking around.
Diago’s eyes took in the wide platform, and he realized Miquel was right. A set of stairs descended into a dim hall. The only other exit was the tracks themselves, and Diago had no doubt that the ‘aulaqs were waiting for them in the darkness.
Rafael hugged his horse and craned his neck to look down the stairs. “Is this hell? Sister Benita said hell was made of fire. I’m cold.”
“I’m starting to wish Sister Benita was here.” Miquel fingered the gun’s trigger.
A note of warning crept into Diago’s voice. “Miquel.”
“Ya, ya, ya.” Miquel waved Diago’s concern away. “But still.”
Rafael linked his fingers with Diago’s. “I lost Mamá’s tear. Señor Prieto took it from me.” His nose reddened.
Diago recognized the signs of distress. A full-blown crying jag would soon follow if he didn’t figure out what Rafael was talking about. “Calm down and tell me, what tear?”
“It looks like a marble.”
“Ah.” Diago reached into his pocket and produced the carmine marble. Rafael brightened as if he’d been given the sun.
Warmth spread through Diago’s chest, and he couldn’t deny the pleasure he felt at mitigating the crisis with so simple a move. He glanced up at Miquel, who didn’t appear half as pleased, but at least he wasn’t frowning anymore.
Rafael clenched the marble in his fist. “Thank you! Mamá said as long as I held her teardrop, she would be with me.” He shivered from the cold.
Now Rafael’s attachment to the marble made sense. It wasn’t a marble at all, but an angel’s teardrop. Diago recalled that Candela’s eyes had been that color, gold and carmine with streaks of black. An angel’s tear was as precious as gold to a Nefil. No wonder the boy had been so frightened about its loss. “Put it in a safe place.”
Rafael tucked the teardrop into his shirt pocket over his heart.
Diago’s gaze quickly swept the barren station. “There is nothing here to make a golem with.”
Miquel went to the steps and looked down. “Maybe down there.”
Diago joined him. “How far to Moloch, I wonder?”