Los Nefilim Book 4

by T. Frohock

The creak of footsteps on the boards caused both of them to look up. Diago recognized Miquel’s footfall. His scuffed boots emerged on the threadbare carpet. He stopped at the landing and squatted. The shadows hid his features and for one terrifying instant, Diago thought his face had been erased. Stop it. You’re spooking yourself.

  Miquel shifted his position and was bathed in the electric light’s harsh glow. “Our alienist has arrived.”

  Guillermo’s voice drifted down from the top landing. “Dr. Alvarez?”

  Miquel gave Diago a wan smile. “Yes.”

  Whatever was up there, it was bad. That much was clear from his lover’s face.

  Miquel rose and backed against the wall. ­People were coming down. Within moments, another police inspector descended, his eyes as glazed as if he walked in his sleep. Blunt-­faced and stout, he made Diago think of a bear. His fierce appearance was dulled by his slack jaw and vacant stare.

  Suero accompanied the man, holding his elbow and guiding him toward the first floor. Like Miquel, Suero held a coveted place in Guillermo’s inner circle. When he wasn’t coordinating the movements of the other Nefilim, he posed as Guillermo’s driver.

  His quiet song spun webs of gauze over the mortal’s eyes. A thin sheen of sweat coated Suero’s forehead; he had been at it for a while. Blinding mortals to the truth was a difficult task. Whatever evidence this house held, Guillermo wanted it badly.

  Suero and his charge halted in front of Garcia. The mortal’s mouth worked as if he chewed the words carefully before ejecting them from his tongue. “Inspector Garcia, I want you to bring Dr. Alvarez’s findings back to the station when you’re done.”

  Garcia nodded to the mortal. “Of course, Chief Inspector Mieras.”

  Mieras wavered slightly as if drunk before he faced Diago’s general direction. His gaze finally landed somewhere just over Diago’s left shoulder. “Dr. Alvarez.”

  “Chief Inspector. I’ll examine the premises and get a written report to you. I assume photographs have been taken?”

  “Yes.” Mieras hesitated, looking first from Diago to Garcia, then back again. “Yes.” He affirmed once more. “Yes.”

  “Good. I may need to see those later.” Diago continued the pantomime of conversation as he glanced at Suero and wished the younger Nefil could read his mind. Get him out of here.

  Diago wasn’t sure if Suero intuited Diago’s thoughts, or maybe he was simply growing weary from the energy he expended on Mieras, but he got the message. His song changed in pitch and speed, offering a note of urgency.

  Mieras straightened. “I hope you will forgive me. I must return to the station. I have important matters to attend.”

  Diago and Garcia murmured good-­byes. Diago was certain Garcia was as relieved as he when the awkward interaction ended and the door shut on Suero and Mieras.

  “We need to hurry,” Miquel said from his place on the landing. “Guillermo and I have overstayed our welcome already. Mieras had come up to tell us it was time to leave.”

  “Let’s go,” Diago said.

  At the top floor, they followed Miquel into the loft. The furniture was as Diago and Miquel had left it. Nostalgia for their days in the small apartment touched Diago as he followed his lover to their old bedroom, but he didn’t give the feeling room to grow. He wasn’t here to reminisce.

  Guillermo stood by the bedroom’s sole window and examined the wall. Words were written on the wallpaper in both ink and blood. In some places the force of the pen had torn through the paper to gouge the wall. Bits of plaster were scattered around the baseboards.

  Miquel said, “I’m going downstairs in case the mortals get curious. Four knocks means your time is up.”

  Guillermo nodded. “Good idea.” He turned to Diago after Miquel left. “How did it go with Ferrer?”

  “Their maid had me wait for him in his office. I took advantage of the opportunity.” He withdrew the memo and handed it to Guillermo. “I couldn’t make sense of it.”

  Garcia sounded amused. “So were you playing the spy?”

  Diago shrugged and waited to hear Guillermo’s judgment on the document’s value.

  Guillermo scanned the paper, then gave it to Garcia. “He’s helping the police use agents provocateurs within the CNT.”

  “How did you get that out of a primer shipment?” Diago asked.

  “It’s code.” Guillermo explained. “The ­people he’s listed will hide the ‘primers,’ the sparks that will set off an incident. During the next CNT protest, one of the primers will guarantee the march turns deadly. They’ll attack the police.”

  “Or innocent bystanders.” Garcia added. “When the protestors are arrested, the ‘primers’ are released. They’re never booked. They just disappear. The protestors are sent to prison.”

  Diago felt as if he’d bitten into something sour. “They help the ­people oppressing their coworkers and get away free?”

  “Your politics are showing, comrade.” Garcia passed the memo back to Guillermo.

  “I have no love for Lenin.”

  “A socialist, then.” Garcia dug a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. “Doesn’t matter to me. It’s mortal business of no interest to us.”

  Guillermo pointed one blunt finger at Garcia. “All mortal business is of interest to us. I have a gut feeling the angels’ game is bleeding into our realm, and if it is, their wars affect the mortals.” He folded the memo and tucked it into his breast pocket. “Not what I wanted to hear, but at least now I know. Good work.”

  The compliment warmed Diago. “There’s more,” he said. “I found a daimonic sigil hanging on the wall in Ferrer’s office. The fragment is ancient. Ferrer told me José had given it to him.”

  Garcia said, “I’ve been in Ferrer’s office three times and never saw a fragment.”

  “According to Ferrer, José just gave it to him yesterday.” Which meant José was at Ferrer’s office while the bodies remained here. Diago stifled a shudder. “Besides, it was hidden in the shadows. I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t bumped into it.”

  “You’re a clumsy spy.” Garcia grinned.

  Diago ignored the jab. Garcia was baiting him, and trading insults would get them nowhere.

  Guillermo took his lighter from his pocket and flipped the lid open and shut, a nervous habit Diago knew well. “Could you determine the sigil’s purpose?”

  Diago shook his head. “I didn’t have enough time.”

  “Or you’re protecting the daimon,” Garcia said. “A relative of yours, perhaps?”

  Diago didn’t dignify the comment with a response.

  Neither did Guillermo. “Let’s forget the fragment for a minute and look at what we have in front of us.” He checked his watch. “We’re running out of time. The police said José claimed to hear voices, telling him what to do and write.”

  “Which indicates a possession.” Garcia tapped the ashes of his cigarette onto the floor. “And a possession means daimons.”

  Diago glared at the mess. ­“People died here. Show some respect.”

  Garcia sneered, but after a hard stare from Guillermo, he relented and stubbed out the cigarette in a cup beside the bed. “You’ve been living among the mortals too long.”

  Maybe he had, but at least the experience had left him with a modicum of empathy, a quality sadly lacking in Garcia. He’s trying to rattle me. The best defense is to do my job.

  Diago turned his attention to his task and touched the wall, hoping to pick up some vibrations left behind by the daimon. The sounds within the magic were almost dead now. Too much time had elapsed since the daimon had possessed José.

  Perhaps José’s cramped script held an answer. The same expressions were scrawled over and over. Bits of Latin were superimposed atop Spanish and Catalan. It was as if something had scrambled the language center of José’s brain.

&nbs
p; Let me in OUT in Let me in tell me his name a name give me his name

  the son will follow let him follow his father the son will follow the father

  Garcia picked out one phrase. “ ‘The son will follow the father.’ ” He sniffed. “It’s almost like José is talking about you, Alvarez.”

  The statement spread glacial claws of fear through Diago’s limbs. Were the daimons trying to turn Los Nefilim against him so he would return to their side? Or did they mock him?

  Stop it. José’s ramblings have nothing to do with me. Garcia is using a random phrase to goad me.

  Then what did José’s writing concern? Tell me a name. Give me a name.

  “ ‘She hunts,’ ” Diago murmured.

  Guillermo shut the lid of his lighter. “I don’t see that phrase.”

  Because it wasn’t there. Another round of uneasiness washed over Diago. The information about the bridge and Alvaro had suddenly become urgent. “I have to talk to you. Alone.”

  “Garcia is your partner; anything you say to me, you can say in front of him.”

  “Guillermo—­” Please. I’ve made a terrible mistake.

  Guillermo pinned his glare on Diago. “What’s going on?”

  Garcia raised his eyebrows.

  Diago considered lying. He actually contemplated saying, “Nothing,” in order to circumvent the humiliation of admitting he saw the bridge and Alvaro yet remained silent in the face of Garcia’s questions.

  Then he thought of Alvaro, standing on the bridge with the word LIAR carved into his forehead. Will Los Nefilim give me the same brand? Liar? Because that is what I am.

  The room was suddenly too warm.

  If the events here at Doña Rosa’s house and the appearance of the bridge were linked, Diago would be seen as hiding crucial information. Garcia would gleefully twist the facts and make it appear as if Diago was protecting his father, and by extension, the daimons. His life as one of Guillermo’s Los Nefilim would be over before it started.

  No. One lie of omission was enough. He swallowed his pride and said, “During the metro ride, I found a new bridge, which wasn’t there in October. Alvaro stood on the mortal side.”

  “I knew it,” Garcia said. “I knew something happened and you were holding back.”

  “I wasn’t sure what I saw at first.” The lie was a bad one, nor did it mitigate the damage. Diago deduced from the narrowing of Guillermo’s eyes he was simply digging himself deeper. “Alvaro sketched a few words with the train’s smoke: ‘help me . . . she hunts.’ I don’t know what he’s trying to communicate to me.”

  Guillermo thumbed the lid of his lighter open and shut, and it sounded like the banging of a gavel to Diago. “Why didn’t you tell Garcia?”

  It was time for honesty. “I knew he’d make it sound as if I was attempting to collude with Alvaro and the daimons.”

  “Well?” Garcia’s grin returned. “Aren’t you?”

  “No. I am not.”

  Guillermo sighed and shook his head. He was disappointed but not angry. Not yet. He will be if I don’t learn how to work with the other members of Los Nefilim. Diago would have preferred anger. He knew how to react to rage, but Guillermo’s frustration was harder to bear. He took a chance on me and this is how I repay him.

  “I’m sorry. I should have said something.”

  “You’re damn right you should have.” Garcia snapped. “I even cornered him about it after the ride and he—­”

  “That’s enough.” Guillermo scowled at Garcia. “Stop with the insinuations about Diago working for the daimons. You make goddamned sure you’ve got some kind of proof to back up your allegations, or just shut up.”

  “And this admission isn’t proof enough?”

  “It’s proof he can’t trust you to represent the facts accurately.”

  Garcia’s self-­satisfaction vanished.

  “Now”—­Guillermo stabbed his finger at the wall—­“you said, ‘she hunts.’ Tell me how Alvaro’s message is linked to José’s ramblings.”

  Relieved the momentum of the conversation moved away from him, Diago clarified his line of reasoning. “This, here.” He touched the phrases: Tell me a name. Give me a name. “She is seeking a name, she is hunting, but as much as Garcia would like for this to be about me, I don’t think it is. I believe the daimons are looking for Prieto and the idea for Moloch’s bomb. The phrase ‘the son will follow the father’ could have come from José’s mind.”

  “And what if it didn’t?” Garcia asked.

  He was a tenacious bastard, Diago had to give him that. “Or the daimons are playing on the distrust already seeded within our ranks by creating agents provocateurs from gullible Nefilim.” He nodded at Garcia, whose face darkened with fury. Good. Let him be angry for a change. “Maybe they’re hoping to keep us off-­balance and fighting among ourselves while they widen the bridge.” Anything was possible at this point.

  Guillermo twice flipped the lighter’s lid open and shut. “Let’s go with the first premise. Why would a daimon be hunting Prieto?”

  The answer was blatant to Diago. “If Moloch can’t have Rafael, then he will seek the return of his idea. It’s a matter of honor. The vibrations I saw holding Alvaro indicate Moloch is still too injured to leave his realm. But he isn’t going to let a lot of time pass before he hunts what is his.”

  Garcia said, “So he’s hired a bounty hunter to bring back the idea.”

  “Exactly.” Diago touched the wall again.

  Guillermo asked, “Can you tell who she is?”

  “Her magic is almost gone. It left with the fragment.” But she hadn’t completely vanished. Traces of her song remained like the residue of a madman’s dreams. Diago allowed his fingers to rove over the letters, especially seeking those written in blood, because that was where the daimon’s magic would be the strongest. He thought of patterns.

  “What did you say?” Guillermo asked.

  Diago hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. “Patterns,” he said again, louder this time. “Magic, songs, stories—­they all follow patterns.”

  “And what is the pattern here?”

  That was the problem. He couldn’t detect one. Her true essence eluded him, dancing just beyond his reach like a leaf blown by the wind.

  He traced his finger over the word “father” again. “She wears many faces. All of them mortal. So she is entirely spirit. Without a corporeal form, she has no voice with which to open the realms and sing her way across a bridge. That explains why she needs the fragment. She uses it as an anchor to the mortal realm. The song that opens the way must be inscribed in the glyph.”

  Guillermo said, “Then she uses the mortals to transfer the fragment from one location to another so she can possess her next victim.”

  “Exactly,” Diago said. “She must utilize whatever ability the mortal owns in order to communicate her will, but sometimes when you pour hot liquid into a corrupt vessel, the cup can break. When she ordered José to murder his mother, I think the slaughter unhinged him. José was a terrible person, but he was not a killer, and he adored his mother. His emotional instability would have then disrupted the daimon’s ability to communicate its will.”

  “So the daimon left José and moved to a more viable host,” Garcia mused. “If Prieto is the target, then we should summon him.”

  “Christ’s blood, Garcia.” Guillermo shot the inspector a dour look. “You know it’s not that simple.”

  Because otherwise, Guillermo would have done it weeks ago. In order to summon Prieto against his will, they would have to know how to sing his true angelic name. From what Diago had been able to discern by listening to conversations between Guillermo and Miquel, Prieto was something of an enigma, even to the other angels. None of the members of Los Nefilim found any trace of him. Juanita had even failed to find another angel who would admit to knowin
g him.

  Garcia persisted. “We have a duty to warn him. He is a Messenger angel. He is on our side.”

  Guillermo frowned at the wall as if he could divine the answers from José’s script. “We really don’t know whose side he’s on.”

  “I know this,” Diago said. “The fragment José delivered to Ferrer was here first, and look what happened. We’ve got to get it out of the Ferrer apartment.”

  “I’ve got someone who can take care of that.” Garcia was quick to offer.

  “So do I,” Guillermo said. “Leave it to me.”

  Garcia tried not to show his disappointment.

  Interesting. Guillermo evidently didn’t trust Garcia in all things.

  Guillermo pocketed his lighter and checked his watch again. “Anything else?”

  Whatever this daimon was, José fought it. Maybe he could shed some light on how he came by the fragment in the first place. “I need to see José.”

  Garcia shook his head. “You won’t get anything useful out of him.”

  Four loud knocks jarred them into silence.

  Garcia said, “The other officers won’t question my presence here. I can tell them I’m wrapping up the investigation for Mieras, but all of you must go. Where is the car?”

  Guillermo answered. “Els 4 Gats. Is there a servants’ entry?”

  “Behind the downstairs kitchen,” Diago said as they moved toward the stairs.

  Wasting no time, they were at the first floor within moments. Suero had already left.

  Miquel turned to them. “Two other policemen were here. I managed to get the guards to put them off but they’ll be back soon.”

  “We’re done.” Guillermo turned and looked down the hall.

  Garcia took Miquel’s place by the door. “I’ll handle them when they return. I’ll need a written report from you, Doctor.”

  “Tell Mieras I have to see José before I can give him a preliminary report. Call the doctors at Holy Cross and tell them to suspend any medications. I need him in the same frame of mind as he was when he committed the murders.”

  Garcia pursed his lips so hard, his mustache bristled.