Los Nefilim Book 4

by T. Frohock

  “I see now. I will try. I swear I will try.”

  “I know you will.” Miquel lay down again.

  Diago thought about the questions and realized it might be easiest to apply the philosophy in his relationship with Miquel first. How can I be a better part of us? Yes. He would begin asking himself that every day. Maybe he could help make Miquel’s life easier while learning to be a member of Los Nefilim. The thought appealed to him while simultaneously making him aware of how poorly he’d acted until now.

  “I can be so damn difficult.” Diago stroked Miquel’s wrist. “Do you ever think of leaving me?”

  Miquel brushed his lips against Diago’s shoulder. He reflected on the question for several moments before he said, “Once.”

  “When?” Diago held his breath.

  “Right before we left Sevilla. You kept walking around the apartment, touching everything so you could remember it all. I was ready to leave and let you catch the next train to Barcelona by yourself.”

  Diago smiled and slapped Miquel’s hip playfully. “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I.” Miquel took his hand and linked fingers with him. “I don’t want to leave you. Now sleep, my serious Diago. Please.”

  Safe in Miquel’s arms, Diago stopped his questions, but he couldn’t sleep. The nightmare clung to the edge of his consciousness and gave him no peace.

  After Miquel’s breathing deepened, Diago rose and went to Rafael’s door. He looked down on his son, who was curled on his side, his arm around his stuffed horse, and his thumb plugged firmly between his lips.

  . . . she hunts. . .

  Although the daimon hunted Prieto and his bomb, her inquires might lead her to Diago’s door. Better to be safe and reinforce the protective wards around his home. He checked the window to make sure it was locked. After strengthening the sigil over the latch, he paused to watch it spin lazily in the dark. If anyone, mortal or supernatural, tried to enter, the ward would awaken Diago and Miquel. Then God help whoever or whatever tried to harm Rafael.

  The child stirred and turned over in his sleep. Diago paused and tucked the blankets around him. As he did, Rafael opened his eyes, saw it was Diago and smiled.

  Diago smoothed his hair and kissed his cheek. “Sleep.”

  Rafael closed his eyes and snuggled into his bed. A few errant crumbs drifted to the floor. Diago left the bread under Rafael’s pillow. He remembered his own childhood. The nights he’d lain awake on a bed of straw with hunger gnawing his belly were just as fresh as if they’d passed yesterday.

  Do what they say and you will eat, his aunt had promised.

  But they didn’t feed him. Instead, he was forced to fight the other boys for his bread, and though he was small, he discovered viciousness trumped size. And when the strangers who visited the brothel touched him, he learned not to cry. He taught himself to smile with his mouth, and never let them see the hate he buried in his heart.

  Long memories were the Nefilim’s curse. Just when he thought he’d finally chained all of his phantoms into the past, they rose to haunt him again.

  Like Alvaro.

  . . . she hunts. . .

  Restless now, he walked through the house and checked the windows and doors, making sure his sigils protected each one. When he was done he turned and walked through a second time, and then a third. Three times he walked, and three times he touched each window and door. Three times: once for the son, once for the father, and once to drive away the ghosts.

  Chapter Five

  The next day, a gray bank of clouds set the backdrop for the asylum at Holy Cross. Palm trees presided over the empty courtyard, where benches were placed under the arcades and out on the lawn. In sunnier weather, the atmosphere might have been inviting. With the gloom of an early November storm hanging over them, the mood was much more subdued. Other than a few nuns intent on their nursing errands, the yard was mostly empty.

  Diago had to admit, Guillermo certainly knew how to arrive in style. Suero had polished the Mercedes-­Benz 770 to a high luster, and drove the vehicle like he had been born behind the wheel. He skillfully guided the long black car up to the curb. Diago considered it a pity no one was around to receive them.

  Suero halted the car in front of a fountain, got out, and opened the back door. Diago emerged first and stood beside the car. Once Guillermo joined him, Suero moved the vehicle farther down the curb where he could watch the entrance and wait for them.

  Guillermo’s gaze drifted to Diago’s wedding ring for the seventh time that morning. He’d probably been thinking of clever ripostes for the entire ride. Might as well get it over with.

  Diago asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “Nice ring.” Guillermo gestured to Diago’s hand. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen it.”

  “That’s it? An hour ride, and that’s the best you can come up with?”

  Guillermo treated Diago to a most wicked grin. “I’ve been biting my tongue all morning, because I promised Miquel if you ever started wearing it, I wouldn’t tease you.” After a brief pause, he said, “I assume he is happy?”

  Diago made a contented noise in the back of his throat. “Yes. Very happy. We spent the evening—­”

  “No details.” Guillermo’s blush extended down into his collar. “I don’t need details.”

  “—­reading to Rafael.” Diago allowed himself a smile, enjoying Guillermo’s discomfort. “What did you think I was going to say?”

  He tugged at his collar and shot Diago an amused glare. “I know what you just did.”

  “I didn’t do anything. Your brain jumped to its own conclusions.”

  “Touché.” Guillermo chuckled and they stood quietly for a moment, listening to the wind hiss through the fronds. “Garcia said to meet him here. I wonder where he is.” He looked up at the windows overhead.

  “Most likely somewhere nearby,” said Diago as he strolled away from Guillermo and searched the arcades for any sign of the inspector. Garcia was far too servile to keep Guillermo waiting for long.

  A cloud of cigarette smoke billowed from behind a column at the far end of the porch. Got him.

  Diago kept to the grass and followed the scent of tobacco. He heard Garcia’s voice, speaking just above a whisper.

  Why the secrecy? He glided forward on cat’s feet, hoping to eavesdrop on the inspector.

  Without warning, Garcia stepped backward and punctuated a comment with a sharp jab of his finger.

  Diago ducked behind a pillar. Someone is going to break his hands one of these days.

  Curious as to who had Garcia in such a state of righ­teous indignation, he peeked around the column.

  Within the shadows of the porch stood a stout muscular man with short blond hair and a reddish cast to his skin. He answered Garcia in heavily accented Spanish. Diago pegged him for a German until the sun peeked from behind a cloud, momentarily lighting the dim corner. A ray of sunshine illuminated the man’s eyes, which were deep lavender and shot through with streams of gold. Diago froze. Garcia’s companion wasn’t German at all.

  He was an angel disguised as a mortal.

  Well, this is interesting. Garcia wasn’t doing anything wrong, per se. To the best of his knowledge, Guillermo hadn’t forbidden the other Nefilim from speaking with the angels as long as they reported back to him.

  Still. He’ll want to know about this. A quick glance revealed Guillermo had wandered in the opposite direction, and now stood by the fountain, gazing into the water.

  Diago checked the porch again to find Garcia alone. The angel had disappeared.

  The inspector smiled and put out his cigarette. Whistling a jaunty tune, he kept to the shelter of the porch as he walked in Diago’s direction.

  Damn it. Diago returned to the path and hurried back to Guillermo. Had the German left the grounds, or was he somewhere inside the asylum?
Diago had no way to know, and the mystery would have to wait. He reached Guillermo’s side just as a young mortal emerged from the hospital. The doctor turned and called a greeting to Garcia, who appeared and shook the mortal’s hand.

  This must be the doctor they awaited. The youth sported a thick mustache and heavily gelled hair, which was combed back in an attempt to tame his unruly waves.

  “Don Guillermo, Doctor Alvarez. I apologize for our delay,” Garcia said.

  Guillermo treated Garcia to a scowl—­he never liked to be kept waiting—­before he gave the mortal a quick once-­over. He might as well have been appraising a bull for his pens.

  Garcia’s genial demeanor showed no sign he was perturbed by Guillermo’s umbrage. “Dr. Vales, this is Don Guillermo Ramírez. He has an interest in this case.”

  “Don José’s mother was a good friend.” Guillermo touched his heart. “I promised her family I would oversee this matter.”

  Dr. Vales’s smile grew pinched. Guillermo’s scrutiny increased the likelihood Vales’s superiors would hear of any mistakes regarding Don José’s treatment. To his benefit, Vales didn’t appear unnerved by Guillermo’s statement, which spoke well to the young doctor’s self-­confidence. He simply seemed inconvenienced by an outsider who presumably didn’t understand the medical field. “I’m sure you’ll find our facilities meet with the approval of both you and Don José’s family.”

  Garcia treated Diago to his most contemptuous smile. “And this is Dr. Diago Alvarez, an Andalusian.”

  Andalusian was delivered with such a sneer Diago was only mildly surprised when Garcia didn’t follow “Andalusian” with dog. Whose politics were showing now?

  Dr. Vales’s smile warmed slightly toward Diago. Mortals were so transparent. Vales saw in Diago another professional, who might prove to be an ally should Don Guillermo misinterpret a procedure. “Inspector Garcia tells me you are staying with Don Guillermo at his estate.”

  Diago offered his right hand. “Yes.”

  Vales took Diago’s injured hand gingerly, barely shaking, probably afraid of hurting him worse. “It is good to meet you. I’m afraid I haven’t had the opportunity to familiarize myself with your work.”

  A rare moment of honesty from a doctor. Diago waved the admission aside. “I’m not surprised. I don’t write very much these days. I had all but retired when I was called back into ser­vice.”

  Guillermo smiled at Diago’s play on the truth as Vales led them inside the hospital.

  Vales fell into step beside Diago. “I’m not sure how much you will get out of Don José. We’ve had to keep him in restraints since his arrival yesterday.” He handed Diago an envelope as he guided them to a ser­vice elevator large enough to hold a gurney. “I had my secretary copy my notes for you.”

  Once the elevator started to move, Diago opened the file and glanced at the contents. Guillermo feigned indifference while Garcia pressed himself against Diago’s right shoulder in order to see the file. The combined odors of cigarette smoke and cologne clung to the inspector’s damp clothes and hair.

  The stench caused Diago to gag. He turned his head and whispered in Garcia’s ear. “If you get any closer, we’ll have to get married.”

  Garcia stiffened and immediately stepped back.

  Guillermo coughed his chuckle into his fist.

  Vales’s cheeks grew pink at the exchange, but he pretended not to notice. He nodded at the folder. “On the second page, my secretary transcribed some of his ramblings. It was . . . disconcerting.”

  “How so?” Diago asked.

  “It was almost as if he was speaking to someone. Then he would answer himself in a different voice. It’s not uncommon in some cases of schizophrenia, but it’s the first time I ever witnessed it.”

  It’s quite common in daimonic possession, too. Diago kept the thought to himself and hurried to reassure the young mortal. “It can be downright chilling.”

  Relieved that Diago seemed to understand, Vales relaxed.

  Diago returned his attention to the page where a series of phrases and questions were neatly typed.

  J. (as himself): tell me his name a name give me . . . Mother? . . . I asked her and she wouldn’t tell me.

  J. (speaking in a woman’s voice): Ask harder.

  J. (as himself): She said she didn’t know. Mamá? Mamá? Help me? Answer the question, Mamá!

  J. (speaking in a woman’s voice): Give her to me and I’ll divine the answer.

  Diago’s stomach clenched. The thought of poor Doña Rosa’s terror settled in the back of his mind and left an ashen taste in his mouth.

  Vales nodded at the folder. “Disturbing, isn’t it?”

  “It never gets easier,” Diago said, uncomfortably reminded of Garcia’s first words to him at the Liceu station.

  Garcia raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  The elevator churned to a halt. Vales directed them to a door that opened onto a ward. “We’re almost there.”

  Diago felt his skin crawl as the heavy door closed behind them. The vaulted corridors were worthy of a cathedral, but all semblance to holiness ended there. The ward was more like a prison than a hospital. The orderlies were young muscled men, who possessed hard eyes and the swagger of guards. A few nuns carried out errands involving metal trays and cups of pills, but their faces reflected little sympathy for their charges.

  An old man sat in a chair outside his room. He twisted a rag doll in his fingers and mumbled to himself. From behind another door, a man sang a lewd song. One of the sisters chastised him and he cursed her to hell.

  Just ahead, a nun emerged from a cell. As she passed them Diago noticed she carried a small metal tray with several syringes lying in military precision on a white towel. A speck of blood dotted the fibers beneath the needle of an empty syringe—­one of the patients had fought his injection.

  The nun ducked her head when she noticed them. Diago barely glimpsed her face before her wimple shielded her features. For a strange moment he thought he’d recognized Elena, the Ferrers’ maid.

  That’s ridiculous. The Ferrers were difficult, but he’d doubted they’d ever driven anyone into a nunnery. This woman simply favored Elena.

  Nevertheless, he paused and glanced over his shoulder after she passed them. Completely oblivious to him, she stepped purposefully into the room with the bawdy singer.

  The syringes probably held some kind of sedative—­something to chase the patients’ madness into the shadows, or barring that, a medical cocktail to render the men more compliant. Diago just hoped she’d skipped José’s room.

  But the blood.

  Any one of the patients might have struggled. It was probably nothing.

  Diago returned his attention to Vales, who had stopped before the third cell. The doctor opened the door and Diago followed him into a room that held nothing more than a bed and a small table, both of which were bolted to the floor.

  José had become a shadow of the man Diago remembered. The heavy leather straps binding his wrists and ankles to the bed made him seem almost childlike.

  Diago might have summoned more pity for him had he not known of the prostitutes José had brutalized during his days on the Paralelo. At least those women had one less abuser prowling the streets.

  Dr. Vales, on the other hand, seemed embarrassed by José’s restraints. “My apologies, Don Guillermo, but we don’t have these facilities in our first-­class wards. In spite of appearances, I can assure you Don José has been treated with the utmost dignity.”

  “The boy murdered his mother and two innocent men.” Guillermo’s voice was a low growl. “You do as you see fit, Doctor.”

  Vales exhaled with relief. Diago could only imagine the tightrope the young doctor walked between providing care for his patients and appeasing the entitled demands of the privileged.

  Diago went to José’s side
. From his peripheral vision, he noticed Garcia halt at the foot of the bed. Guillermo remained in the doorway, fulfilling his role as observer.

  Vales stood across from Diago. He spoke gently to José as if soothing a distressed animal. “Hello, Don José. How are you feeling today?”

  Diago looked down at the young mortal. Don José appeared to be having a very bad day. Dark circles blackened his eyes, which darted right and left, from Vales to Diago and back again. A thin whining noise hissed through his lips.

  Suddenly, José’s eyes rolled upward until only the whites were visible. His muscles visibly contracted, and his body went rigid. The smell of urine filled the small room. José had wet himself.

  What the hell? Diago barely finished the thought before he realized what was happening. “He’s having a seizure. Grand mal.” Diago glanced up at Vales.

  “Grant who?” Garcia asked.

  Vales enunciated. “A grand mal seizure.” He withdrew a stethoscope from his pocket and pressed the chest piece against José’s heart.

  José wasn’t prone to seizures. If he had been, Doña Rosa would have mentioned the fact during one of her many monologues to Diago. No, something else was wrong with José.

  Something was very wrong.

  The nun’s tray of needles. Diago tossed the folder to the table and pushed up José’s sleeve. A circular indentation around his upper arm indicated a tourniquet had been recently used. The pinprick of a needle was seated on his inner arm.

  Diago recalled the blood on the towel. “I asked that he not be medicated.”

  “He wasn’t!”

  “He’s been given a shot within the last ten minutes.”