Los Nefilim Book 4

by T. Frohock

  Alvaro dropped the last of his illusions. He grinned around razor teeth, and Diago detected a glimmer of madness in his father’s eyes. He wasn’t sure if Alvaro’s insanity was the by-­product of his new condition, or if he had always been so. Nor did it matter. The lines were drawn. They were enemies now.

  Diago risked a quick glance over his shoulder.

  “Are you looking for Lamashtu? She’s not here.” Alvaro snarled. “By now, she has probably found and killed Guillermo.”

  “Liar.” Diago paused. He resisted the urge to call out to Guillermo. This could be a trick to get him to reveal Guillermo’s whereabouts. Lamashtu might not know where he was hiding.

  “Did you think you could trick Moloch? This is his realm, Diago. He saw you descend into the sewers and guessed your plan.” Alvaro hissed like the serpent in the garden.

  Diago strained his ears for any sound of a fight, but the passages gave him only silence. No. Alvaro was trying to spook him. Guillermo was fine.

  Alvaro leaned toward the mortal realm. The bridge exploded in hues of scarlet and sangria. “Lamashtu will possess you. She will force you to go to Santuari and murder Miquel. After it’s all done, you will bring Rafael home to us. You will be a part of Ba’al’s army, and so will Rafael. It doesn’t matter to us if you enlist willingly, or if you’re conscripted. Keep yourself whole, Diago. Save Miquel’s life. Swear your allegiance to us, and we will send Lamashtu back to Samael.”

  Diago started moving again. This time, he didn’t stop.

  “Think of how Los Nefilim will interpret this excursion. You deceived Guillermo. Brought him to his death and betrayed your king once more. They will see nothing but a traitor when you return.” Alvaro’s shouts followed him. “You will never be fast enough to escape us! We are a part of you! Always!”

  Diago shut out his father’s taunts. He retraced his steps with as much speed as the narrow ledge allowed. Within moments he reached the overflow drain.

  A woman’s hand emerged from the concrete pipe. Diago never saw the syringe, but he felt the needle stab his thigh. The hot rush of morphine flowed into his leg.

  Blind with panic, Diago plunged off the walkway and into the black water of the canal. He splashed forward eight more steps before he halted. With numb fingers, he ripped the needle from his leg. Over half of the morphine was gone. He dropped the syringe into the muck and crushed it beneath his heel.

  The drug caused him to lose control of his magic, his awareness, but of course that was what she wanted. Under the morphine’s influence, she would easily penetrate his mind as if he was mortal.

  Diago whirled in time to see her crawl out of the drain. Elena’s pale face floated over the collar of her soiled black dress, but it was Lamashtu who peered through the maid’s eyes. She advanced cautiously, as leery of him as he was of her.

  “Relax, Diago,” said Lamashtu. “Let the drug work.” Her words, brown as old blood, fell from her lips and dripped down her chin.

  How long did he have before the morphine took him down? Five minutes, ten? He had to draw her away from the power of the bridge. He pointed his dagger at her chest and retreated.

  Alvaro’s laughter rolled down the passage. His distant voice sent the hair at the back of Diago’s neck straight up.

  “You were right, son! I lied. She never went after Guillermo. She was by the tracks. I hit the bridge so she would know where we were. I gave you a chance, Diago. You’ve brought this on yourself.”

  Diago slipped.

  Lamashtu took two quick steps, but stopped when he caught his balance.

  She used Elena’s melodious voice to offer him quiet words. “Ignore him, Diago. Your father is wrong. It will be better this way. You won’t have to think anymore. You can relax and let the world go by, watch it all from a distance. Feel nothing. Be nothing. We’ll raise Rafael as he is meant to be raised, and you will be freed from these torturous conflicts of loyalty.”

  “I’m not conflicted.” He assured her as he stepped back onto the walkway. “If I wanted to lose my mind to you, I would have taken Alvaro’s hand.” He kept moving, trailing his fingers along the wall.

  His heel struck the first step of the crumbling stairs and, unprepared for the jolt, Diago fell backward. He landed in a sitting position.

  Lamashtu lunged forward.

  Diago rose and slashed at her with his dagger. The tip of his blade snagged the sleeve of her dress. A thin cut oozed blood on her wrist.

  She licked the blood from the wound and retreated to a safe distance. “I hate mortals. They’re so clumsy. Nefilim are faster.”

  “We are,” he said as he carefully backed up the stairs. Numbness spread up his thigh and into his hip as the morphine found its way into his veins. His speech slurred. “Don’t forget it.”

  Lamashtu cocked her head. “Morpheus has come for you. Fall into his arms. Sleep. And while you sleep, you will let me in.”

  He made no sign he heard. She wouldn’t rush him on the stairs. Not with the prospect of taking over his body. Crippling him wasn’t her goal. No. She simply had to be patient.

  Diago climbed faster. She followed, staying far enough behind to prevent him from kicking her down the stairs.

  The morphine eased into his mind, clouding his thoughts. How close was he to the junction where Guillermo awaited him? Diago tried to assess his surroundings.

  Several metres away, the passages branched again. On the wall, a bulb shattered behind its wire cage and spewed sparks onto the walkway. The explosion of light momentarily blinded him. Panic rose from his chest and into his brain, strangling his thoughts.

  He tried to warn his friend. “Guillermo! It’s a trap.” It’s a trap and I am caught.

  “Let him come,” said Lamashtu from somewhere nearby.

  Too close, she is too close. Still partially blinded by the flash, he stumbled into the canal. Holding out the dagger, he spun and slashed wildly, but the only resistance he found was the sewer’s damp air.

  His vision finally cleared. He turned quickly until he located Lamashtu. She remained on the walkway, a smile on her lips.

  Diago pointed the dagger at her. He sang a low note and traced a sigil with the vibrations of his fear. Then he flung the ward at Elena’s dead eyes.

  Lamashtu used Elena’s voice to sing a sigil of her own. The patterns of her magic slammed into his glyph and turned it back on him. The morphine slowed his reaction time. He tried to summon another sigil, but he sang off-­key. His song died before it was truly born.

  When Lamashtu’s ward reached him, electric pain ruptured in his mind. He managed to stay on his feet, but the dagger flew from his hand.

  From somewhere behind him, Guillermo’s shout rolled through the tunnel. “Diago? Where are you?”

  Diago gasped an answer. “Go back.” He barely understood himself. The morphine swallowed his words and spit them out as gibberish. “Get out.”

  “He won’t.” Lamashtu wasn’t perturbed by Guillermo’s presence. “And by the time he finds us, I will be you.” Thin spectral fingers protruded at the edges of Elena’s lips as the daimon crawled up through the maid’s throat. She readied herself. The moment Diago became unconscious, the daimon would jettison her spirit between his lips and into his mind.

  Diago reeled away from her.

  Guillermo shouted. “Answer me, Diago! I’m not leaving you.”

  Diago’s heart hammered in his chest. “Guillermo?” He meant to yell, but all he was able to produce was a murmur. As much as he wanted his friend to flee, a cowardly part of him wished Guillermo would save him.

  Don’t let her take me. Don’t let her wear my face and hurt my boy. He tripped and caught himself on the edge of the walkway.

  Lamashtu vocalized again.

  As Diago righted himself and backed away from her advance, the fluid in the canal grew thick and black. It was lik
e trudging in deep mud. Shadows pearled along the walls, weeping down the mortar black as rain.

  He could barely move his feet. The stream of darkness picked up speed. A frigid current washed over his calves.

  “Diago!” Guillermo sounded closer.

  But not close enough. Diago struggled to answer. The morphine dried his tongue. A burning desert filled his veins.

  The muddy water turned into a river. The walls vanished beneath shadows.

  Lamashtu’s voice drifted through the haze. “Sleep, child, sleep.”

  “No,” Diago whispered. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t give her what she wanted . . .

  A faint buzzing noise nuzzled the temporal bone behind his ear. He thought of flies swarming over a corpse. The pulsations grew stronger and bled into his skull, causing his jaw to tingle. Goose bumps rippled across his flesh.

  Diago lifted his hand to ward off the sound. His wedding band flared and left a silver trail in the air. Half blind from the morphine, he took two sideways steps. His shoulder struck the wall. Webs of shadows twined in his hair and snatched at his wrists.

  Lamashtu followed him. The thrumming sensation behind his ear returned. “Go down, Diago. It’s time to sleep.”

  She stepped off the walkway. Before he could move, she darted in and kicked the back of his knee.

  He went down. Blackness splashed his face and clouded his eyes. It filled his nose and his lungs. The water closed over his head, and he floated beneath the waves . . . without sound, or light, or guide.

  Reaching out with his left hand, he searched for something to grab, anything to anchor his body so he could lift himself free of the void. His questing fingers touched nothing.

  A single spot of radiance moved with his hand. His addled senses mistook the light for a star. No. Not a star. My ring. The silver wedding band pushed back the dark. He remembered Miquel’s voice, soft in the night. With this ring, I pledge my love . . . They had stood in a garden hand in hand. Miquel placed the ring onto Diago’s finger . . . my love. . .

  Diago tried to call out his lover’s name. “Miquel . . .” But the black filled his mouth, bitter as hate on his tongue, and choked off his cry. He whipped his head and tried to rise. A hand pushed his face into the muck. The hum returned to the base of his skull.

  Let me in. Lamashtu tried to shove him deeper into the dark.

  In spite of the daimon’s spell, Diago’s ring blazed. His eyes seized the light.

  Somewhere in the distance, a child cried out. Papa! Papa! You come back right now! Now! Make him come home, Miquel!

  Diago saw his family as clearly as if he stood behind them in Guillermo’s house. Rafael pointed at the picture he’d drawn of Diago, Miquel, and himself beneath an angel sun.

  The figure representing Diago had begun to fade. The bright colors dulled until all that remained were the caricatures of Miquel and Rafael, holding onto a ghost’s pale hands.

  Save him, Miquel!

  And his wise Miquel placed Rafael’s palms on the picture of Diago so that they covered ghost-­drawing with their hands. Juanita joined them, and when Miquel vocalized a song, she added her ethereal voice to his. She lent them the strength of an angel, and together, they guided Rafael’s small fingers to fashion a sigil of protection over Diago’s picture. Miquel’s gold ring threw off amber sparks, showering the drawing with their love.

  The patterns of their song reached out over time and space. The warmth of their love touched him where he lay beneath Lamashtu’s malice. His wedding band shone ever brighter as Miquel’s voice pushed back the darkness.

  . . . come home, my bright star . . . stay with us . . . don’t give in . . . come home. . .

  To fight for the ones he loved meant he had to fight for himself, too. Diago couldn’t give up. I will not be Alvaro. I will fight for them and myself.

  And this was war.

  Diago struggled against Lamashtu’s hold. Her body slid to the right. She hooked her leg over his hips and tried to regain her position.

  He shoved himself upward. His head broke the surface of the black mud. Twisting hard to the right, he used Lamashtu’s instability to throw her from his back.

  The darkness receded and in the distance, he saw the soft glow of orange and red and gold. Guillermo’s song. He was still searching, calling to Diago.

  Because love, it takes so many forms.

  Diago stumbled to his feet. Lamashtu’s black notes swirled around his thighs. He dragged up his hand and coughed a hard note. The luminance of his wedding ring dimmed. No. Not hate. He heard Rafael’s voice. Love kills the dark, Papa. Love. . .

  Love. Drive her back with love.

  Diago summoned the image of Miquel, his dark eyes luminous in the moonlight. He beckoned into his heart the tenderness he nourished for Rafael. His poor Rafael, who had barely begun his long road to healing—­the daimons would destroy the good in the child and teach him to thrive on anger and fear and hate.

  Just as they tried to do to me.

  Diago drew on his memories—­not the terrible things that had happened to him over his long life, but the good. He took the moments he wanted to keep close to his heart, and he shaped them into a song. He nurtured the patterns of devotion into a sigil and sent it flying like snow driven before the wind.

  But the morphine crippled his magic. The sigil wavered, the edges blurred. No sooner had he set the spell in motion than he realized the poorly woven song was going to miss Elena’s body. Lamashtu swayed to her feet and lifted her hands.

  Then, from behind him, Guillermo’s voice thundered a chord both bold and hard. The fiery sigil singed Diago’s hair as it flew past him. Guillermo’s ward caught Diago’s, and redirected the spell toward Lamashtu.

  The combined glyphs entered through Elena’s eyes. Gold and silver light danced through her veins and burned her flesh. Lamashtu screamed as the maid’s body burst into white fire. Just before she fell, Diago detected a glimpse of Elena. Her confusion lasted merely a moment before understanding turned to horror. She didn’t even have time to scream before the flames engulfed her, and she was gone.

  Without the shelter of a physical form, Lamashtu’s spirit swirled through Elena’s lips. She became a mist that united all the colors of the night. Gauzy echoes of gray and white drifted around her.

  Twin tethers branched away from her body, just as Diago had told Guillermo they would. The thicker of the two disappeared down the passage, leading back to her corporeal body somewhere in Sitra Akhra. The other flowed upward into the mortal realm.

  Now. They had to attack now. Diago took a shaky step and skidded on the wet floor.

  Guillermo caught him. The big Nefil supported Diago with one hand and didn’t hesitate. Just as they had practiced in the apartment, Guillermo formed a note in D. He drew his blade and designed the glyph that would sever Lamashtu’s thread to the fragment. As his hand slashed through the vibrations of his song, he called on the power of his signet ring. Fashioned by an angel, the stone within his ring flared like an aurora borealis. The multicolored beams ensnared Guillermo’s sigil and turned it into a ring of fire.

  Even as Guillermo threw the glyph at the daimon, Diago saw the edges were too dull. As strong as Guillermo’s ward was, it wouldn’t be enough to cut the thread.

  Diago vocalized, but he was hoarse and unable to reach the proper pitch. He stopped. Let me hit the note, he prayed to whatever god might be listening. Then he closed his eyes and sang again. This time, he began softly. As his voice strengthened, he culled the note and channeled the sound waves forward to merge with Guillermo’s glyph.

  Their magic reached the tether, and for a moment it seemed to hang there, halted as if running against a wall.

  Lamashtu’s spirit shimmered. She laughed at their feeble attempt to harm her, not understanding their intent. She floated toward them, feeding on Diago’s fear.

&nb
sp; And then their sigil snapped the thread.

  Guillermo inhaled and let loose a vocalization that shook the stones. He designed a second glyph of fire and targeted the broken tether. The flames grabbed hold of the damaged thread, glowing like the fuse to a bomb, and hurtled upward into the mortal realm. The odor of burning parchment filled the tunnel. Wherever it was, the sigil burned.

  Lamashtu rushed forward, still determined to possess Diago.

  All he had left in his soul was a lament, one last cry to mourn the fragile hope Alvaro had broken. Diago sang his grief and shaped a ward to cut Lamashtu’s life-­strand. It took all his strength, and even then he wasn’t sure it would do the job.

  But Guillermo lent his voice, and once more called on the power of his ring. Together, they directed the sigil, burning with Diago’s sharp edges and channeled with Guillermo’s skill. They directed it toward the tether.

  Too late, she realized what they had done. There wasn’t time for her to stop. As Lamashtu surged forward, the sigil met the life-­strand, and sliced it neatly in two.

  Lamashtu’s spirit vanished.

  Silence fell sudden and deep. Diago wondered if he’d gone deaf.

  Without Lamashtu’s magic, the black water receded. Diago went to his knees, control no longer wholly his own. A spasm of nausea rattled through his body. He leaned forward. Then Guillermo was beside him, holding him while he vomited.

  “Fucking morphine.” Diago spat. “Christ, I’m sick.”

  “It’s okay,” Guillermo whispered. “Are you done?”

  Diago nodded weakly. “I think so.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Alvaro . . .” He wanted to tell Guillermo everything, but another round of dry heaves rattled his frame.

  “What? Is he coming?” Guillermo looked down the passage.

  “No.” Diago gasped. “He is becoming something we’ve never encountered before. And we have to find a way to stop him. Permanently.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We have to destroy his soul. Give him the second death.” The final death, the one from which no Nefil could ever reincarnate. Otherwise, he will haunt me forever.