by T. Frohock
Guillermo was silent for a moment, clearly disturbed. “That isn’t easily done. We’ll talk about it at Santuari. Not here.”
Diago looked over his shoulder. “I will end him.” It was a threat. It was a sacred vow. “I will.”
Guillermo hoisted him onto the walkway. “Let’s get out of here before Moloch sends us company.”
“I lost the dagger.”
“It’s all right.” Guillermo got his arm around Diago’s waist. “Lean on me.”
They wobbled along like a pair of drunks to the next junction. Guillermo guided them back the way they came. When they reached the ladder, he propped Diago beside the cold metal. “Can you stay awake?”
Diago nodded. “But I can’t climb.” His arms were like jelly.
Guillermo patted Diago’s shoulder. “You let me worry about the climbing.” He ascended the ladder.
While Diago waited, peace suddenly descended over him. The morphine. He had no idea how long the euphoria would last before it was followed by the next round of panic. He would cycle like this for several hours—his emotions rolling up and down with a velocity that terrified him. Might as well enjoy the good while it lasts. Diago’s eyelids slipped shut and he fell into a light doze.
“Diago?”
He started awake. Disoriented, he tried to remember where he was. From the cold and damp, he wondered if he’d drunk too much and stumbled into an alley. He looked up at a disheveled handsome man staring down at him with concern.
The man spoke with a low rumble. “Put your arms around my neck.”
Diago blinked at him drowsily. “I would, but I’m attached to someone else.”
Guillermo’s shock last for merely a second. He grinned. “That’s good, because so am I.”
Consciousness came forward in a rush. Horrified, Diago realized what he’d said. He noticed the gray light and the open manhole cover overhead. Put your arms around my neck. Guillermo intended to carry him up the ladder.
A blush set Diago’s cheeks on fire. “I’m sorry. I was . . .”
Guillermo turned his back and simply stared over his shoulder.
Diago coughed. “I realize what you meant . . .” He put his arms over Guillermo’s shoulders and closed his eyes. “It’s the fucking morphine.”
“Ya, ya, ya,” Guillermo murmured as he used his belt to lash together Diago’s wrists. “You’re just trying to let me down easy.”
“Can you please forget I said that?”
Guillermo chuckled. “Never.”
Diago buried his burning face against Guillermo’s sweater. He managed to hold on to consciousness until they were only four rungs from the top. When he awakened again, he was lying on the ground with the rain falling against his face.
A ragged girl not much older than Rafael stood near the wall and assessed Diago with eyes far too cunning for a child her age. “Did you kill him?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Guillermo’s voice came from Diago’s left. He moved the manhole cover back over the hole. “If I’d killed him, I’d be putting him down there, not bringing him up.”
The girl asked, “Did he get drunk and fall down in the sewer?”
“Yeah. That’s what happened.” He tossed a couple of pesetas at her as he hummed a song of forgetfulness. “You found some money on the ground. Buy yourself some shoes.”
She caught the coins and dashed off.
Guillermo pulled Diago to his feet. “Feel like walking, lover?”
Diago smoothed his rumbled sweater in an attempt to regain his dignity. “Stop teasing me.”
“Never.” Guillermo took Diago’s arm and steered him in a more or less straight path.
“Where are we going?”
“Home. Where we belong.”
“Are we going to walk?”
“I’m not calling Suero to bring the car. Not after we’ve been wallowing in a sewer.” Guillermo gave Diago’s arm a gentle squeeze. “The walk will do us good. It’ll be like old times.”
“Fuck old times.” The edginess had returned. His nerves were on fire. “I hated walking everywhere. It was always cold. Or raining. I hated shitting in the woods. I want indoor plumbing and furnaces.”
Guillermo laughed. “I’m taking you to those luxuries now.”
Diago stared ahead. Black as a vulture, depression swooped down on him. He was suddenly weary, so very weary. “I’m scared. What if I’m not strong enough to be a member of Los Nefilim?” He leaned on Guillermo, who merely supported him just as he always had.
“You? Not strong enough?” Guillermo scoffed at the statement. “You’ve always eaten your fear and spit it back at them. You’re strong enough, Diago. After all you’ve lived through, you are strong and wise, and I need you at my side.”
The depression didn’t immediately fade away, but it was made slightly more bearable by Guillermo’s faith in him. They walked in silence through the winding streets and cut across empty lots. When they reached a construction site, they found an outside spigot and managed to wash the worst of the stink off themselves.
By the time they left Barcelona behind, the clouds had departed and night had fallen. Guillermo led Diago into a field. There, he called down an owl from the sky. He cooed to it in the language of birds and sent it off.
“What did you do?” Diago asked.
“I told it to fly ahead and tell Juanita we are safe, and that we’re coming home.”
Home. Tranquility finally chased away Diago’s depression. Just the thought of their little house with its cramped rooms warmed his heart.
As they walked up the country road, Diago told Guillermo about his encounter with Alvaro and all the things he learned about his father. He left out nothing, especially not his pain. Guillermo is right. I’ve carried too much alone for too long.
And Guillermo, for his part, listened with his customary patience. He kept his hand on Diago’s arm, not because Diago’s step was unsteady, but as a friend. His touch lent Diago the strength he needed to get through his tale.
It was late by the time they reached the lane to Diago’s house. He had sweated most of the morphine out of his system. Peace, which had nothing to do with the drug, settled over him.
Guillermo paused at Diago’s door. “Come to the church tomorrow at nine. That will give me time to call a small council. I want you to tell them about Alvaro. I’ll break the news about Garcia and Engel. Then we’ll figure out what to do. Get some rest.” Guillermo started to walk away but when he saw Diago lingering by the window, he paused. “Do you want me to go in with you?”
“No,” Diago murmured. “I just want to look at them for a moment.”
Inside, Miquel stretched out on the couch, his arms around Rafael. The child rested his head on Miquel’s shoulder, his stuffed horse clenched under one arm, and his thumb in his mouth.
Rafael’s body heaved with hiccups. A few tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Miquel wiped the child’s nose and murmured to him.
“Diago?” Guillermo whispered.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself.” Diago opened the door and went inside.
Miquel sat up and smiled. “See? I wasn’t worried.” The dark circles under his eyes testified otherwise. He placed Rafael on his feet. “Look who is home.”
Rafael blinked at Diago. His lower lip trembled, and he pointed at his drawing, which was on the table. The ghost-Diago was vibrant and brightly colored again. All three of the figures held hands beneath the angel sun and smiled.
“You started to disappear and you scared me, Papa.” Rafael stumbled and bumped into the table. “You shouldn’t scare me like that. I thought you were dying.” Then he started to cry.
“Hey.” Diago shut the door. “Don’t cry, Rafael.” He went to his son and picke
d him up. “Ya, ya, ya,” he sang the soothing words. “Everything is all right. I’m home.”
“You scared me.” Rafael hiccupped his way through a sob, but his tears were slowing. He made a face. “And you smell bad.”
“Ew, Jesus, yes.” Miquel rose. “I’m going to run a bath. Get out of those clothes so I can burn them.”
Rafael wrinkled his nose, then put his arms around Diago’s neck and kissed his cheek anyway. “I don’t care if you stink. I’m glad you’re home.”
“I am, too.” He carried Rafael to his bed and tucked him under the covers. No crumbs surrounded his pillow this night. He’d been too worried to steal a slice of bread.
“Ysa said you were fighting daimons with her papa. She says I worry too much. She says we are Los Nefilim and we always win, but you weren’t winning, because you started to disappear in the picture, and Miquel and Doña Juanita helped me bring you back, and then an owl came, and Doña Juanita said it was okay for us to come home. Did you fight a daimon, Papa? Is that why you stink?” Rafael paused for a bone-cracking yawn. “Do Los Nefilim always win?”
Diago found a handkerchief and wiped Rafael’s nose. “Yes, I fought a daimon.” He skirted the other questions for now. “And I will teach you how one day.”
“Then I won’t be afraid anymore, right?” Rafael’s eyelids drooped.
The time to indoctrinate his son about life’s realities would come soon enough. For now, he deserved to be a child. “You don’t have to be afraid now. Miquel and I are here, and we won’t let anything happen to you. Go to sleep, and when you wake up, we’ll have breakfast together.”
Rafael closed his eyes, and within moments, his breathing deepened.
Diago brushed back his son’s curls. “And I will not let them hurt you. I will not let them take your sweetness away.”
Miquel returned and touched his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Diago rose and followed him into the bathroom. With Miquel’s help, he peeled off his clothes and slipped beneath the warm water.
Miquel took off his own shirt and knelt beside the tub. He soaped the washcloth. “Lean forward.” His words fell as white as almond blossoms into the water.
Drowsily, Diago touched the soft vibrations before they dissolved. Water trickled down the side of the tub in shades of silver and blue.
“What happened?” Miquel moved the washcloth in slow circular sweeps across Diago’s back.
Haltingly at first, then with increasing confidence, he told Miquel about the day. By the time he reached his meeting with Alvaro, his eyes burned with the tears he’d dared not shed in front of either his father or Guillermo.
Miquel passed the wet cloth over Diago’s forehead. “Let yourself weep, my star. It’s all right to mourn.” Concern tinged his words in shades of brown. “It’s only when you hold your grief in your soul does it turn into poison.”
“I’ve had enough poison for one lifetime.” He drew his finger across the vibrations of Miquel’s voice and allowed his tears to come. With his thumb, he caressed Miquel’s lower lip. “Stop frowning, my sweet Miquel. I’m all right. I am.”
Miquel took Diago’s wrist and kissed his palm. Their wedding bands touched—Miquel’s gold against Diago’s silver, and the tingle of his lover’s magic wrapped Diago in warmth.
“Your colors are so beautiful. Sing to me.”
“Quietly though,” Miquel said. “So we don’t wake Rafael.”
“Quietly,” Diago murmured.
Unlike his other attacks of chromesthesia, this one was almost languid. These were the gentle sounds. Shades of peace . . . and love. Miquel swirled the cloth in the water and hummed a soft song filled with saffron and gold. The sound spun over Diago’s skin. Miquel’s tenderness drove away the dark, one melodious note at a time, and wrapped Diago in the silken colors of home.
Part Three: The Second Death
Chapter One
Barcelona
2 December 1931
Clouds the color of gunmetal obscured the morning sun and heralded another gray day. These last weeks seemed full of them. Pale shades of smoke and ash washed through the bathroom’s narrow window. Diago flipped the switch by the door. Electric light flooded the room and touched the reflection of a man who’d taken the hard end of a fight.
He shut the door and dropped his bloodied napkin into the hamper.
“Jesus. What a mess.”
A thin line of blood oozed from a deep cut on his cheek. He found a clean washcloth and pressed it against the gash.
Last night, the daimon Lamashtu had given no quarter in her battle to possess him. She had shoved him against the sewer’s concrete floor as if he’d been a rag doll. Had she possessed the body of a Nefil rather than that of a mortal, she might have won.
She did enough damage as a mortal, he thought. His clothes concealed the black bruises on his chest and back, but the lacerations across his cheeks and forehead were impossible to hide. If the road map of cuts and bruises were any indication, his journey with Los Nefilim had taken a rough curve. “I’ve turned into a gangster.”
A hard rap on the bathroom door caused him to start. Miquel didn’t wait for an answer. He opened the door. “Are you talking to yourself?”
Diago’s fingers tightened around the washcloth. “Did you come to help me or berate me?”
“Let me see,” Miquel said, ignoring Diago’s question and gently prying the cloth out of his hand. With a gentle movement, which was meant to soothe, he rubbed his thumb over the bandage that covered Diago’s missing pinky.
Once more Diago felt the ‘aulaq’s hot breath as the vampire bit off his finger. He gave an involuntary twitch and Miquel released his hand.
As he focused on Diago’s face, Miquel frowned. “You should have seen Juanita last night. This one could have used stitches like this other one.” He caressed the scar on Diago’s opposite cheek.
“At least I have a matching set.” Diago’s attempt at humor won him a scowl from Miquel. “You’re right. I should have gone to see Juanita, but I wanted to be home.” After his battle with the daimon, he had craved the sight of his family like a drug. Yesterday his pain had been distant, soothed by the presence of Rafael and Miquel. This morning, though, the aches crept over his body and pummeled him with thuggish glee. “I need some more aspirin.”
“After lunch,” Miquel murmured.
Diago placed his hand over Miquel’s and increased the pressure. Deep or not, the cut would heal. Regardless of what Miquel thought, Diago knew he’d done the right thing by coming straight home. Getting through this morning might be another matter entirely. “Guillermo wants us at the church at nine.”
“What does he need you to do?” Miquel asked.
“He wants me to tell the council about Alvaro.” The council would then determine how best to proceed against Diago’s father.
Alvaro, with his trickster ways, was becoming a creature unlike anything the Nefilim had ever seen. Just the memory of his burning eyes and razored smile twisted Diago’s stomach. Worse was Alvaro’s utter lack of remorse—he’d exulted in his transmogrification.
“What are you going to say?” Miquel’s question jerked Diago’s thoughts back to the present.
“That he should be given the second death,” Diago said. The second death, the final death from which no Nefil could ever reincarnate, was reserved for only the most recalcitrant of Nefilim.
Miquel frowned. “That’s extreme.”
Guillermo had felt the same way last night, but his resistance to the idea would have to be overcome. “Alvaro deserves it.”
A loud thump came from the kitchen. “Papa?”
“Everything is okay,” Diago called to his son. “Finish your breakfast.”
Miquel sighed. “Let me go check on him. I’ll be right back. We need to talk about this proposal of you
rs before you mention it to Guillermo’s council.”
“Go. I’ll be fine.”
Miquel hurried back to the kitchen.
Diago turned to the mirror and whispered, “Patricide.” The soft consonants drifted over the sink to touch his reflection. How could such a hateful word taste so sweet on the tongue? Surely if anyone merited such an end, it was Alvaro.
Or did he? If I had chosen to follow the daimons, wouldn’t Alvaro’s metamorphosis be justified, celebrated even? The question was moot. Diago was Los Nefilim. He’d chosen his side just as Alvaro had.
Why, then? Revenge? That was possible. Alvaro had done Diago no favors. He had plenty of reasons to loathe his father, more than enough to justify a desire for retaliation. Is that why Guillermo resists the idea of the second death? Does he question my motives?
Diago turned over the thought in his mind. It was possible. Guillermo’s position meant neither he, nor any of his Nefilim, could openly oppose the daimons without cause. To do so might fracture the uneasy truce between the angels and the daimons.
But since I am neither, everything I say or do is suspect. I need an irrefutable reason that will convince Guillermo to validate such an extreme death sentence. Miquel had inadvertently given Diago a starting place when he’d explained how Los Nefilim moved as a unit. The question became, quite simply: how would Alvaro’s death benefit Los Nefilim as a whole?
“I’ll find a reason,” Diago whispered to his reflection. The morning’s meeting was the perfect opportunity for him to convince high-ranking members of Los Nefilim to act. “I am the deceiver. I know the art of persuasion.”
Miquel’s voice drifted down the corridor. “Put your dishes in the sink. We’ll do them when we get home.” He came back to Diago. “Here, let me see.”
“Is it still bleeding?”
“I think it’s stopped. Yes. It has.” He cupped Diago’s face and frowned as he examined him. “Look at you. What is this?” He wiped a tear from the corner of Diago’s eye.
“The light is too bright.” Diago tried to pull away, but Miquel held him.