by T. Frohock
“Now you’ve seen.” Diago gently pivoted the glass back into the brass case. “Get out.”
Prieto swallowed hard before he continued. “Teach him how to love, Diago. Don’t let him live in fear of gods or mortals or angels or daimons. And definitely do not let him fear death. I beg you. Teach him how to love.”
From their bedroom, the mantel clock chimed the half hour. As if on cue, Prieto rose and went to the backdoor. He hesitated but didn’t turn around. “I am sorry, Diago. For what that’s worth. I am sorry for how you were used and that you were hurt.”
The words fell like shivers in the air, and Diago couldn’t tell if Prieto meant it or not. Nor did he care. He said nothing to absolve the angel of his sister’s act, let alone his own. Forgiveness was a destination far beyond him at the moment. He merely stared at the table and waited for the angel to leave.
Prieto’s colors bled from their kitchen and disappeared. Outside, the sun crept from behind the clouds and splashed golden light across their kitchen floor.
When he was sure the angel was gone, Diago pressed the magnifying glass into his son’s small hand. “This,” he said before he paused and cleared his throat. “This is a very important gift. Miquel picked out the glass for me many years ago. And it has been touched by daimons and by angels, so like you and me, it is augmented with the magic of both. And here”—he pivoted the mirrored glass to reveal the etching of Candela—“is your mother, who must not be forgotten. I’m giving it to you, because it’s been touched by all of us.”
Rafael held the brass case between his palms. “It’s cold.”
“Most symbols are,” Miquel said as he knelt beside the boy.
“But we’re not a symbol,” said Rafael. “We’re a family.”
“A family of bears,” Miquel growled and lifted Rafael into the air.
The child squealed as Miquel tucked him under one arm. He grabbed the chair Prieto had vacated and placed it in front of the stove. “Trade me.” He offered Rafael a wooden spoon and held out his hand for the magnifying glass.
Rafael considered Miquel for a moment, and then he placed the brass case in his pocket. Snatching the spoon from Miquel’s hand, Rafael gave him a closed fist salute.
“Excellent!” Miquel turned on the burner. “Stir your milk while I find some chocolate.”
Their voices faded into the background. On the tabletop, where Prieto had folded his hands, a damp circle stained the wood. Like a teardrop, Diago thought.
As he watched, a sphere rose from the table’s surface. The bubble grew until it was the size of a marble filled with streaks of crimson and silver. Diago reached out and caught the angel’s tear before it could roll to the floor.
Still warm with Prieto’s love, the stone pulsed softly against Diago’s palm. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt that Prieto had left it for him. Maybe he was truly sorry for the way the angels had used Diago.
Maybe.
Miquel returned to Diago’s side. Frowning at the stone, his dark eyes troubled, he traced the vein in Diago’s wrist until he touched his palm. “Will you keep it?”
“Maybe.” Diago kissed Miquel’s knuckles and watched his son.
Rafael turned and grinned, and Diago smiled back. Maybe the angels were sorry, but Diago wasn’t. Not anymore. He had his family, his family of bears, and together, they would roar.
END
Acknowledgments
Always and always to my family, first and foremost. For my husband, Dick Frohock, who has to share me with so many people, and for my beautiful daughter, Rhi, and her husband, Andrew Hopkins. I couldn’t do this without their love and support.
Special thanks continues to go to Josep M. Oriol for reading each and every rough drafts and helping me with terminology and places in Barcelona. If there any mistakes regarding history, street names or metro stops, those mistakes are mine and mine alone. When in doubt, I made it up.
For the usual suspects who read the manuscripts, sometimes two and three times, and caught my many errors: Anne Lippin, Peter Cooper, Glinda Harrison, and Justin Landon for all of their outstanding comments and guidance.
Thanks to Mark Lawrence, ML Brennan, Courtney Schafer, Mazarkis Williams, Alex Bledsoe, Michael R. Fletcher, and Helen Lowe for their support.
To the most marvelous Mia for your fabulous help with cover copy. Your clear insight and excellent advice made a seemingly insurmountable job fun!
To my dear friend Lisa Cantrell for all of our Friday afternoons.
I’d also like to thank the unsung hero of all three of these novellas: Jenny Klion, my copy editor. If you found grammatical error, it’s because I didn’t heed her advice.
Special thanks goes to David Pomerico for his excellent editorial direction on all of the stories in this series: I’m very lucky to have such an excellent editor.
Most special thanks to Marlene Stringer, my literary agent, who keeps telling me to write something new, and so I will.
And thanks goes to the most important people of all: you, the reader. Without you, all of this wouldn’t be half as much fun as it is.
About the Author
T. FROHOCK has turned her love of dark fantasy and horror into tales of deliciously creepy fiction. She currently lives in North Carolina where she has long been accused of telling stories, which is a southern colloquialism for lying. Check out more of her works and news at www.tfrohock.com.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at www.hc.com.
Also by T. Frohock
Los Nefilim
In Midnight's Silence: Los Nefilim: Part One
Without Light or Guide: Los Nefilim: Part Two
The Second Death: Los Nefilim: Part Three
Hisses and Wings: A Novelette, by Alex Bledsoe and T. Frohock
(featuring Bledsoe’s Tufa and Frohock’s Los Nefilim)
The Broken Road: A Novella
Miserere: An Autumn Tale
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
In Midnight’s Silence. Copyright © 2015 by T. Frohock.
Without Light or Guide. Copyright © 2015 by T. Frohock.
The Second Death. Copyright © 2016 by T. Frohock.
LOS NEFILIM. Copyright © 2016 by T. Frohock. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
EPub Edition APRIL 2016 ISBN: 9780062428967
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062429001
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