The Second Death

by T. Frohock

  “Bears don’t comb their hair.” The child’s busy fingers found a chip in the sink’s porcelain. “When I’m grown up, I’m never combing my hair.”

  “Don’t you want to look nice for Ysa today?”

  He picked at the sink’s scar. “I want to stay home today.”

  “You can stay with Lucia and Ysa for a little while.”

  Rafael said nothing.

  “Don’t you like playing with Ysa?”

  “Yes.” Rafael rubbed his thumb around the chip.

  “So?” Diago worked his fingers through a snarled lock and held his breath. Had he and Ysa fought? A generous girl, Ysa could sometimes be overbearing, but Diago had never known her to intentionally hurt another person. “Why don’t you want to go?”

  He shrugged.

  Diago kept his tone even as a suspicion caught up with him. “Is it Lucia?”

  A moment passed and Diago thought Rafael wasn’t going to answer him. Finally, his son nodded.

  “And what does she say?” Because it was Lucia, it had to be something out of her vicious mouth.

  Another shrug. “Just things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “She said I should never go to Morocco, because I am small and dark like a monkey. She said someone would see that I am daimon and stuff me in a bottle and make me a jinni. Then she laughs like it’s a joke, but her eyes are all hard and mean.”

  Jesus.

  Lucia. Ysabel’s governess made no secret of her hatred for Diago, which was fine with him, but taking out her pettiness on Rafael was a step too far.

  Diago was careful to keep his anger out of his face and voice. He didn’t want Rafael to think he was upset with him. Instead, he took his son’s shoulders and gently turned the child so he could see his face. A river of tears would be preferable to the hurt he saw in Rafael’s eyes. “You know what? You can come with us this morning. I’ll bet Father Bernardo has someplace where you can sit and draw pictures while we talk, hmm?” He smoothed Rafael’s hair and glanced into the hall to see that Miquel had joined them. How much had he heard?

  Diago didn’t have long to wonder.

  Miquel came into the bathroom and stood behind Diago. “Pick him up.”

  Diago lifted Rafael so he could see himself in the mirror. Three faces, three shades of skin that passed from Rafael’s light gold to Diago’s tawny flesh, and finally Miquel’s dusky brown.

  Miquel made a great show of assessing their faces. “You know what, Rafael? I am darker than you.”

  “Miquel is Gitano, too,” Diago whispered in Rafael’s ear. “And everyone thinks he is very, very handsome.” Including me, he thought as he examined his lover’s reflection.

  A ghost of a smile touched Rafael’s mouth.

  “And your papa is part daimon like you,” Miquel said. “No one has stuffed him in a bottle and made him a jinni.” He reached around Diago to touch Rafael’s chin. “No one is going to mistake us for monkeys, or jinn.”

  “That’s right,” Diago said. “We’re a family of bears.”

  Rafael gave a soft roar and the mischievousness returned to his eyes.

  Diago gave him a fierce hug and set him on the floor. “Go get your satchel. We don’t want to be late.” Before Miquel could slip around him, Diago blocked the door and whispered, “He’s not staying with Lucia again.”

  Miquel’s eyes were hard as obsidian. “Agreed. But you say nothing. Let me handle it.” Diago opened his mouth to protest, but Miquel touched his finger to Diago’s lips as he spoke to Rafael. “Go get your coat and wait for us in the living room. We’ll be right there.” He waited until Rafael had gone before he continued. “I don’t want Lucia speaking against you. She is a viper, and by the time you realize the damage she’s done, it will be irreparable. She can’t hurt my reputation with the others, but you’re still in a vulnerable position.”

  Diago exhaled and nodded. He was stuck in a web of intrigue and until he formed a trusted network of his own, he needed to play a safe game, not simply for his sake, but for Rafael’s as well. “All right, you handle her. But if she says one more thing to hurt Rafael—­”

  “I will hand her over to you myself. Let’s get past this morning first.”

  “Fair enough.” He turned off the light.

  As they walked down the hall, Miquel said, “We had some promising prospects for governess. Maybe this afternoon we can look over the papers, and choose which ones to call back for a second interview.”

  “Did all of them like cats?” Diago asked, referring to the kitten he’d promised Rafael.

  Miquel smiled and kissed the corner of Diago’s mouth. “Yes.”

  In the living room, Rafael was busy unbuttoning his coat and mumbling to himself. Apparently, he’d missed a button the first time. Diago helped him while Miquel shut off the lights and closed the backdoor.

  A loud knock at the front door jarred them. Diago frowned as he secured the last button on Rafael’s coat. “Wait here.”

  Another round of pounding shook the door in its frame. Through the window, he glimpsed the sleeve of a uniform. The Urban Guard. What the hell were they doing here? And beyond that thought came another, which left Diago’s mouth dry.

  Were we near a window when Miquel kissed me just now?

  Diago squelched the question. Within the safety of Santuari, he and Miquel didn’t have to hide their love. Besides, there was nothing to fear. Santuari’s wards shielded the town from mortal eyes, and the Urban Guard never entered without Guillermo’s permission.

  With his hand on the doorknob, he paused and looked out the window. It was Garcia, along with three other members of Los Nefilim dressed as Urban Guards.

  Standing just behind Garcia was a slender and slightly bug-­eyed Nefil named Jaso. He tugged at his scraggly beard and nudged the young pockmarked Nefil next to him, who kept looking over his shoulder in the direction of Guillermo’s villa.

  Moreno, Diago thought. Moreno was his name, and he was nervous as a rat.

  The last Nefil, Acosta, towered behind the others. His small wicked eyes were pinned on the door. One meaty paw stroked the small battering ram he cradled in his arms.

  Standing in the yard between two parked cars was the same angel Diago had seen Garcia speaking to yesterday. He was stout and muscular, with short blond hair and a reddish cast to his skin. His eyes were deep lavender shot through with streams of gold, and possessed all of the warmth of rime on water. He called himself Anselm Engel; Garcia probably thought his interactions with the angel were still a secret—­and that’s when it struck Diago:

  Garcia wasn’t here on Guillermo’s orders. Engel’s presence drove the point home as neatly as Acosta’s battering ram.

  Diago released the doorknob and backed away from the window. His and Miquel’s guns were in the bedroom. He turned and almost tripped over Rafael. What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t have a shoot-­out with his son in the room.

  “Papa? Who is—­?”

  Diago snatched the boy off the floor and turned toward the kitchen. He needed to get Rafael out the backdoor and to safety. Then they would deal with Garcia.

  He almost ran into Miquel as his partner backed into the living room with his arms raised. Another Nefil was in front of Miquel. He kept his gun trained on Miquel’s chest. Diago recognized him—­Fierro was his surname. The youth was as thin as a stiletto, but nowhere near as sharp. Diago had only a passing acquaintance with him. The few words they’d shared weren’t pleasant ones.

  Fierro must have been waiting by the backdoor. Garcia had been smart enough to cover both exits.

  “Slow and easy,” Fierro commanded them until Miquel was in the living room. “Stop.”

  Miquel halted on one side of the couch, and Diago stopped on the other side. Rafael wisely remained silent. The child’s arms and legs tightened aroun
d Diago’s body.

  The front door burst open. Acosta filled the doorway, the battering ram in his hand. The door hung from one hinge. Acosta stood aside so Garcia could enter. Moreno and Jaso waited on the stoop.

  Garcia aimed his gun at Miquel. “Everyone stay quiet and no one gets hurt.”

  That remained to be seen. Even so, Diago didn’t summon a ward. He had learned long ago to conserve his energy and watch for the right moment to attack.

  Engel stepped onto the threshold and spoke to Garcia in heavily accented Spanish. “Which one is Alvarez?”

  “Him.” Garcia nodded at Diago. “Outside.”

  Diago started to put Rafael down.

  “Take the boy with you.”

  The command sent Diago’s heart racing. “No.” When Garcia’s eyes narrowed, Diago attempted a conciliatory tone. “I’ll go with you. No fight, but we leave Rafael here.”

  “Take the boy with you,” Garcia said again.

  Miquel glanced at Diago and gave a minute shake of his head. “Let’s get Don Guillermo here, Garcia,” he said. “If you’ve got something on Diago, he will take care of the situation.”

  Garcia shoved the barrel of his pistol against the center of Miquel’s back. “Shut up.” He jerked his head at the door. “Move, Alvarez.”

  Rafael’s heart hammered against Diago’s chest. “Don’t leave me, Papa.”

  He pressed his lips against his son’s ear. “If we get separated, don’t panic. I will find you.”

  Garcia pointed his pistol at the base of Miquel’s skull. “Go, or I’ll blow his head off, Alvarez!” Garcia’s voice carried a note of hysteria that spurred Diago into motion.

  Engel stepped backward into the yard, an accommodating smile on his mouth. Jaso moved in tandem with the German angel. That left the pockmarked Moreno and the giant Acosta flanking the front door.

  Diago would have to squeeze between them in order to get outside. He walked toward them and hoped one of them would drop his guard. Just a moment. A split second of inattention. That’s all I need.

  They remained infuriatingly alert. The Nefilim might be nervous, but they were professionals.

  Diago held Rafael with both arms and stepped between them.

  Moreno grabbed Rafael. At the same time, Acosta’s arm went around Diago’s throat, choking off his wind.

  Rafael shouted. “Let go!” He grabbed handfuls of Diago’s sweater.

  Diago tightened his grip around his son’s waist. He felt Rafael’s heart pound against his, once, twice . . .

  Miquel and Garcia argued with short clipped sentences, each barking orders at the other. Their furious words were lost in the darkness that fringed Diago’s vision.

  Their quarrel receded until Diago heard nothing but his pulse pounding in his ears. He had to shake Acosta. He twisted and elbowed Acosta’s ribs. Acosta grunted but maintained his hold.

  Moreno wrenched Rafael from Diago’s grasp. Stumbling outside, Moreno barely kept his hold on the writhing child. “I got him!”

  Rafael’s scream went like a nail through Diago’s head.

  Without the boy in his arms, he was free to deal with Acosta. He gave a reverse head-­butt. The back of his head struck Acosta’s mouth. Diago barely felt the pain. The other Nefil loosened his grip on Diago’s throat for just a second. It was all he needed. He snaked free and kicked Acosta’s kneecap. The bigger Nefil went down with a howl.

  Back inside the house, Diago became dimly aware of Miquel moving. A scuffle broke out. One of the guns fired. The shot came from Fierro’s direction, and the bullet lodged itself in the doorframe.

  Terrified he would find Miquel dead, Diago whirled. Miquel was on his knees, holding the back of his head. Garcia had obviously pistol-­whipped him. But he was alive.

  Garcia brought down the butt of his gun on the back of Miquel’s head a second time.

  Knowing there was nothing he could do for his partner at the moment, Diago turned back toward the yard. He had to find Rafael.

  The angel’s fist caught the side of his face. Diago had moved right into the blow. He went down and tried to see through the haze of blurred vision. His son was still screaming.

  Where are you?

  His fingers sought a weapon. Two broken bricks near the foundation wavered, and then solidified into one. Diago grabbed the brick just as the toe of Engel’s boot caught him in the stomach. The kick lifted him off the ground and drove the wind from his lungs.

  Someone jerked him to his knees and pulled his arms behind his back. Cuffs snapped around his wrists. Engel grabbed a handful of Diago’s hair, forcing him to look toward the two cars.

  Moreno stood before the vehicle on the left. Rafael was in front of him, gripping the strap of his satchel and staring at Diago with glazed eyes. A bright red handprint covered his cheek. The barrel of Moreno’s pistol was against the child’s temple.

  Moreno’s pockmarked face turned splotchy and red. He looked away from the murder in Diago’s glare.

  Look at me, you fucker, look at me and see your death. He mouthed the words but couldn’t gulp enough air into his lungs to say them. Spittle covered his chin, or maybe it was blood. He tasted blood.

  Before he could speak, Engel jerked him to his feet. He purred in Diago’s ear, speaking in broken Catalan. “No more fighting. Get in the car quiet. Or boom.” He mimed shooting Rafael with his own pistol. “Understand?”

  Diago gave a tight nod. I understand we’re enemies—­oaths be damned.

  Engel aimed him toward the car and started walking.

  Acosta popped his kneecap back into place with a curse, and hobbled to the passenger side of Moreno’s car.

  Diago looked over his shoulder in time to see Fierro step over Miquel’s prone body.

  Miquel appeared unconscious. Please just let him be unconscious.

  “Should I shoot him?” The quaver in Fierro’s voice indicated he didn’t want to carry out the act.

  Diago stumbled and were it not for Engel’s iron hand around his arm, he would have fallen. No. No, no, no. . .

  “Leave him,” Garcia said as he walked away from the house. “He’s sworn his oath to the angels. Once this is over, he will be forced to obey me.”

  Once what is over? What the hell is Garcia up to?

  Garcia took Rafael from Moreno.

  Moreno looked relieved. He got behind the wheel as Garcia got into the backseat with Rafael.

  In the distance, the sound of a motorcycle shattered the sudden silence. Had someone from Guillermo’s house heard the shot?

  Diago pulled against Engel’s grip, hoping to slow him. If Guillermo came with reinforcements, the angel might retreat.

  Engel propelled Diago toward the second car. Fierro got behind the wheel, and Jaso took the front passenger seat. Engel opened the backdoor and shoved Diago inside. The angel got in beside him.

  Diago hoped the two cars were going to the same place.

  Down the lane, the motorcycle roared as the rider picked up speed.

  Fierro turned the car around, and the other vehicle fell in behind them just as Guillermo arrived. Diago’s heart sank. Guillermo was alone. Not even he could stand against so many, nor did Diago expect him to make the attempt.

  Guillermo slowed the bike as he passed the cars and got a good look inside. He would mark them, though, mark them and remember them.

  And they would pay.

  Fierro and Jaso must have had the same thought. They tried to shield their faces from Guillermo’s eye.

  Idiots. Did they think he wouldn’t find out? Diago met his friend’s gaze for an instant before he glimpsed Engel lifting his pistol. Diago stomped hard on the angel’s ankle. Engel swore and punched Diago.

  Diago curled himself against the door, waiting for the second blow that never came.

  Jaso said something, but his w
ords faded in and out like a bad radio signal behind the ringing in Diago’s ears. Engel barked an order at him, but it, too, was lost in the haze.

  Pain flooded his body, not in increments, but in hot heavy waves. It would be so easy to succumb, just let himself sleep.

  The image of Rafael’s frightened face suddenly rose behind his eyelids. Diago fought down his nausea. He opened his eyes and forced himself upright.

  Fierro gunned the car as they hit the main road. A pothole jarred them all in their seats.

  Jaso studied the passing countryside like his life depended on knowing the geography. Fierro risked a nervous glance in the rearview mirror.

  Diago twisted in his seat to look out the rear window. He barely made out the figure behind the wheel of the other car, much less his small son, who was secured in the backseat with Garcia. Beyond Garcia’s car, no one followed them.

  Not yet, Diago thought as Santuari faded behind its wards. Guillermo would check on Miquel, and then gather his Nefilim.

  Diago tested the cuffs by rotating his wrists. With his hands bound behind his back, he couldn’t form a sigil. He could barely move.

  Engel withdrew a handkerchief from his coat. “You speak Spanish, don’t you, Herr Alvarez?”

  Diago nodded.

  “That is good. My Catalan is very bad. We will talk now in Spanish.” He took Diago’s arm and forced him to face the front of the car. “Guillermo has brought these troubles to you. Had he done as I asked, all this fighting would have been unnecessary. He is very lax with Los Nefilim. In Germany, Die Nephilim know their place and move accordingly.”

  That is a matter of opinion, but Diago didn’t voice the thought. He tracked the movement of Garcia’s car through the rearview mirror.

  Engel spoke a word, and the mirror clouded. The car behind them disappeared. Diago tried to turn again, but Engel stopped him.

  “Pay attention to me, Herr Alvarez.” He dug his fingers into Diago’s thigh and sent a bolt of angelic fire into Diago’s leg.

  The pain was sudden and vicious, like someone touching a live wire to his flesh. Diago cried out and tried to twist free of Engel’s grip.

  “Be still.” The angel’s command drifted through the agony.