The Second Death

by T. Frohock

  And that is precisely how Engel wants me to appear. Heart sinking with the futility of swaying Vales, Diago leaned forward and tried to glimpse his son in the other car. Engel blocked his view.

  “Let me see him,” Diago said.

  “In time,” Engel purred.

  Fierro parked the car, and then got out to open Engel’s door.

  Engel called a greeting to Vales, who nodded tersely, his gaze on Diago. The angel apparently planned to claim Diago was insane. Fair enough. It was a tactic Diago himself might have employed.

  Vales appeared to be miserable. Diago didn’t feel much better. However, he knew that if his appearance was alarming, then his demeanor needed to be calm.

  Most reasonable person in the room wins, Diago thought as Jaso left the vehicle and came to Diago’s side. The trick would be not to struggle.

  Jaso opened the door and yanked Diago from the car. Graceful as a cat, Diago got his feet under him and stood with as much dignity as he could muster.

  He tried to catch Vales’s eye, but the doctor studiously averted his gaze.

  What the hell had Engel told him?

  The four orderlies approached the car. Engel spoke to them in German, and the tallest one, a strikingly handsome man with short blond hair, nodded.

  By the light in their eyes, Diago noted that all four of them were angel-­born. Like chips cut from the same ice floe, they shared pale features. They were Die Nephilim.

  Engel glanced over his shoulder and spoke to Jaso. “Adler will take charge from here. Get the child inside.”

  Jaso released Diago to the blue-­eyed Nefil.

  Adler’s grip was a vise around Diago’s left arm while another Nephil clamped a meaty hand around his right. Diago could barely move between the two of them. Even if he managed to break away, the third and fourth Nephilim had taken their places directly behind him. He was boxed between them.

  Dr. Vales stepped closer.

  “Careful, Doctor.” Engel cautioned him. “As you can see, he gave us some trouble.” He indicated Diago’s face. “He dislocated poor Sergeant Acosta’s knee. He’s not the gentle doctor he portrayed himself to be. He’s a criminal.”

  Diago didn’t like the distrust in Vales’s eyes.

  “There has been a terrible mistake, Vales,” Diago said.

  Vales refused to look at him. “I’m sure it will be straightened out soon.”

  “He had us all fooled,” Garcia said as he strolled up to follow the orderlies that surrounded Diago. “Even Don Guillermo thought he was a doctor, but I cracked this case. Alvarez is part of a crime syndicate.”

  “You should write novels.” Diago twisted in the German’s grip to face the inspector and then froze. Just beyond Garcia, Jaso grabbed Rafael’s arm. The child’s lip was swollen, and his eyes were glassy with tears.

  Diago’s heart turned black with rage. “Did you strike my son again?”

  Rafael took a step forward. “Papa?”

  Jaso jerked the child toward another door.

  Vales looked from Diago to Rafael. “Is this your son?”

  “Yes,” Diago said. “He is! And you’re right, Vales. We will get this straightened out. Please, just take care of my boy until we do. I’m begging you. Take care of him.”

  Before Vales could answer him, Engel went to the mortal and liberated the clipboard from his hands. He quickly signed off on the paper. “Inspector Jaso and his officers will take care of the child until arrangements can be made with a local orphanage.”

  Moreno and Fierro waited with Acosta beside a different door. Jaso joined them, dragging Rafael along with him.

  The child pried at Jaso’s fingers. “Papa!”

  Diago dug his heels into the gravel and resisted his captors. “Run if you can! I will find you!”

  “Wait!” Vales’s eyes widened in alarm. “Don’t tell him to do that!”

  Diago ignored Vales. “Do you hear me, Rafael?”

  “Yes!” Rafael cried out as Jaso dragged him inside.

  Adler’s palm clamped the back of Diago’s neck. “Shut up and walk,” he growled in broken Spanish.

  Garcia moved ahead of them and opened the door.

  Vales turned to Engel. “I am concerned about the child.”

  Engel paused beside Vales and put his hand on the young mortal’s shoulder. The angel’s demeanor became pleasant, engaging. He captured Vales’s gaze with his own and said, “There is nothing to be concerned about. The boy will be fine. The police are professionals.”

  Diago’s hope withered with the glazing of Vales’s eyes.

  “Of course,” the mortal said.

  “Vales!” Diago yelled as the Germans hustled him into the building.

  Engel smiled at Diago and led the doctor a few steps away. To anyone watching them, they were merely two doctors, consulting one another about a patient. Diago knew Engel was probably erasing any memories Vales might have of either Diago or Rafael.

  Erased. That was a good word. They will erase us if they can.

  Garcia led their little group away from the doctors. Other members of the hospital staff, nuns and orderlies alike, parted to either side of the wide hall, giving Diago and his captors room to pass.

  “Garcia,” Diago whispered in Catalan. “Engel will turn on you next.”

  Garcia’s shoulders twitched; otherwise, he made no sign he’d heard.

  Adler squeezed Diago’s arm until he thought his bone would break.

  “He’s using you,” Diago said. “And when he’s done, he’ll destroy you. You’ve turned traitor on Guillermo. You’ll turn on him, too. Engel knows it. He’ll kill you before you get the chance to betray him.”

  Garcia unlocked a door leading to a stairwell. He blocked the doorway and faced Diago. “You hiss like the serpent in the garden, but you won’t talk your way out of this, Alvarez. I intend to take command of Los Nefilim. Guillermo cannot be trusted by either angel or daimon—­not anymore. He has forgotten our true cause. The angel-­born Los Nefilim were created to fight the daimons in the mortal realm. And your insidious whispers will not drive me from my holy path to do just that.” He stepped aside and gestured for them to continue.

  “You are a fucking lunatic,” Diago spat at him as they passed.

  Adler jerked Diago to a halt on the landing and pointed him toward a long flight of steep stairs. “You can walk, or fall. Your choice,” he said in his heavily accented Spanish.

  Diago felt someone’s hand move between his shoulder blades. A mild push would send him flying.

  “I’ll walk.”

  “Good.” Adler waved the others back, but kept his hand on Diago’s arm. “How do you say it in Spanish? Vamos, huh?”

  Vamos, pendejo. Diago clamped the words behind his teeth and let Adler set the pace. By the time they reached the next landing, Engel had joined Garcia. The other three orderlies remained on the first landing, probably to block Diago’s escape, which was ludicrous.

  Even if he managed to get free, Engel’s presence alone guaranteed Diago wouldn’t get far. He couldn’t defeat an angel. Nor could he defend himself against the other Nephilim with his hands bound.

  No, now wasn’t the moment to fight. For the time being, compliance was his only recourse. He needed to keep his wits about him and wait for an opening.

  They descended two more flights of stairs until they reached a basement. The corridor was lit by a single naked bulb.

  Cells lined both sides of the hall. Each barred window was as black as a priest’s heart. A light burned under the threshold of the last door. The cell was silent, like a scream held behind closed lips.

  Garcia unlocked the door and opened it. Adler shoved Diago inside. He fell to his knees.

  “Wait in the hall, Adler.” Engel stepped inside and motioned for Garcia to enter the cell. “Join us, Inspector. Y
ou might find this enlightening, as well.”

  Adler saluted Engel and shut the heavy metal door, but he didn’t go far. Diago felt him hovering on the other side, peeking through the small observation window, as excited as a child.

  They weren’t alone in the room. In a single bed, which consisted of nothing but a bare mattress, was a woman. Wiry hair framed her face in a dark halo. Her features were the marriage of mixed mortal parentage somewhere between Africa and China. Diago recognized her. Guillermo had called her the best thief he had.

  “Amparo?” Her name burned in Diago’s throat.

  She didn’t answer. Her eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling without seeing. Her lips moved, but no syllables touched the air. She shivered uncontrollably. Open wounds marred her exposed flesh. They had cut her and beat her.

  Diago remembered her voice. She had a beautiful contralto, sweet as honey and soft as summer. Guillermo had given her money and told her to go to Valencia. Why hadn’t she gone?

  Diago glared at Engel. “What did you do her?”

  “I know you’ve studied neuropsychiatry,” Engel said. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the mortal theory that inducing seizures can cure the insane.”

  Diago gaped at the angel as he struggled to shift his mental gears. The last thing he’d been prepared to hear from Engel was an analysis of medical treatments for the insane.

  After a moment, his stunned brain extracted the information he needed. Doctors in mental institutions had been using high dosages of metrazol to induce convulsions in patients for years. The treatment didn’t work, but that didn’t stop mortal doctors from utilizing it, along with lobotomies, to make their patients more compliant.

  “Well?” Engel prodded. The angel was enjoying himself immensely. “Have you?”

  “I’m familiar with it,” Diago whispered through dry lips.

  “Excellent!” Engel went to the cot and placed his fingers on Amparo’s temples where burn marks were visible.

  Diago couldn’t be sure, but he thought Amparo flinched and whimpered. What had Engel done to her?

  “There is a professor in Italy.” Engel continued. “Cerletti is his name. He is using electricity in small doses to simulate the effect of metrazol. Right now, he is experimenting on animals with his electric shock treatment.” Engel straightened and evaluated Diago with a frown. “Ah, I know what you’re thinking.”

  Cold and sick, Diago was certain Engel had no idea what he was thinking.

  “This”—­Engel gestured at Amparo’s inert body—­“is not an animal. Correct?” He raised his eyebrows and waited for an answer.

  Diago gave a sharp nod. He wasn’t sure if he was capable of more.

  “No. You are wrong, Herr Alvarez. This is an animal. Do you know why?”

  “Stop fucking with me and just say what you have to say.”

  Garcia backhanded him hard. Diago would have fallen if Garcia hadn’t caught his arm right after and jerked him upright.

  “Answer him,” Garcia growled in his ear.

  Diago licked the blood from his lip and glared at Engel. Play the game. Amparo is gone. I can’t help her now—­not even Juanita can bring her back from this. He closed his eyes and fixed Rafael’s face in his mind. Stay alive for Rafael’s sake. Just play his game. Diago opened his eyes and said, “No. I don’t know why.”

  “Because she is a traitor, Herr Alvarez. She was giving information to the daimons. You were right. There was a spy.” He gave Diago two heartbeats to absorb the information before he continued. “Who knew your final plans for yesterday? Suero and Amparo. Suero is no spy. He is loyal to Guillermo and Miquel, but Amparo was seen speaking to the Ferrers’ maid, Elena, several times yesterday. Most importantly, after she left her meeting with you and Guillermo, she and Elena had coffee.”

  And by that evening, Elena was possessed by the daimon Lamashtu, and Amparo had been ordered to depart for Valencia. If Engel could be believed, Amparo had no reason to meet with Elena.

  “Fortunately, Garcia—­who is still loyal to the angels and our cause—­observed these interactions and took corrective measures.”

  That explained the bruises and cuts on Amparo’s body. Corrective measures.

  “Amparo’s betrayal makes her an animal that must be destroyed.” Engel looked down at her shuddering body. “But killing a Nefil is a tricky business. And of course, we don’t want her to reincarnate. She will simply go over to the enemy again. Why should we keep fighting the same battles? Hmm, Herr Alvarez?”

  Suddenly, he saw where Engel was going with his lecture. He intended to give Amparo the second death—­the one from which no Nefil could be reborn. “Our incarnations change us,” Diago said, hoping to change the angel’s mind. “We’re not the same as we were in our firstborn lives, or even subsequent ones. Our experiences change us—­”

  Engel applauded with slow claps.

  Diago felt his cheeks redden. Now he understood why Guillermo had balked last night when Diago had said he wanted to give Alvaro the second death. The second death left no chance for redemption. “Sometimes all we need is a second chance,” he persisted, selfishly thinking of his own second chance in Guillermo’s ser­vice.

  Engel shook his head. “No need to plead for her. The decision has been made.”

  “Who? Who made that decision?”

  “Forces beyond us both,” Engel said.

  Diago clenched his fists. Engel could only mean the Principalities, those angels who were aligned with the various countries and provinces of the earthly realm. Messenger angels, such as Engel and Prieto, were of a lesser caste and merely followed the commands of their reigning Principalities.

  When the Principalities warred with one another, their conflicts were echoed by the mortals in the earthly realms. Guillermo believed that Spain’s conflicts mirrored a greater conflict within heaven’s realms. Was he right? Were the angels at war and if so, whose side was Engel on?

  And which Principality had ordered Amparo’s death? Diago knew he wouldn’t get an answer from Engel—­the angel was too in love with his own plans. But even in his predicament, Diago couldn’t help but wonder.

  “Listen carefully, Herr Alvarez. In the name of science, we tried Professor Cerletti’s electric shock treatment on this animal. We broke her mind. Then note by note, I learned her death song. That is how you render the second death. You must know another Nefil’s death song and sing it against them.”

  Diago closed his eyes against the hot wave of nausea washing over him.

  “Open your eyes, Herr Alvarez. There is a lesson here for you.” Engel put his hand over Amparo’s face. “I want you to see what awaits your son if you fail.”

  “Stop. I told you I would summon Prieto. There is no need to do this.” He tried to rise, but Garcia’s hand landed on his shoulder. Diago’s teeth clicked together and he bit his tongue. The sharp taste of his own blood stung his mouth.

  Engel shook his head as if dealing with a stupid child. “Summoning Prieto and bringing me the idea for the bomb are two different things, Herr Alvarez. Daimons are slippery with their promises. Amparo took Don Guillermo’s hard-­earned money with every intention of serving the daimons. And you, during your days as Asaph, were deceitful, too.” Diago winced at the use of his firstborn name. “Asaph promised to help Solomon, only to turn his back on his king. Do you see the message here, Asaph?”

  “Asaph is dead. I am Diago.”

  Adler giggled from his place in the corridor. Garcia’s fingers tightened on Diago’s shoulder and sent a flash of pain down into his back.

  “You are Asaph.” Engel’s mortal form shimmered. Spectral flames engulfed his arms. “Look upon my works and tremble.”

  He chanted a song in the angel’s language while channeling his fire at Amparo’s head. Small grunts passed through her lips as the flames consumed her. Her hands waved in the a
ir, and her heels thumped against the mattress, like a blind woman running in a panic.

  The smell of burning hair filled the cell. Amparo’s face melted beneath Engel’s hand. Her soul rose from her body. Colors of umber and gold shot upward, but the notes were broken. Her song scattered and ended before it truly began. She swirled in frayed chords. Unable to fight Engel’s angelic fire, she tried to escape.

  Amparo’s soul swooped toward the door. Adler sang a harsh chant with guttural syllables. He carved a sigil filled with bars and threw it in her path.

  Falling back into the cell, she sought a corner, a crevice, some place to hide.

  Garcia clamped his hand over Diago’s mouth to prevent him from singing.

  Engel sent his flames around the umber colors of Amparo’s soul. He sang her death song and tore the chords of her soul until she burned a second time. The force of her anguish rattled Diago’s teeth and sent blood spurting from his nose to run across Garcia’s knuckles.

  And suddenly . . . silence. The deep quiet of the grave filled the room. Amparo was gone. Her song forever smothered. Traitor or not, the world seemed colder without her magic.

  Engel panted heavily. He produced a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. He had paled significantly.

  Diago’s breakfast rolled heavily in his stomach. All that was left of Amparo were bones bleached white from the angel’s fire.

  Outside the door, Adler moaned and gibbered prayers to Engel. Garcia released Diago’s mouth and wiped his hand on Diago’s sweater. The Nefil’s face was as rapt as if he’d witnessed the Christ’s second coming rather than a second death.

  Diago bowed his head. A drop of sweat hit his thigh. Or maybe it was blood. Or tears. Rage seeped into his veins and he let it come. He clenched his jaw and said nothing. There was nothing left to say.

  Engel approached him. “You say you are not Asaph. You say your incarnations have changed you. Prove it to me. An hour, Herr Alvarez.” He unlocked the cuffs. “I free you to work whatever magic you need in order to summon Prieto. You can’t escape, so don’t waste time trying. One hour, and I will return. I expect you to hand over the idea.”