The Second Death

by T. Frohock

  “ . . . now the maid is missing, and Alvarez appears to have been in another fight. We’re afraid he murdered her, too.”

  That wasn’t true, either. Papa had fought a daimon, but Rafael knew from his experiences with Sister Benita that mortals didn’t understand the angels and daimons.

  “It’s Alvarez’s modus operandi,” Jaso continued with a voice both smooth and soft as he lured the mortal into a trance.

  Rafael didn’t know what a modus operandi was, but he understood the kind of magic Jaso worked on Dr. Vales—­he’d sometimes used it on Sister Benita when she waved her ruler around. Rafael wondered if she used her ruler on Moreno for saying bad words. He was kind of sorry he’d missed it if she did.

  Rafael’s fantasy of Moreno holding out his hand for a smack from Sister Benita’s ruler was interrupted by Jaso’s explanation. “Alvarez secures a wealthy patron, ingratiates himself with them, and then cases their homes. When he knows where they hide their valuables, he murders the family, steals what he can, and moves on.

  “He pulled off a similar crime in Berlin. That’s how Dr. Engel got involved. Engel came to us, and we started putting the pieces together. Based on Alvarez’s interactions with Doña Rosa Iniguez and her son, Don José, then with the Ferrers, we established a pattern. Now he has moved to Don Guillermo’s household and is seeking protection there. It’s possible we’ve saved the Ramírez family from a similar fate.” Jaso moved closer to Vales and murmured, “You have to understand, Doctor. We went to question Alvarez. He attempted to flee. When we caught him, he started raving about angels and demons just as Engel said he would.”

  Your tongue is black with lies, Rafael thought. He hoped Jaso’s black tongue fell out of his rotten head.

  “Our concern,” Jaso said and gave his words a sense of urgency. “Our concern is the boy. We must find him, Dr. Vales. I understand he used to live here. Perhaps one of the sisters might help.”

  Poor Dr. Vales. Mamá once told him that mortals possessed their own magic, but they had neglected it for so long, they had forgotten how to use it. That made Rafael sad for the mortals.

  “Of course, Inspector,” said Vales. He sounded sleepy. “Sister Benita will know Rafael’s hiding places.”

  She only thinks she does. Rafael hugged his satchel and held his breath, remembering to be small and quiet like a mouse. Sister Benita never found him unless he wanted to be found. Besides, Sister Benita didn’t know everything. Miquel said so, and Miquel was a lot smarter than Sister Benita.

  Jaso led the doctor away. “Let’s keep our focus,” he purred. “Look for Rafael.”

  Their voices faded beneath the sound of a rumbling cart. Rafael waited until the traffic in the corridor resumed its normal rhythm. Orderlies pushed food carts to various wards, joking about the patients and their strange ways. Nuns swished by, their rosaries dancing in their long black skirts. Every now and then, the sharp click of a secretary’s heels clattered against the soft footsteps of the hospital staff.

  Rafael slowly counted to one hundred. Then, just to be safe, he counted to two hundred. When all that time had passed and he still hadn’t sensed another Nefil nearby, he opened his satchel. He withdrew his mother’s carmine tear and the neatly folded picture he’d drawn of Papa and Miquel. Rafael had drawn himself standing between them in front of their little house. They were all smiling and holding hands. A white kitten with one blue eye and one green eye sat at Rafael’s feet.

  Ghost, Rafael thought with a smile. Her name is Ghost, and Papa said she could live with us.

  Overhead, a bright yellow sun with angel’s wings beamed down on them. At the bottom of the picture, Miquel had helped Rafael print “My Family” in block letters.

  Rafael placed his mother’s tear over the picture. He tapped the teardrop twice with his index finger before turning it clockwise and whispered, “Gólpe, gólpe, vuelta . . .”

  Strike, strike, turn . . .

  Golden light swirled up from the depths of the stone and became the veins of color within an angel’s eye. The teardrop split neatly in half, like a pair of carmine eyes. Rafael hummed a mellow note. His aura passed through his lips in shades of green and amber. The breath of his magic swirled around the ruby eyes and became a small golden snake.

  “Find my papa.” Rafael used his index finger to guide the snake around the figure of Diago.

  The snake curled through Papa’s hair and whispered over his skin. The lines of the house squiggled free and changed shape until they took the form of a scorpion, drawn upon the ground. The caricature of Papa began to dance among the lines, his heel struck the paper, and sent miniature sparks into the scorpion’s mouth. Then Papa disappeared.

  Rafael blinked and bit his lip. He knuckled down on his fear and thought about what he’d just seen. This wasn’t the same as last night when Papa had begun to fade away. Wherever Papa had gone just now, he had meant to go there. He had danced into the mouth of the scorpion, but no one had made him go. Maybe he had escaped Engel. Maybe he was looking for Rafael right now.

  Because he promised. He promised not to go. He promised I could stay with him, and he said he would find me. Rafael chanted this mantra in his heart until his thoughts slowed. Recalling the fire in his father’s eyes as they’d taken him away, Rafael grew certain that Papa hadn’t left him. We’re a family of bears. He will find me, and then he will eat that bad angel up.

  Rafael took a deep breath and looked at the picture. The lines shifted and changed shape again. The caricature of Miquel walked to their truck and got inside. He held Papa’s coat close to his chest and spoke to the driver. Rafael withdrew a pencil from his satchel, pressed the tip against the paper, and closed his eyes. His magic guided his hand. When he looked down, he saw he had drawn Don Guillermo.

  Don Guillermo and Miquel were coming.

  They haven’t forgotten us.

  The drawing blurred, and when Rafael blinked, two tears struck the page. Straight lines curled and became a tangled head of hair. Ysabel sat in front of a window and played her guitar. Her mouth moved in a song, and as Rafael’s heart grew warm, he saw Doña Juanita sitting behind Ysabel, singing along. He felt their love rise up from the paper and into his soul.

  Los Nefilim were looking for them. They weren’t alone. All he had to do was be quiet and wait. And help Papa. Yes.

  Rafael wiped his eyes and went to work. He guided his snake over the picture of the kitten, Ghost. Diaphanous as her name, Ghost came to life and stepped off the page. She was little more than a white shadow with a silent cry, but Mamá had often said that small magic was better than no magic at all.

  Ghost nudged his hand, and he felt the tickle of her spirit breath.

  “Find my papa,” he whispered. “Bring him to me.”

  Ghost opened and closed her mouth. Instead of going to the grill, she turned and scampered deeper into the vent. Rafael held the picture of his scattered family and listened to the hospital staff as they passed his hiding place. He made himself small and mouse-­quiet and waited.

  His mamá had left him in this horrible place, but his papa would come for him. He had promised. He will come. I am not alone.

  CHAPTER 5

  Guillermo stopped the truck at the intersection near La Sagrada Família’s impressive eastern façade. An attractive woman wearing a fox stole sauntered toward a group of construction workers. She paused and spoke to one of the men. He pointed at the church’s entrance as five of his coworkers came to offer their assistance as well. She gave them all a dazzling smile and left them gaping in her wake.

  “Why are we sitting here?” Miquel asked.

  “It’s a stop sign,” Guillermo said as he gave the woman’s ass a lingering gaze. As Solomon, he would have found a way to justify the pursuit of a woman like that. Guillermo, on the other hand, might give her beauty an appreciative glance, but he wanted no one other than his Juanita. She filled hi
s days and understood him better than any of his Nefilim. He would do nothing to jeopardize his life with her.

  Diago is right. Our incarnations do change us, he mused as he eased the truck across the intersection. Now if he could just get the rest of his Nefilim to accept Diago the same way Guillermo did, he might have some peace within his ranks.

  Miquel noticed the woman, too. “You were looking at her ass.”

  Guillermo drove past the church’s western façade, which was nothing more than a construction site. “Are you jealous?”

  Miquel snorted.

  “You’re not so innocent,” Guillermo said as they reached the industrial district. “I’ve seen you giving other men that look. Diago notices, too.”

  “Diago doesn’t get jealous.”

  “Diago doesn’t say anything. He gets this”—­Guillermo flicked his finger next to his temple—­“spark in his eye when you do that.”

  Another snort.

  “You watch him next time. I’m warning you. One of these days, he’s going to say something when he catches you ogling another man.”

  “Do you think he’ll ever be that comfortable with our relationship?”

  Guillermo sighed at the note of hope in Miquel’s voice. “Little steps, Miquel, little steps. He’s wearing his ring.” He slowed the truck in front of his warehouse. “For Diago, that’s a leap.”

  The observation won him a wan smile. “You’re right.”

  “Business, my friend. Focus on the business at hand.” Guillermo parked beside the curb. “What do you see?”

  Miquel leaned forward and looked through the windshield. In the distance, the vibrations of a domed song encompassed the asylum.

  “Was that here yesterday?” Miquel asked.

  “No.” Guillermo reached into his pocket and withdrew his lighter. He rubbed his thumb over the protective sigil Juanita had burned into the metal before she’d given it to him. “And it takes more than five Nephilim to make a web like that.”

  Before they could examine the song more closely, a woman emerged from the warehouse. She wore a white blouse beneath her jacket. Her trousers were loose, and her shoes were soft soled and made for stealth. Dark brown curls escaped her bun and clung to her pale forehead, framing a face that projected the cunning of a cat. When she recognized the truck, she withdrew her hand from her coat pocket—­no doubt where she kept her gun.

  Miquel was closest to the curb. He rolled down his window as she approached them.

  “Sofia Corvo, my little angel of death.” Guillermo grinned. Suero hadn’t fooled around. Like the female angels, the female Nefilim possessed stronger magic than the males. They were also some of his most vicious killers. God, he loved them all, but Sofia Corvo was one of his favorites.

  Sofia folded her arms on the door and looked inside. “We saw them go in about ten minutes ago. Diago and Engel in one car, Rafael and Garcia in the other.”

  Guillermo tapped the steering wheel with his index finger. “How many do you have with you?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Who?” Guillermo asked.

  She named them—­all female Nefilim. With a coy smile, she said, “We will make fetching nuns.”

  Miquel laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. He was itching to move forward. Guillermo felt his need like goose bumps crawling on his flesh.

  Or maybe it was the song that caused Guillermo’s agitation. Die Nephilim’s chant was all bass and baritone, not a female voice in the mix. The music was tightly constrained and performed in perfect unison, with no extemporaneous movements whatsoever.

  It wasn’t the first time Guillermo had witnessed their magic. Their techniques were the opposite of those employed by Los Nefilim, who sang their spells with wild abandon, often improvising, playing off one another’s strengths and weaknesses. Male and female worked together to achieve melodies and pitches that only one gender could never achieve.

  Sofia noticed the direction of his gaze. “See how tight the sigils are? In order to do that, Die Nephilim must all be gathered in one area, led by a conductor. Find one—­find them all.”

  Guillermo trusted her judgment. “Put a stop to that song.”

  “You want them all dead?” She picked at a broken fingernail.

  “Bring me one for questioning if you can. Don’t jeopardize yourself or your sisters.”

  “What about the traitors?” She spat into the gutter.

  A cold wave of rage rolled through his stomach. “I want as many of them alive as possible.”

  Sofia bared her teeth with a smile that made Guillermo think of sharks. “I’ll take them to western finca.”

  The finca was an old stone house on a secluded section of his western fields, far from his house and his daughter. In that isolated field, the screams of the interrogated couldn’t be heard in his home.

  He flicked the lid of his lighter just once, like the sound of a gavel pronouncing judgment. “Do it. I’ll meet you there once we’ve secured Diago and Rafael.” With a quick nod at the bag, he said to Miquel, “Give it to her.”

  Miquel handed her the bag of ammunition.

  In a rare display of affection, she patted Miquel’s arm. “Hold tight. We’ll get them back.”

  Miquel nodded and gave her a salute, which she returned with a gleam in her eye. She retreated into the warehouse. Guillermo couldn’t be sure, but he thought he detected a bounce to her step. Nothing pleased Sofia Corvo more than a bloodbath.

  He pulled away from the curb, and reminded himself to give Suero some time off as a reward. Sofia might not fully trust Diago yet, but she respected his oath to Los Nefilim, and Guillermo had no doubt that Suero had summoned others with the same deference to oath over personalities.

  Of course, like Diago, Suero had suffered from the Nefilim’s distrust. Born of one of the minor spirits, his song was good, but not as strong as the higher-­born members. Garcia and others had questioned the assignment, worried that a lesser Nefil coordinated their actions, but Guillermo had stood by his choice. A Nefil with a powerful song was invaluable, but a Nefil with a sharp mind was just as treasured. He assigned them according to their talents. So far, whether from gratitude or allegiance, Suero had yet to let him down.

  Then where did I go wrong with Garcia? He chewed the thought like a cigar, but couldn’t identify a specific clue for the inspector’s betrayal. Not only why, but when? Who else have I missed?

  “What are you thinking?” Miquel watched him with eyes blacker than the storm hovering over them.

  “When did Garcia begin working with the Germans?”

  Miquel shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  “Guess.”

  “When Diago took his oath?”

  “You think all of this was set up within a month?” He nodded at the dome of sigils that encompassed the sky over the asylum. “Look at that song, Miquel. It’s been rehearsed for longer than a month.”

  Miquel became as still and quiet as a pool of water. “This doesn’t have to do with Diago, does it? It’s Rafael. They’re after Rafael.”

  Guillermo considered the theory. “ ‘The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world,’ ” he quoted. He wanted a smoke but didn’t light one of his cigars. He needed that edginess now. “It’s plausible Engel wants both of the bombs—­the one that Prieto guards and the one that Diago guards.”

  “Greed is a deadly sin.” Miquel kissed Rafael’s button and pocketed it.

  “You’ve gotten attached to that kid in a short amount of time.”

  “He’s a sweet boy, and Diago loves him. They are trying so hard to be good to each other, and they are so afraid of loss, it breaks my heart to watch them.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  Miquel shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. I’m trying to be
patient with Diago while he works through what happened with Candela. I’ve talked with Suero some.”

  Suero would know. Like Diago, Suero had suffered a rape; although he had been abused by another man. Guillermo nodded. “I wish the others knew to rely on one another like you do. If you ever need to talk, you can come to me, too. Or Juanita. Anytime. You understand?”

  “Yeah. I will.” Miquel nodded. “Thanks.”

  They fell silent as they neared the back entrance to the asylum. The hair on Guillermo’s arms rose. He downshifted the truck and leaned forward to look out the windshield.

  Miquel evaluated the dome over the asylum. “How are we going to sneak past that?”

  “It doesn’t appear to be designed to keep anyone out. Besides, it may work in our favor.” The vibrations were rigid and were dictated to a specific function. “What are the odds of us being heard in all that noise?”

  “What are the odds of us finding Diago and Rafael in all that noise?” Miquel countered.

  Guillermo was almost sorry he’d asked Juanita to remain at Santuari. They could have used an angel’s help, but she was of more value to him at Santuari. If anything happened to him, Juanita would guide Los Nefilim until Ysa was old enough to step into her place as queen.

  He pulled the truck beside the curb. A thin line of jade-­ and umber-­colored sigils rose over the rooftops. Rather than become entangled with Die Nephilim’s wards, the glyphs filtered outward and spread like fingers into the buildings.

  “Look.” Guillermo pointed.

  Miquel frowned. “That’s Diago’s song, and it looks like the other glyphs belong to Amparo, like they’re singing together. Maybe she hasn’t turned traitor, after all.”

  “She gets the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise.”

  They watched the song in silence. Amparo’s colors were wrong, almost sickly in appearance. Then the umber tones strengthened. They overtook the jade vibrations until the green was but a pale reflection within the golden hues.

  Miquel said, “I’ve never seen Diago create a song like that. It’s almost like he’s using her as a microphone for his own spell.”