A Song with Teeth

by T. Frohock

  “Correct, monsieur.”

  “Your father is very old?”

  Centuries, over five hundred to be exact. “Yes. He finds travel very difficult these days.”

  A minor tic jerked the corner of his mouth just before Fronteau bowed his head. “I see. You are a good daughter to help him, then.”

  “You are kind.”

  “If you’ll wait in the reading room, I’ll bring the book to you shortly.”

  “Thank you, monsieur.” She left and went to the main reading room, an open chamber with high domed windows.

  Exposed iron arches displayed lacelike patterns that were incorporated into the ceiling’s design. Ysa detected Les Néphilim’s glyphs twisting around the metal’s artistic flourishes.

  Several meters of shelving that held thousands of books occupied the center of the room. A low rail, with a gate near a librarian’s desk, surrounded the unit.

  Reading tables with elegant lights were placed throughout the room. The scent of old leather and oiled wood filled her senses. She loved the smell of libraries.

  The shared spaces at the tables were occupied by a few students. All seemed to be mortal, but that didn’t mean she had nothing to fear.

  One young man looked up from his text and smiled at her. She noted his swastika armband and pretended not to see his greeting. Brushing past his table, she aimed herself toward a spot near a maintenance exit at the back of the room.

  She took a seat as far from the main entrance as possible, but one that gave her a full view of the door. That way she could easily see potential adversaries before they saw her, giving her the chance to slip away unnoticed if the need arose.

  From her position, she had two available escape routes. The shortest was through the maintenance exit behind her, which she knew from her study of the building’s floor plans led to the basement and then to an outside door. If that was blocked, she intended a bold run to the upper level and through a staff door. From there, she could use the employees’ stairwell to return to the main level in order to reach another exit.

  The room was cool in the best of circumstances, but with the war and oil shortages, most buildings had little or no heat. Sainte-Geneviève was no exception. Ysabel, like the other students, left her coat on.

  Movement by the door caught her eye. Monsieur Fronteau entered and approached her table with the grimoire. The book was smaller than she’d anticipated. Even with the wooden cover, the entire manuscript could easily fit in her coat pocket.

  He placed it on the table. “Return the book to me in my office when you’re finished.”

  “Of course,” she whispered.

  He turned and walked away.

  She briefly considered stealing the entire book, but quickly discarded the idea. Monsieur Fronteau might not miss a few pages, but he’d certainly notice if the book itself disappeared.

  Don’t get sloppy now. So far, everything had gone to plan. Don’t jinx it. She turned the brittle pages to Psalm 60.

  Psalm 60 wasn’t there.

  “No,” she whispered. Heart pounding, she went through the leaves. It was gone. Oh no . . . no, no, fuck no, this isn’t happening. But it was.

  No mortal could remove those pages without damaging her father’s wards, and she saw no indication of mortal tampering. Nefil, then, but who? She returned to the section where the psalm should have been, tilting the book so that she could see the binding’s broken threads.

  The sound waves of a nefil’s song twitched between the leaves. The light within the gunmetal-gray vibrations indicated the nefil was angel-born.

  She ran her fingernail over the leaf. Rusty splatters dotted the page. Not enough blood to indicate the loss of a hand, but Papá’s curse probably took a finger or two.

  Only members of Los Nefilim knew of the grimoires and the sigils they held. Even fewer knew the exact location of The Book of Gold.

  A traitor, then. Whoever had stolen the page possessed a strong will, or was desperate enough to spend hours singing their way past multiple wards.

  Loud voices echoed outside the reading room. Ysa looked up. The words were indistinct, but the authoritative tone with which they were delivered was unmistakable. Police.

  It was time to go. She could always circle back later and question Fronteau about the missing page.

  Rejecting her earlier plan to leave the book in the library, she stuffed the grimoire into her satchel. I need to examine it to find the vandal.

  Using the distance between them to her advantage, she stood and walked toward the maintenance exit. The shelving unit in the center of the room shielded her movements from the main entrance.

  Barely a meter separated her from freedom when the maintenance door opened. A soldier entered the reading room. He cradled an assault rifle.

  Definitely not on leave. Ysa registered the weapon with a practiced eye. It was a MP40. If the soldier possessed a full cartridge, he’d have roughly thirty-two rounds of nine-millimeter Parabellums. The submachine gun could easily take down a target over three hundred meters away. Even if he was a poor shot, a spray of bullets would eliminate her and any mortals that got in the way within seconds.

  Fuck, fuck, fucker. Her mouth went dry, but she didn’t panic. To run now would be the end of her. She swerved toward another shelf closer to the stairs leading to the upper level and pretended to examine the spines.

  Boots struck the metal walkway overhead as another soldier cut off her second plan of escape.

  Okay. When all routes are closed, Diago says wait for the right moment. Knowing the precise time for flight or fight could easily mean the difference between life or death.

  Her papers were forged, but so far she’d passed multiple checkpoints with them. It was time to bluff and hope they didn’t decide to search her satchel.

  The soldier by the maintenance exit cleared his throat. “Fräulein.” He nodded in the direction of the table she’d vacated.

  She squinted at him through her glasses and replied in French. “What?”

  He gestured with the muzzle of his gun. The meaning was clear. She was to return to the table.

  With no other choice, she sat and tucked the satchel against the table’s leg.

  Three men were at the reading room’s entrance, conferring with Fronteau and another librarian. The tallest of the three wore the black uniform of an SS officer. Every line of the coat was sharp enough to cut and the boots were polished to a mirrored shine.

  They don’t send officers out for routine checks. As she observed the group, the man glanced her way. Detaching himself from the others, he strolled in her direction.

  Shit. The grace of his movements gave him away. He was a nefil. Oh shit, shit, shit, and bitter shit.

  At the entrance, the shortest of the trio broke the silence with German-accented French. “Everyone remain seated. We only want to see your papers.”

  More soldiers entered and began moving among the students. All of them wore the green uniforms and black collars of the SS, and by their movements alone she guessed that most were nefilim.

  Someone came loaded for war. She switched her gaze back to the tall nefil, who was almost to her table. Another hot wash of fear burst through her gut as she recognized him.

  Jordi Abelló. Until now, she had only seen pictures of her uncle. Nothing prepared her for his physical presence.

  In contrast to her father’s coarser features, Jordi possessed both the refinement and grace that his brother lacked. Her father looked like a soldier, Jordi a king. His nose was less prominent than Guillermo’s and his cheekbones more pronounced, giving his features a rapacious cast.

  Our eyes are shaped the same. The realization surprised her. She had always kept the idea of their blood relationship so distant in her mind that she never expected to share features with him.

  He allowed his aura to flare outward. The magnificent cape of fire sparked around his body in a savage nimbus of orange and red, quelled at times by deep golden hues. While the display rema
ined invisible to the mortals in the room, Jordi’s blazing aura brought tears to Ysa’s eyes.

  He’s like a peacock, flashing his plumage in an attempt to cower me. She hated to admit it was working. Then put a stop to it. It was time to summon her own confidence. Straightening her back, she met his gaze.

  He stopped in front of her table. Centuries of knowledge churned in those bright irises.

  He is old and he is dangerous. She would have to move with care.

  He held out his hand. “Fräulein. Your papers.”

  So he intends to play the game to the end. Fine. She reached into her coat and withdrew the documents.

  Ysabel noticed that the ring finger and the first section of the middle finger on his right hand were missing. Then she saw the ring on his index finger. The signet was similar to the one her father wore, except instead of Los Nefilim’s sigils, this ring contained the SS Totenkopfring design: a skull, sun sigils, and a swastika.

  That’s Queen Jaeger’s signet. She had lent the ancient symbols to the Nazis through Die Nephilim’s ties to the mortal Himmler. The gesture was intended to be a clear sign to other divisions of the Inner Guard that she endorsed Hitler’s rule.

  Is she dead? But when? Where? Such news should have spread like wildfire among the nefilim. Unless Jordi is keeping her absence quiet for some reason.

  Regardless of the circumstances, he’d obviously claimed kingship of Die Nephilim. Which meant that whatever edge her father once had over his brother was gone. If they fight now, they fight as equals.

  Jordi scanned the page with a faint smile playing on his lips.

  “Francine Proulx,” he murmured. “I see your father in your face.” With a careless gesture, he tossed her papers to the desk. “Fräulein Ramírez.”

  Ysa unglued her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else, monsieur. My name is—”

  “Ysabel. Ysabel Ramírez, daughter of my brother, Guillermo Ramírez.” He pointed to the documents on the desk. “The only correct information is your age: nineteen.”

  Twenty in May. To argue with him would prove his point. She ignored his statement and stuck to her alias. “—Francine Proulx.”

  “Don’t toy with me. I know my kin.” He jerked the glasses from her face and tossed them to the floor. “Those are a terrible disguise.”

  “I thought the sigils were a nice touch.”

  His eyes widened slightly at her riposte. She’d caught him off guard with her humor.

  To her surprise, he chuckled—a genuine sound that brought a grin to one mortal’s face, because surely a man who laughed couldn’t possibly be a threat. Ysabel knew better.

  Jordi’s charm and charisma were part of what made him so dangerous. His easy manner caused people to lower their guard. She wasn’t fooled. Her uncle was probably one of the most ruthless nefilim—ruthless beings—alive.

  “I am pleased to finally meet you, my niece.” He didn’t offer his hand. “You’re under arrest. Come with me.”

  She pushed away from the table and stood, leaving her satchel on the floor by her feet. With a little bluster and luck, she might distract him from the bag. The last thing she wanted was for him to find the grimoire.

  Lifting her hand, she allowed her own aura to snap around her body. She kept her voice low so that her words remained between them and no one else. “And if I choose not to go?”

  He stepped close and lowered his head until his lips were beside her ear. “Then all these mortals will see us fight. And I will have to kill them. Their lives rest in your hands. Choose.”

  “Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll go. But my father—”

  “Is impotent.”

  Rage flushed her cheeks and set her heart on fire. We’ll just fucking see about that.

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her along.

  Good. He didn’t see the satchel.

  “Fräulein!” It was the soldier who’d directed her to sit. He hurried to them, carrying the satchel by its strap. “Your bag.”

  Great. Fucking great. Which meant it wasn’t. She thought of Diago’s training. When all else fails, lie. “That’s not my bag.”

  The soldier opened his mouth, but Jordi didn’t give him time to speak. He released Ysa and jerked the satchel from the man’s grip. After a quick look inside, he met Ysa’s gaze again. “Thief.”

  “That’s not my bag.”

  “A thief and a liar.” Jordi snapped the bag shut. “Take her outside.”

  The soldier moved close and gestured to the door.

  Feeling the mortals’ eyes on her, she allowed him to escort her to the exit. She doubted Jordi intended to kill her outright, not when using her as a hostage would further his game and torment her softhearted father.

  Her papá wanted to negotiate with his brother, find a way to end the wars, and Jordi would use that desire against him. Of that Ysa had no doubt.

  However, the knowledge of their dealings helped her. Miquel had taught her to understand her adversaries. Know what they want, learn how to dangle it before their eyes so you can lead them to their destruction.

  That was simple. She and Jordi wanted the same thing—to one day rule Los Nefilim. The crucial difference between them was that she remained perfectly willing to wait for her father to transfer his kingship to her in his own time, while Jordi intended to take what he thought was his by destroying his brother.

  By that same token, he’ll see me as a threat to his rule. Unless I can lead him in a different direction. One that might save her father’s life. But first, I must save my own.

  6

  17 January 1944

  Château de l’Entreprenante

  Fontainebleau

  Outside the library, three cars were parked along the curb. The sidewalk and street were cordoned. Ysa thought about running but quickly discounted the idea. She doubted she would get far. No, don’t risk it.

  She shifted mental gears and analyzed the scene. Her mind raced with the implications of this many soldiers turning up all at once. The raid was planned to the last detail.

  Somehow Jordi knew I was here. Did he have the missing psalm? She immediately discounted the idea. The colors of the nefil’s song in the grimoire’s margins were all wrong to be Jordi. Besides, why would Jordi steal the psalm when he could simply order the library to turn over the entire book?

  No. Someone had betrayed her. But who?

  The soldier led her to the middle car. A woman wearing the uniform of an SS-Oberaufseherin stood by the rear door of a sedan. Sergeant’s stripes decorated her sleeves. She was nefil.

  Ysa wasn’t surprised.

  The woman opened the door and Ysa got inside, where another woman already waited. She, too, was a nefil, and like the matron outside the car, she wore a dark green uniform with the SS insignia sewn on her black collar. Her age was indeterminable and difficult for Ysa to assess.

  The nefilim’s physical bodies didn’t age as rapidly as those of mortals. Instead, a nefil’s maturity was reflected in their eyes. Yet Ysa didn’t try to look too deeply at the other woman—in these circumstances, to do so would be considered an act of aggression.

  Outside, the matron finished her conversation and got in beside Ysa. Sandwiched between the two nefilim, Ysa made herself as small as possible and tried to quell her runaway pulse.

  Fear amplified both sight and sound. The creak of the leather seats as they all settled into place popped as loud as gunshots. Stale cigarette smoke on one of the women vied with eye-watering levels of perfume on the other. The driver, an older nefil with watery brown eyes, glanced into the rearview mirror before returning his attention to the street.

  Taking deep breaths, Ysa relaxed her hands until she no longer made fists. She wished they’d just get going. The waiting was debilitating.

  Jordi paused to speak with the two policemen before he walked toward the lead car. A smartly dressed young driver held the rear passenger door open for him.

  A tall blond nefil with a
scarred face joined Jordi. He, too, wore the black uniform of an SS officer.

  Ysa recognized him: Erich Heines. He was Ilsa Jaeger’s second-in-command. Or, if her suspicion was right, maybe he was now Jordi’s second-in-command.

  If Jaeger was dead, Heines’s presence would reassure the legitimacy of Jordi’s ascendancy to the ranking members of Die Nephilim. That bit of authority denoted less contention among the troops. It signified more immediate control for Jordi.

  It meant he was even more dangerous.

  Heines reached into Jordi’s car. When he stood again, Ysa saw that he held her satchel. He snapped his heels and saluted, then he shut the door and turned toward Ysa’s car. His expression belied no emotion as he opened the passenger door and got in beside the driver.

  He didn’t turn, nor did he speak.

  This wasn’t a good development. Heines’s presence indicated she would be questioned. While the different divisions of the Inner Guard sometimes deviated in methodologies, important prisoners were usually interrogated by the second-in-command. Miquel served in that role for her father; she had no reason to believe that Heines’s responsibilities would differ.

  And what did I think was going to happen? Jordi would ask me about the grimoire over a nice dinner? She bit the inside of her cheek.

  Another excruciating minute passed before the cars finally pulled from the curb. Ysa felt strangely relieved, if only for a moment.

  As much as she wanted to let herself go numb, Diago had taught her not to give in to her terror. Fear can induce lethargy . . . it is the body shutting down, the heart giving up. Keep thinking, keep watching, no matter how painful your circumstances. Your survival depends on your ability to read your captors.

  Ysa immediately disregarded Heines, who was a known factor. Careful not to be too obvious, she glanced down at the shoes of the woman on her left. Unlike Jordi’s polished boots, the toes of the nefil’s loafers were scuffed and well worn. The woman’s hand twitched in her lap. Her fingernails were ragged and chewed. A bright red line of blood half-mooned one cuticle. It was fresh wound.