by T. Frohock
“And I for you.” Turning away from his cousin, he followed her bodyguard to the stairs.
At the first step, he paused and looked back. Christina walked to the painting and stood before it again. Her mouth tightened into a thin red line. Edur placed his hand on her shoulder in a protective gesture. As she leaned against him, Diago turned and followed Iria downstairs.
He couldn’t deny a small jab of jealousy eating at his heart. Christina never had to pretend she was something different in order to be accepted by their family. Although Diago had found a place in Los Nefilim and love from his found family, they, too, had expectations for his behavior. No matter which side he chose, his loyalties would always be, to some degree, suspect.
Iria led him back the servants’ hall, where Francisco had returned to his post. The brute glared at Diago from his good eye. The other was concealed beneath a bloodstained bandage.
As Diago neared, Francisco muttered under his breath, “Watch your back, asshole.”
Diago lifted his hand and had the satisfaction of watching Francisco flinch. “I will.” He pointed at his own face. “With both eyes.”
Before Francisco’s sluggish brain could form a retort, Diago stepped into the alley.
Cold air slapped his cheeks. He drew his collar against his neck as he reached the street and glanced both ways.
The workers were gone and so was the poster with its accompanying graffiti. Hurrying back the way he had come, Diago caught a tram. He found an empty seat and pushed his cold hands into his pockets.
Francisco might not be the smartest nefil Diago ever encountered, but his parting advice was something to take to heart. Watch your back. Los Nefilim’s place in the world had suddenly become very precarious. And there is nothing to do but keep moving forward.
8
20 January 1944
Perpignan
Diago doubted Francisco or any of his goonish friends would follow him, but it didn’t hurt to be safe. He left the tram several blocks from his destination and walked at a brisk pace.
Turning down one street and then another, he glimpsed a familiar figure, hanging back, but always just a half a block behind. It wasn’t Francisco in his pin-striped suit. This man was dressed in coveralls and a stained coat. One of the men covering the graffiti.
Without making any outward sign that he noticed, Diago continued for another block before pausing in front of a tobacconist shop. The window reflected the opposite side of the street. No one stood out to him as a nefil, and the mortals kept moving. Nor did anyone seem to pay particular attention to his presence.
Looking to his left, he noticed the man pausing to light a cigarette. He was half turned to face the opposite direction, so his features remained indistinct, but Diago had no question it was the same man he’d seen near his cousin’s manse. His mortal companion was nowhere in sight.
One of Francisco’s friends, maybe?
The skin of the nefil’s face seemed incredibly flawless. The flesh shone with unnatural luminance.
A mask. Between the injuries suffered by survivors from both the Great War and the Spanish Civil War, a mask wasn’t seen often, but neither was it completely unusual. The painted tin might cover a legitimate wound or merely be a disguise.
Somehow, he didn’t think any of Francisco’s friends would bother with a disguise. No, that kind is like the Milice—they simply stomp down the street and knock heads. Subtlety isn’t their forte.
Diago entered the tobacconist’s shop. Though he didn’t smoke, he still enjoyed the smell of tobacco. Too, the warmth of the stove drove the iciness from his joints. He browsed the offerings under the proprietor’s suspicious gaze and settled for two packs of cigarettes—one for Miquel and the other for Rafael.
Then he returned to the street and paused, pretending to count his coins. Instead, he surreptitiously surveyed the area. The strange nefil was gone.
Walking two more blocks, he took an alley that he knew ended in a dead end. The shadows worked in his favor. He stepped into a recessed doorway and drew the small knife he carried in his pocket, flicking the blade open with his thumbnail.
Patient as a cat, he waited.
The conversations of pedestrians filtered to him as the mortals hurried along on their errands. Somewhere nearby a horn honked. A woman laughed. The clop of a horse’s hooves and the grind of steel wheels indicated a cart on its way to or from deliveries.
Two full minutes passed. Then Diago heard the sound he’d been waiting for: footsteps shuffling over the alley’s rough cobblestones. The mingled scents of man-sweat and tobacco preceded the person. Underlying it all was a sour smell, the putrescent odor that accompanied a fetid wound.
The nefil passed the doorway. He became aware of Diago a second too late.
Diago launched himself out of the darkness and shoved the other nefil against the opposite wall. Pinning the taller man against the bricks with his forearm, he pushed his knife against the nefil’s throat.
The man tensed but didn’t resist. “I thought it was you,” he whispered.
In spite of the mask covering the left side of his face, Diago instantly recognized him. Eyes that were once gunmetal-blue and hardened by war blurred beneath a drug-induced addiction. His hair had gone completely silver. A scraggly beard covered hollowed cheeks. The putrid smell seeped from beneath the mask.
“Carlos Vela.” Diago muttered the name as he would a curse. “I thought you defected to Jordi’s Nationalists. Either you’re the bravest nefil alive, or the dumbest.”
Carlos lifted his hands in surrender. His right hand was maimed—the thumb and three fingers were missing. A gangrenous odor seeped from beneath the stained wrappings.
His words rushed out in a ravaged whisper. “It’s taken me weeks to locate you. I need to talk to Don Guillermo before the daimon-born find me.”
What is wrong with his voice? “You betrayed Miquel to Jordi’s forces, spied on Los Nefilim, and almost got my son murdered.” He narrowed his eyes. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”
“Because I have something Guillermo needs.”
“Switching sides again?”
“I’m a rogue and will stay one after this.” Carlos reached up and removed his mask. The entire left side of his face was scarred with raw, scorched flesh. The wound seemed as inflamed as the day Guillermo filled a tunnel with the fire of the Thrones.
“For five years I’ve suffered with this injury. When Guillermo killed the Grigori, I was on the train platform. A single spark caught my cheek. My body can’t heal it, and the morphine doesn’t kill the pain anymore. I can’t keep living like this. I have important information for Guillermo. But only if he heals me. I’m going to reach into my jacket.”
“Slowly.”
Carlos carefully withdrew a crumpled envelope and gave it to Diago. “Show him this. He’ll want to talk to me. When he’s ready to negotiate, tell him to send word to fourteen rue du Paradis. I’ll meet him at the destination of his choice.”
Keeping his hands up, Carlos moved sideways and backed toward the street. At the mouth of the alley, he turned and ran.
Diago stuffed the envelope in his pocket and followed. By the time he stepped onto the sidewalk, Carlos was gone.
9
20 January 1944
The Farm
Diago checked his watch. Damn it. He didn’t have time to follow Carlos. If he didn’t join Miquel soon, his husband would assume the meeting with Christina went badly and be on his way to her mansion.
Right now, that’s the last thing I need. With a final glance both ways, Diago followed the street until he reached a small café, the Golden Brûlée. Inside, a few workers finished their lunch and paid him no heed.
Pretending he had every right to be there, he opened the door and went into the kitchen. Bernardo Ibarra looked up from the grill. Big as a bear and twice as ugly, the nefil lifted his spatula in greeting and tilted his head toward a door at the back of the room.
That mus
t be where Miquel is. Diago nodded a greeting and walked past the steaming pots to the alley door.
A farm truck occupied the space between the buildings. While Diago met with Christina, Miquel had spent his day trading on the black market for goods, especially petrol.
Only five cans disguised as “cooking oil” were in the truck’s bed. It was a thin haul.
And that won’t do much for his mood.
Miquel shoved an empty crate against one of the cans. Curls as black as his eyes fell across his forehead. A long, jagged scar coiled from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth—a souvenir from his own battle with the Grigori that Jordi had found in 1939.
Miquel checked his watch. “Another five minutes, and I would have come looking for you.”
“That’s why I hurried.” He helped his husband secure a canvas tarp over the bed, further hiding the contents.
As they worked, Diago told him about the encounter with Carlos in a low murmur.
“Oh fuck.” Miquel cinched a knot with a hard pull that belied his frustration. He stood there for a moment with his head bowed. When he looked up again, he offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I’m not angry with you.”
“I know.” His husband wasn’t the type to shoot the messenger. Even so, Diago didn’t relay the news about Jordi yet. No sense in overwhelming him.
“I can’t go looking for Carlos now.” He inclined his head toward the contraband in the truck.
Diago agreed. The idea was out of the question. They’d have a hard time making it back to the farm before the evening curfew as it was.
Miquel pocketed his work gloves. “Go ahead and get in. I forgot my hat.” Without waiting for an answer, he returned to the restaurant.
Diago watched him go, knowing that he intended to give Bernardo instructions to watch Carlos. When the kitchen door shut behind his husband’s back, Diago retreated to the cab. A bottle of beer and a sandwich wrapped in wax paper sat on the seat.
A surge of love lifted his spirits. Miquel’s thoughtful little touches always took the edge off a bad day. He got inside and opened the beer first, because after a session with Christina, he needed a drink.
Miquel opened the truck door and climbed inside. He wore a flat cap that wasn’t his. “Do you have the envelope?”
“Yes.” Diago offered it to him and went back to his lunch.
Miquel examined the cheap stationery for sigils and then handed it back to Diago. “I told Bernardo to send someone to rue du Paradis and to bring Carlos to the farm.” He pressed the clutch and turned the ignition. “Don’t just drink. Eat something. You’re too thin again.”
Diago returned the envelope to his pocket and took up his sandwich. “So you’re going to wine me and dine me and whatever comes next?”
“We’ll definitely get to whatever comes next when we get home.” Miquel waggled his eyebrows but his grin seemed forced.
Something is bothering him. Diago picked at the sandwich in order to please his husband.
Shifting the truck into gear, Miquel eased onto the main street, sparing Diago a glance as he did. “How did it go with Christina?”
“Worse than with Carlos.” He relayed the information Christina had given him during their meeting.
With a frown, Miquel guided the truck onto a backstreet in order to avoid the main thoroughfare and any potential checkpoints. “So Jordi has killed Queen Jaeger and wears her signet.” He exhaled a frustrated sigh. “Shit. That’s bad.”
That was the understatement of the day. “I’m worried about Ysa.”
“She’s a smart nefil. Probably on her way home now.”
He’s saying it like he’s trying to convince himself she’s fine. Then again, she might even be at the farm by the time they got back. “Did you find out anything about Nico?”
Miquel took another side street that meandered through a bleak neighborhood. “Yeah. I don’t know how to soften the blow, but my Lyon connection informed me that Bianchi and four other resistance fighters were put on a ghost train and sent to Mauthausen.”
“Mauthausen,” Diago repeated numbly. Poor Nico. Mauthausen was extermination through labor. Unless Jordi finds him first. “When?”
“They think he was transferred out in late November.”
“Jesus.” Diago wondered if he was even still alive. “Do we have anyone that can get in?”
“To Mauthausen?”
“Yes!”
“No! What are you even thinking?”
He didn’t know himself. We have so many other things to worry about . . . “Guillermo made me Nico’s handler from the day he took his oath to Los Nefilim. That means he’s my responsibility.”
“You’re taking that responsibility over and beyond your duty. You’re his handler, not his savior.”
“It just seems wrong to abandon him now that we know where he is. Especially considering what’s he’s done for us.”
“What? What has he done for us?
Diago wasn’t sure if Miquel was serious. “He organized resistance efforts at Radio Paris, in the Nazis’ own damn studio.”
“That was his fucking job.”
“And when he was caught, he kept his mouth shut.”
“How do you know?”
“We’re still here.”
“The Milice is probably waiting to make their move.”
“Mr. Sunshine.”
Miquel shot him a sour look. “I’d be surprised if anyone could stay silent under the Gestapo’s tender mercies.”
“Mortals have. And Nico has much more to lose.”
“You’re still protecting him.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“Ya, ya, ya, he’s been playing you like a violin ever since you showed him empathy in the Pyrenees. He’s done nothing but try to drive a wedge between us.”
“He has done nothing but try to win your trust.” Not that he’s making any headway. Maybe that’s why I became his champion. Diago related to being alone and under constant suspicion.
“He’ll never have it.”
“Fine, I’ll find some way to get to Austria and take care of the matter.”
Miquel stopped at an intersection. “Absolutely not.”
“I wasn’t asking your permission.” He glared out the window.
Miquel shoved the truck into gear and pulled away from the stop. He didn’t speak again until they’d left the city far behind. “Guillermo might have made you Nico’s handler, but he won’t let you go to Austria. Not into one of the camps.”
“I promised—”
“No!” Miquel struck the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “You make promises like you’re still a rogue, like you can come and go at will, and you cannot. Not anymore. Not into the camps. No.” He turned the truck onto the road toward Tarerach. “No more promises, Diago. Nico is on his own. You’ve done all you can for him. If he really wants to die, all he has to do is spit on a Nazi, or walk into the fence.”
“We talk about dying like it’s so easy, but when we’re actually faced with the prospect, we cling to life with the same tenacity as mortals.” Diago stared out the window, the bottle of beer forgotten in his hand.
Miquel lit a cigarette. “I’m sorry.” He exhaled blue smoke at the windshield. “You think I’m being overprotective, but that’s not it. I swear to you—”
“Nico helped save your life.”
“And Nico followed Jordi’s orders to give me the drugs in the first place. Wasn’t that Nico, too? I think it was.”
“Five years ago . . .”
“Five years is nothing to the nefilim.” Miquel took another sharp drag from the cigarette. “Nico wanted out of his relationship with Jordi . . . he would have used any one of us as the means.”
“He saved Rafael. He could have left with him, but he insisted on going back for you.”
“Why? Why do you think he did that? Out of love?” Miquel scoffed. “Rafael was fourteen. What good is a fourteen-year-old in a fight?”
&
nbsp; “He held his own, if I remember correctly.”
“But Nico didn’t know that. He wanted a soldier, someone who could get him out of the country.”
“And he stayed, and he joined Los Nefilim—”
“Under duress.”
“He did a good job, Miquel. He didn’t have to stay in Paris—”
“No, but he did, because if Jordi came to France, where would he go? To Paris. The city is fucking crawling with Germans.”
The twisting road corkscrewed dangerously. The truck’s bed slewed left. Miquel clamped the cigarette between his lips and downshifted, barely guiding the vehicle through the curve without going into a skid.
He’s going too fast. Driving like he was angry, because he was. Diago remembered the beer and finished it, tossing the bottle into a sack. He rewrapped the sandwich. “You taught me to see the good in others.”
“I didn’t teach you to be a fool.”
A flash of rage suffused Diago’s chest. There is no reasoning with him today. It was time to shift the argument from the symptom to the disease. “This has nothing to do with Nico. This is about you and your fear that something will happen to me.”
Miquel cranked his window down a few centimeters, letting a blast of cold air into the cab that did nothing to extinguish the heat between them. He shoved his cigarette out the crack and barked a harsh laugh. “My what?”
“You’re afraid. All the time. I know it, because it’s how I used to be.” And if today was any indication, how he still could be.
Gripping the wheel in both hands, Miquel pretended to concentrate on the road, but Diago could see his words had hit home. The muscle just under his husband’s cheek jumped as his jaw worked.
Diago pressed his advantage. “You’re afraid of losing me, and it affects your judgment.”
The road passed under them and Miquel did not speak for a long time. Almost a full kilometer later, he whispered, “Is that so wrong? To love you?” He glanced at Diago, his eyes glassy in the late afternoon light. “To be afraid of losing what we have?”