A Song with Teeth

by T. Frohock

  Diago reached across the seat and touched his husband’s thigh. “No. It’s not wrong to be afraid. Fear is good. But someone very wise taught me that letting my fear control my decisions is not.” He gave Miquel’s leg a gentle squeeze and then let go.

  “Someone wise,” Miquel murmured.

  “I think it was you.”

  “I don’t feel very wise anymore.”

  “That’s okay. Because I believe in you.”

  Miquel wiped his eyes on his sleeve and sniffled. He glanced at the speedometer and brought the truck to a more reasonable speed. “I need you more than Nico ever will. Do you understand?”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Okay, that’s a promise you can make, and I’m holding you to it.”

  Diago smiled at his husband. “You do that.”

  The sky glowed red with the sunset by the time they reached the first of the nefilim’s sigils. The glyphs spun in the dying light and hid the road to Guillermo’s farm from prying mortal eyes.

  Miquel turned the truck onto a lane that was little more than a dirt path. They bumped along the rutted road and meandered through a copse of trees. On the other side of the grove, they reached another clearing.

  The main house lay straight ahead with two buildings flanking it—one on either side. The manor housed Guillermo, his family, and personal staff, while an adjacent dorm belonged to those within his guard. The barn was set in a wide field, away from the main house.

  As Miquel turned the truck for the barn, Violeta emerged from the dorm.

  Miquel rolled down his window. “Any word on Ysa?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet. We’re expecting her any day now.”

  Any day now had become their mantra. Christina’s news about Jordi and Ysa’s prolonged absence gave Diago a bad feeling he couldn’t shake. She should have been home two days ago. Either she was lying low or had become ensnared by the Gestapo. No one wanted to think it was the latter.

  Guillermo had been tense as a bear ever since his daughter had left for her assignment. Today’s news wasn’t going to alleviate his concerns.

  As the truck neared the barn, Rafael emerged and pushed the wide doors open. Miquel drove inside and cut the engine.

  Rafael opened Diago’s door. “How are you?” he whispered.

  Diago knew Rafael was still worried about his interactions with Christina. “I’m fine. You’ll be relieved to know they’re leaving.”

  The news actually brought a smile to his son’s lips. “If you wake up tonight because of bad dreams, come get me. Okay?”

  “I will.”

  Rafael raised his voice so that Miquel could hear. “Don Guillermo wants to see you both. We received a package today.”

  During the war, even the most mundane comments held double meaning. In one village, the arrival of new Bibles meant incoming refugees; in another, a shipment of grapes indicated the Allied planes were dropping a load of hand grenades; nonsense phrases had become the language of covert operations. For Los Nefilim, a package referred to a refugee that needed to be “shipped” over the Pyrenees into Andorra.

  “Where did it come from?” Diago got out of the truck.

  Rafael shrugged. “We don’t know.”

  Diago exchanged a worried glance with Miquel, who tossed the truck’s keys to Violeta. “We got five cans of petrol today. It’s not doctored, so put it with the good stuff. Get them hidden before you do your rounds.”

  The teenagers nodded and went to work.

  Diago followed his husband out of the barn. They didn’t speak as they walked to the villa. Neither of them relished having to give Guillermo the news about his brother.

  10

  20 January 1944

  The Farm

  Miquel and Diago were met at the door by Suero. The younger nefil held an oil lamp to light their way. “Don Guillermo is waiting for you in his office.”

  They hung their coats and followed him through the kitchen and into the house. The lamp’s flame sent their shadows fluttering over the walls.

  The home’s aesthetics were austere compared to the villa Guillermo had owned in Catalonia. A few items of art hung from the walls, but little else in terms of decoration. Juanita purchased pieces that would quickly bring them cash in their times of need.

  Sigils glittered on each riser of the main stairwell, carrying the vibrations of their treads up to the second floor. At the landing, they followed a short balcony to the office door. Suero knocked twice and entered.

  Guillermo sat at a large desk. He lifted his shaggy head from the report he’d been reading. More lamps glowed on the desk and tables, softening features made craggy by hunger and worry. “What news?”

  “All bad,” Diago said as Suero left them.

  Guillermo didn’t seem surprised.

  Even in the semidarkness of the room, he sees the truth in our eyes. Without waiting for an invitation to continue, Diago recounted his meeting with Christina.

  His friend seemed to age another hundred years. “Shit and bitter shit.”

  Miquel tried to mitigate the damage. “Surely the Thrones will not stand for Jordi murdering a queen of the Inner Guard.”

  “We can’t depend on them,” Guillermo murmured and shook his head. “Time does not move for them as it does us. If Jordi is tried, it will be by the remaining kings and queens of the Inner Guard, and that is only if we win this war. If he wins, it’s my head on the block.”

  Miquel straddled the chair in front of Guillermo’s desk. “Don’t lose hope. We’ve been through worse than this.”

  Guillermo chuckled and shook his head. “I’m hard-pressed to remember just when.”

  Miquel nudged Diago. “Tell him the rest.”

  Diago winced. The news about Carlos would be like salt in a wound, so he gave it to Guillermo fast. “I saw Carlos Vela today. He followed me into an alley.”

  The big nefil grunted. “That wasn’t the smartest thing he could do.”

  “He’s half mad with pain, and there is something wrong with his voice. He could barely speak above a whisper.” Diago quickly described the encounter. Withdrawing the envelope, he placed it on the desk. “He sent this. We checked it and found no sigils.”

  Miquel lit a cigarette. “I told Bernardo to bring Carlos in for questioning. He said he’d find him and have him here as soon as he could.”

  Guillermo nodded as he examined the envelope carefully before reaching for his letter opener. Tearing the seal, he removed the note and a photograph. A moment passed, and then he read aloud: “‘Don Guillermo, Forgive me. The Thrones’ fire never leaves me. I do not wish to suffer like this for all my incarnations. Herr Teufel forced me to extract Psalm 60 from The Book of Gold. I can tell you where to find it in exchange for your power to heal me. Carlos.’”

  Diago exchanged a concerned look with Miquel. “Ysa . . .”

  Guillermo lifted his head, and to Diago’s surprise, he didn’t appear alarmed. Instead, he used a magnifying glass to examine the photograph by the lamp’s light. “It looks authentic. That could very well explain why Ysa isn’t home.”

  Diago was the first to get over his shock. “I don’t understand.”

  “She doesn’t know Carlos stole the psalm. Didn’t he say that it took him weeks to find us?”

  Diago nodded.

  “And it’s probably true. Which means he was in Paris while Ysa was still in one of the other four universities acquiring the other pages.”

  Miquel picked up the thread. “Then she gets to Sainte-Geneviève and the book is gone.”

  Guillermo sighed and passed the letter to Miquel. “Knowing my daughter’s tenacity, she’s now working at Sainte-Geneviève in the rare manuscripts division still trying to track down The Book of Gold.”

  Perhaps it was his interview with his cousin, but Diago still didn’t feel reassured. “Wouldn’t she have contacted you to let you know what’s going on?”

  “Not unless she had something to report. We keep our c
ommuniqués brief, or avoid them altogether if we can. Less chance they’ll be intercepted. We know where she’s staying, and she checked in with her landlady on time. I’ll have Suero ring the rooming house tomorrow to call her back to the farm. Meanwhile, I want to know how Carlos knew where to find that psalm.”

  “That’s easy.” Miquel looked up from the note. “We moved the grimoires into France in late 1938 as a safety measure. Carlos was a member in good standing with Los Nefilim at that time. He was one of my capitanes. I put him in charge of relocating them.”

  “Then he turned traitor and screwed us to the wall.” Leaning back in his chair, Guillermo rubbed his eyes. “Fucker. I’ll kill him.”

  Diago had an uncomfortable thought. “Carlos was working for Jordi by the end of the war. Do you think he told Jordi about the grimoires?”

  Guillermo’s stare swung to Miquel. “Well?”

  “Probably not.” He flicked the edge of the paper with his fingernail. “If he had, Jordi would already be in possession of all the grimoires. He wouldn’t waste an opportunity like that.”

  Diago took the seat beside his husband. “So Carlos sat on the information, waiting for when it would do him the most good?”

  Miquel concurred. “That would be my guess. Carlos is shrewd. His knowledge of those grimoires was like money in the bank. He’d save it for just the right price.”

  Guillermo drew a cigar from the box on his desk and snipped the head. “Second question: How did Carlos and Herr Teufel know that we’re looking for the grimoires, specifically The Book of Gold?”

  Diago didn’t need to give the question much thought. “Daimon-born agents have been watching Ysa’s movements. Edur wanted to know why she was visiting university libraries, but I managed to put him off. He must have been testing me, because it’s apparent he already knew the answer.”

  “Maybe not.” Guillermo met Diago’s gaze. “He might have simply wanted confirmation they were on the right track. The most likely scenario is that Edur and Christina’s agents picked up on Ysa’s movements and passed that information to Alvaro, who alerted Teufel, and then Carlos connected the dots.” He took a long draw from his cigar and then pointed at Diago. “Third question: Any idea who the devil might be?”

  “It’s an alias for another member of the Scorpion Court. I don’t believe Christina knows his name, but if Alvaro is feeding Teufel information, then he is someone with rank. And now they have Psalm 60.”

  Guillermo watched the smoke from his cigar curl toward the ceiling. “They won’t crack the sigils. I’ve designed those glyphs to burn the document if the daimon-born tamper with it. The only nefilim who can unlock its secrets are Ysa and me.” He fell silent for a few moments and then asked, “What about the painting? Any clues to Teufel’s identity there?”

  “He didn’t use the colors of his song; otherwise, I might have some inkling as to who he is. Instead, he painted with the dark sounds of the dead and dying. The shipping label indicated that the point of origin was Poland.”

  Miquel tossed Carlos’s note back to the desk. “The Germans have a lot of concentration camps in the east. Do you think Teufel is hanging around the camps?”

  “I’m almost certain of it,” Diago answered. “But that doesn’t explain how he came into contact with Carlos. Unless Carlos was interned in that area.”

  Guillermo smoked and considered the explanation. “It’s something to think about. Miquel?”

  “I’ll get someone on it first thing in the morning.”

  “All right. Juanita has our package in the basement. She doesn’t think he’s going to last the night. Miquel, go down and see what you can get out of him. Diago, you stay. I want you to refresh my memory about rogues.”

  As Miquel rose, he brushed his fingers over the back of Diago’s hand. “Sure. I’ll see what I can find out from him.”

  The touch was discreet—their version of a light kiss.

  They’d cultivated the hidden signal primarily for mortals, who didn’t accept their relationship. Guillermo never minded their displays of affection, but given the war and the Nazi regime’s extreme hatred of homosexuals, they made covert gestures a habit.

  Diago hoped that if they lived long enough, the world would reach a point where they could live openly. But that day is not today, and to slip in public risks a death sentence.

  Guillermo waited until Miquel’s footsteps receded on the stairs. “Carlos claims to be a rogue now. Isn’t that what he told you?”

  “Yes.”

  Guillermo ran his thumb over his lighter and considered the situation. “Don’t rogues have some sort of tribunal for nefilim that draw the ire of the Inner Guard?”

  “It has more to do with rogues that draw mortal attention to our existence as nefilim.” Mortals, for the most part, were unaware of the supernatural creatures in their midst. Far outnumbered, the nefilim remained inconspicuous as a matter of self-preservation. They’d learned hard lessons about mortal fear and aggression during the Inquisition and similar purges.

  The Inner Guard required its members to move through the world discreetly. The rogues, lacking the military discipline and intensive networks of the Inner Guard, maintained their own code of invisibility.

  Guillermo relit his cigar. “What happens if they’re found guilty of interfering in mortal affairs?”

  “Then a council of the oldest rogues is called and judgment is passed. But that is a rare event.”

  “Has it ever happened?”

  “Once that I know of. Rasputin was judged, and when he refused to abide the council’s decision, we sent him into his next incarnation.”

  “I remember that. It got . . . messy.”

  “Mortals were involved. They complicated things.”

  Guillermo clicked the lid of his lighter. “And someone like Carlos?”

  “Is no Rasputin. The rogues would consider this a matter for the Inner Guard and its tribunals, especially since Carlos was once a member of Los Nefilim.”

  “Good. That makes me more comfortable about taking care of Carlos myself. I don’t want to damage Los Nefilim’s relationship with the rogues.” He puffed his cigar. “Last question: All this time, Alvaro has gone without a high priest. Why now? Is Alvaro sick or dying?”

  “I asked Christina that same question, and she indicated that Alvaro was looking to the Scorpion Court’s future.”

  “That could mean anything. Or nothing.”

  “I would guess the former. My father has long desired to fulfill Moloch’s dream of retaking the mortal realm for the daimons. With the German death camps, Jaeger and Jordi have performed a human sacrifice of mammoth proportions, feeding Moloch’s power.”

  Guillermo exhaled sharply and picked up the note again. “I’ve been afraid of that.”

  “Can we stop the Scorpion Court from meeting?”

  “No. Alvaro is perfectly within his rights to gather his court and choose Moloch’s next priest. The Inner Guard can’t interfere.”

  “Not even with Christina’s admission that she wants to distract your attention from the meeting? Wouldn’t that alone indicate they might be acting on more nefarious plans?”

  Guillermo shook his head. “It’s too circumstantial. I need direct evidence to move against a legal gathering.”

  “But the psalm—”

  “The psalm is a secret. In order to use it as a reason to disrupt Alvaro’s court, I’d have to divulge its contents to the other divisions of the Inner Guard. That I will not do, especially with my brother as a rival king.”

  “Nothing but bad news.”

  “Not your fault.” He lifted his head and finally offered Diago a weary smile. “Go to bed. We’ll deal with all this in the morning. There is nothing more we can do tonight.”

  Diago hesitated. With Miquel occupied elsewhere, he could broach the subject of Nico’s rescue without further agitating his husband. Diago only felt a little guilty about going over his husband’s head, and quickly absolved himself. If he wasn’t su
ch an ass about it, I would have said something while he was here.

  “There is one more thing,” he blurted before he could change his mind.

  Guillermo peered at him through the cigar smoke. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m sure Miquel is going to put this in his report to you tomorrow—”

  “Then you might want to let him.”

  “I could, but it concerns Nico.”

  “Are you going to drag me into a fight between you and Miquel?” Guillermo’s furrowed brow reflected his displeasure.

  “No,” Diago said, raising his hands in a gesture for peace. “Your word is final. But I know we need every nefil we can muster—”

  “Where is he, Diago?”

  “Mauthausen.”

  Guillermo crushed his cigar in the ashtray. “Shit.”

  “Yeah. We need to get him out.”

  “I’ve got no one to send.”

  “Send me.”

  “No.” Guillermo pointed one blunt finger in Diago’s direction. “I need you.”

  “So Nico is expendable?” Diago regretted the question the moment it left his mouth.

  Guillermo’s eyes smoldered. “No one is expendable.”

  Damn it. I walked right over the line. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Damn right you shouldn’t have.”

  “It’s just . . . I feel responsible for him.”

  “I understand.” Guillermo sighed and rocked back in his chair. “But part of my job is to know my nefilim’s strengths and weaknesses. Nico lived with Jordi through some of my brother’s worst abuse. He is a survivor. And he’s had you to guide him. We’ll get to him, Diago. I promise you. He just has to hold out until we can.”

  Diago didn’t try to hide his disappointment. “I told him I would watch out for him. I promised.”

  “And you have. That’s the part you’re not seeing. You have watched over him, like I take care of all my nefilim. It’s just that sometimes there is only so much we can do with the limited resources at hand. That’s not your fault, or mine. Understand?”

  “I do.”