by T. Frohock
Diago pretended not to see his husband’s sharp side-eye.
“According my sources, yes.” Miquel’s voice was tight.
Nibbling his croissant, Diago avoided looking in his husband’s direction. If his tone was any indication, he was unhappy that piece of information leaked. And the truth is, I shouldn’t have done it. That meant he’d have to apologize. Later.
Guillermo clicked his lighter. “The Gestapo took Nico in July of last year?”
“Fifteen July,” Diago concurred.
“Six months,” Guillermo murmured and then switched his attention to Miquel. “Do you know when he was sent to Mauthausen?”
“My sources say late last November. Why?”
“I’m considering the time span and Nazi techniques. Do you believe it’s possible that either the Nazis or the daimon-born have turned Nico? Maybe they’re using him to get to us?”
Miquel shrugged. “Anything is possible.”
Guillermo gave his lighter two more clicks. “Diago?”
“If you’re asking for an opinion based on what I heard this morning, I’d have to say no. His voice went up two octaves when he thought he’d been discovered by this Herr Teufel. He was terrified.”
Guillermo returned to his desk and sat. “Will he try to make contact again tonight?”
Diago couldn’t discount the possibility. “If he can, he will.”
Guillermo jabbed his cigar in Miquel’s direction. “If he does, you talk to him. Understand? Interrogate him like one of your sources. Got it?”
Miquel didn’t look happy, but he nodded.
Juanita glanced out the window. “Bernardo is here.”
“Maybe our friend Carlos can reveal the identity of this Herr Teufel.” Guillermo crushed his cigar in an ashtray. “Let’s go see what he has for us.”
Trouble, Diago thought as he followed Guillermo and Miquel down the stairs. Carlos Vela was nothing but trouble.
They reached the yard just as Bernardo shut off the truck’s engine. The first thing Diago noticed was that Bernardo was alone. The lack of other nefilim to guard the prisoner meant Carlos came willingly, which Diago didn’t doubt. He wanted to be brought to Guillermo. He just couldn’t be seen as being too willing. Desperation made a poor negotiating partner.
Guillermo met Bernardo at the cab. “You brought him in alone?”
Bernardo slammed the truck’s door hard enough to rattle the window in the frame. “He’s not going to give anyone problems anymore.”
Diago’s stomach did a slow flip. This didn’t bode well at all.
Bernardo went to the truck’s bed and lowered the gate. The body was concealed under several empty crates and a tarp, but it didn’t take long for Bernardo and Miquel to uncover the corpse.
Juanita immediately waved them down. “Let me up there.”
Guillermo stood back. His face was white with rage. “What the fuck happened?”
“We went to the address Diago gave us and this is what we found.” He gestured at the corpse.
Diago climbed onto the truck and squatted opposite Juanita. Carlos was an ugly nefil in life; death did him no favors. The side of his face that had been scorched by the Thrones’ fire was black. The other half was pulled into a permanent snarl of agony.
Juanita stood and looked over the truck’s side. “Miquel, can you get my bag? And find me a couple of nefilim to carry the body. We’ll need to do an autopsy.”
He raised one hand in acknowledgment and returned to the house.
Guillermo’s thumb stroked his lighter. He turned to Bernardo. “Did you find anything other than a corpse?”
“He had negatives hidden beneath a floorboard.” He withdrew an envelope from his coat. “They appear to be multiple photographs of the psalm.”
Diago opened the collar of Carlos’s shirt. Someone had crushed the nefil’s larynx. It was a common gesture, used by both the angel- and the daimon-born nefilim, symbolic of silencing an enemy’s song. A ruby cuff link had been mashed into the wound.
Reaching down, Diago pulled the cuff link free. “Edur wore a pair exactly like this yesterday.”
Juanita frowned. “What is Edur’s connection to Carlos?”
“Morphine,” Diago whispered. As he thought back over his interaction with the dead nefil, the facts suddenly became clear. “I had too many other things on my mind when I cornered Carlos in that alley.” Looking up, he met Guillermo’s gaze. “It didn’t hit me then.”
The big nefil looked as if he might leap onto the truck’s bed and yank the answers from Diago’s skull. “What?”
“Carlos told me the morphine didn’t help his pain anymore. The morphine. Morphine is almost impossible to find. Where do you think Carlos was getting his supply?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he recalled his cousin’s teasing smile. “Christina.”
Guillermo growled the question. “As payment for his services to the daimon-born?”
“That would be my guess. But now Christina has been ordered to Paris. Carlos is about to lose his drug supply, so he reaches out to you.”
The big nefil glared at the corpse. “But why would Edur kill Carlos?”
“Edur might have commited the act, but the order came from Christina. She is tying up loose ends. Carlos is a complication because he is angel-born. Once she’s left the vicinity, she can’t control him anymore.” Diago fingered the cuff link and wondered if Edur was saving the other one for him.
“Christ, if Carlos wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him.” Guillermo flicked the lid of his lighter and stared into the distance. “And then we have the mysterious Herr Teufel. Who the hell is he and how does he figure into all this?”
It was a good question. One Diago couldn’t begin to answer.
14
21 January 1944
Château de l’Entreprenante
Fontainebleau
Ysa awoke in bed. But not my bed. She took in the room and struggled to remember where she was . . . how she’d gotten here. Jordi. He’d come into the interrogation room and brought her upstairs . . . and last night, I tried to escape.
Sitting up, Ysa threw back the covers. The room swayed around her. She fought down her vertigo and nausea. I made it out of the house and into the forest. Or had she dreamed it? Her feet were clean and her gown was as fresh as if she’d just pulled it from a drawer.
The back of her head hurt. She reached up and gingerly felt the lump on her scalp. Jordi had thrown a sigil and then everything went black.
That explained the nausea and the vertigo. I’ve got a concussion. Easy does it, then.
She found a pair of slippers on the little rug beside her bed. Not the same ones as last night. These were pink, the others had been white. She slid her feet into them.
The nurse’s chair was vacant, the book on the floor.
She was alone.
Taking her time, she stood and steadied herself before going to the nurse’s chair. She lowered herself to the seat and retrieved the worn book. It was a collection of short stories by Virginia Woolf, open to “A Haunted House.”
A drop of blood marred the o in the title.
Someone knocked at her door. Ysa’s head jerked up. Her fingers clenched. The page ripped. Without understanding her sudden fear, she shoved the book into the night table’s drawer.
The room spun again. Shit. Be careful.
Another knock, this one louder, more impatient.
“Wait a moment.” Her robe was at the foot of the bed. With careful steps, she made her way there and hurried to pull the dressing gown around her.
Show no weakness. She straightened her back but didn’t move away from the bedpost. “Come in.”
A maid entered with a breakfast tray, which she placed on a table beside the hearth. “Good morning, fräulein. Herr Abelló regrets he cannot join you for breakfast due to an early meeting. He does require your presence at lunch, which will be served at one.”
Ysabel didn’t answer.
The maid didn’t
seem to need a response. She drew the heavy drapes away from the window and smiled. “Herr Abelló hopes you enjoy your view. He instructed me to remind you that all actions have consequences.”
Ysa barely heard her. Outside the window, the snow flurried among the branches of a large oak. Hanging from a limb like a forgotten angel was the nurse, her white hat crooked on her bent head.
Such a shame. Her only crime was to fall asleep. Still, the nurse was the enemy. She chose her side.
The wind fluttered through the branches, sending a shower of sparkling flakes across the woman’s body.
Gripping the heavy bedpost, Ysa swallowed hard against another bout of vertigo.
The maid’s smile turned into a grin.
The vertigo. She mistakes the vertigo for guilt. “I envy my uncle. His nefilim must be great in number if he can afford to murder them so wantonly.”
For a precious second, the maid froze; her grin morphed into a grimace. “Ma’am?”
“Move my breakfast there.” Ysa pointed to the table in front of the window. “I want to enjoy the view.”
With furtive glances at Ysa, the maid hurried to obey. She poured a cup of tea and then went to the door. “Will there be anything else?”
Ysa remained by the bedpost. “Convey to my uncle that I will gladly join him for lunch. We have much to discuss.”
The maid curtsied. “Ma’am.”
She waited until the door closed before she sagged against the post. Her knees were weak.
When was the last time I ate? She couldn’t recall. For now, she needed to get some food into her body. Give myself some time to heal.
She went back to the night table and retrieved the nurse’s book. Maybe the stories would relax her.
The area in front of the window was cold, but Ysa didn’t mind. She touched the lump on the back of her head again and, to her relief, it felt smaller. Hopefully, as the concussion healed, the nausea and vertigo would go away, too.
She opened the tray. Ham and eggs were arranged on the plate along with toast and butter. A jar of marmalade sat to one side.
Her mouth watered at the sight of it. They were probably hoping she would devour the meal without thinking. Ysa forced herself to nibble each item one at a time, cleansing her palate with water before moving to the next. The marmalade left a bitter aftertaste on her tongue.
Having found the sedative, she pushed the jar aside and buttered her toast. Opening the book, she found a bookplate pasted to the endpapers. THIS BOOK BELONGS TO and then in a delicate spiral of handwriting was the name Greta.
Lifting her teacup to the corpse outside her window, Ysa murmured, “Bon appétit, Greta.” She turned to the short story, “A Haunted House,” and began to read as she ate.
Rather than entertain her, Woolf’s prose left her unsettled. The idea of doors shutting and knocking like the pulse of a heart mired in her head and made her think of the château coming to life with unclean intent.
She glanced at her empty plate. It was too clean, but she’d been famished. After stirring her knife through the marmalade, she smeared some among the toast’s crumbs. There, they’ll think I ate the drug and that I’m down for the day. She couldn’t wait to surprise them.
Rising carefully, she tested one step and then two. The light-headedness wasn’t as difficult to manage. In all probability, the concussion was mild and hunger had been the biggest instigator of her vertigo. I hope, anyway.
She went to her dressing table and returned the book to a drawer. The mirror showed her the yellowish bruise over her eye was rapidly fading. Heines’s ring had sliced the eyebrow open, leaving a gash behind. A cut beside her lip looked deep enough to leave a small crescent scar.
Lowering the robe, she assessed her other injuries. Black and purple flowers bloomed all over her upper body. Some were edged in green or yellow, and she remembered each blow imprinted on her flesh.
“I’m still alive,” she whispered to herself. I have one more day.
A silver-handled brush and matching comb lay side by side. She picked up the comb and worked it through her curls, dislodging the occasional pine needle as she did. Opening a drawer, she found an old cold cream jar filled with hairpins. With a smile, she used a few in her hair. Never know when one of these might come in handy.
She didn’t bother with powder. Let Jordi see his goons’ handiwork in bright, living color.
The wardrobe revealed a selection of stylish dresses. She chose one she liked and put it on. Though she much preferred pants, the full skirt didn’t hinder her movements, so she resigned herself to Jordi’s attempt to feminize her.
A quick check told her that her footwear selection was consigned entirely to heels. How to hobble a woman without chains, she thought as she chose a pair of pumps that matched her dress. Of course, most men didn’t seem to realize that those spiked heels made a wicked weapon in the right hands.
Ysa had the right hands.
Now to see what awaits outside my door. She wondered if they’d locked her in, or if there were guards.
Opening the door, she found no sentries in the corridor. Interesting. Jordi still didn’t believe that she needed to be watched.
Her room was in the château’s east wing. If she remembered correctly, the library would be on the opposite wing. She doubted Jordi would place The Book of Gold in such an obvious spot, but one never knew.
In no particular hurry, she strolled down the hall and peeked over the balustrade. Downstairs, the lobby bustled with activity. No one got in or out without being observed by a quartet of soldiers. Ysa assumed others were stationed elsewhere below.
From her visits with her father, she knew the other doors on this level led to various suites. Though some, like Ysa’s room, were reserved for guests, others were used for meetings. Since the maid indicated Jordi would be in a conference until lunch, Ysa didn’t risk opening doors at random.
Stumbling on her uncle might make him angry, and the last thing she wanted was to find herself back in the cellar. The fact that Jordi hadn’t returned her to the cell after her attempted escape told her that he wanted her free, too. For what reason, she had no idea.
Besides, conference rooms were better investigated at night. Who knows what secrets they might yield? A misplaced note or scraps in a wastepaper basket might reveal some tactic or plan. She made a mental note to steal an electric torch.
Ambling across the landing, she strolled into the west wing. Opposite the library was a bedroom Ysa knew well. It was the one she always requested.
She resisted the urge to peep inside her old guest room and stepped into the library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves occupied the walls. Except some sections were now noticeably empty. She drifted closer to the units. It took her several passes to realize the French titles had been removed, as if some malignant librarian had pulled them from the collection.
All that remained were books in German. Where had the Virginia Woolf collection come from? Had Greta the nurse claimed it during the purge? Ysa decided to keep it hidden.
She soon concluded that she’d been right: Jordi hadn’t placed The Book of Gold in the library. He probably kept it close to him. In his room. Not that it mattered. The important part had been torn out.
A clock ticked comfortably in one corner. It was only eleven. She had plenty of time. Ysa selected a slim book at random as a prop. Reading wasn’t on her agenda.
Overstuffed chairs with ornate tables were scattered throughout the library. In spite of the size of the room, it was easy to carve out a niche of one’s own. Ysa had passed many a comfortable evening in the chair by the door.
Strategically placed so that it was invisible to anyone passing outside, the spot had enabled her to eavesdrop on more than one conversation when she was a child. But now I’ve set aside my childish things.
Happy the chair was still tucked in its special spot, she kicked off her shoes and settled herself on the cushion. Angling her head just so enabled her to see into the corridor. She made
sure of her position and then curled her feet beneath her.
Almost an hour passed before her stealth paid off. The sound of voices grew closer, although it was apparent the men were trying to be quiet.
Jimenez, he of the needles and long sleeps. Though she’d only heard him speak a few times, she recognized the lilt of his words. When Diago became angry, he slipped into seseo with that same slight lisp, which changed the z sound of his words to s.
Jimenez was probably Andalusian, too. Unlike Diago, who was fluent in several dialects, Jimenez spoke German with a heavy Spanish accent.
Ysa tilted her head and her suspicions were confirmed. The rotund doctor’s figure lumbered into the west wing.
The very memory of his clammy hands made her skin crawl. She resisted the urge to rub her arm. Though her chair wasn’t in plain view, movement might draw his attention.
He stopped in front of the door to her old guest room and unlocked the door.
Her lip curled with disgust. I’ll never sleep in there again.
Jimenez gestured to someone who remained outside Ysa’s line of vision. “Quickly, Herr Strzyga!”
“I thought we were going upstairs to see Herr Abelló.” The other voice was polished and the man spoke with an Eastern European inflection to his German.
“Quiet,” Jimenez hissed like a cat with its tail on fire. “He’s not there. He’s in a meeting in another part of the château.”
Strzyga placed his black bag on the credenza beside Jimenez’s door. “I’m not slinking into your den.”
Ysabel finally got a glimpse of him. His long black hair touched the collar of his uniform. Like Jordi, he wore the black of an SS officer. Dark glasses covered his eyes.
In profile, he reminded her of the paintings she’d seen of Vlad Dracula. Great, Jimenez is doing business with Dracula, and given Jordi’s proclivity toward experimentation, Frankenstein’s nefil is probably in the attic awaiting his lightning bolt.