by T. Frohock
One of the soldiers by the doors looked upstairs and snapped to attention. The others followed suit.
Jordi must be coming. She stood just as he reached the bottom of the staircase. Ysa noticed that Jimenez trailed behind her uncle.
The doctor smiled beneath his toothbrush mustache. The gesture was a limp affectation that brought to mind worms crawling through the night. Her imagination didn’t have to stretch far to see him approach the daimon-born for drugs.
Jordi’s physical discomfort appeared to be gone, though he showed no signs of being inebriated by the morphine. He offered her his arm and she took it. Stultz remained in the foyer, and Jimenez drifted off in a different direction.
Rather than take her to the large formal dining room as she expected, Jordi escorted her to an adjacent room with a small table set for two. He seated her in front of a dossier and then took his place at the head of the table.
As he poured the wine, he nodded to the file. “Why did you steal The Book of Gold from the library?”
Time to keep my story straight. In spite of the beatings and whatever drugs Jimenez gave her, she recalled the gist of her answers to Heines. “My father has become . . . confused. He seems to think that he has buried some secret in a grimoire somewhere in France. That’s why I’ve been traveling to collect them for him.”
Jordi didn’t seem impressed with the answer. “If he is so addled, then why are you obeying him?”
“To save his life.” She met her uncle’s stare. “I traveled so he wouldn’t go himself and get killed.”
“Why haven’t you simply taken over Los Nefilim?”
“He has moments of lucidity, and I’ve had a hard time convincing Miquel there is a problem.” When he didn’t contradict her, she congratulated herself on recalling a story told under duress.
Jordi nodded to the folder. “Go ahead. Tell me if you recognize the photograph.”
It was the same picture Heines had shown her during her interrogation. “Yes, I remember. Heines mentioned a letter.”
Jordi ignored the statement and tapped the photo. “It’s a photograph of Psalm 60 from The Book of Gold. The same psalm that is missing from the book you stole from the library.”
“But I didn’t deface the book. I took no photograph, and I sent no letter.”
“Carlos Vela sent the letter.”
She recalled the aura she’d seen in The Book of Gold’s binding. Carlos Vela. That son of a bitch. “I remember him. He was one of Miquel’s capitanes. He defected to your side sometime during the war.”
That was why the aura was familiar to her. And now was the time to use that information to win Jordi’s trust. “If you look closely at the grimoire’s binding, you’ll see Vela’s aura. He vandalized that book. My father warded all his grimoires, and this one contained an especially nasty curse.”
Jordi didn’t appear convinced.
“Look . . . see this?” She pointed to a splash of dark pigmentation that discolored the lower part of the grimoire’s page. “It’s hard to tell from the photo, but given the way the spot has feathered into the paper, I’d bet my lunch that is Carlos’s blood.”
Jordi pursed his lips. Taking the picture from her hands, he tilted it. His expression cleared. “I think you’re right.”
“What kind of letter did he send you?”
“First he wanted to exchange the psalm for a healing, and when I showed no interest, he tried to blackmail me.”
But he doesn’t say how. Curious. Had Carlos threatened to bear witness about Jordi’s interaction with the Grigori? That was certainly possible.
She returned the photograph to the folder and tsked. “Traitors are like unfaithful spouses: if they’ll cheat with you, they’ll eventually cheat on you. Why did he want you to heal him?”
“When your father flooded a tunnel with the fire of the Thrones, he created collateral damage in some of my nefilim. Several took their own lives. Others had to be put down.”
Put down. Like they were dogs. Her stomach curdled at the thought. “You could have healed him.” She nodded toward his signet.
“I will not be blackmailed by a traitor.”
No. Not Jordi. Besides, a healing of that magnitude required the mingling of auras. Jordi wouldn’t pollute himself by allowing Carlos’s song to join with his. “Why didn’t you . . . put him down?”
“That was my intention. Unfortunately, he disappeared.”
“We have no idea where he is. If my father knew, he’d give Vela a death sentence.”
Jordi observed her quietly for a few moments. Without breaking eye contact, he lifted the small bell beside his plate and rang for their lunch.
Once the first course had been served, he casually asked, “Are you really concerned about your father?”
She stirred her spoon through her soup. “Yes, I am. More so for the members of Los Nefilim. They deserve to be treated fairly.”
“Perhaps we can come to some agreement—your father and me.”
“Such as?”
“If he would be willing to step aside as the king of Los Nefilim, I would consider absorbing his people into Die Nephilim’s ranks—with the exception of Miquel, of course. I’m sure we could find another division of the Inner Guard to take him. That would protect the nefilim in Guillermo’s care, and give you time to nurse your father.”
She didn’t ask what he intended for Diago and Rafael; she didn’t want to know. His intentions for them would make it harder for her to play this game. “Are you serious?”
He shook out his napkin and placed it in his lap. “Yes.”
Sighing, she pretended to think about the offer. Don’t jump too fast. When she thought she’d given her consideration enough time, she feigned defeat and nodded. “What do I need to do?”
Reaching out, he touched her chin and applied gentle pressure until she tilted her head to the left.
The bruises. He’s gauging how much longer it will be before I’ve healed.
“Tomorrow morning, you may call him and invite him here.”
That wasn’t exactly what she had in mind. Once her father entered the château, he’d be at Jordi’s mercy. And Jordi will definitely want him to come alone.
Something in her expression must have given away her anxiety, because he stroked her cheek and smiled. “I promise, we are only going to talk. What happens after that depends on your father, and whether or not you can convince him to see reason.”
And if I don’t play this game, he’ll find another way to use me to draw Papá here. She had to maintain some measure of control so she could warn her father.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll do anything I can to make him safe.” She forced a spoonful of soup between her lips.
“Excellent.” Jordi lit a cigarette and watched her eat. “Bring him here, and we’ll work this out, like a family should.”
Oh, we will. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. One way or another . . . we’re going to work it out.
For years Ysa had analyzed her father’s face as he negotiated with friend and enemy alike, and now she maintained his studied expression, always nodding in just the right spots, never saying too much, or too little.
All the while Jordi explained how her father had cheated him of his birthright. It was an ancient resentment that began in their firstborn lives, but as she listened, Ysa realized her uncle truly felt he’d been wronged.
Jordi smoked and nursed his wine, barely touching his food. “I was known as Adonijah. I was the eldest son, so the right to rule the nefilim was mine. Unfortunately, your father’s angelic mother maneuvered him into the kingship over me. She turned both David and Solomon against me. Because of her . . . meddling . . . Solomon ordered my death.”
It is also somewhat more nuanced than that. From her father, she understood that David had passed the mantle of kingship to Solomon. Adonijah had initially objected, but Solomon quickly consolidated his power, forcing Adonijah to use intrigues in order to achieve his goals.
When Adonijah seemed on the cusp of success through a politically opportune marriage, Solomon ordered his brother’s execution. The ugly event was made more tragic by Adonijah’s cowardice. He ran into the temple and hugged the altar, begging Solomon for his life. Instead of mercy, Solomon sent Benaiah to murder Adonijah.
Jordi crushed his cigarette in his saucer and concluded, “It was a terrible affair.”
She shook her head in sympathy. “I’m so sorry. I cannot even imagine how horrific that must have been for you. But we don’t have to keep repeating the same mistakes from one incarnation to another.” She stirred cream into her coffee. “For one thing, I think you’ve changed.”
“How so?” He genuinely seemed interested in what she had to say.
“Last night, you said something that struck my heart.”
“I did?”
“You said that I should have been your daughter. Did you mean that?”
He coughed a soft laugh. “I . . .”
“I just want you to know that I’m honored. And I’m sorry my father kept us apart. I would like to get to know you.”
Suspicion darted into his gaze. “I see what you’re doing. It’s not going to work.”
She gave him her most charming smile. “I don’t expect you to believe me this soon, but I’m hoping that you and my father can find some way to reconcile. I know he is genuinely sorry for how he treated you in your firstborn lives.”
“He’s spoken to you about his?”
“He has.”
Someone knocked at the door.
Go away, I’m working, go away.
“Come in,” Jordi called.
A private entered the room and snapped to attention. “I have a message for you, sir.”
At a signal from Jordi, the private came to his side and whispered in his ear. Ysa feigned disinterest, but strained to hear.
Something about a supply disruption . . . She didn’t catch the name of the town. The maquisards must have damaged another bridge. Good for them.
Jordi lifted a hand and nodded. “I’ll be right there.” He smiled apologetically as he stood. “I’m so sorry.” He took her hand. “We’ll continue this conversation at dinner. I’d like very much to hear your thoughts about a reconciliation. However, I’m afraid I must leave you. Reich business.”
She started to stand, but he touched her shoulder.
“No, no. Sit and enjoy your coffee.” He motioned for the private to leave, and then he bent down to whisper in her ear, “Last night, I saw myself in you. I meant what I said. I wish you were my daughter.” Then he stood and left her alone.
That didn’t mean he trusted her. But he’s given me an admission—a way into his thoughts. She didn’t kid herself. This was a game of manipulation, and he had far more experience than she. Winning his trust wouldn’t be easy. But at least now I know that it’s possible.
When she finished her meal, she left the dining room, intent on finding Heines and Stauffenberg. Heines wouldn’t jeopardize himself to save her, but she might be able to get a message to her father through Stauffenberg.
The sergeant met her in the hall. The woman looked no friendlier than during the car ride to the estate, but her demeanor was merely professionalism. She snapped to attention and gestured toward the stairs. “I’ve been asked to escort you to your room, fräulein.”
Don’t argue. Compliance will eventually cause them to drop their guard. “Of course, Sergeant . . .” She allowed the sentence to dangle, hoping the nefil would fill in her name.
“Esser, fräulein.”
“Of course, Sergeant Esser.” Ysa nodded to the woman and proceeded to the stairs.
At the second-floor landing, Dr. Jimenez waited for her with his black bag. “Fräulein, I hope you enjoyed your lunch.”
“I did. Thank you,” she said as he passed him. She kept her pace sharp, hoping to leave him behind. Instead, she heard his soft tread on the runner. Shit.
Esser moved in lockstep with her.
Ysa reached her door and stopped on the threshold. She glared at Jimenez. “Why are you here?”
“It’s time for your medicine.”
“I don’t want any medicine.”
“I’m afraid that decision has been made for you.”
She grabbed the doorknob and attempted to close the door.
Esser’s palm halted the door midswing.
Jimenez seemed completely unperturbed. “I can summon others, and this can get quite ugly, but you will have the shot. Herr Abelló has ordered it.”
Why? Does he want me to be an addict, like him? She immediately discounted the idea. This was about control of both her movements and her body. Jordi is making a point. He doesn’t trust me and won’t for some time.
The smirk on Jimenez’s face sent her back to her first hours in the château. She’d struggled against that first shot. I blinked.
A fight would be satisfying. At the very least it would give her a chance to inflict damage on the enemy. But she was outnumbered.
I blinked once. Don’t blink again. Ysa released the doorknob and stood aside to allow Jimenez into her room.
As she did, she noticed the dark rings Jordi had left on her wrists looked less like bruises and more like manacles.
15
21 January 1944
The Farm
Later that evening, Miquel sat at the rickety desk in their bedroom and pecked the typewriter’s keys with two fingers. The only thing he hated more than writing reports was having to type them. He’d give a crate of hand grenades for his own secretary.
Maybe I’ll hire someone like Suero for these jobs after the war. If the war ever ended.
Night had fallen while he worked, forcing him to stop and light a lamp. He turned up the wick and saw the e wasn’t firmly striking the paper.
“Goddamn it.” He added a new typewriter to the list and muttered, “Why couldn’t it have been z?” He’d have to fill them in by hand when he was done.
Diago came into the room and dropped a file beside the typewriter. “Your copy of Carlos’s autopsy report.”
“Oh, our friend Carlos.” He opened the neatly typed report and skimmed to the conclusion: Asphyxia due to ligature strangulation. “What kind of ligature?”
“Garrote. Based on how deep it cut into his neck, we’re guessing they used a wire.”
Miquel closed the file. “Your relatives are thugs.”
“I was born to them. You chose to marry into the family.”
“Touché,” Miquel smiled and looked up at his husband. He took Diago’s hand between his palms. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay. I’m glad Christina has gone to Paris. Guillermo won’t be sending me there, so I’ve got a reprieve from that assignment.” He reached over Miquel’s shoulder and lowered the lamp’s wick. “You’re wasting oil.”
Always conscious of every franc. Miquel didn’t admonish him. Diago’s frugality stemmed from his days as a rogue. Except he splurges like a millionaire on Rafael and me. “Let me finish this report and then I’ll stop.”
“Leave it. I’ll type it for you in the morning. Consider it my penance for blabbing to Guillermo about Nico being at Mauthausen.”
Miquel resisted the urge to admonish him again. Let it go. I’d rather him care too much for someone else’s welfare than not at all. If only it was anyone but Nico. “I accept your apology and the offer. Just don’t go over my head with Guillermo again.”
“I won’t.”
They both knew he would. Diago’s behavior was as predictable as the rising of the sun.
Miquel kissed his husband’s palm. “Did Suero ever get in touch with Ysa’s rooming house?”
“The lines are still down. Bernardo said he saw a crew working on them this morning. We’re hoping everything will be operational by tomorrow. If they’re not, Bernardo will try calling when he gets back to Perpignan.”
“I’ll relax when we finally hear her voice.”
“Me, to
o. Maybe Nico can give us some useful information if you don’t scare him off again.”
Miquel raised his hands in surrender. “I’ll be good. Is Juanita coming up?” He hoped Diago didn’t hear the slight nervousness in his voice. He still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of reconnaissance through his dreams. Especially with Nico.
Diago went to the stove and added a couple of pieces of coal. “She’s going to give us an hour and then come up. Hopefully by then you’ll be asleep.”
“I’m not sleepy.”
“You will be.”
“That sounds ominous.”
Diago didn’t smile.
“Is something wrong?”
Diago removed his coat and didn’t immediately answer.
Not a good sign. Whatever was bothering him ran deep. “Hey.” Miquel went to his husband and took him in his arms. “Talk to me.”
Diago’s muscles tensed as if preparing himself for an argument. “Can you, please, try and show Nico a little empathy tonight? He risked his life to get a message to us.”
Nico. Again. He simply wasn’t going to let it go. At least he’s not planning to invade Mauthausen anymore. Miquel caressed his husband’s shoulder and kept his temper; he didn’t want another fight like the one they’d had in the truck. “I’ve never heard you plead someone’s case as you have his. I’m starting to get a little jealous.”
Diago stepped out of the embrace. “I’m serious, Miquel.”
Meet him halfway and be honest. “I know you’re worried. And I’m trying. I really am. It’s just that every time I think of him, I see him standing in my cell’s door with that damn clipboard, asking me my name while knowing full well who I am. He played Jordi’s game for so long, I have difficulty divorcing the two of them into separate individuals. So you tell me: How do I forgive him? How do I let all that pain go and trust him?”
“See him as he is and not as he was. Sort of like you did for me.”
Miquel sighed. Touché again, my love. “I’ll try. That’s all I can promise right now.”
“That’s enough.” The hard lines around Diago’s mouth eased and he visibly relaxed. “Now take off your clothes.”