by T. Frohock
Normally that was a command Miquel didn’t argue with. Except he wasn’t exactly in the mood for play. “I’m not sure I can rise to the occasion tonight.”
Diago went to the wardrobe and retrieved his violin from its case. “We don’t just get naked for sex.”
“That’s the best reason.” Miquel gave his husband a wicked smile as he lifted his sweater over his head. He was gratified to see Diago smile back. “What are you planning?”
“One of the issues we faced when using astral projection was the inability to distinguish between the informant’s conscious relay of information versus the unreliable subconscious imagery inherent to the dreamers. I think I’ve devised a way that will help you distinguish between the two.”
Miquel marveled at his husband. My world is all about battles and strength, but he understands metaphysics in ways that I can only guess. “I understood about a third of that. But I trust you with my soul.”
He unbuckled his pants and let them fall around his ankles. Stepping free of his garments, he spread his arms. “What do you need me to do?”
Diago guided him to the center of the room. “Just stand still.”
He tucked the violin beneath his chin and drew the bow across the strings, leaving mournful notes shivering in the air. After a minor adjustment to the tension on the E-string, he tested the pitch again. His expression indicated he was satisfied with the sound. He began to play.
Entranced by his husband’s poise, Miquel watched him. With hypnotic grace, Diago’s fingers danced over the strings, leaving viridian streaks of light floating in his wake. Lost in the beauty of his husband’s music, Miquel felt the day’s anxiety fade from his neck and shoulders.
Using the bow like a wand, Diago reshaped the vibrations into sigils. He augmented the music with his voice, effortlessly vocalizing from the higher ranges to the low.
Relaxing beneath the resonance of his husband’s music, Miquel gave in to the lethargy flowing over him. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. A small gasp escaped him when the first of Diago’s wards brushed his skin. The magic left mild shocks rippling across his body. The feeling was far from unpleasant.
He opened his eyes in time to see the glyphs shimmering against his flesh, a million points of light that were absorbed into his body. Protective wards. He’s shielding me.
Lowering the bow, Diago brushed his finger across the back of Miquel’s hand. The jade reverberations of his song were laced with lighter hues of blue and gray to form an intricate pattern.
This was a different glyph. It melted against Miquel’s skin like warm wax. With a final mellow note, Diago charged the sigil.
The ward glowed softly, a tattoo of green and black loops highlighted with the paler tones of blue and gray.
Diago looked up at him. “How do you feel?”
Miquel opened his eyes. “Relaxed. Sleepy. What is this?” He indicated the glyph on the back of his hand.
Diago traced his thumb over the lines. “If you have any doubt as to whether you’re actually talking to Nico’s astral projection, or if you simply dream, look to your hand. I wound Nico’s aura into the glyph so it will respond to his soul. When it flares, you’re seeing Nico’s astral projection.”
“How could you do that without having him here?”
Diago put his violin back in its case. “I used the vibrations of the glyph he sent with Petre. I don’t know how long it will last. I also shielded you with my wards. If something strikes out at you, I’ll know, and we can wake you.”
He’s so clever. Miquel yawned. “I’m lucky to have you watching out for me. Lie down with me.”
Diago followed him to the bed.
“Not like that,” Miquel whispered. He tugged at Diago’s shirt. “Take off your clothes. I want to feel your skin next to mine.”
Diago didn’t argue. He stripped and got into the bed next to his husband.
Beneath the covers, they warmed one another. Miquel closed his eyes and let sleep take him into a dream . . .
. . . and he instantly recognizes the cell. He is back in Jordi’s black site. This is where Guillermo’s brother held him while Nico shot him full of drugs.
Bricks stud the cell’s floor, jutting upward in the concrete. The design is a labyrinth calculated to impede free movement. Walking requires great care lest he twist an ankle or knee.
All around him, angelic glyphs writhe on the walls and provide the only light. The razored sigils are rendered in sharp, high notes designed to slash the tongue and mouth should he sing a defensive glyph.
Of course it’s what I would dream. Miquel’s hand tingles. He looks down. The ward Diago drew there pulses softly, like a warning.
The cell door slams open. Heavy snowflakes drift across the threshold. Ashes mingle with the snow.
Suddenly the glyph flares to life.
This is it. Nico’s dream-spell has begun.
When Miquel looks up again, Nico stands just beyond the door. His hair is shorn close to his skull and his cheeks are hollowed with hunger. His striped shirt has a pink triangle sewn beneath a number.
Miquel knows the meaning of the camps’ badges. They marked him as a homosexual.
Pants, the legs of which are too long, are rolled over ankles encrusted with sores. The wooden shoes on his feet aren’t the same size, yet Nico barely seems to notice.
On his wrist is a metal tag, secured with a wire. Stamped on the tag is a number. Miquel can only read a couple of the digits, but it seems to match the patch over the triangle.
Behind Nico are rows of men, standing at attention. They face one another across a lane between buildings.
In the distance, the camp’s gates open. A prisoner marches ahead of a small orchestra. He pumps his baton in time with the charivari’s lively march, bowing first to the left and then to the right. The grin pasted to his face is a rictus of terror.
Nico comes to the threshold of Miquel’s cell, but he can’t seem to cross. His face arrests Miquel’s attention. Something has changed within him. His features seem harsher now. “You came.”
“I came. Does anyone dream with you?”
Nico shakes his head with a barely perceivable movement. “Watch behind me, though.”
The tattered orchestra precedes a tumbrel pulled by two prisoners. Ribbons and banners adorn the cart. Painted in large letters, the signs proclaim in German: Hurrah! We’re home again!
Three men stand on the platform. Their chests are bare and black with bruises.
Miquel frowns at the scene. “What’s happening?”
“The men escaped and were captured. They were made to enter the gates on their knees, and then tortured to find out who helped them. Now they will hang. This is my nightmare. Like that is yours.” He gestures to the cell Miquel occupies. “Were you able to get Petre into Spain?”
Miquel shakes his head. “He died.” He tries to soften his tone. It’s obvious Nico cared for the nefil. “We will watch for him.”
“He is lucky.” Nico looks away.
The tumbrel draws closer. The music grows louder. They play “J’attendrai.”
Now Miquel understands the terrible significance behind the song. It’s played to mock the prisoners and their suffering.
The inmate leading the procession waltzes like a buffoon, slowing the motion of his baton to match “J’attendrai’s” mournful beats. His face contorts and his terrible grin seems to grow out of proportion with his face.
The sigil on the back of Miquel’s hand starts to fade. It’s Nico. Either he’s losing himself in his own nightmare, or I’m getting lost in his. Miquel snaps his focus to the interrogation. “You mentioned someone called Herr Teufel. Who is he?”
The ward on Miquel’s hand flares to life again as Nico’s gaze clears. “I don’t know his real name. He lurks around the camps to find nefilim.”
“And then he feeds.” It isn’t a question.
Nico nods. “And sends them out to do his bidding. He is ancient. Older than you.�
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Miquel doesn’t doubt it. He has heard of the old ones, the ones who sleep. “What do you know about him?”
“He claims he is a member of the Scorpion Court. I don’t see any reason to doubt him. He has been to Houska Castle. I overheard him in a phone conversation with Alvaro. Teufel said the sound waves from the mortals’ shelling has weakened the glyphs.”
Miquel knows of the castle. It was erected by the angel-born nefilim in the thirteenth century. The walls are designed with sigils embedded deep in the stone. The keep encircles one of the gateways between the daimonic and mortal realms.
And now, if Nico is right, it’s a Red Zone of broken magic over one of the most dangerous portals between the realms.
Nico glances over his shoulder.
Something changes about the procession. A darker figure now leads the band. His face is no face. A thin tail sweeps the ground behind him.
Chills ripple across Miquel’s naked body. His heart starts to race.
Nico whirls to face Miquel again. He speaks faster. “Teufel found Carlos at KL-Gusen after he took me from KL-Mauthausen. When the Scorpion Court’s spies discovered that Ysabel was visiting various universities, they got suspicious. Teufel asked Carlos about it.
“Carlos guessed that Guillermo was trying to stop the war with the song you had him hide back in ’38. He offered to steal the psalm from Sainte-Geneviève in exchange for a healing. Teufel let him go, and Carlos returned with the psalm, but Teufel couldn’t heal him, so he sent him to Perpignan, where Christina Banderas keeps him supplied with morphine.”
Teufel dangled that healing in front of Carlos, knowing damn well he couldn’t cure him. Miquel lets the thought go. Carlos is beyond anyone’s pity or rage at this point. “That psalm is useless to Teufel without the other sections.”
Nico glances over his shoulder again, and then back to Miquel. “Teufel doesn’t care. He just wants to prevent Guillermo from stopping the war.”
Miquel doesn’t need to ask why. With this much killing, the daimon-born’s power will grow until they, once more, control the mortal realm. “Where are you now?”
“We’re on our way to Paris. We should arrive at the hotel adjacent to the Theater of Dreams tomorrow. Teufel claims to have a plan that will enable him to open the gate at Houska.”
“Details?”
“All I know is that he is trying to get an audience with Jordi. He’s made me his servant.” He toys with the wire of his bracelet and murmurs, “He said my tears are sweet.”
The last wrings Miquel’s heart. Diago’s right. No matter what Nico did in the past, he is one of ours now, and no member of Los Nefilim should be used so roughly.
His jaw tightens as another thought occurs to him. “You don’t talk in your sleep, do you?”
“Do you think I would have survived Jordi if I did?”
“Fair point.”
The trundle’s wheels creak as the procession nears. The faceless leader whirls. Ashes spew in his wake.
Miquel’s heart hammers in his chest. He felt this way once before. Just before my heart stopped in ’39.
“He’s coming, isn’t he?” Nico’s fear engulfs his face.
“Yes.”
Nico’s breathing quickens. He looks Miquel in the eye. “I’m sorry for how I treated you, Miquel. I truly am.”
Miquel steps forward. It’s like walking into a gale. He pushes against the invisible resistance of time and space, reaching out. His fingers brush against Nico’s hand. He gives the other nefil the closest words to forgiveness that he can muster. “I believe you. Hold firm. We’ll get you out if we can. Watch for us.”
A wave of sound hits the barrier. It’s the thunder of a bomb. Miquel is thrown backward, dimly aware of Nico’s startled shriek.
By the time he regains his feet, the faceless Herr Teufel stands behind Nico, one hand wrapped around his throat. He lifts him and shakes him as a dog would a rag.
Nico sobs with terror. Teufel licks the tears from the nefil’s face.
Miquel’s pulse thumps in his ears—one part fear, one part rage. “Let him go!”
Teufel doesn’t turn. His tail lashes out at Miquel like a whip.
Diago’s wards flash in response. Scorpions shimmer across Miquel’s flesh. They snap at Teufel, turning into a cyclone of light.
The devil’s tail slices through the scorpions. From somewhere nearby, Miquel hears Diago cry out in pain. But he’s not here . . .
The reek of burning flesh fills the dream.
Teufel’s tail circles the air and makes another swipe at Miquel. He can’t lift his arm in time. The tail strikes, hard like a blow . . . it’s followed by another and another . . .
He hears Diago shout, “. . . up . . . wake . . .”
“. . . up, Miquel!”
Miquel opened his eyes and neatly caught Diago’s wrist as his husband prepared to slap him again. “I’m awake.”
The room snapped into focus. Juanita stood beside the bed, her eyes still swirling in indigo and gold. A cobalt halo surrounded her head.
Something startled her . . . Just beyond Diago’s shoulder, Miquel saw Rafael, a sigil already half formed by one hand.
And Diago . . . my knight, shining in scorpions . . .
Diago straddled him, the muscles in his forearm still tensed as if he might pull free of Miquel’s grip and slap him again. A wide ugly burn sizzled on his chest in a diagonal slash. Another marked his forearm.
Both in the exact direction of Teufel’s strike on the scorpion shield. “What happened?
Diago finally began to relax. He rocked back on his heels. “You tell us.”
Miquel touched Diago’s chest. “You’re hurt.” And he would feel the pain when his adrenaline rush evaporated.
Juanita came to Diago’s side and put her hand on his shoulder. She took his arm and examined the scorched flesh. “Let me see to you while Miquel talks.”
Diago remained where he was for a moment, his palm against Miquel’s breast, just over his heart. “It’s beating too fast.”
“I’m okay,” Miquel assured him. He eased himself up, forcing Diago to move.
Rafael brought Diago his robe and draped it across his shoulders. “Come here and sit.” He led his father to the settee and Juanita followed with her bag.
Miquel watched his husband with a worried gaze. “I don’t understand. Dreams shouldn’t hurt us.”
Rafael filled a basin from the pitcher on their washstand and brought it to Juanita.
From the corridor, footsteps approached their room—someone in a hurry. Guillermo flung the door wide. He still wore the same clothes he’d worn yesterday; it was apparent he hadn’t been to bed.
He quickly surveyed the scene. The realization that everyone seemed to be all right registered with him and the flush of urgency gradually left his cheeks.
But he came through that door primed for war. Miquel lifted his hand. “We’re all fine.” He gave Diago an uneasy glance. “I think.”
“I’m okay,” Diago assured them. “It looks worse than it feels.”
Juanita reached into her bag and withdrew a jar. “Because those nerve endings haven’t begun to heal yet.”
Guillermo closed the door and came to the foot of the bed. “What happened?”
Miquel recounted the dream and then stated the obvious. “If the wards at Houska Castle are damaged, we’ve got to move nefilim into place to guard that gate.”
Guillermo reached into his pocket and withdrew his lighter. He flicked the lid with nervous clips. “We don’t have anyone to send. The Inner Guard is spread too thin from our own infighting.”
Juanita bandaged Diago’s chest to keep the ointment from his clothes. “Then I’ve got to inform the Messengers. Maybe a daimonic threat will move the different factions to a truce.” But the doubt on her face contradicted the hope expressed by her words.
Miquel exchanged a glance with Guillermo. If Jordi found out that Juanita was gone, he might make his move against Los
Nefilim. “Do you have to go?”
“Yes. This isn’t a message to be relayed. I need to convey to them the urgency of the situation, and I can only do that with my presence.”
Guillermo looked down at his lighter and then stuffed it back into his pocket. “When will you go?”
“Right now. I’ll stop and let Eva and Maria know, and then I’ll leave.”
“Provisions?”
“I won’t need any. I’m just going far enough into the mountains so no one can trace my departure point to the farm.”
Miquel tried to imagine stepping between the realms with the ease of an angel. He recalled when his heart had stopped in ’39 and Guillermo had escorted his spirit to the celestial river of fire.
I understand why the kings and queens fight so hard to maintain their sovereignty. Although he had no desire to rule, Miquel would have loved another chance to fly through the stars and touch the night skies.
Guillermo’s voice brought him back to the cold bedroom. “How long will you be gone? Mortal time?”
“Three days, a week at the most.” She paused beside him on her way out of the room. Reaching up, she stroked Guillermo’s cheek. “Try to sleep. Promise me.”
“I promise.” He kissed her in a rare display of open affection.
Miquel and his small family looked away to give them a measure of privacy.
Juanita turned to them. “Watch for my Ysa. All of you. Don’t let anything happen to her.”
It was Rafael who spoke for them. “We won’t, Doña.”
Guillermo released her hands. “She’ll be home before you.” He kissed her again. When she left them, Guillermo turned back to the matter at hand. He gestured at Diago’s chest. “Did Teufel do this?”
“No. What Miquel saw in his dream was an astral projection of Nico’s soul, his song. Nico brought his fears with him, and those fears manifested in the form of the Nazis’ hanging ritual and Teufel.”
Guillermo frowned at him. “I’m not sure I follow. How did that manifestation strike out at you?”
Diago thought for a moment before he spoke. “In normal circumstances, a nightmare is the way our psyche deals with trauma; for example, Miquel dreamt of his cell in Jordi’s pocket realm, because he associates that particular event with Nico.