by T. Frohock
“I wanted Solomon to feel my humiliation and powerlessness, so I stole his signet and gave it to the daimon Ashmedai, who imprisoned him in the daimonic realms. I thought with Solomon out of the way, I’d be able to live freely with Benaiah. But my guilt tormented me until I confessed my crime to him. And in the end, I lost everything—my family, my lover, my friend.”
His eyes burned but he couldn’t stop, and in a rush of words, he told the rest. “In my next incarnation, I managed to evade my family and my friends. I swore I would spare myself any pain by loving no one. I died miserable and afraid. In my third-born life, I eluded my family and found my friends, but we were never close in that incarnation. In my fourth-born life, we resumed our friendship and I died to save them. I thought that surely, surely that sacrifice would wipe away my sins.
“It was only at my death in that incarnation that I realized Solomon had already forgiven me—Solomon who became Guillaume who became Guillermo—and that Benaiah still loved me . . . my Benaiah, who became Michel, who became Miquel.
“And in this incarnation, my daimonic family tried again to bring me into their fold. I escaped them, only to be found by Miquel. He treated my rationales with tough love and didn’t let me sink into despair. It was he who taught me to love again, and now that I have experienced that love and Guillermo’s friendship again, I never want to jeopardize either relationship for any reason.
“Guillermo and Miquel think I don’t remember, but I do. I simply choose not to wallow in that grief. My incarnations have changed me from the arrogant young nefil of my firstborn life. I’ve learned humility, and more importantly, how to give love as well as receive it. Those are my weapons now, and I want them to be yours, too.” He stroked a tear from his son’s cheek. “I want you to understand why it was so important that I forgive your mother. Why it’s so urgent that you don’t turn your heart to hate others.”
Before he could continue, Rafael leaned forward and engulfed him in a hug. “I love you, Papá. And I will remember. I will remember for you.”
A flash of pain reminded Diago of the wound on his chest, but he didn’t pull away. He held tight the boy who was now a man and whispered in his ear, “But beware, Rafael. The very love that nourishes us can destroy us, too. When we become afraid that affection will be taken from us, or if it turns to jealousy, or as a way to dominate another, then love becomes poison.”
Rafael sniffled and nodded against Diago’s shoulder. “I understand.”
Diago pulled back and pressed his forehead against Rafael’s. “I love you, too.”
A light knock came to the door. Rafael wiped his eyes and went to answer. It was Miquel.
“Hey.” Miquel glanced from Rafael to Diago with a quizzical eyebrow raised. “Is everything all right?”
Rafael answered for them both. “We’re fine.”
Miquel gently cuffed Rafael’s curls. “Time to get a haircut, my friend. You’re going to be a driver for a Spanish general.”
Diago felt relieved. “He’s going with you?”
Miquel nodded. “He is. Guillermo wants to see you.”
Diago rose and slipped by them. Strangely enough, his heart felt lighter, and rather than trigger bad memories, his confession left him cleansed.
18
22 January 1944
The Farm
Guillermo picked up the handset again. The pleasant buzz of a dial tone touched his ear. “Ah, you sweet thing.”
He rang the operator and gave her the number for Ysabel’s rooming house. A few clicks later, he heard the phone ring in Paris. He counted, ten, then fifteen, then twenty rings . . . come on, come on . . . before finally hanging up.
A quick look at the clock told him it was midmorning. They’re probably all out. I’ll check in again later.
Suero came into the office. “Phone lines are up.” He went to the phone on his desk. “I’ll ring the boardinghouse.”
“I just did. No answer. We’ll try again later.”
The sound of the phone ringing startled them both.
Suero answered the extension on his desk. “Hello?” His eyes widened and he grinned. He mouthed, Ysa. “Yes. He’s right here, hold on.”
Guillermo thought his heart would burst from relief. He lifted the handset. “Hello?”
“Papá? Did I wake you?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve been up.” Where the fuck are you? But he didn’t ask. For all he knew, the lines were under surveillance. If she’s in trouble, she’ll give the code. “How is my songbird this morning?”
“A bluebird full of happiness.”
Shit. She’s in trouble. He motioned for Suero to pick up the other line and to take notes. The young nefil didn’t hesitate.
Guillermo forced himself to be jovial. “Are you having a good time?”
“Oh, Paris is lovely. I went to the library, but the book I wanted had been defaced. Can you imagine?”
He glared at the photograph of Psalm 60 on his desk. Fucking Carlos . . . “It takes all kinds, sweetheart.”
“You’ll never guess who I ran into at the library.”
Guillermo’s coffee soured in his stomach. “Who?”
“Uncle Jordi!”
Uncle Jordi. In the library. And I wonder what he was looking for? Psalm 60? Did Carlos send Jordi a photograph, as well? Guillermo pinched the bridge of his nose.
All of it made sense. Carlos sending those photos to anyone he thought might have the power to heal him, Jordi going to the library to retrieve the book himself, and the sheer bad luck of Ysa being there when he arrived.
Guillermo closed his eyes. The only song that mattered now was Ysa.
“Papá? Are you there?”
Guillermo’s voice locked on him. He tried to summon a clever riposte, but the world started spinning and he couldn’t seem to set it straight.
“Papá?”
“I’m here . . .” He sounded hoarse, unsure of himself. Suero threw him a sharp look. Get it together.
“Oh, Papá, are you having one of your spells?” Her voice grew muffled. “He usually only becomes addled when he’s tired. He must not have slept well last night.”
Addled? Who the fuck is addled? “I’m here,” he said more clearly. “So how is Uncle Jordi?”
“He is a god among men.” She sounded far too cheerful to be his daughter, but there was something else—her words seemed to slur together, too hard and too fast.
Is she drugged? If she was, she maintained her focus on the situation.
Ysa’s false cheer prattled in his ear. “He bought me some beautiful new dresses. One is in my favorite color: red.”
She hates dresses, and she hates red. She might as well be tapping an SOS in Morse code against the receiver with her fingernail. “I see. So when are you coming home?”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. Uncle Jordi wants to talk to you.”
In spite of his best efforts, his tone turned deadly. “Put him on the phone.”
“Now, Papá, you know you don’t hear well.”
He suddenly realized the clues weren’t in what she was saying but in how she was treating him . . . like an old befuddled mortal.
Does she remember that I’m the younger brother? Deciding to play along to see what she would do, he muttered, “Say again, dear?”
She enunciated carefully. “Uncle Jordi thinks we can all sit down and come to an agreement like a family. He is now staying at Rousseau’s old estate at Fontainebleau, and he has offered you safe conduct to visit us here.”
Like a family. “An agreement about what?”
“About our inheritance.”
Give him Los Nefilim, or what? He kills my daughter? “And how do you feel about this . . . meeting?”
Her tone shifted as quickly as his. She no longer sounded like the cheerful debutante. Whatever assistance she needed, required him. “I think it’s something we must do—together.”
“Let Uncle Jordi send you home first.”
“That won’
t happen.”
He hadn’t believed it would, but it had been worth a shot. “It will take me a few days to get away.” And set up an escape plan.
The false brightness returned to her voice. “Can you be here the day after tomorrow?”
Jesus. That didn’t give him a lot of time. But we’ve moved on tighter timetables. “I can be there.”
“Excellent! Be sure to get plenty of rest so you don’t take one of those spells that leaves you so befuddled. Will you do that for me?”
“Of course.”
“I love you, Papá.”
“I love you, too.”
She rang off and he sat there for a moment, glaring at the phone.
“Don Guillermo?” Suero placed his handset on the hook.
Guillermo did the same. “Get me Miquel and Violeta. I want to know how many people they can spare. I need blondes, fair skin, with the kind of faces the Germans put on posters. We’ll use members of Les Néphilim, as well, but they must be fluent in German. Understand?”
“On my way.” He hurried from the room and almost crashed into Diago, who sidestepped just in time to avoid a collision.
Guillermo looked past him. “Are you alone?”
“Miquel said you wanted to see me.” He came inside and shut the door.
“Ysabel just called.”
“She’s all right?”
Guillermo hated to quash the relief on Diago’s face. “She’s thinking on her feet.”
“Well, she is your daughter. Where is she?”
Guillermo relayed the conversation. “Jordi is using her as a hostage to get me into Fontainebleau. To put him off his guard, she has somehow managed to convince him that I’m addled, half-deaf, and nearsighted.”
“Won’t Jordi be surprised to find out otherwise? Are you going?”
“Of course I’m going.”
“Are you sure that’s smart?”
Walking to the window, Guillermo looked down at the yard. Suero and Bernardo strode toward the dorm, their heads bent toward one another. Four nefilim were busy repairing a fence in the distance. Three others had brought a stolen staff car with Spanish plates to the front yard. Two men washed the vehicle while a woman checked the engine.
They all trusted his judgment and depended on him. Then don’t let them down.
“I don’t know what is wise anymore,” he murmured. Glimpsing Diago’s reflection, he saw his friend’s concern. “I’m going to save my daughter, not just because she is Los Nefilim’s future. But because she is my life.”
Diago tilted his head in acknowledgment of the sentiment. “I understand. I’d do no less for my own child. But in the past, you’ve talked about reaching an accord with Jordi to stop the wars. Will you parley with him this time?”
“I don’t know. I’m not negotiating at full strength with Ysa in danger. But maybe if we see one another—Jordi and me—look into one another’s eyes . . . we might remember bonds other than jealousy and hate. Maybe this is what we need. I’m going to have to play it by ear, but I also intend to set up a rescue for Ysa. That way if something does happen to me, she’ll be able to take over Los Nefilim.”
“Tell me what you need me to do.”
“Keep to our plan. Get into the Theater of Dreams. Your job is to gather enough intelligence for us to justify a raid. Get the psalm if you can. Determine its location if you can’t. I’ll back your judgment. If you get the opportunity to neutralize the threat, do it. Something tells me that if we cut off the head, the snake will die.”
Diago grimaced. “The head of that snake is my father. While we haven’t actually seen eye to eye on anything, I’m not sure I’m ready to engage in patricide.”
Guillermo shook his head. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that. It’s Teufel who is the main threat. Leave your father for the Inner Guard’s tribunal.”
Diago seemed relieved by the order. “I’m going to say goodbye to my family and go. My cover story is that I was seen at Christina’s manse and denounced as a traitor to Los Nefilim. I’m going to them as if I’m on the run from you.” His hand hovered over the location of the burn on his chest. “This morning’s incident can be used to back up my claims. I was cornered and fought back; barely escaped with my life.”
“I’ll put out the word among our people to give the story credibility if they hear it.” He hoped the daimon-born hadn’t destroyed the psalm, but he had to move forward as if they had. “When you’re finished, don’t hang around. Go straight to one of our safe houses. They’ll get you out of the city.”
“When will you be at Fontainebleau?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Christ, this is going to be tight.”
“Just like old times. No room for fucking up. I will watch for you, Diago.”
“And I for you.” He bowed his head and then slipped away.
Guillermo turned back to the phone. Okay, Jordi, I’m coming and we’ll finish this—like a family.
19
23 January 1944
The Theater of Dreams
Diago’s expertise as a rogue helped him maneuver between checkpoints and avoid both nefilim and Nazis on his way to Paris. Before he’d left the farm, he’d given Miquel his wedding band to hold for him. The only jewelry he wore was the signet with Prieto’s tear. He could justify that ring’s existence to his relatives, who had no issue with using the angel-born’s gifts against them.
Last night, he’d slept rough. The wound on his chest had seeped through his undershirt and the one on his arm was a constant misery. Rather than diminish the pain, the mending flesh aggravated his discomfort.
Although his first day and night on the road were harsh, the dawn had brought him luck. He’d managed to hop an empty boxcar as a train slowed for a crossing. The long kilometers passed beneath the clacking wheels. When the train finally crawled through an industrial yard on Paris’s outskirts, Diago stepped from the car.
He stumbled before he got his feet under him. Once he regained his balance, he walked as if he had every right to be there. That’s the trick. Always look like you belong and no one will question you.
Someone had left a lunch box on a stack of railroad ties. Diago picked it up as he passed. He walked to the storage shed and sheltered beneath an open stall.
Tugging his coat more tightly around him, he hid in the shadows and assessed the yard. The loading docks were busy. Men bustled around the cargo. A supervisor with a clipboard checked off items with a stubby pencil.
Diago opened the lunch box. It contained a thermos of thin soup and a dried apple. Guilt pinched his gut.
I’m stealing from mortals who can ill afford to lose their food. Although his stomach protested the ill-gotten meal, Diago forced himself to wolf it all down. He needed his energy.
From where he squatted, he noted a tear in the chain-link fence surrounding the yard. The gap was small, but then again, so was he.
The mortals on the loading dock were gathering around a crate. Whatever was inside must have been heavy, because they worked like ants to secure it to a boom pole.
If he intended to go, he needed to leave now, while they were distracted. Crouching low, he duckwalked to the rip in the fence, and then stooped through. His coat snagged on a wire. He heard it tear, but it wasn’t enough to stop him.
Jerking free, he ran to an alley between two stout buildings. A quick glance back told him no one had noticed the breach.
Or the escape. He gave himself another moment and then started walking. Keeping to the alleys, he skirted the main avenues and worked his way deeper into the city. Walking briskly, he followed the boulevard de Bonne Nouvelle until he reached the rue de la Ville Neuve—a narrow street that was more like an alley.
Diago hesitated at the street’s entrance with his heart leapfrogging in his chest. This is it. Up until now, he hadn’t allowed himself to think too clearly about how he might be received by his daimon-born kin.
Edur’s line of questioning in Perpignan meant they already
suspected him of treachery. He reached in his pocket and fingered the ruby cuff link the vizconde had left embedded in Carlos’s throat. If Diago didn’t want to find himself in the same condition, he needed to keep them on the defensive.
Gathering his courage, he stepped onto the street. The first business he passed was the Café des Coulisses. In spite of his fear, he smiled at the clever name. The Backstage Café.
The location was perfect. Once he secured the evidence Guillermo needed, Diago simply had to get inside the café and give the cashier the code. The information would then be passed along to a member of Les Néphilim, and from them, back to Guillermo.
The theater was only a few doors down from the café. The blinds were drawn across the ticket box and the doors were shuttered. The entire establishment gave off the feeling of abandonment. If only it was truly vacant.
But Diago knew otherwise. The feeling of emptiness was merely a ruse for the mortals. All along the shutters and doors, daimonic sigils curled in the shadows. The glyphs scuttled like roaches over the theater’s façade.
He proceeded beyond the ticket booth to an ornate black door that sat somewhat crooked in its frame. The number overhead matched the one Christina had given him.
Diago rapped on the door.
Francisco answered. The giant nefil looked dapper as ever in his pin-striped suit. The patch over his eye made him seem more ominous. “You!” He spat the word like a curse.
Diago slipped around him and into the corridor. “I need to see my father.”
Francisco’s meaty palm landed on his shoulder. “I’m going to fucking twist your goddamned head off if you don’t stop.”
Diago lifted his hand as if he held a scorpion.
Francisco flinched and released him.
Straightening his jacket, Diago started walking again. The corridor was dark. The single bulb hanging overhead sent yellow light over the faded green wallpaper and scuffed floor. The daimon-born had invested no time or money in this portion of the theater, which meant they didn’t intend to stay for long.