A Song with Teeth

by T. Frohock

  “I was in the clinic.”

  “Every time I leave the floor, someone escorts me back to my room.” But now that Jimenez was here, another idea struck her. Switching out the vials entertained a certain amount of risk. But if I can blackmail him into willingly giving me a saline shot, then Jordi will never be the wiser. And given Jimenez’s tendency toward self-preservation, Ysa had the chance to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  If extortion fails, I’ve got the vials as a backup plan. With a grimace, she put her hand on her stomach. “I need to speak with you alone, Herr Doctor.” Leaning forward, she stage-whispered, “It’s a lady’s troubles, if you take my meaning.”

  Jimenez blinked. “So you broke into my room?”

  “The door was unlocked, so I knocked and came inside. I thought you’d just stepped out for a moment.”

  Jimenez entered the room, his eye darting to the medical texts hiding the radio. “I must ask you to leave. If you will go to your room and wait, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Ysa clutched her stomach and doubled over. “Oh, it hurts! Into my thighs!” Staggering to the bed, she swallowed her revulsion and collapsed on the mattress. “I think I’m bleeding.”

  “Not there!” Eyes wide with panic, Jimenez rushed to her side.

  Ysabel grabbed his collar and yanked his face close to hers. She hissed in his ear, “You’ll want to shut that door, Herr Doctor. You and I need to discuss your radio preferences.”

  Jimenez blanched white. “What?”

  “Do you want me to say it louder?”

  His jowls trembled as he shook his head.

  “Then shut the fucking door.” She released him.

  Jimenez reeled backward and closed the bedroom door.

  While his back was to her, Ysa stood and quickly checked to make sure the vials were still in her pocket. “Tell me, Herr Doctor, do you think my uncle would be comfortable with your astrological predictions?”

  Bright patches of red flowered across his cheeks. He walked past her and scooped the papers from the desk. “You’ll have a hard time proving it. And who do you think your uncle intends to believe? You?” He put the papers in the hearth and struck a match. “Or his trusted doctor? Hmm?” He lit the papers and rose, warming his hands at his little fire.

  She merely raised her eyebrows. This is a game where I hold all the cards. “He must trust you, because you’ve been perfectly candid with him as to where you’re buying his morphine supply. Haven’t you?”

  The red splotches on Jimenez’s face deepened. “I acquire his morphine from perfectly legitimate channels.”

  “Who do you mean? Dr. Strzyga?” She pointed toward the corridor. “I was in the library when he came. He is daimon-born. And we know the daimon-born can’t be trusted.”

  “Strzyga can.”

  “With the life of a king of the Inner Guard? Are you sure about that, Herr Doctor Jimenez? It’s possible the daimon-born are using you to poison my uncle. As a matter of fact”—she left the bedside and took two steps toward him—“it’s probable that you’re aiding a daimonic takeover of Die Nephilim that will leave you as king.”

  Jimenez went pale. “You horrid bitch.”

  “Don’t be vulgar.” She advanced again and was gratified to see him back away from her. “Listen to reason. I can keep your secrets, but in order to do that, I need clarity of mind. Your shots are disrupting my thought process. I could slip anytime and tell my uncle what I’ve witnessed.” She pointed in the direction of her bedroom. “Poor Greta fell asleep on duty.

  “What do you think my uncle will do to an actual traitor?”

  Jimenez turned ashen. “I’m not a traitor.”

  “It doesn’t matter if you are or aren’t. I can make my uncle suspect that you are.” She gave him her most winning smile. “You asked who he’d believe? I’m betting he’ll believe me.”

  He flinched as if she’d struck him. “If I don’t give you the shots, he’ll know.”

  “Not if I continue to sleep and lurch like a drunken sailor.”

  He stared at her. “You would do that to protect me?”

  She couldn’t care less about him, but she didn’t need to say so. “To protect us both, my dear doctor.”

  “You’re asking me to betray your uncle.” He glanced down at the needle marks on her arm.

  “That sounds so ugly when you say it.” When he didn’t answer, she lowered her voice even more. Time to drive the point home and sweeten the pot. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell a man of your expertise that wars are all about strategy, weapons, and luck. Today’s winners might be tomorrow’s losers. But that’s all merely speculation.”

  “The Reich is—”

  “Losing,” she hissed. “And you know it.” She jabbed her finger at the radio beneath his desk. “The Germans have lost Russia, whether they admit it or not. The Allies have taken North Africa and much of Italy. This war is drawing to a tedious, bloody close, Herr Doctor. You never know when you will need a friend in high places.

  “Withhold the shots, keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours. And in return, if you find yourself on the losing side, I’ll stand ready to speak well of your actions. For this, I give you my oath in the name of my father, Guillermo Ramírez, King of Los Nefilim.”

  Vows were sacred to the nefilim—she didn’t need to explain that to Jimenez. Just when she thought he would call the guards, he nodded. “I accept your oath.”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  They both jumped.

  “A moment!” Jimenez called out. He gestured toward the wardrobe.

  Jordi turned the latch and entered the room.

  How long has he been in the hall? How much has he heard? Ysa’s heart rattled in her chest. Steady. Hold steady.

  Jimenez appeared ready to faint. He flung his arm up a fraction of a second too late and squealed his Sieg Heil at the ceiling.

  Jordi ignored him and directed his question to Ysa. “Why aren’t you in your room?”

  “I wasn’t feeling well, so I came to find the doctor.”

  He glanced at her feet. “Then where are your shoes?”

  “I felt unsteady after I woke and didn’t want to break an ankle staggering around in heels.”

  A corner of Jordi’s lips quirked upward before he glanced at Jimenez and readjusted his scowl. “I understand you met with Field Marshal Heines this morning.”

  Jimenez fidgeted. “He had a few medical questions about Queen Jaeger’s death, but I was able to put his mind at ease.”

  Put his mind at ease about what? And why is Heines questioning Jimenez about her death? Unless he suspected foul play. From what Ysa had seen during her interrogation, Heines was methodical. He didn’t appear to be the sort that jumped to conclusions. No, he’s like Miquel; he waits for the dust to settle so he can see clearly, then he builds his case.

  Jimenez’s explanation didn’t seem to reassure Jordi. “And where is Field Marshal Heines?”

  The doctor relaxed. “He left for Paris about an hour ago.”

  Jordi drew his pistol and shot Jimenez—once through the throat and twice in the chest. The doctor stood in place, and for a wild moment Ysa thought he might continue speaking. Then he tilted backward, falling against the wardrobe.

  Jordi didn’t holster his pistol. “It appears I’m in need of a new doctor.”

  Ysa drew a short, ragged breath into her body. It wasn’t the murder so much as Jordi’s lack of expression. I never saw it coming. His face belied nothing.

  Jordi pointed his pistol at her chest. He smiled. She found she liked him better when he didn’t. “How are you feeling now, Ysabel?”

  “A little faint.”

  “Why are you really in his room?”

  Walk the truth close to the lie. “I thought I heard a radio program last night. It sounded like it was coming from here, so I came to see, and I found this.” She retrieved the hidden radio and showed Jordi the dial. “He’s been listening to Radio London. He’s
a traitor.”

  Jordi examined her for another moment, and then he holstered his pistol. Whether he believed her or not, she couldn’t tell. “Go to your room. Sergeant Esser is bringing you a uniform for tomorrow’s meeting with your father.”

  A Nazi uniform, no doubt, because that will break my father’s heart, and Jordi knows it. Ysa lowered her eyes so he wouldn’t see her anger.

  Jordi didn’t seem to notice. “Once you’ve changed, come upstairs, and bring Jimenez’s bag with you.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She followed him into the hall and watched him ascend the stairs to his suite. What is he planning?

  She was almost sorry Jimenez was dead; he was a known factor. At least she’d gotten her wish: the drugs were gone from her system, and with them, any limitations on her song.

  In her room, she waited impatiently for Sergeant Esser. She glanced at the mantel and realized the Woolf book was still there.

  Probably a good idea to hide that. When she retrieved the book, a slip of paper fell to the floor.

  It was a page from Dumas’s The Three Musketeers.

  That was odd. She was sure all the French books had been pulled from the library. So where did it come from?

  She flipped the page over and saw that someone had underlined the phrase Un pour tous, tous pour un in Dumas’s work. One for all, and all for one.

  Only two other people understood what that phrase meant to her: Violeta and Rafael. But Rafael couldn’t possibly be here. Jordi would recognize him in an instant.

  But not Violeta.

  A surge of hope made her heart beat faster. Maybe her father wasn’t walking into a trap, after all. Maybe he was in the process of setting a snare of his own.

  Then don’t get caught between them.

  An hour later, Ysa climbed the stairs to the third floor, gripping Jimenez’s black case in her hand. Stultz met her at the landing and escorted her to Jordi’s suite.

  Shadows fluttered along the walls—ill angels guarding a sick nefil.

  Jordi’s door was open.

  Stultz went ahead to announce her. He gave Jordi a sharp salute. “Fräulein Ramírez, my Führer!” He snapped his heels and stepped back.

  Ysa crossed the threshold to find her uncle behind his desk, patiently signing forms. “You may go, Stultz.”

  Stultz fired off another salute and shut the door on his way out.

  Jordi barely noticed him. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the page from the blotter and placed it on the stack. A thin sheen of sweat covered his brow.

  Withdrawal. She placed the bag on his desk. Counting the days, she tried to assess how much of the drug Jimenez had given her. Not nearly enough to cause the severe withdrawal symptoms Jordi is experiencing.

  She might feel some discomfort over the next few hours, but she doubted she would be debilitated. “Can I get you anything?”

  He set aside his pen and opened the bag. “You already have.”

  She noticed that he wore Miquel’s wedding band on his left hand. As if they’re married. How odd.

  Withdrawing the syringe and a vial of morphine, Jordi rolled up his sleeve. She helped him tie the rubber tube around his biceps. With a shaking hand, he lifted the syringe and attempted to insert the needle into the vial.

  Ysa watched him until she could stand it no more. She gently extracted the syringe and vial from his hands. “Allow me.”

  His resistance was token at best. “I can do it.”

  “I know.” Certain men must feel in control at all times. Jordi was one. She’d play into his vanities as long as it worked in her favor.

  Ysa lowered his arm and swabbed alcohol over the vein. Before he could protest again, she drew the dose and gave him the shot.

  He closed his eyes in relief. “Thank you.”

  “When is your next shot due?”

  “In two hours.”

  Now she understood why Jimenez had such a problem with supplies. There is enough for today and tomorrow. That was all that mattered.

  While Jordi stretched out and relaxed, she snatched glances at the letter he’d just signed. It was addressed to the field marshals at the Russian front and typed in hard bold letters:

  If we are not strong enough to hold our lines, then we are surely too weak to command Die Nephilim and the Inner Guard. We are fit only for destruction.

  Therefore, any mention of retreat by the General Staff will be considered defeatism, and the offending party will be shot without trial. If we cannot conquer, then we shall leave no other division of the Inner Guard to triumph over Die Nephilim. This will not be another 1918.

  We shall not capitulate.

  Another quick look assured her that the stack of papers on his desk was identical to the one she’d just read. Nothing matters to him but victory.

  Holding up his hand, Jordi examined Miquel’s ring. “Do you know who used to own this ring?”

  She saw no reason to be coy. “Miquel.”

  “He and Diago placed sigils on their wedding bands—glyphs about love, honesty, and trust.” Jordi’s lip twisted with derision. “How can a liar like Diago know anything about those things? Hmm?”

  Her hands slowed as she arranged items in the bag. Guarding her face had become almost second nature over these last few days. She met his gaze with a mildly attentive expression. “It’s an interesting question. One I haven’t thought about.”

  He waved her comment aside with an absent flick of his wrist. “I’ll tell you the answer: Diago can’t. He’s been using Miquel. It’s a shame that I have to save one of your father’s own nefilim from the daimon-born.”

  Tell him what he wants to hear. She seized the opportunity to reinforce Jordi’s prejudices. “Now that you mention it . . . all this could indicate that Papá’s slide into senility has been going on longer than we think.”

  Jordi’s mouth quirked into a tight smile. “I have spent the last few years erasing those wards from Miquel’s ring.”

  Praise him. Give him credit for doing an honorable thing. “You’re trying to save Miquel,” she murmured, though she doubted his motives were that pure. No, he wants to drive a wedge between them, deprive them of the happiness he can’t find for himself.

  “Indeed.” He seemed amused by her naivete. A wicked light sparked in the darkness of his pupils.

  Ysa closed the bag.

  “No, no, my dear.” He reached over to reopen the case. “You haven’t had your dose.”

  She placed her hand over his. “No. Our supply is low, and morphine is becoming more difficult to acquire. When my father gets here, both of us will have to work hard to convince him to step down as a king of the Inner Guard. We’ll need all our faculties to motivate him to do so peacefully. Splitting the morphine rations will leave us barely able to function.”

  He hesitated, and for a moment she feared he was going to force her to use the drug regardless.

  Time to reinforce the argument. “Besides, it’s more important that you receive the medicine. You are the king of Die Nephilim. They need you.”

  His fingers relaxed beneath hers. “You’re right, of course. Once we’ve helped your father, we have another matter to attend.”

  We. That was a good sign. “Regarding what?”

  “The daimon-born have contacted me. One of the elders from the Scorpion Court has requested an audience. He feels Die Nephilim’s interests might be aligned with those of the daimon-born.”

  For once, she didn’t have to fake her concern. “How could that possibly be?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve decided to hear him. He has offered to bring Diago Alvarez with him.”

  What the hell was going on? Without missing a beat, she played her role. “Then it’s true. Diago has rejoined the daimon-born.”

  “If he has, they don’t want him. This Alessandro Strzyga is turning Diago over to us as a prisoner. He is petitioning that the Inner Guard give Diago the second death.”

  She inhaled sharply. Something ha
s gone very wrong.

  “You seem distressed.”

  She struggled to regain her composure. “The second death is so . . . extreme.”

  “Only because your father taught you to believe so. The fact is that some nefilim simply need to be eradicated for the good of the mortal realm. I want you to witness my judgment of him, and then help me administer the sentence.”

  “You’re going to do it?”

  “Of course. Diago Alvarez should never have been born. He is an affront to the natural order of life.”

  And Rafael? What does he intend to do to Rafael? Ysa didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know.

  The phone on Jordi’s desk rang. He answered and then told the other party to hold on. Turning to her, he whispered, “I have to take this. Let Esser and Stultz know where you are in case I need you.”

  “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” When Jordi turned back to his call, Ysa took the black bag with her.

  As she slipped out of his room, an idea formed. The morphine kept Jordi from going into withdrawal and somehow enhanced his song. If she diluted the drug’s strength, the withdrawal symptoms might distract him. Keep him off balance.

  But she would have to start with his next dose. Her father would arrive sometime tomorrow, along with Diago and Strzyga. She had less than twenty-four hours to disable him.

  It was ten minutes past three.

  Time to get to work.

  22

  23 January 1944

  The Theater of Dreams

  Diago worked his right wrist against his bonds and winced at the rope burn scoring his flesh. It’ll heal . . . keep going.

  The cord felt looser, and if he could gain just a little more play, he might be able to slide his right hand free. Times when that missing pinkie works in my favor.

  A soft click froze him in place. The sound originated behind him. That is the door. He couldn’t turn to see whose footsteps echoed in the quiet auditorium, but the tread was heavy.

  He didn’t have to wait long for Francisco’s pin-striped bulk to drift into view. The ugly nefil grinned. “Look what I found.”