by T. Frohock
Diago didn’t give him the satisfaction of either a retort or fear. Instead, he twisted his right arm. His skin finally broke and blood seeped beneath the rope.
Francisco leaned forward and grabbed a handful of Diago’s hair to jerk his head backward. Diago found himself looking at the ceiling. Francisco was so close, their legs touched.
The wicked gleam of a blade drifted into view—Francisco’s knife.
Diago shifted his position, pretending to slink away in fear. If he kicked upward, he had a good shot at Francisco’s balls. Even if he missed, the movement would startle the bigger nefil into jumping backward. I hope.
“Francisco.” He tsked and designed his insult to make the other nefil rethink his line of attack. “You disappoint me. Using mortal means to extract retribution. That’s how the firstborn deal with slights.”
Francisco scowled at the slur. The blade wavered.
It’s now or never. Diago kicked. Even from his awkward position, he felt the satisfying impact of his shin making solid contact with the bigger nefil’s crotch.
Francisco dropped the knife and roared. He staggered backward, gripping his wounded testicles as he dropped to his knees.
Throwing his body hard to the left, Diago jerked his right hand upward. The rope slipped to his knuckles. Another pull freed his arm. His left wrist was still lashed to the seat’s support. Slipping under the rope around his chest, he reached for Francisco’s fallen knife. The blade remained just outside his reach.
Red-faced and puffing, Francisco lunged. He slammed his fist on the back of Diago’s hand and easily grasped the knife’s hilt with the other. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
Alvaro’s voice startled them both. “Stand down, Francisco.”
I never thought I’d be happy to see my father. Neither of them moved. For eight beats of his heart, Diago thought the ugly nefil would disobey him.
Then Francisco shoved Diago against the row as he stood. He saluted Alvaro and backed away.
Alvaro indicated the door. “Go back to your post. I’ll deal with your punishment later.”
Francisco’s mouth dropped open. “He assaulted—”
Alvaro rapped his walking stick against the floor. White-hot derision accompanied the words falling past his sneer. “And you abandoned your post in order to attack a defenseless nefil. That means you’re afraid of facing him as an equal. You’re weak, Francisco. I question Christina’s judgment in bringing you into the Scorpion Court.”
There he is—that’s the Alvaro I know. His tongue was the sharpest weapon he owned.
Diago remained kneeling beside the chair. He knew from experience that drawing his father’s eye risked the same round of verbal abuse directed at him. And he can recount my failings to his heart’s desire. Just not in front of a slag like Francisco.
The ugly nefil’s mouth worked, but his brain couldn’t seem to catch up.
Alvaro pointed his stick toward the door. Francisco’s sense of self-preservation finally kicked in, and he left without another word.
Diago waited to see what his father would do next. To his surprise, Alvaro formed a sigil and screeched a high, sharp note. A glittering ward dodged between the seats and sliced through the rope binding Diago’s left wrist to the chair’s strut.
Alvaro came close and held out his hand. “Come here, son.”
Careful, Diago warned himself as he allowed Alvaro to help him to his feet. His father was the most dangerous when he became solicitous, charming. He wants something.
“You’re hurt.” He lifted Diago’s wrist to his lips.
Diago gently worked his hand free before Alvaro’s tongue touched his skin. “It’s fine.” He straightened his coat and ran his palms through his hair, using the movements to put an arm’s length of distance between them.
Swallowing hard, Diago glanced up at the painting. Christina’s accusation sailed through his thoughts. He didn’t even argue for you. “I’m fine.”
Alvaro followed his gaze. “Do you remember your Gloaming?”
I do now. But Diago found the acknowledgment locked in his throat. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, all that would emerge would be centuries of pain in one long howl.
Had anyone asked, he couldn’t have articulated why he cared so much. It was like he’d told his own son—emotions were inexplicable, especially when it came to family. Had Alvaro returned for him when he was a child, Diago would have willingly followed him. In the end, he might have basked in his father’s abuse and called it love simply because he knew no better.
But no more. I see him plainly now, and regardless of what my heart wants, my mind knows the truth—he does not love me.
Alvaro motioned at the portrait with his walking stick. “Why do you think Alessandro chose to replicate that particular event with those dark sounds?”
Still not trusting his voice, Diago shrugged. I’ve got to get a grip on myself. I’m going to have to speak eventually. He began the erection of his wall, and brick by brick, he sheltered his heart. Except now there were cracks in the mortar and he couldn’t fill them in with numbers, or chords, or false dreams of comfort.
“All art has a purpose.” Alvaro cocked his head as he examined the painting. “He used dark sounds—grief and fear and death.”
And prayers . . . there were prayers entwined in that suffering. Sounds of hope . . . Diago held those thoughts close. His father didn’t like his lectures interrupted.
Alvaro continued. “The very medium speaks to a sense of loss. And the subjects of the painting: you and me, when the world broke us apart.”
“Did you speak for me?” The question escaped before Diago could stop it. He wasn’t even sure why it mattered to him, but he wanted to hear the truth from his father’s lips. Just once, tell me the fucking truth.
Alvaro skirted the issue. “Alessandro was always jealous that my line produced a child who is half-angel. Neither he nor any of his progeny were able to do it. You are as rare as you are beautiful.”
“You’re didn’t answer the question.”
“Frankly, Diago, you did yourself no favors in your firstborn life. I’d hoped that by this incarnation, the elders’ memories might be tempered by time, but Alessandro’s envy won the day. He spoke against you in this incarnation.”
Translation: it’s all my fault. And maybe he’s right. The house lights blurred and he rubbed his eyes. He didn’t ask again. He didn’t need to.
Alvaro’s answer was obvious by his evasions. He hadn’t spoken for his son. To do so would have jeopardized his own standing with both Moloch and the elders, and Alvaro wasn’t going to hurt his chances for advancement.
Because that was how the Scorpion Court worked. It was every nefil for themselves.
Remember why I’m here . . . to protect my real family. The thought of Miquel and Rafael grounded him. Play the game . . . see how the pieces move. “What can I do to help you?”
Alvaro composed his expression to reflect the very image of benevolent forgiveness. “Alessandro has arranged to meet with Abelló tomorrow.”
Diago’s heart skipped. That was when Guillermo was supposed to arrive at Fontainebleau. What the hell kind of game was Jordi playing?
“You seem surprised.”
“Stunned, actually. I can’t imagine why Abelló would meet with the daimon-born.”
“Because Alessandro has told him that he is bringing you.”
“Me?”
“As a gift.”
A cold knot of fear twisted in Diago’s gut. “Did anyone think to run this by me?”
“While you were down here having fun with Francisco—”
“That wasn’t fun.”
“—Alessandro tried one last time to arrange a meeting with Abelló. It was only when he dangled bringing you as a prisoner that Abelló agreed to the visit.”
Curious how his father might answer the question, Diago asked, “Why does Alessandro want to meet with him?”
“To possess him. Alessandro is
now the vessel for Beleth. With Abelló’s physical body, we can command Die Nephilim.”
And the road to the Houska gate is cleared. Christina’s confession had been valuable, but hearing the plan straight from Alvaro’s mouth was gold.
Diago nodded solemnly. “I see. So while Beleth is busy possessing Abelló, what is my job?”
Alvaro took Diago’s arm and led him up the aisle. “Find Ysabel. You know her. Make her want to come and help us. We need her to decipher Guillermo’s psalm.”
“I can do that for you, Father.”
“And there is one more thing.” Alvaro paused. “I want you to watch Christina.”
“Christina?”
“She has her heart set on becoming my high priestess. I need to make certain that her intentions are pure.”
Diago tried to imagine the word pure associated with his cousin and utterly failed. Is this a test? Are they working together, trying to trip me through my own actions? Rather than voice his confusion, he gave his father an expression of polite interest. “I see.”
“Report any encounters you might have with her to me. I want to know everything she tells you. She has a tendency to overstep her bounds. If she does so again, I’ll be forced to expel her from the court.”
Jesus. I’m standing in the center of a veritable ouroboros of deceit. “You can depend on me.”
“Good. Come upstairs. Have something to eat. We can discuss tomorrow’s plan. My son.”
Diago wasn’t sure what frightened him more: the danger to Ysabel, or the ease with which he found himself sliding back into his old deceptive ways.
23
23 January 1944
Paris
Twilight settled over the city as Rafael guided the car through the Place de l’Étoile. From where he sat in the backseat, Miquel lit a cigarette.
“You’re smoking an awful lot back there.” Rafael switched lanes to reach the avenue Mac-Mahon.
“Driving in Paris always makes me nervous.”
“You’re not driving. I am.”
“Which is why I’m nervous.”
Rafael glanced into the rearview mirror.
Miquel pointed. “Eyes on the road.” But he saw his son’s smile. He had to admit, Rafael had done an excellent job so far, but Miquel didn’t say so yet. He didn’t want him to get cocky. He gets full of himself and forgets he’s not immortal.
Miquel had almost finished the cigarette by the time they reached the hotel. He lowered the window and pushed out the butt as Rafael wheeled the car close to the curb.
Miquel adjusted his cap. “It’s showtime.”
Before the doorman reached the car, Rafael exited and had Miquel’s door open. He snapped to attention as Miquel stood.
Ignoring both his son and the doorman, Miquel entered the building. A careful look told him the guests lounging around the lobby appeared to be mortal.
A few German soldiers eyed his uniform. The rank on their sleeves put them beneath his notice.
By the time he checked in under his assumed name, Rafael was behind him with their bags. They took the elevator to the fifth floor and entered their suite.
Miquel tossed his hat to the bed. “Any nefilim?”
Rafael loosened his tie and shook his head. “All mortal.”
“So far, so good.” Miquel went to the window and checked the street. Seeing no unusual activity, he closed the curtains. He couldn’t kick the bad feeling he had about this trip. Everything is going far too smoothly.
Rafael opened his suitcase and changed from his uniform to street clothes. He dropped his pistol and three magazines to the bed. From his breast pocket, he withdrew the jewelry box that contained the etching of his mother wrapped in velvet.
Miquel checked the magazine rounds. “Call me at dawn. Ask for Juan if you’ve managed to clear all the wards, Mariette if you fail. That way I’ll know if it’s safe to send our people in.”
Nodding, Rafael tucked his holster and pistol under his bulky sweater. “Can you tell I’m carrying a gun?”
“No.” Miquel adjusted the tail of the sweater. “Good job.”
After Rafael returned the velvet box to his breast pocket, he withdrew a small pack from his suitcase. An electric torch and a coil of rope were inside. He placed the extra magazines in the bag. “I’ll take the hotel stairs and then head to the metro. Monique and Louis are meeting me in the Saint-Martin station in”—he checked his watch—“two hours.”
Monique and Louis Benoist were both lieutenants in Les Néphilim. They’d moved ammunition and portions of their resistance activities into Paris’s closed metro stations.
Rafael pulled his cap on and turned. For a split second, he looked so much like a young Diago, Miquel almost called him by his father’s name.
“What’s the matter?” Rafael asked.
“What?”
“You’re looking at me funny.”
Miquel shrugged. “Nothing. You just resembled your papá for a minute there. That’s all. Which reminds me: he told me to make sure you—”
Rafael lifted his hand. “I know, I know. Stay away from my grandfather.”
“Don’t make this another 1939.”
He put his hand over his heart. “I promise. I’m following orders to the letter. What are you taking for your meeting with Heines?”
“Booze and my incredible charm.”
“You might need more booze,” Rafael teased.
Miquel cuffed him playfully and knocked his hat askew. “Get out of here and be sure to come back safe. I don’t want to have to answer to your father if something goes bad. Got it?”
Rafael’s countenance grew serious. “Do you think he’s okay?”
“Your papá is a smart guy. He knew what he was walking into.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Fair enough. Miquel knew better than to downplay the risks. “I think he’s taken some hard knocks by now. We need to be ready to help him when he gets out of there.”
“Like he helped us in ’39.”
“Hopefully, it won’t be that bad.” Miquel gripped his son’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “We’ll deal with all that when the time comes, but for right now, you’re in the moment, Rafael. Don’t think about Papá, Don Guillermo, or Ysabel. You’ve got a job to do. Put your whole mind and your whole heart into your task, and we’ll see each other on the other side.”
Rafael hugged Miquel. The move was so sudden, Miquel was taken aback.
He embraced his son. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m scared.”
“It’s okay. I am, too. I’m terrified. But we do what we have to do.” Miquel gave him a hard squeeze and then pulled back so he could look Rafael in the eye. “You survived an encounter with a Grigori, and you did that because you remembered your training. You’re smart and resourceful. I’m proud you’re my son.” He patted Rafael’s cheek. “You’re going to be fine.”
Rafael wiped his eyes. “If you say so.”
“I say so.”
Rafael gave him a closefisted salute. “Sí, Señor General.”
Miquel said quietly, “I will watch for you, my son.”
“And I for you, Papá.” Rafael opened the door and checked the hallway before he left.
Miquel went to the mirror and combed his hair. When he settled his hat back on his head, he gave it a jaunty angle. It was time to hunt.
Starting with the cabarets on the list Guillermo had given him, Miquel spent the better part of the evening visiting one establishment after another. He turned up no sign of Heines.
Standing outside the Moulin Rouge, he scanned the crowds and thought about his colleague. Either Heines had decided to stay in this evening, or he pursued other delights among the mortals.
Miquel smoked and recalled how they had torn through Paris during the heady days after the armistice. For two glorious nights, they trawled the city in an alcoholic daze; Heines had introduced Miquel to all his favorite brothels.
And Heines is one nefil with exquisite taste. Miquel crushed his cigarette and hailed a cab. As he got in, he barked at the driver, “Le Sphinx.”
Although Le Sphinx hadn’t been around in 1918, it was precisely the kind of maison close that Heines preferred—the women weren’t forced to have sex with the patrons; some even served only as hostesses. The brothel was requisitioned solely for the use of German officers and French collaborators, which kept out the riffraff.
Although Le Sphinx was far from the only such brothel operating in Paris, Miquel chose it as his starting place, because of the building’s close proximity to the literary cafés La Coupole and Café du Dôme. Heines sought out the company of artists almost as intently as he chased music and mortal women.
Twenty minutes later, Miquel found himself on the left bank of the Seine at the boulevard Edgar-Quinet. While no sign hung over Le Sphinx’s door, the establishment was easily identified by the gypsum mask of the Sphinx that decorated the façade.
Miquel left the taxi and went to the entrance. A large mortal blocked the door. “I’m sorry, monsieur, only German officers.”
Normally Miquel would talk his way past the mortal, but the night was wearing thin. He formed a small sigil of light to momentarily blind the doorman. “It’s a German uniform,” he sang softly.
The mortal blinked and smiled. “I apologize.” He opened the door and Miquel stepped inside.
If only everything were that easy. Miquel found his way to the crowded dance floor. A band played and several couples danced to a slow song.
He allowed his gaze to drift over the group but saw no one that resembled Heines. Drifting deeper into the establishment, he went to the restaurant, where he finally located Heines enjoying a quiet drink with a beautiful mortal.
The other nefil noted Miquel’s presence almost immediately. His gaze flickered to him and then back to the lady.
Fortunately, stealth wasn’t in Miquel’s plan. He walked up to the table. “Heines? Erich Heines? Is that you, my friend?” He turned to the lady and bowed, taking her hand and brushing his lips across her knuckles by way of greeting. “I thought it had to be him, because he is always in the company of a beautiful woman.”